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thebarneschronicles · 5 months ago

Text

Nine Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)

Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x

-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.

Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.

And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.

Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.

You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.

Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.

And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.

You gritted your teeth.

“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”

Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.

Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”

Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”

You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”

Bucky smirked. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”

Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”

“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”

Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”

Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”

Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”

And that? That was the last straw.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”

“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”

And there it was. That goddamn nickname.

You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”

“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”

“Enhancing.”

“You mean ignoring it?”

He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.

God, this man was going to be the death of you.

You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”

He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”

Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”

Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”

Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”

Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”

His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”

You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—

No. Focus.

You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”

His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”

Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”

Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.

Oh. Oh, that son of a—

Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.

“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—

Nope. Not going there.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”

Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”

Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit.

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.”

—

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

And they weren’t the same.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x reader smut #bucky fanfic #sebastian stan

9K notes · View notes

stzrgirl4norris · 7 days ago

Text

P1 in World History - OP81

Oscar Piastri x Historian!Reader

summary: no one understands how Oscar suddenly dropped facts after facts on the most random historical events

based on this request (by my favorite ever)

liked by mclaren, redbullracing and 1,300,000 others

f1 🎥 Grill the Grid: High School Edition is HERE

Watch our drivers struggle with math problems, historical dates, and chemical reactions 👀

Spoiler alert: we had some surprises.

view all comments:

lando who gave oscar a cheat sheet? be honest

charles_leclerc I would like a rematch with no ancient greek questions please

yukitsunoda0511 I said “napoleon” for everything. Not my fault it worked twice.

mclaren We are also surprised. Very surprised.

redbullracing Gonna have to bring this up to the stewards 🙂‍↔️

fernandoalo_oficial finally, someone knows I was there when Caesar was stabbed

alex_albon me watching oscar answer every history and geography question with his arms crossed like he’s on who wants to be a millionaire😭

user bro oscar even corrected the quizmaster once. is he ok?

user oscar casually dropping historical facts like it’s not suspicious at all…

user i'm so glad they are f1 drivers and not doctors or something

user why did oscar answer all of that without blinking? i’m scared 💀

user nah bc that man answered “Battle of Waterloo” like it was a pop quiz at dinner. WHO ARE YOU 😩

user oscar's not real. he’s a government experiment gone rogue

user the way he SMIRKED when he got the Cold War question right?? sir who are you trying to impress 😭😭😭

user idk if i want to kiss oscar or force him to write my next essay

user charles i expected more from you

user no but Lando getting the math question was so sweet

user when max said “well technically…” I felt that in my bones.

> user he maxplained that whole video and still lost

> maxverstappen1 I want a rematch

Oscar Piastri just added to his Instagram Story

"Great read 👍"

liked by oscarpiastri, yourusername, mclaren and 757,000 others

SkySportsF1 🎤 Oscar Piastri revealed or us the secret behind all his world history knowledge:

“It just sort of happens when you date a historian. Everything becomes a lesson. She once paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism.”

View all comments:

user not me googling “how to become a historian”

user she paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism and he STAYED??? yeah he’s in love your honor

user no bc i’d explain imperialism mid-makeout if he asked 😭

user that household must be insufferable

user I too wanna monologue to Oscar during breakfast

user imagine pausing a movie to rant about colonialism and he looks at you like it’s the hottest thing ever? god i’m weak

user and he LISTENED??? he RECALLS the info??

user she taught him centuries of world history and what did he give her back? driving lessons?

user “everything becomes a lesson” sir that is the dream 😭 i want to analyze the French Revolution over dinner too

user this is what happens when you date a girl who annotates books and knows who Franz Ferdinand is

user i want what they have. and by that i mean him. and also her brain. pls.

lando so you’re telling me i lost to oscar in Grill the Grid bc his gf is smarter than everyone at McLaren combined?

> oscarpiastri: you lost because you said Napoleon invented the calendar > yourusername: to be fair… he did change the calendar. you were just off by a few emperors > lando: OH MY GOD SHE’S HERE I’M SORRY PLEASE DON’T QUIZ ME

alex_albon oscarpiastri she paused a movie to explain colonialism and you didn’t RUN? bro you’re in deep

> oscarpiastri: i stayed. i took notes. there was a powerpoint. > yourusername: in my defense, it was really bad colonialism. like offensively inaccurate. > user: i am obsessed with the fact that she said “bad colonialism” like it’s a genre of film > user: alex is 100% pretending he gets this rn

georgerussell63 I want to add to the conversation that just 5 minutes ago during a chat this man casually cited the Meiji Restoration.

danielricciardo nah bc when she paused the movie he just sat there?? with his mouth shut?? couldn’t be me 💀

> yourusername he nodded. he asked questions. it was adorable. > danielricciardo stop you’re going to make the rest of us look bad

mclaren Confirmed: Oscar is now banned from date night and team trivia. Unfair advantage.

user WHY IS SHE SO CASUAL IN THE COMMENTS I’D DIE

> user she’s literally explaining history and being hot about it > user no bc she called it “bad colonialism” and suddenly I need a PhD >user someone make a TikTok of her best comments, we’re documenting greatness in real time

charles_leclerc If my girlfriend taught me history i’d listen too 🥺

> alexandrasaintmleux you can't even tell me who painted the Mona Lisa > charles_leclerc I said "history" 🙄

user do you think Ferrari can hire her to do something?

> user omg what would she even do there? > user anything is better than what they have ❤️ liked by charles_leclerc

liked by yourusername, lando, mclaren and 2,400,000 others

oscarpiastri Turns out there are so many good museums in England Also I now know what mercantilism is now.

view all comments

lando i want her to quiz me

charles_leclerc I refuse to learn, but i’m proud of you

georgerussell63 do you think she tutors for fun?? asking for me

alex_albon you’re literally a walking historical source

danielricciardo please ask her to explain the entire French Revolution to me in meme format

maxverstappen1 you scare me but i respect it

user THEY ARE TOURING HISTORICAL LOCATIONS 🥹🥹🥹🥹

user i know he’s got a napoleon bobblehead

user dating a historian and surviving is proof he’s the chosen one

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff, mclaren and 8,150 others

yourusername He said “teach me everything” and now he can name every Cold War proxy war. Proud of my little historian-in-training. Also yes, he scored higher than some of my students on the practice quiz.📚��

view all comments

oscarpiastri Cold War was a vibe

georgerussell63 okay but she’s intimidating in a hot way

> oscarpiastri don’t call my girlfriend hot. LEAVE. > georgerussell63 it was a compliment 😅😅😅

charles_leclerc imagine being forced to learn at dinner 😔

lando can she explain the space race to me using memes and finger puppets

> oscarpiastri are you 2??

user “cold war was a vibe” i’m IN TEARS

user she’s not just teaching him history. she’s giving him range

user whatever taylor swift said about you know how to ball i know aristotle

user i would risk it all for her to yell about the ottoman empire in my kitchen

hattiepiastri just watched him explain the industrial revolution like it was a bedtime story

kimiantonelli who even knows what happened in 1848????

> user aren’t you supposed to be learning that in school?

user is this a kink thing?

user dating a historian sounds like a trap. a sexy, educational trap.

maxverstappen1 can you prepare me for the next grill the grid?

> yourusername sure thing!! > oscarpiastri NO

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 1,450,000 others

mclaren Study season. Quiz night prep. We no longer know if this is for history or Hungary GP. 🧠🏁📚

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oscarpiastri she just asked me to rank my favorite Enlightenment philosophers. it’s 10pm. i said Kant and she said “incorrect.”

> yourusername it was a trick question. you were supposed to say “you, darling” > oscarpiastri i’m logging off before I get in trouble > user I NEED THEM TO ADOPT ME

lando does this mean i can’t cheat???

> oscarpiastri she said next time you cheat off me she’s quizzing you on Byzantine trade routes > lando nevermind i’m studying. i’m SCARED.

yourusername Quiz night winner gets free coffee. Loser gets a 20-minute lecture on the French Revolution.

> mclaren we are printing flashcards as we speak

alex_albon imagine prepping for Hungary and getting hit with “define the Treaty of Utrecht” over breakfast

> oscarpiastri: she did that. literally. it was before coffee.

charles_leclerc what’s happening? Why is everyone smarter now.

> georgerussell63 she’s infecting the grid with knowledge. we’re not safe > fernandoalo_oficial finally.

user this is the power of a woman who annotates books and kisses you mid-lecture

user can’t wait until one of them starts mixing up tire degradation with the fall of the Ottoman Empire

#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 smau #f1 writing #f1 #oscar piastri smau #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you

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ceramini · 1 month ago

Text

DAMN IT NERD ⋆˚࿔ ARE YOU LISTENING?

pair loser!jake x hot!reader ͡ ͘◡ ꫶᳝᳜᳝᳜᳝᳜৯ tags creampie, cockwarming, overstim, dirty talk = nerd talk, jake likes legos ✿ scene jake is sweet, dumb, and accidentally packing a weapon between his legs. no one understands how he landed his insanely hot gf, not even him. but she loves him anyway, even if he won’t shut up about legos, star wars, or his ridiculous love for her… especially during sex. note let’s pretend jake likes star wars ─── library ⊹ ࣪

like + reblog appreciated <3 click to join taglist

You’re not even sure how you got here.

Well, no… you do know. You were in bed, legs tossed over Jake’s shoulders, back arched, spine pressed into the mattress like a damn sticker. He was inside you. Deep. Relentlessly deep, like he was on a fucking mission.

You weren’t sure what the mission was, but Jake clearly was.

He was, talking.

Still.

“You know the Republic Gunship set?” he pants, rocking into you a little too slow for how breathless he sounds. “I’ve been saving up for it. It’s so cool. It has, like—twenty clone troopers. Twenty. And they all have these little helmets that come off. I didn’t even know they did that until—until I watched this review last week—shit, you feel so good—wait, so anyway—”

You cut him off with a groan, fisting the sheets. “Jake.”

“Huh?” He looks down at you, blinking like a golden retriever who just got caught chewing drywall. “What?”

“You’re talking about Legos again.”

“Oh.” He pushes his hips forward with a little whine. “Sorry. You’re just so warm and I was thinking about that set and how cool it’d be to build it with you while we watch Clone Wars and—and—fuck, you’re squeezing me again.”

You squeeze him on purpose this time. “That’s because you’re babbling about minifigs while you’re raw inside me, Jake.”

His eyes go big. “You like when I’m raw inside you.”

“I did. Before you compared it to building a Lego set.”

“Okay, okay, fair.” He nuzzles your neck like he’s not splitting you in half. “But also? You’re kinda like a Lego set.”

You stare at him. “Jake.”

“I mean that lovingly.”

You drop your head back against the pillow. “I swear to God, if this is going where I think it’s going—”

“Because like. You’ve got all these beautiful little pieces. And I wanna learn how they all fit together. Every time I touch you it’s like I’m figuring out where the next part goes—”

“Jake.”

“—like, do I kiss here?” He sucks a hickey under your jaw. “Touch here?” Trails his hand between your legs. “Or maybe—fuck—maybe I just fuck you and see what happens.”

You’re clenching again. Hard. And you hate that it works.

He beams. “See? You do like my metaphors.”

“I like your dick,” you hiss, arching as he thrusts up and hits that spot. “I tolerate your metaphors.”

“You love my metaphors,” he says smugly, fucking deeper like he’s trying to prove it.

You moan into the heel of your palm. “You’re insufferable.”

Jake whimpers, forehead tipping to yours. “You’re so hot when you’re mean to me.”

“You’re hot when you shut up.”

He slows, just a little, and looks genuinely wounded. “You don’t like when I talk?”

“I love when you talk,” you gasp. “Just not when I’m trying to come and you’re talking about fucking battle packs.”

“Oh.” He slips out almost entirely, just to push in again, hard. You cry out. His ears go pink. “Noted.”

You try to glare. You really do. But he leans down to kiss you and his stupid soft lips and stupid tongue make you forget how to breathe, let alone stay mad.

And the way he’s throbbing inside you doesn’t help.

Jake pulls away with a dumb little grin. “I think I’m gonna come. Can I stay in? I know I asked earlier but I wanna make sure it’s still okay—”

“Jake, yes, God, yes—”

He sinks into you one last time and shudders, full-body, like he’s short-circuiting. You feel him twitch, warm and heavy, and moan his name as his hand clutches at your waist like he’s scared you’ll float away.

He comes like he’s overwhelmed. Pretty and flushed, forehead pressed to your collarbone, one hand gripping your thigh like a lifeline.

You’re both panting. Slick. Shaking a little.

And then.

“Did you know the Lego Titanic set is almost four feet long—”

“Jake.”

“Sorry! I’m just—still inside you and happy and thinking about boats and I love you and—”

You grab his face and kiss him hard. He whimpers against your mouth, cock twitching again, not soft at all.

You pull back. “You’re gonna shut up now, right?”

“Totally,” he breathes, blinking fast. “Except—can I keep talking if it’s just about you?”

You blink. “Maybe.”

Jake buries his face in your neck. “Cool. ‘Cause I was gonna say, you’re prettier than every minifig I’ve ever owned. Like, if you were a collectible, I’d never take you out of the box.”

You groan. “That’s not romantic, Jake.”

He laughs. “I thought it was.”

You wrap your legs tighter around him and sigh. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“I’m lucky you let me fuck you.”

He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then, very slowly, starts moving again. Just a little. Deep and slow, the kind of rhythm that makes your eyes roll back.

“Can I stay in?” he murmurs. “Just for a bit?”

You nod.

He smiles. “Cool. You feel better than any Lego set.”

You cover his mouth. “Just fuck me.”

You don’t know why you let him stay inside. You really don’t.

Maybe it’s the way he’s so big, the way he fills you up like you were made for it. Maybe it’s the post-orgasm brain melt. Maybe it’s the genuinely tragic puppy-dog look he gave you when he asked if he could just stay for a little while longer.

You said yes. Like a fool.

And now he’s talking again.

“Okay, but hear me out,” he mumbles against your collarbone. “If you were a Lego piece, I feel like you’d be one of those rare ones that only come in, like, three sets. And I’d trade my whole collection just to have two of you.”

“Jake.”

“Or like, like if I was building a Millennium Falcon and your piece wasn’t in the box? I’d cry. Like actual tears. I’d email Lego Customer Support and tell them it was a tragedy. I’d say my girlfriend is missing. That I can’t build without her. That it’s ruining my life—”

“You’re still inside me.”

“I know. That’s why I’m being romantic.”

You groan and throw an arm over your face. “Your idea of romance is comparing my vagina to missing plastic.”

“It’s not just plastic, it’s—hey, wait—” He props himself up on an elbow, wide-eyed. “Are you getting mad again?”

“I’m not mad,” you sigh. “I’m just. So full. And so tired. And you’re talking about spaceships and crying and clone troopers while your dick is still hitting my goddamn cervix.”

Jake flushes. Hard. “Oh. Sorry. I’m just…this is like, peak life for me. Like, I don’t know what I did to deserve you but I think about it a lot and it makes me feel like I should be doing more. Like, you’re smart, and you wear those little skirts that make my brain short-circuit, and you never make fun of me for how much I love Star Wars even when I definitely deserve it—”

“Jake.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you getting hard again?”

He pauses. You feel him twitch inside you.

“…Maybe.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I can’t help it!” he whines, and somehow he sounds genuinely upset about it. “You’re so warm and soft and I like how you clench when I say dumb stuff, and I know I’m not supposed to keep talking, but I love you and I’m having a feelings crisis and also your tits are out and I didn’t even mention them yet.”

You uncover your eyes and glare. “Don’t.”

Jake glances down at your chest. Immediately goes pink. “Too late.”

You shift under him and he moans, a soft, helpless sound like he’s ashamed to have made it. You can feel him starting to get hard again, slow and steady like a threat.

And the worst part is? You like it. Your body’s already reacting. He’s still so thick, so deep, and now he’s whining like he can’t help but want more of you.

“God, you’re pretty,” he whispers, like he’s confessing something serious. “And I’m, ugh, I’m such a loser, I know. Everyone always asks how I got you and I never have an answer. They’re like, ‘is she into Legos too?’ and I have to lie and say yes, just so they don’t try to hit on you.”

You laugh. You shouldn’t, but you do. “So you lie about me being into Legos to keep me safe?”

He nods solemnly. “It’s the only way.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Jake beams. “Your idiot.”

He leans down and kisses you again, sloppy, soft, so sweet it makes your stomach flip, and you groan against his mouth when he accidentally rocks his hips.

And just like that, you’re clenching again. Wanting him. Wanting it all over again.

He breaks the kiss with a gasp. “Oh. That was—yeah. We’re doing it again, right?”

You roll your eyes. “Not if you keep talking.”

“I can be quiet!”

“You can’t.”

“I can. Watch—” He places a hand over his own mouth.

You raise a brow. “You look ridiculous.”

He wiggles his brows, nods, then thrusts.

You gasp. His hand flies off his mouth. “Oh fuck, that was hot—”

“Jake.”

“Sorry. Sorry.” He puts it back. Mutters behind his palm, “I just love you so much.”

You stare at him, flushed, wrecked, still hard and inside you, his hand awkwardly slapped over his own mouth, and you realize something terrible.

You’re gonna marry this dumbass.

You sigh, toss your head back, and say, “Fine. Just shut up and fuck me again.”

Jake nods furiously. Slips his hand from his face and whispers, “Yes, Captain.”

You sigh into the pillow.

🪷 ─── @gyarumindd

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chuluoyi · 11 months ago

Text

✎ all of me

- gojo satoru x reader

you understand that some things in marriage just needs compromise. and he soon understands too, when you're at your most vulnerable and he fails to be by your side when you need him the most

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship (you're married & have a son!) argument, feral gojo, mentions of injury & blood, fluff

note: if it isn't obvious by now i'm in the mood of angst-hurt/comfort this week HEHE :)) this is longer than the usual love entry, so i hope you'll enjoy it!

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

Bantering with your husband is not uncommon―in fact, it happens on daily basis.

"Satoru― I'm talking to you!"

But having serious arguments with him is another matter entirely.

Your fists tightening at your sides, facing his unamused expression. How insufferable is he? You told him that everyday, but right now, he's truly surpassed previous levels of infuriating behavior.

"And I can hear you, sweetheart," he retorted, casting a glance your way. The term of endearment he used for you sounding almost like a sneer to your ears and you felt offended.

"I don't think you're taking this seriously," you griped, trying to calm your emotions, still balling your hands. "Someone is following our son on his way back from school―how can you be this... flippant?!"

Numerous photograph of your son exiting the school building from different angles had arrived in your mailbox, and if it wasn't a creepy warning from those who placed a target on his back, then you didn't know what it was.

Satoru let out an exasperated grunt. "I'm telling you, I'll pick him up for the rest of the week. No one will lay a hand on him."

You gritted your teeth. "And I'm telling you, they're trying to make you do just that. Even morons know not to mess with you― they're leaving hints, and you're taking the bait!"

Contrary to what you believed, Satoru felt just as worried as you upon knowing that someone might have marked his precious son, who was now six years old and had recently started attending preschool.

But this is where your approaches differ. You are always the cautious one, overanalyzing each detail, while he leans towards being impulsive, often resorting to brute force.

"Who do you think can stand a chance against me?" Satoru challenged with a real sneer this time. "Remember my words, wife, no one is going to hurt me, you or our baby. I'll end them where they stand."

"That's not the point!" you threw your hands in the air, irate. "Satoru, they're going to take advantage of―"

"Look, I don't want to argue with you." Satoru's gaze was hard on you, his tone clipped, and it made you stiffen. "His safety comes first— and you, of all people, should know I'd never let anything happen to him. You need to quit nitpicking and have a little faith in me."

"I know you are more than capable, but you are not―!"

And then he said it, and his words piercing through you like a knife―

"Don't compare me to you," your husband remarked a little too coldly. "I can do things you can't. Just rest your pretty head, I'll take care of the rest."

Nevermind that he blatantly dismissed your skills as a jujutsu sorcerer, nevermind that he totally didn't listen to you at all―he just went and made himself look like some sort unparalleled god, forgetting how much his hubris could actually take him.

And all these thoughts only made you angrier.

"So be it then." You tried desperately to hold yourself from shaking because you'd be damned if you showed it to him. "A word of advice, Satoru: beware of your arrogance."

With those words, you spun around, marching off toward your son's room, because no way in hell was you going to sleep with that obnoxious prick tonight.

But when you caught the sight of your baby scuttling away from the gap in the door, a fragment of your heart crumbled. Oh. He has seen it all.

In Gojo Satoru's mind, he is made of two things: a powerful jujutsu sorcerer and a family man.

With his immense strength, comes a certain responsibility. And with that responsibility, certain habits have formed. If you just took a few seconds to breathe and looked back throughout the past decade he'd spent with you, you'd know that in fact―

It was also his way to shield you. Satoru stands by the principle that you and his little boy must be protected at all cost, and he most certainly would pull all stops to do just that.

But frankly, he couldn't deny that he felt insulted by how defiant you were. Did you really think he would let anyone ever touch your―his―son? He wouldn't, they'd meet his wrath first and you should've known that.

Still, something akin to guilt nudged at his conscience as he lay alone in your shared bed that night. It felt strange not having you cuddling him. He felt empty.

. . .

None of your shampoo-scented pillow, none of your nightdresses, all of it replaced by a single photo hanging in the wall and the urn of ashes—

Abruptly, he jerked his eyes open, shaken from the most dreadful nightmare he had experienced—

Of you no longer by his side.

“Mama.” Your little boy looked up to you with his doe-blue eyes in the next day, his hand gripping yours. “I’ll be fine.”

You were accompanying him to the preschool. While Satoru had requested Ichiji to drive him, you insisted on tagging along to keep a watchful eye as well. You'd leave your husband to pick him up later just as he wanted.

“Huh?” you turned to him, tilting your head.

“I'll stick by Uncle Ichiji's side the entire time,” he replied in a murmur. “And papa will be picking me up too later. If there are bad guys, they'll get him first.”

You bit your lip, feeling a wave of guilt wash over you. Your boy witnessed your outburst last night and hadn't inquired about it until now, and even then, he was trying to reassure you.

“So… don’t fight.” His round, cerulean eyes then darted towards you, blinking hesitantly, causing you to catch your breath.

He looks so much like Satoru. At six years old, he was the spitting image of him, except his personality—he took after you in that area. It was as if your son was a softer, more innocent version of him. And your heart twisted, remembering your argument last night.

Don't compare me to you.

With a sigh, you bent down to be eye-level with him and managed a smile, holding both of his little hands. “I’m sorry… it was just misunderstanding last night, okay? Don’t worry.”

“…really?”

“Really. Mama and papa were just tired,” you tried to reason, a thin smile on your face. "It's going to be okay, just like you said, yeah? Papa will beat the bad guys out there."

“Will he pull through...? If they bring a knife, and he's just there laughing, they can cut him.”

A giggle escaped your lips at your baby's innocent wonderings, easing the ache in your heart as you recalled how Satoru humored him in so many ways.

You gently poked your son in the cheek. "Nah, do you remember what he always goes on about?"

He puffed up his cheeks in response, his expression turning sour as if combing through memories of hundreds of shenanigans Satoru had instigated to recall his words. You let out a hearty chuckle, finding him so adorable.

"He's strong, he's going to win. He always does."

"Oh. Mmm." Your son scrunched up his nose cutely, before looking away and squeezing your hand. A sincerer smile bloomed in your lips, heart melting at the sight of your growing munchkin.

You will protect him. And maybe you could patch things up with Satoru later that night. Maybe yesterday you were just too paranoid.

That was the plan... at least until your son suddenly screamed—someone wrenching him from your grasp. Without a second thought, you reacted, flipping the attacker away from you and him.

. . . and that was the beginning of how everything started to unravel so terribly that day.

"Gojo-san...! There's been an incident!"

He got that call right after he finished some things with Yaga. Satoru teleported to the preschool right away, only to be greeted by a scene of utter chaos.

Several teachers stood outside the building, and police officers were present at the scene. It was all a blur of cursed energy until his eyes caught sight of—

His little boy, red-faced and obviously in fear, was clinging to Ichiji, who was frantically making calls. Some teachers gathered around him were seemingly trying to coax him to speak.

He didn't waste a second to dash towards him, tearing through the crowd.

"Are you okay? Hey, buddy, what happened?" Satoru pulled him away from Ichiji and turned him over, crouching to his level to check for any signs of injury or harm.

And upon seeing him actually here, his son's eyes immediately welled up with tears, and Satoru felt a chill run through his veins as he broke into sobs, which quickly turned into heart-wrenching wails.

"Mama—! F-find mama—!" the little boy choked out through his tears, clutching onto his shirt tightly and crumbling in his embrace, thoroughly inconsolable.

Satoru's sharp gaze quickly swept over the scene, seeking any clues, while he tightened his hold over him. It was then he noticed traces of your cursed energy mingled with blood.

They hurt you.

"Hey, kiddo—listen to me, it's going to be alright, yeah?" Satoru said, gently pulling away to wipe away his tears, holding the boy's face tenderly in his hands. "Go with Ichiji for now, okay? I'm going to bring mama back, I promise."

He didn't need to be told twice. Your son is always obedient when it matters the most. He gave him a small nod, still shaking with tears.

"Don't worry," he flashed a reassuring smile and ruffled his hair. "I'm the strongest, remember? I'll get her back," he vowed once again. "She'll be fine. Wait for me until then, yeah?"

Ichiji was ready to leave as he had called for those in headquarters as backup in case anything were to happen again. Trusting him to keep his son safe, Satoru took off as soon as he could no longer see the sight of his son's tear-streaked face trying to watch him as the car pulled away.

"I won't repeat myself— where is my wife?"

Satoru wasn't playing this time. He skipped past taunts and just plain threats. These little fries, he thought.

The man he held by the throat was in a lot of distress. "Hyaaa! It's him! Please, please, let me go! I'm acting under orders!"

He then flung him across the wall— might have added more cursed energy than necessary.

At the moment, his entire focus was on trying to locate you. He couldn't let his mind wander to anything else; in fact, he didn't permit himself to.

It didn't take him long to piece together the general location of where you were through the residual of your cursed energy. They stationed several hooligans in this abandoned warehouse to stall him, but he got rid of them quickly and he could sense that you were close by.

"It's Gojo Satoru!"

"Run! Ruuuun!"

What a pain. They picked the wrong person to mess with, and Satoru's lips curled into a manic grin as he opened his palm, pulling them in—

"Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue."

Chaos erupted as the building collapsed around him. He hoped you would realize he was here and manage to avoid getting caught in the wreckage. He was sure you'd know though.

And true to his thoughts, soon he found you— blasting your attacker away with a powerful kick.

Satoru thought that you were a sight to behold, really. And he was about to call out to you when he felt it.

It happened almost in an instant. The way his heart dropped to his stomach, and how his body reacted, barely whispering the incantation for Red as he shot it at something lurking behind you—

At that moment, the only thing you were aware of was the foul stench of a curse. Time seemed to stop before the overwhelming force of Red expelled it away from you.

But before then, you experienced a searing, white-hot pain that scorched through your flesh and pierced your abdomen—

"Y/N―fuck―!" The voice that came from Satoru's throat was raw and laden with panic.

He pulled you against him protectively as you collapsed, blinded by pain. He immediately felt warmth spreading across his lower body—your blood was rapidly drenching his shirt, and he felt a shiver down his spine.

You held onto him tightly while suppressing your scream, feeling every bit of your strength drain away along with the dark crimson blood that poured out of you.

"―toru―" you managed to croak amidst the scalding pain, curling and whimpering in his hold.

"Hey― sweetheart, please―" his voice rang in your ears, as he pressed down on your wound. His hands were shaking, and you clawed at him and groaned in agony. "I-I'm taking you back now― You're going to be alright, yeah?"

The wound was beyond anything you had experienced before, causing you to cry out and gasp for air. It was almost as if something fried your insides. It was hard to stay conscious.

"I've got you now. You're going to be okay." His voice was coarse, as he hurriedly carried you out. And he tried not to let the full-blown panic take over him when your body went limp in his arms, your breaths slowing, head lolling in his chest.

"You're going to be alright! You hear me, sweetheart? You're going to make it. Our baby― he's waiting for you. I promise you, you're going to be fine―"

Perhaps he was trying to tell that to himself, because despite the excruciating pain, a wave of reassurance washed over you.

You were in the arms of the strongest sorcerer alive, what more could you possibly afraid of?

A special grade curse. They had actually unleashed a potent curse and likely aimed at him as their final card—until it veered off course and struck you, leaving a searing gash across your abdomen.

Satoru felt numb as he sat in the waiting room in his bloodied uniform. You got hurt so terribly right in front of his eyes, and all he could feel was this profound void that seemed to bore through him and pierced his soul.

He was supposed to protect you. He said it to your face that nothing and no one would touch your son, and it was in his wedding vows that he'd protect you with his life too.

And yet what happened?

If only he was faster. If only he was able to pull you to him and protect you with his infinity—none of this shit would have happened.

Seeing your face twisted in agony and smeared with blood made him feel sick to his stomach. Inside that OR, you hovered on the brink of life and death, and he was here, unable to do anything.

Satoru rested his head against the wall, feeling a sharp pain surge through his chest. He remembered waking up to your face every morning, the way your touches felt, and how you had brightened his world for the past decade. If he lost you now... he wouldn't survive it. He would wreck anything, everything—

"Papa!" and came his voice of reason. Satoru immediately discarded his bloodstained jacket by instinct, throwing it away before his boy could see it, with Ichiji and Megumi closely trailing behind.

His son crashed himself into him and threw his little arms around his torso, crying—and in that very second, the thump of his heart sounded louder in his ears. Somehow it felt like a knife that twisted his insides.

"Hey, kiddo." Satoru repositioned him so that he would sit on his lap and hugged him, patting him in the back. "There, there... it's alright, yeah? Mama is inside, she'll get better soon."

Your little boy pulled away and wiped his eyes, and Satoru chuckled as he helped him blow his nose. His child was incredibly adorable, and his actions mirrored yours to such an extent that it made Satoru's heart soften.

"Mama g-got hurt trying to... tell me to g-go..." the boy suddenly said amidst his quieter sniffles. "And... she s-said... papa— i-is strong and g-going to win..."

You believe in him. Ignoring the ache in his chest, only able to reply him with a "Yeah..."

Not long after, Shoko emerged from the operating room and informed him that the surgery had been successful, though you would likely need to have a one-week stay in the hospital for observation. He intended to move you to the VIP suite and stay the night there, but then he remembered his son, who was holding his hand.

Satoru crouched down and patted him in the head, fixing him a smile. "See? Mama is okay, but she needs to sleep here to get even better. Now you go home first with big brother Megumi, yeah?"

Your son adored Megumi and often begged you to let him stay over at his place, but this time he looked hesitant, fiddling with his little fingers. "Really? Mama will be home... soon?"

"Mm-hmm, the more she sleeps here, the faster she'll go back home, alright?"

And with that, his baby nodded and Satoru turned to Megumi with a nod. "Thank you for this, Megumi."

The boy whose life he had once saved on some sort of a whim, now grown up and shared the same concern he had for you, Fushiguro Megumi had never before witnessed his benefactor expressing such sincere gratitude for anything before.

When you came to, your body felt as heavy as lead.

The discomfort in your abdomen made you flinch, and you almost let out a groan until you turned to your side and saw him.

Satoru was asleep while sitting in the sofa next to your bed, dark circles evident under his eyes. It might have been your imagination, but his cheeks appeared to be slightly red too.

You tried to recall what had happened to you when it came back—you urging your son to run away as you let yourself being taken away, almost escaping from that warehouse, the flash of excruciating pain, and Satoru's stricken voice.

So he must've been here since last night. Any remnants of your disagreement seemed to have vanished, seeing him there with you, barely covering himself with the blanket, with a frown still marking his forehead even in his sleep.

You wanted to reach out to him until the movement sent a sharp jab to your stomach and you cried out a bit.

In that split second, Satoru's eyes jerked open, and realizing you were awake, his gaze locked onto yours. "Y/N—" But your strained whimper and expression told him everything. "Does it hurt? I-I'll get Shoko, wait—"

And then he hit the call button. Throughout it all, he kept a firm grip on your hand for reassurance. A few minutes later, Shoko arrived and examined your wound, subsequently administering painkillers to alleviate your discomfort.

"It's going to leave a scar," she explained grimly, showing the mangled skin where the curse had made its mark on you, and seeing that, Satoru clenched his fists.

Shoko sighed, empathizing with her friend's frustration. "It's going to fade with time, don't worry. You did well, Gojo. You brought her here quickly. Had you been even slightly later, there could have been an irreversible damage to her organs."

But your husband remained quiet, unable to bring himself to look at you. And after she left, you tried to finally voice your question to him.

"O-our—"

"He's fine," Satoru immediately answered, squeezing your hand. "Our boy is fine. I'll tell Megumi to visit later—he's with him."

A sigh of relief came out of you. "Thank... goodness."

But his expression seemed to fall even further after hearing your response. Satoru settled himself on the seat next to you and lowered the rail on your bed, allowing you to be even closer to each other.

"Do you not feel any pain anymore?" he asked then, gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. He looked so sad, a stark contrast of how he usually was, and it bugged you.

"No... I feel fine now."

"Then, can I hug you?"

Of course you nodded without a second thought, and carefully, he wrapped his arms around your body, pulling you close and resting his face on the crook of your neck.

You knew what it was. Satoru was still visibly shaken by what had happened to you, and he wasn't great at expressing himself, so he tried to find consolation through this physical closeness instead.

"I'm okay..." you patted his back, trying to convince him. "I'm alright now, yeah?" But to your surprise, suddenly his whole body started to shake. "Satoru...?"

“…’m sorry.” His voice was barely above a whisper as he nuzzled you. “I shouldn't... have let you get this hurt...”

It always amazes you how Satoru always gets this distressed whenever you sustain any injury. You had seen him cry precisely two times now—once after you gave birth to your son and experienced severe bleeding, and now.

"It's not your fault..." you whispered in response. "You... have protected me well."

He held you tighter, his tone faltering. "I didn't."

"You have..." you stroked his hair, trying to convince him. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

Hearing you say that made Satoru's chest ache. The thought of something like this happening to you was unimaginable, and now that it had, he couldn't come to terms with seeing you hurt right in front of him.

"Don't—" he choked on his voice, his breath trembled against your neck. "Don't ever put yourself in danger again. If something happened to you, I wouldn't be able to live with myself..."

You couldn't make that promise. Despite the pleading in his voice, you knew deep down that your son's life—and his—meant more, and given the chance, you would obviously save theirs for yours.

“Satoru... I love you, you know that, right?”

So you simply embraced him close, hoping that in this life, you would live long enough that he would never have to see you like this again.

Epilogue

"Papa, how do I become stronger?"

Satoru blinked when his son asked him that so innocently and curiously, taken aback as he led him to your private room later that afternoon. "Oh? What brought this on?"

His first and only son, a perfect miniature of himself, pursed his lips. "I don't want Mama to get hurt again..."

Satoru's heart warmed at his baby’s sincere words, and despite himself, he chuckled.

"What's funny?" his son leveled a glare at him. "I'm being serious."

"Well, aren't you such a good boy? Don't worry, kiddo, I'll teach you my ways~"

"What ways?"

"Well, no need to rush, pumpkin. First of all, you will have to harness your skills and then you have to be more like me—"

"Do I have to be like you…? Is there no other way?"

"—? What's wrong with being more like me?"

"Everything...?"

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scare-ard--sleigh · 1 year ago

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if succ were real in the one piece universe it's absolutely what croco and mihawk talk about when they're on the couch with buggy's head ahdhsdhdh

#one pieceblogging #thought about it and i think unfortunately croco is team logan. 'man never gets fucked. he won't ever lose.'#i think he also likes gerri but im not sure how he'd feel about roman #on one hand i think he'd respect rome for going out there and at least making a show of Doing The Work but i think he'd find romey #** romey's overall demeanor insufferable and hard to root for.#mihawk on the other hand is team shiv bc he thinks she plays the game the best but god he hates tom #he hates tom and greg's whole Thing (croco probably does too)#i think they're both lukewarm on kendall. croc probably gets mad that post-logan's death there's so much middling about him taking #it all. he def thinks it should have been ken at the end. i think mihawk argues with him about it #less because he has any real feelings on it and more because it's really fun to see croco get worked up. <- this is an interesting thing #to explore later note to self lmao #anyway i'll put succ with any fandom lmao 'how would this character feel about succ' is one of my favorite thought experiments #OH ALSO WANNA ADD; buggy loves roman he does i'm sorry. buggy is a romangirl.

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lowkeyren · 7 months ago

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in which : alhaitham speaks to you in 5 different languages, unaware that you understand every word he says.

wc 7.3k (pls give it a chance lol), academic rivals to lovers, unrequited hate, attempt at humor, college au, denial + pinning.. crazy ik, he falls first (and harder), tw stalking by a drunkard, a genius on paper but a total dumbass when it comes to crushes, lil smau at the end!, ft. sumeru gang. art by @/gamegatchihaja on x.

ps. translations ay nasa maliliit na titik, katulad neto!!

ps. translations will be in small letters, like this!!

PROLOGUE: GOD I HATE THIS GUY! (DOES HE THINK IM STUPID?)

the semester is nearing its conclusion, and the imminent approach of finals marks the most critical period of the year; students rush through the halls, clutching their notes and textbooks like lifelines, while you pour every ounce of effort into your studies —not just for your grades, but also to surpass a certain arrogant scholar.

alhaitham.

the name tastes like spoiled milk on your tongue, a sour reminder of all the times he’s bested you, even if it’s just by a small margin, leaving you dumbfounded when the difference between your marks during the last exam was a mere 1%.

you were groveling in front of your professor, “please, just round the marks up?” you could practically feel your dignity slipping away. and the worst part? you were so desperate that you started mentally calculating how many odd jobs you’d be willing to do just to sweeten the deal.

(maybe you’ll help organize the office, run around the campus to buy him drinks every day, or even wipe down the windows of his car…)

disclaimer: he ultimately said no, but he did compliment your impeccable taste in coffee so, a win is a win?

anyhow, alhaitham’s nonchalance only adds to your frustration, especially when he switches to a different language mid-conversation. it feels like he’s rubbing salt in your wounds, why of course you can understand him perfectly —after all, you aren’t majoring in linguistics for no reason, plus he's not the only one who’s fluent in multiple languages.

though you keep that to yourself, perhaps because the things he says in those languages, which he assumes you don’t understand, are far from innocent, unknowingly letting you have a glimpse into his true feelings.

ACT I: WHOLEHEARTEDLY, I DETEST YOU.

alhaitham would never fall in love —such irrational and illogical emotions held no value to him.

that was what he always believed, but then he saw you.

the way you laughed so unapologetically at cyno’s jokes, how you always stood firm by your beliefs, your refusal to compromise who you are; you were a breath of fresh air in a world that often felt stifling.

as much as he tries to act unfazed, he can't help the heat prickling his skin nor the way his composure falters just slightly in your presence. and when his heart raced for the first time in what felt like forever, he knew —he was completely, utterly screwed.

(“fix me, kaveh.” / “hah. who do you think i am, ‘y/n’?”)

when kaveh told him that he just had a simple “crush”, he nearly rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck there permanently.)

likewise, this ugly arrogant handsome bastard here, is one you’ll never fall in love with.

he’s infuriating, completely insufferable, and yet there’s something about him, something hidden beneath that arrogance, that draws you in. the idea that you could ever fall for someone like him seems laughable, impossible even. he's exactly the kind of person you should avoid and you know better than to be charmed by someone like him. yet, there's that nagging feeling, deep down, that perhaps you’re not as immune to him as you think.

by some stroke of luck, you’re in the same major, same year, and even enrolled in the same lecture periods, which means you end up in the same place at the same time more often than not.

but you can’t deny that, in some twisted way, you admire him. his intellect is beyond impressive, even if it annoys you to admit it. so surely, in his eyes, you’re still inferior, and you often wonder if he even considers your ideas as worthy of attention.

(they are.)

ACT II: YOUR WATCHFUL EYES, I CAN’T IGNORE.

your pen glides across the pages as you jot down notes, fully absorbed in your studies, barely registering the faint sound of distant chatter.

unbeknownst to you, a group of students has gathered just outside the lecture hall, peeking in from the door with curious, amused expressions. they’re clearly there for you, exchanging glances and murmurs, waiting for the moment you step outside.

you don’t notice, but alhaitham, seated a few feet away, certainly does.

his eyes narrow slightly as he takes in the scene. he doesn’t say anything at first, but his jaw clenches ever so subtly. as you begin to pack up, you glance up to find him standing in front of you, his tall figure effectively blocking the group outside’s direct line of sight to you.

with a discreet glance over his shoulder, he shoots them a cold, unmistakable glare. they visibly shudder, seemingly getting the message as they awkwardly shuffle away.

“what was that about?”

alhaitham leans against your desk, “nothing important,” his tone is dismissive, laced with irritation, his gaze still fixed on the now-empty doorway.

you narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “really? you just scared them off for no reason?”

“just getting rid of some… distractions,” he says casually, turning his attention back towards you. you raise an eyebrow, clearly not believing his words. “distractions? they weren’t bothering me.”

his expression remains impassive, “khi họ cứ để ý đến em như vậy… em thấy không phiền, còn tôi thì có.”

“seeing them constantly paying attention to you… you're not bothered by it, but i am.”

“bởi vì cái cách mà em chú tâm hoàn toàn vào một việc gì đó… nó quyến rũ vô cùng.”

because the way you completely focus on something… is truly mesmerising.

you blink, feeling a momentary flush of confusion and surprise at the words slipping from his mouth. did he just—? but before you can fully process it, he continues.

“vậy nên tôi cũng không thể trách họ khi họ muốn nhìn em gần và lâu hơn được.”

so i don’t blame them when they want to look at you closer and longer.

his words linger in the air, a moment passes before it clicks —he doesn’t think you understand. that’s why he’s speaking so… freely; letting slip things he’d never say outright in a language you both speak fluently.

“nhưng mà… chắc không ai trong số bọn họ có thể sánh ngang với tôi, em nhỉ?”

but… none of them can compare to me, right?

your chest tightens as a surge of warmth courses through you.

his detached attitude only fuels your irritation. but there’s also a certain satisfaction in knowing something he doesn’t: you’ve understood every single word he’s said.

feigning ignorance, you raise an eyebrow, meeting his gaze with what you hope is a neutral expression. "what are you going on about?" you ask.

his expression remains as stoic as ever, not a single crack in his mask. he simply shrugs, eyes still on you, "just telling you to focus more.”

your grip on the pen tightens, there's a part of you that wants to wipe that smug look off his face, to show him you're not as clueless as he assumes. but not yet —you’re curious to see just how far he’s willing to push.

"right," you mutter under your breath, tapping the pen against your notebook. "focus. got it."

he leans down slightly, one arm resting on the back of your chair while the other presses against the table, effectively caging you in.

"you're wasting time, finals are coming up." he takes a brief pause before continuing, "i wish you the best of luck, you’ll need it.”

your eyes snap up to him in a glare, “don’t you have somewhere to be?" you bite back.

alhaitham straightens, giving you a final glance before turning towards the door. “naturally, i have studying to do.”

“bởi vì tôi sẽ chứng minh cho em thấy rằng chỉ có tôi mới xứng tầm làm đối thủ học thuật của em, không một ai khác.”

because i will prove to you that only i am worthy of being your rival, no one else.

why did he frame it as if it’s a privilege only he can claim? or is he trying to… flatter you?!

you shake your head, no way, that’s ridiculous. finals are coming up, there’s no time to dwell on whatever mind games he’s playing. though if the almighty alhaitham wants a rival, then you’ll show him exactly what it means to stand at the pinnacle.

ACT III: IN MY DREAMS, I SCORED HIGHER THAN YOU.

you’re tired, the kind of tired that seeps deep into your bones. every blink stretches longer than the last and you find it increasingly difficult to focus on the words in front of you. stifling a yawn, you feel the pull of sleep tugging at you, whispering sweet promises of rest.

there’s still time till your next class.

maybe you'll take a moment to close your eyes, just for a few seconds…

did you not get enough sleep last night, or did you stay up late studying again? alhaitham watches silently from across the room, his eyes narrowing as your head droops lower, your exhaustion becoming painfully obvious with each passing second. his gaze lingers on the way your pen pauses mid-sentence, the line on your notebook trailing off as your hand grows heavy.

he pushes himself up from his seat, and approaches your desk; he notices the sunlight streaming through the window, harsh and unrelenting, hitting right over the table where you’re sitting. he looks at you —eyes closed, with the faintest crease of discomfort on your brow.

without a word, he reaches out and slips the pen from your grip, the slight shift causing your fingers to twitch, but you don’t wake.

for a fleeting second, he considers waking you. but then, as you shift again, settling more comfortably into your chair, he decides against it. what good would that do, anyway? you’d probably just brush him off and keep going until you collapse from sheer fatigue. typical.

instead, he adjusts his stance slightly, positioning himself just right to make sure the sunlight is fully blocked from your face, casting you in a cool shadow.

you mumble something incoherent, and he can’t help but roll his eyes at your state. did you really think burning yourself out like this would help you focus?

“stubborn,” he mutters under his breath.

you're always like this, pushing yourself past your limits, and while part of him respects your determination to outdo him, he won’t allow it to come at the expense of your health.

you stir from your slumber, lifting your head, your gaze lands on a familiar figure standing to the side of your table. his back turned, facing the sunlight that streams in from the window.

alhaitham.

he’s close, so close that his broad shoulders completely block out the sunlight from the window. the sight sends a rush of confusion through your already sleep-addled mind. did he… stand there the whole time? why?

you shift slightly in your seat, your movement catching his attention. without turning, he speaks in that low, steady tone of his, “you’re awake.”

“alhaitham?” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.

he glances over his shoulder, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the calm expression on his face. “you’ve been out for a while,” he comments, a hint of amusement in his voice. “i was starting to think you’d sleep through your next class.”

you rub the sleep from your eyes, “why didn’t you wake me up then?”

his shoulders shift slightly as he shrugs, still facing away from you. “you looked like you needed the rest. besides, it’s more entertaining to see how long you’d stay asleep.”

a flicker of annoyance courses through you as you roll your eyes, “oh, so you mean you care?”

he turns slightly, and you can see a hint of a smirk on his lips. “don’t read too much into it. i just prefer my competition functioning at their best.”

you wish you could roll your eyes harder because this man has an uncanny talent for grating on your nerves while somehow being insufferably charming at the same time.

“ah yes —because you need me to keep up with you,” you remark sarcastically.

“exactly.” you let out an exasperated sigh as you lean back in your chair. “you really think so highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“mushiro, kimi no koto o hijō ni takaku hyōka shiteiru yo.”

if anything, i think highly of you.

your brows knit together in surprise, and you can’t help but scoff. “what was that? i didn't catch it.”

“i said i won’t go easy on you.” oh, the audacity. he’s lying again, and he knows it.

the corners of your mouth twitch in disbelief as you scrutinise his expression. there’s that familiar glimmer in his eyes, a spark of mischief that tells you he’s enjoying this too much.

“whatever,” you retort, crossing your arms defiantly. “not like i want you to anyway.”

despite your words, you can't deny that his actions earlier were surprisingly endearing. you wonder how long he intends to keep this up. perhaps it’s time you let him know.

“ii ne, kimi ga iraira shite iru toki wa kawaiikara.”

good, because you’re cute when you’re all riled up.

you feel a blush creep into your cheeks at his words, okay maybe you shouldn’t let him know. you instinctively look away, as if avoiding his gaze can help you regain your composure.

cute? what does he mean “cute”?! he thinks he can get away with calling you cute —well… well, there’s not much you can do about it, you’re not ready to confront him about this either.

the mere thought of asking him directly makes your stomach twist with a year’s worth of embarrassment. yet, as you try to refocus on the book in front of you, you find yourself biting your lip, struggling to suppress a smile that threatens to break free.

ACT IV: I WOKE UP TODAY, AND A DREAM CAME TRUE.

the hallway buzzes with excitement as students gather around the large announcement board, eager to see the results of their theses. you push through the crowd, heart pounding, the low hum of chatter filling your ears.

when you reach the front, you quickly scan the list; the moment your eyes land on your name, your breath catches in your throat.

there it is, in bold red ink at the top of the board —a score higher than you’d ever hoped for, higher than his. and your name, on top of his.

alhaitham.

you glance over and spot him approaching the board, approaching you. his expression is, as always, unreadable. but you know him well enough by now to catch the slight pause in his movements, the brief moment where his eyes linger just a second too long on the board.

you try not to think too much about it as you collect your thesis, with alhaitham following closely behind, his fingers nearly grazing yours as you both sift through the stack of papers on the table.

you take in the glowing praise from your professor, each word making you feel like every all-nighter was worth it. you clutch the paper, resisting the urge to grin like an idiot.

glancing sideways, you wait for him to say something, maybe some backhanded comment, but he remains silent. your eyes meet, and there’s a shift in his gaze as the usual sharpness in his eyes dulls ever so slightly, your smile lingering like the first light of dawn breaking through the night's embrace.

it’s subtle —just a flicker —but you catch how his gaze falters, softening, if only for a heartbeat. the edges of his stare blur, drawn to the warmth of your expression as though it’s something he hadn’t meant to witness, yet can’t look away from.

at this moment,

"looks like i finally beat you," you say, not bothering to suppress the grin spreading across your face now.

he feels like

there’s no scowl, no sign of frustration —just the slightest raise of an eyebrow. “hmm. by a point.” he pauses, studying you for a second longer than necessary before returning his gaze to his paper. “enjoy it while it lasts.”

he's in heaven.

it’s as if he’s not bothered by the outcome at all. in fact, if anything, he seems... satisfied?

"hindi dapat ganito kalala ang epekto ng ngiti mo sa akin."

your smile shouldn't affect me this badly.

“—huh?” your mouth drops slightly open at his words; out of everything, you didn’t expect him to say that. it catches you off guard, making your heart race just a little faster. if you peer closely enough, you might catch a glimpse of the gentle arch of his lips, a ghost of a smile.

the silence stretches on for a beat too long before he clears his throat and shifts his gaze away from you. “ang iyong ngiti ang pinakamagandang tanawin ng aking araw.”

your smile is the most beautiful sight of my day.

“what?” the word slips from your lips, barely a breath, a soft gasp that hangs in the air. it feels almost surreal and you wonder if you’ve misheard him.

each heartbeat thunders in your ears, a rhythm that matches the erratic flutter in your chest. why is he saying these things, what for in a different language…? there’s no way that he—

"—tulad mo na ang hinangad ko na ligawan, ngunit sa bawat ngiti mo, halip ay mas lalo akong nahulog para sayo."

—like you, who i wish to court, but with every smile, i instead found myself falling for you.

your breath hitches as your heart stumbles, the implications of his words washing over you like a wave. a rush of heat floods your cheeks, “what… did you say?”

his shoulders stiffen, and there’s a subtle tension in the way his fingers curl against the paper he’s holding. “see you tomorrow, [name],” he mutters, his voice low but hurried, and before you know it, he’s already walking away.

two strange things happened today:

1. you finally beat your sworn enemy!

2. said enemy… complimented you?

huh, it’s as if the words slipped out before he could catch them, as if he’s been holding them in for far too long, as if… you notice the way his neck reddens, even as he turns away.

behind the door, alhaitham lets out a quiet breath.

“gago… nagkamali ba ako?”

stupid… did i make a mistake?

to his dismay, an annoyingly familiar voice cuts through the silence. kaveh, who had been waiting just down the hall, notices him standing there, a little too still.

“oh, what do we have here?" there's a slight pause, followed by a raised eyebrow. "is that—no way, your face is red!” kaveh teases, amusement dancing in his eyes. “what happened there?" he leans in, clearly enjoying himself. "come on, spill the tea..!”

"not a chance," alhaitham retorts, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms defensively.

just then, kaveh spots cyno and tighnari; grinning, he waves them over. “what’s going on? did alhaitham finally crack under pressure?”

alhaitham would rather reorganise the entire library than listen to kaveh recount what happened.

“i’m leaving.”

"no, i'm afraid you're not getting out of this one.” cyno steps forward, blocking alhaitham’s path; and tighnari, who has been quietly observing till now, chimes in, “don’t leave us hanging.”

“you’re outnumbered.”

alhaitham sighs and shakes his head. he hadn’t even thought it was physically possible for him, of all people, to do something as ridiculous as blushing —until today.

(on the other side of the door, their banter echoes through, and you can’t help but chuckle to yourself at alhaitham’s misery.)

ACT V: PLAUSIBLE DENIABILITY, YOU SAY? BUT EVERYONE CALLS IT FLIRTING.

“i think alhaitham likes [name].”

the whole table falls silent before kaveh dramatically slams his glass down on the table, causing a splash of alcohol to spill over the edge. “oh finally, it’s so obvious! have you all seen the way he looks at them?”

across the table, tighnari taps his fingers absentmindedly on his notebook, his attention only half on kaveh’s (incoming) rant but clearly invested enough, as shown by the slight twitching of his ears, to be listening.

cyno snickers, “you’re telling me the man who can dissect any philosophical argument can’t handle a little crush? that’s rich.”

kaveh waves a hand dismissively. “come on! remember that time they were partnered up for a project? he was so... uncharacteristically patient! i’d almost say it’s cute if it weren’t alhaitham we’re talking about!”

right, it’d be almost endearing —if it weren’t coming from the most stoic, intimidatingly aloof guy in the entire school. it’d be adorable —if it weren’t alhaitham, who instinctively covers the corner of your table with his hand when you drop your pencil, ensuring you won’t hit your head as you bend down to retrieve it.

oh, you don’t notice (of course not). but your friend dehya, sitting nearby, catches the whole scene out of the corner of her eye. she raises an eyebrow, nudging the girl beside her.

(“candace, do you see that shit.” / “yeah.”)

“a soft spot for [name], you say? well, i’ve got a story of my own, too.” cyno glances around, ensuring no one else is within earshot, then lowers his voice conspiratorially. “have you noticed? he doesn’t wear his earphones when he’s around them.”

kaveh pipes up, nodding eagerly.

“he’s got those earphones practically glued to his head, he doesn’t hear anything he doesn’t want to, and he certainly doesn’t talk unless he’s forced to. but around them?” cyno pauses, pretending to think for a while. “not once. he’ll put them away entirely, like he’s actually willing to be… present.”

sure it’s small, subtle, the kind of habit no one would pick up on unless they were looking closely. but to anyone who knew alhaitham well, it tells them more than words ever could.

for him, actions speak louder than words, even if he often doesn’t realise the meaning behind his own gestures.

his earphones slide down, resting forgotten around his neck, all so he can be close enough to catch the delightful lilt of your laughter. his chair inches a fraction closer, seemingly by accident. a subtle upward twitch at the corner of his mouth, so fleeting and often passing so quickly if one weren’t paying attention.

for him, it’s a language without words.

dehya laughs softly. "for someone who supposedly ‘doesn’t like being bothered,’ he sure seems invested in whatever [name] has to say."

and what sealed their suspicions?

definitely the time when kaveh complimented nilou’s new bracelet. he glanced over at the man beside him, nudging him lightly. “what do you think?”

alhaitham gave the bracelet a cursory glance, before replying, “it’s nice.” though his gaze flickered back; and almost absently, he added after a pause, “[name] has the same one too.”

oh… oh? well that was oddly specific. kaveh’s eyebrow quirked as he fought to suppress a grin.

alhaitham had noticed a detail seemingly insignificant about [name] —the kind of thing he never cared to show the slightest interest in when it came to anyone else.

the glint in nilou’s eyes seemed to mirror kaveh’s unspoken thoughts, silently agreeing with his suspicions.

now they’re certain —100% sure, in fact —that alhaitham has a crush on you.

“well, speak of the devil… lovely seeing you here, alhaitham,” kaveh quips. tighnari, ever observant, gives him a pointed look. “your jacket’s missing.”

“someone took it,” alhaitham replies, his tone as composed as always, giving nothing away.

—nothing until you walked past. draped over your shoulders, unmistakable, is alhaitham’s jacket. you don’t notice the way every pair of eyes follows you, or the way kaveh barely stifles a triumphant laugh.

...make that 110%.

(translation: he means he borrowed his jacket because [name] was cold.)

ACT VI: IT’S YOU, WHO COMES TO MY RESCUE.

the quiet night hangs heavy, the road empty and bathed in the dim glow of distant streetlights. you weave through the streets, but no matter how many twists and turns you take, that weirdo just won’t leave you alone.

he’s been trailing behind you for blocks now, his persistence grating on your nerves, cornering you with endless “compliments” and invasive questions. you’ve tried to shake him off, but his determination far exceeds your patience.

"come on, just give me a chance," he insists, stepping closer, a little too close for comfort. you take a step back. the smell of alcohol reeks from his breath, and his grin is making your skin crawl.

"i told you, i’m not interested," you say firmly, keeping your voice steady, but the panic was starting to creep in. you glance at the empty bottle in his hand —he’s definitely drunk out his mind.

“you sure?" he completely ignores your clear discomfort. "how about you just give me your number, yeah?" he slurs out.

"no, i have a boyfriend." you lie through your teeth, hoping that would be enough to make him back off.

unfortunately, he’s as insufferable as he is persistent.

he snorts dismissively, "yeah, right. a boyfriend? you’re just playing hard to get."

you sigh, you aren’t in the mood for this, not here, not now, and especially not with someone like him. "i already told you, i have a boyfriend," your voice now tinged with frustration. "so please, just leave me alone.”

"oh, don't be like that," he steps in front of you, blocking your way. "prove it. call your boyfriend. show me you’re not lying."

your heart races as the man reaches out for you, dodging his hand, you take the chance to look behind him for an escape. just then, you see an all-too-familiar figure in the distance.

alhaitham.

you barely manage to suppress a relieved sigh as you wave frantically in his direction. he spots you almost immediately and without hesitation, he rushes over.

"what, this your boyfriend?" the guy sneers with derision, still sounding a little too cocky for someone who was about to get a reality check.

alhaitham steps beside you, you can feel his eyes on you for just a brief moment, the faintest flicker of worry flashing across his face. it’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you catch it—and it makes your chest tighten.

his voice is low, unmistakably carrying a warning, "yes, i’m their boyfriend. and if you don’t want things to escalate, i suggest you leave."

the man’s face twists as anger flares in his bloodshot eyes. he takes a step forward, his grip tightening around the neck of the bottle, the glass slightly cracking. "you think you can tell me what to do?" he slurs, gaze wild and unfocused. “y-you think you’re some kind of saviour? *hic* a-and you! how… how dare you reject me?!”

alhaitham doesn’t move, his expression cold and unbothered, and that only seems to make the man angrier. his frustration boils over, and with a snarl, he clumsily swings the bottle in his hand, aggressively lurching towards your direction.

the world seems to slow for a moment. though before you can even react, alhaitham pulls you firmly behind him with one swift motion, his other arm instinctively rising to shield the both of you from the blow. the sound of glass meeting his forearm is sharp and jarring —you can hear the high-pitched tinkle of glass scattering, the jagged shards bouncing off the pavement, and some skittering across the ground.

but he doesn’t even flinch, his stance unwavering as the man stumbles back, glass crunching underfoot. you’re still frozen from shock, your heart racing in your chest as you watch the scene unfold.

“big mistake,” he starts, and the man visibly falters. “harassment, assault —keep this up, and you’ll regret every choice that brought you here tonight.”

the man shifts around, clearly disoriented. his eyes dart between you and alhaitham, but it’s clear that the fight’s already left him. “you— you can’t do this!” the man stammers, trying to regain some semblance of courage; unfortunately for him, the tremor in his voice is unmistakable.

“do you really want to find out?” alhaitham asks, to which the man shakes his head vigorously. “get lost,” he mutters. the man, looking more pathetic than threatening now, quickly stumbles away, mumbling incoherent curses under his breath.

you’re breathless, still clutching the edge of his jacket, fingers trembling slightly as the adrenaline courses through you.

"are you alright?"

you nod, forcing a small, unconvincing smile."yeah... i’m fine. thanks to you."

alhaitham’s eyes narrow slightly, scanning you for any sign of injury. you follow his gaze instinctively, glancing down at yourself. that’s when you notice it —not on you, but on him.

streaks of red stain his forearm, where jagged shards of glass must have cut him during the confrontation. the gash bleeds steadily, a dark line of blood seeping through the fabric of his jacket.

"wait," you breathe, your heart sinking. "you're bleeding."

your stomach twists with guilt.

"why didn’t you say anything?" you exclaim.

he shakes his head, a dismissive gesture that does nothing to ease the knot forming in your stomach. "it’s nothing," he says, but the slight furrow in his brow and the tension in his jaw betray his words.

"nothing?" you fix him with a hard glare. "idiot… you just blocked a glass bottle with your arm, don’t try to downplay this."

you grab his sleeve, tugging it gently but firmly, the fabric sliding beneath your fingers as you pull it up. “—and unless you think an infection is ‘nothing’, you’ll let me take care of this."

"hold still," you murmur as you settle beside him on the couch, your supplies spread across the coffee table in front of you.

the scent of antiseptic fills the air as you take a disinfectant wipe and gently dab it against the gash. the sting of the alcohol makes him flinch slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. you mutter a soft apology, your movements slow and deliberate as you try to be as gentle as you can.

you open a tube of ointment, squeezing a small amount onto your finger before smoothing it carefully along the edges of the cut. the cool gel glides over his skin, and you can feel the tension in his arm ease ever so slightly under your touch.

“nǐ zhème guān xīn wǒ, huì ràng wǒ wù huì de.”

if you care so much about me, i might misunderstand you.

your fingers pause briefly, the words catching you off guard. you glance up at him, but he only averts his gaze, his eyes remaining fixed on a distant spot beyond the room.

misunderstand? misunderstand what, exactly?

the bandage wraps securely around his arm as you smooth it into place. as you tuck the end of the bandage, his voice comes again, just as soft, but no less clear.

“—wù huì nǐ duì wǒ yǒu gǎn jué.”

"—misunderstand that you have feelings for me."

your brain short-circuits, and in your shock, your hands jerk. in turn, the bandage tightens way too much, causing him to wince and tense up. before you can apologise, he lets out a light chuckle.

“suǒ yǐ nǐ dān xīn wǒ… nǐ shì bù shì gù yì ràng rén xīn dòng de?”

“so you're worried about me… are you purposely trying to make my heart race?”

his words only make you more flustered, and you find yourself fumbling to fix the bandage. “i’m sorry! i didn’t mean to—”

his chuckle only grows softer, and you catch the glint of amusement in his eyes. “it’s fine.”

you quickly finish adjusting the bandage, trying to focus on anything other than how your heart is now racing. (ironically)

“you seem flustered,” he comments casually, as if he isn’t the one who just made your head spin. “did i say something wrong?”

you shake your head quickly, hoping to hide the flush creeping up your neck. "no, not at all.”

his lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smirk.

"nǐ bù bì yǎn shì, wǒ xǐ huān nǐ hài xiū de yàng zǐ, tǐng kě ài de.”

“you don’t have to hide it. i like seeing your flustered expression, it’s quite cute.”

(oh this bastard!!!!)

you try to speak, but the words get stuck in your throat. what do you say when someone’s teasing you so openly —and they think you don’t even realise it?

after a long moment, he stands, “it’s getting late, i should get going.” alhaitham gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment —and there it was, that trace of softness reserved only for you.

he heads toward the door, you watch him, feeling a strange sense of emptiness when he turns away.

“i’ll see you,” he pauses. "...and thank you for tending to me."

you watch him leave, the door clicking softly behind him, and the silence settles back into the room.

you blink, taking a deep breath. what a rollercoaster of a day. yawning, you turn to start tidying up, but your eyes land on something on the couch.

it’s his jacket, draped over the armrest. you notice a tear on the sleeve, just where his injured forearm had been. what truly catches your attention, however, is a folded piece of paper slipping out of the pocket.

intrigued, you unfold it, revealing his neat, precise handwriting.

ACT VII: THE SECRET I’VE ALWAYS KNOWN.

To [Name], I once believed you to be little more than a nuisance. A bright, well-meaning nuisance, no doubt, but a nuisance nonetheless. One who seemed intent only on striving for perfection, always seeking to best me at every turn, not out of malice but out of some earnest desire to prove your worth. In my arrogance, I mistook your relentless pursuit for a need for recognition, as if you sought my attention in some petty rivalry. Though very quickly, you made me think otherwise. You saw the world differently, you also saw me differently. You didn’t treat me with the reverence others seemed to, nor did you shy away from challenging me. You refused to be seen as anything other than yourself; and that, in itself, was what made me admire you —what made me long to understand you more. Now, I find that I am standing with half a heart and an emptiness I never knew I could feel, because you showed me what it truly means to crave something more, something I never thought I deserved. You may think I’m a coward for not expressing my feelings more directly, perhaps you are right. I am a coward for fearing to lay bare the vulnerability of my heart. But even in my cowardice, know that my thoughts have always been of you. If you have seen through my silence and hesitation, if you understand my actions when my words fail me, then perhaps you have already known this truth. I care for you, more deeply than I can fully express. Though I may never be able to say these things as openly as I wish, I’d like you to know that my actions have always been my confession. Even now, I’m still a coward for you. So please, if you decide to give me a chance, I’ll be waiting at nightfall. Helplessly, Alhaitham.

you absentmindedly trace the edges of the letter with your fingers while your eyes skim over his writing for the nth time, the ink seeming to blur together with your thoughts as you try to process everything. your fingers curl around the fabric of his jacket, a foolish smile creeping onto your face.

tomorrow’s nightfall feels impossibly far away, yet you can’t wait for it.

alhaitham lays on his bed, his arm aches slightly from the injury, but it’s nothing he can’t ignore. plus, the bandage you had carefully wrapped around his arm is enough to keep the discomfort at bay.

(originally, he had only planned to meet you, slip you the note, and be on his way. things didn’t go exactly to plan, but either way, he hopes you’ve read it by now.)

of all the possibilities, he’s never accounted for the one he’d be at mercy of his own emotions; he had always prided himself on his rationality, his restraint. but now? he’s reckless, absurd, foolish even —he can admit that to himself. but he finds he doesn’t care in the slightest.

for as much as he is a coward in your presence, he is just as much a fool in your absence.

ACT VIII: UNDER THE RAIN, I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY.

“alhaitham isn’t really an expressive person, so don’t worry if he comes off as distant or uninterested. it’s not that he doesn’t care, he just… shows it differently.”

ah well, ‘differently’ indeed.

“—most importantly, alhaitham doesn’t waste time on people he doesn’t care about, so you must mean a lot to him.”

maybe you didn’t mind how your heart raced when you heard that.

“don’t fuss over it [name], you’ll know when he’s in love.”

how so?

if he was in love, what would it look like? would you be able to tell, or would it be just another one of those things you had to catch on to?

you wrapped the his jacket tighter around yourself, a faint smile tugging at your lips. it wasn’t the answers to those questions that mattered, but asking them in the first place —that was what made you realize you already knew all along.

the evening air is cool against your skin; a gentle breeze stirs the trees, their leaves rustling quietly, and your heart beats louder than ever, urging you forward.

in the distance, you spot him, standing still in the dim light. and without a second thought, you quicken your pace.

“haitham.”

the sound of your voice catches his attention as he turns to face you; you can’t help but notice how his gaze flickers down for just a moment, his eyes taking in on how his jacket looks on you, before meeting yours.

his posture is unnervingly perfect, rigid almost to the point of stiffness …is he nervous?

“hey,” he finally says, clearing his throat. “there’s something i need to tell you… though you’ve probably already figured it out. you’ve always been sharp.”

“i… ” he falters, and it’s the first time you see him hesitate. “i’m not sure how to put it… since i’m not exactly great at this.”

you tilt your head, subtly urging him to continue.

“but you’ve managed to make me care about things i never thought i would. and now i can’t seem to stop thinking about it —about you.” his voice lowers, softer now, but there’s a rawness there that’s unmistakable.

“i’m telling you this now, because not saying it... doesn’t feel right anymore."

suddenly, you feel a soft mist that barely kisses your skin, a slight chill against your cheeks, then a few tiny drops, until they start to gather in your hair, the beads of water slipping down the back of your neck, but you don't move. neither does he.

his hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, droplets trailing down his temple. his clothes cling to his frame, soaked by the rain, yet his attention remains solely on you.

“[name], i am irrevocably in love with you.”

you stand there, the rain falling relentlessly around you, the pitter-patter mirroring the frantic beat of your heart. the water trails down his face, but it’s hard to tell if it’s just the rain, or something else.

his lips part, as though he wants to say more, but the words seem caught in the storm, swallowed up by the downpour. the rain is cold, but his gaze? his gaze feels impossibly warm.

it’s only when you feel the dampness of his jacket beneath your fingers, that the words finally come. “you don’t need to convince me of that.”

you take a step closer, and for a moment, the world outside seems to disappear.

“i’ve known,” you add. “but hearing you say it,” you pause, allowing yourself a small smile, “makes all the difference.”

reaching up, your fingers graze his damp skin as you gently push a wet strand of hair from his forehead, the warmth of your touch lingering against his cool skin.

“'uhibuk aydan, alhaitham.”

i love you too, alhaitham.

a single droplet slides down his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw before falling to the soaked fabric of his collar. another follows. and then another. his breath catches in his throat, and a shaky exhale leaves his mouth.

you wrap your arms around him, and he sinks into your embrace, his hair tickling your cheeks, as his chest rises and falls against yours.

“you’re gonna make me cry too, idiot,” you murmur, burying your face in his chest, your eyes glassy. “you really are a fool,” you tease softly, a slight smile playing on your lips. “but only for me.”

slowly, his hands rise, trembling slightly, until they cup your cheeks, gently stroking it.

“la yujad 'ahad akhar 'urid 'an 'akun 'ahmaq min 'ajlihi.”

there’s no one else i’d ever want to be a fool for.

his palms are surprisingly warm despite the weather. his thumb grazes your cheekbone as he leans in, and the world falls away —nothing but the warmth of his presence and the soft press of his lips against yours.

“this is my first time in ten years seeing this guy cry! can you believe it?!” kaveh whisper-shouts, peeking out from behind the shrub.

nodding along, cyno agrees, poking his head out just right below the blond’s. “[name] is truly exceptional. though i must say, seeing alhaitham cry is quite tear-rifying.”

kaveh rolls his eyes in exasperation. “ugh, you and your puns.” he mutters under his breath while zooming in on his phone, which is currently recording the whole scene.

“quiet down, you two!” a voice hisses from behind them —tighnari, face flushed with panic. “they’re literally right there, and you’re making more noise than a herd of goats.”

“relax, we’re out of their line of sight anyway!” kaveh raises his phone higher, almost giddily, eyes glued to the screen. “and damn this is a good angle.”

tighnari exhales sharply, “you’re incorrigible.”

“look who’s talking,” cyno raises an eyebrow at tighnari… who’s also peeking out from behind the bush. (what a hypocrite)

…

“they kissed oh my g—” kaveh’s voice rises in disbelief, but cyno quickly covers his mouth with a swift hand. the three of them scramble to duck behind the bush just as you turn to glance in their direction.

(“is that… senior kaveh?” you squint your eyes, “cyno, and tighnari?”

alhaitham clears his throat before glancing over at his friends with a deadpan expression. “yes and unfortunately, they’re very invested in my personal life. so please don’t mind them."

you laugh, finding the whole situation a bit too amusing. “not in the slightest, but i’m sure they’ll never let you hear the end of it.”)

EPILOGUE: IN EVERY LANGUAGE, I HEAR LOVE YOU.

“how long?”

you blink, feigning confusion. “how long what?”

alhaitham’s eyes narrow slightly, an expression you know well. “how long have you understood everything i’ve been saying?”

you bite back a smile and offer a small shrug, “...ever since you started?”

his lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, you can’t tell if he’s upset or impressed. then, he sighs, almost amused. “and you let me embarrass myself all this time?”

“you were being honest,” you shrug, a smirk forming. “plus i knew you’d figure it out eventually.”

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “may ideya ka ba kung ano ginawa mo?"

do you have any idea what you’ve done?

"mas lalong umibig sakin?"

made you fall in love with me even more?

you tease, but there’s a tenderness in your voice that softens the edge of your words.

“yes, and you really are insufferable,” he mutters with no malice. his tone is different now. softer. warmer, even.

you lean in slightly, a playful glint in your eyes. “that’s not what i heard you say before.” your fingers graze the skin of his cheek before you tenderly pinch it, giggling softly at the reaction you provoked.

in one smooth motion, he catches your hand before you can pull away and tugs you towards him, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. you tilt your head back to meet alhaitham’s gaze.

you’ve often thought he’s the most-perfect boyfriend, undeniably handsome in every way —but there’s really just one flaw: his height.

“ugh, you’re too tall," you grumble, rubbing the back of your neck. "i’m having a neck sore just looking at you."

he quirks an eyebrow at your sudden words. “you could use a stepstool.”

"or," you counter, "you could get on your knees and save me the trouble.”

he slowly lets out a breath, his lips curling ever so slightly.

“'akida, 'antaziri hataa 'ashtari alkhatama.”

sure, just wait till i buy the ring.

"wh—"

he crosses his arms, "what’s wrong? isn’t that what people expect when someone gets on their knees?"

you roll your eyes, half-smiling. "fine, then i’ll eagerly wait for that day.”

his gaze softens as his hand reaches up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face; his eyes drop to your lips for a moment, and you know what’s coming even before he speaks.

this fic was not sponsored by duolingo, but with the help of my beloved friends!! wouldn't have been possible w/o em please give them a round of applause xx

vietnamese — @https-sourlimes

tagalog / filipino — @vxnuslogy

arabic — @ughscara

chinese, japanese — me!

ty @mitsvriii for proofreading, love u all <3

and thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated ^^

pspspss check out the cool fanart / comic based on this fic here by @rei-plswork 🤍

MASTERLIST.

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geminiwritten · 1 month ago

Text

playing games ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: you've been best friends with rooster for years and you're both obviously in love with each other, but he refuses to cross that line... until you accept some help from hangman and he takes the game just a little too far

notes: i don't want to say this sucks because i'm actually so proud of getting it done... i was severely burnt out the past week and struggling big time, so i really hope it's not terrible and y'all really enjoy! plus, the ending had me giggling and kicking my feet... as always, please let me know what you think, i love all the feedback (it honestly keeps me going)

warnings: swearing, italics, alcohol consumption, hangman is a bit of a dick but still lovable, kind of cheesy, description of injury and blood (very minor), and it gets a bit horny (18+ ONLY MDNI)! please let me know if i missed anything

word count: 17266

your callsign is chick

You’ve known Bradley Bradshaw since your first day at the academy, and he’s been ruining your life ever since.

With his stupid sun-kissed skin and ridiculously perfect hair. Those damn pink lips, always curled into a soft smirk beneath that criminal moustache. And those big brown eyes—so deceptively innocent as they watch you, like they know you better than you know yourself.

Even the way he speaks gets you hot. That low drawl in his voice, the way he stretches certain words, and—ugh—the way he says your name.

He’s a walking, talking hazard to your health. Engineered in a lab and designed specifically to make your brain short-circuit. All he has to do is look at you, talk to you, flash that smug little smirk—just exist—and you’re malfunctioning.

You want him like a shot of whiskey on a cold night. Need him more than air when you’re drowning. He’s everything you can’t have but can’t stop craving.

And the worst part?

You know he feels it too. That he wants you just as badly.

But Bradley Bradshaw is too fucking scared to cross that line and risk everything for something real.

“Rooster!” Maverick calls across the tarmac. “This isn’t a photo shoot for Hot Pilots Weekly. Move your ass!”

Laughter ripples through the squad—breathless but alive—as you all keep circling the cones on the concrete. Because today, Maverick decided push-ups just weren’t enough. Today, he wanted to torture his squad.

“Don’t slow down, Bob,” Hondo says, stopwatch in hand by one of the cones.

“I can’t see,” Bob huffs. “My glasses are fogging up.”

“Must suck not being in peak physical condition,” Jake quips, picking up the pace to pass Bob and Mickey.

You’re just a stride ahead—and seriously considering faking a faint so you can ditch this godforsaken flight suit.

“Hey, little chick,” Jake says, falling into step beside you. “Lookin’ good.”

“Save it, Bagman,” you mutter, breathless. “I’m not in the mood.”

“See, you say that,” he says, that cocky grin still in place despite running for the past twenty minutes, “but your eyes are telling a different story.”

You let out a huff—something between a laugh and a gasp for air. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“But I’m wearing you down, right?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re wearing my patience down.”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Maverick calls. “Bring it in.”

There’s a collective groan as everyone slows to a walk, dragging themselves toward him without an ounce of urgency—tugging off gloves and unzipping flight suits as they go.

Maverick had made everyone run in full gear. He claims it’s conditioning, but you’re pretty sure it’s just because he’s evil—and possibly an undercover sadist.

You fumble with your zipper, yanking it down before shrugging the suit off your shoulders and pulling your arms free. The rush of cool air against your skin is nothing short of divine, and you let out a soft moan without even meaning to. You don’t even care that you’re down to just a sports bra—since you ran out of clean undershirts this morning and had already resigned yourself to suffering.

When you glance up from tying the sleeves of your suit around your waist, you catch Bradley staring. His wide brown eyes are locked on you, roaming over your bare skin like they have every right to. His face is flushed, lips parted, breath coming in quick gasps as he slows to a stop. Feet rooted to the ground, he just stares—clearly flustered—and somehow, you’re not convinced the run is entirely to blame.

You walk right past him, lips twitching. “Thirsty, Bradshaw?”

He clears his throat and falls into step beside you. “Hungry, actually.”

“That so?”

He nods.

You arch a brow. “Anything in particular you’re craving?”

His tongue darts between his lips as they curl into a slow smirk, his eyes dropping down your body. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Something I’ve been thinking about for a while.”

You want to laugh—because yeah, it’s been a long fucking while—but instead, you press your lips together and shake your head.

Maverick drones on about how maintaining your body is just as important as maintaining your jet before launching into an unhinged story about ‘back in his day’—but you’re barely listening. You can’t. Not with Bradley’s eyes flicking toward you every few seconds. Not with the way he’s standing so close, suit half off, his undershirt clinging to his body in ways you only wish you could.

It’s downright criminal—the way he can still look this sinfully good after a full day of torture. No one should look like that after a gruelling workout. No one.

“You’re all dismissed,” Maverick says, snapping your attention away from the little droplet of sweat sliding down the side of Bradley’s neck. “And don’t forget—my place at six.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Mickey grins, turning to Reuben beside him. “I’ve been thinking about a steak all damn week.”

Reuben frowns. “Then why wouldn’t you just cook one for yourself?”

“Don’t know how,” Mickey says with a shrug.

Maverick chuckles as he turns away, Hondo falling into step beside him.

The others continue roasting Mickey for his inability to cook a steak while you head for the locker rooms, eager to get the hell out of this damn suit and under the cool spray of a cold shower—something you need for more than one reason.

You almost make it when a heavy pair of footsteps echo down the hall behind you, and you don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You recognise him just from the sound of his stride. Is that sad?

“You trying to follow me into the shower now, Bradshaw?”

He tips his head, lips curling into that crooked little half-smile. “Is that an offer?”

You press your back to the women’s locker room door, nudging it open. “You know you’re always welcome.”

A beat of silence stretches between you—electricity crackling softly in the air as you hold his gaze. Your lips are quirked in challenge; his cheeks flushed, eyes wide with want—even though you already know exactly what he’s about to do.

He’s going to defuse the moment. Because he’s scared.

“Raincheck,” he mutters, voice tight—almost strained—before clearing his throat. “I was going to ask if you wanted a lift tonight? To Mav’s.”

“Oh.” You take half a step back into the locker room. “That’d be great.”

He nods once. “Pick you up at ten to six.”

“Can’t wait,” you say before turning sharply and pushing all the way through the door.

You know it was just a joke—an offhand comment—but the little stab of disappointment still lands in your gut. You should be used to it by now. He’s been rejecting you for years. But it still stings. Especially when he’s looking at you like that—gaze hot and full of every emotion he refuses to name.

Now you definitely need an ice-cold shower.

Because for a moment, you let yourself imagine dragging Bradley into the locker room. Peeling off his flight suit. Tasting the sweat on his skin. Pressing him under the hot water, feeling his body move against yours—his hands, his mouth, his arms wrapped around you and his cock—

“Ugh,” Natasha’s voice bounces off the tiled walls. “My ass is basically slow-roasting in this fucking suit. If I peel this thing off and hear a squelch, I’m retiring.”

You snort a laugh as you pop open your locker.

“You’re better than a cold shower,” you tell her, watching as she starts wriggling out of her suit. “Did you know that?”

She narrows her eyes. “Gross. Were you daydreaming about Bradshaw again?”

Once a month, Maverick invites the whole squad over to his house for a barbecue. It’s a cute little tradition he started when the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit based at North Island. He says it’s to keep morale up and make sure Bradley and Jake are always getting along—but you know it’s really just because he loves it.

Your phone chimes just as you’re slipping your feet into your shoes. It’s a text from Bradley, announcing that he’s out the front of your apartment block.

You grab a jacket—just in case—before heading out the door and turning sharply toward the fire stairs. You’ve refused to take the elevator ever since it broke down a couple months ago. It’s supposedly fixed now, but you’re not taking any chances. Those two hours you were stuck in there with your neighbour ‘Crabby Carl’ were some of the worst of your life.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming,” you chant to yourself as you bolt down the stairs.

You shove the door open on the bottom level and breeze through the lobby, darting outside just as Bradley presses on his car’s horn.

You stop abruptly at the passenger-side door, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “You were barely waiting two minutes.”

He looks like the embodiment of sin sitting behind the wheel of the Bronco—lust, to be exact. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear stick, he looks like he’s posing for some defence force recruitment ad created by horny graphic designers. He’s wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt—one that shouldn’t look as good as it does, but of course it looks good on him—unbuttoned to his sternum, showing off a delicious stretch of sun-kissed skin that makes your mouth water.

He tips his head forward, peering over the rim of his sunglasses. “You gonna keep staring or are you gonna hop in?”

You roll your eyes and yank the door open, trying—and failing—not to blush.

“Nice shirt,” you mutter. “Did you mug a tourist for it?”

He chuckles as he flicks on the indicator. “Actually, this is vintage Bradshaw. And I know you love it.”

You scoff, fighting the smile pulling at your lips. “Someone’s full of himself this evening.”

His eyes cut toward you as the car stops at an intersection, a sharp smirk curling at his lips. “Jealous?”

Your eyes widen. Your cheeks flame. Your breath catches in your throat. Did he seriously just ask if you’re jealous of him being... full of himself?

The silence between you is thick with static, crackling dangerously as he holds your gaze—brown eyes lit with something reckless. Something sharp that steals the air from your lungs and makes you forget your own name.

You’re used to flirting with Bradley—you’ve been doing it for years—but every now and then, he gets bold. No warning, no reason. Just a sudden shift in heat, like he lives to catch you off guard.

The blaring of a car horn startles you both. Bradley’s cheeks flush as his head snaps forward, foot pressing quickly on the gas.

The rest of the car ride is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the radio—but thankfully, Maverick’s place isn’t far from yours. It’s barely been ten minutes when Bradley pulls up to the curb in front of the small, sun-faded beach house.

You try not to stare as he cuts the engine and pulls the key from the ignition, but it’s hard not to watch the way his shirt shifts. The way it falls open a little more as he leans forward. His skin is so golden, so warm—something you wouldn’t mind burning your fingertips on.

“You alright?”

Your eyes snap to his face, cheeks heating. “Yeah, sorry.” You quickly unbuckle your belt. “Zoned out.”

He chuckles, pushing open the driver’s side door. “You know, it’s not polite to stare at someone’s tits.”

“That so?” you ask, arching a brow as your lips curl into a half-smirk. “So the way you were looking at me after training today... what was that?”

He ducks his head, fighting a smile as his hand tightens on the door handle. “Oh, that wasn’t polite at all.”

Then he slips out of the car and shuts the door, leaving you to catch your breath—for the second damn time in less than twenty minutes.

Once you finally remember how to breathe, you climb out and follow him up the front porch steps. He doesn’t bother knocking—just opens the screen door and turns the brass knob on the weathered oak door, pushing it open like it’s his own house.

There are already voices inside—mostly bickering—and the clink and clang of pots, pans, and other cooking utensils. The kitchen sits at the very back of the house, just before a sliding set of double doors that open onto a spacious deck.

It’s not a big house—it’s cozy—and you love it. From the worn wooden floorboards to the peeling wallpaper. It has so much charm, and so much potential to be the ultimate vintage beach shack. You always joke to Mav about leaving it to you in his will—and he usually fires back with something suggestive about leaving it to Bradley, so it will be yours someday.

“You are not cooking,” Natasha’s voice echoes down the hall. “Last time you cooked, everything was beyond burnt.”

“Well, the last time you cooked, the steaks were still mooing,” Jake fires back.

“Mav, could you please tell Hangman that steak is supposed to be pink in the middle?” Nat says.

“Mav, tell Phoenix to eat her weird, witchy, voodoo blood sacrifices in the privacy of her own home,” Jake retorts, his voice rising with every word.

You snort quietly as you round the corner into the kitchen, just as Maverick lets out a long, exasperated sigh.

“Would the both of you just shut the hell up?” he mutters, glancing up from where he’s unwrapping various cuts of meat. A smile curls across his face as he spots his two newest arrivals. “Rooster is cooking tonight.”

Bradley sighs like he’s just been asked to scrub the barracks with a toothbrush, but he doesn’t argue. He just moves into the kitchen with easy familiarity, greeting the others like he hadn’t been with them all day, then starts helping his godfather unpack the barbecue haul.

“Here,” Natasha says, sliding a beer toward you. “You’re going to need this. Seresin is in fine form tonight.”

Jake’s head snaps toward you, his grin firmly in place. “I’m always in fine form, Phoenix.”

You tip your head, furrowing your brow in faux confusion. “Didn’t I score higher than you on the last PRT?”

“Actually,” Natasha cuts in, lips twitching, “I’m pretty sure we both did.”

Jake’s smirk flickers, just slightly. “Those tests are rigged. They’re designed better for assessing female fitness.”

“The U.S. military is more than eighty percent male,” you say flatly. “Why on earth would the tests be rigged in favour of women?”

Reuben claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Face it, man. You’re not actually that fit. You just look it.”

Jake’s eyes go wide.

“You’re hot girl fit,” Natasha adds, her grin sharpening.

“Oh my God,” you giggle. “That’s so true. You look good, but you’re not actually that good.”

Jake’s gaze swings back to you, eyes sparkling. “Did you just say that I look good, little chick?”

Your smile drops as you narrow your eyes. “You won’t be looking good with a broken nose if you keep calling me that.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick sighs, stepping between you and Jake with a tray full of meat. “No violence indoors. If you want to fight, take it to the park across the road—and don’t mention my name if the cops come. They don’t like me very much.”

Laughter ripples through the group as everyone starts moving outside. Maverick and Bradley take the meat trays while Bob, Natasha, and Jake gather bowls, plates, knives, and forks. You grab the tongs, spatula, and grill fork before following them out the back door and onto the deck.

Javy, Mickey, and Reuben have already claimed spots around the large table. There are a few wicker lounge chairs that match the outdoor setting, and a couple of extra seats that have been pulled from Maverick’s indoor dining set. And at the far end of the deck is where the barbecue is—right next to the two-seater lounge that, somehow, you and Bradley always end up sharing.

“Chick,” Maverick calls as you cross the deck. “You helping?”

“Do I have a choice?” you ask, squeezing between the back of Mickey’s chair and the deck railing.

Maverick shakes his head. “No, not really.”

You roll your eyes as you reach the barbecue and Maverick gives you a quick pat on the shoulder before walking off, leaving you with Bradley.

You set the cooking utensils down and turn to him with your hands clasped behind your back, standing as if at attention. “Reporting for duty, chef.”

Bradley gives you that soft little half-smirk, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Sure you’re ready for the barbecuing big leagues, baby bird?”

You press your lips together, trying desperately to ignore the way your heart flutters at the nickname. It’s lame, and a little cheesy, but he’s been calling you that since flight school—since your very first real flight, when you admitted how nervous you were about getting in an actual jet. Instead of teasing you, he gave you some corny speech about flying the nest and somehow made you feel brave. From that day on, it just stuck. It even inspired your callsign—well, that and the fact that you apparently followed Rooster around like a lost chick... or so they said.

You clear your throat, blinking away the dreamy haze in your eyes. “Trust me,” you say, fighting a smirk, “I know how to handle my meat.”

Bradley rolls his eyes and turns back to the barbecue, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks flush pink.

Once the grill is hot, you help him lay out the meat and stack the empty trays to the side. He spends a few seconds poking holes in the sausages and stabbing a few of the steaks—for God knows what reason—before shutting the lid and turning toward you with a smirk.

“Would you rather let Hangman choose you a new callsign… or your next tattoo?”

You cross your arms and lean a hip against the barbecue’s side shelf, tapping a finger against your bottom lip as you think.

“Can I choose the size and placement of the tattoo?” you ask.

Bradley shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Alright, callsign then,” you decide. “It’s less permanent, and I don’t think he’s creative enough to come up with anything truly awful.”

Bradley tips his head. “Fair.”

He watches you for a moment while you take your time thinking of your own question, his eyes flicking—less than subtly—between your lips and your chest, the latter nicely highlighted by your crossed arms.

Honestly, sometimes he’s the least subtle man alive.

“Okay,” you say, uncrossing your arms to curb the distraction. “Would you rather tell Mav you dented his bike, or accidentally call him ‘Dad’ during a hop?”

Bradley laughs and tips his head back. “Oh, definitely the ‘Dad’ thing. I could live with the embarrassment, but he wouldn’t let me live if I touched his precious bike.”

You nod. “That’s true.”

“Alright,” he says, returning his gaze to you. “Would you rather be stuck in a supply closet with Fanboy all night, or trapped out here on the deck?”

You snort. “The deck, easily. I’m not surviving a night in a closet with anyone on this squad—and this deck has comfy lounges. It’s a no brainer.”

He laughs again as he turns back to the grill, lifting the hood to check the sizzling meat.

“Phoenix, want your steak flipped now?” he calls, without even glancing over his shoulder.

“Yes, please,” she replies.

You grab the tongs before he can and bump your hip against his, nudging him aside to lean forward and flip one of the steaks. Then you casually check the others, rotating the sausages just slightly, before stepping back and lowering the lid.

You turn to face him, tongs pointed at his chest. “Would you rather only ever take cold showers, or have hot showers but you have to pick someone from the squad to join you?”

His brows shoot up, a devilish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leans in, just a little. “Definitely the second option.”

You narrow your eyes. “Who would you pick?”

He leans in further. “That’s not part of the question.”

You let out a flustered little breath as he winks and snatches the tongs right out of your hand. Then he leans back, watching you thoughtfully—clearly taking his time to come up with a question that will top yours.

“Okay,” he says finally, brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “Would you rather have someone’s hands in your hair... or their teeth on your skin?”

You choke on absolutely nothing.

Your breath catches, warmth flooding your face and crawling down your throat. Your heart stutters, then pounds harder—so loud you’re almost positive he can hear it.

“I—” You clear your throat, hard. “What kind of question is that?”

He watches you too closely, eyes sparkling with amusement, and smirk firmly in place. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Hypothetically, of course,” he says, way too innocently.

You narrow your eyes. “Right. No ulterior motives?”

His tongue slides across his bottom lip as he nods.

“Alright.” You take a slow breath, gathering your composure. “Both are good... but if I had to choose?” You meet his eyes. “Teeth.”

His gaze sharpens, hunger sparking behind his eyes. He licks his lips again, and it strikes like lightning behind your ribs, racing heat through you in a single, breathless flash. The space between you hums with tension, dense and electric, thick enough to taste like copper on your tongue.

Then, without a word, he turns back and lifts the barbecue lid, using the tongs to rotate the sausages like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just set you on fire—and then dump a bucket of ice water on your head.

The impromptu game of Would You Rather fizzles out fast—both of you too flustered to meet each other’s eyes after Bradley’s last question. Instead, you keep busy, setting out crockery and side dishes, and grabbing everyone another round of drinks before the meat is done.

Once dinner is served, conversation quiets, replaced by the sound of cutlery and near-feral eating. Everyone is shovelling food into their mouths like they haven’t eaten in days—the fallout from Maverick’s full day of physical torture.

You end up beside Bradley in the two-seater—because of course you do—and the air between you still feels heavy. Charged, almost.

You’re used to tension with him—it’s been there for years—but lately, it feels different. More pressing. More electric. Like one spark could light a fire big enough to burn you both to ash.

“So,” Maverick says, setting his knife and fork down on his empty plate, “I take it everyone’s attending the gala next weekend?”

There’s a general hum of agreement and nods all around the table.

“Do we have to wear dinner dress?” Mickey asks, talking around a mouthful of steak.

Maverick shakes his head. “Command made it mess dress or formalwear—your choice.” He pauses, eyes sweeping pointedly across the group. “But if you don’t have a perfectly tailored tux, I’d recommend your uniform. It’s still black tie. And it’s our first event as an official elite squadron.”

Natasha raises her fork like she’s in class. “If gowns count as formalwear for women, can the guys wear dresses too? Or are we sticking to gender-normative black tie?”

Maverick drops his head into his hands and sighs, elbows braced on the table. “It’s the U.S. Navy, Phoenix. What do you think?”

“Fair point,” she mutters, smirking as she stabs another piece of sausage.

“Damn,” Reuben says. “I had the hottest little red number I’ve been dying to wear.”

Mickey snorts—then chokes, coughing hard as laughter erupts around the table. His face turns beet red as he waves off concern and sputters into his drink.

Bradley nudges your elbow. “You going?”

You nod.

He smirks. “Got a date?”

You nearly drop your fork. “A date?”

“Yeah,” he says with a soft chuckle, tipping his head the way he does when he’s about to tease you. “Do you know what that is? Or has it been so long you’ve forgotten?”

You roll your eyes. “I know what a date is, Bradshaw. I just don’t know why I’d need one.”

“Just thought maybe you’d want one,” he says, voice softer now, cheeks pink and eyes fixed on his plate.

Your brows lift, pulse skipping as heat flickers low in your chest. Electricity crawls beneath your skin, lighting every nerve it touches.

You should be used to this by now—used to him. But somehow, your body still responds to every little thing. Every glance. Every tease. Even when you know better.

“You know,” you say, voice low, “if you want to ask a girl out, you usually have to say the words.”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, lips twitching, breath caught. It feels like the whole table has gone still—every pair of ears not-so-subtly tuned in to your conversation.

Bradley clears his throat. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Another bucket of ice water. You feel it crash over you like a wave, and you swear the whole squad exhales at once—like they’ve been holding their breath for you.

Heat curls low in your belly, stoking that familiar, maddening frustration that only Bradley seems capable of lighting. It swells beneath your ribs, fierce and unwelcome, pushing out any room you had left for food or rational thought.

You can feel it creeping into your cheeks too—heat and humiliation, tangled together. How he keeps building you up only to knock the breath from your lungs again... you don’t know why you keep letting him.

You let your knife and fork clatter onto your plate as you stand abruptly, the scrape of your chair loud against the deck. The force of it jostles Bradley, but you don’t care. He glances up, brows drawn, gaze wide and confused—as if he has any right to be confused.

You don’t meet his eyes. You can’t. Instead, you grab your plate and empty beer bottle with stiff fingers, turn on your heel, and stalk around the table with your jaw set tight. You don’t stop, don’t speak. Your gaze stays locked on the back door until you reach it, yank it open, and step inside—closing it behind you with more force than necessary.

You take a deep breath and try to calm your erratic pulse before starting to clean up the kitchen and wash the dishes. Outside, Natasha and Bob begin clearing the table, bringing in armfuls of plates, bowls, and cutlery, stacking them beside the soapy sink you’re elbows-deep in. Bob offers to help, but you just shake your head and keep scrubbing.

Once everything is washed, Maverick comes inside and grabs a spare dish towel. He doesn’t ask if he can help—nor should he, it’s his house—he just starts quietly drying and putting things away.

After a few minutes of companionable silence—the only sounds the clink and scrape of dishes—Mav sighs and catches your eye. “So-”

“Nope,” you cut in, shooting him a pointed look before turning to stash another plate.

He frowns. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

You pick up the—clean—grill fork and point it at him like a weapon. “You were absolutely about to make some wildly inappropriate comment about me and your emotionally constipated godson—who, by the way, you helped raise. So if you really want to crack open that Pandora’s box, we’re going to need a couch, a camera crew, and Dr. Phil front and centre. Because this is not a kitchen conversation, my dude. This is a full-blown televised intervention.”

His lips twitch into an upside-down smirk, like he’s trying—and failing—not to let his amusement show.

After a beat, he lifts a brow. “My dude?”

“Sorry,” you mutter, focusing on drying the grill fork a little too thoroughly. “Got carried away.”

He chuckles and picks up another sudsy bowl. “Look, you’re not wrong about him being a little… emotionally stunted.”

You arch a brow but keep quiet.

“But can you blame him?” he asks, slipping the bowl into the cupboard.

“Would you prefer I blame you?”

“What if we just leave blame out of it, yeah?”

“Sure,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes. “Now, since you’re clearly not going to drop it, let’s hear some of that Maverick wisdom. What’ve you got? Inspirational quotes? Dating advice? Drugs?”

He laughs—really laughs—this time. “Wow. You’re snarky when you’re frustrated.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Jake’s voice cuts in. “And I hear she bites when she’s mad.” He steps through the back door, letting it click shut behind him as he holds up a fistful of empty beer bottles. “What’d I miss?”

You roll your eyes and turn back to the waiting dishes. “Mav was just about to hand out some of his expert dating advice.”

Jake gasps. “For free?”

Maverick sighs. “I don’t know why I even try to be nice to you kids.”

“Because you love us,” you say, flashing him your cheesiest grin.

“Come on, then,” Jake urges. “I wanna hear this advice.”

Mav clears his throat, leaning one hand against the bench and the other on his hip, still holding the towel. “All I was going to say is, there’s nothing wrong with a little forwardness. I, for one, think it’s great when women take the lead-”

“Make me two,” Jake cuts in.

“See?” Maverick says, gesturing vaguely at Jake. “Maybe you should just ask him out. Stop waiting for him to make the first move.”

Jake’s brow furrows, his green eyes snapping toward you. “Who? Bradshaw?”

You roll your eyes. Duh.

“Oh, no,” he says quickly, laughing. “No, no, no. You can’t just ask Rooster out. Not after however many millennia you two have been pining over each other.”

“Thanks, Hangman,” you mutter dryly.

“I hate to break it to you, but asking Rooster out isn’t going to magically fix his ridiculous fear of commitment—” Jake pauses, glancing at Mav. “Shoutout to you for that one, Captain. Excellent work.”

Maverick throws up his hands. “How is this all my fault?”

Jake ignores him, turning back to you with sudden seriousness. “If you really want Bradshaw to do something about whatever it is you two have going on, you’re gonna have to convince him you’re not interested anymore.”

You frown. “What? How would that help?”

“Because,” Jake groans, like you’re the slowest student in his class, “he’s comfortable. He knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger. He’s not worried about losing you, so he’s taking his sweet, motherfucking time. But if he thinks he’s lost you—that he’s blown his shot—he might actually do something reckless like... I don’t know, kiss you.”

Maverick’s curious gaze shifts your way. “Wait, you two have never even kissed?”

You feel your face go hot. “Shut up.”

“Then,” Jake continues, undeterred, “you make him prove he wants you. Really wants you.”

Silence falls over the kitchen, thick with anticipation. Jake just watches you, that familiar glint of mischief dancing in his eyes, while Maverick glances between you both like he’s just tuned in to his favourite soap opera.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted. Jake... has a point. But emotional warfare? Even for a cause like this? You’re not sure you can stomach that—especially when it’s someone you love.

“No.” You shake your head like you can rattle the thought right out of your ears. “No way. It’s mean and manipulative. I’m not going to pretend I’m dating other people and just… ignore him—make him feel like crap—just to get him to admit he likes me.”

Jake sighs and turns to the fridge. “Shame. ‘Cause it would’ve worked.”

“I don’t care,” you say, picking up the last plate to dry. “I’m not messing with someone’s feelings like that.”

He crouches down and starts tearing the cardboard from a fresh pack of beers. “Even though he messes with yours all the time?”

You frown, stepping toward him. “He does not-”

“Whoa,” Bradley says, walking in through the back door. “You three having your own party in here?”

Jake stands, three beers in each hand. “Don’t be jealous, Rooster. I was just giving our little chick some dating advice.”

Bradley’s eyebrows lift, his gaze sliding toward you. “Really?”

You shoot him a flat look, then turn to Jake, eyes narrowed. “Advice I don’t want—or need.”

He leans in with that signature smirk. “Not from where I’m standing, Chick.” Then he winks, nods at both Maverick and Bradley, and saunters out.

Silence falls like a brick. No one moves. No one speaks. You’re painfully aware of Maverick across the kitchen and Bradley just a few feet away. It feels like you’ve been caught doing something wrong—except none of you were doing anything at all.

Bradley glances at the empty beer bottles on the bench, then picks one up and squints at the label. “You know,” he says, turning it over in his hand, “I think they changed the recipe on these. Tastes different lately.”

Neither you nor Maverick respond.

Bradley shrugs and tosses the bottle into the recycling bin with a loud clatter. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. I just... can’t commit to a brand.”

Maverick turns to him slowly and places a single, solemn pat on his shoulder—then walks out the back door, leaving the dishes behind.

You bite your lip and shut your eyes, turning to the sink before Bradley can see the laugh bubbling up in your throat.

Maybe Jake’s right. Maybe you do need to do something a little more drastic to help this man over his fear of commitment.

The rest of the night unfolds like any other. You hang around drinking and talking for a few more hours. Maverick gets roasted for trying to say something ‘hip’, and Javy quietly sweeps every card game while Natasha accuses him—loudly—of being an undercover hustler.

Eventually, Bob yawns and announces that he’s heading out—which signals the end for most of the squad since he drove them over—and Maverick agrees, muttering something about being too old for this.

You all file out like it’s Thanksgiving at your parents’ house, offering your thanks to Maverick on your way out the door. Natasha is the first to slide into her car and peel off down the street, while Bob waits for Jake, Javy, Mickey, and Reuben to cram themselves into his car.

You and Bradley are the last ones left on the street. Mav has already shut the door and flipped off the porch light, leaving you parked in the Bronco—roof off, as always—sitting in the dark beneath the stars.

“So,” Bradley says, eyes somehow still sparkling even in the dark, “where to?”

You tip your head back against the headrest and gaze up at the sky. “Take me to the stars,” you say, voice dramatically wistful.

He chuckles as he turns the key, the engine rumbling to life. “You sure you’re ready for that kind of altitude?”

You roll your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “Maybe if you stopped circling and actually climbed, we’d find out.”

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, lips quirking into a soft smile, but he doesn’t answer. He just presses down on the gas, pulling away from Maverick’s and heading in the direction of your place.

The silence that settles between you is thick—almost uncomfortably so—charged like a storm building somewhere just out of sight. You want to break it with something sharp or sarcastic, like you usually would, but Jake’s words keep echoing in your head. Reminding you just how painfully right he’d been.

“Okay,” Bradley says suddenly, clearing his throat. “Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized Mavericks, or one Maverick-sized duck?”

The question short-circuits your brain with how wildly it veers from your thoughts.

“Um…” you blink out at the road ahead. “Probably the Maverick-sized duck. It wouldn’t be much bigger than an average duck anyway.”

He snorts a laugh, tossing his head back just slightly. In the glow of the streetlights and the low-hanging moon, the sight of him steals the breath right from your lungs. You know he knows he’s good-looking—but you’re not sure he realises just how pretty he really is.

With every flash of light overhead, the tips of his curls burn like molten bronze, while moonlight kisses his lips with silver and shadow—softening the edge of his smirk. Even in the dark, he radiates warmth, like his sun-kissed skin refuses to surrender the light.

“Something on my face?” he asks, glancing at you for a beat before returning to the road.

You shake your head. “No, you’re just…”

He raises his brows, looking at you again with those curious, wide eyes. “I’m what?”

“Pretty,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper as you quickly turn to stare out the windscreen.

You immediately regret letting the word slip from your lips, but it’s too late. The car is blanketed in heavy silence—thick with something unspoken, or rather, something you shouldn’t have spoken—and crackling with nervous energy. Your nervous energy.

Bradley’s smirk is gone. His brows are drawn and his eyes wide as he watches the road, jaw tight like he’s trying to work through an impossible equation in his head. His movements are stiff, deliberate—as if driving isn’t muscle memory anymore, but something he has to consciously remember how to do.

It feels like hours before he pulls up to the curb outside your apartment block. You open the door with what has to be superhuman speed and slip out, mumbling a goodbye with your eyes locked on the lobby. But before you can even make it across the sidewalk, he’s in front of you.

How the fuck did he move that fast?

“What the fuck?” you blurt, a little harsher than you mean to, eyes flicking up to the man now blocking your path—standing way, way too close.

“Sorry, I just—” He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “Just wanted to say sorry. For before. At dinner.”

You step back, needing space—because holy shit, the smell of his cologne, of his warm skin and coconut-scented hair wax, is making your whole nervous system short-circuit.

You bump up against the Bronco. “It’s fine. Don’t be silly.”

He takes a step forward, closing the gap again until there’s barely a breath between you.

“No, it’s not. Everyone was listening and—and I shouldn’t have said anything.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His eyes meet yours, wide and full of every emotion you’ve been begging him to say out loud.

“You know what it means.”

You want to scream. You want to grab his face and shake him until he gets it. Until he understands how goddamn stupid he’s being. Because you know he cares. You know he loves you. But you can’t keep waiting around for him to get over whatever ridiculous fear he refuses to name.

“Bradley,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “Why are you—”

Your breath catches. Your voice sticking in your throat as he leans in, one hand braced against the car behind you. His warmth, his scent—it all slams into you at once, wrapping around you like a weighted blanket full of static.

“Bradley...” you whisper, your voice unsteady.

Your eyes are locked on his mouth, watching his tongue slip slowly across his bottom lip as he searches your face—looking for something. Maybe he’s searching for a reason to move forward, or maybe he’s trying to find one to stop. You can’t tell.

You just hope, more than anything, that he doesn’t pull away.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, voice low, wrecked.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your heart is in your throat, beating so hard it almost hurts as he leans in just a fraction more. His nose brushes yours. His breath hits your lips.

Is this it?

But then—he stops.

His forehead dips to yours, his eyes falling shut, and he exhales a shaky breath.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “Not with you.”

The words are barely there, like it hurts him to say them.

And just like that, the moment shatters.

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, the sting of heat rising to your cheeks—not from the near-kiss, but from the humiliation curling hot and sour in your gut.

Before he can say anything else, you push off the car and shoulder past him, the night air slicing cold across your skin as you storm toward the lobby, jaw tight and chest burning.

Your vision blurs with tears that wait until the second you step into the elevator to finally fall, streaking down your cheeks in warm, heavy drops.

You don’t even care if the damn lift breaks down—at least then, you wouldn’t be the only one falling apart.

You take a deep breath, clutching a coffee cup in each hand like they’re your lifelines. Then, lifting one foot, you tap the toe of your sneaker against the door you’ve been staring at for the past five minutes—wondering whether you really want it to open.

“Good morning, little chick,” Jake says, grinning from ear to ear as it swings open.

You release the breath you’d been holding and hand over one of the cups. “Peace offering.”

He lifts a brow. “Is this you grovelling?”

“I don’t grovel.”

He takes the cup and steps aside, motioning you in. “What about beg?”

You roll your eyes as you walk past him, pleasantly surprised by the fresh, citrusy scent that greets you the second you step into the kitchen—the first room off the entry.

“Wow, I’m impressed,” you mutter, raising your cup to your lips.

Jake drops onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “What were you expecting?”

“Shag carpet. Disco ball. Strobe lights. A shrine to yourself. And at least a dozen mirrors.”

He snorts. “You’re just as bad as he is, you know that?”

You pull out a stool and settle in, resting your elbows on the counter. “Who?”

“The man you’re here to beg me to help you with.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t beg.” You take another sip before setting the cup down with a sigh. “But... yes. I want help.”

His smirk lifts higher. “What made you change your mind?”

“Nothing,” you shoot back a little too fast.

He just arches a brow and waits.

“Fine,” you mutter. “When he dropped me home last night, he apologised for the whole ‘date to the gala’ thing over dinner. I told him it was fine. He got closer, leaned in. I thought he was going to kiss me, and then... nothing. He said he couldn’t do it. Not with me.”

Jake frowns—not shocked or empathetic, just curious. “Not with you,” he echoes. “Specifically you.”

You give him a flat stare. “Yes. Me. Thank you for really hammering that in.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to rub it in. I mean... there’s something else, then. Something beyond his DEFCON-level commitment issues.”

“So, it is just me?” you ask. “I’m too hideous or something?”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that. It’s probably the friendship.”

“Oh, so I’m buried in the friendzone. Awesome.”

Jake narrows his eyes at you. “Would you stop being such a cynic? I told you I’d help—so let me help.”

You press your lips together and sit up straight, drawing an imaginary halo above your head.

“Thank you,” he nods. “Now, I’m guessing the real problem is that he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship. I mean, sure, back in the academy and flight school, it was probably just bad timing. Then after deployment—separate deployments—you could both write it off as unrealistic. But now? Now it’s deeper. He’s not just scared of commitment. He’s scared of losing the one thing he really gives a damn about.”

You tip your head, brow furrowed.

Jake sighs. “You.”

“Oh.”

He takes a long sip of his coffee, eyes drifting across the kitchen like the cupboards might give him an answer.

“We just have to figure out how to get him to believe you’re actually into me,” he says.

Your eyes go wide. “Sorry, what? Into you?”

His gaze snaps back to yours, amusement flickering. “Yes. Me. That’s the plan.”

“You’re the plan?” you repeat, because your brain is still buffering.

He nods. “Yes, I am the plan. You and me—together. That’s the play.”

“Oh, he’ll never believe that,” you say. “Not in a million years.”

Jake tips his cup, drains it, and drops it on the counter with a hollow thunk. “Would he believe you if you told him you were here right now? Hanging out with me on a Saturday morning?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“But you are,” he points out, brows raised. “So all we have to do is show him. We can’t just say it—we have to do it.”

You pull back slightly, grimacing.

“I don’t literally mean do it,” he sighs. “God, you act like I’m some uncontrollable savage.”

You hide a smirk behind your cup, deciding not to poke the one person who might be your only hope.

“Alright,” you say, setting your coffee down and straightening up again. “So, how do we show him?”

Jake isn’t just evil—he’s downright diabolical.

You have no idea how he’s come up with so many ways to get under Bradley’s skin—though you suspect that pissing people off might just be one of his favourite pastimes. And damn, his ideas are good. You’re pretty sure Bradley will be ready to murder someone by the end of the week—if he even makes it that far.

Right after your Saturday morning chat, Jake got to work. He started by taking a series of photos where you were just visible but not the focus. One in the kitchen, with you turned away so it’s hard to tell that it’s you. Another on the couch, your hand just barely in frame, resting on his leg. And one in the mirror—he claimed it was to show off a new beanie, but if you squint, you can spot your figure lounging on his bed in the background.

Then it was your turn. With Jake’s help, you snapped a few subtle photos of your own—each one just blurry or cropped enough that someone would have to look twice to notice him.

That night, he fired the first shot. He dropped the kitchen photo into the group chat with a totally fabricated caption about ‘white people taco night’—because he knew it would immediately set Mickey off. The plan worked. Within minutes, the chat was buzzing. Javy asked who the girl in the background was, but Mickey’s dramatic rant about authentic tacos made it easy to dodge the question.

Still, the seed had been planted.

On Sunday afternoon, Jake showed up at your place with a bag of his old clothes and a small bottle of cologne—the one he always wears. You hung out for a bit, fine-tuning your devious schedule for the week, before it was your turn to post in the chat.

Yours had to be subtler. Jake having a girl over? Not unusual. But you? If it wasn’t Bradley in the photo, people would notice instantly.

So you went simple. A picture of a mug of tea. Barely anything else in frame—just a sliver of the floor, a pair of regulation boots, and a bag that looked suspiciously like it was packed for an overnight stay. Keys resting neatly on top.

You captioned it: ‘Look, Payback! Tea! And it doesn’t taste like jet fuel!’—a direct hit on the squad’s long-running inside joke about the time Natasha asked Reuben to make her tea, and it somehow tasted worse than kerosene.

The chat exploded. Half of the messages were Reuben defending himself, and the other half—sparked by Natasha’s quickfire question about the boots—were trying to figure out who you had sleeping over.

You played it cool—a few coy emojis, a couple of vague replies—and eventually, they moved on. But you knew better. The game had officially begun.

And judging by how quiet Bradley had gone in the chat—especially after someone pointed out those boots were definitely too big to be yours—you were confident.

He’d taken the bait.

“You ready?” Jake asks, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning.

You nod. Your mini-meltdown already happened this morning—second-guessing everything, wondering if this is too much, if it’ll backfire, if it makes you the bad guy. But then you remembered. You remembered the way Bradley has strung you along for years, the way his scent lingered on your skin that night, how close he got—closer than ever—just to leave you hanging. Again. And that’s when it clicked. This isn’t petty at all. This is justice.

Because Bradley Bradshaw has had you twisted in knots for far too long.

Now? You get to pull the strings.

You walk beside Jake across the pool deck—barefoot, no pants, towel slung over your shoulder, and his shirt hanging loose over your swimsuit.

Maverick booked a couple of pool lanes for swim training this morning. It’s not your favourite—unless the summer heat is brutal—and you don’t do it as often as you probably should, but at least he’s not making you wear your flight suits this time.

Up ahead, the squad is already gathered at the edge of the pool, standing around in their swimmers while Maverick chats with Warlock down the other end. You and Jake are the last to arrive—exactly as planned.

You force a smile as you get closer, eyes fixed on him no matter how badly they want to flick toward Bradley.

“I’m just saying,” Jake grins, “if you’re going to steal my shirt, the least you can do is admit it looks better on me.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not everything is about you, Seresin. And for the record, I saw you in it yesterday—and I can confidently say it looks way better on me.”

He chuckles, voice low but not too low. “Okay, fair. It does look pretty damn good.”

When you finally glance away from him, your gaze lands on the squad—all of them wide-eyed, mouths hanging open. Every single one of them is staring, expressions caught somewhere between confusion and horror.

Except Bradley.

He looks... flustered. A little angry. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes—wide and flickering—are running up and down your body like they can’t decide whether they love or hate what they’re seeing.

Natasha steps forward, brow furrowed and brown eyes wide. “What the hell is-”

“Alright, aviators,” Maverick says, clapping his hands as he approaches the group. “Time to get out of the sky and into the water.”

You let out a small breath of relief, grateful for his perfectly timed interruption that draws the squad’s attention away from you and cuts through the growing tension.

“I’m not going easy on you today,” he continues, a wide smirk spreading across his face as he leads everyone toward the deep end of the pool. “We’ll warm up with a two-hundred metre freestyle, then hit kickboard drills and buoy pulls. After that, combat intervals, hypoxic training, rescue sims, gear swims, and finally—your favourite—the water tread challenge. Make it to the end without a complaint and you get to leave early. If you pass out? Two hundred push-ups to prove you're not too out of shape for my squad. Got it?”

The collective energy dips—weighted down with dread for what’s to come—but everyone mumbles their understanding and heads toward the diving blocks.

Swim training is always brutal, but today’s line-up of torture only reinforces what you’ve long suspected—Maverick really does enjoy watching you all suffer.

Aside from sticking to your drills and doing what you’re supposed to do, there’s hardly a moment to interact with the rest of the squad. Your head is underwater for half the day, and when it’s not, it’s pounding. You catch the occasional glimpse of Jake’s cocky smirk or a cheeky wink, and a few curious—or maybe frustrated—looks from Bradley, but for the most part, no one has time to talk. Between drills, you're too busy catching your breath and stretching out your aching limbs to worry about anything else.

By the time Maverick finally calls for cooldown, you’re seconds away from collapsing. You’ve nearly forgotten all about your little scheme with Jake—until he swims up beside you, just as you’re about to climb out of the pool.

“Need a hand stretching?” he asks, eyes sparkling like he didn’t just endure six hours of hell.

You raise a brow. “Is this you being a pest, or part of the-”

“You think so little of me,” he sighs, stepping onto the bottom rung of the ladder right behind you.

It’s way too intimate, especially considering you're still surrounded by your whole squad and half the base. But Jake doesn’t seem remotely bothered by pressing his wet, half-naked body up against yours.

“Move it, little chick,” he says sarcastically. “You’re holdin’ up the line.”

You roll your eyes and continue up the ladder, quickly padding across the pool’s tiled edge toward your towel and water bottle.

He dries off beside you while you wrap yourself in your towel and squeeze the excess water from your hair, giving him a sceptical—almost dubious—look the whole time.

“Talk to me,” he says, voice low. “You’ve got to at least pretend not to hate me if we want this to work.”

“I don’t hate you,” you mutter into the mouth of your drink bottle before taking a swig.

Jake gasps—full of faux shock, and eyes wide with dramatic flair. “Don’t let Rooster hear you say that. He’ll blow his carotid.”

You roll your eyes and tuck the towel under your arm to keep it wrapped around your body. “I swear, the way you two talk about each other, anyone would think you’re jilted ex-lovers.”

Jake chuckles softly. “And if I told you we were?”

You lift a brow. “I’d ask for proof.”

His grin turns wicked. “Would you join in?”

You tip your head, fighting a smile. “Probably.”

“I knew it,” he says, leaning in just a little. “You are into me. Even if you won’t admit it.”

“Only your body,” you say, stepping closer and placing your palm flat against his bare chest. “I’d just have to make sure your mouth was too busy to piss me off.”

His jaw nearly drops—if not for the devious smirk tugging at his lips. You wink, pat his chest once, then turn and walk toward the locker rooms… right past Bradley, who you know was listening to that entire conversation.

You take a little longer than usual in the showers, letting the hot water soak into your skin and ease the aches in your exhausted muscles. You rinse your hair until it no longer feels rough and tangled from a day spent in over-chlorinated water, and you slide soap over your skin until it feels less itchy and tight.

Then you turn off the water and spend a good few minutes drying yourself before slipping into some blissfully dry clothes. You pack up your things, sling your bag over your shoulder, and pull out your phone to check what all the buzzing had been about while you were busy getting dressed.

Your heart jumps into overdrive when you open the group chat to see the mirror selfie of Jake in his beanie—the one with you just barely visible in the background. The conversation started with Mickey asking if anyone wanted to go to a new Mexican restaurant tomorrow night—you know, to taste authentic Mexican food. Most of the squad had quickly agreed, and then Jake sent the photo asking if the weather was too hot for him to wear his new beanie.

Then the questions started. It isn’t obviously you in the photo, so most of the squad began asking who the girl is—clearly more interested in that than the beanie. Natasha asked if it was the same one from the kitchen photo, and Reuben said he thought so, since the hair looked the same. Then Javy piped up, offended he doesn’t know who his best friend is ‘dating’. All the while, Jake fielded the questions with sarcastic remarks and cocky quips.

You roll your eyes and type a quick message: ‘Hangman… with the same girl twice? Nah. Couldn’t be.’ Then you hit send just as you step out of the locker room, turning the corner toward the pool deck and—

The next thing you know, you’re on your ass. Your head is spinning, your ankle is throbbing, and there’s a slick smear of blood trailing down the side of your foot.

“Shit,” you mutter.

You must’ve slipped on the wet floor—judging by how your previously dry shorts are now soaking through—and sliced your foot on something during the fall. A cracked or uplifted tile, maybe.

You bend your knee and lift your sore ankle off the ground, gently prodding at it with two fingers—only to wince at the sharp sting. The cut doesn’t look too deep, thankfully, but there’s already an unsightly pool of blood dripping off your heel and onto the ground.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Natasha rushes over, cutting short her conversation with an officer you don’t recognise. “I’m not going to laugh, because I can tell you’re hurt. But damn, that was a good fall.”

You roll your eyes. “You can laugh, it’s fine.”

Her lips twitch into a small smirk. “Can you stand?”

“Not sure.” You try to flex your ankle, but it hurts too much—and it’s already swelling. “I don’t want to, just in case.”

“Good idea. I’ll go get Rooster and we’ll take you to sickbay,” she says, turning on her heel.

“No,” you say quickly, “not Rooster.”

She frowns.

“Get Hangman.”

Her eyes go wide, full of questions as she looks at you in horror. “You want Hangman?”

You nod. “Yes. Please. Just get Jake.”

She stares at you for a moment, like you might be some evil clone of yourself. Then you lift your brows, and she shakes her head, muttering “Jake…” disgustedly as she turns and walks across the pool deck.

A few minutes later, you see her walking back toward you with Jake on her heels. He actually looks concerned, and you’re not sure if it’s just excellent acting or the fact that maybe he’s not completely evil.

“Trying to walk and chew gum at the same time, little chick?” he asks, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You look up at him, trying not to wince at the throb in your ankle. “Slipped on these ridiculously unsafe tiles, actually. Might have to go legal on the U.S. Navy’s ass.”

He chuckles softly and crouches beside you. “Don’t say that too loudly—you might get yourself into trouble.” Then he leans in to inspect your ankle. “Looks pretty gnarly. Might put you out of action for a few weeks.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, shoulders sagging. “That was my first thought too.”

He watches you for a moment—genuine worry flickering in his eyes—before sliding an arm around your waist and lifting you like you weigh nothing. “Come on,” he mutters. “Let’s get you to sickbay, see how long the sentence’ll be.”

With Jake’s help, you’re up on one foot fairly easily. The rush of blood to your ankle makes you wince, but otherwise, you feel relatively steady in his arms.

When you glance up, Natasha is watching with a deep-set scowl. Her brown eyes are so sharp, it feels like they’re cutting right through you. But if she’s looking for something ingenuine, she won’t find it—not this time. Because Jake actually seems worried about you right now, and his help is… surprisingly comforting.

Even if, deep down, you’d still rather be in Bradley’s arms.

“Can you tell Mav?” you ask Natasha. “Please.”

She nods once before stepping aside to let you and Jake pass. But she doesn’t look happy about it, and you know you’re going to hear about this later.

You lean into Jake as he guides you through the building—past the locker rooms, the trophy hall, and the little hire shop that always smells like feet. You’re just about to make it through the exit gate when—of all people—Bradley steps out of the guard’s office, a brand new swipe card in hand.

“Holy shit,” he says, rushing toward you. “What happened? Are you okay?”

He reaches out, like he expects you to drop Jake and fall into his arms. And God, you want to. But you don’t. Instead, you flinch a little and lean closer into Jake.

“I’m alright,” you say, voice cool and indifferent. “I slipped. That’s all.”

Bradley’s eyes widen, flicking between your face and Jake’s before settling on the way Jake’s arm is slung protectively around your waist.

“Well… you have to go to sickbay,” Bradley says. “Do you want me to take you?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine, Rooster. Jake’s got this.”

Double whammy—using his callsign, which you rarely do unless you're teasing, and using Jake instead of Hangman. Yeah. That’ll sting.

“Jake?” he echoes.

“That’s what she said,” Jake cuts in, southern drawl thick and smug. “Told you not to sit too long on that perch, Rooster.”

Bradley’s spine goes rigid, his expression shifting into the one you know he wears when he needs to shut people out. It’s stormy and unreadable—brows furrowed, jaw tight, lips pressed into a hard line.

His eyes lock onto yours. “Hope you’re not grounded for too long.”

Then he turns and walks away, shoulders stiff, fists clenched at his sides.

He doesn’t even glance back.

Not like you do—like you always do—eyes flicking over your shoulder while Jake walks you out.

One prime-time grade-two ankle sprain, six stitches, and four weeks on the ground. Great. And to top it off, you can’t get your foot wet for the next seventy-two hours.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay over?” Natasha asks, her voice crackling through the phone.

“Nat, it’s fine,” you say. “It’s not like I’m totally crippled. I’ll be on crutches for a couple days, then I’ll be walking again.”

“In a boot,” she adds, as sharp as an unimpressed parent. “You’re still injured. Don’t downplay it. How do you even plan on showering without getting it wet? You could slip and hurt yourself… again.”

You roll your eyes and sit up on the couch, gaze glued to the muted TV. “I’m not going to shower on one leg. I’ll have a bath.”

“And what if you accidentally drown?”

You snort. “Seriously, Nat? I’m not a complete idiot. I can take a bath without drowning.”

“I’m just worried about you,” she says. “You’ve been displaying some very self-destructive behaviours lately.”

You lean back into the cushions, tipping your head against them to stare up at the ceiling. “That so? Like what?”

She scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know. Like hanging out with Hangman alone.”

Your eyes widen, panic licking up your spine.

“That’s right,” she says. “I know it’s you in those photos he sent to the group chat. I’m not stupid. What I don’t know is why.”

You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. “Because we’re friends. Why does it matter if I hang out with him one-on-one? You and I hang out all the time.”

You can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “That’s different. You and me, you and Bradley—hell, I wouldn’t even blink if it were you and Reuben. But Hangman? And in his apartment, no less? I know there’s more to it than you’re telling me.”

“So what if there is?”

The line goes quiet, and for a second, you wonder if it’s cut out. But then she sighs, heavy and frustrated.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” she says. “You and Rooster-”

“There is no me and Rooster,” you snap, sitting up straight. “This has nothing to do with him.”

There's another beat of silence before she mutters, “Okay, fine. I’ll drop it.”

“Good.”

“Do you still want me to drop off the waterproof bandages?”

“Yes, please. And—” you glance at the empty packet of sour worms on the coffee table, “can you bring me some snacks?”

She lets out a soft laugh, the warmth in it helping to cut through the awkwardness. “Sure. What time should I come by?”

“Whenever,” you say. “I’m going to take a bath and wash off the hospital smell, but you just tell me what works for you.”

There’s a pause, but you can practically hear her thinking while you shuffle toward your crutches.

“Have a bath first. I’ll swing by a bit later,” she decides.

“Okay.” You grab a crutch and hoist yourself upright. “But give me at least an hour and a half. I don’t know how this bath is going to go.”

“You sure you don’t want help? I’ve seen you naked plenty in the locker room.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll be fine, Nat. Promise. Just give me until eight—then you can come yell at me for being clumsy, as long as you bring snacks.”

“Alright, Chick,” she says with a soft laugh. “Don’t drown.”

“I’ll do my best,” you reply with a small smirk.

She sighs again, full of exasperated affection, and then you both mutter a quick ‘love you’ before hanging up.

You use your crutches to get to your bedroom and then into the ensuite. You start the bath before hopping around the small space to gather what you’ll need, setting everything on the vanity beside the tub—within reach. Then you head back to the bedroom and strip out of your clothes that reek of chlorine and antiseptic.

Once the tub is full of steaming water and fluffy bubbles, you brace yourself on the vanity and the edge of the tub, using them to take your weight as you—not so gracefully—swing your good leg into the bath. Then you lower yourself slowly and awkwardly until you’re sitting, propping your injured foot up on the ledge—safe and dry—before sinking deeper into the bubbles. And God, it feels good.

You sigh, letting the scalding water envelop you as your thoughts wander back to when you last saw Bradley. The look on his face when you’d all but told him to fuck off makes your heart squeeze and your breath catch. In all the years of your friendship, you’ve never been so flippant with him. You’ve never shut him out when you were hurt, never denied him the chance to be there for you. Because honestly? That man is your biggest comfort. He’s your favourite person—and your favourite feeling. And the guilt of making him feel like anything less wrecks you.

The ding of your phone startles you out of your thoughts. You dry your hands quickly on a towel and reach for where you left it on the vanity. It’s just the group chat—Natasha and Jake updating the rest of the squad on what happened and how long you’ll be grounded.

You smile at the sweet and goofy messages pouring in, then type a quick reply to reassure them that you’re fine. As you go to set your phone back on the vanity, you accidentally knock over your shampoo bottle... and it sets off a domino effect.

The shampoo hits the conditioner, which hits your body wash, then your face wash, your face scrub—until every last product is clattering and rolling across the bathroom floor.

“Fuck,” you mutter, gripping the edge of the tub as you watch them inch farther and farther out of reach.

You start looking around for something—an idea, maybe—to help retrieve your scattered products, but then—

“Hello?”

Your heart leaps into your throat, heat rushing to your cheeks—and not just from the scalding bathwater.

“Bradley?” you call, your voice cracking halfway through.

You hear the front door shut, followed by the rustle of plastic bags.

“Yeah,” he calls back. “It’s just me. Phoenix said you needed some stuff but she couldn’t make it so—” He pauses. “Wait, where are you?”

“Um, I’m in the bath,” you reply, eyes snapping to the very open bathroom door.

“Oh.” There’s a beat of silence. “D-Do you want me to just leave this stuff here... or?”

You know Natasha did this on purpose, and you fully plan on killing her for it later. But right now, you could actually use the help.

“Hang on,” you say, settling deeper into the water and gathering bubbles over your chest. “Can you—um—could you give me a hand?”

You hear something clatter in the kitchen, like your words startled him into dropping whatever he was holding.

“You want me... to come in there?”

You sigh. “Yes, Bradley. Please. You won’t see anything—I just... I dropped my stuff and I can’t reach it.”

“Okay,” he mutters, uncertain.

Each footstep grows louder, heavier, your heartbeat matching the rhythm until it’s pounding behind your ribs, threatening to burst free.

And then he appears in the doorway, and the breath leaves your lungs in one sharp exhale.

It’s unfair how beautiful he is. How easily and effortlessly sexy he is, without even trying.

He’s wearing a pair of old Naval Academy sweatpants and an oversized black shirt. His hair is mussed, cheeks flushed, and those big brown eyes are practically glowing. His lips part as he breathes, chest rising and falling just a little too fast. He looks flustered, confused, maybe even a little angry—but mostly... sad.

“Hey,” you murmur, dragging your gaze from his face to the bottles scattered across the floor. “I knocked everything over.”

He shakes his head and blinks hard before quickly crouching down. “I can see that.”

He gathers all the bottles and lines them up on the vanity, keeping his eyes firmly on the task at hand—anywhere but on you, naked in the tub.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice rough and a little strained.

You shrug one shoulder, and it’s almost impossible for him not to notice the way the bubbles slide off your skin as it lifts above the waterline.

“I’m okay,” you say. “The painkillers are still doing their thing, so I’ll probably feel worse in a few hours, but for now... I’m alright.”

He nods, fixing his eyes back on the neat row of bottles like they’re the most important thing in the room.

“I feel a bit awkward though,” you add with a small laugh.

His gaze flicks to you, then back to the vanity, brows drawn like he’s fighting with himself. He looks torn—caught between reason and ruin—with no right answer.

“Do you—I mean, I could—” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you want some help? It doesn’t have to be weird. I could just... help wash your hair and make sure you don’t slip getting out.”

Your breath catches, heart thundering in your throat and robbing your brain of oxygen.

He looks so vulnerable. So... nervous. You’ve never seen Bradley like this. He’s usually cool, confident—borderline cocky, though not like Jake. Sure, he gets awkward sometimes, and you’ve definitely seen him be uncool. But never like this. Never so visibly unsure of himself.

“Okay,” you say, before the rational part of your brain can stop you.

“Okay,” he echoes, cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red.

He shifts quietly, moving to the end of the tub behind you. You hear the soft thud of his knees hitting the tile and you can feel the air shift with his closeness. The room is quiet—except for the gentle lapping of water, the drip of the leaky basin tap, and the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears.

You don’t dare turn around.

Not when you know he’s kneeling back there, barely a foot away, and you’re naked in a tub full of bubbles that feel more and more useless by the second.

You hear him flip the shampoo cap open and squirt a generous amount of liquid into his palm. Then the soft friction of his hands rubbing together.

And then he touches you.

His fingers slide into your hair, spreading warmth across your scalp as he works the lather in. The first stroke is gentle. So careful. Like he’s scared to hurt you. Or scared of something else entirely.

Then he finds his rhythm—stronger, more sure, fingertips dragging slow and deep through your hair, massaging the base of your skull with maddening focus.

Your eyes flutter shut.

His thumbs sweep behind your ears, along your nape, and it sends a pulse of heat right between your legs. You shift slightly, breath catching, and the water sloshes softly around you. You know he can hear it. You know he can see the way your spine arches and your shoulders bare themselves as you lean into his touch.

You feel exposed.

And you know he’s trying not to look. You know he's trying to be a gentleman—but he’s still a man, and you’re naked, and the steam in this bathroom is thick with tension. You can practically feel his eyes skimming over the curve of your neck, your slick shoulders, what little the bubbles don’t hide.

He breathes heavier now. Not quite panting, but close. His fingers falter for just a second when your head tips back a little farther, throat stretching bare, water sliding lower on your chest.

“Bradley…” you whisper.

You don’t even know what you’re about to say.

But he cuts in first—voice hoarse, like he’s choking on the words. “So… you and Hangman, huh?”

Your whole body tenses.

You blink, stunned. Your first instinct is to laugh. The second is to scream. The third is to climb out of the tub and straddle him until you make him eat his words—but you do none of those things.

Instead, you turn your head just slightly, enough to murmur, “Are you really asking me about that right now?”

He hesitates.

“I just thought—” His voice breaks off. “I don’t know. I’m just curious... I guess.”

You let out a short laugh—sharp and disbelieving—as you tilt your head just slightly, just enough for your voice to carry over your shoulder.

“Yeah. I’ve been spending a little more time with him.” Your tone is sweet and deliberately casual—but it’s laced with something else. Something darker. Something dangerous.

And then, as if you’re thinking out loud, you add under your breath, “He definitely wouldn’t be sitting behind me right now acting like he doesn’t want to get his hands on a lot more than just my hair.”

Bradley goes still.

You can hear the breath catch in his throat—feel the tension rise like a tide behind you. His hands freeze where they’re tangled in your wet strands, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. The air between you is thick, heavy, charged.

He doesn’t speak.

You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes fixed ahead as heat blooms under your skin and something inside you dares him to move.

Come on, Bradshaw.

“Yeah,” he mutters as his fingers begin to move again. “He probably wouldn’t.”

The moment shatters—falling around you like glass, sharp and splintering, embedding in your skin. Your spine stiffens as you close your eyes, forcing a slow breath past the frustration clawing up your throat. You can’t yell at him. Not now. Not while he’s on his knees, helping you. Not just because he refuses to give in to his own damn needs.

Needs you know are there—because five seconds ago, you would’ve sworn he was about to climb into the tub with you.

But no.

Bradley Bradshaw is still locked in his cage of commitment issues and unnamed excuses. Still holding the line no one asked him to.

The silence stretches, thick as steam, humming with everything you both refuse to say.

You feel the shift in his hands as he cups water and begins to rinse the shampoo from your hair, the heat running down your back in slow rivulets. His fingers trail through the strands, patient and careful, untangling and smoothing. Each pass makes your skin buzz.

He doesn’t speak.

And neither do you.

But you can hear his breathing—shallow, uneven, just a little too fast. You know he’s trying not to look. You know because he hasn’t touched you anywhere he doesn’t absolutely have to. When his knuckles brush your shoulder again, it feels almost obscene.

Once your hair is clean, he reaches for the conditioner. You close your eyes as he works it through—slick and warm—massaging your scalp, smoothing it through to your ends. His fingers graze your temple, your ear, the nape of your neck.

It’s methodical. Careful.

But it still feels like worship.

And he still hasn’t said a word.

When he’s done, he gives your hair one final rinse, quiet and efficient, then stands and wipes his hands on a towel. You expect him to bolt—mutter something and flee—but instead, he grabs a fresh towel and holds it out, eyes fixed on the far wall like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Here,” he says, voice rough. “Let me help.”

You stand—slowly, cautiously—and his hand darts out to steady your elbow, instinctive and warm. He still doesn’t look. Not properly. His gaze stays down, jaw tight, throat bobbing.

He wraps the towel around you, still avoiding your eyes, and lingers only long enough to make sure you won’t slip.

And then he steps back, fists clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together by a thread.

“You good?” he asks, voice tight.

You nod, arms locking the towel around your chest. “Yeah. Thanks for the... help.”

He nods back, quick and stiff, eyes still looking everywhere but at you. “The first aid stuff is on the kitchen bench. Snacks too—your favourites. If you need anything... uh—”

He backs out of the bathroom like he’s escaping, eyes finally flicking up to yours. “See you at work.”

And then he’s gone. So fast you barely register it.

When you turn to the mirror, you're surprised to find yourself crying—cheeks flushed, eyes rimmed red. You swipe at the tears, blurry and stupid, and grab your phone with trembling fingers.

You pull up your text thread with Jake and type: ‘I don’t know if we should do this anymore.’

“You let him what?” Jake’s eyes go wide, blueberry muffin frozen halfway to his mouth. “And he didn’t even-”

You shake your head.

“Not so much as a-”

“Nothing,” you say, staring into your coffee as you stir lazily. “Barely even looked, let alone touched.”

“My God...” Jake mutters around a mouthful of muffin. “The man has the restraint of a priest.” His eyes narrow, flashing toward you. “Are you sure he’s not a-”

“He’s not a priest, Hangman.”

He nods slowly. “Okay, so he’s an alien.”

You just shrug and take a long sip of coffee.

“Well, we can’t stop now,” Jake says, voice firm. “No way. He must be close—like, so close. If we play this right, we’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter. “It feels wrong. Like I’m forcing him into something.”

Jake raises an eyebrow. “Kind of how he’s forcing you to stay ‘just friends’ even though you’re clearly in love with him?”

You frown. “How are you so good at twisting things?”

“Years of practice, little chick,” he grins wickedly, leaning his forearms on the table. “Now, let’s focus on finding you a drop-dead gorgeous dress for the gala.”

You spend the rest of your Tuesday at the mall with Jake—thanks to an RDO from Maverick—shopping for a dress and a matching tie for him for the gala next weekend. It takes a bit longer than it should, thanks to your foot and crutches, but Jake is patient. He even lets you vent about Bradley, spilling some of the more intimate details you’d usually keep to yourself.

When he drops you home, he promises to give you lifts to and from work all week, and even offers to take you to your doctor’s appointment later in the week.

That night, Maverick calls to check in and fills you in on the light duties you’ll be able to do while staying off your foot. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you’re grateful—you’d probably go insane being stuck at home.

The rest of the week is relatively uneventful. You don’t spend much time around the squad, stuck doing menial admin tasks instead of flying, and Bradley is completely avoiding you. Not that you blame him.

Natasha drops by your place once or twice, and on the nights she’s not there, Jake is—not just to scheme about Bradley but to help you out. He takes you to your doctor’s appointment where, thankfully, you get to hand back your crutches, then helps you get used to walking wonkily in the moonboot.

Saturday night arrives before you’re ready, and suddenly the floor-length red gown you picked out a few days ago feels like way too much as it clings to your body.

“I don’t know,” you mutter, even though it’s too late—you're in the car. “I feel a bit stupid.”

Jake’s smirk hasn’t wavered since the moment he picked you up. “You don’t look stupid at all. You look incredible. I’m actually debating whether or not to let Rooster have you.”

You roll your eyes. “Like you have a choice, Seresin.”

“Oh, little chick,” he chuckles, eyes flicking toward you then back to the road. “If I decided I wanted you, you wouldn’t have a choice.”

You scoff. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bagman.”

The drive isn’t nearly as long as you need it to be, and before you know it Jake is pulling up in front of the valet service. Your heart hammers in your chest—part nerves, part something else you can’t quite name. You smooth your dress again, feeling every inch the bold red against your skin, while Jake adjusts his tie with a cocky grin.

Stepping out of the car, you instantly feel the weight of dozens of eyes—curious, impressed, maybe even a little jealous—tracking your every move as you walk toward the grand entrance. The gala’s ornate doors loom ahead, polished glass and shimmering chandeliers spilling warm light onto the stone steps.

Inside, the room dazzles with opulence—sweeping staircases, crystal glasses clinking, a string quartet humming somewhere off to the side. You catch whispers as you move through the crowd, a low hum of “Is that…?” and “Holy shit…”

Then you spot them—the squad, clustered near the bar. Maverick’s unmistakable frame stands out even in this sea of tuxedos and gowns, arms crossed, leaning casually but alert. His eyes flick to you with a brief nod—respect, approval, or maybe warning, you can’t tell.

And then there’s Bradley.

He’s leaning against the wall, jaw tight, eyes sharp as daggers. The tux fits him like a second skin, dark and sleek, every line tailored to perfection. The way the collar of his shirt presses just right against his neck makes your breath hitch.

His gaze locks on you—cold, charged, and… undeniably magnetic.

You swallow, your pulse roaring loud enough to drown out the music. Whatever else is going on, Bradley Bradshaw looks absolutely fucking delicious in a tuxedo.

Jake practically has to drag you across the ballroom, and you lean into him a little more than you should—using his arm to steady yourself under Bradley’s unwavering stare.

“Damn, Bagman,” Natasha says first, eyes trailing up and down Jake’s suit. “You clean up alright.”

Jake brushes an imaginary speck of dust off his lapel. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Phoenix.”

She just rolls her eyes and tips her champagne flute to her lips.

“You look good, Chick,” Javy says with a smirk, beer bottle halfway to his mouth.

You give him a soft smile. “Thanks.”

“And for the record,” he adds, nodding toward the rest of the squad, “they’re all thinking it too, but they’re too nervous to say anything with the way Bradshaw’s watching you.”

Bradley doesn’t even flinch. He’s still leaning against the wall, just a step away from the others but close enough to hear every word. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps threatening to split the seams of his suit jacket, and his jaw is set tight. His eyes are glued to you—not your face, but your body—raking over every curve of the silky red fabric like no one else is in the room.

“You know, Bradshaw,” Jake says, turning toward him, “you probably shouldn’t be lookin’ at another man’s date quite like that.”

You roll your eyes. “Jake, don’t.”

He glances down at you. “What? It’s true. He's being rude.”

Before either of you can say anything else, Bradley is gone—disappearing into the crowd without a word, leaving the rest of the squad exchanging wide eyes and raised brows.

Yeah. This isn’t awkward at all.

You’re sitting on a stool at the edge of the room—a chair Jake found for you when you started complaining about your foot—watching people dance and mingle as you realise... you’re not quite sure what you’re doing anymore.

This whole thing started because Bradley almost kissed you. Jake offered to help, to make him jealous, and you agreed to play along. But you’ve barely followed through, not with your injured foot getting in the way of every plan you had to tease him at work.

So instead... all you’ve managed to do is nearly break your ankle, piss off your best friend, confuse your entire squad, and go on what is very clearly a date with Jake. Like, an actual date. Because tonight he’s been nothing but kind and attentive, making sure you’re okay and comfortable—even though Bradley is nowhere to be seen.

How does any of this make sense?

“Thirsty?” Jake asks, holding out another flute of champagne.

You take it with a smile and tip half of it into your mouth.

“Have you seen Bradley?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Not in the last ten minutes, but Javy said he spotted him at the bar with Reuben and Bob. I think he’s avoiding us.”

“I don’t blame him,” you mutter.

“I just don’t get it,” Jake sighs, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “He’s obviously irritated, and he obviously wants you. So how are we supposed to—” He cuts himself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. That’s it.”

You frown. “What’s it?”

His gaze snaps to you. “Don’t worry. This one’s on me. I’ll handle it.”

“Jake—” you start, but he’s already gone.

You slide off the stool and start weaving through the crowd. Your foot is aching, but not nearly as badly as your head—and neither is enough to stop you from finding Jake. The look in his eye had been downright devious. You have no idea what he’s planning.

After a lap of the ballroom, you're drawn toward the back terrace. Fairy lights glitter in the trees, gauzy drapes billow across the tall windows, and pots of manicured flowers line the stone railing. It’s all so beautiful, so dreamy, you almost forget why you came out here.

Almost.

Until—

“Alright, Rooster,” Jake’s voice cuts through the cold night air. “What’s your problem?”

You quicken your pace along the side of the terrace, catching sight of Jake, casually leaning against a pillar.

“Don’t start, Hangman,” Bradley replies.

You can’t see him yet, but you can guess he’s slouched in the dark, probably with a drink in hand and a sour look on his face.

“Too late,” Jake says. “You’ve been in a foul mood all week. Shooting daggers across the room all night. You got something to say, or are you just going to keep sulking like a coward?”

Bradley exhales hard, frustrated. “Can we not do this here?”

“Too late.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” Bradley snaps. “But if you were smart, you’d walk away right now.”

Jake chuckles—low and dry. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m-”

“Jake,” you say, stepping beside him, wrapping your hand around his wrist. “Just leave it.”

Bradley is exactly as you pictured him—leaning against the wall with a scowl—but his eyes don’t look angry.

No. They look hurt.

“I know this isn’t real,” he says, voice low but steady.

Jake tilts his head. “Excuse me?”

“This—whatever this thing is between you two. It’s not real. I know she’s not that stupid. I just don’t know why the two of you insist on playing games.”

Jake’s lips curl into a devilish smirk. “It’s not a game, Bradshaw. And it sure as hell felt real the other night when she called me over.”

Bradley blinks. His expression faltering as he pushes off the wall.

Jake steps forward, voice quieter now—cutting and smug. “She called me right after that bath, you know. Must’ve still been feeling the heat. You’re a hell of a warm-up act.”

Bradley goes still, face empty. His lips part as he stares at Jake, unblinking. But then something sharp flickers in his eyes—something dark and visceral—and his jaw tightens so hard you swear it might crack.

“You’re lying,” he says, voice flat but lethal.

Jake rolls his eyes, smirk unmoving. “Believe what you want. I’m just saying—maybe next time don’t leave the door half open unless you want someone else walking through it.”

Bradley tenses like he’s about to pounce—face flushed, jaw tight, eyes wild—but something holds him back. You step in quickly, before that something disappears.

“Hangman, seriously,” you say, palm against his chest. “You’re being an idiot.”

“I’m not the idiot here,” Jake mutters. “Bradshaw’s the idiot for fumbling a girl like-”

“Just shut up, Seresin,” Bradley growls. “She said-”

“Oh my God,” you snap, throwing your hands up. “Both of you, shut up.” You turn to Jake. “You need to stop before you cause a real problem. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you’re going to blow the whole squad to pieces if you keep going.”

Bradley scoffs. “Exactly-”

“And you,” you whirl on him, eyes flashing, “you want to be mad? Then be mad. But don’t pretend I’m the only one who’s been playing games. For years you’ve begged me not to love you while doing nothing but showing me that you’re in love with me, too. And I waited. I gave you everything. For what? So you could push me away every damn time?”

Your voice cracks—just a little.

“And now that it looks like I might actually move on, you get all fucking huffy? You don’t get to do that. You don’t have the right. And you know what? If I wasn’t already so broken because of you, I might actually be into Jake. Because he’s nice. He’s considerate. Sure, he’s a cocky asshole—but he goes after what he wants. And it felt really fucking good to be wanted. Even if it was just a game.”

You turn on your good foot and try to storm away. Your foot screams in protest, pain slicing with every step, but you don’t stop. Your eyes burn with unshed tears, barely held back—and you’re not sure how long they’ll stay put.

You make it through the ballroom and out the front door, sliding into one of the taxis waiting at the curb. You pull out your phone and type a quick text to Natasha: ‘Tell Mav I had to leave. My foot.’

Then you cry. Quietly. Not messy or loud—just a few stray tears slipping down your cheeks. Frustration. Embarrassment. And a little heartbreak.

Once the taxi pulls up at the curb outside your building, you pay, thank the driver, and slide out. Then you limp into the building, across the lobby, and press the button for the elevator. You’ve since mended your relationship with the lift—because stairs are a non-starter these days.

By the time you reach your bedroom, your foot is absolutely throbbing. You quickly slip out of your dress, not even bothering to change the lacy matching underwear you—for some reason—decided to wear tonight, before pulling an old, oversized shirt over your head. Then you hobble into the kitchen and take a double dose of painkillers.

The thought of having to go to work in less than two days makes your stomach twist. You’ve just royally embarrassed yourself—not just in front of your best friend, but your whole squad. And they’re not idiots. They’ll know exactly why you left. Now you get to walk back into work on Monday and deal with all the pitying looks.

At least desk duty means you won’t have to see them as much.

You drag yourself from the kitchen to the couch, collapsing into the cushions with a groan as you reach for the remote. After a few minutes of mindless scrolling through streaming apps, you settle on Pride & Prejudice—the Keira Knightley version, obviously.

You lie back with your foot propped up on a stack of pillows, head turned toward the screen. But you barely make it to the part where Elizabeth visits a sick Jane at Netherfield when there’s a knock at your door.

You’re not even sure you heard it at first. You sit up slightly, ears straining, eyes fixed on the front door. Another knock comes—louder this time, sharp and almost startling.

You sigh, swinging your foot off the pillows, wincing as you push yourself upright and limp toward the door.

You open it—and there he is.

Bradley.

His curls are a mess, like he’s been dragging his hands through them the whole way over. His tie is gone, his shirt is wrinkled, and there’s a wild, desperate look in his eyes—like if he blinks, you might disappear.

“I know I should’ve called,” he says, voice hoarse. “I just... I didn’t think you’d answer.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. He shifts, like he might bolt, and exhales hard—as if the words are fighting to escape faster than he can form them.

“I’ve spent so long convincing myself I couldn’t have this. That I couldn’t have you. That it wouldn’t work, or it’d blow up, or I’d ruin you like I ruin everything that matters to me.” His jaw flexes. “But tonight, seeing you like that—watching you walk away like you were already gone—I couldn’t breathe.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m scared,” he admits. “I’ve been scared this whole time. Of loving you, of losing you. I pushed you away because I thought it would hurt less than this. But I was wrong.”

He takes a shaky breath and steps closer.

“I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years. And if there’s even the smallest chance I haven’t screwed this up completely… I’m here. I’m yours. And I’m not going anywhere this time.”

A beat of silence stretches between you—thick and electric. You’re toe to toe, just staring at each other, almost close enough to touch, tension crackling in the charged space between your bodies.

“Well,” you say, arms crossing over your wildly beating heart. “That was dramatic.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, completely wrecked. “Really? I just poured my heart out and that’s all you’ve got?”

You shrug. “It was either that or I was going to tell you that you beat Mr. Darcy to the big speech. Although… as someone who’s seen Darcy’s speech more times than I should admit—I’m not sure you beat him in terms of drama. You needed to stutter more.”

His brow furrows. “You’re watching Pride & Prejudice?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Want to join? I know you love it.”

His lips part, his chest still rising and falling a little too fast. Then his eyes drop to your chest—recognition flashing across his face. “Is that my shirt?”

You glance down, heat flooding your cheeks. “Um, yeah. I think I stole it.”

“Clearly,” he says, eyes sparkling.

You roll your eyes. “Come in. Before my nosy neighbours call in a noise complaint.”

You turn on your (good) heel and limp back toward the lounge, willing your face to cool and your heart to stop hammering. God, it’s taking everything in you not to jump his bones right now—especially with him looking like that in his deliciously dishevelled tux.

“Just so we’re clear,” you say over your shoulder, voice laced with sincerity, “I didn’t call Jake after the bath. He didn’t come over. I’ve never even kissed him.”

You don’t hear him move—just feel the sudden grip of his fingers wrapping around your wrist, warm and unshakable. He spins you around in one smooth motion, and you barely register the soft, wicked smirk curling on his lips before he pulls you into him, your body crashing against his like a wave.

His mouth is on yours in a second—hungry, demanding, desperate. There’s no hesitation. No sweetness. Just years of pent-up tension snapping loose as he devours your lips like he’s been starving for them. He lets go of your wrist, both hands coming up to cup your face, holding you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t.

You gasp into him, fingers knotting in his shirt, and he groans like the sound is driving him insane. Then he moves—walking you backward until your lower back hits the kitchen counter, his hips pressing hard against yours. You feel the sharp edge of his need, the strength in his grip, the undeniable heat radiating between your bodies.

And then—his hands slide down to the crease of your thighs, and you know what’s coming a heartbeat before it happens.

“Bradley—” you breathe, but it’s too late.

He lifts you clean off the ground and your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, your injured foot forgotten in the blur of heat and want and the feel of his body flush against yours. His hands grip your thighs, holding your weight like it’s nothing, before he sets you down on the bench. Then he grips your waist and deepens the kiss—hotter, deeper, more possessive than ever.

You’re gasping when he finally pulls back, foreheads pressed together, his lips brushing yours as he murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent, “I know.” He kisses you again. “I know nothing happened with him.”

You plant a hand on his chest, pushing him back even though every nerve in your body is begging to let him devour you. “Then why did you almost lose it?”

His lips—puffy and thoroughly ravaged—curve into a sheepish smile. He drops his gaze to where his hands are gripping your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. “Just the—the thought…” he mutters, voice rough and trembling with something darker. “The thought of you with anyone else… fuck, it drives me out of my goddamn mind.”

You fight a smirk as your hand trails up his chest, slow and deliberate, until your fingers slip beneath his jaw and tilt his face back up. “Much better,” you murmur. “With the stuttering, I mean. Mr. Darcy would be proud.”

He groans, more amused than annoyed, then crashes his mouth back onto yours. “You’re gonna be the death of me, baby bird.”

A shiver rips through you as he grinds into you, the hard line of him thick and straining beneath his dress pants. It drags across the damp lace between your legs, lighting a fire low in your belly.

His breath catches like a spark in dry grass when he looks down and realizes—at the same moment you remember—you’re not wearing pants. Just his shirt… and a very pretty, very intentional matching set beneath.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, his fingers skimming the lace at your hips like he’s trying not to combust. His gaze snaps back to yours, pupils blown, voice suddenly hoarse. “Any restrictions on sexual activity with your injury?” he asks—clinical, but barely hanging on.

You smile, toying with the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Pretty sure the doctor said I’m cleared. But I’m on light duties. So…” You lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “Strictly pillow princess stuff.”

He groans low in his throat, burying his face in your neck like he needs to ground himself. “Christ. After making you wait this long, you’re owed a lifetime of pillow princess treatment.”

“You’re not wrong,” you hum.

With a soft laugh, he lifts you effortlessly and carries you to the bedroom—your giggles trailing behind like glitter. He sets you on the bed and drops to his knees, carefully undoing the straps and fixings of the boot like he’s unwrapping a priceless gift. It’s absurdly tender. The kind of intimacy that makes your chest ache. His fingers are gentle, reverent, and the only sound is your shared breathing and the faint scratch of shifting fabric.

Then his hands glide up your thighs—slow and searing—raising goosebumps in their wake. He hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt and draws it over your head, revealing skin and lace and everything he’s been aching for.

His breath hitches. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice raw with awe. “I’m so in love with you.”

You bite back the grin that threatens to split your face. “Then hurry up and show me,” you urge, cupping his face in your hands.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His mouth crashes into yours and he lays you back, moving you with practiced ease to the centre of the bed. He pauses for one breathless second—just enough to drink you in, to let his eyes drag over every inch of you. Then he’s on you. Everywhere. Lips, tongue, teeth, hands. Worshipping. Possessing. Making up for every second he waited, every moment he hesitated.

And let’s just say… he starts making it up to you very well.

Over. And over. And over again.

END.

#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley x reader #rooster x reader #bradley 'rooster' bradshaw #top gun: maverick #maverick #top gun #imagine #oneshot #one shot #fanfiction #miles teller #fanfic #miles teller x reader #hangman #jake seresin #jake 'hangman' seresin #glen powell

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cheollollipop · 1 month ago

Text

pole position. | k. mingyu

genre: angst. fluff. smut (NSFW 18+ MDNI). childhood friends to enemies to lovers.

wc: 10.6k

content warning(s): super angst! yn is angry. talks about parental death. unprotected sex it (wrap it tf up!), oral (f! receiving), f1 so fast driving, reckless driving (please drive safe and responsibly!)

🏎️ author's note!

f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu f1 mingyu 👹👹 that is all.

There are some names you never really outrun.

In Monza, mine is whispered like a ghost story.

"YN's back?"

As if I were a curse.

It was as if I hadn't been here the whole time. Just hidden in the shadows of champagne flutes and pit lane secrets.

It's been seven years since the crash. Seven years since my father's car went up in flames on lap forty-two, since I stood in the paddock and watched the marshals throw up the red flag, my throat raw from screaming. Seven years since I promised myself I'd never set foot near a racetrack again.

And yet

I'm sitting in my apartment in Barcelona, staring at the black envelope the courier sent this morning. My name... MY name, is handwritten across the front in sharp, arrogant strokes.

The seal on the back is red wax. Embossed with a crest I know too well: MGK.

Kim Mingyu.

I don't have to open it. I already know what it is.

An invitation.

It's not the first time he's tried.

Mingyu's been sending messages for months. Quiet ones, clever ones. I ignored them all. The roses in Maranello? Trashed. The paddock pass in Milan? Returned. His call after the driver's gala last winter? I let it ring until the sound died.

He doesn't take rejection well.

He never has.

But this... this is different.

This is personal. The handwriting tells me that. Mingyu could've had a PR assistant draft something polished, clean, and cold. He didn't. He wanted me to know it was him. That it's always been him.

God, he's insufferable. He was always so sure of himself. The face of MGK Racing, the most aggressive driver on the grid, the fastest pit exit on record, and the charm that makes even my most jaded friends blush.

But beneath the swag and the tailored suits, there's something else. I see it every time his name flashes across the ticker. Every time he clutches a champagne bottle on the podium like he owns the world.

He wants to be a legend.

And legends always come with ghosts.

I open the envelope before I can talk myself out of it.

"Monza

Saturday. Pre-qualifying. I want you on the balcony.

Come see what a real legacy looks like."

– M

My teeth grit around the nerve of it. I can hear his voice in my head.

Deep, amused, cocky.

Come see what a real legacy looks like.

What a bastard.

I should burn it. Rip it into a hundred pieces and let the ashes swirl over my terrace like the memory of my father's last race. But I don't.

I set the letter down on the counter and pour myself a drink. Neat. No ice.

Because here's the thing about running. You can only go so far before someone catches up. And Kim Mingyu? He's fast. Faster than he looks. Faster than he has any right to be. And for better or worse, he's the only driver who's ever looked me in the eyes like he knows.

He knows what it costs.

Knows what it takes.

Knows that underneath all my disdain and quiet exile, I miss it.

I miss the sound.

The roar.

The rush.

I miss my father's world, even though it tore mine apart.

And maybe, just maybe, I miss Mingyu.

Not that I'd ever admit that. Especially not to him.

I set up the private jet for the next morning. One-way.

I pack like I'm going to war. Black sunglasses, leather jacket, zero patience. If he wants me at Monza, fine. I'll show up. But I'm not coming back as some wide-eyed fan with nostalgia in my throat.

I'm YN.

Daughter of the greatest to ever touch the wheel.

Raised in pit lanes and championship parties.

Trained to spot a liar in a sponsor's suit before he finishes shaking your hand.

And if Kim Mingyu wants to play this game, he better be ready to lose.

Because I may have left the track, but, I never left the fight.

⸻

I land in Italy under a bruised sky. The airport car is already waiting. Matte black, sleek. The driver barely says a word as we weave through traffic and out toward the circuit. Every kilometer closer, my pulse climbs. It's muscle memory, adrenaline, and fury.

Nostalgia is dangerous.

So is desire.

I spot the MGK paddock before we even pull in. Bright red with gold trim, obnoxiously regal. Just like him.

And there he is.

Kim Mingyu.

Leaning against the railing like a goddamn movie poster. Fireproofs around his waist, white shirt clinging to sweat and arrogance. Sunglasses tucked into the neck like he doesn't need them to blind you.

He sees me before I step out of the car. Of course he does.

A slow, knowing grin cuts across his face.

"Thought you'd be taller," I say, chin high as I step into view.

He laughs, low and amused and pushes off the rail.

"And I thought you'd keep running."

I smile without warmth. "Guess we're both disappointed."

But the way he looks at me.

Like I'm the finish line and the starting gun all at once.

That's the problem.

That's what will ruin us both.

The paddock smells like rubber and adrenaline.

It hits me the moment I step past the barricades, heat rising from the asphalt, the thrum of engines testing their limits, the unmistakable pulse of a sport that's more religion than competition. A place where gods are made in milliseconds and ghosts live in the shadows of tire marks.

I shouldn't have come.

I feel how the staff look at me. Half recognition, half disbelief. Like they're not sure if I'm real. I keep my sunglasses on and my expression locked, but it's all muscle memory now. Every step toward the MGK garage pulls something tight in my chest.

The last time I stood here, I was a daughter mourning a legacy. Today, I'm just trying to survive one.

"Still walking like you own the grid," Mingyu mutters beside me, voice smug as sin. He's close, closer than he needs to be. "Nice to know some things haven't changed."

I don't look at him.

"I walk like someone who knows where the hell she's going," I reply, cool and clean.

"Right. Right into my garage," he says with a grin.

"Temporary lapse in judgment."

He laughs. "You keep saying that like you didn't get on a plane for me."

I stop and pivot to face him. "Let's get one thing straight, Kim. I didn't come here for you. I came for the car. For the circuit. For the noise. You? You're just the distraction in the driver's seat."

His smile doesn't falter, but his eyes narrow just a little. "And yet, here you are. Watching me work."

I hate how calm he sounds. How sure. Like he's already won some battle I didn't agree to fight.

We step into the garage, and the world sharpens.

The MGK car. His car is a brutal, beautiful machine. Polished red with razor-edge aerodynamics and barely contained fury. She looks fast even when standing still, the kind of car that doesn't ask for forgiveness, just blood.

I run my fingers across the rear wing casually. Careless.

"You really trust her?" I ask.

Mingyu leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I'm part of the engine. "With my life."

"Big words."

"Big machine."

I glance over my shoulder. "She won't save you from a mistake."

"I don't make them."

That gets my attention. I turn, eyebrows raised. "That's a bold thing to say in front of a legacy."

His gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back up. "You think you know this world because you were born into it."

"No," I say, stepping closer just to see if he flinches. He doesn't. "I know this world because it burned itself into me. I know the way engines scream before they seize. I know the color of smoke that means a fire's already started. And I know when a driver is tempting fate just to see if it flinches."

"You think that's me?"

"I think you want to be a myth. And you're arrogant enough to die trying."

We're too close now. There's a beat of silence so thick it hums.

Mingyu's voice drops. "You sound a little like you care."

"I don't."

He leans in, so close I can feel the breath between us. "Then why are you shaking?"

I shove past him without answering.

⸻

The balcony is tucked above the paddock, and there is a private viewing box with tinted glass, which is the best line of sight to the Ascari chicane. The seat they've reserved for me still has the waxy shine of never having been used. Mingyu's initials are stitched into the headrest beside mine.

Of course they are.

He wants me here. Wants me to see him. Wants me to choke on the legacy he's building, lap by lap.

Petty.

Arrogant.

Exactly the kind of man who shouldn't interest me.

But when the pit lights go green, and he pulls out of the garage like the devil himself is chasing him, I can't look away.

He's so fast.

Not just in speed but in intention. Every corner he devours is personal. Every straight is a dare. The way he handles the car. It's not finesse, it's command. A raw, ruthless kind of beauty.

He pushes wide at Parabolica, kisses the edge of track limits, and instead of correcting, he leans into it. Dancing with danger like he's immune to consequences.

Jesus.

I hate how impressed I am.

Worse. I hate that I expected it.

Because no one talks about Mingyu's hands without also talking about what he does with them behind the wheel, he doesn't just drive, he hunts. He takes every apex, every braking zone, and every rival on the track like they owe him something.

I lean back in my chair, teeth clenched.

This isn't a boy playing at F1. This is a man building an empire.

And god help me, I understand exactly what that costs.

⸻

After practice, I stay put.

I don't go down. I don't clap. I don't run to the garage to praise him like the other engineers and PR vultures. I sip my drink. I watch the replays. And when someone knocks on the glass behind me, I don't have to turn around to know it's him.

The door swings open.

He walks in like he owns the air I'm breathing. Sweat-slick, flushed, radiating heat and pride and something untouchable. He's still in his suit, gloves half-peeled, fireproofs unzipped to the waist.

"You came," he says simply.

I nod. "You drove."

He walks over, grabs a water bottle, and downs half before speaking again. "What did you think?"

I don't answer right away. I let the silence stretch, let it bite.

"You're fast," I admit, finally.

He grins.

"But you already know that."

"Sure," he says, closing the gap between us. "But I wanted you to say it."

I narrow my eyes. "Careful, Mingyu. If you keep needing validation from me, I might start thinking you care what I think."

His smile fades. Not completely, but enough.

"I do," he says quietly.

It's too honest. Too soon. I look away.

"No, you don't," I say, smirking. "You care about being seen. You care about the myth. And I'm just a convenient mirror for your ego."

He takes a slow step forward, then another. His voice is lower now. Steady. "You think this is ego?"

"I know it is."

"I think it's something else."

"Let me guess. Fate?"

"No," he says, voice like gravel. "Obsession."

My throat tightens.

He doesn't touch me. Just stands there. Looking.

"You don't hate me, YN," he says. "You hate that you left. You hate that I'm here. You hate that you still feel something when I drive."

I breathe through my nose. "I hate a lot of things, Mingyu."

"But not me."

I don't answer.

Because I don't know if I can lie to his face when he's this close.

The spell breaks when the second knock comes. This one sharper, more insistent. Mingyu doesn't move at first, but then the door creaks again.

"YN?"

A voice I half recognize. I turn.

It's Marcus, a mechanic from a neighboring team. Fresh out of the garage, still wiping grease from his fingers with a rag tucked into his waistband. His eyes widen when he sees me.

"Holy shit," he says, breathless. "You're here."

"Looks that way," I murmur, stepping away from where Mingyu had been moments before. He's gone again, vanished like smoke.

"Didn't think I'd see you at a race again. Especially this one."

I give him a one shoulder shrug, careful not to show my cards. "Monza’s hard to resist."

More people show up. Word spreads fast in this world. First one of the engineers I used to work with. Then a junior team manager. Then a marketing intern I think I once shared a cigarette with on a balcony in Singapore. They come in waves, all with the same expression: half shock, half curiosity.

"What brings you back?"

"You working again?"

"Writing a piece?"

"You here with someone?"

I deflect. I smile. I lie through my teeth and offer just enough to sound real.

"Freelance consulting. Just dipping back in. One-off project. Not sure if it'll stick."

They nod like they understand. They don't.

Someone snaps a photo. Then another. I barely register it, floating through small talk with the grace of a politician and the detachment of a ghost.

Then a voice cuts through the noise.

"Drivers, to your cars."

Everyone perks up. The energy shifts. A ripple of anticipation floods the paddock.

I excuse myself and make my way to the balcony. Elevated, just removed enough from the chaos. I slide on a pair of sunglasses and settle against the railing, heart rate rising despite myself.

Pre-qualifying. Twenty laps. Track temperature is brutal. Pressure higher than most of them admit.

The pitlane opens, and one by one, the cars snake onto the grid. Engines purr and roar and scream in protest. Mechanics scatter. Strategists bark last minute data through radios.

And then there's him. Car #9.

He rolls into his slot like he's settling into a throne. Calm. Collected. Untouchable.

The lights count down. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.

And then

Out.

The sound is instantaneous and deafening. They shoot off like bullets, hugging corners with ruthless precision. I watch from above, tracking their formation. The front pack jostles for position, tires squealing as they brake too late, accelerate too early.

Mingyu hangs back for the first few laps. Watching. Calculating.

It's lap seven when he starts his climb.

A clean overtake at Sainte Devote. A bold move at Mirabeau that earns a gasp from the crowd. By lap ten, he's top three. By lap fourteen, he's trading seconds with the leader. And by lap seventeen, he makes the move.

A slingshot on the straight, barely legal. Inches to spare. DRS wide open.

Pole.

Just like that.

The final lap is pure theatre. He doesn't need to prove anything, but he does anyway. Throwing sparks through the tunnel, flirting with disaster at the chicane. Showboating. Glorious.

When the checkered flag waves, the name on the board is his.

Pole position: Kim Mingyu.

Time: 1:11.330

The box explodes in celebration. His team goes wild. I hear it echo even from here.

I watch the replay. Frame by frame. Slow-motion heroism. Precision, madness, beauty.

The paddock buzzes with post-qualifying static. Reporters crowding around flashing cameras, pit crews celebrating in their own corners, and the air practically vibrating with ego and exhaust.

And at the center of it all, like always, stands him.

Dripping sweat, champagne, and audacity.

His suit's peeled down to his waist, his fireproof undershirt sticking in all the right places, dark hair pushed back like he just walked out of a photo shoot instead of a cockpit. Every angle is clean, curated. The smirk, the wink to the camera, the stupid little fist pump.

I don't move.

I don't clap.

Not when his name lights up the leaderboard, not when the pit crew erupts like someone detonated joy, and definitely not when he glances over his shoulder like he's looking for someone.

Because I know exactly who he's looking for.

And I'll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of meeting that gaze first.

⸻

I'm leaning against the side of the hospitality tent, holding a bottle of water and a chip on my shoulder sharp enough to slice through carbon fiber.

He finds me anyway.

"Didn't see you in parc fermé," he says, approaching.

"Didn't need to be there," I reply, cool. "The cameras were doing enough worshipping for the both of us."

He grins like it's a compliment. "You sound jealous."

"Of what? Your thirst trap victory lap?"

He steps closer. Too close. "Of being the fastest on the grid."

"I've been the fastest," I say, looking him dead in the eye. "And I didn't need a camera crew to validate it."

"Ouch," he laughs, one hand over his chest. "Still bitter?"

"No," I say smoothly. "Just bored."

His smirk twitches, and I know I've landed a hit.

But Mingyu, the arrogant bastard that he is, never backs down. He tilts his head, dark eyes narrowing with something almost curious. Or maybe hunger.

"You still talk like you're the one with a seat," he says.

"You still talk like you're untouchable."

"I just secured the pole at one of the most technical tracks on the circuit. If I'm not untouchable, who is?"

"Someone who doesn't throw away a lead at Monaco."

That wipes the smirk off his face for a half-second. Good.

But then, he laughs. Quietly. Like he's indulging me.

"Still keeping tabs on my stats, huh?"

"I keep tabs on hazards," I say, voice low. "And you drive like you're one bad decision away from becoming one."

He leans in. "Funny. I always thought I reminded you of someone."

The words slice, even though I see them coming.

I stand straighter. "Don't."

His smile turns razor sharp. "Why not? You've been pretending this weekend is just a casual drop by, like you didn't grow up in these paddocks like your blood isn't still fifty percent ethanol and carbon brake dust."

"You think bringing up my dad earns you points?"

"I think it's the truth," he says, quiet and cutting. "And I think it scares the hell out of you."

I say nothing. Not because he's right, but because I know if I open my mouth, I'll say something that tastes too much like grief.

He must sense it because instead of pressing harder, he pivots.

"You remember Spa?"

Of course, I remember Spa.

The humid summer heat. The taste of victory is one lap away. The night before his first junior race, when he couldn't stop pacing, I told him to either get in the car or get over himself.

He thinks bringing that up softens me.

It doesn't.

"You mean the weekend you nearly totaled your car trying to impress the media?" I ask. "Yeah, I remember."

"You were in my garage the entire time," he says, stepping closer. "Even when everyone else left."

"I stayed because you wouldn't shut up," I say. "Your whole team looked like they wanted to throttle you."

"You didn't."

"I should have."

"You called me a glorified kart driver with a God complex."

"And you still asked me to sit in your car the next morning."

He laughs, and for a second, it's too easy to remember that summer sun and his stupid grin, the way he looked at me like I already belonged in his world.

But I don't now.

Not in this one.

I take a step back. "Spa was a long time ago."

"Not for me."

I narrow my eyes. "Still clinging to every compliment I gave you before puberty finished hitting?"

"You weren't exactly stingy with them."

"You had one good overtake."

"It was beautiful, and you know it."

"It was reckless and nearly illegal."

"That's how I knew you'd notice."

The air tightens between us.

He's toeing the line. Not crossing it, but daring me to.

"I'm not here to relive Spa," I say. "And I'm not here for you."

Mingyu nods once, jaw tight. "Keep telling yourself that. You still showed."

I turn to leave, but his voice catches me mid step.

"You know," he says, voice cooler now, "you can pretend all you want. But you're not bored, and you're not above it. You still feel it. The adrenaline. The pull. The need to win. You're just pissed it's me in the seat and not you."

I freeze.

He knows exactly what he's doing.

"Here's the difference between us," I say slowly, turning back. "You drive to be loved. I drove to win. I don't need to be anyone's poster child."

"And I don't need to dig up a dead man's legacy to prove I belong here."

That hits harder than he expects.

He knows it. I see it in the brief flicker of regret that crosses his face.

But I don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it land.

I smile. Cold. Clean. Surgical.

"Pole position suits you, Kim," I say. "Let's see how long you hold it."

Then I walk off, my spine straight and my heart a war drum.

Because the worst part isn't that he's good.

It's that I still want to see how far he'll fall.

And worse, how much of me would go with him.

⸻

Rooftop parties in Monza are always overdone.

Too much champagne, too many rich boys pretending they aren't terrified of crashing tomorrow, and music pulsing just loud enough to drown out the fear of failure. Everything glitters here. Skin, sweat, ambition.

I almost don't come.

But when a media liaison sends me a smug little "Hope to see you at the rooftop party tonight ;)" text, I throw on my sharpest heels and arrive ten minutes late with a perfectly timed smile and someone else's arm around my waist.

Not a date. Not really.

Just someone dangerous looking enough to make people look twice when we walk in.

Including Kim Mingyu.

I feel his stare the moment we step out of the elevator. It latches onto me before the doors even fully open. Across the rooftop, flanked by half the grid and a circle of admirers, he stands with a drink in his hand and fury behind his eyes.

Good.

I tilt my chin, ignoring him. My companion, Luca, some former endurance driver turned influencer, leans down to say something near my ear. I don't catch all of it. I'm too focused on the way Mingyu's grip tightens around his glass.

Petty? Maybe.

But if he gets to walk around this circuit like he owns every inch of it, then I get to remind him I'm not one of those inches.

I mingle, laugh at things that aren't funny, and dance with Luca, knowing full well who's watching. The music pulses through the rooftop, rich bass and heat twining through my bloodstream like jet fuel. But after a while, it becomes too much. The noise, the humidity, the attention.

So, I slip away.

Out onto the balcony where the air is finally calm, quiet, and mine. Below, the streets of Monza glint like they're made of diamonds. Somewhere out there, the race track weaves between buildings like a heartbeat.

It still lives in me. The pulse of it. The memory.

I close my eyes.

"You like bringing someone new to every event?"

I don't turn around.

"Do you like policing who I arrive with?"

His voice is closer now. Still sharp, still smug. But a little quieter.

"I just think it's funny," Mingyu says. "You say you've left this world behind, but you keep showing up to these things like you never left."

I finally face him. He's leaning against the railing, looking too good in a black button down and sleeves rolled just high enough to show his forearms.

"Maybe I just missed the champagne," I say flatly. "Or the egos."

He chuckles, gaze flicking down before finding my eyes again. "Is that why you brought Luca? To stroke yours?"

I cross my arms. "He's harmless."

"Yeah," he says, voice sharper than before. "Exactly."

We're quiet for a moment. The wind lifts strands of my hair, and neither of us moves.

Then, softer

"I shouldn't have brought up your dad."

I freeze.

It's not the apology that catches me off guard. It's the way he says it. Like it's been sitting in his chest too long, getting heavier every time he breathed around it.

"I was pissed," he goes on. "You got under my skin. You always do."

"Not a great excuse."

"I know."

I study him. He's not hiding behind a smirk now. There's something almost raw in the way he looks at me.

"You think it scares me," I say. "This place. The cars. The legacy. But it doesn't."

"Then what does?"

I look at him.

"You."

That wasn't supposed to slip.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, but it's already in the air between us, hanging heavy like mist before a storm.

Mingyu stares at me like he's afraid to breathe wrong.

"You mean that?" he asks, and it's the most unsure I've ever heard him sound.

I laugh, but it's hollow. "God, don't get cocky about it."

"I'm not."

"You will."

"I won't if you stay."

"I'm not staying."

"Then why did you come?"

"Because I'm an idiot."

He takes a step forward. "You're not."

"I can't do this."

"We're not doing anything—"

"No," I snap, stepping back. "You want to pretend like it's all part of the game. Like the flirting, the fighting, the looks, they're just banter. But it's not, Mingyu. It never was."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"Of course I do," he says, and it's breathless now. "Why do you think I'm always looking for you? In every damn room? Why do you think I hate it when you're with anyone else? Or when you act like none of this matters?"

I shake my head. "You don't get to say that. Not after Spa. Not after last year."

"That wasn't—"

"You don't get to make me feel like I walked away from something sacred when you're the one who turned it into a circus."

He flinches.

"I'm not some ghost hanging around the paddock for nostalgia," I add, voice rising. "I loved this once. I loved you once. And you let the spotlight eat both of us alive."

He's quiet. Too quiet.

And the silence is suddenly unbearable.

"I shouldn't have come," I say, stepping away.

"YN—"

But I don't stop.

I push past the door and back into the party, slipping into the noise and crowd before he can see how much my hands are shaking.

⸻

I wake up to sunlight bleeding through unfamiliar curtains and a hangover of emotion I can't shake.

Three missed calls. Five unread messages.

MINGYU:

I shouldn't have let you walk away. Can we talk? Please. You still there? I didn't mean to hurt you.

I toss the phone face down on the hotel bed and press my hands to my face.

The night plays back in flashes. His voice is softer than I've ever heard it. My own, sharp and cracked at the edges. The look in his eyes when I said you scared me.

I shouldn't have said that.

I shouldn't have said any of it.

But it's too late to take it back and too soon to face what it means.

By the time I reach the paddock, it's already alive. Mechanics are moving like clockwork, engineers are barking data, and fans are pressed to barricades in a blur of color and flags. Race day in Monza is unlike any other, with tight corners, blind apexes, and no room for error.

I know this circuit like muscle memory.

I know Mingyu better.

He's usually calm on race days. Sharp, focused. He jokes with the crew and leans against the pit wall like it's just another day in paradise. But today? Something's off.

He barely glances at the camera during his grid walk. He doesn't even acknowledge the announcer calling his name. His jaw's tight, mouth a line carved in stone as he slides into the cockpit.

I stand off to the side, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding everything I can't control. I tell myself I don't care. That I'm just here because my name still gets me into these places, not because I'm holding my breath as the lights go red.

But when they go out...

He launches like he's chasing something he'll never catch.

Lap after lap, he's off.

Late on turn in. Snapping into corners, pushing too hard on exits, and overcorrecting in ways he never does. He's still fast, of course he is, but it's not the way Mingyu drives. It's frantic, reckless. Emotional.

And that's what scares me.

"He's not listening to strategy," someone mutters near the pit wall. "Keeps overriding."

"Tyres won't last at this rate."

I inch closer, ears straining for the radio feed I know too well.

"Box, box, box," comes the call.

He doesn't answer.

On the next lap, he finally peels into the pit lane. Too hot, too fast and skids a little over the line.

When his car screeches to a halt, someone reaches for my wrist.

"Team principal wants you in the garage," they say. "Now."

"I'm not—"

"He asked."

I don't ask why.

The second I enter the garage, the air shifts. Controlled chaos. Tire guns scream. Mechanics swarm. Mingyu's helmet reflects the lights above like a mirror, but I don't need to look at his face to see how angry he is.

He won't look at me.

Not once.

He pulls out of the pit box with a screech and a flash of red taillight, leaving black streaks behind.

The pit wall murmurs.

"His sector time dropped again."

"Something's wrong."

No one says my name. No one asks why I'm here. But I see the looks. I feel the unspoken tension curl around my ribcage like wire.

I turn to the monitor. The feed tracks his car as it dances through Casino Square, close, too close to the barriers. He's fast. Too fast. Trying to bleed something out of himself with every turn.

"He's going to bin it if he doesn't calm down," a voice says behind me.

I press a fist to my lips.

This is my fault.

I shouldn't have gone to the party. I shouldn't have brought someone else. I shouldn't have let things go that far on the balcony. Shouldn't have said his name like it meant more than it should.

Because it does.

And I know that. I've always known that.

Lap 42.

He clips the inside curb through the Nouvelle chicane. A puff of tire smoke, but he recovers.

Barely.

The engineer tries again. "Mingyu, you need to cool the tires. Ease through Sector 2."

Silence.

My heart thunders like a race start.

The camera angle shifts and catches him through the tunnel, just a blur of speed and shadow, and I swear, even in that silence, I can feel the weight of his fury.

This isn't about the race anymore.

This is about me.

I turn away from the screen and press my back to the wall, chest tight.

He's trying to outdrive a heartbreak we haven't even admitted to and trying to put distance between what we said and what we meant. But this track doesn't forgive emotion. It doesn't give you space to figure it out mid lap.

It punishes.

It ends careers.

It took my father.

And if Mingyu doesn't get out of his head, it might take him too.

I press the headset closer, voice shaking. "Tell him to stop driving angry."

The engineer glances at me. "He's not listening."

"Then make him."

He hesitates.

I close my eyes.

"Tell him," I whisper, "I'm still here."

The air in the garage is suffocating.

I can feel the tension crackling through it like static. Engineers hunch closer to monitors, eyes darting between telemetry and tire temps, sector splits and radio chatter. Everyone's whispering, but no one's saying the only thing they're all thinking.

He's going to crash.

Lap 65 of 78.

Monza is unforgiving. It always has been. One lapse, one moment too late or too early, and it's all over. Mingyu's been walking that razor-thin edge for almost an hour now, and each lap is just sharpening the blade.

He still hasn't responded to strategy.

Not since Lap 42.

Not since he saw me in the garage.

I stare at the screen in front of me. My fists clenched, feeling every heartbeat in my throat as his car screeches into Tabac, too close, his rear end twitching dangerously.

"He's overdriving," someone says. "He's gonna cook those mediums before the flag."

"Mingyu, box if you can't stabilize the rear," the race engineer tries again. "You're losing the back every other turn. We can adjust."

Silence.

Again.

They're running out of options.

I'm already moving before I realize it.

The headset's warm from someone else's head, but I don't care. I snatch it off the rack, and the team principal turns toward me like I've grown a second head.

"He's not listening to anyone," I say. "So let me try."

There's a pause, half a second of hesitation, then he nods once.

I don't wait.

My thumb hits the comm switch, and I speak before I can talk myself out of it.

"Mingyu."

Nothing.

"Why are you driving like a damn idiot?!"

Still nothing. But I know he hears me. I know he's probably gripping the wheel harder now, jaw clenched, cursing me inside his helmet. I press harder.

"You're throwing away a podium because of me? Seriously? Because you can't get your head out of your ass long enough to breathe through a corner?"

A hiss of static. Not a response. Not yet. But I feel the tension rise from the track through the screen.

I close my eyes. Lower my voice.

"I know why you're doing this."

Sector one—green.

He's pushing harder. Too hard.

"You think I don't see you? You think I haven't seen you from the beginning?"

"I've spent my entire life running from this world. From the noise, the risk, the pain—"

My voice wavers.

"I watched it take someone I loved and twist it into a legacy I didn't want. And then you... God, then you…”

"You were arrogant, infuriating, loud as hell, and you made me remember what it was like to care."

The garage is dead silent now. Every screen, every eye, locked on the feed. No one's even pretending to look away.

"You made me care about something again, and I hate you for that."

I exhale through my teeth. Every part of me is shaking.

"But if you crash that car, Mingyu, if you throw it away, don't you dare think for one second I won't hate myself more."

A breath.

Then, finally, after laps of nothing—

"You had me at Mingyu."

His voice is breathless. Rough. Like gravel over a fire. But it's there. And he's there.

I press a fist to my mouth as tears threaten the corners of my eyes.

Lap 73.

He steadies.

His cornering evens out, his braking returns to rhythm, and suddenly, he's in Sector 2 like he owns it. Purple time. Fastest lap of the race. He overtakes in the tunnel with a clean sweep that draws a gasp from the team.

Someone cheers behind me. The garage erupts.

He's back.

He's himself again.

"Mingyu, you're P2 now," the engineer says quickly. "Perez is 1.3 seconds ahead."

"Copy," Mingyu breathes. "Let's go get him."

Lap 76. The fight is on.

I stand frozen, watching him dance through the circuit like the car is an extension of his spine like nothing ever went wrong. A clean overtake in the hairpin. One wheel to the inside at Rascasse. He's right on Perez's tail now.

Final lap.

The crowd is on their feet. Cameras flash. My heart is in my throat as Mingyu comes down into Mirabeau—

—and that's when it happens.

A puff of smoke.

"Yellow flag, Sector 1."

I slam the headset against my ear. "What the hell happened?!"

"Left rear," the engineer mutters. "Tyre failure. He's still moving. He's trying to hold on."

My knees nearly give out as I see it.

Mingyu's car is dragging. The rear's gone soft, wobbling dangerously as he limps through the turn, still trying to defend P2. Sparks fly from the undercarriage. He's still driving.

He's still fighting.

My voice breaks. "Just finish. Please, just get across the line."

He doesn't answer.

He doesn't need to.

He's never stopped.

And as he crosses the finish line. P4, holding on with sheer grit and fire in his chest. I realize I've been holding my breath for the last minute.

The garage explodes around me. Mechanics shout. Hands are on heads. Everyone is debriefing and analyzing.

But I'm frozen in place, staring at the screen, watching his car slow, watching the replay again and again.

He heard me.

He stayed.

But I can't help the thought clawing up my throat like guilt—

What if I hadn't said anything at all?

Engines still roar in the distance as the last few cars trickle into the paddock. The smell of rubber and fuel clings to everything, metal, asphalt, even my skin. People shout in five different languages around me, team radios squawk with chatter, mechanics wave carbon fiber flags in the air, and photographers are already climbing barricades like vultures.

And then I see him.

Helmet off. Hair sweat-damp and curled at the nape. His suit unzipped just past his collarbones, the fireproof undershirt clinging to every muscle in his chest like it was poured on. His jaw's locked, mouth tight, eyes cold. Sunglasses hang useless in his grip.

P4. Dragged a car home on one tire like it was war and he refused to lose.

He hasn't seen me yet.

He's surrounded by engineers, people slapping his back like a war hero, cameras in his face, boom mics chasing his voice as he mutters answers to media questions I can't hear.

I should leave.

This is his moment. Not mine.

But I can't move.

I'm not sure I could even if I wanted to.

And then he turns.

Our eyes lock.

Everything else goes silent.

He doesn't look triumphant. He doesn't even look relieved. He looks like a storm holding back landfall. Tight, too still, like one wrong move could shatter the restraint he's holding onto by sheer will.

I watch the muscle in his jaw flex once. Twice.

Then he starts walking toward me.

The crowd parts for him like it knows.

Suddenly, I can't breathe.

His footsteps echo against the pavement, steady and brutal, until he's just a few feet away. We're still technically inside the barrier, but this is Mingyu, so rules bend the second he decides they should.

He stops.

Too close.

He doesn't speak.

So I do.

"You didn't even flinch."

He raises a brow, voice rough. "You did."

I blink, throat tight. "You were about to lose the rear at Mirabeau."

"I did lose the rear. You just didn't notice because you were too busy yelling at me through the headset like you were calling a damn opera."

My mouth falls open. "I was trying to save your life."

"I was trying to win a race."

"And almost died doing it."

His mouth curves, but it's not a smile. It's something dark and sharp.

"Worth it."

I shove his shoulder. Hard.

He doesn't budge.

"Stop saying shit like that!" I snap. "You think it's brave? That it's romantic? It's stupid, Mingyu. It's arrogant and reckless and selfish."

His eyes narrow, something slipping behind them.

"You're mad because I drove on the edge," he says quietly. "But you don't get to be mad about why."

"I'm mad because you thought throwing it away would prove something."

"It did."

The words slam into me.

He takes a step forward, voice lower now, eyes locked to mine like we're the only two people in the goddamn paddock.

"I needed you to see what I am. Not the pretty parts. Not the press conferences and grid walks and champagne. This. The worst of it. The fear. The obsession. The part of me that chooses the edge because it's the only place I feel real."

My breath catches. His voice cracks just slightly.

"And I needed to know if you'd still be there after that."

I blink.

And blink again.

"You're insane," I whisper. "You're insane if you think you can weaponize my feelings against me like that."

His face doesn't change. "What feelings?"

I grit my teeth. My hands curl at my sides. I want to scream. I want to kiss him. I want to never see him again.

I step closer.

"Don't play dumb with me now, Kim."

He exhales a laugh, humorless. "You think I don't know what it meant, hearing your voice in my ears? Do you think I didn't feel it in my spine when you said my name like that? I've been begging you to say anything to me that wasn't soaked in venom, and now that you have, now that I've heard it—"

He cuts off.

I stare up at him.

He's shaking. Only a little. But it's there.

And for the first time since I met him... Mingyu looks scared.

"Mingyu," I whisper. "You could've died."

"I know."

"You could've—" My voice breaks. "You would've left me before I ever got to tell you..."

I clamp my mouth shut.

But he hears it.

God, of course, he does.

Like instinct, his hand lifts halfway to my cheek before he catches himself. Drops it. There's too much air between us and not nearly enough at all.

"You were everything I never wanted," I say quietly. "But then I saw the way you fight. The way you fly. And I hated you for it."

He steps forward again, barely a breath from me now.

"I've been in love with you since Spa."

I suck in a breath.

"You had grease on your cheek," he continues, "and fire in your eyes, and told me to stop smirking before you 'rearranged my entire goddamn personality.' I knew then."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you'd spit it back in my face."

"I probably would've."

He laughs under his breath.

I can't look at him.

But I also can't not.

We're so close now, the crowd is fading again, and my heart is a war drum in my chest.

"I can't do this right now," I whisper. "Not here. Not like this."

"I know," he says softly.

And then, finally, he steps back.

The space between us is unbearable.

"Find me later," he says.

I don't answer.

But my heart's already chasing him down pit lane.

The second he's gone, the air collapses around me.

I don't move. Can't. I'm standing in the shell of a conversation that ripped more out of me than I want to admit, and all I can hear is what I didn't say.

I'm still catching my breath when I hear him.

"Rough night?"

I don't even have to turn around.

The accent. The smooth, condescending lilt. The casual arrogance I know too well.

Julius.

"What do you want?" I ask, voice flat.

He steps closer as if this is some kind of reunion. Like we've ever been anything other than a mistake born out of loneliness and distraction.

"You looked like you needed an out," he says, gaze flicking in the direction Mingyu disappeared. "Thought I'd offer one."

I finally turn to face him. His smug half-smile is already pushing every wrong button.

"I'm fine."

"You sure? Because you looked like you were about two seconds away from unraveling."

I roll my eyes and push past him.

He follows, of course.

"Touchy," he says with a laugh, matching my stride as I head for the stairs. "Is it because lover boy stormed off without a proper goodbye?"

I stop short.

"Don't call him that."

"Oh, come on," he scoffs. "The whole paddock's been buzzing. You think people haven't noticed the way he looks at you like he's already bled for you?"

My jaw tightens. "I'm not interested in gossip."

"No," Julius says, stepping in close, "you're just interested in fucking with people's heads."

I see red.

"Excuse me?"

"You reel him in, then you push him away," he says, calm and measured. "It's your favorite game, isn't it?"

I don't answer.

Because I don't owe Julius a single goddamn truth.

But that's when I feel it, that flicker at the edge of the garage. My head snaps up.

Mingyu.

Standing just across the paddock.

Watching.

For a split second, our eyes lock.

And whatever raw, unfinished thing we left between us, whatever shaky, hopeful tether we almost built, it snaps.

Because all he sees is this.

Me and Julius. Too close. Too familiar.

I can see it on his face the moment the assumption sinks in like poison.

I move.

Fast.

"Mingyu—"

But he turns.

Gone.

Just like that.

Shit.

I whirl back toward Julius, fury sparking behind my eyes. "Did you follow me out here on purpose?"

He raises his hands like he's innocent. "What? I saw a moment and took it. That's what you do, too, isn't it?"

"I'm not playing games."

"No," he says, cool and cruel. "But you are playing him."

I don't even realize I've shoved him until he stumbles back a step.

"You don't get to talk about him," I snap.

Julius straightens, brushing imaginary dust off his designer jacket.

"You always were more fun when you were angry."

I don't give him the satisfaction of another word.

I storm off, heart pounding, throat burning, brain screaming at me for letting Mingyu walk away thinking something I should've fought harder to stop.

⸻

I don't remember getting back to the hotel.

I remember the slam of the door behind me. The weight of my phone in my hand. The pressure building in my chest like something was going to break open if I didn't do something. I kicked off my heels somewhere near the closet, peeled out of the dress like it was choking me, and dropped onto the edge of the bed in nothing but a black slip and regret.

The image of Mingyu walking away wouldn't stop replaying in my mind.

That look on his face, like I'd confirmed the very thing he was always afraid to say out loud. Like I'd chosen wrong.

Again.

I grabbed my phone.

Can we talk?

No response.

Please.

Still nothing.

I stared at the screen until the texts blurred. My thumb hovered over the call button.

I pressed it.

It rang once.

Twice.

Voicemail.

I hung up before it could finish.

The party was still going downstairs, celebration rolling on without him, without me. Music echoed faintly through the walls, like a reminder that the rest of the world was moving and I wasn't.

I chewed the inside of my cheek, bouncing my leg, nerves sparking like faulty wires. Maybe I shouldn't go. Maybe he didn't want to see me. Maybe this was all one big, tangled mess I'd made worse.

But the part of me that chased him down pit lane wouldn't shut up.

I pulled on a fresh dress. Simple, black, low-cut and tied my hair back with trembling fingers. No makeup this time. No armor. Just me and whatever was left of this thing between us.

On the elevator ride down, I texted Jinho.

Is he there?

A pause.

Jinho: Rooftop. But... maybe don't push it tonight.

I stared at that for a long moment.

I'm already on my way.

The rooftop was quiet.

Not the romantic kind of quiet. Just cold, sharp, and a little too still. The skyline flickered in the distance, but all I could focus on was him.

Mingyu.

He stood with his back to me, elbows braced against the railing like he'd been standing there forever. His jacket was half-zipped, collar ruffled, and hair a mess. He didn't move when I stepped out.

He didn't have to. He knew it was me.

"I wasn't going to come," I said quietly.

Still nothing.

"But I needed to explain."

"You don't have to explain Julius," he muttered.

"I want to."

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Just... closed off. Like a door halfway shut.

"He showed up out of nowhere," I said. "I didn't want him there. He said something, and I pushed him away. That's all it was."

Mingyu looked at me, jaw tight.

"I saw him touch you."

"I didn't touch him back."

"But you didn't pull away."

I took a step closer. "Because I was frozen. Not because I wanted him."

His stare didn't waver.

"I don't want him, Mingyu. I haven't for a long time."

"Then why is it so easy for you to run to everything that isn't me?"

That cut deep.

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. My heart pounded.

"You say I scare you," he said, voice low, almost bitter. "But you're the one who keeps turning away. I already told you how I feel. I stood there in the middle of a goddamn pit lane and told you I was in love with you. And you—" he shook his head, laughing once, without humor—"you just walked away."

"I didn't—"

"You didn't say it back."

I froze.

"You never do," he said. "You feel it, but you never say it. And I can't keep guessing, YN. I'm not asking for promises. I just want the truth."

I stared at him.

He stepped forward. Close. Closer than I could handle.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me you don't feel anything, and I'll walk away."

I opened my mouth.

Closed it again.

He waited.

The silence stretched between us, unbearable.

"I can't," I whispered.

He stepped even closer. "Can't what?"

"Say it."

"Why?"

"Because if I say it—" my voice cracked, "then it's real."

"It's already real."

I shook my head. "It'll ruin everything."

"No," he said, voice rough. "It'll finally make it mean something."

My chest felt too tight. My breath was shallow.

He stared down at me, eyes blazing. "Say it, YN."

I shook my head. "I'm scared."

"I know," he said. "Say it anyway."

I blinked, eyes stinging.

He stepped in.

His hand found my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he was daring me not to hide.

"Say it," he whispered.

I couldn't.

So he kissed me.

Hard.

No hesitation. No room left for fear or reason or anything except him. His mouth was fire, his grip unrelenting, like he'd waited too long and lost too much to hold back now.

I gasped, and he swallowed it whole, one hand in my hair, the other curling around my hip. I clung to him like gravity, like his kiss was the only thing keeping me upright.

When we finally broke apart, breathless, his forehead pressed to mine.

"You don't have to be ready," he whispered. "Just be here."

I didn't answer.

I just took his hand.

His fingers curled around mine, warm and steady, like he didn't care that I hadn't said the words.

Like this was enough.

We left the rooftop in silence. No one stopped us. The hallway lights buzzed overhead as we moved past the closed doors, our steps too fast to be casual, too charged to be calm. My heart beat so loud I could barely hear the music downstairs anymore.

Mingyu hit the elevator button. The doors opened.

We stepped inside.

The second they closed behind us, I was against the mirrored wall, his mouth crashing into mine with a force that knocked the air right out of me.

There was no hesitation this time. No slow build, no delicate approach. Just teeth and tongue and hands everywhere. His fingers threaded into my hair, tugging my head back so he could kiss deeper, rougher like he was trying to erase the hours we'd spent apart.

"You don't know," he growled against my mouth, "how long I've wanted to touch you like this."

I moaned into him, hands gripping the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. "Then don't stop."

The elevator dinged.

He pulled away just long enough to drag me down the hallway, fingers tight around my wrist, not looking back once.

Room 1427. Keycard. Click.

The door shut behind us.

And then I was on the wall again, breathless, my dress hiked up around my waist, his thigh wedged between mine as he kissed me like he was starving.

I gasped as his hand slid under the hem of my dress, dragging up my leg, squeezing hard.

"You wore this for me?" he asked, voice low and wrecked. "This little thing with nothing underneath?"

"Yes," I breathed.

He groaned deep in his chest, mouth dropping to my neck as he bit, kissed, and licked across every sensitive inch of skin. My back arched. My fingers tangled in his hair.

"I need to see you," he murmured. "All of you."

I let him pull the dress over my head and toss it aside.

Then he stepped back.

And stared.

His chest rose and fell like he couldn't breathe.

"Fuck, YN," he whispered, eyes dragging down my body like he didn't know where to start. "You're so beautiful."

I crossed the room, took his hand, and placed it on my waist.

"Then touch me."

That broke him.

He kissed me again, slower this time, more controlled, but just barely. He peeled his shirt off, his skin warm against mine, muscles flexing under my palms as I traced over his chest, stomach, and waistband line.

He laid me down on the bed like I was something sacred.

Then covered me with his body, hands exploring every inch of me like he had to relearn it, memorize it, own it.

"Fuck," he murmured as he kissed down my chest, my stomach, lower. "I love you."

"Mingyu—"

"I know," he said. "I know."

He spread my legs slowly, reverently. Kissed the inside of my thigh, then again, higher, teasing. My breath hitched.

"You're already so wet for me," he said, voice like a prayer and a curse all at once. "I didn't even have to ask."

"You never had to."

Then his mouth was on me.

I cried out, hands flying to his hair as he licked deep and slow, fingers gripping my thighs to keep me open. His tongue moved with purpose, with practiced reverence, curling just right until I was shaking under him.

"Come for me," he murmured against me. "Let me feel it."

I broke. Loud. Unfiltered. And he didn't stop. Not until I was breathless and trembling, thighs still twitching around his shoulders.

He kissed his way back up my body, licking into my mouth like he could taste me on his tongue.

"Do you want me?" he asked, voice thick, eyes dark and wide. "Tell me."

"I want you," I whispered. "I want you so bad."

He fumbled out of his pants, cursing under his breath, and I helped him, fingers desperate, hands greedy.

When he finally pressed into me, slow and deep, I gasped.

So did he.

"God," he choked out. "You feel like fucking heaven."

We moved together like we were making up for lost time. His hips met mine with force, his hand gripping my thigh, the other holding my wrist to the bed as he fucked me.

Deep, intentional, raw.

Each thrust was a confession.

Each moan, a word I couldn't say.

"I love you," he groaned into my skin. "Even when you can't say it. Even when you push me away."

I whimpered. "Don't stop. Please."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Not this time."

He moved faster, harder, our bodies slamming together in rhythm, the heat building, the pleasure blinding. I felt him everywhere, his breath on my neck, his hand in my hair, his heart pounding against mine.

"Come with me," he whispered, voice trembling.

"I'm—Mingyu—"

And then I shattered.

I came with a cry, clinging to him like a lifeline, and he followed, groaning my name, spilling into me with a shudder, his whole body pressed against mine like he was trying to crawl inside my skin.

When it was over, we stayed there.

Naked. Twined together. Breathing hard.

His forehead rested against mine.

"I'm still scared," I whispered.

He kissed me softly. "Me too."

"But I'm here."

His arms wrapped tighter around me.

"Good," he said. "Stay."

He shifted just enough to look at me, eyes searching mine like he wanted to believe it but couldn't let himself. Not yet.

"Stay," he said again, quieter this time. A plea. A promise.

I cupped his face with both hands, running my thumbs gently over the angles of his cheeks. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when I touched him like that.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered back. "Not anymore."

Something in him cracked then. I saw it happen.

His mouth crashed into mine, not desperate like before, but slow and deep. It was a kiss that felt like surrender. His hand slid into my hair, the other cradling my jaw, holding me like I was fragile like I mattered.

"I need you," he murmured between kisses. "Not just like that. I need you. All of you."

"You have me," I said, voice shaking. "You always did."

He rolled us gently, his body settling between my legs, and everything about him shifted. There was no rush. No urgency.

Only feeling.

He kissed me like I was the only thing that had ever made sense. Every inch of skin his mouth touched, he lingered. Worshipped. His hands mapped me like he needed to relearn me from scratch.

And I let him.

"I'm going slow," he whispered against my throat. "I want to feel all of it."

"Okay," I breathed. "I want that too."

When he finally entered me again, I gasped. Not from the stretch, but from the emotion of it. From the way his eyes locked on mine like he wanted to watch the moment he became a part of me again.

His hips moved gently, deeply, every roll of his body syncing with mine like we'd been built for this.

He kissed my cheek, the corner of my mouth, my shoulder, like he couldn't choose where to stay.

"You feel like home," he said, voice trembling. "I didn't know I could miss someone like this."

Tears stung my eyes.

I wrapped my arms around him, clinging to him, pulling him in deeper.

"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm so sorry I didn't say it before."

"Say it now."

My throat tightened. But I didn't look away.

"I love you, Mingyu."

His breath hitched. His thrusts stuttered.

I kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

His forehead dropped to mine, eyes wet, breath shaky as he moved inside me, slow, our bodies rocking together like they were speaking in a language we finally understood.

The build was soft. Gradual. The kind that crept up on us until I was gasping his name into his mouth, nails dragging down his back as my orgasm hit with the weight of everything I'd held in for too long.

"Come with me," I whispered. "Let go."

He did, moaning my name like it was a prayer, hips pressing deep as he spilled into me, burying his face in my neck.

We stayed like that for a long time.

Breathing. Holding. Crying, just a little.

And when he pulled back, eyes red and raw, he kissed me again like I'd saved him.

"You mean it?" he asked quietly.

"I've never meant anything more."

He smiled,messy and perfect.

He kissed me again.

Softer now. Slower. Just warmth, breath, and the lingering weight of everything we couldn't say until now. His thumb stroked gently across my cheek as he pulled back, searching my eyes like he wanted to make sure I was still here.

I was.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to be anywhere else.

He eased out of me with a soft groan, his touch careful—reverent, like he didn't want to hurt me after everything we'd just shared. I winced slightly at the sensitivity, and he was already moving, grabbing a warm towel from the bathroom.

"I got you," he murmured, kneeling beside the bed.

I watched him in the low hotel light. The way his brows furrowed in quiet focus as he cleaned me up, as he pressed a kiss to my thigh when he finished. He didn't say much. He didn't need to.

He slid back into bed behind me, pulling me into his chest like he was scared I might disappear if he let go. My head tucked beneath his chin, our legs tangled together under the sheet. His palm found the curve of my waist, and fingers splayed like he was claiming the right to hold me.

I let the silence settle.

Until I whispered, "What happens now?"

He exhaled slowly. I could feel it against my temple. His hand moved up, brushing hair from my face.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I didn't think I’d ever get this far."

That made me smile. A small one. Tired. Real.

"I mean it," he continued. "I don't have a script for this part. For you. But I know what I want."

I looked up at him.

He met my eyes. Serious now.

"I want you," he said. "I want this. Whatever it looks like. But you have to know something."

I waited.

"This life. The races, the danger, the travel, it's not going away. It's who I am. It's what I've worked for my whole life."

I nodded. "I know."

"But I also know it scares you."

My throat tightened.

"You don't say it, but I see it every time I step on the track. You hold your breath like I might not come back."

"Because sometimes I think you won't," I whispered.

He didn't flinch.

"I get it," he said gently. "But I need you to be in this with me. Fully. Not halfway. Not with one foot out the door. I want you to be my person, YN. I want to come home to you. But I can't do that if you're always running."

I blinked hard. Swallowed even harder.

And then it broke.

The words, the weight, the years I'd held it in.

"My dad—" I started, voice cracking.

I felt him nod. Felt his lips press against the top of my head.

"You'll never go through that again," he said, voice firm. "I won't let you."

"You can't promise that," I whispered.

His hand cupped my cheek, gently turning my face toward him.

"I know," he said. "But I can promise this. I'll never stop coming back to you. No matter what. You're it for me."

I closed my eyes, tears slipping free.

He kissed them away. One at a time. Slow and steady.

"Stay with me," he whispered. "Be scared. Be messy. Be mad at the world. But stay."

I nodded, voice too broken to speak.

And he held me like he'd never let go.

Our bodies cooled. Our breathing evened. The city outside kept moving, but in here, it was just us. Safe. Bare. Real.

I buried my face in his chest and let the exhaustion take me.

And this time, I didn't dream of losing him.

I dreamt of staying.

⤷ network tags: @k-films @blossomnet

･ ⟢ ⋮ svt masterlist

#k-films #blossomnet #seventeen mingyu #kim mingyu #mingyu #mingyu x reader #mingyu x y/n #mingyu smut #seventeen smut #f1 au #seventeen fic #seventeen

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muniimyg · 3 months ago

Text

BED CHEM // JJK

♡ extra: manifest that you're oversized

series m.list // taglist unavailable

warnings: smol argument (slight angst), jk and oc ignore each other for a few days,,, smut ! somewhat virgin au... jk guides oc and oc is unsure but curious the entire time !!! very domestic of them :') ,,, jk eats her out, jk lives out a fantasy and face fucks oc, oc tries cowgirl for the first time & jk takes over in the end lol. raw sex, both of them orgasm & get all mushy in the end <3

note: oh my gawd this smut took me so long to write . tmi one of the side effects of my meds is a lower sex drive so i haven't been in the headspace for this ,, i'm so happy i got around to it. obviously it's not perfect or even close to what i envisioned for them ,, but i also think that's what makes them so hehe haha .

enj !

tuesdays are never good.

jungkook decided this a long time ago. tuesdays are always the busiest—the most inconvenient and the longest. worst of all, with all of tuesday’s chaos—it means no you.

that’s what jungkook hates the most.

days without you.

but today is an anomaly.

a breath above water.

a break.

his lab professor extended their assignment deadline. his afternoon class got canceled. shit, jungkook even hit a new personal record at the gym.

not to mention that the weather isn’t miserable. for once, april isn’t pouring rain. instead, the sky is blue and the sunshines almost as brightly as you. currently, he’s on his way to surprise you with a matcha latte from your favorite cafe. which, was difficult for him to do.

“one iced matcha with oat milk and less ice please.”

god, it sounded so insufferable coming from his mouth… but it’s whatever. he’d do anything for you. you two have been together for almost one year and he’s utterly in love with you… he just hasn’t said it yet.

you talked about it every now and then… how your favourite moments with him are the ones where he initiates seeing you. ever since you verbalized that, he’s been keeping a list of random things he could do in his notes app. though it’s a small act, getting you a surprise matcha is on the top of his list.

your class should be ending right about now.

he timed his matcha gesture perfectly.

and it is, because just as he rounds the corner, he sees you walking out of the building. surrounded by a group of people. jungkook snickers under his breath. of course. you’d never just walk out alone like a normal person. you always have an entire entourage.

as everyone disperses, he reaches for his phone.

nerd [11:45AM]: so popular nerd [11:45AM]: u have time for ur bf or what ? yn [11:47AM]: it’s tuesday :( yn [11:48AM]: tuesday takes my handsome man away </3 nerd [11:48AM]: not today. i fought a few dragons, sailed across the 7 seas and crawled my way to u n shit yn [11:49AM]: HAHAHAA yn [11:49AM]: wtf are u on yn [11:49AM]: i’ll call u tn. focus on ur day. miss u :p nerd [11:48AM]: turn around dummy seen

he watches as you put your phone away and stretch your neck, scanning the area for him.

jungkook’s chest swells. but before your eyes land on him, someone else beats him to you. some guy—who jungkook assumes is a classmate—runs up from behind, surprising you.

you let out a playful scream, throwing your arms up as the guy engulfs you in a hug. and then—fucking then—he lifts you off the ground and twirls you around.

right then and there, jungkook feels his blood pressure skyrocket. irritation creeps up his spine, jealousy curling in his chest like a tightening fist. the guy sets you down, and you scan the area again. this time, your eyes find his. you brighten, beaming at him, and then—you point.

to him.

to jungkook.

your boyfriend.

and the guy follows your gaze, lifting a hand in acknowledgment. jungkook barely raises a hand back.

half-assed.

dismissive.

unimpressed.

then, as if his patience wasn’t already paper-thin, the guy pulls you in for another hug before saying goodbye. jungkook rolls his eyes as you do this. just as he shifts his feet to close the distance, you’re already halfway to him.

you tilt your head, pouting.

“hi baby—oh my god. is that for me?”

his gaze flickers to the iced matcha latte in his hand.

then back to you.

before he can answer, you’re already leaning in, wrapping your lips around the straw and taking a long sip—right from the drink he’s still holding. he watches as your throat bobs, as you hum in satisfaction, as your fingers brush against his wrist.

without a word, he reaches over, slipping the tote bag off your shoulder and swinging it over his own. it’s muscle memory at this point. second nature, the way he carries your things like they’re his.

you tiptoe, pressing a kiss to his cheek. he turns at the last second, catching your lips instead. you giggle, and like always, your fingers intertwine with his, your free hand still gripping the matcha latte.

suddenly and then all at once, jungkook can’t help but notice how pretty you are.

just like that, his mood begins to fade.

“how was class?”

“boring.” you frown. “i hate elective classes. they’re so extra for no reason. aren’t they supposed to be gpa boosters? what the heck are they doing assigning me exams and group projects? it’s painful.”

“it may be painful, but that doesn’t give you the excuse to be attempting to sext me during class.”

you glare at him.

“it’s really annoying that you’re a nerd and actually care about my learning.”

“right,” he huffs. “i’m a shitty boyfriend.”

“you are,” you agree easily.

silence follows.

but it’s not uncomfortable.

after a beat, you exhale. “oh, the guy earlier—he’s my first friend from first year. he just transferred, and his transcript has been all over the place. but he just found out his credits got accepted, so he doesn’t have to retake a class. fuck, i’ve been stressing for him all week.”

jungkook glances at you, voice softer now. “you shouldn’t stress over things that aren’t yours to stress about.”

“but he’s my friend. am i not allowed to care—”

“that’s not what i meant,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “you know that.”

you hold his gaze, the fight dying in your throat. you let it go.

“also…” you hesitate. “he invited me to his party on saturday. it’s a costume party.”

jungkook scoffs, rolling his eyes. “who throws a costume party in the middle of april?”

“the entire class is going.”

“okay,” jungkook says with a plain tone. “so what?”

“what do you mean so what?” you huff, stopping in your tracks to face him. “what’s with your mood?”

jungkook clenches his jaw. he doesn’t know. today was good—until he saw that guy hug you. “i don’t know,” he exhales. “sorry, baby. i didn’t mean to—”

“forgiven.”

he blinks. “that easy?”

“yes, because you’re coming to the party and you’re dressing up.”

he scoffs. “no, i’m not.”

“yes, you are.”

“i don’t do costumes.”

“well, you do now.”

he exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “babe—”

“don’t babe me.”

“i have a meeting with the dean about the marine conservation club and our potential donners. i’m not going to that stupid party and i was hoping you’d accompany me to my thing.”

you pause.

“you decided that for me?” you ask.

jungkook sighs. “i never said that. i said i was hoping you’d accompany me.”

“but you can decide right off the bat that you aren’t going to my thing because it’s not your crowd and it’s not important to you.”

he stares at you.

you glare at him. “newsflash, jungkook… i don’t give a shit about dolphins, but i do care about you. but there’s no way i’m going to your meeting with the dean to be your arm candy if you’re acting like this over a harmless costume party—”

“that’s hosted by some guy who clearly wants to fuck you.”

his words come out faster than his thoughts to filter them. he knows how you’re going to react. he knows he’s digging himself a grave right now… but a part of him doesn’t care. he’s upset. he should have the right to express his feelings and the reality of the situation.

your mouth falls open.

“what?”

he huffs a humorless laugh. “come on, baby… you really don’t see it?”

“see what?” you furrow your brows.

“he’s into you.”

you stare at him, brows furrowing. “jungkook, he’s my friend.”

“yeah? and how many of your ‘friends’ have tried to get with you? be honest with me… he at least had a thing for you, didn’t he?”

anger rises in your chest. “that’s not fair.”

“what isn’t fair? the truth?”

you gawk at him. “so what, you don’t trust me?”

“of course i trust you.” jungkook exhales sharply, looking away. he’s beyond frustrated at this point… and so are you. “i just don’t trust him.”

“holy shit, jungkook.” you shake your head, throwing your hands up. “it’s just a party. you’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

he doesn’t respond, jaw set, eyes fixed on the pavement.

“it’s stupid,” he breathes. “i’m not going. i don’t want you to go either, if i’m being completely honest.”

your face drops.

you don’t mind the honesty… you hate the audacity.

“you know what?” you walk forward and turn to him. with a final defeated breath, you tell him; “text me when you pick me over your stupid dolphins.”

then, just like that, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him standing there, fists clenched at his sides. jungkook watches as you shove the matcha latte into the nearest trash bin and storm off towards the direction of your home.

his feet feel glued to the ground for some reason.

the rational thing to do is run after you, apologize, and make up with you… but instead, he sulks. jungkook turns the other direction, choosing to be a complete idiot.

you don’t text him that night.

you don’t call him the next morning, either.

jungkook doesn’t reach out, but you catch him viewing your stories, and liking your tiktok reposts.

he lingers closely when you hang out with the guys throughout the week. like maybe he’ll say something. like maybe he’ll tap your shoulder and ask if you still want him to come. but he doesn’t.

you bump into him around campus once.

you pass each other—his eyes flick to yours, but you look past him. not out of malice. you just don’t have the energy for his half-hearted apologies or defensive silences. you don’t want him to say sorry because you asked him to. you want him to say sorry because he means it.

when thursday passes with no message, you wonder if he’s really not coming.

you wonder if he’ll just let this linger, like it doesn’t matter.

you go shopping with your friends on friday. pick out a costume that’s just silly enough to make you feel like yourself.

then it’s saturday.

and you still haven’t heard from him.

the party is lame.

you hate to admit it, but maybe jungkook was right. costumes in the middle of spring? it just doesn’t feel right. regardless, you're laughing at a story you’re only half-listening to.

you’re having fun.

you swear.

you’ve been having fun for the past two hours. smiling, mingling, keeping the energy light… but your phone’s screen is a little too smudged from checking it every ten minutes.

no texts.

you open instagram. he watched your story.

you close it again.

you’re mid-sip when someone bumps your side—not too hard, just enough to jostle the drink. you turn instinctively, lips parting to apologize, when you see him.

jungkook.

in his marine conservation blazer, white shirt crisp under the low light. tie loosened, hair pushed back like he’s been running his hand through it all night.

and on his head?

tiger ears.

he doesn’t say anything at first. just stands there beside you like he’s been there the whole time. then he glances down at you, voice low and casual.

“you waiting for your shitty boyfriend to text you?”

you blink at him.

“you’re a tiger.”

he nods. “roar.”

you snort. “do they even roar?”

he rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. then he shifts, turning to face you properly. his hands find your waist without question, like that’s still his place. like you’re still his.

his voice softens.

“they roar. and they say sorry.”

you look at him.

"sorry," he adds. his brows are furrow just a little, like he means it. like he’s been thinking about it all night. like the headband was his way of saying i miss you in the dumbest way possible.

you reach up, adjust one of the ears so it’s standing upright again.

“well... you look stupid.”

“you like it.”

“unfortunately.”

he presses his forehead to yours, sighs quietly. you glance at the headband again, then back at him. he’s fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt, refusing to meet your eyes. for once, jungkook looks nervous.

you soften.

“you didn’t have to come. we would've worked it out regardless.”

“i know,” he says quietly. “and i would’ve been here faster but the dolphins…”

“those damn dolphins,” you laugh.

he joins you.

then, a beat.

then he lifts his gaze, eyes meeting yours for the first time in days.

“i wanted to come,” he confesses. “i want to be wherever you are.”

and just like that, the fight breaks into dust.

you step closer, close enough to touch. your hand brushes his. he doesn’t move, but his pinky curls around yours like muscle memory.

you don’t talk about the argument. you don’t ask if he’s sorry. you don’t need to.

you lean in, voice lower now.

“one dance. and then we go.”

he rolls his eyes, but there’s the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “just one?”

“two.”

“three.”

the door clicks shut behind you.

you kick your shoes off with more force than necessary and drop your bag somewhere near the wall. jungkook follows behind, slower, undoing the top button of his shirt as he steps inside.

the silence isn’t uncomfortable. just thick. waiting to be cut. so here you two are—ripping the bandaid off.

you turn to face him.

“you were a dick.”

he nods. “i know.”

“and jealous. for no reason.”

another nod. “i know that, too.”

you cross your arms. “so?”

“so…” he sighs, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt like he needs something to fidget with. “i got in my head. and then i got mad about being in my head. and then i made it your problem. i'm sorry i said all that. but also, i don't think i'm wrong to feel intimidated by him. he's someone from your past.”

you watch him. you don’t say anything.

he finally meets your gaze.

“i trust you,” he says, voice quieter now. “i do. i just… get scared sometimes. that someone else will be better. smarter. funnier. more patient with me when i’m acting like a five-year-old.”

you blink at him. “you’re not five.”

he snorts under his breath.

“you’re like… seven. max.”

he huffs a small laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit.

“i should have considered why it could have made you feel uncomfortable. shit, you gave up tutoring just because for me... although you could have said it in a nicer way, i understand where you were coming from... and not to mention... you’re the smartest person i know,” you say with no hesitation. “i’ve never met a bigger nerd than you. i wouldn't worry about me dumping you for an even bigger nerd. don't think i could handle more nerdology behaviour.”

jungkook cracks a smile.

still, he huffs in frustration and tsks. “i… i just didn’t want to lose you over something dumb. i hate messing things up with you,” he murmurs.

you step toward him, hands slipping under his blazer, palms resting against his chest.

“you aren't messing anything up.”

his hand covers yours. his eyes flick between yours.

“i'm really trying, ___. i swear.”

you nod, smiling sweetly at him. “you did good tonight.”

“the ears?”

“the ears.” you smile. “very charming.”

he leans in slightly, voice lower. “wanna pet me?”

“maybe later.”

jungkook rolls his eyes before dipping his head low. he kisses you for the first time in so long and literally feels his heartache dissolve. you reach over his neck and kiss him with more passion. then, when you pull away, you murmur; “i’m sorry i wasn’t very patient. can you and the dolphins ever forgive me?”

“forgiven.”

kiss.

“that easy?”

kiss.

“you’re too pretty to stay mad at.”

jungkook is laid back against his pillows, hands planted lightly on your thighs like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to grip you tighter yet.

you’re straddling his lap, your fingers curled into the open collar of his shirt, your lips pressed to his like you’re trying to memorize the shape of him again. like you need him to know: i missed you.

his mouth moves under yours—eager, but letting you set the rhythm.

you pull back just a little, your breath shallow. “we were really mad at each other. didn’t even text.”

his eyes open slowly. “yeah,” he murmurs. “i hated it.”

you lean down, kissing the corner of his mouth. “me too.”

before he knows it, your fingers make their way to the buttons of his shirt. you begin to unbutton them, one by one. his breath shakes. this is only the third time you two have ever had sex… the first time you’ve ever initiated it, too. the first few times you two have had sex, it’s always been a little slow and soft. he’s always been sure to make it as easy as possible for you because, in your words, it feels weird.

you like it, of course.

it’s just different. losing your virginity recently to him is a completely new experience. in all honesty, he’s done everything right so far. jungkook is always so gentle and caring. but something about the way you look at him right now tells him that maybe… tonight that isn’t what you want. maybe, you don’t want gentle.

you want him…

hard. messy. hot.

“can you take this off?”

jungkook freezes.

then, his hand slides up your waist, thumb brushing under your shirt. “you’re sure? we don’t have to.”

he wants you to be sure. he wants you to know that sex is always in your control and that you get to have it your way. to finish your way… to start? this is new. it makes him nervous too… but excited more than ever.

your reply is barely a whisper.

“kiss me again.”

and so he does.

slower this time.

deeper.

one hand cups the back of your head, the other squeezing your hip like he’s finally letting himself touch you the way he wants to. the kiss grows hotter, messier—your teeth graze his lip, and he exhales a shaky breath through his nose like he’s barely holding it together.

“fuck,” he whispers. “missed you so much.”

you smile against his mouth. “good.”

jungkook is buried between your legs.

he kisses your thighs slowly, slightly lifting his head up for air. then, he reaches over to your hips and palms them, pressing some pressure. without warning, he dips his head low and begins to eat you out again.

his tongue flickers back and forth, fast and messy. he digs his nose in as he sucks your clit and pulls away. he takes his time, flattening his tongue against your clit. your toes curl, your head throws back, and your stomach tightens as the feeling.

“d-don’t laugh at m-me, okay?” you stutter.

he lifts his head.

“what’s wrong?”

“i… i t-think i might pee,” you pant. “i don’t wanna pee.”

jungkook chuckles, not mocking, just warmly.

“you’re not gonna. promise.”

your eyebrows furrow. “but what if i do? that’s so gross.”

“do you want me to stop?”

you nod.

“sorry.”

jungkook shakes his head and reaches over to kiss your forehead. “don’t apologize. let’s do what you want and what makes you feel good, okay?”

you swallow.

“w-what do you wanna do?” you ask him shyly. jungkook breathes you in, resting hs body on top of yours. like second nature, you wrap your arms around him and hold him close. he trails kisses on your neck as you murmur; “i wanna do something for you too.”

he smiles against your skin.

“we don’t have to do anything,” he tells you honestly. “we can just go to sleep—”

“do you wanna fuck my face?”

his breath hitches.

“uhm…” jungkook shifts and chases your eyes. you stare into his eyes and smile warmly. “w-what?”

you shrug.

“i wanna try it,” you confess. “and you mentioned it once jokingly… why not, right?”

he blinks at you.

before he can register this, you shift and slide lower down the bed. he lifts his body, following your lead and positioning himself. jungkook kneels over you, straddling your chest. his knees are on either side of your body with one hand on the headboard for balance… the other cradles your cheek, thumb swiping your puffy lips.

“if it’s too much—”

“i wanna take it,” you pout. “manifested for you to be oversized. this is me facing my consequence.”

that’s all it takes

as jungkook tilts his head with a playful smirk, he shoves his heavy cock inside your pretty mouth. he shifts his hips forward slowly, sinking himself deeper inside your mouth.

“too deep?” he asks, fingers brushing your hair back.

you shake your head, eyes watery but committed.

shakily, he lets out a deep and wrecked groan. he drags his cock out, bringing the tip to your lips to play with. you swirl your tongue around it, playing with his slit. he inhales sharply before you part your lips for him to thrust himself back in again. jungkook then slides his hand to cup the back of your head, lifting you just a bit for a better angle. the slight move causes you to gag around him.

his stomach sinks.

he pauses instantly.

“you okay?”

you blink twice at him and begin to suck him off. jungkook throws his head back, moving in slow and shallow thrusts. he tests the waters, as the headboard begins to creak.

“god,” he moans. “look at you, baby… taking me so well. i’m so fucking proud of you.”

then, his pace gets a little rougher. his hips roll forward with more intent, but his hand stays gentle on your head. he doesn’t force you to take more. when you moan around him, your nails begin to dig into his thighs.

“shit—baby,” jungkook begins to lose his breath. “say something… gonna cum just like this.”

you pull off for air.

“you can… if you want.”

jungkook hisses. “you can’t say shit like that.”

then, he leans over you, bracing both hands against the headboard now. he cages you in. his abs flex with each thrust, and the view of him above you—eyes wide, flushed chest heaving—is seared into your memory forever.

god, he’s so handsome.

you keep your hands on his thighs, letting him set the pace. he watches you the entire time, making sure you’re doing okay. it backfires, though because all he can notice is how your mouth stretches around him. how your eyebrows furrow and how your eyes flutter shut like you enjoy this.

spoiler: you do enjoy this.

then, he feels his body tighten.

he knows the feeling all too well.

without warning, he pulls himself out and with a groan—drops down to kiss you.

“gonna stop,” he pants. “gotta be inside you when i finish.”

you let out a laugh against his lips. “okay,” you agree. “want you to finish inside me too.”

with that, you feel your legs tremble when he pulls you upright. he kisses you slow and settles back against the pillows. his cock is angry, twitching between his thighs. jungkook pulls you into his lap.

you hesitate a little, as you swing a leg over. your knees rest on either sides of him. his eyes flicker to the way your hands hover above his chest. you look unsure… but also desperate. he can’t fight with that.

“what do you wanna do?” he asks gently, fingers tracing your thighs.

“wanna ride you,” you say shyly. “like cowgirl… b-but—”

“you don’t know how?”

“i’m gonna look stupid.”

he rolls his eyes at you. “not possible.”

jungkook leans in, pressing his lips to your shoulder. “take your time with it. you’re in control. i’ll help you figure it out, okay? do what you want. i’m all yours, baby.”

with that, he lies back as you grab the base of his cock rather awkwardly. you lower yourself down slowly. sinking inch by inch, you gasp.

“sorry—”

“don’t apologize,” he reassures you, as he reaches over and helps you line himself up. “here, like this.”

jungkook holds himself still while you slowly sink down. your hands are planted on his chest, steadying yourself. he groans as he feels your tight pussy clench. his hands grip your hips tightly. you let out a shaky breath in response.

you both pause when once you realize you’ve taken him in fully.

you catch your breath as his hands soothe up and down your sides.

“f-fuck.”

“you okay?”

“yeah,” you nod, taking a deep breath in. “just… big.”

jungkook chuckles, leaning in for a kiss. “your fault.”

you let out a small laugh as he rubs circles on your hips. you adjust, locking eyes with his.

“should i move now?”

he blinks at you. “yeah. try rocking your hips. you don’t have to bounce or anything—just move how you feel.”

you nod and try it.

it’s awkward at first, but his hands guide you. soon enough, you’re rolling your hips against his. the slow grind of your bodies both make you moan. you feel his cock harden inside you, and the sharpness is something you never expected to love so much. it feels so good. jungkook’s head lolls forward, kissing your breasts and then your neck.

he’s breathless.

“that’s it,” he praises. “good girl… you’re so perfect, baby.”

you lean in to kiss him. then, you pick up your pace. you roll your hips forward, grinding and humping him however your body wants to. he’s biting his bottom lip as your movements quicken and you begin to feel tingling in the pit of your stomach. you chase the feeling by riding him harder. soon, you begin to let out breathey moans.

“ohh,” you almost cry. “f-fuck. oh my god…”

“that’s it,” jungkook moans. “shit. just like that.”

you fuck him harder.

jungkook slaps your ass and you let out a whimper. as you two fuck, you begin to feel the pressure of it all weigh in on you. for some reason, as you look at him, you can’t help but pant and want more of this insane feeling.

“look at you,” he hisses. “you’re doing it, baby. fuck. you’re riding me.”

before you know it, you’re whimpering.

your grinding gets lazier but the high is still there. you’re out of breath, sweaty and tired. you’re still moving in his lap, but your thighs are burning. he looks up at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

(he hasn’t)

“you okay?”

you give him a small breathless nod. even before you tell him with words, jungkook pulls himself out and reaches over to you. he checks in you.

“everything okay?”

again, you nod but your rhythm falters. your legs shake a little as you try to lift yourself and sink again. you whimper, frusterated at yourself.

“sorry—”

“hey,” jungkook murmurs, quickly sitting up. he kisses your forehead. “you’re doing so good. nothing to be sorry about.”

“i think my legs are giving out,” you murmur, nuzzling into the side of his neck. “but don’t wanna stop.”

he chuckles, running his hands up and down your back. jungkook kisses your jaw. “lay back for me?”

before you can even answer, he shifts—scooping an arm under your knees and the other behind your back, rolling the both of you with practiced ease until you’re lying against his chest, back to his front.

“this okay?” he asks, lips brushing your ear.

you nod quickly, already breathless as he hooks your thighs over his, keeping you wide open while he stays deep inside you. his arms wrap around your middle, pulling you in tighter, grounding you completely.

he starts to thrust again—slow, deep rolls of his hips that push into you from underneath, the angle making you whimper. your head tilts back onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as you melt into him, letting him do the work.

jungkook fucks you like this for a while. you focus on your breathing and the feeling of him inside you. all your thoughts and efforts crumble when he places his hand over your pussy and begins to play with your clit.

“j-jungkook… i can’t—”

“you can.”

“i’m gonna—nghhh…. oh my g-god. jungkook!”

your body starts to tremble, back pressed flush against his chest, every nerve ending alive as he keeps grinding into you from beneath.

his arms stay locked around your waist, one hand splayed over your stomach, holding you still while the other toys with your clit—soft, steady strokes that match the rhythm of his hips.

“fuck—” you gasp. “jungkook—i think—i’m gonna—”

“i know, baby,” he whispers, his voice shaky but so sweet. “you’re close, yeah? it’s okay.”

his mouth is right at your ear, so gentle despite how deep he is inside you.

“breathe through it,” he hisses. “i feel your pussy tightening. you’re gonan cum soon and your instict is to hold your breath—don’t. i want you to breathe through it. want you to feel it all, okay? can you be a good girl and do that for me, baby?”

you whimper.

“uh... mhmmm... shit, shit, shit! nghh… i… i’ll try.”

jungkook fucks himself inside you deeper and harder. you hold your breath as you take him in, and then shut your eyes to exhale.

you breathe through your nose, trying to focus on his request.

and when you do—your body curling forward, a desperate whimper falling from your lips—he wraps you tighter in his arms, guiding you through it with slow, grounding thrusts, his hand not leaving your clit until you're twitching and whining from the overstimulation.

you cream his cock.

“you’re so perfect,” he breathes, kissing the side of your neck. “you did so good for me. so fucking good.”

you’re still catching your breath when he carefully lifts you off, laying you back down on the pillows.

“you okay?” he asks, brushing your hair from your face.

you nod, dazed, your skin flushed and glowing. he kisses your forehead.

“gonna finish, yeah?” he whispers. “just wanna be close.”

and then he’s sliding back in—slow and deep—his body over yours, elbows tucked beside your head as he holds himself up just enough to look at you.

“feels so good,” he moans, dropping a kiss to your cheek. “so warm.”

your hands trail up his back, pulling him in. his movements are less frantic now, more like he’s savoring it—each roll of his hips drawn out, every kiss messy and sweet.

“look at me,” he whispers, foreheads touching. “wanna see you when i cum.”

and when he does—hips stuttering, a low groan leaving his throat—you kiss him through it, soft and open-mouthed, your fingers carding through his hair as he falls apart right there, with you.

his whole body trembles, but he doesn’t move—doesn’t leave. just stays wrapped around you, breathing hard, kissing your lips again and again like he doesn’t want to let you go.

just like that, jungkook cums inside you—filling your pussy up with every ounce of himself.

you’re draped over him like a blanket, one leg tossed over his hips, face tucked into the crook of his neck. the room is quiet, save for the low hum of the fan and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing as it evens out.

jungkook's fingers trace lazy shapes along your thigh, slow and thoughtless, like he’s just making sure you’re still there. still his. still real.

beside you, hello kitty stares from the edge of the bed. a little crooked. still wearing the ribbon he tied on her hours ago.

“you think she judged us?” you mumble against his collarbone.

his chest shakes with a quiet laugh.

“she was appalled. horrified, even.”

you snort.

“poor girl didn’t sign up for that.”

“we should apologize.” he suggests. “sorry, kitty.”

you giggle agaisnt his chest. then, you lift your face and say; “next time… i think the tiger ears should stay on.”

he stills, then looks down at you slowly—like you just said something criminal.

“what’s with you and props? if it’s not my glasses, it’s the tiger ears. what’s next? blindfolds and whips?”

“i’m dead serious.”

“oh, i know. that’s the scary part.”

you both dissolve into soft laughter, his fingers still moving along your bare skin. at some point, he tugs hello kitty into the covers, nestling her between your bodies like a little buffer. a witness, maybe. or a silent secret keeper.

your eyes flutter closed soon after. sleep is winning.

but jungkook stays awake a little longer. watches you. breathes you in.

and once he’s sure—sure your breathing is slow and even, sure you won’t catch him in the act—he leans down, presses a kiss to the crown of your head, and whispers against your skin like it’s sacred.

“___?” jungkook whispers, voice low and careful, like he’s scared of waking you.

he shifts a little, just enough to see your face in the soft lamplight. your lashes are fanned out across your cheeks, your lips slightly parted, breath slow and steady.

you don’t answer.

he watches you in silence. listens to the hush of the room and the tiny creak of the mattress as he adjusts his arm under your waist. your leg is still hooked over his hip, and your fingers rest gently on his chest—right over the spot where his heart is beating just a little too fast.

maybe you’re asleep. maybe you’re not.

but he takes the chance anyway.

he turns his head, nose brushing the side of yours. and with a kiss so soft it almost doesn’t land, he presses his mouth to your hairline.

“i’m so in love with you,” he breathes. not even a whisper—more like a confession carried on his last exhale. “i love you.”

you don’t move. don’t speak. don’t flinch or blink.

but your fingers twitch. just slightly.

and then they curl in, sinking into the fabric of his shirt. slow and gentle, like your body coudn’t help but respond before your mind caught up. like your heart heard him first.

jungkook’s eyes flutter close.

he doesn’t say anything else. doesn’t push or ask or even hope. he just sinks a little deeper into the sheets, into you, pulling you closer like maybe, if he holds you tight enough, the moment won’t break.

and you—still quiet, still pretending—feel everything.

the weight of his arm around you.

the warmth of his skin against yours. the truth of what he said lingering in the space between your bodies.

you don’t say it back.

not yet.

but you feel it, too. so, in your head you say it back. drifting to sleep, tangled with the love of your life—

i love you too.

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