#it's a kind of acknowledgment. it's neat

[amelikos]

This exchange between Friede and Spinel is really interesting? Considering the fact that relying solely on data and analysis is exactly how Friede was before he met Cap.

Back when he met Cap, Friede quickly figured out how he was able to fly. But he couldn't understand why Cap was pushing himself so far to fly once a day at dawn. It's only when he stopped solely observing from afar and tried to see things from Cap's perspective by flying alongside him that he understood his feelings (Cap just wanted to see the sunrise every morning).

Friede learned to rely on his instinct and be more reckless after meeting Cap, but I wonder if he saw shades of his past self in Spinel, since Spinel currently has the same approach he used to have.

[mumblesplash]

actually now that i think about it malevolent might have one of if not my favorite execution ever of the ‘two characters have to share one body’ premise. like in theory i’m a huge fan of that trope but in practice very few stories do it in a way i find interesting

[grumpyoldsnake]

One of these days. One of these days, I will figure out what the hell makes the tipping point beyond which either a) there’s socialization that I feel insulated from and kind of numb about and too tired to pursue, or b) socialization where the very notion of so much as expressing one (1) internal thought or emotion suffuses my whole body with adrenaline and blaring Nope instincts.

[nihiltism]

ok so while my ds is getting sand poured into it at alarming rates I'm thinking about how jrpgs in specific have a really weird desync with How Important Death Is. like some address it better than others but it very frequently happens where if you take a step back youll go "am I wild or is everybody just like, Really down with murder in this game". and consequences for said murder, especially in a characterization sense but even just actual physical consequences, don't really happen? unless it's a vehicle for conflict but like. when it is a vehicle for conflict it feels weird because why are These Guys actually taking the fact we killed somebody in broad daylight seriously and coming after us for it while all the other npcs and even the main party took it like it was another saturday evening

see I Think where the issue lies is in the fact that everything is in its own little world when you're in a battle? like. when you fight an enemy and you get leather out of it it's seen as something the enemy Drops and not. their hide. when you defeat a character in a battle it does just feel like you Defeated them. unless there's dialogue afterwards that says otherwise you don't even mentally assume you killed em you just wounded them enough to make them flee or dissolve or whatever. and it's Weird to just. have that assumption there because for a lot of games it really isn't clear if you're killing them or defeating them !!

that last point is extra important when you have the specific brand of Skittish Hero / Noble Hero Who Doesn't Kill People / Rational Hero In Way Over Their Head or whatever where you really don't think they Would kill a guy just to get them out of the way. in that case it's REALLY weird because it's hardly brought up. even if it Is brought up that that guy Sure Did Die the mc doesn't tend to actually have a reaction ??? and I don't know why this is ???? like Any written reaction would be more interesting than nothing even if the guy doesn't have a full on crisis about taking another life having them go "oh shit, The Consequences" would be nice. really anything except (oh cool we can advance the plot now).

I will also mention that Some deaths do matter plot wise but very frequently what makes them matter is how much of it is linked to an in game battle I think. if your mc just finishes a fight and comes back to the overworld and the guy's Disappeared or Dissolved or whatever it means they don't matter. if the guy's still around after the fight it means it's more significant, especially if they're still alive but wounded or Really Shaken Up. because this clears up the indistinguishable line between if a battle is lethal or not and if a character decides to deal a finishing blow now it's Way more telling of their character. even though this is basically the same thing that happened in the (killed In A Battle) scenario. just with more dialogue. I will also mention that the person who deals the finishing blow is Rarely Ever that good hearted protagonist and often they'll even go :0 at somebody else committing a murder despite them instigating and helping murder quite a few people. just. In Battle. so it's less bad. I guess.

this is leaving out the fact that in party deaths are often a Major Major Blow because like. ok that's fair. that's A Guy You Knew that's understandable. anyway I don't really know where I'm going with this I just think it's interesting how in these types of games death can swap from not mattering at all to mattering a Lot and if u don't think about it too hard u don't even question it. I'll probably be putting some examples in the tags idk

[novelry-plurality]

Being brought in to deal with Rough Shit is kind of a new experience for me. This sucks. Do we just straight-up not have any ANP alters anymore? Did we ever have any full ANP in the first place?

[senadimell]

.

[meowdei]

part two

Starting an internship at the company Satoru’s father owns but you don’t know who he is just yet.

He’s annoying. He always comes back from lunch late, lets his phone ring at his desk (that’s conveniently placed next to yours) past the three ring policy, writes emails with silly and immature sign-offs, cracks jokes during meetings, and somehow, despite always finishing his paperwork late, he never manages to lose his damn job.

You try to mind your own business. But you can’t help but feel him slowly grate at your nerves as he acts so unprofessional and for some weird reason, not one person seems to care.

He seems pretty intrigued with you, too, if matters couldn’t get worse.

“Hey,” he grins. You try to ignore the tilt of his lips in amusement as you just barely fight off rolling your eyes.

“Can I help you with something?” You sigh, “I’m currently in the middle of something that requires my full attention, but maybe we could—”

“You really love your office jargon,” he hums, cutting you off with a wider grin, “so dedicated.”

“Oh, my apologies,” you smile tightly. He seems to straighten a little, some sick, twisted form of excitement rushing through his system at the way he seems to get under your skin. “Allow me to use simpler language for you to understand: go away, I’m busy.”

Someone has to stand up to this prick, you think. He puts in half the effort, and somehow, you’re pretty sure your boss has a soft spot for him. You don’t understand it, and quite frankly, you’ll be damned if a lazy, lackluster man snags a promotion before your hardworking self.

“Oh wow,” he snorts, “breaking your strictly professional streak, are you? You must be really occupied. I guess I’ll borrow your stapler later.”

Gritting your teeth, you give him yet another tight lipped smile before grabbing the stapler off your desk and handing it to him. (A small part of you resists the urge to throw it square at his face. Maybe the image of him on the floor with a bloodied nose would make your day a little easier, but then you’re sure you’d be jobless).

“Here you go,” you say with as much kindness as you can muster. (It’s not a lot). “Please do bring it back when you’re done. Some of us actually complete paper work, so the stapler is a necessity.”

“Oh yeah?” He tilts his head, eyes sparkling with mischief, “don’t worry, I won’t hold your stapler hostage for too long. I wouldn’t want to disrupt the flow of your productivity.”

You watch with wary eyes as he walks back to his desk, stapling some small, tiny note of sorts before walking right back, handing the paper and the stapler to you.

“What’s this?” You raise a brow.

“Some paper work for you to fill out,” he grins, the vagueness of his answer making a vein all but pop in your forehead.

Before you even have a chance to tell him that you most certainly will not be entertaining whatever silly prank he’s playing, he walks right off, sagging into his chair as he does an obnoxious little spin and goes back to typing at his computer. Probably yet another email with a ridiculous ending, you think to yourself.

Against your better judgement, you stare at the note, eyeing the small flap he’s stapled over an index card. You lift it up, quickly scanning over his scribbled writing.

Want to grab coffee during lunch? Check your answer:

▢ yes! ▢ absolutely! ▢ most definitely!

Your eye twitches.

Grabbing a pen, you quickly add a box underneath his (very confident) options, checking it off and writing in neat, pristine handwriting:

▣ not a chance!

You stand, walking over to his desk and ignoring his perked up, excited little smile as you drop the note back on the table and head back to your own desk. A tiny wave of satisfaction weaves through your body when you notice him read over your response and deflate, a small pout forming over his lips.

Regretfully, a small part of you can’t help but acknowledge that he’s actually…kind of cute when his lips are curled like that. But a larger part of you shakes that thought away and cringes internally. It’s a shame his personality ruins the genetic blessings he seems to have been bestowed with.

And you think that’s the end of it—but of course, with someone like Satoru in the office, there’s never the end of anything.

You watch as an email pops up on your screen, opening it only to stare blankly at his name and roll your eyes at the subject line:

────────────────────────

Follow-Up on Submitted Paperwork

Greetings office neighbor,

Thank you for submitting the paperwork. Unfortunately, I couldn’t help but notice that it does not fully align with the outlined guidelines. Could you please provide clarification or revise the submission accordingly?

Thanks a million,

Gojo Satoru :)

────────────────────────

And there he goes again with those obnoxious sign-offs, you think bitterly. Instantly, you’re clicking away at your keyboard as you type back an agitated response. Of course, you really shouldn’t entertain his ridiculous schemes, but something about him gets under your skin enough that you simply can’t help yourself.

You huff in approval at your response as you read it over before hitting send.

Instantly, as if he was waiting, you see his hand reach for his mouse and click on his screen to open your email as his eyes scan over your reply:

────────────────────────

Thank you for reaching out,

Unfortunately, I was unable to fully adhere to the outlined guidelines, as they are not viable in this situation. To address this, I adjusted the submission to align more effectively with a more practical outcome.

Hope that helps!

Your office neighbor :)

────────────────────────

Just when you think he’s given up, he rolls his chair over to your desk, causing a couple of annoyed heads to tilt up and glare at him for the noise before turning their attention back to their work. You pinch your nose as his chair rolls to a stop in front of your desk.

“Yes?” You grit through your teeth.

“Hey, office neighbor,” he hums, “just wanted to clarify your most recent email with you. I’m a bit confused.”

“Which part confused you?” You bat your lashes in faux charm, sarcastically smiling at him as he hums, grabbing a piece of candy from your little bowl of sweets at your desk and helping himself.

Your eye twitches a little at the gesture. Those are for you to enjoy throughout a miserable work day.

“Um…” he trails off as he pretends to think, “I’d say all of it.”

“I see,” you nod slowly, fighting every bone in your body not to snap at him with a colorful choice of words. “Essentially, the options in your original document did not highlight a plausible set of deliverables, so I corrected them for you with a more realistic one. Make sense?”

“Not really,” he sighs dramatically, pretending to scratch his head in confusion. You want nothing more than to grab those snowy locks and slam his face into your paper shredder. “Could you go over it one more time? I’m still lost.”

You’re just about to lose your patience with him when suddenly, the entire office seems to collectively take in a sharp breath, everyone scrambling to look as productive as possible while a tall, older looking man with suspiciously familiar white hair and blue eyes walks through the office. Something in your brain sets off alarm bells, but you can’t quite completely piece it together what it is about him seems so….recognizable.

“Who’s that?” You frown, scrunching your nose in confusion as everyone straightens up.

“That would be the final boss,” he snorts. You roll your eyes at his word choice before blinking and straightening up yourself.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, voice a panicked whisper as you ask, “you mean the owner of this company?”

“Yeah,” he drawls, raising a brow at you in amusement. “Never seen him before?”

“No,” you hiss, “I’m just the intern! Now go back to your desk before he thinks we’re goofing off, I’d like to keep my job, please.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he hums.

You send him a nasty glare, just about at your wits end as you whisper-yell, “I am going to throw my stapler right at your—”

“Satoru, I need you in my office,” comes a stern, deep voice, interrupting you as you quickly shut your mouth.

“You got it, old man,” he salutes in mock seriousness. Suddenly, your spine goes rigid and your eyes widen. The man walks off with a firm nod as Satoru stands, giving you an innocent smile.

Suddenly, it dawns on you just why he looked so strikingly familiar.

“Did you just call him old man?” You blink, mouth agape.

“Yup,” he winks, walking backwards as his eyes stay trained on you while he heads for the elevator. “I’ll put in a good word for you when he’s in a better mood at home tonight. I think we can discuss the specifics over coffee during our lunch hour, yeah?”

[iamgonnagetyouback]

practice makes a surgeon perfect⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ remus lupin

the evening is slow, the kind that stretches between the golden lamplight and the hush of a world at rest. you’re curled up on the couch, a book open in your lap, but your eyes keep flickering toward the man beside you.

remus is quiet, fresh from a shower, his hair still slightly damp, his body dressed in the soft familiarity of an old sweater and sweatpants. there’s something so comforting about him like this, settled and warm, but there’s also a hesitance to him tonight, a pause in the way his fingers tap absently against his knee.

then, a breath. a clearing of his throat.

“can i practice something?”

your brow lifts. “that depends,” you say, closing your book slightly. “what are you practicing?”

he rubs the back of his neck, looking almost sheepish. “braiding.”

the answer catches you off guard, but not unpleasantly so. “my hair?”

he nods. “if you don’t mind.”

it’s such a simple request, but the thought of his hands in your hair, of him sitting here with you, so quiet and careful, makes something tender unfurl in your chest.

you shift slightly, gathering your hair over one shoulder before glancing up at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. “go ahead, doctor.”

the couch dips as he moves closer. then, the first touch—his fingers threading through your hair, warm and steady. he’s careful, dividing the strands with an almost reverent gentleness, and yet there’s something sure about the way he handles you, like he’s done this before.

his breath is soft against your shoulder, his touch delicate, and you let your eyes drift shut for a moment, allowing yourself to sink into the warmth of it.

“that’s cute,” you murmur.

he hums in acknowledgment. “what is?”

“that you’re practicing.” a smile tugs at your lips. “is it for our future daughter?”

there’s the slightest pause, his fingers hesitating before continuing their careful work.

“no,” he says simply.

your brow furrows, curiosity blooming. “no?”

his fingers tighten slightly around the strands, barely noticeable. “not exactly.”

you grin. “oh, is it for other girls, then?” the question is meant to be teasing, lighthearted, but the moment it leaves your mouth, you feel the way he stills, just for a second.

“of course not.” his voice is steady, but there’s something in it—something firm, like the idea itself is absurd.

you blink, tilting your head slightly. “then who—”

“it’s for my patients.”

the world stills.

you shift slightly, trying to see his face. “what?”

he doesn’t stop braiding, fingers moving with quiet precision. “the little girls before their surgeries,” he explains. “they can’t go into the or with loose hair—it has to be tied back. but some of them don’t know how, or their parents aren’t there to do it for them.” he pauses. “so i do it.”

and just like that, your heart aches.

you can see it now. small girls, nervous in their hospital gowns, sitting on the edge of their beds with their hands clasped tightly in their laps. and then there’s remus—soft-spoken, gentle, kneeling in front of them, carefully weaving their hair into neat braids before surgery. talking to them in that quiet, steady way of his, making sure they feel safe.

“remus.” your voice is barely above a whisper.

he ties off the braid at the end of your hair, his thumb grazing your shoulder in a lingering touch.

“it helps,” he says simply. “gives them something familiar. makes things a little less scary.”

something inside you shatters—not in a painful way, but in a way that makes it hard to breathe, hard to hold the sheer depth of your love for him inside your chest.

without thinking, you turn, shifting onto your knees to face him fully. he looks at you, confused at first, but there’s a quiet patience in his expression, a willingness to let you feel whatever this is.

your hands lift before you even realize it, fingers brushing along the sharp edge of his jaw, tracing the warmth of him, memorizing the way he feels beneath your touch.

“you are unbelievable,” you whisper, voice thick.

his lips twitch slightly. “am i?”

you nod, your fingers curling lightly at the nape of his neck. “you sit there and tell me something like that, like it’s nothing, like it’s just some casual part of your day—” you pause, shaking your head. “and you don’t even realize—”

he exhales a quiet laugh, tilting his head slightly. “realize what?”

“that i love you,” you say simply, honestly, achingly.

a breath. just a small, quiet moment before his eyes soften completely, something tender and endless settling into them.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he just looks at you, really looks at you, and then his hand lifts, fingers ghosting along your cheek, the side of your neck, your shoulder—like he’s committing you to memory.

and then, slowly, he leans in, pressing his lips to yours in the kind of kiss that says everything.

it’s slow, gentle, something deep and unshakable, something that lingers. he kisses you like he’s trying to make sure you understand, like he’s trying to return every ounce of feeling you’ve just given him.

when you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, your breaths mingling in the small space between you.

“you’re ridiculous,” you whisper, smiling.

“in the most absurdly sweet way possible.”

he huffs a small laugh, eyes crinkling. “it’s just braiding.”

“no, remus,” you say, reaching up to cup his face, your thumb tracing along his cheek. “it’s you being the best damn person i know.”

his expression softens, something warm and unspoken flickering in his gaze.

and when he kisses you again, it feels like home.

a/n. inspired by this reel on instagram. fell in love with remus all over again ‹𝟹

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work

[screampied]

‘ CANDY BOY ! ’

ᡴꪫ sum. who would have thought that the #1 camboy in your city was no one other than your virgin roommate gojo, who’s totally putting on a show for his fangirls. he talks too much, but maybe you can shut his mouth and put his sweetened little fantasies to reality.

wc. 5.8k

warnings. fem! reader, camboy!gojo, college au, gojo's a virgin, switch! gojo, unprotected, dirty talk, he gets pússy drunk quick, overstim, "good boy" usage, cunnilıngus, premature ejaculating, nipple play, lots of spıt, handjōbs.

if someone would have told you that your loser of of a roommate who stuffs his mouth with a bit too many sweets, cries at romcoms, and is just an overall dork was a camboy, you’d call them crazy. batshit crazy even, yet that’s exactly what happened—

gojo was rightfully one of the top camboys in the city, probably in the world too. he was sort of a household name, it was more of a side hustle for him. he did it only for the money—sure, he adored his fans, even the ones that went a little too extreme with the provocative thirsting. but that’s all part of the job, he’s about seven months strong in his little gig. every saturday and sunday, he logs on under the user of: @/GOJOSLUTORU.

the moment that same notification pops up that he’s live, a plethora of his fans join immensely, wondering just what their favorite camboy satoru was up to today. his streams would last for a good two hours—longer sometimes if it was some kind of special event where he’d reach a massive amount of donations, a special treat for his fans. gojo was beloved for his flirty personality, he’d make his fangirls swoon with his words, despite knowing full well he doesn’t know the first thing on how to please a lady.

that’s until you came along—more like catching him right in the act. it couldn’t have been any more embarrassing though. eleven thousand eyes were cheering him on, showering him with lewd "good boy" praises until you drop your bag.

“satoru?” you utter, curling your brow into a surprised furrow once you take in the scene in front of you. tossing the spare set of keys into the bin, you glance at your roommate—he freezes mid stroke with the most flustered expression. his hands were a bit … occupied, and a glimpse of a familiar cloth you once wore catches your eye. “are those my panties?”

“no….?”

with a deadpan, your shoulders drop before you drag your feet towards him to take a quicker look. oh, those were definitely your panties. so that’s where they ran off too. gojo tries to shield his nude exposed lower half with a nearby towel but it’s no use—you saw everything you needed to see.

“anywhooo,” he swallows, taking a brief peer at his chat that was flooding with all types of questions. they wanted to see you, they wanted to see gojo’s pretty roommate who he’s always rambling about on stream. clearing his throat, he runs a hand through his hair before pitching his tone. he tries to sound more attractive but ends up butchering right away, stuttering at his first pathetic sentence. “ i- i didn’t think you’d get here so early. how was the exam?”

“it was … fine,” you mumble, barely acknowledging his words. your mind was racing vigorously, trying to process how you’d just seen your roommate half naked. going up behind him, you lean in towards his neat set up—you grew a bit curious, immediately, your eyes meet the other eyes that stare back at you. near the top right displayed his large following of eight hundred thousand, the top left displays his current view count, a whopping amount of almost twelve thousand. peeking at the chat, you’re met with dozens of freshly new comments saying how pretty you are, asking if you’re his girlfriend he always talks about, and so on. “you’re a camboy?”

“heh, camboy’s kind of an exaggeration but,” and he’s nervous, you can hear the slight tremor in his voice. it’s cute, gojo was prepared for you to judge him for his side hustle but instead you don’t. he relaxes a bit, shifting his attention away from his crude chat and towards you. “i like to label myself as a um, streamer..”

you have a growing simper. “i don’t think streamers usually get naked for their audience,” and you take a quick stare at his attire—he was practically shirtless, his boxers were covered although he was wearing some kind of tank that had ‘submissive and breedable’ printed on the very front. you furrow your eyebrow, though you choose not to question it. his nervously sly smile only grows once he catches your eyes quite literally checking him out. glancing at the comments again, you hum. “why do they keep asking if i’m your girlfriend? you don’t have a girlfr-”

“woah, s-shut up!” he whines, cupping a hand over your mouth. you giggle, feeling the warmth of his palm rub against your lips. gojo lowers his voice, speaking in a faint whisper. “they think you’re my girlfriend,” and he peels his hand away before running a finger down his nape. “i told them that because-”

“satoru,” you roll your eyes, noticing how he was quite stiff with his body language. being this close to you, your mere elegant fragerence was so exhilarating for him. you made him this nervous, truth be told ; you were far too caught up in your academics to even realize your roommate had a little crush on you. however, you do wish you found out in a more … non less of a lewd way, a way where he wasn’t caught red-handed fondling with a pair of your pretty sage-colored panties. with a sigh, you mumble to him. “you wanna fuck, don’t you?”

that’s definitely not what he thought you was gonna say,

with pouty shimmery lips, gojo’s eyes widen before a sheepish grin marinates against his features. “pft. do i wanna fuck, whaaat?” and he doesn’t even last a second before sighing, dropping his head down in defeat. “y-yes..”

the ringing from his monitor — dozens of women sending him gifts, tickets, donations, begging for their favorite camboy to notice him only gets more disruptive.

the ringing grows louder, the repetitive chiming sound of bells, the blaring notification it makes whenever someone sends him a sweet contribution. pretty soon, he was on the verge of meeting yet another goal. ever since you got spotted on the stream, his viewer count doubled.

“well, why didn’t you just ask? besides, there’s other ways than using my panties to get off.” and a wave of embarrassment washes over his face. the towel’s still covering his torso before he shoots you a shy smile. any closer you could’ve got to him and he thought he was gonna explode. the heat radiating from you had his head going in a crazed ditz. stroking his cheek, you speak softly.

“i’m sorry,” he whines, bottom lip poking out. you end up sitting flat on his lap, and instinctively, the curvature of your waist was met with two big hands snaking around it. you’re so pretty like this, he wanted you so so bad. swallowing, he peeks towards his chat before you cup both of his temples to stare right back into your eyes. “i was gonna ask you but- but i’ve never done this, you know,” and the way you slide a finger behind his neck, skimming the texture of your middle finger down his undercut snatches a purr from him. “i- i want you, but i just don’t know what to do with like .. i wanna make sure that i don’t embarrass myself.”

oh, he couldn’t have been any more cuter,

you heard the slight crack in gojo’s voice at the end of his candied sentences before you sling your arms over him. “don’t be embarrassed,” you softly reply, still straddling his lap. “i can always show you how.” and he gulps, your voice was smooth as silk. sweet as honey, the more you strum your thumb down his undercut, the more he can hear the rapid pulse of his heart beat throb through his ears. the simplicity of your touch was enough to have him weak.

“please..” he murmurs in a hushed tone, loving the way how gentle, how tender you were with your touch. gojo mewls out a needy whimper, feeling a sudden tent rise near between his legs. he was hard, you’d giften him a pretty solid boner and whilst you were propped up on his lap, you felt it rub against you all too well.

gojo awaits for you to make the first move, but you’re teasing . . seeing if he was going to initiate, and he does, inching his sheeny lips into yours.

your roommate pulls you into a deep kiss, he tastes like candy, candied. with your arms still occupied, wrapping around him, you glide your tongue against his, parting lips, teeth clashing amongst each other in sync. you could hear the faint sounds of whimpers run from his lips, he doesn’t exactly know what to do with his hands though—so gingerly, a hand of his strums down your back, giving the fabric that stuck against your skin a soft yank. he wanted you, the strain beneath his half on boxers only grows the more he starts to suck on your tongue.

heavy, wheezing breaths collide against each other, hitting each moving muscle like a wave,

he’s so eager,

gojo’s mind clears everything out of his head and he’s just focused on you. the saccharine tang of your signature lip gloss, he tastes it and it’s so delicious.

through cerulean-pristine hazed peripherals, gojo looks towards his chat to read some of the comments . .

chososdoublehomicide: i miss choso

zorosthroatwarmer293: i wanna be gojo >:( she’s so pretty

secksybabeamy: Hey hot stuff ;) Subscribe to my only fans!

throatgoatemily: His whines omg

as the kiss deepens, gojo whines once your hand slithers its way down between his legs. slowly removing the towel that sheaths his exposed body, you feel against his dick. at first touch, he whimpers, then whines, then whimpers again.

he was so pent up—you could feel it, you were gentle with your fingers, brushing it against the length of his dick before gently wrapping a hand around its girth. gojo moans in your mouth, feeling hitched breaths arise from his lungs. he could never get enough of how fucking sweet you were,

and he didn’t even want to.

pulling away for a long gasp of fresh air, he bites his lip as he looks down to feel your hands stroke his cock. gojo had quite the staggering inches on him, he shivers at how precise your hand movements were—

up and down,

with a hand of yours gripping over his fat length, a thumb of yours runs down the vein that coats his shaft. its pulsing, he’s needy for more of your touch so bad that it sends shockwaving static to rigorously coarse through his bouquet of neurons.

“y-your hand feels so much better than mine, heh,” he breathes, swallowing the imaginary balled up lump that resides near the back of his throat. blue irises, dilated and all stares at you—a hand reaches towards your back before his thigh starts to bounce. “not to be weird but i kinda had a dream about this, angel.”

“a dream about me stroking you?” you hum, amused before sneaking a wet kiss near the crook of his twitching lips.

gojo nods wearily, forever deeply captured by your beauty. your hands swiftly resumes to stroke him, feeling the tender skin that lives near his frenulum peel back every few seconds. gojo moans, burying his face into the very depths of your neck. so desperate, he wanted more and more. “aw, is this too much? should i slow down?”

“no.. don’t stop,” and his desperate plea was so sweet, though he wanted to go further. you giggle once he suddenly lifts you up, dragging you towards the bed. “f-fuck, ‘m sorry. can’t wait anymore,” and he hovers over you with that crazed look of total desire. “can i … eat you out?”

with a coy smile, you’re laid on your back as he just stands over you — eyes gawking at your entire physique, the way your thighs were all out with the short hem of your shorts reaching against your ass. you could tell gojo was impatient, that hungry stare in his eye never once faded.

“yeah,” you coo, parting your legs slowly. oh, you were a fucking tease.

not only were you a tease for him, you were a simple force to be reckoned with. no panties on either, gojo felt himself get hard yet again before he kneels down. with your roommate positioning himself between your legs, he lets off a soft sigh.

combing your fingers through his soft tangles, he looks up at you with a craving yet impish expression. you giggle, making him look right into your eyes. peering at his chat that was going ballistic over his girlfriend, you speak in a soft tone. “do you know how to even eat pussy, ‘toru? i can h-”

“girl i know how to eat pussy,” he grumbles, and he sounds almost offended at you asking if he needed any sorts of help.

sure—gojo literally didn’t know the first thing of eating a woman out, maybe visually.

but now that he’s up close, he has to stop himself from folding right then and there. so soaked, he gets a full view of your slick entrance, your pussy was the prettiest thing he’s laid his eyes upon so far.

as he’s a few inches a apart, with sprawled open thighs—the last thing you’d expect was for to gojo to start drooling all on your cunt. a stringy, syrupy concoction of his own saliva pours out of his mouth and onto your folds. just a quick glimpse and he’s pussy drunk. fuck, he’s more embarrassed than he’s ever been but he can’t help it. gojo didn’t even get a taste and he’s already salivating at the sight of your sopping wet arousal. a thumb of yours wipes the spit that dribbles near the corner of his mouth and he whines at your touch again before he finally digs in.

lolling out his tongue, the very tip licks near the inner moistened entrance of your pulled out labia. gojo for probably the umpteenth time lays his tongue flat before he goes all in. a broad left hand of his attach towards the fat of your thigh as he remakes a long striping lick. “s-shiiit, ‘toru.” you gasp, the coldness on his tongue taking you by sheer surprise.

the texture of it .. you’re weak, gnawing on metaphoric bars of your enclose as well as the skin on your lip, you whine.

for someone who’s never had much experience, let alone no experience, you’d easily second guess. your back arches forward while gojo’s tongue rummages through every part of your clit. he sucks on your nub, closing his eyes and fully sinks into bliss. gojo’s pristine white brows cock into a furrow before he slides a thumb down your wet entrance. he just can’t get over how wet you were for him. sopping wet, inept lips of his constantly quivers before he gives your cunt a sweet kiss.

wet for him, he breaks his lips away for a few seconds just to smear his face against your pussy.

“m-mhm,” he whimpers, wanting your scent to linger on his face for as long as it could, your scent .. it was hard to not get obsessed, a few minutes in and he already felt his mouth watering.

as bundles of minuscule taste buds of his tingle with excitement — his tongue swiftly swirls through every orifice, not missing any spot. he searched through the gooey crevices of your walls, lips moving in complete tandem. his dick strains between his thighs that it’s almost painful.

if eating you out tasted this good, he only imagined what it’d feel like to be inside,

shoved deep into your pussy, stuffing you full with his luscious thickset inches . .

that same repeated whine that always sounds raw dies straight out of your esophagus, you yank on the strands of your roommate’s messy hair as his pace quickens by a mile. in the midst of devouring your heat, a broad hand of his caresses near the juncture of your thighs—he kisses the long slope inside of your entrance, lips all glossy and glittering with gloss thanks to you. that same panging throb starts to grow within you again. your toes curl up tightly before your eyes meet the drywall splattered on the ceiling. his tongue, the way it continues to scrabble all through every part of your cunt, he grows addicted almost immediately. gojo can’t help but lather a few sloppy kisses on your folds, sliding his tongue through your slit.

he even starts to tongue fuck you, softly thrusting the swollen tip of his tongue in and out until you’re about to whine out again for him.

that was his favorite part by far, pushing his tongue in and out of your puffy folds — relishing the way your pretty pussy coats the underside of his chin with a lustrous amount of sweet, burnished slick.

“ngh, ‘toru,” you’d wail, and your hips start to jitter against his face. he doesn’t mind . . in fact, gojo brings two hands to grip against the curves of your hips.

once he maintains a secure grasp, he lets you rub your wetness all over him. with his tongue thoroughly exploring in every part, he starts to whine too .. so eager to touch himself but he wants to keep his hands on you. a whiny whimper wrenches from the back of your throat before you start to babble. “satoru, ‘m gonna cum, fuuuck. jus’ like that, keep l-lickin’ there, baby.”

he was such a quick learner, part of you thinks he maybe had more experience than you oughta thought. gojo can’t help but attack your sweet syrupy folds with a multitude of kisses, drooling lips of his making you more sticky than you already were. your legs could barely hold themselves open.

he had to pry them open with clammy hands, slurping in every drop as if he was dehydrated with thirst. a thirst you happily quenched with him being propped between your legs. after a while, he runs a thumb down your slit once more, pretty eyes glancing up at you, wanting to see your sweet face. “a-am i doin’ a good job?” and his voice was a bit hoarse, the way he speaks, drooping eyes and a sheepish grin—visibly pussy drunk, you grab onto his strands before rocking your hips into his mouth. he giggles, muffled noises eliciting from his mouth, taking your eager jittery movements as a yes.

he just couldn’t get enough of his roommate’s taste.

occasionally, he likes to depart his lips to gather a nice concoction of saliva—only to then spit right onto your sopping folds, whining at how it was so shiny. so pretty, he’s mesmerized again at how it looks, and you end up cumming with the cutest shrieking orgasm. it snatches out of you roughly, your speech is slurred for a moment as your legs quaver in utmost pleasure.

you’re shaking, feeling him clean you up with the flatness of his tongue—gojo moans, white lashes fluttering as he takes your beauty in. this was so much better than one of his risqué wet dreams. so much better,

without even a single word leaving from his lips, he gets up to pull you into a kiss. almost immediately, you taste yourself that lingers on his tounge. it tastes sweet, gojo props himself between your thighs as you sit up, a free hand of his sliding between your stretched out legs. the constant rings of his donations continue to scream out that same annoying chime before he leans in to shut his computer. he’d probably have left so many—thousands of his fan girls devastated, but there was only a new fan girl he was fixated on.

you.

gojo was addicted, with tongues colliding against each other, hot breaths wafting against each own, he feel his breath hitch at your touch. a hand of yours snakes down to feel on his erect dick. he whines, gnawing at the bottom of your lip before his tongue gets more curious. he licks the bottom of your chin, the side of your mouth, only to then pull you into another deep kiss. “f-fuck, ‘m so hard,” he rasps between sultry kisses, heaving from each breath. you still couldn’t get over the taste of yourself that loiters all on the flat of his pink tongue. “i wanna feel you from the inside, angel.”

“but your stream,” you tease once he finally pulls away, taking a second to catch your breath yourself. you felt the heat roam across the room before stroking his cheek — flushed lips of his burn with such intensity, you had him feral. “your fans, i wouldn’t wanna interrupt them, ‘toru.”

“fuck them,” he pouts, the cute frown on his face tugging against his lips. “okay that’s mean, they help me pay rent but just- i want you right now,” and he’s so needy. he paws at your t-shirt, glossy eyes widening, god. his bottom lip pokes out, squinting for two seconds before seeing how your nipples invitingly poke out. so perky, he could feel his mouth watering sporadically. he lays you back before swallowing, a loud gulp before he hovers over you. “you knew this was gonna happen, didn’t y-you? such a tease.”

you simper, opening your legs for him and he gets a good glimpse. gojo sucks his teeth, still so soaked. he only dreamt of what you’d feel like inside.

probably so tight and warm,

the more he thinks about it, the more he could feel himself starting to drool. gojo’s panting as if he’d just finished a marathon. a hand of his wraps around his length—giving it a few solid pumps. “i thought you’d wanna do doggy for your first position,” you sweetly say, and oh, he pouts for you again. you sit up, awaiting for him to take the lead first before smiling. “missionary though? you’re not so good with eye contact, baby.”

“i know how to do missonry.” he grumbles.

“missionary,” you correct him with a titter.

he pouts again, preparing to align himself. so wet, your pussy was sopping wet, swollen from just being eaten out so good. a warm breath fans out through his lips before he rubs it against your slippery slit. “and don’t call me baby,” he moans, although the simple pet name for him a lot harder than he thought it would. slowly, gojo’s fat leaky tip continues to ghost against your folds. you hold back a sweet moan, laid all out on display for him on the mattress. he’s waited for this moment, had dreams about it, even fantasized about it. “fuck,” he’d huff out, and his voice cracks. you’d laugh but he’s staring at you the entire time with that cute pouty expression. “can- can we hold hands? for you know, leverage?”

“leverage, sure,” you play along, your fingers locking against his. damp, perspiring palms squeeze against yours before his rounded tip starts to slowly make its way inside. immensely, a breath gets caught in his throat and he whines. the warmth he’s rudely greeted with makes him gnaw his pearly whites together. “you’re kinda b-big, so go a little slow, ‘toru.”

“i’m big?” he repeats—cutely enough, it boosts his ego that you think so, yet his confidence fades the further he dumps a few hefty inches into your entrance. as you expected, you were a bit tight and stiff for a few seconds—unyielding against him for a moment, you moan. saying gojo was big was a mere understatement, he couldn’t help but lean in to lay against your chest. “how’s it feel? s-slower?”

“it’s good. that’s good,” you start to heave, gasping once he inches his head closer to latch his lips against your neglected cold nipples. he doesn’t even lift up your t-shirt, he runs his tongue through the fabric and sucks on your perked tits. “t-toru, fuckk.”

it was a soft twinge sensation at first before he’s close to bottoming out . . so close,

it’s at the moistened tip of his tongue. gojo’s shaft resumes to go in further, you feel him pulse inside before once he’s all the way in, he’s already out of breath. with his mouth occupied—he’s still sucking on your nipples through the shirt, whiney. a free hand of his runs gives your left thigh a nice firm grasp before he starts up a single few thrusts.

you whine, tossing your arms over him and he glances down at you—beads of sweat race down the sides of his brow before he sits up in a proper position. gojo can’t get over how pretty you look for him like this, he’s fully in and he sneaks a kiss onto your lips. “can i m-move?” and the falter in his voice was adorable, gojo’s breath continues to get more heavy before you give him a nod. he peppers various kisses near your mouth, neck, and of course, your precious chest. his personal favorite,

with frail arms wrapped around him, pulling him close—you run your ankle down his back and he moans. “oh, ‘s even better than i imagined,” he whispers against your ear, hot breath sending you antsy judders. the more his breath goes against your skin, the more you smell how minty it was. fresh, you desperately yearned for more so you pull him into another kiss for the nth time. “ugh. the way you clamp down, ‘s gonna kill me,” he babbles in a low puff. he’s speaking between staring up at decent pace for you to get accustomed to. you whimper, trying to get adjusted to his barreling length but he was just so fucking big. it was an ongoing rumor that between gojo—and his best friend suguru geto had the top biggest dicks. of course, you always wondered exactly how whoever started that rumor would even know, but gojo was definitely a packer. he stretched you out in ways you’ve never felt before. with strained breaths, he coats your mouth with many wet kisses. time and time again, the feeling of himself going into you raw has him drooling again. “pussy’s so wet, ‘m gonna die, oh my god.”

“don’t be dramatic, you’re not gonna die.” you try to reassure him. the grip on your hand only grows tighter, crimson lips of his suck against the underside of your chin.

so damn needy,

mussed strands of white tickle against your forehead the closer he presses his body into you. gojo was shivering, just a few minutes in pussy and as if it was a game—he’d be on the last level, game over. albeit, you feel it too. the warmth, it turns into a sweltering hot. as his hips rock, his whines start to become more vocal. he sneaks a hand down to feel the area that’s being stuffed, a thumb skims against your tummy before he moans,

“feel me t-there, yeah?” he whispers, a cute attempt at dirty talk but alas, it’s subtle. gojo easily folds once your eyes meet his gaze.

you moan, intertwining your fingers with his, moaning out a soft, “yeah,” and you sound out of breath yourself.

he’s jerking back and forth — his pace, his tempo . . wasn’t too slow or two fast, perfect.

with a quivering bottom lip, he leans in to lick against the outer shell of your ear. your cunt’s singing in harmony, sloshes of wet that leaves its metaphoric vocal cords and you start to get a bit louder. “f-fuck, ‘toru right there—fuuuck.”

“s-shit, you’re so pretty,” he pants, repeating his ways at coating your entire face with his wet kisses. you had him weak, entirely. you found it a bit silly considering how this could have happened anytime—anytime at all, all he had to do was ask. but gojo being gojo, he was not only a man with barely any experience, but he was nervous. he’s always had a bit of a crush on you but confessing sounded way scary. it was as if this entire thing was mere coincidence though, you happen to find out he’s not only a sloppy eater but,

he’s a camboy.

part of you wonders what he does on his streams. if you saw him rubbing one off while thinking about you—you could only imagine what other lewd antics he participated in.

gojo’s rutting into you at a much more quicker pace, he’s whining into your neck;

forgetting to praise you, and it’s more of the other way around. you’re cupping his face, stroking his cheek before repeating in that same melodic voice, “good boy, ‘s so good, makin’ me feel good, ‘toru baby.”

your voice, oh your voice, he could listen to it all day. you feel the constant twitch of his cock inside you and he whines every time your ankle rubs down his back. with the way your pussy holds him hostage— it’s so provocative, his reaction time was as slow as a sloth, droopy eyes stare at you before he grunts out a pleading, “f-fuck, ‘s gonna come,” and his voice sounds like a soft purr, gojo was like a kitten to you— so cute, his pout always make things more true too. he’s groaning in your ear, fat balls thwacking against you before his ears starts to ring. you’re moaning with him, bodies thrusting in sync that it’s almost like a pornographic choreography. “ugh, i- i feel it, ‘m gonna cum so much. so hot, gonna die.”

“breathe, baby,” you whisper, pulling his face closer to you. his chubby cheeks squish together once he’s within your grasp, the sharp piston of his hips makes you moan. his thrusts gets a bit sloppy and you press a kiss onto his mouth. “mwah,” you hum, watching how flustered he gets at a lick of your affection. “you wanna finish inside, don’t you?”

gojo whimpers. “yeah, yeah. really bad,” and the moment you suggest that, his ears perk cutely. he’s gotta be careful though—with a cunt as addicting as yours, he just might end up falling in love.

speaking of love, it’s as if heart eyes pour into his irises as he glances at you—again, metaphorically of course. gojo gulps at the tender touch of your fingers, leaning in to nip a kiss near your neck. through muffled words, he mewls. “i wanna fill you up. ‘s only fair since you’re milking me s-so much, ‘m so thirsty,” and he’s just babbling, pulling him close—he whines once he feels your finger glide through his sensitive undercut again. “hngh, gonna break me. let me make a mess in you please? i’ll even eat it out of you once ‘m done.”

you’re tempted at his pleads, giggling before dragging him into a deep kiss. “such a blabbermouth,” you tease between kisses, staring to feel the tears of sweat race down the sides of your forehead also— with a sly smile, you lick the drool that was about to run down the side of his lip. “finish in me, ‘toru. it’s okay. be my messy boy.”

his eyes dilated once he hears that,

your messy boy.

he even repeats it, “y-your messy boy, yeah, ‘m so messy for you, roomie,” and as he’s preparing for his inevitable release, he sinks into your warm embrace. “one more kiss, h-hold me.” and as if on command, you yoke his head in close, giving him a deep, passionate kiss. his pulsing heart beats through his ears. gojo—by this point, he was already whipped. the way his hips pick up, growing more sloppy and deranged—he’s feral.

the feverish under parts of his thighs burn, longing for its incoming conclusion climax—yet, as your smoldering heat gnashes against his, it finally comes.

with a primal gasp, it’s here.

the nirvana—euphoria, whatever it could have been called to describe this feeling, it was here.

gojo whimpers, going into a complete spazzing fit once he feels the slow orgasmic waves of himself starting to shoot literal humid blanks inside you.

it’s hot, parching hot— your heat against smelts his, it scratches a fervor itch in your brain. his tongue rummages the inside of your mouth again as he’s painting the insides of your gummy walls with his snowy white color.

satiny ropes of your roommate’s seed trickle into you, it’s so gooey and hot that it starts to stick against the inner parts of your thighs. each rough kiss reflects the same desire the both of you share before he shudders.

slow thrusts, he’s barely moving as fast as he was before but he’s still active. he wants to make sure you feel every inch he’s saved for you,

for weeks, months, maybe even years—

“god,” he whimpers out, pulling away from your glossed lips—a pretty cobweb of spit departs from each and he happily laps it up with his tongue. who knew your roommate was nothing more than a mere freak.

not you, not by a long shot.

it takes a moment for him to catch his breath, with a flustered look— gojo’s now clingy.

he doesn’t wanna move away from you, nor does he wanna exactly pull out. not just yet, he’s plugged you full of sticky cum that was threatening to ooze of your hole before he kisses the bridge of your nose. “that was so awesome.”

and just like that, the mood’s ruined—you pant, he’s hovering over you, his weight barely on you before you sigh.

“you know,” you change the subject, brushing a thumb against his cheek. “your moans, you sound more like a girl than me, ‘s kinda hot.”

“whaaat?” he grumbles, his sweetened pout forever returning. “that’s not nice, ‘n besides if it’s anyone who moans louder it’s you, angel.”

you kiss near the twitching corner of his lip, watching his sudden attitude shift like a light switch and he’s now a puddle. “you finished a bit early though,” and with your arms wrapping around him again, you speak in a soft voice. “wanna go again? you’re a natural, ‘toru.”

“please,” he whines with a nod, feeling how sweltering hot it felt to be still buried into the comforting tightness of your cunt. “this time, i wanna try doggy.”

“okay, pretty boy,” you tease, leaning in for another one of gojo’s sloppy, need kisses. just before he could pull out, the door springs open. the hinges scream once it pulls back and the two of you both look to see what the racket was.

as the door opens, it was geto—gojo’s best friend, and he had the most disgusted look on his face.

with a scrunched up face, he utters. “i’m never running errands for you two again, what the actual fuck.”

and as he turns his heel to leave, gojo snorts. “suguboooo! aw, don’t leave just yet. you can always joinnn.”

[cinnawonbabe]

ATTENTION, PLEASE! (1)

pairings: professor!heeseung x student fem!reader

warnings: teacher x student relationship, forbidden affairs, smut, oral, both receiving, anal play, praise and spankings, legal age gap

overview: y/n was just like any other college girl, crushing on the young and attractive literature professor at the university she attended. one day she’s asked to come back after class and things get a little steamy. who knew being a teacher’s pet was fun?

taglist 🏷️: @nayeoniiz @mheretoreadff @deobitifull @riribelle @jakeswifez @yohanabanana @fkarchve @1013club @rizz00 @kpopjackie @isagistar @wheretheheckis-ssaki @freaky-enhamadswriter @manuosorioh

SORRY IF YOU ASKED FOR A TAG AND DIDN’T GET IT. I COULDN’T TAG MOST BECAUSE YOUR ACCOUNT WAS NOT POPPING UP FOR ME. PLEASE ENJOY! IF THIS DOES WELL AND GET 400 NOTES, I’LL POST A PART TWO!!

it was the first day back from spring break and to say y/n was excited was an understatement. she was overjoyed to see her friends again. while she was getting ready for her first class of the day, literature, and finishing the last touches to her makeup, her friend winter called. y/n answered, putting the phone on speaker so she could multitask talking and finishing getting herself ready.

"girl where are you? class is about to start," winter whisper-yelled through the phone. y/n checked the time, seeing that she was in fact behind schedule.

"fuck, i'm gonna be late," she said, rushing to put her shoes on. after making sure her uniform was neat, she grabbed her bag and phone before running out the door.

"and who are you trying to look cute for?" winter joked with a laugh upon y/n switching the call over to a facetime.

"no one. i just felt the need to dress up today. is the professor there?" she answered while speed walking over to the building her class was held in.

"no. they haven't arrived yet, so you're lucky for once," winter said with a laugh. "hurry though, i saved you a spot," she added and y/n hummed in response as she approached the building.

she made her way inside, picking up her pace so she wouldn't be that late, but ultimately made it to class.

"fucking finally. you're here," winter laughed, taking her bag off the seat next to her for y/n to sit in. "still no professor?" y/n asked and winter shrugged not knowing herself.

you know, after 15 minutes, if a teacher hasn't arrived to class after the set time has passed, class is canceled?" one male student in the back stated.

y/n turned back to see it was one of the football players. most students got to talking with excitement as it was getting close to that 15 minute mark while others were upset that they didn't get to see the professor today, y/n was one of the students who was pretty bummed out.

just when some students were packing up their supplies, the classroom door opened up.

professor lee heeseung rushed in class. "sorry for the wait guys. i was in an important staff meeting about the fair we're having for the homecoming events next week and we kind of got carried away." he said in between breaths.

he took off his blazer and set it down on the podium that was situated in the front of the room. he rolled up his sleeves. "anyone else feeling a bit hot or is that just me?" he asked, chuckling to himself.

all the girls, including y/n, couldn't help but stare at him. watching him intently.

he has to know what he's doing. he just knows how attractive he is. y/n thought to herself.

"no it's hot in here sir. me and my friends think the air conditioning unit has stopped working." one female student stated.

heeseung nodded his head in acknowledgement, "oh i see. i'll have to make a complaint about that later. let me write that down so i don't forget." he said walking over to his desk situated in the corner of the room.

he pulled out a sticky notepad from one of his drawers and grabbed a pen from the cuphold on the desk and scribbled a mental note to himself there.

"okay, considering i was way behind my schedule. i'm going to give you all a break and just let you either stay here to make up work or you can just leave. it's completely up to you all." heeseung said, looking around the classroom after he placed the notepad back on his desk.

most students didn't hesitate to collect their things and bid heeseung goodbye or thank him for his kindness.

of course he smiled and bid those goodbye before turning his attention back to the few students that did decide to stay. which consisted of a two male students, one being a literature major and the other that just so happened to be asleep and the rest we girls that just wanted an excuse to stare at the professor.

"assuming that you all are here for help and to catch up on work so feel free to ask me any questions, okay?" he said once more before heading back to his desk.

y/n watched his backside as he headed to his desk and wondered what his back muscles looked like under his dress shirt. once he sat down he looked back towards the class, catching y/n stare. she imma looked down in embarrassment and busied herself with her studies, not catching the little smirk that made his way on his face.

y/n felt movement beside her and looked over to see her seatmate fixing herself up before calling out to the professor. "professor lee? i need help on one of the older assignments you gave. can you give me a but of assistance with it?" y/n heard her ask.

he nodded and signaled for her to come to his desk and so she did. getting up from her seat, swaying her hips purposely in the process.

she bent over his desk, showing her cleavage to him as she placed her paper down for 'help'.

that's usually how things goes. most girls go out there way to get his attention but from all the things y/n has seen, it doesn't seem to work. he wasn't phased by it and just gave her the help she needed before he sent her back to her seat.

another girl failed. y/n of course hasn't. in fact, she never tried to because she was too scared and too shy to even hold a conversation or even ask him for help but that never stopped him from trying to talk to her.

he had taken an interest in calling on her sometimes for questions she never volunteers herself from.

usually that would end up with her stuttering to answer it or having her frozen from being put on the spot.

after a while of sitting in a somewhat silent classroom, heeseung cleared his throat, gaining everyone's attention. "attention everyone class is just about over and my next class will be here soon." he stated, looking at his wristwatch.

everyone packed up their things and headed out of the class. y/n was just about to leave before she was stopped by heeseung's voice suddenly calling out to her.

y/n stopped where she was near the classroom door, turning to him as he sat at his desk. "yes, professor lee?" she asked. he motioned for her to come to him, waving his hand in a signaling gesture. she was hesitant at first, she wasn't sure if she should or not. she swallowed her own pride and made her way over to him.

"so i wanted to talk to you to see if you'd like to help me later with gathering things for the art and theatre club. they'll be doing most of the creative work and i promised the directors that i'll head to the storage area in the left wing and get the supplies they needed. i can't do it myself, so would you like to help a poor old man like me?" he asked with pleading eyes.

y/n was a bit speechless as to why he chose her out of all people. he wants me to help him? she thought to herself. there was no way out of all the girls in this class, he chose her. she stood there unresponsive for a bit, lost in her own thoughts. it began to worry him a little bit from her sudden quietness. "it's okay if you don't want to i can always just ask-" he couldn't finish his sentence as y/n interrupted him with a slightly raised voice. "no!"

she realized the tone and volume of her voice and felt hot from the embarrassment. she didn’t notice the change in his demeanor, a slight smirk appearing on his face knowing his plan was working.

"uhm i meant no it's okay professor lee, i can help you. i don't mind at all!" she stated a bit too eagerly.

she mentally cursed at herself because of it but nonetheless, heeseung didn't seem to mind. "great!! just meet me back here around 7pm, okay?" he smiled softly, causing y/n’s heart to flutter. he definitely knows the effect he has on her.

she nodded her head in agreement before flashing him a small smile in return. “yes sir,” she retorted before walking out the classroom door. she was lost in her thoughts once again, geeking over the fact that he wanted alone time with her. this was truly a dream come true.

her thoughts soon interrupted by her best friend winter spooking her, “hey!” winter yelled a little bit as she approached her. y/n grabbed her chest as she calmed herself down. “my bad, didn’t mean to scare you,” winter joked before bursting out into a fit of giggles, earning a slap on the arm from her friend. “that’s not funny win,” y/n stated, rolling her eyes playfully as she walked off with winter following close behind her. “so what was that all about?” she asked, jumping in her face as she interrogated her. y/n gently pushed her back, smiling wide as the scene replayed in her mind. even though it just happened moments prior to this conversation, she couldn’t help but reminisce about how he chose her. winter nudged her, bringing her back to reality. “soooo are you going to tell me why hot stuff over there held you back?” she questioned again but y/n only giggled in response, causing her bestie to groan at in annoyance. “its nothing really, he just wants me to help him with something for theatre class and i told him i would,” she replied honestly.

winter stared at her intensely, looking for any glimmer of doubt. she was trying to see if she was lying to her or not. y/n stared back at her clueless as to why her best friend was seemingly trying to intimidate her for some reason. is she jealous? she thought. ultimately, winter shrugged it off. i guess she was being truthful. “well good luck and make sure you use a condom, i’m not ready to be an auntie just yet,” she laughed, nudging her friend. y/n’s eyes widened upon hearing those words leave her mouth. before she could smack her friend, winter took off running, satisfied with the reaction she got from her bestie. y/n followed shortly behind, yelling out threats to her friend as she did so.

__________________________

time seemed to have moved on so fast. it was already 7pm and y/n was making her way back to professor heeseung’s classroom. i hope this doesn’t look suspicious. she was having second thoughts. maybe this was a bad idea. she didn’t want to get caught up in something that wasn’t true, even though she wished it was. she didn’t want people to think she was having a secret affair with her teacher, but then again she didn’t actually mind it at all. she longed for him to caress her ever so gently. she wanted to feel his lips against her own but who didn’t? every girl on campus wanted a piece of him but can you blame them? he’s in his late twenties teaching hormonal nineteen and twenty year olds. a lot of his students were fresh out of highschool so seeing a young professor was like winning the lottery.

eventually she made it towards his classroom door, peering inside. it was dark and the only form of light was coming from the hallway where she stood. she scanned the room as best as she could but there was no sign of him. maybe he had forgotten. as she was about to walk away she ran face first into something or someone. she looked up and was face to face with heeseung himself. oh god. she thought. a light blush painted her face as she realized how close they were so she took a few steps back. “sorry, i should’ve been paying more attention to where i was going,” she apologized, her eyes averting her vision everywhere but his.

the view was astonishing to him. their slight height difference boosted his ego. it empowered him. he knew exactly what he what he was doing. y/n was timid and kept to herself. she wasn’t like the other girls he taught.

everyday a female student would force themselves onto him any chance he got. he was used to all the attention he gotten. he may not have shown it but he did enjoy it. so it was weird that y/n never seemed to try. he knew she found him attractive but she never seem to give him the time of day. so he started making moves. calling on her during class even though she never raised her hand, taking initiative to talk to her after class whenever he could because he knew it made her heart race. the innocence she portrayed had drawn her in. it was something he had to obtain, more so, alter it. he wanted her to be his, to hold, to control. that’s exactly how they ended up here. he falsified the ‘i need help’ teacher act. he knew she would fall for it. she was oblivious to it all.

he stared at her for a moment before he spoke, “it’s okay, i was just heading in,” he stated before moving passed her and towards the door. he unlocked it and entered the room, holding the door open for her. “are you joining me still?” he asked tenderly, his voice soft and sweet. it made her heart skip a beat. he was pure gold to her. a soft hearted, well-mannered, absolutely beautiful, educated and elegant man was spending alone time with her. she was head over heels for him.

she hummed in response and followed in right behind him. upon entering he closed the door, discreetly locking it without her noticing and flicked on the lights. “i hope you don’t mind, i have to gather up a few paperwork before we head that way, is that fine?” he asked, making his way towards his desk. he sat down, picking up groups of scattered papers that sat disorganized on his desk. he neated placed them into piles before putting them in his briefcase that he brought with him. y/n walked closer, gazing over at him. she watched

him quietly, fiddling with her fingers as she did so. she couldn’t help but think about what winter said earlier. imagining her professor fucking her on this desk right now.

images of him pounding into her core flushed her mind, making her core leak from the slight horniness that had taken over her. she was so lost in thought she couldn’t hear heeseung calling out to her. he then cleared his throat, finally gaining her attention. she looked up at him, face flustered. she looked absolutely stunning to him; no, beautiful actually. he wanted to ruin her. “you’re one of my best students?” he asked, getting up from his seat and walked over to the front of his desk where he leaned up against it.

she was dumbfounded, “i am?” she asked innocently, her brows furrowed slightly in confusion. heeseung found it adorable, she really didn’t have a clue in the world. “precisely. you’ve never been the type to throw yourself at me. that’s what i like about you,” he continued, making her all flustered again. he truly was enjoying this moment right now. “i’m just not the kind of girl. you’re my teacher not a love interest,” she said truthfully, but he didn’t like that response. he knew better than that and so did she. they both wanted each other more than anything right now.

he began to loosen his tie, then slowly unbuttoned his dress shirt. “is that really how you feel?” he asked, finally pulling his shirt open, revealing his toned abdomen. she stared in awe as she watched him strip in front of her. his shirt sliding off his shoulder and falling to the ground. her eyes trailed down his figure. he was a sight to see that’s for sure. she noticed a tent forming in his pants and she audibly gasped unintentionally. a smirk appeared on his lips. gotcha. he thought.

she didn’t know how to react in this very moment. what was she supposed to do? her very attractive literature teacher was standing shirtless in front of her. that’s every girl on campus dream and yet here she was living it.

“i-i don’t know if this is appropriate professor,” she stuttered, averting her gaze towards the floor. she stared at her sneakers until another pair of shoes came into view. she froze. too scared to look up now knowing how close he was to her. he took his hand and gently tilted her head upward so they were facing each other. she gulped, now meeting eyes with a different side of her professor. and truth be told, she was enjoying every second of it. “i want you more than anything right now,” he said, disregarding her previous statement of whether this was appropriate between the two. he didn’t care. nine years wasn’t that big of an age gap for him. she was nineteen and he was twenty- eight years old. how bad could this be?

he looked her in her eyes, searching for any sign he needed to know what his next move was. there it was, like a flicker. he smiled mischievously, pondering his next move but was surprised by her crashing her lips onto his.

she kissed him hungrily. she couldn’t hold it any longer. she needed him right now.

heeseung snaked his arm around her, grabbing her thighs to signal her to jump. she did, jumping into his embrace and wrapping her legs around his waist as their lips danced in one another.

he carried her to his desking, next faltering this kiss. he sat her on the edge, slipping his tongue in her mouth and explore every crevice of it. she moaned into the kiss, sucking on his tongue as he fiddled with the hem of her shirt. he broke the kiss, pulling her shirt over her head, taking it off and tossing it on the floor.

y/n took that time to catch her breath before he smashed his lips back on to hers. she grabbed his belt loosening it up but before she could pull them down he stopped her, grabbing ahold of her hands, “not so fast baby, lets take it slow.”

she whined, disappointed and desperate. he laughed, placing a small and shirt kiss on her lips. he unclipped her bra, sliding it off her. her breasts we plumped and perky. just how he liked them. he attached his mouth to one breast, sucking and swirling his tongue around her nipple. she bit back a few moans that threatened to slip out. she felt elastic. she knew what they were doing was so wrong but it felt so right. the adrenaline rush she got from this turned her on more. at any given moment they could be caught by anyone, a dean, a security guard, or a fellow student passing by.

she didn’t care at all, it thrilled her actually. fueling her desires even more. she watched and he alternated between each of her breast, leaving love bites all over her chest before proceeding to kiss down to the hem of her skirt, he didn’t care to take those off, he wanted to fuck her in her cute little uniform skirt so he pushed them up to get a better view of her leaking core.

a small chuckle left his lips upon seeing how soaked her panties were just from them kissing. she felt a little embarrassed hearing him laugh and tried to shut her legs but he stopped her from doing so. “don’t hide baby, she’s beautiful. let’s she was she looks like without these in the way,” he reassured her, sliding her pantines to the side to get a better look and her dripping core.

her little cunt made him go crazy. he looked up at her as he licked between her flaps. the warmth of his tongue sent shivers down her spine. he placed small kisses on her clit, edging her on. he wanted to tease her and have her begging for more.

y/n was too impatient and grabbed a fistful of his hair, shoving his face into her leaky cunt, heeseung obliged, giving her what she wanted. he began to eat her out, sucking on her clit and flicking his tongue in a way that made her toes curl. soft moans escape her mouth but she didn’t care. everything felt so good right now. place her legs above his shoulders and started to slowly grind against his face. the pleasure building up as she felt ecstatic. she threw her head back, moaning loudly as she continued to hump his face. he watched her as she got closer to her climax, he took two of his digits and plunged them deep into her pretty little cunt.

a loud gasp was heard from her, feeling his fingers deep inside him. he thrusted them faster, curling them as he hit her sweet spot, earning beautiful moans from y/n. he absolutely loved it. he was marking what was rightfully his. he continued his pace as she grew closer to her climax. he sucked a little harder on her clit, humming, sending vibrations to her core. a familiar pit grew in her stomach.

she was close, so so close and couldn’t contain it any longer. she screamed, forgetting where she was for a moment. her back arching as she squirted into his mouth, causing him to choke a little bit as her juices hit the back of his throat. she rode out her orgasm and she grinded on his face more before falling back onto his desk breathless.

heeseung stood up, dropping his pants to the floor as he looked down at her tired little figure laying on his desk. “we’re not finished yet, angel,” he said, stroking his long and thick member in his hand. she looked up, her eyes widened. there was no way in hell that was going to fit in her. “can daddy have some head baby?” he asked softly and she nodded, getting off his desk and kneeling before him. he cooed, watching her doe eyes stare up at him. he was loving this view of her better. she parted her lips slightly as he began to slap his cock against her face.

“open your mouth wide baby,” he instructed and she obliged, parting her lips more as s

he slid his cock right in. his breath hitched in his throat. the warmth of her mouth engulfing his seven inches did something to him. he let her take control, watching her bob her head on his thickness, taking every inch and girth of his cock. “yes baby. just like that. you’re doing so good for me,” he praised, encouraging her more. she forced herself to deep throat him, gagging as she did. he grunted at the feeling of her throat hugging his member, her gagging made the feeling even better.

her eyes started to brim with tears as his cock hit the back of her throat, drool dripping down her chin.

she took her hand and stroked him while sucking him off. this pleasure alone could’ve made him cum but he was determined to last. he grabbed her by her hair, pulling her off him to keeping him for cumming then and there. she winced from the harsh grip but didn’t stop it. she liked how rough he was getting. it turned her on even more.

he bent down crashing his lips onto hers. he didn’t care that she just had his cock in his mouth, he was a real man like that. kissing her hard and tasting himself on her before he pulled back. “open your fucking mouth!” he exclaimed, and she did without hesitation. he spit in her mouth and she swallowed it so effortlessly. “you like that my nasty little slut?” he asked and she whined in response.

he slipped his cock back into her mouth, fucking her throat hard, she choked out a cry around his member. he didn’t care. he kept fucking her mouth hard and deep, moaning loudly. “fuck just like that baby,” he said once more. he felt his climax coming soon so he pulled right back out. “bend over my desk,” he ordered. she got up slowly, her legs wobbling a bit. he couldn’t help but laugh, “don’t laugh,” she pouted and he cooed at her, he helped her lay her stomach flat onto his desk, her bottom side completely exposed.

he bit his lip at the sight in front of him, rubbing his hands against her firmly plumped ass cheeks. he needed to mark them. he took his big hand and smack down on her ass hard, causing a scream of pain and pleasure from y/n. this was all so new to her. she never knew she’d like being treat like a fuck toy by her hot professor. he brought a side of her she didn’t know she possessed. he lashed at her ass a few times, the classroom echoing from skin slapping and cries coming from y/n. who knew being a teacher's pet could be so fun.

handprints now decorated her ass and he was more that pleased to know that it was because of him. only he could have her like this.

he positioned himself at the entrance of her core, “spread for me baby,” he told her softly. she reached back, grabbing her ass cheeks and spread them open; giving him more access to come right on in. he spat between her crack, using his dick to wipe it down towards her cunt before sliding the tip in. they both moaned out in pleasure upon contact.

she felt every bit of his cock slide into her tight little cunt before he bellowed out. his whole member filled her to the brim. he sat there for a moment, letting her adjust to his size before he began to move. slowly thrusting in and out of her, he pace precise and steady.

the desk began to squeak against the floor as he thrusted harder than before, yelps of pleasure falling from her lips. he was digging into her guts. it felt like his tip was touching the inside of her stomach. her moans encouraging him to go harder. he dugges his cock deeper into her, her ass clapping against his skin. the room filled with the sounds of them fucking. he hoped they wouldn’t get caught but parts of him did. he wanted people to see the whore he was making out of her. he wanted people to know who she belonged to. he felt her wet cunt hug his girth, bringing both of them to their high, he fucked her harder, sliding his thumb in her ass. she screamed once more from the unexpected intrusion. fuck. he thought.

the pleasure was becoming too much for her, she couldn’t handle it any longer. both her holes were filled, a sensation she never knew she needed. “fuck baby i’m gonna cum,” he said and she could only moan out incoherent nonsense in response. that drove him nuts. he picked up his pace, fucking her to her climax. she cried out loud as the pleasure was unbearable and came hard once again.

this drove heeseung to his climax as well, cumming deep and hard into her. they hadn’t worn a condom. his cum filling her deep and oozing out with every little thrust he gave before him finally pulled out. he placed a kiss on her back before watching his thick load spill right out of her cunt. he didn’t care that they didn’t play it safe. to be honest, baby didn’t sound that bad to him. she was stuck with him regardless.

he reached over to the tissue box on his desk and began to clean her up and help her get dressed before dressing himself. she sat back up on his desk, her makeup ruined from all the sweat and tears she indured with getting her brains fuck out.

“you’re mine princess, got it?” he stated, pulling her close. she tiredly hummed in response, too warn out to say a word. a small smile formed on both of their faces before they snuck back out and went their separate ways.

the next day rolled around and y/n was heading to class where she met up with winter. “so how was it?” winter asked, and y/n furrowed her brows. “how was what?” she asked and winter laughed.

“how was it when you sucked his dick?” she joked, causing y/n to freeze. how did she know? did someone see us? she thought. winter nudged her friend. “i’m just joking god. i know nothing happened. you don’t have it in you to do something of that nature,” winter assured her, causing her to relax again. she didn’t know after all. y/n laughed, “i don’t think i could ever do anything like that,” she lied.

their conversation was cut short upon professor heeseung entering the class room. “good morning everyone!” he greeted, and most of them greeted back. him and y/n locked eyes momentarily, causing her to blush and look away before he began today’s lesson.

winter grew a little suspicious of that little encounter but said nothing.

if only she knew what was to come in the near future.

THE END!!

[dina-winchester]

Whiskey & Warnings

Pairing: Dean x you // Established relationship

Summary: One drink at Harvelle’s turns into something else entirely—Dean’s flirting, Jo’s smiling, and you’re left wondering what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

Warnings: Dean being a cocky flirt, as usual, a bit of a dick. All’s well that ends well, though.

The Roadhouse smells like stale beer, fried food, and something burned deep into the floorboards—like memory. You push through the door behind Dean and Sam, boots clunking over the threshold as you take it all in. A few regulars sit hunched over pool tables or nursing drinks, country rock buzzing low through the speakers. It feels like a pocket of history, the kind of place where time doesn’t move unless it’s forced to.

Dean whistles low. “Still looks the same.”

“Still smells the same,” you mutter, scanning the room.

Behind the bar, Jo Harvelle looks up from wiping glasses. Blonde hair pulled back, tight shirt, that easy confidence wrapped around her like armor. Her face splits into a grin the second she sees Dean.

“Well, look what the Impala dragged in.”

Dean grins back, already halfway to the bar. “If I’d known you were still slinging drinks in that top, sweetheart, I’d’ve stopped by sooner.”

You pause mid-step.

Sam lets out a quiet breath like he knows what’s coming and wisely veers off toward the pool table.

Jo rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Still laying it on thick, huh?”

“Only when it works.” Dean leans on the bar, forearms flexed just enough to make a point. You know that posture too well—laid back, cocky, disarming. The one he uses when he’s fishing for a reaction.

He’s got one.

You drop onto the stool beside him, pointedly not looking at either of them as Jo pours him a whiskey—no question asked. She slides it over, then gives you a glance. “What can I get you?”

“Tequila. Neat.”

She nods, eyes flicking between you and Dean. “You new on the circuit?”

“No,” you say, cool. “Been around a while. Just don’t waste my time flirting in bars.”

Dean chuckles low beside you, like he caught the jab and liked it.

But he doesn’t stop.

“So,” he says, turning back to Jo with that goddamn smirk. “Still chasing trouble, or did you finally start listening to your mom?”

Jo shrugs. “Depends on who’s asking. You offering to be the trouble?”

Your jaw tightens. You snort softly and toss back your shot. No lime. No salt. Just heat and bite.

They go back and forth for another couple minutes—small talk layered with heat, half-teasing, half-history. You hear the unspoken in it: they’ve danced this dance before. Probably wanted to finish it. Maybe still do.

You shift your weight, barely resisting the urge to stand. To say something. To do something.

Instead, you murmur, “You always this charming when I’m sitting right next to you?”

Dean glances over, surprised.

“You jealous?” he asks, tone playful but probing.

You hold his gaze. “Should I be?”

That wipes the grin clean off him.

He leans closer, resting one hand on your knee under the bar—like it’s second nature. Like he forgot where he is until your voice reminded him.

“You shouldn’t,” he says quietly, eyes steady on yours. “It’s just Jo.”

Jo, who pretends she didn’t hear it, busying herself with lining up shot glasses that don’t need straightening.

You don’t say anything. Just let the quiet do the work.

Dean sighs, drinks his whiskey, then reaches for your hand. His thumb traces over your knuckles slow, grounding. Apologetic, maybe. Or possessive in his own way.

“I’ve got history with her,” he says under his breath. “Doesn’t mean I want anything but you.”

You nod slowly, still not looking at him. “Then maybe remember who’s beside you next time you get nostalgic.”

He lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“Duly noted, sweetheart.”

Jo walks past a moment later, catching the tail end of it. She meets your eyes with something unreadable—acknowledgment, maybe. Or warning.

You stare right back, chin lifted.

Dean’s still holding your hand.

And he doesn’t let go.

[danysdaughter]

It's Strange You Never Knew

pairing | 40s!bucky x 40s!reader & post-tfatws!bucky x 40s!reader & minor!40s!steve x 40s!reader

word count | 3.5k words

summary | decades after vanishing into war, bucky hears a voice on the radio that stops him cold—a voice he thought he'd never hear again. what he uncovers is a song written for him, by someone who loved him quietly, and died before he ever had the chance to say your name out again.

tags | post-tfatws, friends to almost lovers, slow burn (but it's too late), unspoken love, missed opportunities, angst/NO comfort , emotional gut punch, found after death, soft grief, lowkey alt!reader, songfic

a/n | another day, another 40s bucky fic, based on this request.

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Brooklyn, June 1942

It smelled like cigarette smoke and gin, the kind that clung to clothes and memories long after you left.

Bucky sat in the corner booth, elbow on the table, jaw in his hand. Steve sat beside him, upright, neat, always a little too polite for the space. Two beers sat half-drunk between them, sweating glass against stained wood.

And there you were—on the small stage, wrapped in dusk-blue light. Your voice didn’t suit the era. It wasn’t bright or chirpy, didn’t do big crescendos or razzle the room. It drifted. Mournful. Haunting. Strange.

And somehow, it held everyone captive.

You leaned into the mic, eyes barely open, like the whole room was a dream you weren’t sure you’d chosen to be in.

“I want to hold the hand inside you

I want to take the breath that’s true...”

Your voice poured out low and aching, each word like a secret too heavy to keep.

Bucky’s brows furrowed, watching you like you were something fragile and unsolvable. You’d been friends for years, all three of you. You’d grown up together. Laughed. Sat on stoops and shared cigarettes and talked about futures that never felt real.

And yet, there was still something about you that didn’t belong here.

Not in this club.

Not in this city.

Maybe not even in this world.

“I look to you, and I see nothing

I look to you to see the truth...”

Steve said it once. That you were the kind of girl people didn’t really understand until it was too late.

You weren’t cold. You weren’t aloof. You were just... elsewhere.

You felt things too deeply. Cried at newsprint poetry. Dissociated in diners. Laughed too hard, then got too quiet. You never looked at people when you spoke—except Bucky.

You always looked at Bucky.

And right now?

He didn’t notice.

“Fade into you

Strange you never knew

Fade into you

I think it's strange you never knew...”

Your eyes scanned the crowd—but not for applause.

Not for recognition.

Just... to see. To see him.

And Bucky? He was still frowning.

Not because he didn’t like the song.

Because something in it hurt. Something he couldn’t name.

Steve looked at him. Then at you. And knew.

You were singing about him.

And he didn’t even know.

“I think it's strange you never knew...”

The final note of your song settled into the room like smoke, warm and heavy.

A moment passed. Then, polite applause—soft, respectful. No whistles, no standing ovation. Just the kind of acknowledgment that came from being heard, not just listened to.

You gave a small, grateful smile and a gentle nod. Then turned and stepped off the stage, your heels clicking softly on the wood as you disappeared behind the curtain.

At the table, Steve exhaled through his nose.

“That was… somethin’ else,” he murmured.

Bucky didn’t answer.

His eyes were still on the stage, brows drawn slightly. Like he was trying to solve a math problem in a dream.

Steve glanced at him, then said gently, “She wrote that one, you know.”

Bucky blinked out of it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Still, Bucky didn’t say anything. Just rubbed the back of his neck and sat back in the booth.

Steve waited.

When nothing came, he tried again. “Sounded… personal.”

Bucky shrugged. “She always sings like that.”

“Not like that.”

Steve watched him carefully.

But Bucky didn’t respond. Not really. Just mumbled something about getting another round and stood, heading toward the bar without looking back.

Steve watched him go.

And just after you stepped out from backstage, the echo of the spotlight still clinging to your skin. You scanned the room, smile tugging at the corners of your mouth—small, shy, the kind you only wore around them.

But your eyes stopped at the table.

Steve sat alone.

You blinked once. Twice.

Then your gaze shifted—slow, unsure—and landed on Bucky.

He was at the bar. Leaning in. Smiling.

Talking to a girl with curled hair and a cherry-red mouth.

Of course he was.

There was always some girl.

Something inside you settled low. Not a stab. Not a shatter. Just that dull, familiar ache.

The kind you’d grown used to.

Steve saw it.

The way your shoulders dropped. The flicker behind your eyes. The way your mouth stayed soft, but your light dimmed just slightly.

You turned to him, smiling like you hadn’t just been emptied.

“Hey,” you said lightly. “Walk me home?”

He nodded, instantly. “Of course.”

Because of course he would. He always would.

Even if you never saw him the way you saw Bucky. Even if he had to walk beside you in silence, knowing you were thinking about someone else.

Because you asked.

And he loved you enough to always say yes.

The Stark Expo, 1943

The night buzzed around you—lights flashing, music floating in the air, people crowding through stalls with wide eyes and sticky hands full of caramel popcorn. The future was plastered in every direction: flying cars, synthetic fabrics, mechanized kitchens. Howard Stark’s voice echoed through loudspeakers with the arrogance of a man convinced he was the future.

You stood beside Bucky, arms crossed lightly, hair pinned just enough to pass for neat. You weren’t a crowd person. Or a lights person. Or a people touching your elbow every five seconds because the walkway is too narrow person.

But Bucky had asked.

He’d written you when he was stationed upstate. A note folded three times, your name in familiar script on the envelope. Back for a few days. Stark Expo’s this week. You free, songbird?

And here you were.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting.

Probably not this—him in uniform, cheeks pink from the cold, blue eyes gleaming under the lights, standing beside you like he’d never been gone.

Still. You couldn't help yourself.

You kept your gaze ahead, watching a prototype robot swing a fake hammer at a fake nail, and said, dry, “You sure you want me here tonight? Pretty sure Connie would've made better company.”

You didn’t say it mean.

You said it like you always did—quiet, a little too flat, too easy to miss the wound beneath.

He turned his head to you, blinking like you’d spoken in a language he didn’t quite catch.

“Connie?” he echoed.

You shrugged. “She’s got that big laugh. She’d fit in better.”

Bucky was quiet for a beat. Then another.

And just when you were about to deflect with something half-funny and half-sarcastic to cover your own embarrassment, he said:

“I like being around you.”

You looked at him.

He looked back.

Not like it was a line. Not like it was a performance. Just… Bucky. Honest.

“I mean it,” he added, softer now. “I don’t have to… do anything when I’m with you. Don’t have to fill space. Don’t have to entertain. You don’t expect that from me.”

Your brows furrowed slightly.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to a group of sailors posing near a booth. “With most people, I feel like I gotta be on. Gotta be charming. Gotta talk all the time or tell jokes or flirt or—y’know, be that guy.”

He looked back at you.

“With you, I don’t gotta do that.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

But something in your chest pulled a little tighter.

“I mean—people always wanna talk, or laugh, or keep things busy. But you…” He glanced at you, eyes soft. “You don’t need all that. You’re... quiet in a way that makes me feel calm. Like I don’t gotta be anything.”

And maybe the fair lights glinted too hard in your eyes, because you couldn’t quite meet his for more than a second.

So you looked away.

“Suppose that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about my social skills,” you muttered.

He smiled. “Ain’t about skills.”

And for a minute, it didn’t matter that you hadn’t said what you felt.

He didn’t need you to perform.

And you didn’t need him to get it all right.

You just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the future blink in lights in front of you—two people who’d never said I love you out loud, but kept trying to find new ways to say it without the words.

Later that night — Stark Expo Grounds

The crowds had thinned.

Most of the music had faded, replaced by the low hum of generators and the occasional pop of a leftover firework in the distance. The metal contraptions were winding down, the lights flickering soft above the empty food stalls.

You were standing a few feet away, looking up at some display—a rotating solar panel exhibit that buzzed faintly, glowing like it thought it was a moon.

Your hands were in your coat pockets. Shoulders slightly hunched from the wind. Your hair moving just a little in the breeze.

Bucky watched you.

Not the way he watched girls at bars or on street corners. Not the way he smiled and made them laugh and forgot their names by morning.

This was different.

You weren’t trying to look beautiful.

You just were.

God, you always had been.

He didn’t even remember when it started—when he began to notice the way your voice changed when you were talking about music, or how you’d go quiet in crowds like you were waiting for something to make sense. You were... still. Even when the world spun.

You grounded him.

And that scared him more than anything.

Because he didn’t know how to name what he felt. Didn’t have the words. Didn’t know if he deserved someone like you—someone who felt like poetry in a decade that had no patience for softness.

But he felt it.

In the way he always sought you out first. In the way he never had to fake a smile around you. In the way you hadn’t once asked him about the war tonight.

You turned then, catching him looking.

And you smiled.

Just a little.

He smiled back—slow, real, aching.

Maybe he’d tell you next time.

Maybe he’d say something when he had more time.

But for now, he stayed quiet.

And watched the girl he might’ve already been in love with, under a half-broken moon.

Brooklyn, November 1943– Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The platform was crowded. Not loud—but full. Families clustered in soft coats and wool hats, mothers holding handkerchiefs to their mouths, kids standing awkwardly near duffel bags they couldn’t lift.

You were standing near the edge, arms wrapped around yourself, coat buttoned all the way up. Your lipstick was a little smudged—one of those mornings. But your eyes were clear. Focused.

You spotted him as soon as he stepped off the steps.

Bucky looked good.

Not movie star good. Alive good. Real good.

His hair was pushed back from his face, uniform pressed. He had a bag slung over one shoulder, and the moment he saw you, his grin slipped right into place like it never left.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said as he walked up.

You shrugged. “Didn’t have anywhere else to be.”

He smiled at that, soft and a little crooked.

You stood facing each other in that liminal space between platform and train, not touching, not speaking.

You didn’t know how to say don’t go.

He didn’t know how to say I wish I didn’t have to.

“Steve couldn’t make it?” he asked.

“Doctor’s appointment,” you said. “They’re running more tests.”

Bucky nodded. Looked down at his boots for a second.

Then: “You’ll look after him, yeah?”

You smiled. “Always.”

He shifted his bag, like he wanted to say something else. Something bigger. But what?

Stay safe? Come back? I’ve never felt more myself than when I’m standing next to you?

Instead, he nodded again. “I’ll write.”

You looked at him then, really looked, and you almost said it.

Almost.

But you just reached up and brushed a piece of lint from his lapel, fingers soft.

“Make sure you get the name of the train stop right this time,” you murmured, your voice a little wobbly, a little teasing. “You sent a postcard to a grocery store last time.”

Bucky chuckled. “Maybe I wanted them to know how I was doing.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling, eyes stinging.

The loudspeaker crackled. Final call.

His smile faltered. “Well…”

You leaned up—quick, soft—and kissed his cheek. It lingered just a second too long.

“Go,” you said gently, stepping back.

He looked at you like he might say something. Like he might reach out.

But he didn’t. He just turned. Shouldered his bag. And boarded the train.

You stood there long after it pulled away.

Hands in your pockets.

Wind in your hair.

And everything unsaid echoing like a song you hadn’t written yet.

New York City, 2024

The city didn’t feel like it used to—not the way it did in memory, not even the way it did in nightmares. It wasn’t hostile, exactly. Just fast. Fast in ways Bucky wasn’t built for anymore.

But he was trying.

He had a therapist that didn’t flinch. A neighbor that smiled without fear. A plant that hadn’t died yet.

Progress.

Most days, he took long walks without an endpoint. Just movement. Just being.

Today, he ended up at a coffee shop. One of those low-ceilinged places with battered chairs and exposed brick that made people feel artistic. He didn’t need coffee—caffeine made him jittery—but he liked the noise. The murmurs. The steam.

He was flipping through a battered copy of The Stranger someone had left behind when he heard it.

A voice.

Low. Haunting.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

He didn’t move at first. Just blinked.

The radio on the shelf behind the counter buzzed through static, then cleared again as the song reached its chorus.

It wasn’t like anything else on the station. The other songs were crisp, polished, engineered to be catchy.

This voice didn’t care if it was catchy.

It ached.

Bucky’s grip on the book slackened.

He turned slightly toward the sound, frowning, lips parting.

He knew that voice.

It was buried in a place he hadn’t gone in years. Before war. Before Hydra. Before ice and blood and triggers.

But it was hers.

He turned to the guy behind the counter—a younger kid with a chipped name tag and AirPods still in one ear.

“Hey,” Bucky said quietly, nodding toward the radio. “Who’s this?”

The barista looked up, then grinned like he was always waiting to be asked. “Oh, this one’s a favorite. They reissued her stuff a couple years back after the doc came out. Cult following now.”

He paused to glance at the screen on the register.

Then he said your name.

A name Bucky hadn’t heard in decades. A name he hadn’t let himself say.

It hit like ice water, straight to the spine. His fingers loosened around the mug. His jaw slackened, just slightly.

The kid didn’t notice. Just went back to wiping the counter like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb into the middle of Bucky’s morning.

But Bucky couldn’t unhear it.

That voice. That name.

And suddenly he wasn’t in a coffee shop anymore—he was twenty-two. In a dim club. Watching someone sing like they didn’t care if anyone clapped, only that they felt it. And he never told you.

Not once.

The rain had stopped by the time he walked home, but he barely noticed. His thoughts moved like static—jumbled, crackling, stuck between then and now.

He sat at the edge of his bed, boots still on, and opened his laptop.

He typed your name into the search bar.

And there you were.

Not just a voice now.

Photographs—grainy, luminous. Pressed smiles and bold lipstick and that gaze he remembered, soft and distant like you were always looking at something no one else could see.

Hollywood starlet. Rising talent. Quiet icon.

He clicked through articles. Magazine scans. Studio portraits from the late 1940s, each one sharper than the last. Headlines gushed. Words like ethereal, unconventional, difficult to define.

Of course they said that.

You were never built to fit.

One article had a quote from you—typed clean in block letters:

“I don’t want to be the kind of famous people forget in five years. I want someone to hear my voice thirty years from now and still feel something.”

Bucky stared at the words.

And then he saw the date.

1952.

He clicked again.

And everything dropped out from under him.

Died tragically at the age of 33 in an automobile accident in Los Angeles, California, September 1952. Survived by no immediate family. Buried at Rose Hills Memorial Park. Her music saw a resurgence decades later following the release of a documentary celebrating her life and work.

The breath left his lungs.

He sat there, still, eyes fixed on the screen like if he stared long enough, it would change.

He missed it.

He missed everything.

You were gone.

Gone before he ever made it out of the ice. Before he even had the chance to remember you.

And still—

Still your voice had found him.

He leaned back slowly against the headboard, swallowed hard, and pressed a hand to his chest like he could quiet the ache growing there.

You were famous.

You were loved.

He kept reading.

Article after article. Fan pages. Archives.

And then—he found it.

The song.

The one everyone seemed to come back to. The one quoted, tattooed, sampled, played over clips of you smiling in old interviews and black-and-white concert footage. It had been your biggest hit. Released in 1945. Re-released. Covered. Immortalized.

“Without You.”

He clicked.

Before he hit play, he saw the description. An old interview—grainy transcript, scanned from some vintage magazine.

“It’s about a boy,” you had said. “A boy I never got to love. He went off to war and didn’t come back.”

“He made me feel seen. But he never saw me.”

“I think sometimes, if he ever heard this… he’d know.”

The words hit like a shot to the ribs. Bucky stared at the screen.

Fought.

Didn’t come back.

He had. But not whole. Not to you.

Not in time.

He sat there for a long time before he hit play.

The song began—soft, almost fragile. A synth swell. That voice. Your voice. But lower now, richer. Still carrying that sadness like it was stitched into every breath.

“Everything I want, I have

Money, notoriety, and rivieras…”

Bucky stared at the screen, the words soaking into him like rain on bare skin.

“Tell me life is beautiful, they all think I have it all

I've nothing without you…”

His throat tightened. He couldn’t breathe.

“Can you picture it? Babe, that life we could’ve lived…”

He shut his eyes.

Because he could.

He saw it in flashes—your laugh, that night at the Stark Expo, the way you looked when you sang for almost no one in that club in Brooklyn. The way he’d never told you. The way he always looked away.

“We were two kids just trying to get out

Lived on the dark side of the American dream…”

A choked sound left him.

Not quite a sob. But close.

Because it was him.

It had always been him.

And you’d sung that truth into the world when he wasn’t around to hear it. When you were grieving someone who never knew you waited. Someone who didn’t come back in time.

“All my dreams and all the lights mean

Nothing if I can't have you…”

The song ended quietly.

No fade-out. Just silence.

And Bucky sat there, surrounded by it.

Wrecked.

Alone.

And finally, finally, understanding what you had tried to tell him all those years ago.

He played it again.

The song.

He didn’t mean to. His hand just… moved. As if his body knew before his mind did.

The first note hit him just as hard the second time.

Then the third.

And the fourth.

By the time your voice cracked on “Hello? Hello? Ca-can you hear me?” his hands were trembling in his lap, and he was blinking too fast for it to mean anything.

The apartment stayed still around him—shadows long, lights off, only the soft blue glow of the laptop flickering against the walls.

He didn’t need a funeral.

He didn’t need a eulogy.

You were here.

In speakers. In wires. In this strange little machine you never lived long enough to imagine.

And your voice—God, your voice—was proof that you never really stopped waiting for him. That part of you, some secret, haunted part, had held on even after the train pulled away.

He didn’t cry. Not fully anyway.

Just sat there, hands curled into his sleeves like he was trying to stay warm, eyes fixed on nothing.

When the song ended, he didn’t move.

Didn’t shut the laptop.

Didn’t wipe his eyes.

He just let the silence settle around him.

Because for the first time in eighty years…

He finally heard you.

And he finally knew.

songs used: fade into you by Mazzystar without you by Lana Del Rey

[milfsloverblog]

Delayed (NSFW)

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

A/N: Larissa Weems, you, an airport lounge. The rest is history! Enjoy <3

VIP Lounge, Terminal B
Somewhere between cities, between hours

The rain had been falling in thick, unrelenting sheets for hours. It beat against the glass with the low, sullen rhythm of a heartbeat, steady and heavy, too familiar now to notice unless you let your mind drift toward it. The sky had bruised into a deep blue-black, clouded over entirely. Somewhere out there were lightning forks cracking open the night, but inside, the airport lounge was muted, cocooned in sterile quiet and artificial warmth.

You’d claimed your place in the corner hours ago. Half a glass of flat tonic water sat abandoned on the small side table beside you, your phone long dead, your book forgotten somewhere in the bottom of your carry-on. The air held a low hum—whispers, an occasional clink of cutlery, the soft sigh of a tired receptionist fielding questions about standby lists. You had stopped checking the monitor when the third flight delay came through. There would be no flying out tonight.

And yet, you stayed.

The lounge was a space designed to dull inconvenience with velvet upholstery and dim, expensive lighting. No one looked anyone else in the eye here. Everyone was floating. Between cities, between obligations, between versions of themselves. You were no exception.

That was when you saw her.

She wasn’t there, and then she was. Like someone had written her into the room just slightly out of time. Seated at the lounge bar, one elegant arm stretched along the marble counter, her posture the picture of composure. Hair pinned back in that old-fashioned twist, every pale strand immaculate. Her profile was sharp under the warm overhead light—cheekbone catching it just so, the sweep of dark lashes veiling a glance you couldn't yet see.

She was alone.

You looked once, casually. Then again, slower.

Her suit was a shade of ivory too rich to be mistaken for white, tailored to fit like a whisper. She raised her glass—something gold-toned, neat, deliberate. You watched her sip. The lipstick she wore was a kind of red that should’ve felt loud in a place like this, but somehow didn’t. Everything about her was too intentional for accident. Too perfect to be tired, delayed, or adrift like the rest of you.

Still, there was something beneath the surface. You couldn’t name it. A quiet intensity. A suggestion of waiting.

You stared too long. Caught yourself. Looked away.

Then back.

This time, she was looking directly at you.

It wasn’t a dramatic thing. Her gaze didn’t snap or linger or invite. It just found you—settled on you like gravity, calm and assessing, and held you in place. Your breath caught somewhere under your ribs. Her lips curved faintly at one corner, more acknowledgment than smile. Then, as if nothing had passed between you, she turned her head, lifted her glass again, and resumed whatever internal rhythm she had been keeping before.

Your fingertips tingled.

You weren’t brave. Not yet.

You tried not to look again.

You tried, but the space between you hummed with the awareness of that brief, searing glance. Like an invisible thread had pulled taut between your corner chair and the polished curve of the bar. Every time you shifted in your seat, her presence whispered at the edge of your senses. Not imposing. Not loud. Just there.

You watched her reflection in the chrome of a coffee machine, in the black glass of the television screen no one was watching. Once, you saw her cross one long leg over the other, the hem of her trousers sliding just enough to show the sharp line of her ankle. Another time, she touched her glass to her mouth and lingered there, eyes fixed distantly ahead—though you could’ve sworn her lashes flicked up toward the mirror.

You thought she might be watching you back.

Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she’d already forgotten you. A glance meant nothing. A look could be a thousand things. But your hands were sweating.

You waited for something to give. For the staff to announce another flight. For her to gather her coat and disappear into some silent hallway without ever meeting your eyes again.

Instead, she tilted her head slightly—and looked at you once more.

This time, there was no room for ambiguity.

She held your gaze for three full seconds. Not a smile, not quite—but something softened her expression. Interest. Confidence. Permission.

You stood before you could think better of it.

Your legs felt unsteady, like you hadn’t walked in hours. You crossed the lounge, heart hammering in a slow, deliberate rhythm, the kind you felt in your throat more than your chest. As you neared her, she turned slightly on her stool, body angled toward you now, open in a way that felt rehearsed. Regal. Welcoming.

But she said nothing.

Neither did you, at first.

Up close, she was... impossible. A sculpted thing, lacquered and real, scent clinging faintly to her—something floral but cold, expensive. Her gaze was sharp even in stillness, made of glass and intellect and something untouchable.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked, voice quieter than intended.

A pause. The corner of her mouth curved. Not kindly, not unkindly. Almost like she was amused by the idea that you thought you needed to ask.

“I would’ve been disappointed if you hadn’t,” she said.

Her voice was low and deliberate, velvet over ice. Polished vowels. The kind of voice you only ever imagined hearing in dreams or in old films. She gestured faintly to the empty seat beside her.

You slid onto the barstool, pulse ticking in your throat. She lifted a hand and caught the bartender’s eye without looking. A moment later, he was in front of you both.

“I’ll have another,” she said, holding up her glass—nearly empty now, but not quite.

The man nodded. “And for you?”

You hesitated.

“She’ll have the same,” she said simply, gaze not leaving yours.

That made you smile. A quiet, startled little thing.

“Don’t like giving people choices?” you asked.

“I find most people don’t know what they want until it’s offered.”

There it was again—that hum, that low thrum of something dark and thrilling beneath the surface. You weren’t sure if she was talking about drinks anymore. You weren’t sure you cared.

You accepted the glass when it came, letting the burn of the alcohol settle something nervous in your chest. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence between you was oddly comfortable, though your mind raced with every breath she took. Her posture was perfect even in rest. One fingertip drew slow circles along the rim of her glass. She wore a ring on her right hand—a single pearl, perfectly set.

“What brings you here?” you asked eventually, just to hear her speak again.

She tilted her head, a cool, unreadable glint in her eye.

“A delay,” she said. “Same as everyone else.”

“But you don’t look... stranded.”

She looked at you then. Properly.

“And you don’t look nearly as discreet as you think you are.”

Heat rushed to your face. You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “Fair.”

Another sip. Another moment. Then she leaned in just slightly.

“You’ve been watching me for a long time.”

“I know.”

“I don’t mind.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t sure if I was imagining the... return attention.”

Her smile, this time, was undeniable.

“I don’t return attention I don’t want.”

That pulled the air right out of your lungs. You reached for your drink again, hands a little unsteady. She watched you calmly, with the air of someone who had never once been nervous in her life.

“I’m not usually like this,” you said, not sure why.

“I would hope not,” she murmured. “It’s much more interesting if I’m the exception.”

You sipped your drink again. It burned less now.

The silence between you had shifted. Still comfortable, but heavier, like a room with the door shut. The clink of cutlery and low hum of televisions faded to a distant buzz. You weren’t sure when you’d last looked at the clock. Maybe time had stopped mattering.

She looked forward again, not at you, but not far—eyes fixed on something beyond the glass walls, where the night swelled with storm and shadow.

“What do you see out there?” you asked.

A pause. “Nothing I haven’t already lived through.”

You let that settle. It didn’t feel dramatic when she said it. Just tired. Or honest.

“That bad?”

She turned her head slightly, meeting your gaze without flinching. “No,” she said. “Just long.”

You nodded, unsure if that made her older than she looked or just more tired. The kind of tired you recognized. Not the bone-deep exhaustion of lack of sleep, but the quieter kind. The kind that comes from holding yourself upright too long.

“I always thought airports were a little liminal,” you said. “Like you could be anyone, and it wouldn’t matter. No one really sees you.”

“They look at you,” she said. “They don’t see you.”

You glanced at her.

“Do you?” you asked. “See people?”

Her lips curved, almost fond. “Only when I want to.”

You let out a small breath of laughter, shook your head. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m aware.”

Her fingers lingered against the rim of her drink. You watched the way her shoulders moved when she turned toward you, slow and deliberate, like she was never in a rush to be anywhere.

“There’s a comfort in being unmoored,” she said quietly. “In drifting. No past to explain, no future to plan for. Just... now. Just this.”

You swallowed. “You speak like someone who’s been doing that a while.”

Something flickered in her eyes. “Too long.”

You leaned forward a little, elbows on the bar, drink cradled between your hands.

“I don’t usually talk like this,” you said. “Not to strangers. Not to...” You glanced at her. “Beautiful women who look like they’ve stepped out of a novel.”

She smiled, indulgent, almost a purr of amusement. “You should do it more often. It suits you.”

You hesitated, then said it.

“I left someone. A few months ago. Three-year relationship. Comfortable. Safe. But I was disappearing.”

She didn’t look surprised. She didn’t say sorry. Just waited.

“I thought travel would help. I needed to remember who I was before... I tried so hard to be who he needed me to be, I forgot what I actually wanted.”

“And what is it you want?”

Your eyes met. Her gaze didn’t press—it invited.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I think I’m still trying things on.”

“Then try this,” she said, voice low, silk sliding beneath the words. “This night. This conversation. No name, no past, no future. Just... this.”

You felt it again—that gravity. That quiet but undeniable draw to her. She wasn’t promising anything. She wasn’t offering safety. But she was real in a way that felt impossible. Like something plucked from an older world, or a dream you didn’t remember having.

“You?” you asked. “Are you trying something on, too?”

She looked at you, and her expression softened—not the way someone softens when they care, but the way someone softens when they decide to share something real. Risk something.

“Once,” she said, “I believed I had to be everything for everyone. The poised one. The perfect one. I thought if I held it all together long enough, someone might finally see me.”

Your chest ached. “Did they?”

“No,” she said. “But I stopped waiting.”

You let the silence fall again.

It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full.

“I don’t want to forget this,” you said, almost without meaning to. “Even if we never speak again. Even if we never...”

She looked at you, calm and unwavering. “You won’t forget. That’s the thing about moments like these. They root themselves quietly. You’ll think about it when you least expect it. The next time you’re stuck somewhere. Or lonely. Or trying on someone else’s version of you again.”

You reached for your drink. She reached for hers.

Only yours was empty.

Her gaze slid to your hands—steady, but no longer hiding how tightly you were holding on.

She slid her glass towards you and when her fingertips brushed yours, it wasn’t an accident.

It was an invitation.

You didn’t pull your hand away when she touched you.

Her fingers were cool—slim and deliberate, like they were meant to hold crystal or tilt chins. She didn’t linger, but the impression stayed. Your skin hummed. You swallowed around the ache rising in your throat.

You brought her glass to your lips, purposefully placing your mouth on the lipstick marks that stained the rim.

She watched you steadily, lips parted just slightly, as though deciding something. Then—

“Truth for truth?” she asked.

You nodded.

She turned toward you fully then, crossing one long leg over the other. The hem of her trousers shifted, revealing the sharp line of her ankle again, elegant even in the smallest of movements. The lounge lights caught the pearl on her finger as she lifted her glass, though her eyes never left you.

“I’ll go first,” she said, voice soft but assured. “I haven’t had someone look at me the way you have in a very long time.”

You blinked. “What way is that?”

“Like I might still surprise you.”

Your breath caught. She didn’t say it for effect—it wasn’t flirtation, or self-pity. Just the simple, naked truth of it.

“My turn,” you said, quieter. “I think I wanted to talk to you before I even saw you. Does that make sense?”

She considered the question, then nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Her fingers brushed the rim of her glass.

“Your question.”

You hesitated, then asked, “When’s the last time you did something just because you wanted to?”

She huffed out a low, amused sound—more breath than laugh. “You don’t start small.”

“I don’t think you’d enjoy it if I did.”

“I wouldn’t.” Her voice dropped slightly. “The answer is... right now.”

Your pulse thudded low and hard.

Your turn. You curled your fingers around your glass. “Ask me something hard.”

She didn’t even blink. “When was the last time you felt desirable?”

You looked down at your hands, then back up at her.

“I don’t remember,” you said. “Until now.”

Her expression shifted—just slightly, but it did. Something softened at the edges. Approval, maybe. Or heat.

She leaned in a little then, close enough for her perfume to catch in your throat. “Then let’s make sure you do.”

Your stomach dropped. Your breath quickened.

“Come with me,” she said.

You rose without asking where.

She didn’t wait to see if you would follow. She simply stood, gathering her coat—not to put on, just to sling carelessly over one arm—and walked with unhurried grace toward the far end of the lounge. Past the empty concierge desk. Past the hushed hallway with the restrooms marked in gold lettering. Her heels clicked against the marble only when she allowed them to.

You followed.

Of course you followed.

And every step you took felt like shedding something.

The lounge restroom was designed for elegance, not necessity.

Muted lighting glowed from behind golden mirrors. Marble counters, pale and gleaming. Velvet chairs against one wall, absurdly comfortable for a space meant to be transitory. The scent of eucalyptus and wood polish hung faintly in the air. Not a sound but the hush of your own breath and the soft click of your shoes on tile.

The moment the door clicked shut, she turned to you.

Not in a rush. Just with that quiet, unshakable certainty.

Her hand found your wrist, her fingers wrapping there like they’d always meant to. She pulled you closer—until your hips met the counter, until your breath mingled with hers, until her eyes, steady and blue as storms, pinned you there.

You thought she might kiss you.

But she didn’t.

“You’re trembling,” she murmured, voice low and indulgent.

“I’m not used to being wanted like this.”

She tilted her head, studying you. “Then let me show you what it’s like.”

Her hand traced the curve of your waist, down your hip, until her fingers dipped just beneath the hem of your shirt, touching skin—barely. You inhaled sharply. She watched your face as she slipped that hand lower, slid beneath your waistband, unbuttoned you without breaking eye contact. Her mouth curved, like she liked how breathless you were getting just from the anticipation.

Her fingers slid between your thighs, and—

Oh.

Warm. Sure. She stroked you through your underwear first, a teasing glide that made your breath catch. Then she slipped beneath the fabric and touched you properly, slick and wanting and already so ready for her.

You let your head fall back against the mirror, knees trembling.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “Let me.”

One long finger slipped inside, then two. No fumbling. No hesitation. She took you slowly, deliberately, her palm brushing just right as she curled her fingers inside you. Her other hand braced at your lower back, holding you up when your thighs began to shake.

She watched every flicker of your expression. Every stuttered breath. Her eyes were on your mouth when you moaned, on your chest when you arched, on your throat when you whimpered in a voice you barely recognized as your own.

It felt like being unraveled one touch at a time.

“You’ve been watching me all night,” she said softly.

“Yes,” you gasped.

“Imagining this?”

You managed a nod, though your body felt molten.

“Good,” she said. “I want you to remember me when you fly away.”

You came with a quiet cry, body clenching around her hand, hips grinding down into her palm. She held you through it, whispering soft encouragements—that’s it, just like that, you’re doing so well—until your pulse stopped hammering and your breath came back ragged.

When her fingers slipped free, they dragged slowly along your thigh. She reached for a towel, cleaned you gently—too gently for someone who hadn’t asked your name—and then kissed the corner of your lips. Not possessive. Not romantic.

Just a moment.

Just a mark.

You both returned to the lounge without speaking.

The storm had quieted outside. The lightning was gone, the thunder a fading echo somewhere in the distance. Through the tall, soundproof windows, the tarmac gleamed wet and silver under the pale light of early morning.

The air was different now. Less charged. Less heavy. But something still hung between you, thread-thin, invisible, and impossibly strong.

She took a seat at the bar again, legs crossed, posture impeccable. You slid into the seat beside her. Close, but not quite touching.

The bartender reappeared like magic. She ordered a whiskey, neat. You asked for water, suddenly parched.

For a while, neither of you said anything. You just sat in the afterglow, the quiet hum of music and low conversation filling the space around you. You glanced at her hands, remembering the way they’d felt between your legs, and had to look away again.

And then—

A chime rang through the lounge.

“Now boarding: Gate A19, Flight 704 to London Heathrow.”

She turned her glass slowly in her hand.

“That’s me,” she said softly.

Something in you faltered.

You weren’t surprised. You’d known this couldn’t last—hadn’t been meant to—but the finality of it still hit sharp.

She stood and gathered her coat, draped it over her arm again. She didn’t rush. She didn’t linger. She was exactly what she had been through the evening: composed, graceful, impossible to hold onto.

You rose with her, suddenly unsteady. “Wait—”

She looked at you. And God, her eyes were soft. Not sorry. Not cruel.

Just real.

You swallowed. “Your name.”

A beat. She studied you like she might refuse, like keeping it sacred would make it easier.

But she didn’t.

She stepped a little closer. Lowered her voice.

“Larissa.”

It landed in your chest like the softest impact. A name. A tether.

You nodded, almost to yourself. “Thank you.”

Her smile was small. Almost sad.

“Don’t lose sleep over me,” she said.

“I won’t,” you lied.

And then she turned.

You watched her walk away—tall and calm, heels quiet against the floor, disappearing into the soft blur of travelers and announcements and time.

And even though you knew you’d never see her again, you would remember.

The storm.
The glances.
Her hands.
Her name.
Larissa.

————————————————————————

taglist: @weemssapphic , @im-a-carnivorous-plant , @dingdongthetail , @gwensfz , @erablaise-blog , @rainbow-hedgehog , @renravens , @kaymariesworld @niceminipotato , @witchesmortuary @notmeellaannyy , @weemswife , @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 , @redkarine , @women-are-so-ethereal , @opheliauniverse , @willisnotmental , @raspburrythief , @fictionalized-lesbian , @geekyarmorel , @h-doodles , @cxndlelightx , @m1lflov3rrr , @winterfireblond @nocteangelus15 , @aemilia19 @spacetoaim22 @vendocrap8008 @jkregal @gela123 @lilfartbox1 @xuukoo @bellatrixsbrat @sadsapphic-rose @dumbasslesbi @larissalover3 @friskyfisher @fliesinmymouth @imprincipalweemspet @forwhichidream11 @amateurwritescm @imlike-so-gaydude @sugipla @lvinhs @http-sam @gweninred @a-queen-and-her-throne @ficsloverblog

[ay0nha]

The Awful Daring of a Moment's Surrender | Dr. Frank Langdon

SUMMARY: Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the rain, or the way your guard had been ground down over weeks of double shifts and subtle stares--but you felt solt. Unarmored. And Frank noticed. Of course, he did, but he let you have

Creative Event: A Doctor A Day 18, Prompt: "I was hoping it'd be you." Color: Black

PAIRING: Dr. Frank Langdon x f!reader (nurse)

WORD COUNT: 6.3K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled 'enemies' to lovers, the one-bed trope, a pervy patient, nurse harassment, cheesy conversations and tropes, inner turmoil, mentions of divorce and kids, rehab, MOVIE MAGIC PLOT AND PACING lol, fluff, angst, etc.

A/N: This was so much fun to be a part of! I word vomited, but oh well. Thank you for creating this @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs!

Frank’s eyes found you again. They always did—like muscle memory, like a bad habit he would never break.

He’d been trying to distract himself all day, trying not to think about the subtle shifts in gravity around you. Rewriting notes, rechecking vitals that didn’t need checking, drowning in inboxes and labs like they could offer sanctuary from a single truth: things between you weren’t the same.

It was in the way you smiled at everyone but him. The way you didn’t joke anymore, the way you walked right past him like the space between you wasn’t even worth acknowledging.

Frank didn’t notice at first because you weren’t cruel with it, just distant. Professional. Fine. Yet, that was what cut. 

Frank had been through enough to know when something was wrong. Rehab taught him to hear quiet rejection, to notice when people flinched, or made space, but it hadn’t prepared him for this; for being back, being so-called better, and still losing something he hadn’t even realized mattered so much.

You—The person who used to crack jokes entirely at his expense. The one who once split stale vending machine chips with him during back-to-back codes. The one who used to call him Frank, like it meant something.

Now it was just Langdon, again. You’d pressed a reset, and he had no idea why.

It made him restless, fidgeting between cases and rushing through notes just to keep moving. Even now, leaning over the desktop was just another performance; posture rehearsed, hand perched on the mouse, eyes blank on the screen, but he wasn’t reading. He was watching you.

Not with malice, not even with interest, but with a persistence that had come to a point. The nurses whispered, the med students’ eyes bouncing between the two of you when you shared a case, and even the patients read between the lines to find something you were purposely ignorant of. 

You posed yourself well, ignoring it. You moved through the ED with the kind of grace only long shifts could carve out: quick, tired, and efficient.

You’d been on your feet for too long, and it showed. Blood pressure cuffs slung around your neck, bruises bloomed under your eyes, and every that started neat was now purely functional. Still, you managed to find warmth for everyone: patients, techs, and that fourth-year who forgot how to use the glucometer. 

Everyone but Frank. That’s what made it personal.

Frank shook his head, trying to refocus. “God–!”

“Now’s not the time to find God, Langdon.” Dana hummed sarcastically, pushing a clipboard into his chest. “...nor is it the time to makin’ eyes—leave the girl alone.”

“I’m not—” He’d almost fallen for the trap. It took effort to pull his eyes away from you to come up with something clever. “You wear that cross around your neck, but that doesn't make you a saint.”

“You’re warming up.” She was half-impressed with his counter. “If I still had a heart, I’d find this all moving.”

“There’s nothing to find.” He scoffed, flipping through the chart—chest pains, mild tachycardia, probably anxiety. “Give this to Whitaker, I have to…”

Dana watched his thoughts trail off his tongue. Frank didn’t look at his surroundings, moving swiftly with instinct, and chasing after you. 

You were in Room 28, helping an elderly woman with a bedpan situation that was rapidly becoming a story. You were tired—so tired. The fluorescent lights felt like a second skin, and your scrubs smelled like antiseptic and cafeteria curry. 

That was when he walked in.

“Need a hand?” Frank leaned in the doorway,  stethoscope slung loose around his neck like a badge of charm.

You didn’t turn; there was no need. “Not unless you want to glove up.”

“Tempting.” His hands remained secure in his pockets.

You exhaled, kept your focus on the patient, and murmured, “I’m almost done here.”

The woman in the bed chuckled. “He’s handsome. Is he yours?”

“No—”

“—Not yet.” Frank, amused, muttered, not even sure why he said it. Habit. Hope, maybe. 

You shot him a glare. 

“Just offering help. I know the nurses have their opinions, but c’mon.” He held up his hands with feigned innocence. “I’m ER Ken. Infectious charisma, average height but above-average presence—”

“I’ll remember that for the next peer eval.”

“Put it under ‘Team Dynamics.’” He grinned.

You finished settling the patient, making sure she was clean and comfortable, ignoring the resident. 

You tucked the woman in, adjusted her oxygen, and brushed her shoulder in a way so small and human it made Frank ache. He remembered that version of you. Kind and unflinching, a better presence than he deserved. Yet, you walked past Frank like he wasn’t there, heading to the sink. 

“I’ve been trying to figure out if I did something…” Frank followed you, knowing he’d have to spit it out; you only reserved so much time for his antics. “If I said something. You’ve been—”

“Don’t make this a thing.” You turned the faucet on.

“I’m not. I just…” Frank hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain. “You used to talk to me.”

“I still talk to you.”

“Barely.”

Your jaw worked, tension spiking along your spine. You didn’t meet his eyes. You focused on scrubbing your hands raw. 

“I didn’t relapse, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Frank was quieter now, afraid of mentioning his slip-up would doom him further. He spoke, though, desperate for your trust. “I’m keeping up with the meetings. Still doing the steps, I just—”

That made you pause. Just a fraction.

Frank exhaled like he hated himself for even needing to say it. “I just—I don’t know if you think I’m…”

“I know.” Your voice clipped, cutting him off before the self-deprecation. “Everything’s fine, Langdon.”

The silence was stretching, and you still wouldn’t look at him. 

And he didn’t know—couldn’t even guess—that it wasn’t judgment in your distance. It was longing. Because the truth was, you missed him.

You missed the guy who lit up night shifts with jokes and zero-hour brilliance, who remembered weird details like who drank Diet Coke and who had knee pain when it rained. He’d pull someone back from a code and then flirt with a phlebotomist in the same breath.

You missed the chaos, the gallows humor, the late-night vulnerability he didn’t show anyone else. You missed what he’d been to you before everything fell apart, before he disappeared into rehab and came back someone careful and trying.

You stared at the faucet, letting cold water run over your hands longer than necessary because Frank Langdon was all wit and half-sincere charm and just enough vulnerability to make it dangerous. You wanted to let him stay steady. You wanted to respect the ground he’d fought to gain.

So, you’d built walls instead of reaching for what you used to have. And Frank mistook the bricks for bitterness.

“I just…” He was careful this time, more measured with confidence for the first time in a while. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

You finally looked at him then. You opened your mouth—

All the pagers buzzed. 

Rapid Response, Room 19. Frank’s name echoed overhead. You didn’t say anything else, just turned toward the call. 

—

There were three trauma codes before noon. Two staff call-outs. The crash cart had gone missing for forty goddamn minutes—later found wedged behind the elevator by an intern who looked like he might cry. There was a broken limb in nearly every bay. The psych consult was MIA. And the coffee in the breakroom had devolved into some viscous, black, tar-like substance that no one had the heart to dump out.

You hadn’t sat down since 06:45.

Your legs ached. It felt like your brain was holding itself together with surgical tape and gauze. And somewhere in the blur of vitals and codes, Frank had appeared—gliding through the chaos like he was born for it, which, annoyingly, he probably was. He hadn’t said much to you, just glanced a little too long across charts and supply drawers, handing you things you didn’t ask for like it was muscle memory. 

You didn’t speak about the curt conversation.. You didn’t need to. The silence between you had changed shape, warmer, heavier. Unspoken. Observed. Especially by everyone else. 

“You seeing this?” Perlah had muttered in Tagalog near the med cart earlier, watching the way Frank hovered too long beside you as you updated a chart. “He’s not even being subtle anymore.”

Even the med students were catching on. They tracked Frank’s movements like nervous meerkats, always watching, half-scared he’d snap if someone asked a dumb question near you, but there was no time for teasing now. The ED claimed your time. 

“Room six—” Dana called, waving a chart. “Gary’s back.”

That name landed heavy. A regular,  known for the kind of slow, slurred vulgarity that turned any nurse’s stomach. He came in bruised and bleeding every few weeks, drunk and grinning, always with something disgusting to say.

Princess made a face. “I got him last time.”

“We’ve got two fresh traumas, a seizure in the hallway, and a combative patient screaming about lizard people in four. Who’s got the thickest skin today?” Dana tried. In moments, she’d start picking whoever locked eyes with her. 

So, you’d already stepped forward, grabbing gloves. “I’ve got it.”

“You sure, kid?” Dana gave you a look. 

You nodded. Confident and detached,  you’d handled worse. You were wrong.

Gary was worse than usual—reeking of rotgut whiskey and stale piss, the cut above his eye oozing lazily. He grinned when he saw you. That same slow, lecherous grin.

“I was hoping it’d be you.” He drawled.

“Let’s keep this quick, Gary.” You didn’t blink. 

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart. Don’t play hard to get.”

Behind you, one of the med students cringed.

“Vitals first.” You added flatly. “Then we can deal with that eyebrow.”

Gary wouldn’t let up. Kept leering. Mumbling shit you didn’t want to hear. When you reached for the BP cuff, he grabbed your wrist, fingers greasy and possessive. Something in you snapped like brittle wire.

“Baby, come on, let’s—”

“Gary—!” You broke, pulling away.

You didn’t remember what you said next. Only that your voice was sharp, loud enough that Kiara was in the room a second later, followed by an orderly. Only that your hands were shaking when you left the bedside, that your breath came too hard, too fast.

The room froze.

You didn’t notice Frank, not yet. Not standing at the mouth of the trauma bay with a chart in his hand, his whole body stilled in the chaos. Not the med students watching him watch you, eyes flicking nervously between his unreadable expression and your barely-contained rage.

“Hey, hey!”  Kiara appeared behind you, palms up, gentle. “Hey—I’ve got it. Security’s on their way.”

“He put his hands on me.” Your words came out harsher than you meant.

“I know.” She reassured quickly. “...but you’re shaking. Go breathe. I’ve got this. Go.”

You couldn’t move at first. Then you did.

The second you stepped out of the trauma bay, the air felt different. Too bright. Too cold. Like you were vibrating just under your skin. You braced your arms on the half-wall near the ambulance entrance, trying to ground yourself. 

It was stupid, maybe. Overblown. He hadn’t hurt you. But it wasn’t just about Gary. It was about all of them, the patients. The way they looked at you. Talked to you. Touched you. Like being a nurse meant being furniture with a pulse.

Still inside, voices filtered through the ED. Beyond the worried gossip, Dana clocked Frank quickly, reading his intention through his body language. 

“Don’t.” Dana warned. “Don’t go charging after her.”

Frank’s tone was quieter. “I’m just—”

“She doesn’t need a savior. She needs backup.” She looked at him sternly, eyes direct above her reading glasses.  “And if you’re gonna be in her corner, be in it. Don’t mess around.”

“I’m not.”

“Then listen to me—” Dana eased in a way he didn’t expect. “From mother to son: she’s one of the best we’ve got. This place barely holds together on a good day. She needs someone she doesn’t have to fight with or protect. So, just do it right.”

When the door clicked behind you. You didn’t need to look.

Frank.

He leaned against the wall beside you, just close enough to count.

“You okay?” He asked eventually.

You exhaled slowly. “Fine, Langdon.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded once. “Saw what happened.”

“I was supposed to be the one with the thick skin.” You stared at the asphalt, borderline mocking yourself. 

“You are.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. His face was tight, concern tucked under practiced calm. His eyes didn’t move from yours.

“I’m just so tired.” You put aside everything, admission taking over. “Tired of being professional when I’m shaking. Tired of being the one who doesn’t get to snap.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” You asked, the words sharper than intended. “You’re a resident. You raise your voice, and people listen. I raise mine, and they send me outside.”

Frank didn’t answer right away. The siren-whine of an ambulance in the distance curled under the tension between you.

“This place grinds you down.” He answered thoughtfully. “Chews up good people and spits out burned-out husks. Especially nurses.”

You looked over at him. “That’s poetic.”

“You get poetic when you’ve had two hours of sleep and four patients die on you before noon.” He teased.

“It’s not just today, you know.” You needed it all out. “It’s all of it. The short-staffing. The harassment. The way we get called emotional when we push back.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Then what do we do?” You turned your body toward him, arms still crossed.

He looked at you then—really looked. Eyes softer than they’d been all day. Maybe all week.

“We look out for each other.” He said. “We start there.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Maybe because they weren’t vague. Weren’t said with distance. They were about you. About him. About now.

“You’ve been doing that.” You caved. Your bravado was thinning. “More than I expected.”

“I don’t always get it right. But I’m trying.” He smiled a little, not like he was proud of himself, but like it hurt to admit. 

“I’m not used to someone having my back.” 

“I am,” he said, almost gently. “Used to having yours.”

That was when you met his eyes again. Something cracked open between you. Something that felt like acknowledgment. A beginning without the comfort of denial. A door you could choose to walk through—or not.

“I don’t need rescuing.” You sniffed over your disdain, pride getting the better of you.  

“I know.” Frank smiled, just a flicker. “Doesn’t mean I won’t step in if you need someone in your corner.”

You let yourself breathe for the first time in what felt like hours. And when the door behind you swung open again—Dana’s voice calling your name, Robby barking for Frank—you didn’t move right away.

Neither did he. Just for a second longer, you stood there. Together. Quiet. Seen.

—

Twelve hours bled into twenty-four.

The day-shift staff were long gone, replaced by the night crew with their thermal mugs and haunted stares. The vending machines buzzed like they were short-circuiting. Someone's half-eaten dinner steamed under the warming light in the break room, forgotten in the rush of a trauma that never came.

But now it was quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of still that only came when the ED hit a strange middle space, where the sickest patients had been stabilized or shipped upstairs, and the waiting room had emptied enough to mop the floors. There was no screaming, no alarms. Just the low murmur of machines, the shuffle of shoes over waxed linoleum, and the tired hum of lives slowly sorting themselves back into place.

And through it all, there you were, still there, still moving. 

You were doing a double. Again. 

The badge clipped to your scrub top felt like it weighed more than you did. Your feet throbbed, your hands were dry and red from sanitizing a thousand times.  You’d been charting for so long, your signature didn’t look like handwriting anymore.

Then, somewhere around hour fifteen, you noticed Frank wasn’t orbiting anymore. 

He was still there, but not present. Not watching you like before. No one-liner flirtations, no smug grins when you passed in the hallway. No caffeine jokes, no impromptu debates over IV push vs drip. No teasing. No lingering. Just…doing his notes in the corner like a ghost.

At first, you welcomed it. Space was good. The distance made it easier to forget the way he laughed at 3 AM, or how he always remembered who hated banana-flavored anything and kept those syringes off your trays. 

But now, it just felt off, wrong. 

Even when he passed by your station earlier, he didn’t offer a look. You felt it in your stomach; something folding in on itself. The feeling lingered even when your shift finally ended and you planned to smother it at home.

However, outside, the rain came down in violent sheets, hammering the windows like fists. The storm had crept in slowly, quiet drizzle around hour twelve, upgraded to a full deluge by twenty. You’d caught a glimpse of it while restocking in triage. The sky looked bruised black and blue. Thunder growled low and constant.

Now, while you tried to outwait it, you saw Frank standing near the exit with his jacket in hand, keys spinning around one finger, watching the rainfall like he was trying to time it.

“You're really going out in that?” You asked, voice rough from disuse.

Frank turned slowly, his hair messier than usual, exhaustion shadowing his jaw. “Was gonna try. Why? You think you need a canoe?”

You huffed out a breath, almost a laugh. “Just need the city bus to show up and not hydroplane into traffic.”

“You're serious?” He raised a brow. 

“Public transit loyalty card. VIP tier.” You held up your badge and tapped the back.

Frank didn’t laugh, but something flickered in his expression. Tired amusement. Then: “You’re not actually waiting for the bus in this shit, are you?”

“Might just crash in the on-call room.” You shrugged, hands pulling at your sore neck. You already imagined how the pain would worsen from the closet in the room.  

“Classy.”

“It’s either that or drown crossing Main.”

Frank didn’t answer right away. The rain smacked louder against the glass. You could see the reflection of streetlights bending and breaking in the puddles. What was left of the night felt waterlogged, like the whole city was sinking into the hidden sunrise.

“Come on.” Frank caught his keys, no longer playing with them in contemplation. “I’ll drive.”

You frowned. “You don’t even know where I live.”

“Figure it out on the way.” Frank pulled at the door, rain competing for volume. “Unless you're really attached to that lumpy cot and crusty blanket.”

You hesitated, but the thought of peeling off your scrubs and collapsing into anything that wasn’t hospital property won—barely.

—

The drive was slow. Treacherous.

Frank didn’t talk much, just adjusted the heat, tapped the steering wheel. Water pooled in the gutters, flooded intersections. The radio kept chiming in with traffic alerts. Flash flood warnings shot across his dashboard screen like small, polite threats.

Frank’s wipers cut across the windshield in long, rhythmic arcs. Streetlights smudged through the downpour. Everything looked like it was dissolving in slow motion.

You sat rigid, arms crossed over your chest, not because you were cold, but because the silence between you carried the weight of earlier even when you thought it had passed. 

When he turned down the bridge toward your part of town, the red-and-blue lights started flashing before you could say anything.

Detour.  Road closed. Flooding past the viaduct.

“Seriously?” You sat back in your seat with a groan. 

Frank just sighed, threw the car into reverse, and made a lazy U-turn.

“What now?” You asked.

He didn’t answer until you were headed towards the highway. “You crash at mine.”

You turned your head slowly. “What?”

“I’m not dropping you at a bus stop in a flood zone.” He didn’t glance at you.

“And what, you just collect stray nurses like wet cats?”

Frank smirked. “Just the ones who hate me.”

You looked out the window again. The storm hadn’t let up. There wasn’t another option. So you said nothing.

—

Frank’s apartment was unexpected.

It was small. Not cramped, but modest in a way that made you hesitate in the doorway. You’d assumed, maybe unfairly, that a trauma doctor with Langdon’s swagger would live somewhere sleek—high-rise, steel finishes, skyline view. 

What was before you was simple, lived-in, and chronically unfinished. The kind of space that felt like someone had moved in, but hadn’t quite arrived.

The walls were still bare. A few cardboard boxes sat scattered, half-unpacked. One had the word BEDROOM scribbled on it in black Sharpie. Another, in faded ink, simply read DON’T OPEN. 

A third sat partly torn open, its contents halfway spilled: mismatched mugs, a phone charger that looked like it had been through hell, a cracked photo frame you pretended not to see Frank kick under the couch.

You didn’t ask. Instead, you just toed off your shoes and stepped inside.

The couch squeaked beneath you as you sat. Not in the polite, old-furniture kind of way, but in the unmistakable squeal of plastic still clinging to its original shape. The kind people only left on when they were afraid to settle.

“Jesus.” You cursed, adjusting your weight and wincing at the sound. “What is this?”

Frank came out of the kitchen, holding two chipped mugs. “You’re lucky I have furniture. Most of my things are still in storage. This was my brother-in-law’s. He was gonna throw it out, but I figured… y’know. Good enough to sit on.”

You shifted again. The plastic shrieked. “That’s a generous definition of ‘good enough.’”

Frank grinned, tired. You took the mug he offered. It said “#1 Dad” in fading black letters. You didn’t comment. He didn’t either.

“I’d offer something stronger.” He was eager to fill any lull, holding onto conversation with you. “Only keep decaf and regrets around here these days.”

There were toys scattered in places they didn’t belong—ghosts of smaller hands that hadn’t visited in weeks. A plastic dinosaur on the windowsill. A pink glitter sneaker was half-tucked under the bookshelf. A toddler’s sippy cup wedged next to a water-damaged copy of The House of God and what looked like an untouched grief workbook.

Frank noticed you noticing. 

He didn’t say anything. Just rubbed at the inside of his wrist where a bracelet or a watch might’ve once lived. He didn’t wear jewelry anymore. Not even the stuff his kids made. Not the macaroni bracelet.  Not the braided cord with their initials. Not the ring from before. 

Every time Frank looked down and saw those things, it was like a jab. They acted as a reminder that he let those around him down. That his kids had a dad who disappeared for a while, only to came back paler, carrying twelve steps in his pocket, and a shadow where self-esteem used to be.

He didn’t want to see the evidence of the old version of himself—before he was the kind of man who had to prove, every day, that he could be better. So, the jewelry stayed in a drawer along with the birthday cards he hadn’t opened. 

And still, you were here. Sitting on his couch, holding one of his two good mugs, like this wasn’t the strangest place in the world to be after a double shift.

“So—” Frank said eventually, settling on the other end of the couch with a tired sigh. “You always this judgmental about interior design, or just when I’m trying to impress you?”

You raised the mug to your lips, amused. “If this is you trying to impress me, I think I owe Mateo twenty bucks.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s tracks.”

The couch squeaked again when he leaned back.

You let the joke hold for a while, watching headlights swim through the blinds. There was a slow hum to everything: the fridge, the radiator, the pulse in your ears.

It’s not weird.” You confirmed quietly. You knew Frank, what weighed down his wit; you could still read him better than himself. “Having me here. It’s just a favor.”

Frank didn’t look at you right away, but you felt the pause behind his next breath. He nodded slowly. Thoughtful. The weight behind his usual smirk had softened lately, turned into something more cautious. 

This was a man who used to fill a room with charm like secondhand smoke. But lately, he moved like he didn’t want to leave a mark.

“It’s just…” You started, then let it trail off. You set your mug down on the floor, where it wobbled once before settling. “Sometimes I need a break from my place, too. Been sleeping with the TV on just to drown out the walls.”

It was a strange kind of comfort, this mutual unraveling in a too-small space. You were both tired. Post-shift wired on surviving adrenaline. The kind of fatigue that makes things feel a little sideways.

“Thanks for not…” He scratched his jaw, eyes flicking toward the unopened box labeled DON’T OPEN. “...y’know. Asking.”

You tilted your head. “About what? The boxes? Or the fact that your couch came wrapped like a crime scene?”

That got a real laugh out of him. One of those low, worn ones that cracked around the edges.

“Bit of both.” He confessed. “It’s all still kind of… in progress.”

You glanced at the plastic-wrapped cushion under your thigh. “If this couch is the final product, I’m worried.”

“Don’t be,” Frank said dryly. He didn’t want to scare it off, whatever this was, whatever fragile bridge had pulled you back toward him tonight. “I’m planning a grand unveiling in 2037, right after I find the will to unpack the blender.”

You nudged his ankle with your foot, light. “Now that’s impressive.”

He smiled. It wasn’t a big thing. But it was the real one—the kind that didn’t feel like a mask. 

Frank’s smile stuck around, small and lopsided. You could tell he was tired, the kind of tired where everything got a little looser at the seams and emotions sloshing around in the silence between words. 

Side by side, your legs brushed faintly whenever either of you shifted. The kind of closeness that felt accidental on the surface but wasn’t, not really.

Frank lifted his mug in a half-hearted toast. “So, what’s the nurse-verified rating on my hospitality so far?”

You tilted your head, letting your eyes wander the apartment. Still mostly boxes. The flickering votive candle on the counter cast shadows over the sippy cup on the bookshelf and the sad, slumped dinosaur on the floor. 

“Well…” You said slowly. “The couch sounds like a haunted pool float, and I’m pretty sure your radiator is planning a coup. So… solid seven out of ten.”

“Seven?” Frank repeated, looking genuinely wounded. “Kind of harsh. I lit a candle.”

You turned your head toward the tiny flame on the counter, flickering like it was afraid of commitment.

“That’s a tea light you found at the bottom of a drawer.” You replied. “And it smells like sadness.”

“It’s called Rain Linen, too,” Frank argued.

You sipped your coffee. “Exactly.”

He laughed—barely there, but real. “Tough crowd.”

“You’d get an eight if you found me a blanket that doesn’t come out of one of those boxes.”

Frank stood halfway, grabbing something draped over the armchair. He tossed it toward you—a sweatshirt. Soft. Worn. Still faintly smelling of him.

“Emergency blanket.” He said as he slumped back into the plastic-wrapped cushion. “Limited stock.”

You didn’t fight it. Just pulled it over your head like it belonged there. It smelled like him. Laundry detergent, stale coffee, and something else—maybe an old cologne he didn’t wear anymore. You wondered if it had been for the kids. Or for someone who didn’t live here anymore.

“…Okay….” You conceded. “Eight.”

Frank’s mouth ticked upward. “Progress.”

You tilted your head back, exhaling slowly. The ceiling had a faint water stain in the corner. The candle flickered again, casting a gold hue over the curve of Frank’s cheek. 

“You know,” you began after a beat, eyes half-closed. “This still beats sleeping three feet from the janitor's closet.”

“To low standards and plastic couches.” Frank raised his mug again, mock solemn.

You clinked your mug against his with a small thunk of ceramic. “Cheers.”

Frank glanced at you. He felt something loosen in his chest. Something that had been wound tight for months. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a walking regret. 

—

The mattress was too warm, too comfortable in the wrong places, and still smelled like cardboard. It dipped in the middle, pulling you both toward the inevitable gravity of sharing something too small and too temporary.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the rain, or the way your guard had been ground down over weeks of double shifts and subtle stares—but you felt soft. Unarmored. And Frank noticed. Of course, he did, but he let you have it. 

You weren’t touching Frank, but you could be. One shift of a knee, one breath too deep.

The room was dim, just the orange haze of the streetlight bleeding through the small bedroom window. The storm pressed against the windows, reminding you it still wanted in. The city hummed below, sirens trailing faintly through the neighborhood. It felt far away. Blurred. Like the hospital had been some kind of fever dream, and now this was the strange after-image left behind.

The couch hadn’t been an option. It still wore its plastic wrap like a shield, and Frank, in all his unbothered chaos, had only shrugged, “Too tired to pretend I have a real living room.”

So now you were here. In his room. Back to back. Sort of.  On his mattress, the only thing unpacked.

The bedroom wasn’t tense, just tired. Mutual, bone-deep exhaustion—the kind only the ED could teach you. You could still taste the metallic tang of adrenaline if you thought hard enough. You could still feel the ghost of the pulse line flattening on a trauma patient, the cold sting of antiseptic on your skin.

Frank exhaled a low sigh beside you. “Goodnight, Nurse Sunshine.”

You smiled faintly as your eyes stayed on the ceiling. “There it is.”

A beat. 

Then his voice, faintly curious: “There what is?”

“Your teasing.” You turned slightly to glance over your shoulder at him. “You’ve been weird all night. Frank Langdon with a filter is too nice—I thought you’d finally burned out.”

He made a soft sound—a half-scoff, half-humorless laugh. “What, were you hoping for something else? Is that it? Next time, I’ll insult your handwriting and throw a chair for balance.”

“Christ.” You cursed, gaze flicking toward the ceiling to hide your humor. “Forgot how soothing your bedside manner was.”

Frank shifted behind you, the mattress dipping further under the redistribution of weight. You turned to face him more fully, your arm folding under your cheek.

 He was already watching you. Not with the usual glint. No smirk, no challenge. Just something unreadable. Curiosity, maybe. Or restraint. Tired, yes—but present. Focused.

Neither of you spoke.

The room pulsed with something heavier than words. The kind that sits just under your breastbone and hums. You could feel the heat of him, the nearness. Your limbs didn’t ache at the warmth, but your chest did.

You could see everything in this light—the faint scar on his chin, the deeper ones in his eyes. He looked lighter, too, in this space. Less Langdon: The Golden Boy and more man with a worn-down mattress, a mess of half-open boxes, and a T-Rex toy in the corner, no one had stepped on yet.

He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t lean in. But he didn’t look away either.

“I’m not the only one off tonight.”

“Yeah?” It was more of a confirmation than a question, but you still asked. 

He gave the smallest nod, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking right at him.

“You’re not usually this…” He trailed off. The corner of his mouth tugged like he meant to make a joke of it, but couldn’t find the punchline. 

“Don’t read into it. I’m just… tired.” Your voice was a breath more vulnerable than you wanted. 

Then, lips quirking faintly: “You’ve been tired before. I’ve never seen you like this.”

You swallowed hard. Your throat felt dry. Frank studied you a beat longer, then let his head fall back on the pillow with a lazy sigh.

“I guess all it took was getting you in my bed.”

You huffed, less annoyed, more amused. The laugh escaped before you could catch it, surprising even yourself. But it lingered there, in the warmth between you, in the nearness that should’ve felt strange. It should’ve felt wrong. 

“Just a long week.”

Frank nodded. “It’s been a long decade.”

“You too, huh?”  You offered a slow shrug, letting your arm drape over your stomach like a flag of surrender. “Turns out watching people fall apart for a living isn’t super rejuvenating.”

Frank didn’t smile, but there was something in his face, recognition, maybe. Or guilt, worn soft by time.

The bed dipped again as he shifted, stretching his legs. His hand brushed yours, not enough to be deliberate, but enough to jolt something loose. You didn’t move it away.

“I almost called you last week.” Frank nodded once, small and tight, like the words had cost him more than he wanted to admit. “After that DOA in Trauma 2.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer. 

Then, finally: “Didn’t want to make it—Didn’t want to… need something from you.”

That did something to your chest.  Twisted it. 

You could’ve made a joke. Dodged it. Asked about his IKEA allergy, but you didn’t. Instead, your fingers curled closer to his on the sheets, knuckles almost brushing.

You let everything settle, let it fold around you like a blanket that didn’t quite reach the feet.

Yet, you still whispered, “I’m here now.”

Frank didn’t say anything. But he didn’t move either. And in that moment, still and peaceful, the air between you did what the hospital never let it do—it breathed.

If you’d asked yourself at the beginning of the shift whether you’d end up here—in Frank Langdon’s bed, staring at the ceiling with your pulse in your ears—you would’ve assumed you'd collapsed into a coma and someone was feeding you fevered hallucinations out of spite.

You blinked slowly. Your eyes didn’t open again right away. The mattress was too warm. Your limbs too heavy. Everything floated. 

The fluorescent-bright hospital was a universe away now. But for a second, your mind drifted there—half-asleep, half-aware—and you saw Frank again the way you had earlier that night.

Not with his usual sharpness. Not bored, or cracking some off-color remark to distract from the tension in the room. But listening. He’d knelt next to an elderly man in Trauma 3, held his hand when the monitors began to drop, and whispered something—something kind, but you couldn’t hear the words. It had stopped you cold. The grief in Frank’s face wasn’t performative. It wasn’t for anyone’s benefit. It was real.

You saw it. You felt it. Something in you shifted then, even if you didn’t want to name it. He hadn’t seen you watching and maybe that’s why it stuck.

Now, here, in his bed—not touching, but close—you wondered if that shift was still echoing somewhere close. You turned your face back toward the window. Let your eyes follow the glint of rain on glass.

And then—

“Am I too lucky to think this’ll carry into tomorrow?” Beside you, Frank’s breath was steady and slow. 

Frank’s words were measured, like he wasn’t quite asking, but already knew the answer might disappoint him. 

“I can be bribed with coffee.” You slurred just slightly from the edges of exhaustion. 

A beat of a pause, then you heard the way he exhaled—half a chuckle, half a release of something else. Something heavier.

“You drive a hard bargain.” 

“I’m a nurse.” Your words ran together in a whisper. “We run on spite and caffeine.”

Frank shifted slightly, and you felt the faint brush of his knee against yours under the blanket. It wasn’t intentional. Probably.

That the warmth blooming low in your chest had nothing to do with him, or the softness he showed when he didn’t think anyone was watching. That the way your voice had dropped, the way your guard had slipped, wasn’t because of the look he gave you now, or the subtle way he’d been retreating all night like he didn’t trust the shift between you.

You told yourself all of that, but you didn’t move away. And neither did he.

Outside, the storm calmed to a hiss. The sirens faded. Somewhere in the next room, the heater kicked on again with a clunk. Familiar, homely, mundane.

You just lie there. Still. Frank shifted slightly, breath transitioning into the rhythm of sleep.  And maybe tomorrow, in the bright buzz of hospital fluorescents, it would be like nothing happened at all. But tonight, in the hush of the storm and the slow exhale of sleep, something had shifted.

And neither of you had run.

[yeetdasweet]

Heheh, I'm delighted you like it!

After all these years I am finished!

Closes ups and tags underneath

Begolo belongs to @danganharmony

Charlie belongs to @blues-clues69

Jasper belongs to @lost-terrorzz

Ezra Merlin belongs to @shecynajc

Erin belongs to @sesamestsaxophone

Melinda Potts belongs to @l0ganberry

[halfmoonaria]

ignorant

pairing: cairo sweet & reader

summary: you are the next victim for the evil of cairo sweet, but this time it’s not planned.

word count: 6k

author’s note: somebody asked for more cairo sweet and i’ll deliver

Cairo Sweet was toxic.

Everybody at school knew it, whispered it, even feared it. It wasn't because she'd ever laid a finger on anyone—Cairo didn't need to.

She had a way of ruining people without touching them, a kind of quiet, deliberate destruction that made her dangerous in ways no one wanted to test.

Her manipulation was an art form, her lies sharp enough to shred reputations into confetti. A few well-placed rumors, a convincing performance, and she could have someone blacklisted.

Jobs, scholarships, futures—they all crumbled under the weight of her fabrications. Being on Cairo's bad side was like being branded: the stain followed you wherever you went.

People had seen it happen before. Just last year, Mr. Miller had been the unfortunate target. A teacher with a spotless reputation, gone in an instant.

A single accusation from Cairo had shattered his career. The truth? It didn't matter. Cairo's version of the story had been louder, more convincing.

Even when whispers of her exaggerations began to circulate, it was too late for him. By then, she'd moved on, leaving destruction in her wake like it was nothing.

You'd heard it all, of course. Everyone had.

The looks she got in the halls said enough—half awe, half terror. But what you could never figure out, no matter how much you watched her, was whether she enjoyed it.

Did she like that people were scared of her? Did it give her some twisted sense of power? Or did she just not care? Maybe, in some corner of her mind, she felt guilty. But if she did, you'd never know it.

And yet, despite everything you knew—despite all the warnings, the stories, the very real possibility that she could ruin you too—you found yourself getting pulled in. If that's even what you'd call it.

It all started one afternoon after English class. You'd been shoving your notebook into your bag when Cairo appeared beside your desk, casual as if it wasn't the first time she'd ever spoken to you directly.

"Hey, you mind if I grab a picture of your notes? I missed a few things."

The request wasn't surprising—everyone in English class talked to each other, especially when it came to assignments or study guides.

You'd even exchanged a word or two with her before, though only ever about coursework. She wasn't unapproachable, not exactly. Just... untouchable. Like someone you didn't dare get too close to for fear of the inevitable fallout.

"Sure," you said, slipping the notebook out again and holding it toward her.

She gave you a brief, unreadable smile, one corner of her mouth tugging upward as she pulled out her phone and started snapping pictures.

"Thanks," she murmured, her tone flat but not unfriendly. She didn't walk away immediately, though. Instead, she lingered, flipping through the pages like she was checking for anything she might've missed.

"You always this neat?" she asked suddenly, her eyes flicking to you.

You blinked, caught off guard by what sounded almost like a compliment. "Uh, I guess."

"You should see mine," she said with a dry laugh, tucking her phone back into her pocket. "It's a miracle I can even read them."

You knew that wasn’t true.

It wasn't much, but it was the first real conversation you'd had with her that wasn't about group projects or exam prep.

Cairo had a way of making even the smallest interactions feel like something bigger, like a spark catching on dry leaves. It was enough to leave you wondering as you walked out of class that day why she'd bothered talking to you at all.

After that, it was little things. A nod of acknowledgment when you passed in the halls.

A quick "Hey" when she slid into the seat beside you before class started. And then, somehow, it became more. She'd catch you after school, asking about homework or offering a ride home if it was raining. You told yourself it was nothing—she was just being nice, or at least her version of it.

But the truth was, you couldn't help noticing the way her attention made you feel.

Like she saw something in you that no one else had. It wasn't long before those fleeting interactions turned into something else entirely: Cairo waiting for you after class with that same unreadable smirk, Cairo texting you late at night asking if you were up, Cairo pulling you into her orbit in a way that felt effortless.

You told yourself you should've known better. You'd heard all the stories, seen the aftermath of what she could do.

But every time you thought about walking away, you'd hear her voice in your head, low and teasing, or see the way she leaned a little closer than she needed to when she talked to you.

And then it went further.

It had started slowly. Cairo had begun finding reasons to linger after English class, asking about your interpretations of certain texts or how you'd structured your notes.

She hadn't needed the input—she was one of the best students in the subject, her essays always marked with the highest grades and her name consistently praised in class discussions.

At first, you had assumed it was just convenience; you were one of the only people who matched her level of effort. But the excuses had become more frequent, her attention more focused, until her presence became a constant thread in your life, woven in so seamlessly that you didn't even notice when it tightened.

The night she showed up at your door had felt inevitable, though you wouldn't have admitted it then.

Cairo had mentioned offhandedly how she preferred studying with someone else for perspective, and at the time, you'd barely registered it. But when she appeared, backpack slung over her shoulder, her expression calm and unbothered, it hadn't been a surprise.

There was no preamble, no hesitation. She had walked into your room with a confidence that felt natural, claiming space without even asking.

At first, it had been nothing out of the ordinary. Books and notes spread across your bed, Cairo sitting cross-legged across from you as the two of you discussed the upcoming exam.

Her questions were sharp, her observations even sharper. She had a way of speaking that made you feel like she already knew the answer but wanted to hear what you had to say anyway. You'd spent hours like that, trading ideas and bouncing thoughts back and forth, her handwriting neat and methodical as she jotted down lines in her notebook.

But at some point, the conversation had drifted. It wasn't abrupt, just a natural shift, like a tide rolling in without warning.

She'd asked about the books you read outside of class, about your favorite authors, your least favorite, and before you knew it, the two of you were sitting closer, your legs brushing as you talked. Her voice had softened, her gaze lingering on you with an intensity that made your heart race.

It had felt harmless at first. Cairo had always had a way of commanding attention, of drawing you in even when you knew better.

But when her hand brushed against yours, the air shifted. It was so subtle you almost convinced yourself it was accidental, but then her fingers lingered, trailing against your skin just enough to leave you breathless.

By the time she leaned in, it didn't feel sudden at all. Her lips had met yours with a deliberateness that left no room for hesitation, her hand sliding to the back of your neck as she deepened the kiss.

You'd known then that there was no going back, that this wasn't just another moment to file away under casual study sessions. Cairo had a way of making everything feel inevitable, like it was all a part of her plan from the beginning.

The hours after that had passed in a haze. The notes and textbooks had been forgotten, your conversations abandoned as Cairo pulled you closer, her body pressed against yours in a way that made you forget everything you'd ever heard about her.

She had been as deliberate as ever, her touch calculated but intoxicating, like she knew exactly how to make you fall apart and was savoring every second of it.

When it was over, the room had felt heavier, the silence punctuated only by the faint hum of your desk lamp. Cairo had stretched out beside you, her head resting on your pillow, her expression unreadable.

She hadn't said much, only reaching for her phone to check the time before pulling her shirt back on with the same calm, unbothered demeanor she always carried.

And just like that, she had left, her notebook tucked under her arm, her goodbye nothing more than a casual "See you tomorrow." As if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't just turned your entire world upside down and walked away without a second thought.

That was when it all started.

The whole rollercoaster.

One day, it was like you were the only person in her world—her texts coming in rapid bursts, her presence at your side like she couldn't bear to be away from you.

The next day, she'd barely say a word, her gaze sliding past you in the halls as if you were just another face in the crowd. Cairo had always been unpredictable, but now, it felt personal.

One moment, she'd pull you into a corner after class, her touch lingering on your wrist as she whispered something that made your chest tighten, and the next, she'd laugh with her friends right in front of you, not even sparing you a glance.

The day after you'd slept together, she had acted like it never happened. She'd sat next to you in English like always, her notebook open and her handwriting as neat as ever, answering the teacher's questions with her usual confidence.

But there had been no acknowledgment of the night before—no sly glance, no shared moment of understanding. Nothing.

You'd tried not to let it bother you. Cairo wasn't the type to wear her emotions on her sleeve, and maybe you'd expected too much.

But then, just when you thought you'd misread everything, she'd catch your eye in the hallway, her lips curling into a smirk that sent your thoughts spiraling. She'd brush against you in passing, her hand grazing your arm, leaving you wondering if it had been intentional or just a coincidence.

The cycle was maddening. Some days, she'd text you late at night, her messages full of inside jokes and clever observations that made you feel like you were the only person who truly understood her.

Other days, your phone would stay silent, and when you saw her at school, she'd talk to you like nothing had changed, her tone casual, her demeanor almost cold.

You'd tell yourself you wouldn't let it get to you, but it always did. Cairo had a way of pulling you in, her charm disarming even when you knew better.

She could make you feel special with a single glance, only to leave you questioning everything with her silence the next day. It was a push and pull, a constant tug-of-war that left you breathless and exhausted all at once.

There were moments when you thought she might care—when she'd show up at your door unannounced, her face softer than usual, asking if you wanted to go for a drive or watch something with her.

Those nights, she'd talk about things she rarely shared, her voice quiet as she told you about her childhood or the pressure she felt to always be in control. She'd lean her head on your shoulder, her fingers brushing against yours, and for a little while, it felt real. It felt like maybe she needed you as much as you needed her.

But then morning would come, and she'd slip back into the version of herself that kept everyone at arm's length. She'd thank you for letting her crash or for the coffee you'd made her, her tone light and detached, and by the time she walked out the door, it was like none of it had ever happened.

The inconsistency was suffocating, yet you couldn't bring yourself to let go. Every time she pulled away, you told yourself it was the last time, that you wouldn't let her back in. But then she'd flash you that crooked smile, or send you a text that made you laugh despite yourself, and all your resolve would crumble.

It wasn't just about the moments she was kind—it was the way she made you feel when she was. Like you were the exception, the one person who could get past the walls she'd built. It was intoxicating, even when it hurt, even when you knew you were only setting yourself up for disappointment.

Cairo never apologized, not really.

When she pulled you close again after days of silence, it wasn't with words but with gestures—a hand on your knee during class, a smirk as she slid into the seat beside you, a text at midnight that said nothing but still made you stay up just in case she sent another.

You told yourself you could handle it. That the highs were worth the lows, that maybe someday, she'd stop running, stop retreating into herself. But deep down, you knew the truth. Cairo was who she was—beautiful, magnetic, and devastatingly out of reach.

And yet, you stayed.

Some nights, the loneliness settled over you like a second skin, cold and suffocating. You'd sit with your phone in your hand, staring at the screen, waiting for her name to light up. It became a ritual—hoping, waiting, trying not to check the time too often because every glance at the clock only reminded you of how long it had been since you'd last heard from her.

It was always the same. Cairo's excuses blurred together over time, a monotonous loop that left you questioning why you still held on. They came hours later, always casual, laced with just enough indifference to remind you where you stood.

Sorry, I was showering.

That one had been her go-to more than once. You could still remember the times you waited, your phone always within reach, even when you shouldn't have been so eager.

Multiple times, you'd been in the shower yourself, the water cascading down your back as you heard the buzz of your phone over the noise. You'd reached out instinctively, nearly dropping it as you wiped your hand on a towel to see her message. The words stared back at you, plain and detached. You replied as always, that it was fine.

It wasn't. But what else was there to say?

Sorry, I had no battery on my phone.

That excuse always came with a hint of carelessness, as if she hadn't even noticed the hours you spent waiting for her reply.

You'd been sitting on the floor that time, your back against the bedframe, knees pulled to your chest. The outlet was too far from your bed, so you stayed there, tethered to the wall like some desperate, foolish thing.

The charger stretched just enough for your phone to stay on, its faint glow illuminating your face. Her message arrived eventually, and you'd stared at it for a long moment, the words twisting something inside you. Still, you'd typed your response. It's fine.

Sorry, I was out with Winnie.

She always mentioned Winnie like she were some unspoken priority, a reminder that you were never really part of her world.

That particular excuse had come while you were in the back seat of a car, squished between your friends as they shouted along to your favorite song.

Their joy felt distant, like a muffled sound through thick glass. You'd glanced at your phone, your heart sinking as you read her words. It didn't matter that you were surrounded by people who cared about you—it only mattered that Cairo didn't. Your reply had been quick, almost automatic. It's fine. But the lump in your throat told a different story.

Sorry, I had class.

That one had come during History once, during a class you'd only chosen because she was in it too. Your phone had vibrated on your desk, and you'd snatched it up quickly, your pulse quickening at the sight of her name.

But the message itself had been underwhelming, just another half-hearted apology. You'd barely had time to respond before the teacher's shadow loomed over you, her hand outstretched to confiscate your phone. You typed back the same words as always, It's fine, even as your cheeks burned with embarrassment. It wasn't fine. It never was.

Sorry, I fell asleep.

That one might have been the worst.

You'd waited three hours that night, staring at your phone until the screen dimmed and the battery warning flashed. It felt pathetic, even in the moment, but you couldn't stop yourself from hoping.

When her message finally came, you almost wished it hadn't. The words felt like a punch to the chest, so casual and uncaring, as if she hadn't realized how long you'd been waiting—or worse, as if she had and simply didn't care. Your response had been the same as always, but this time, your hands had trembled as you typed.

These weren't one-off moments. They were patterns—predictable, painful, and yet impossible to walk away from. Every excuse carried the same weight, a reminder that you were never her priority, never the one she truly cared about. But somehow, even after all of it, you stayed. You replied. You waited.

Because part of you couldn't help but hope that one day, she might mean it when she said she was sorry.

Your friends had tried to tell you before. So many times, actually. They had spoken to you in their patient, understanding tones at first, as if easing you into a truth you already knew but couldn't bring yourself to face.

Cairo isn't good for you. You deserve better. She doesn't care about you the way you care about her.

The words had echoed in your mind, even as you'd brushed them off. You'd nodded, said you'd think about it, maybe even pretended to agree.

But the truth was, their concern had always bounced off the walls you'd built around Cairo. It wasn't their business, you'd told yourself. They didn't see the side of her you did—the glimpses of vulnerability, the rare moments when she made you feel like you were the only one who mattered.

But those moments had grown fewer and farther between. Lately, they felt like distant memories, the kind you cling to out of desperation rather than hope.

You couldn't pinpoint exactly when it shifted. Maybe it was the hundredth time she'd left your messages unread, or the way she only texted back when it was convenient for her.

Maybe it was the excuses that started to sound more like indifference than apologies. Or maybe it was the way you realized, slowly and painfully, that you couldn't remember the last time Cairo had truly asked about you—your day, your feelings, your life beyond what you could do for her.

And then there were your friends. They hadn't stopped trying, even when it became clear you weren't ready to listen.

Their voices grew sharper, less patient, but not unkind. You're breaking your own heart, they'd said once. She's not worth it. And for the first time, those words didn't feel like a slap; they felt like the truth.

It wasn't just the words, though. It was the way they looked at you—really looked at you.

Not with judgment, but with something softer, something sad. You'd seen it in their eyes when they caught you checking your phone, hoping for a reply that never came. You'd felt it in the way they lingered after conversations, hesitant to leave you alone with your thoughts.

And maybe that's what finally cracked the foundation you'd built for her—the realization that the people who truly cared about you were right there, offering you more love and patience than Cairo ever had.

You started to notice the things you'd ignored before: the weight in your chest when her name popped up on your screen, the exhaustion that came from trying to decipher her mixed signals, the way her words always seemed to twist just enough to make you feel like the unreasonable one.

It wasn't a sudden epiphany. It wasn't some grand, dramatic moment where you declared that enough was enough. It was quieter than that, slower. Like a tide receding, pulling back layer by layer, until you could finally see the damage left behind.

It happened one night when you were with your friends. They'd said something—maybe a joke, maybe just a passing comment about Cairo—and instead of defending her, you'd stayed silent. It wasn't because you were angry or hurt; it was because, for the first time, you couldn't find a reason to argue.

That silence was heavier than anything you'd ever felt. It wasn't the kind that begged to be filled with excuses or justifications. It was the kind that felt like acceptance.

And that's when you knew. You didn't need Cairo to apologize again, to make another excuse, to promise she'd do better and then fall back into the same patterns. You didn't need anything from her anymore.

For the first time, you realized the person you needed to save was yourself.

Which was why you decided to pull away.

It wasn't an easy decision. Cairo had a way of pulling you back in, of making it hard to let go of the idea of her, even when she'd done nothing to deserve your loyalty. But you'd had enough of being her secret. Enough of being good enough only when it suited her.

English with Mr. Solace was where it started.

Cairo slid into the chair beside you like it was hers by default, like she hadn't spent days treating you as if you barely existed. She gave you that soft smile, the one that always felt a little too rehearsed, before it shifted into something sharper—teasing, flirty. The smirk that had once made your heart race now only irritated you.

You kept your eyes on your notebook, pen moving in deliberate strokes. You weren't writing anything meaningful, but it didn't matter. The point was to ignore her, to refuse her the attention she always seemed to expect.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw her watching you. She didn't like being ignored. You could feel her presence, her attempts to draw you in, like a weight pressing down on your shoulders.

She leaned back in her chair, her bag sliding off her shoulder and onto the floor with a soft thud. Her arm brushed yours briefly as she adjusted herself, and you knew it wasn't accidental.

But you didn't move. You didn't flinch, didn't look, didn't react the way you might have just weeks ago.

Mr. Solace’s voice filled the room as he began his lecture, his words blending into a low hum in the background. You were just starting to think you'd get through the class without an incident when you felt it—her fingers brushing against your thigh.

It was subtle at first, just the barest hint of contact, like she was testing the waters. Then her touch grew bolder, her palm hovering before she let it settle lightly against your leg.

Your heart didn't race this time. Instead, it sank.

This was Cairo, wasn't it? Always acting like you belonged to her when no one was watching, when it was convenient. Always making sure her actions stayed hidden, as if she couldn't bear for anyone else to know what you meant to her—if you even meant anything at all.

For a moment, you froze. The old you would've let it slide, let her hand stay there, and hoped it meant something more than it ever did. But not this time.

This time, you pulled away.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you shifted back, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of Mr. Solace’s lecture. A few heads turned, but you didn't care.

You felt Cairo's hand drop away immediately, her fingers curling into her palm as if she'd been burned. For a moment, you didn't dare look at her. Your focus stayed locked on your notebook, your pen frozen mid-stroke as you tried to steady your breathing.

But the silence beside you was deafening.

Finally, you glanced sideways, just briefly, and what you saw caught you off guard. Cairo wasn't wearing her usual mask of indifference. Her brow was furrowed, her lips slightly parted like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

Her eyes darted toward you, then away, as if she was trying to figure out what had just happened. She looked confused, maybe even hurt—but there was something else too. Anger. That familiar glint of frustration she got whenever something didn't go her way.

You forced yourself to look away before she could meet your gaze fully.

The rest of the lesson dragged on, but the tension between you didn't fade. Cairo sat rigid in her seat, her hands resting stiffly on her desk. She didn't try to touch you again, but you could feel her presence, heavy and unrelenting, like she was willing you to look at her.

You didn't.

When the bell rang, you stood quickly, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder in one smooth motion. Cairo hesitated, her movements slower, almost hesitant, like she wasn't sure what to do next.

You didn't wait to find out. You walked out of the room without a backward glance, your heart pounding in your chest.

The hallway was a blur of noise and motion as you pushed your way through the crowd, your bag slung over one shoulder and your gaze fixed straight ahead.

You didn't want to linger. You didn't want to give her the chance to catch up, to say anything that might make you second-guess the boundaries you were finally starting to set.

You weaved around groups of students loitering by the lockers, dodging the occasional stray elbow or careless backpack.

The dull roar of conversations and laughter filled the air, but it all felt distant, muffled by the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Your locker wasn't far now—just a few feet away. If you could make it there, if you could grab your things and blend into the crowd again, you might be able to avoid her altogether.

But then you heard it.

"Y/N!"

Her voice cut through the chaos, not loud enough to draw attention from anyone else but clear enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You pretended not to hear. You kept walking, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag as if holding on to something solid could keep you from looking back.

The distance and the noise of the hallway worked in your favor for now, her voice fading slightly as another group of students spilled out of a nearby classroom, blocking her path.

For a moment, you thought you might actually make it.

But you should've known better. Cairo never let things go.

Her footsteps were quick and purposeful, cutting through the crowd with an ease that only someone like her could manage.

You felt the shift in the air before you even saw her—felt her presence, familiar and inescapable, closing in on you like a shadow.

"Y/N!" This time, her voice was closer, sharper, laced with an edge of frustration.

You didn't stop, didn't slow, even though the knot in your stomach tightened with every step. You could feel her catching up, her determination practically radiating off her like heat.

And then her hand was on your wrist.

The contact was sudden, firm, and you had no choice but to stop as she turned you around to face her.

Cairo stood there, her chest rising and falling slightly from the effort of chasing you down. Her hand stayed wrapped around your wrist, not tight enough to hurt but strong enough to keep you from pulling away.

Her expression was unreadable at first, a mix of emotions flickering across her face so quickly that you couldn't pin any of them down.

Her lips parted, like she was about to say something, but for a moment, she didn't. She just looked at you, her brows furrowed and her jaw tense, as if she were trying to piece together what had just happened.

The noise of the hallway felt like it faded away, the two of you caught in a strange, charged silence.

You pulled your wrist from her grasp, the movement sharp and deliberate, and took a small step back, putting space between you.

Cairo stayed where she was, rooted to the spot as if the act of you pulling away had left her momentarily stunned. Her hand fell to her side, and she tilted her head, her gaze fixed on your face, searching for something she couldn't seem to find.

Confusion flickered across her features, quickly giving way to something sharper—something almost hurt.

Her lips parted, but when she spoke, it wasn't vulnerability that came through. Instead, there was an edge, a hint of attitude in her voice that sharpened every syllable.

"What was that all about?" she asked, her accent thick, the natural rasp of her tone cutting through the air between you. Normally, it was the kind of thing you would've found endearing, even attractive. But not now. Not after everything.

You crossed your arms, schooling your features into indifference. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Cairo blinked, caught off guard for a split second before she let out a low, almost mocking laugh. She leaned slightly toward you, her cocky demeanor sliding effortlessly back into place.

"Oh, come on," she said, her voice low enough that only you could hear over the hum of the hallway. "I tried to touch you, and you freak out?" Her lips curled into a smirk, the kind she always used when she thought she had you right where she wanted you.

Her eyes narrowed, teasing, self-assured, as she added, "Am I that intimidating?"

She said it like it was a compliment, like it was supposed to make your heart skip a beat the way it always used to. It was a flirt, the kind of thing that once would've left you fumbling for words or glancing away to hide the flush on your cheeks.

But not now.

You didn't falter. You didn't give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you met her gaze with a calm, steady look that made her smirk falter, the corners of her mouth twitching downward as uncertainty crept into her expression.

"No," you said simply, your voice firm. "I just don't want to do this anymore."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

Cairo's brows knit together, her lips parting in surprise as she stared at you like you'd just spoken a foreign language. Then, her expression shifted—confusion morphing into something sharper, almost disgusted, as though she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing.

"What?" she said, her voice laced with attitude, the word drawn out like she was challenging you to explain yourself. Her tone was a mix of disbelief and defiance, as if the very idea of you pulling away from her was both shocking and offensive.

You couldn't tell if she genuinely didn't understand or if she was playing dumb, but part of you suspected the latter. Maybe she hadn't considered this possibility—hadn't imagined a world where you would be the one to step back, to say no.

If she did understand, she was probably thinking about how this wasn't supposed to happen to her. People didn't end things with Cairo Sweet. She ended things with them.

But this wasn't even an ending, was it? It wasn't a breakup, because this wasn't a relationship. Not really.

Whatever it was, though, it was over. You weren't going to let her keep playing you like this.

The silence stretched between you, the tension palpable. Cairo's gaze darted over your face, searching for any hint of hesitation, but you didn't waver. For once, you were sure of yourself.

And it was clear, for the first time, that she didn't know what to do about it.

"Look, Cairo." Your voice came out steadier than you expected, even with the weight of what you were about to say pressing down on your chest. "I don't know what this is," you continued, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, "but I want it to be over."

Cairo's head jerked back like you'd slapped her, her brows knitting together in a sharp furrow as her lips parted slightly. For a moment, she just stared at you, blinking like she couldn't quite process the words you'd just said.

Her mouth twisted into something unreadable, almost like disgust, but you knew better. It wasn't disgust. It was shock. Maybe even hurt, though you weren't sure if it was for the right reasons.

"What?" she finally said, her voice low and almost breathless, like she'd forgotten how to breathe properly.

You could've stopped there. Maybe you should've. But there was too much left unsaid, too much that had been building up for far too long.

"I'm tired, Cairo," you said, the words simple but cutting.

Her expression shifted, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing her face before she quickly masked it with that familiar attitude, the one that had kept you hooked for far too long. But she didn't say anything, didn't interrupt, so you kept going.

"You treat me like I'm supposed to be grateful for the scraps you throw my way," you said, your voice low but firm, the words landing like a stone in the pit of your stomach. "But I'm done. I'm not waiting anymore."

Cairo's jaw tightened, her arms crossing over her chest defensively as she stared at you. There was no cocky smirk now, no teasing glint in her eye. For once, she didn't look like she had all the answers.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said finally, her tone sharp, almost dismissive, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. "Yeah, you do. You just don't like hearing it."

Her brows furrowed even deeper, her mouth opening like she was about to argue, but she hesitated, the words catching in her throat. For the first time, Cairo Sweet looked uncertain.

And it was oddly freeing, seeing her like that, knowing that for once, you weren't the one left doubting everything. You were done playing this game.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself as you looked at her one last time. She still hadn't said anything, her mouth slightly open as if the words were stuck somewhere between her throat and her pride. Her arms were still crossed, but you could see the cracks in her armor now—confusion, maybe even hurt, flickering across her face in ways she couldn't quite hide.

But it wasn't enough to stop you.

"Maybe you should find someone else to play with," you said evenly, your voice low but sharp enough to cut through the tension between you. You didn't say it with malice or anger, just a quiet, undeniable finality.

Her lips parted further, her eyes narrowing as if to mask the shock that was written all over her face. She didn't respond, and you didn't wait for her to.

Instead, you turned and walked away, your footsteps firm and deliberate, even as the noise of the crowded hallway swallowed the moment whole. You didn't look back, didn't let yourself wonder what her expression looked like now or if she was still standing there, watching you leave.

Because this time, you weren't leaving to get her attention.