#just...yearning. just wanting to be with him through it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thepencilnerd · 2 days ago

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A Lesson In Fear Extinction | part I

pairing: professor!Jack Abbot x f!psych phd student reader summary: You’re a senior doctoral student in the clinical department, burned out and emotionally barricaded, just trying to finish your final few years when Jack Abbot—trauma researcher, new committee member, and unexpectedly perceptive—starts seeing through you in ways you didn’t anticipate wc: 11.9k content/warnings: academic!AU, slow burn (takes places over 3 years lbffr), frat boys being gross + depictions of unwanted male attention/verbal harassment, academic power dynamics, emotional repression, discussions of mental health, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, angst, so much yearning, canon divergence, no explicit smut (yet/tbd but still 18+ MDNI, i will fight u) a/n: this started as a slow-burn AU and spiraled into a study in mutual repression, avoidant-attachment, and me trying to resolve my personal baggage through writing ~yet again~ p.s. indubitably inspired by @hotelraleigh and their incredible mohan x abbot fic (and all of their fics that live in my head rent free, tyvm) i hope you stay tuned for part II (coming soon, pinky promise) ^-^

The first thing you learn about Dr. Jack Abbot is that he hates small talk. That, and that he has a death glare potent enough to silence even the most self-important faculty members in the psych department.

The second thing you learn is that he runs his office like a bunker—door usually half-shut, always a little too cold, shelves lined with books no one's touched in decades. You step inside for your first meeting, and it feels like entering a war room.

"You’re early," he says, without looking up from the annotated manuscript he’s scribbling on.

"It's the first day of the school year."

"Same difference."

You take a seat, balancing your laptop on your knees. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure if you should even bother.

Dr. Abbot finally glances up. Hazel eyes, sharp behind silver-framed glasses. "Let’s make this easy. Tell me what you’re working on and what you want from me."

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know. You’ve been rehearsing this on the walk over. You just hadn’t planned on him cutting through the pleasantries quite so fast.

"I’m running a mixed methods study on affective forecasting errors in anxiety and depression. Lab-based mood induction, longitudinal survey follow-up, and semi-structured interviews. I'm trying to map discrepancies between predicted and experienced affect and how that mismatch contributes to maladaptive emotion regulation patterns over time."

A beat.

"So you're testing whether people with anxiety and depression are bad at predicting their own feelings."

You blink. "Yes."

"Good. Start with that next time."

You bite the tip of your tongue. Roll the flesh between your teeth to ground yourself. There is no next time, you want to say. You’re only meeting with him once, to get sign-off on your committee. He wasn’t your first choice. Wasn't even your second. But your advisor's on sabbatical, and the other quantitative faculty are already overbooked.

Dr. Abbot leans back in his chair, examining you. "You’re primary is Robby, right?"

"Technically, yes."

He hums, not bothering to hide the skepticism. "And you want me on your committee because...?"

"Because you published that meta-analysis on PTSD and chronic stress. Your work on cumulative trauma exposure and dysregulated affect dovetails with mine on stress-related trajectories for internalizing disorders and comorbidity. I thought you might actually get what I’m trying to do."

His brow lifts, just slightly. "You did your homework."

"Well, I’m asking you for feedback on a dissertation that will probably make me break down countless times before it's done. Figured I should know what I was getting into."

Dr. Abbot's mouth twitches. You wouldn’t call it a smile, exactly. But it’s something.

"Alright," he says, flipping open a calendar. "Let’s see if we can find a time next week to go over your proposal draft."

You arch a brow. "You’ll do it?"

"You came in prepared. And you didn’t waste my time—as much as the other fourth years. That gets you further than you’d think around here."

You nod, heart thudding. Not because you’re nervous.

Because you have the weirdest feeling that Jack Abbot just became your biggest academic problem—and your most unexpected ally.

You see him again the next day. Robby was enjoying his last remaining few weeks of paternity leave and graciously asked Jack to sub for his foundations of clinical psychology course. Jack preferred the word coerced but was silenced by a text message with a photo of a child attached. The baby was cute enough to warrant blackmail.

He barely got through the door intact: balancing a coffee cup between his teeth, cradling a half-closed laptop under one arm, and wrangling the straps of a clearly ancient backpack. His limp is more pronounced today. The small cohort watches him with a mix of curiosity and vague alarm.

You’re in the front row, laptop open before he even gets to the podium.

Jack drops everything onto the lectern with a heavy exhale, then glances around. His eyes catch on you and pause—not recognition yet, just flicker. Then he turns back to plug in his laptop.

You don’t expect to see him again two days later, striding into the 200-level general psych class you TA. The room’s already three-quarters of the way full when he walks in, and it takes him a moment before he does a brief double-take in your direction.

You return your attention to your notes. Jack stares.

"Small world."

"Nice to see you too, Dr. Abbot."

He sighs. "Why am I not surprised."

"Because the annual stipend increase doesn't adjust for inflation, I'm desperate, and there aren't enough grants given the current state of events?"

Jack mutters something under his breath about cosmic punishment and unfolds the syllabus from his coat pocket like it personally betrayed him.

When he finally settles at the front—coffee in one hand, laptop balancing precariously on the desk—you catch him bending and straightening his knee just under the edge of the table, jaw set tight. It’s subtle. Anyone else might miss it. But you’ve been watching.

You say nothing.

A few students linger with questions—mostly undergrads eager to impress, notebooks clutched to their chests, rattling off textbook jargon in shaky voices. Jack humors them, mostly. Nods here, clarification there. But his eyes flick to you more than once.

You take your time with the stack of late enrollment passes. He’s still watching when you sling your tote over one shoulder and head for the door.

Probably off to the lab. Or your cubicle in the main psych building. Wherever fourth years disappear to when they aren’t shadowing faculty or training underqualified and overzealous research assistants on data collection procedures.

Jack shifts his weight onto his good leg and half-listens to the sophomore with the over-highlighted textbook.

His eyes stay on you when you walk out.

You make it three steps past the stairwell before the sound of your name stops you. It’s not loud—more like a clipped murmur through the general noise of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping—but it cuts straight through.

You turn back.

Jack’s still at the front, the stragglers now filtering out behind him. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t beckon. Just meets your gaze like he already knows you’ll wait. You do.

He makes his way toward you slowly, favoring one leg. The closer he gets, the more you notice—the way his hand tightens on the strap of his backpack, the exhausted pull at his brow. He’s not masking as well today.

"Thanks for not saying anything," he says when he stops beside you.

You shrug. "Didn’t seem like you needed an audience."

Jack huffs a laugh, dry and faintly surprised. "Most people mean well, but—"

"They hover," you finish. "Or overcompensate. Or say something weird and then try to walk it back."

"Exactly."

You both stand there for a beat too long, campus noise shifting around you like a slow tide.

"I was heading to the coffee shop," you say finally. "Did you want anything?"

Jack tilts his head. "Bribery?"

"Positive reinforcement." The words trail behind a small grin.

He shakes his head, mouth twitching. "Probably had enough caffeine for the day."

The corner of your lip curls higher. "As if there's such a thing."

That earns you a half-huff, half-scoff—just enough to let you believe you might have amused him.

"Well," you say, taking a step backward, "I’ve got three more RAs to train and one very stubborn loop to fix. See you around, Dr. Abbot."

"Good luck," he says, voice low but steady. "Don’t let the building eat you alive."

The next time he sees you, it’s after 10 p.m. on a Thursday.

You hadn’t planned on staying that late. But the dinosaur of a computer kept crashing, two of your participants no-showed, and by the time you’d salvaged the afternoon’s data to pull, it was easier to crash on the grad lounge couch than face the lone commute back to your apartment.

You must’ve fallen asleep halfway through reading feedback from your committee—curled up with your legs splayed over the edge of the couch and laptop perched on the cheap coffee table. The hall is mostly dark when Jack walks past. He’s heading toward the parking lot when he stops, mid-step.

For a moment, he just stands there, taking in the sight of you tucked awkwardly into yourself. You look comfortable in your oversized hoodie, if not for the highlighter cap still tucked between your fingers and mouth parted in a silent snore.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you breathe for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Then, maybe with more curiosity than concern, he raps his knuckles gently against the doorframe. Once. Twice. Three times for good measure.

No response.

Jack steps inside and calls out, voice pitched low but insistent. "This is not a sustainable sleep schedule, you know."

You stir—just barely. A vague groan escapes your lips as you shift and swat clumsily in the direction of the noise. "Just five more minutes... need to run reliability analyses..."

Jack chuckles, genuine and surprised.

He leans against the wall, watching you with no urgency to leave. "Dreaming about data cleaning. Impressive."

You make a small, unintelligible noise and swat again, this time with a little more conviction. Jack snorts.

After a moment, he sighs. Then carefully crosses the room, picks up the crumpled throw blanket from the floor, and drapes it over you without ceremony.

He flicks off the overheads and closes the door behind him with a quiet click. The hallway hums with fluorescent buzz as he limps toward the parking lot, shoulders tucked in against the chill.

A few weeks into the semester, the rhythm settles—lecture, discussion, grading, rinse and repeat. But today, something shifts.

You’re stacking quizzes at the front of the general psych lecture hall when Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Two male students—frat-adjacent, all oversized hoodies and entitled swagger—approach your desk.

Jack looks up from his laptop. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture does—a subtle, perceptible freeze. He watches from where he’s still packing up—hand paused on his laptop case, jaw tight, eyes narrowing just slightly as he takes in the dynamic. There’s a flicker of tension behind his glasses, a pause that says: if you needed him, he’d step in.

They swagger up with the kind of smirks you’ve seen too many times before—overconfident, under-read, and powered by too many YouTube clips of alpha male podcasts.

"Yo, TA—what’s up?" one says, leaning far too close to your desk. "Was gonna ask something about the exam, but figured I’d shoot my shot first. You free later? Coffee on me."

His friend elbows him like he’s a comedic genius. "Yeah, like maybe we could pick your brain about, like, how to get into grad school. You probably have all the insider tricks, right?"

You don’t even blink.

"Sure," you say sweetly. "I’d love to review your application materials. Bring your CV, your transcript, three letters of rec, and proof that you’ve read the Title IX policy in full. Bonus points if you can make it through a meeting without quoting Andrew Tate—or I’ll assume you’re trying to get yourself suspended."

They stare. You smile.

One laughs uncertainly. The other mutters something about how "damn, okay," and both slink away.

Jack’s jaw works once. Then relaxes.

You glance up, like you knew he’d been watching.

"Well handled," he says, voice low as he steps beside you.

You offer a nonchalant shrug. "First years are getting bolder."

"Bold is one word for it."

You hand him a stack of leftover forms. "Relax, Dr. Abbot. I’ve survived undergrads before. I’ll survive again."

Jack gives a small, amused grunt. Then, after a beat: "You can call me Jack."

You glance up, brow raised.

"Feels a little formal to keep pretending we’re strangers.

You don’t say anything right away. Just nod once, almost imperceptibly, then go back to gathering your things.

He doesn’t push it.

It’s raining hard enough to rattle the windows.

You’re having what your cohort half-jokingly calls a "good brain day"—sentences coming easy, theory clicking into place, citations at your fingertips. You barely notice the weather.

Jack glances up from your chapter draft as you launch into a point about predictive error and affective flattening. He doesn't interrupt. His eyes follow how you pace—one hand gesturing, the other holding your annotated copy, words sharp and certain.

Eventually, you pause mid-thought and glance at him.

He's already looking at you.

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. "Shit. I'm sorry—"

Jack shakes his head, lips twitching at the corners. "Don’t apologize. That was… brilliant."

You blink at him, the compliment stalling your momentum. The automatic response bubbles up fast—some joke to deflect, to downplay. You don't say it. Not this time.

Still, your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the desk. "I don't know about brilliant..."

Jack doesn’t look away. "I do."

The silence stretches—not awkward, exactly, but thick. His gaze doesn’t waver, and it holds something steady and burning behind it.

You glance down at your annotated draft. The silence stays between you like a taut wire.

Jack doesn’t fill it. Just waits—gaze unwavering, as if giving you time to come to your own conclusion. No pressure, no indulgent smile. Just a quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you like weight.

Eventually, you exhale. The tension loosens—not completely, but enough to keep going.

"Okay," you murmur, almost to yourself.

Jack nods once, slowly. Then gestures at your printed draft. "Let’s talk about your integration of mindfulness in the discussion section. I’ve got a few thoughts."

Ethics is the last class of the week. The room's heating is inconsistent, the lights too bright, and Jack doesn’t know how the hell he ended up covering for Frank Langdon. Probably the same way he got stuck with Foundations and General Psych: Robby. The department’s too damn small and apparently everyone with a baby gets to vanish into thin air.

He steps into the room ten minutes early, coffee already lukewarm, and makes a half-hearted attempt to adjust the podium screen. The first few students trickle in, then more. He flips through the lecture slides, barely registering them.

And then he sees you.

You’re near the back, chatting with someone Jack doesn’t recognize. Another grad student by the look of him—slouched posture, soft jaw, navy sweater. The guy’s grinning like he thinks he’s charming. He leans in a little too close to your chair. Says something Jack can’t hear.

Jack tells himself he’s only looking because the guy seems familiar. Maybe someone from Walsh’s lab. Or Garcia’s.

You laugh at something—light, genuine.

Jack tries not to react.

Navy Sweater says something else, more animated now. He gestures to your laptop. Points to something. You nudge his hand away with a grin and say something back that makes him blush.

Jack flips the page on his lecture notes without reading a word.

You’re still smiling when you finally glance up toward the podium.

Your eyes meet.

Jack doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t smile either.

The guy beside you says something else. You nod politely.

But you’re not looking at him anymore.

The next time you're in Jack’s office, the air feels different—autumn sharp outside, but warm in here.

He notices things. Not all at once, but cumulatively.

Your hair’s longer now. It’s subtle, but the ends graze your jaw in a way they hadn’t before. You’ve started wearing darker shades—amber, forest green, burgundy—instead of the lighter neutrals from early fall. Small changes. Seasonal shifts.

He doesn’t say anything about any of that.

But then he sees it.

A faint smudge of something high on your neck, near the curve of your jaw.

"Rough night?" he asks, lightly. The tone’s casual, but his eyes stay there a second too long.

You look up, blinking. Then seem to realize. "Oh. No, it’s—nothing."

He raises an eyebrow, just once. Doesn’t press.

What you don’t say: you went on a date last night. Your first real date since your second year. Navy Sweater—Isaac—had been sweet. Patient. Social psych, so he talked about group dynamics and interdependence theory instead of clinical cases. A refreshing change from your usual context. He’d been pining for you since orientation. You finally gave him a chance.

You’re not sure yet if it was a mistake.

Jack doesn’t ask again. He just shifts his attention back to your printed draft, flipping a page without comment.

But you can feel it—that subtle change in the room. Like something under the surface has started to stir.

Jack doesn’t speak again for the rest of the meeting, at least not about anything that isn’t your manuscript. But the temperature between you has shifted, unmistakable even in silence.

His feedback is sharp, incisive, and you take it all in—but your focus tugs sideways more than once.

You start to notice little things. The way his hands move when he talks—precise, economical, almost always with a pen twirling between his fingers. The way he reads with his whole posture—leaned in slightly, brows furrowed, lips moving just barely like he’s tasting the cadence of each sentence. How he always wears button-downs, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, like he’s never quite comfortable in them.

You catch the faint scruff at his jawline, the flecks of gray you hadn’t seen before in the fluorescent classroom light. The quiet groan of his office chair as he shifts to get more comfortable—though he never quite does. The occasional tap of his fingers against the desk when he’s thinking. The way his eyes track you when you pace, like he’s cataloging your rhythm.

When he leans in to gesture at a line in your text, you’re aware of his proximity in a way you hadn’t been before. The warmth that radiates off him. The way his breath hitches just slightly before he speaks.

When you ask a clarifying question, he meets your eyes and holds the gaze a fraction too long.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It probably doesn’t.

Still, when you pack up to leave, you don’t rush. Neither does he.

He walks you to the door, stops just short of it.

"Good luck with the coding," he says.

You nod. "Thanks. See you next week."

He hesitates, then nods once more. "Yeah. Next week."

And when you leave his office, the echo of that pause follows you down the hall.

At home, Jack goes through the same routine he always does. He hangs up his coat. Places his keys in the ceramic dish by the door. Fills the kettle. Rinses a clean mug from the rack without thinking—habit, even if it’s just for himself.

Then he sits down on the edge of the couch and unbuckles the prosthetic from his leg with practiced efficiency. He leans forward, slow and deliberate, and cleans the area with a soft cloth, checking the skin for signs of irritation before applying a thin layer of ointment. Only then does he begin to massage the tender spot where his leg ends, pressing the heel of his palm just enough to release tension. The ache is dull tonight, but persistent. It always is when the weather shifts.

He doesn’t turn on the TV. When he buckles it back on and gets up again, he moves around his apartment quietly, the limp less noticeable this time around.

While the water heats, he scrolls through emails on his phone—most from admin, flagged with false urgency. A few unread messages from students, one from a journal editor asking for another reviewer on a manuscript that costs too much to publish open access. He deletes half, archives another third. Wonders when it became so easy to ignore what used to feel so important.

The kettle whistles. He pours the water over the tea bag and sets it down, not bothering with the stack of essays he meant to look at hours ago.

He doesn’t touch them.

Not yet.

Tonight, his rhythm is off.

Instead, he looks over your latest draft after dinner, meaning only to skim. He finds himself rereading the same paragraph three times, mind somewhere else entirely. Your words, your phrasing, your comments in the margins—he's memorizing them. Not intentionally. It just happens.

Later, brushing his teeth, Jack thinks of how you’d looked that afternoon: eyes sharp, expression animated, tucked into a wool sweater the color of cinnamon. Hair falling forward when you tilted your head to listen, then swept back with one distracted hand. A little ink smudged on your finger. The edge of a smile you didn’t know you were wearing.

He wonders if you know how often you pace when you’re deep in thought. How your whole posture changes when something clicks—like your bones remember before your voice does. How you gesture with the same hand you write with, sometimes forgetting you’re holding a pen at all.

He tells himself it’s just professional attentiveness. That he’s tuned into all his students this way. That noticing you in detail is part of his job.

But it’s a lie. And the truth has started to settle into his bones.

He closes his laptop, shuts off the light.

He dreams in fragments—lecture notes and old conference halls, the scent of rain-soaked leaves, the sound of your voice mid-sentence. The ghost of a laugh.

He doesn’t remember the shape of the dream when he wakes.

Only the warmth that lingers in its place.

Across town, you’re on another date with Isaac.

He’s funny tonight—quick with dry quips, gentler than you'd expected. He walks you to a small café far from campus, one you’ve driven by a dozen times but never tried. He orders chai with oat milk. You get the pumpkin spice out of spite.

"Pumpkin spice, really?" he teases. "Living the stereotype."

"It’s autumn," you shoot back. "Let me have one basic pleasure."

You talk about everything but your dissertation—TV shows, childhood pets, the worst advice you’ve ever received from an advisor. Inevitably, you steer the conversation into something about work. It's a habit you seem to remember having since your earliest academic days, and one you don't see yourself breaking free from anytime soon.

"My undergrad advisor once told me I’d never get into grad school unless I stopped sounding ‘so West Coast.’ Still not sure what that means."

Isaac laughs. "Mine told me to pick a research topic ‘I wouldn’t mind reading about for the rest of my life.’ As if anyone wants to read their own lit review twice."

You laugh—genuine, belly-deep. Isaac flushes with pride and takes a long sip of his chai, eyes bright.

It's easy with him, you think. Talking, breathing, being. You lean back in your chair, cup warm between your palms, and realize you should feel more present than you do.

He’s exactly what you thought you needed. Different. Outside your orbit. Not tangled up in diagnoses or a department that feels more like a pressure cooker every day.

But still, your mind drifts. Not far. Just enough.

Back to the way Jack had looked at you earlier that day. The pause before he spoke. The silence that wasn’t quite silence.

You can’t put your finger on it. You don’t want to.

Isaac reaches across the table to brush his fingers against yours. You let him.

And yet.

You catch yourself glancing toward the door as he brushes your fingers. Just once. Barely perceptible. A flicker of something unformed tugging at the edge of your attention.

Not for any reason you can name. Not because anything happened. But because something did—quiet and slow and not easily undone.

You remember the way his brow furrowed as he read your chapter, the steadiness in his voice when he called your argument brilliant, the way he looked at you like the room had narrowed down to a single point.

Isaac is sweet. Funny. Steady. You should be here.

But your mind keeps slipping sideways.

And Jack Abbot—stubborn, sharp, unreadable Jack—is suddenly everywhere. In the cadence of a sentence you revise, where you hear his voice in your head asking, 'Why this framework? Why now?' In the questions you don’t ask Isaac because you already know how Jack would answer them—precise, cutting, but never unkind. In the sudden, irritating way you want someone to challenge you just a little more. To push back, to poke holes, to see if your argument still stands.

You find yourself wondering what he’s doing tonight. If he’s at home, pacing through a quiet, single-family home too large for his own company. If he’s reading someone else’s manuscript with the same intensity. If he ever thinks about the way you looked that afternoon, how you paced his office with fire in your voice and a red pen tucked behind your ear.

You think about the hitch in his breath when you leaned in. The way he’d watched you leave, that pause at the door.

And then Isaac says something—soft, thoughtful—and it takes you a second too long to register it. You nod, distracted, and reach for your drink again.

But your mind is already elsewhere.

Still with someone else.

You take another sip of your drink. Smile at Isaac. Let the moment pass.

But even then, even here—Jack is in the room.

You don’t see Jack again until the following Thursday. It’s raining hard again—something about mid-semester always seems to come with the weather—and the psych building smells like wet paper and overworked radiators.

You’re in the hallway, hunched over a Tupperware of leftover lentils and trying to catch up on grading, when his door creaks open across the hall. You glance up reflexively.

He’s standing there, brow furrowed, papers in hand. He spots you. Freezes.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway is quiet, just the hum of fluorescents and the distant murmur of a class in session. Then:

"Grading?" he asks, voice lower than usual—quiet, but unmistakably curious.

You lift your fork, deadpan. "Don’t sound so jealous."

Jack’s mouth twitches—almost a smile. A pause, then: "You’re in Langdon’s office hours slot, right?"

"Only if I bring snacks," you quip, referring to the way Frank Langdon always lets the TA with snacks cut the line—a running joke in the department.

Jack raises his coffee like a toast. "Then I’ll keep walking." A dry little truce. An unspoken I’ll stay out of your way—unless you want me to stay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, his limp slightly more pronounced than usual. And you find yourself thinking—about how many times you’ve noticed that, and how many times he’s never once drawn attention to it.

Your spoon scrapes the bottom of the container. You try to return to grading.

You don’t get much done.

Later that afternoon, you’re back in the general psych lecture hall, perched on the side of the desk with your TA notes while Jack clicks through the day’s slides. It’s the second time he’s teaching this unit and he’s not even pretending to follow the script. You know him well enough now to catch the subtle shifts—when he goes off-book, lets the theory breathe.

He doesn’t look at you while he lectures, but you can tell when he’s aware of you. The slight change in cadence, the way his eyes flick toward the front row where you sometimes sit, sometimes stand.

Today’s lecture is on conditioning. Classical, operant, extinction.

At one point, Jack pauses at the podium. He’s talking about fear responses—conditioned reactions, the body’s anticipatory wiring, what it takes to unlearn a threat. You’ve heard this part a dozen times in college and a dozen more in grad school. You’ve written about it. You've published on it.

But when he says, "Fear isn’t erased. It’s overwritten," his eyes flick toward you—just for a second.

And your heart trips a little. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—more like a misstep in rhythm, a skipped beat in a song you thought you knew by heart. Your breath catches for half a second, and you feel the heat rush to the tips of your ears.

It’s absurd, maybe. Definitely. But the tone of his voice when he said it—that measured, worn certainty—lands somewhere deep inside you. Not clinical. Not abstract. It feels like he’s speaking to something unspoken, to a part of you you've tried to keep quiet.

You shift your weight, pretending to re-stack a paper that doesn’t need re-stacking, pulse louder than it should be in your ears.

From your seat on the edge of the desk, you can see the way he gestures with his hand, slow and spare, like every movement costs something. The way he leans on his good leg. The way the muscles in his forearm flex as he flips to the next slide, still speaking, still teaching—none of this showing on his face.

Your eyes keep drifting back.

And he doesn’t look at you again. Not for the rest of the lecture.

But you feel the weight of that glance long after the class ends.

You stay after class, mostly to gather the quiz sheets and handouts. A few students linger, asking Jack questions about the exam. You hear him shift into that firm-but-generous tone he uses with undergrads, the kind that makes them think he’s colder than he is. Efficient. Clear.

When the last student finally packs up and leaves the room, Jack straightens. His eyes find you, soft but unreadable.

"Good lecture," you say.

He hums. "Not bad for a recycled deck."

You hand him the stack of forms. "You made it your own."

His thumb brushes over the edge of the papers. "So did you."

You don’t ask what he means. But the quiet between you feels different than it did at the start of the semester.

The room is mostly empty. Just the two of you. You're caught somewhere between impulse and caution. Approach and avoidance. There's a pull in your chest, low and slow, that makes you want to linger a second longer. To say something else. To ask about the lecture, or the line he looked at you during, or the kind of day he's had. But your voice sticks.

Instead, you shift again, adjust your grip on the papers in your hands, and let it all stay unsaid. But Jack’s already turned back toward the podium, gathering his things.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just slides his laptop into its case with more force than necessary, his jaw set tight. He’s annoyed with himself. The kind of annoyance that comes from knowing he missed something—not a moment, exactly, but the shadow of one. An opening. And he let it pass.

There was a question in your eyes. Or maybe not a question—maybe a dare. Maybe just the start of one. And he didn’t rise to meet it.

He tells himself that’s good. That’s safe. That’s professional.

But it doesn’t feel like a win.

His hand pauses on the zipper. He breathes out through his nose, not quite a sigh. Then glances toward the door.

You’re already gone.

You let the moment pass.

But you feel it. Like something just under the surface, waiting for another breach in the routine.

It happens late one evening, entirely by accident.

You’re in your office, door mostly closed, light still on. You meant to leave hours ago—meant to finish your email and call it—but the combination of caffeine and a dataset that refused to make sense kept you tethered to your desk.

Jack’s on his way out of the building when he hears it: a muffled sound from behind a half-open door just across the hallway from his own. He pauses, backtracks, and realizes for the first time exactly where your office is.

He hears it again—a quiet sniffle, then a low, barely-there laugh like you’re trying to brush it off.

He knocks.

You don’t answer.

"Hey," he says, voice just loud enough to carry but still gentle. "You alright?"

The sound of your chair creaking. A breath caught in your throat.

"Shit—Jack." You swipe at your face automatically, the name out before you think about it.

He steps just inside, not crossing the threshold. "Didn’t mean to scare you."

You shake your head, still blinking fast. "No, I just—burned out. Hit a wall. It’s fine. Nothing serious. Just… one of those days." You try for a joke.

Jack’s eyes sweep the room. The state of your desk. The way your sweater sleeves are pulled down over your hands. He shifts his weight.

There’s a long pause. Then he says, softer, "Can I—?"

You furrow your brows for a moment before nodding.

He steps in and leaves the door slightly cracked open behind him. He remains by the edge of your desk, a respectful distance between you. His presence is quiet but steady, and he doesn't pry with questions.

You exhale slowly, suddenly aware of the sting behind your eyes and how tight your shoulders have been all day. You look down, embarrassed, and when you reach for a tissue, your hand grazes his by accident.

You both freeze.

It’s nothing, really. A brush of skin. But it lands like something else. Not unwelcome. Not forgotten.

Jack doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t linger, either.

Jack doesn’t move at first. He watches you for a moment longer, the quiet in the room settling unevenly.

"You sure you’re alright?" he asks, voice low, unreadable.

You nod, quick. "Yeah. I’m fine."

It comes too fast. Reflexive. But it lands the way you want it to—firm, closed.

Jack nods slowly. He doesn’t push. "Okay."

He steps back, finally. "Just—don’t stay too late, alright?"

You offer a smaller nod.

He hesitates again. Then turns and slips out without another word.

Your office feels warmer once he’s gone.

And your breath feels just a little easier.

Jack makes his way down the hallway toward the faculty lounge with the intention of grabbing a fresh coffee before his office hours. He passes a few students loitering in the corridor—chatter, laughter, the usual.

But then he hears your voice. Quiet, edged. Just outside the lecture hall.

"Isaac, I’m not having this conversation again. Not here."

Jack slows. Doesn’t stop, but slows and finds a small nook just shy of the corner.

"I just don’t get why you won’t answer a simple question," Isaac says. "Are you seeing someone else or not?"

There’s a pause. Jack glances down at the coffee in his hand and debates turning around.

But then he hears your exhale—sharp, frustrated. "No. I’m not."

Isaac huffs. "Then what is this? You’re always somewhere else—even when we’re out, even on weekends. It’s like your head’s in another fucking dimension."

Jack feels the hairs on his neck stand up. He sees you standing with your back half-turned to Isaac, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Isaac’s face is flushed, his voice a little too loud for the setting. Your posture is still—too still.

Jack doesn’t step in. Not yet. He stays just out of sight, near the hallway alcove. Close enough to hear. Close enough to watch.

You draw in a long breath. When you speak, your voice is level, cold. "I just don’t think I’m in the right place to be in a relationship right now."

Isaac’s expression shifts—confused, hurt.

Jack watches the edge of your profile. How your shoulders lock into place. How your eyes go distant, like you’re powering down every soft part of yourself.

He doesn’t breathe.

Then someone laughs down the hallway, and the moment breaks. Isaac looks over his shoulder, distracted for half a beat, then turns back to you with something sharp in his eyes.

"You’re not even trying," he says, voice low but biting. "I’m giving you everything I’ve got, and you’re... somewhere else. Always."

You stiffen. Jack stays hidden, tension rippling down his spine.

"I know..." you say, voice tight. "I'm sorry. I really am. But this isn’t working."

Isaac’s face contorts. "Seriously? That’s it?"

You shake your head. "You deserve someone who’s fully here. Who wants the same things you do. I’m not that person right now."

He opens his mouth to say something, but your eyes have already gone cold. Guarded. Clinical.

"I don't want to whip out the 'it's not you it's me bullshit'," you continue, each word deliberate. "But this isn’t about you doing something wrong. It’s me. I can’t give more than I’ve already given."

Jack watches the shift in your posture—how you shut it all down, protect the last open pieces of yourself. He recognizes it because he’s done the same.

"I'm sorry." The words are genuine. "You deserve better." Your eyes don't betray you. For a moment, though, your expression softens. You look at Isaac like a kicked dog, like you wish you could offer something kinder. But then it’s gone. Your eyes go cold again, your voice a blade dulled only by exhaustion.

Then someone laughs again down the hallway, closer this time, and the moment scatters. Jack moves past without a word. Doesn’t look at you directly.

But he sees you.

And he doesn’t forget what he saw.

As he passes, you glance up. Your eyes meet.

Only for a second.

Then he’s gone.

Isaac doesn’t notice.

Time passes. You're back in Jack's office for your regular one-on-one—but something is different.

You sit a little straighter. Speak a little quieter. The bright curiosity you usually carry in your voice has hardened, now precise ,restrained. Not icy, but guarded. Pulled taut.

You’re not trying to be unreadable, but you can feel yourself defaulting. Drawing the boundaries back up.

Jack notices.

He doesn’t say anything, but you catch the slight narrowing of his gaze as he listens.

You’d gone all in on this program, this career—your research, your ambitions, your carefully calculated goals. Isaac was the first time you'd tried letting something else in. A possibility. A softness.

And it crashed. Of course it did.

Because that’s what you do. That’s the pattern. You’re excellent at control, planning, systems, at hypothesis testing and case management. But when it comes to anything outside the academic orbit—connection, trust, letting someone see the jagged pieces under the polish—you flinch. You fail.

And you’ve learned not to let that show. Not anymore.

At one point, you trail off mid-sentence. Jack doesn’t fill the silence.

You clear your throat. Try again.

There’s something steadier in his quiet today. You finally finish your point and glance up. His expression is neutral, but his gaze is… undivided.

"Are you okay?"

It catches you off guard. You blink once, not expecting the question, not from him, not here.

You start to nod. Then pause. Your throat feels tight for a second.

"Yeah," you say. "I’m fine."

Jack doesn’t look away. He holds your gaze a moment longer. Not pressing. Not interrogating. Just there.

"You should know better than to lie to a psychologist."

It’s almost a joke. Almost. Just enough curve at the corner of your mouth to soften it. You let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. "Guess I need to reassess my baseline."

Jack leans forward slightly. Then, without saying anything, reaches over and closes your laptop. Slides it just out of reach on the desk.

You open your mouth to protest.

Jack cuts in, quiet but firm. "You need to turn your brain off before it short circuits."

You blink. He continues, gentler this time. "Just for a few minutes. You don’t have to push through every wall. Sometimes it’s okay to sit still. Breathe. Be a human being."

You look down at your hands, fingers curled around a pen you hadn’t realized you were still holding. There’s a long pause before you speak.

"I don’t know how to do that," you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack doesn’t say anything at first. He lets the silence settle. "Start small," he says. "We’re not built to stay in fight-or-flight forever."

The words land heavier than you expect. You stare down at your hands, your knuckles paling against the pressure of your grip. Your breath stutters on the way out.

Jack doesn’t move, but his presence feels closer somehow—like the room has contracted around the two of you, warm and steady.

You set the pen down slowly. Swallow. Your eyes burn, but nothing falls.

Your jaw shifts. Just a fraction.

You don’t say anything at first.

Jack doesn’t either. But he doesn’t look away.

After a beat, he says—careful, quiet—"You want to talk about it?"

You hesitate, eyes fixed on a crease in your jeans. "No."

He waits. "I think you do."

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny. "This how you talk to all of your clients?"

He doesn't bite.

"You don’t let up, do you?" You're only half-serious.

"I do," he pauses. "When it matters. Just not when my mentee is sitting in front of me looking like the world’s pressing down on their ribcage."

That makes you flinch. Not visibly, not to most. But he sees it. Of course he does. He’s trained to.

You look at your hands. He's not going to let this go so you might as well bite the bullet. "I'm not great at the whole... letting people in thing."

Jack doesn’t respond. Just shifts his weight slightly in his chair—almost imperceptibly. A silent invitation.

Your voice stays quiet. Measured. "I usually just throw myself into work. It’s easier. It’s something I can control."

Still, he says nothing.

You pick at the seam of your sleeve. "Other stuff... it gets messy. Too unpredictable. People are unpredictable."

Jack’s gaze never wavers. He doesn’t push. But the absence of interruption is its own kind of presence—steady, open.

Your lips twitch in a faint, humorless smile. "I know that’s ironic coming from someone studying emotion regulation."

He finally says, softly, "Sometimes the people who study it hardest are the ones trying to figure it out for themselves."

That makes your eyes flick up. His expression is calm. Receptive. No judgment. No smile, either. Just… presence.

You look down again. Your voice even softer now. "I don’t know how to do it. Not really."

Jack doesn’t interrupt. Just shifts, barely, like bracing.

And somehow, that makes you keep going.

"Grad school’s easier. Career’s easier. I can plan. I can control. Everything else just…" You trail off. Shrug, a flicker of helplessness.

He’s still watching you. The way he does when he’s listening hard, like there’s a string between you and he’s waiting to see if you’ll keep tugging it.

"I thought maybe..." You press your lips together. "I thought I could do it. Let someone in. Be a person. A twenty-nine year old, for fuck's sake." Your hands come up to your face. "But it just reminded me why I don’t."

You draw a slow breath. Something in your chest cracks. Not a collapse—just a fault line giving way.

Jack just stares.

Then, slowly, he leans back—not away, but into the quiet. He folds his hands in his lap, thumb tracing a familiar line over his knuckle. A practitioner’s stillness. A kind of careful permission.

"You know," he says, voice low, "when I first started in trauma research, I thought if I understood it well enough, I could outsmart it. Like if I had the right frameworks, if I mapped the pathways right, it wouldn’t touch me."

You glance up.

He exhales through his nose—dry, but not bitter. "Turns out, knowing the symptoms doesn’t stop you from living them. Doesn’t stop the body from remembering."

He doesn’t specify. Doesn’t have to.

His eyes flick to yours. "But you don’t have to be fluent in trust to start learning it. You don’t have to be good at it yet. You just have to let someone sit with you in the silence."

You study him. The sharpness of his jaw, the quiet behind his glasses, the wear in his voice that doesn’t make it weaker.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t speak.

He doesn’t need you to.

He just stays there—anchored. Steady. Unmoving.

Like he's not waiting for you to come undone.

He's waiting for you to believe you don’t have to.

It's Friday night. You’re walking a participant through the start of a lab assessment—part of the longitudinal stress and memory protocol you’ve spent the last year fine-tuning. The task itself is simple enough: a series of conditioned images, paired with soft tones. But you watch the participant's pulse rise on the screen. Notice the minute shift in posture, the tension in their jaw.

You pause. Slow things down.

"Remember," you say gently, "we’re looking at how your body responds when it doesn’t need to anymore. The point isn’t to trick you—it’s to see what happens when the threat isn’t real. When it’s safe."

The participant nods, still uneasy.

You don’t blame them.

Later, the metaphor clings to you like static from laundry fresh out of the dryer. Fear extinction: the process of unlearning what once kept you alive. Or something close to it.

You think of what Jack said. What he didn’t say. The silence he offered like a landing strip.

It replays in your head more than you'd like to admit—the dim warmth of his office, the soft click of your laptop closing, the unexpected steadiness in his voice. No clinical jargon. No agenda. Just space. Permission.

You remember the way he folded his hands. The faint scuff on the corner of his desk. The way he didn’t fill the air with reassurances or advice. Just stayed quiet until the quiet felt less like drowning and more like floating.

And it had made something in your chest stutter—because you'd spent years studying fear responses, coding reactivity curves and salience windows, mapping out prediction error pathways and understanding affect labeling.

But none of your models accounted for the way someone simply sitting with you could ease the grip of it.

Maybe, you think now, as you log the participant's final response, this is what fear extinction looks like outside of a lab setting. Not just reducing reactivity to a blue square or a sharp tone.

But learning—relearning—how it feels to let another person in and survive it.

Maybe Jack wasn’t offering a solution.

Maybe he was offering proof.

Is this what it looked like in practice? Not just in a scanner or a skin conductance chart—but in the quiet, everyday choice of showing up? Staying?

Perhaps the data is secondary and this is the experiment.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re already in the middle of it.

The new semester begins in a blur of syllabi updates and shuffled office assignments. It's your final year before internship—a fact that looms and hums in the background like a lamp you can't turn off. You’re no longer the quiet, watchful second-year—you’ve published, you've taught, you've survived.

But you’re also exhausted. You’ve become adept at wearing competence like armor.

Jack is teaching an elective course this semester—Epigenetics of Trauma. You're enrolled in it—a course you didn’t technically need, but couldn’t resist for reasons you cared not to admit.

When you pass him in the hallway—coffee in one hand, a paper balanced on his clipboard—he stops.

"Did you hear the department finally updated the HVAC?" he asks, and it’s not really about the HVAC.

You nod, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. "Barely. Still feels like a sauna most days."

Jack gestures to your cardigan. "And yet you persist."

You grin. It’s a tiny thing. But it stays.

Later that week, he pokes his head into your office between student meetings.

"You’re on the panel for the trauma symposium, right?"

The one you were flying to at the end of October—thanks to Robby, who had playfully threatened to submit your name himself if you didn’t volunteer. He’d needed someone to piggyback off of, he’d said, and who better than his best grad student—who was also swamped with grant deadlines, dissertation chapters, and a growing list of internship applications. You’d rolled your eyes and said yes, of course, because that’s what you did. And maybe because a part of you liked the challenge, academic mascochism and validation and all.

You nod. "Talk and discussion."

He steps farther in. "If you’re open to it—I’d like to sit in."

You glance up. "You’ve already read the draft."

Jack smiles. "Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to hear it out loud."

You lean back slightly, watching him. "You going to grill me from the audience and be that one guy?"

Jack raises an eyebrow, amused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

You hum. "Mmhm."

But you’re smiling now. Just a little.

It’s not quite vulnerability. Not yet. But it’s a beginning. A reset. The next slow iteration in a long series of exposures. New responses. New learning. Acceptance in the face of uncertainty.

The only way fear ever learns to quiet down.

Robby’s already three beers in and trying to argue that Good Will Hunting is actually a terrible representation of therapy while Mel King—your cohort-mate in the developmental area, always mindful and reserved—defends its emotional core like it’s a thesis chapter she’s still revising in her head.

Mentored by John Shen, Mel studies peer rejection and emotional socialization in early childhood, and she talks about toddlers with the same reverence some people reserve for philosophers. Her dissertation focuses on how early experiences of exclusion and inclusion shape later prosocial behavior, and she can recite every milestone in the Denver Developmental Screening Test like scripture.

She’s known for respectful debates, non-caffeinated bursts of energy, and an uncanny ability to babysit and code data at the same time. The kind of person who shows up with a snack bag labeled for every child at a study visit—and still finds time to coordinate the department's annual "bring your child to work" day. She even makes time to join you and Samira on your Sunday morning farmers market walks, reusable tote slung over one shoulder, ready to talk about plum varieties and which stand has the best sourdough.

Samira Mohan, meanwhile, sits with her signature whiskey sour and a stack of color-coded notecards she pretends not to be working on. She’s in the clinical area too—mentored by Collins—and her work focuses on how minority stress intersects with emotion regulation in underserved populations. Her analyses are razor sharp and sometimes terrifying. Samira rarely speaks unless she knows her words will land precisely—measured, deliberate, the kind of sharp that cuts clean.

Although still in her early prospectus phase, choosing to propose in her fifth year rather than fourth, her dissertation is shaping into a cross-sectional and mixed-methods exploration of how racial and gender minority stressors compound across contexts—academic, familial, and romantic—and the specific emotion regulation repertoires that emerge as survival strategies.

Samira doesn’t stir the pot for fun; she does it when she sees complacency and feels compelled to light a fire under it. That’s the Samira everyone knows and you love—the one who will quietly dismantle your entire line of argument with one clinical observation and a deadpan stare. She does exactly that now, throwing in a quote from bell hooks with the sly smile of someone who knows she’s lit a fuse just to watch it burn.

It’s a blur of overlapping conversations, familiar inside jokes, cheap spirits, and the particular cadence of a group that knows each other’s pressure points and proposal deadlines down to the day. For a moment you let yourself exist in it—in the din, in the messy affection of your academic family, in the safety you didn’t know you’d built, much less deserved. Samira’s halfway through a story about a disastrous clinical interview when she turns to you, parts her mouth to speak, and looks up behind you—

"So is this where all the cool kids hang out?"

You feel him before you see him—Jack’s presence like a low hum behind you, the soft waft of his cologne cutting through the ambient chatter. The light buzz of conversation has your senses dialed up, awareness prickling at the back of your neck. You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Robby lets out a loud "whoohoo" as Jack joins the table, hauling him into a bro hug with the miraculously coordinated enthusiasm of someone riding high off departmental gossip. Jack rolls his eyes but doesn’t resist, letting Robby thump his back twice before extracting himself but instead of settling there, he leans down slightly, voice pitched just for you. “Is this seat taken?”

Robby at 12 o'clock, Heather to his left, then Samira, Mel, you, and John. The large circular table meant for twelve suddenly feels exponentially smaller. The tablecloth brushes your knees, heavy and starchy against your lap. You feel warmth creep up your cheeks—probably from the alcohol (definitely not from anything else)—and scoot over slightly closer to Mel, giving him room to squeeze in between you and John. You can feel the shift in the air, the proximity of his sleeve against yours, the silent knowledge that he's there now—anchored in your orbit.

He slides in beside you with a quiet murmur of thanks, the space between your arms barely more than a breath. The conversation continues, but the air feels a little different now.

He nods politely to Shen on his left, mutters something about being tricked into another committee, then glances your way—dry, amused, measured.

Always measured.

You feel Jack beside you—not just his sleeve brushing yours, but his presence, calm and dense as gravity. His knee bumps yours beneath the table once, lightly, maybe unintentional. Maybe not. The cologne still lingers faintly and you try to focus on what Samira is saying about peer-reviewed journals versus reviewer roulette, but it’s impossible to ignore the warmth radiating from his side, the way your skin registers it before your brain does. He's like a human crucible. You keep your gaze trained forward, sipping your drink a little too casually, pretending you don’t notice the way your heartbeat’s caught in your throat.

The charged air gives you a spike of bravery—fleeting, foolish, and just enough. Before you let the doubt creep into your veins, you nudge your knee toward Jack’s beneath the table, thankful for the tablecloth concealing the movement. You feel him exhale beside you—quiet, but unmistakable—and something inside you hums in response.

You feel Jack’s thigh tense against yours. The contact lingers, neither of you moving. Moments pass. Nothing happens.

So you cross your legs slowly, right over left, deliberately, letting the heel of your shoe graze his calf.

He stills.

The conversation around the table doesn’t pause, but you’re aware of every breath, every shift in weight beside you. The air between you tightens, stretched across the tension of everything unsaid.

Everyone else is occupied—Robby and Shen deep in conversation about conference logistics, Heather and Samira bickering over which of them was the worse TA, Mel nodding along and adding commentary between sips of cider. Jack sees the opening and seizes it.

He leans in, just slightly, until his shoulder brushes yours again—barely perceptible. "Subtle," he murmurs, voice pitched low, teasing.

You arch a brow, still facing forward. “I have no idea what you're talking.”

"Of course not," he says, dry. "Just sudden interest in the hem of the tablecloth, is it?"

You swirl your drink, letting the glass tilt in your fingers. "I’m a tactile learner. You know this."

He huffs a quiet breath—could almost be a laugh. "Must make data cleaning a thrilling experience."

"Only when R crashes mid-run." You angle your knee back toward his under the table, a soft bump like punctuation.

Jack tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "Dangerous territory."

"Afraid of a little ambiguity, professor?"

His mouth twitches at the title.

You sip slowly, buying time, letting the quiet between you stretch like a drawn breath. His thigh is still pressed against yours. Still unmoving. Still deliberate.

"You always like to push your luck this much?" you murmur, keeping your eyes trained on your drink.

Jack hums low. "Only when the risk feels... calculated."

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. "Bit of a reward sensitivity bias tonight, Dr. Abbot?"

He shrugs. "You’ve been unintentionally reinforcing bad behavior."

You smirk, but say nothing, letting the conversation around you swell again. Robby starts ranting about departmental politics, Heather counters with a story about a grant mix-up that almost ended in flames. You sip your drink, Samira taps her notecards absently against her palm.

The rest of the evening hums on, warm and loose around the edges. When it finally winds down—people slowly gathering coats, hugging their goodbyes—you rise with the group, still a little buzzed, still aware of Jack’s presence beside you like heat that never quite left your side.

Under the soft yellow glow of the dim lobby chandelier, everyone says their goodnights—laughing, tipsy, hugging, good vibes all around. Jack is the last to leave the circle, and as you turn toward the elevator, you glance over your shoulder at him. "See you tomorrow," you say. "Last day of the conference—only the most boring panels left."

Jack lifts a brow. "You wound me."

You grin. "I’m just saying—if you show up in sweats and a baseball cap for your presentation, I’ll pretend not to know you."

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. You step inside, leaning against the railing. Jack stays behind.

"Goodnight," he says, eyes lingering. You nod, then turn, pressing the button for your floor. Just as the doors begin to glide shut, a hand slides into the narrow threshold—the border between hesitation and something else.

Palm flat against the seam. That sliver of metal and air.

He steps in slowly. Quiet. And presses the button for the same floor.

The doors slide shut behind him with a soft hiss.

Silence hums between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. But your awareness of each other sharpens—your breath shallow, his jaw tense. The elevator jolts into motion.

Jack shifts slightly, turning his body just enough to lean back against the railing—mirroring you. His arm grazes yours. Then the back of his hand brushes against your knuckles.

A spark—not metaphorical, not imagined—zips down your arm.

Neither of you pulls away.

You glance sideways.

He’s already looking at you.

Your eyes meet—held, quiet.

Not a word is exchanged. But something breaks—clean and sharp, like a snapped circuit. Long-simmering, unvoiced tension rising to the surface, clinging to the pause between heartbeats and motion-sensor lighting.

Jack leans in—not tentative, not teasing. Just close enough that his breath grazes your cheek. Your breath catches. His proximity feels like a fuse. He’s watching you—steady, unreadable. But you feel the pressure in the air shift, charged and thick.

"I don’t know what this is," you finally whisper. Your throat feels incredibly dry. A sharp juxtaposition to the state of your undergarments.

Jack’s voice dips low. "I think we’ve both been trying not to look too closely."

Your chest tightens. His hand twitches by his side. Flexing. Gripping. Restraint unraveling. His breath shallows, matching yours—fast, hungry, starved of oxygen and logic. And then, like a spark to dry kindling, you thread your fingers through his.

Heat erupts between your palms, a jolt that hits your spine. You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You tighten your grip.

He exhales—shaky, like it’s cost him everything not to close the distance between your mouths. The electricity is unbearable, like a dam on the edge of collapse.

And still, neither of you move. Not quite yet.

But the air is thick with the promise: the next breach will not be small.

The elevator dings.

You both flinch—just barely.

The doors slide open.

You release his hand slowly, fingers slipping apart like sand through mesh, reluctant and slow but inevitable. Jack's hands stay in a slightly open grip.

"I should..." you begin, breath catching. You clear your throat. "Goodnight, Jack."

Your voice is soft. Almost too soft.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t reach again. Doesn’t follow.

"Goodnight," he says. Low, warm. Weighted.

You step out. Don’t look back.

The doors begin to close.

You glance over your shoulder, once—just once.

Your eyes meet through the narrowing gap.

Then the doors seal shut, quiet as breath.

For now.

Contrary to Samira's reappraisal of you joining her for Friday night drinks, you begrudgingly allow her to drag you out of your cave. Just the two of you—girls’ night, no work talk allowed, and no saying "I need to work on my script" more than once. She makes you wear lip gloss and a top that could almost be considered reckless, and you down two tequila sodas before you even start to loosen your shoulders.

You’re halfway through your third drink when a pair of guys approaches—normal-looking, vaguely grad-school adjacent, maybe from public health or law school. Samira gives you a look that says seems safe enough, and you need this, and so you nod. You dance.

The one paired off with you is tall, not unpleasant. He asks before he touches you—his hand at your waist, then your hip, then lightly over your ribs. You nod, give consent. He smells like good cologne and something sugary, and he’s saying all the right things.

But something feels wrong.

You realize it halfway through the song, when his hand brushes the curve of your waist again, gentle and careful and... wrong. Too polite. Too other.

You think of the way Jack’s fingers had curled between yours. The heat of his palm against yours for a single minute in the elevator. The way he hadn’t touched you anywhere else—but it had felt like everything.

You close your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But you can’t stop comparing.

You’ve danced with this stranger for five whole minutes, and it hasn’t come close to the electricity of the sixty seconds you spent not speaking, not kissing, not touching anything else in the elevator with Jack.

It shouldn’t mean anything but it means everything.

You step back, thanking the guy politely, claiming a bathroom break. He nods, not pushy, already scanning the room.

Samira follows a song change later. "You okay?"

You nod. Then shake your head. Then say, "I think I might be fucked."

Samira just hands you a tissue, already knowing. She looks understanding. Like she sees it, too—and she's not going to mock you for it.

"Yep," she says gently while fixing a stray baby hair by your ear. "Saw it the second Jack joined us for drinks that night."

The night air feels cooler after the club, like the city is exhaling with you. You and Samira walk back toward the rideshare pickup, her arm looped loosely through yours.

You don’t say anything for a long moment. She doesn’t push.

"I don’t even know what it is," you murmur eventually. "I just know when that guy touched me, it felt like wearing someone else’s coat. Warm, sure, but not mine."

Samira hums in agreement. "Jack feels like your coat?"

"No," you sigh. Then, after a beat, quieter, "He feels like the one thing I forgot I was cold without."

She doesn’t say anything. Not right away. Just squeezes your hand. "So what’re you gonna do about it?"

"Scream. Cry. Have a pre-doctoral crisis," you say flatly.

Samira snorts. "So… Tuesday." You bite back a smile, shoving her shoulder lightly but appreciating the comedic diffusion nonetheless.

She exhales through her nose, gentler now. "If it’s any consolation, I see the way he looks at you."

Your eyes flick toward her. She continues, tone still soft, sincere. "Not just that night during drinks, but during your flash talk. I’ve never seen him that… emotive. It was like he was mesmerized. And even back during seminar last year, when he was filling in for Robby? Same thing. I remember thinking, damn, he listens to her like she’s rewriting gravity."

You should feel elated. Giddy. Instead, you bury your face in your hands and emit a sound that can only be described as a dying pterodactyl emitting its final screech. "I hate my fucking life."

"It's going to be okay!" Samira tries to hide her laughter but it comes through anyway, making you laugh through teary eyes. "You will be okay."

You shake your head back and forth, trying to make yourself dizzy in hopes that this was all a dream.

"Who was it that said 'boys are temporary, education is forever?'" Samira all-but-sang.

"Do not quote me right now, Mira," you groan, dragging the syllables like they physically pain you. "I am but a husk with a degree-in-progress."

The week that follows is both everything and nothing. You go to class. You show up to lab meetings. You present clean analyses and nod through questions from the new cohort of freshmen. You even draft two paragraphs of your discussion section. One of three discussion sections. It looks like functioning.

Since submitting the last batch of internship applications, your dissertation committee meetings have gone from once a week with each member to once every three. You'd already run all of your main studies, had all the data cleaned and collated, and even coded all of the analyses you intended on running. Now all that was left was the actual writing and compiling of it all for a neat, hundred-or-so-page manuscript that no one would read.

It’s your first meeting with Jack since flying back from the conference.

In all honesty, you hadn’t given it much thought. Compartmentalization had become a survival strategy, not a skill. It helped you meet deadlines, finish your talk, submit your final batch of internship applications—all while pretending nothing in that elevator happened. At least not in any way that mattered.

Now, seated outside his office with your laptop open and your third coffee in hand, you realize too late: you never really prepared for this part. The after.

You hear the door open behind you. A familiar cadence of steps—steady but slightly uneven. You know that gait.

"Hey," Jack says, as calm and neutral as ever. Like you didn’t almost combust into each other two weeks ago.

You glance up. Smile tight. "Hey."

"Come in?"

You nod. Stand. Follow him inside.

The office is the same as it’s always been—overcrowded with books, one stack threatening to collapse near the filing cabinet. You sit in your usual chair. He sits in his. The silence is comfortable. Professional.

It shouldn’t feel like a loss.

Jack taps a few keys on his laptop. "You sent your methods revisions?"

"Yesterday," you say. "Just a few small clarifications."

He hums. Nods. Clicks something open.

You sip your coffee. Pretend the sting behind your ribs is just caffeine.

The moment stretches.

He finally speaks. "You look… tired."

You smile, faint and crooked. “It’s November.”

Jack lets out a quiet laugh. Then scrolls through the document, silent again.

But the air between you feels thinner now. Like something’s missing. Or maybe like something’s waiting.

He reads.

You watch him.

Not just glance. Not just notice. Watch.

Your coffee cools in your hands, untouched.

He doesn't ask why you weren't at the symposium he moderated. Or if you were running on caffeine and nerves from recent deadlines. And definitely not why you booked an earlier flight home from the conference.

You search his face like it might hold an answer—though you’re not entirely sure what the question is. Something about the last two weeks. The way he hasn’t said anything. The way you haven’t either. The way both of you pretended, remarkably well, that everything was the same.

But Jack’s expression doesn’t change. Not noticeably. He just skims the screen, fingers occasionally tapping his trackpad. The glow from his monitor traces the line of his jaw.

Still, you keep looking. Like maybe if you study him hard enough, you’ll find a hint of something there.

A crack. A tell. A memory.

But he stays unreadable.

Professional.

And you hate that it hurts.

It eats at you.

Why does it hurt?

You knew better than to let this happen. To let it get this far. This was never supposed to be anything other than professional, clinical, tidy. But somewhere between all the late-night edits and long silences, the boundaries started to blur like ink in water.

You tell yourself to turn it off. That part in your brain responsible for—this—whatever it was. Romantic projection, limerence, foolishness. You’d diagnose it in a heartbeat if it weren’t your own.

You just need to get through this meeting. This last academic year. Then you'd be somewhere far away for internship, and then graduated. That’s all.

Then you could go back to pretending you’re fine. That everything was okay.

The entire time you’d been staring—not at Jack, not directly—but just past his shoulder, toward the bookshelves. Not really seeing them. Just trying to breathe.

Jack had already finished reading through your edits. He read them last night, actually—when your email came through far too late. He’d learned to stay up past his usual bedtime about two weeks into joining your committee.

But he wasn’t just reading. Not now.

He was watching. Noticing the subtle shifts in your brow, the tension at the corners of your mouth. You didn’t look at him, but he didn’t need you to.

Jack studied people for a living. He’d made a career out of it.

And right now, he was studying you.

You snap yourself out of it. A light head bobble. A few quick blinks. A swallow. "All done?" you ask, voice dry. Almost nonchalant, like you hadn’t been staring through him trying to excavate meaning.

Jack lifts an eyebrow, subtle, but nods. "Yeah. Looks solid."

You nod back. Like it’s just another meeting. Like that’s all it ever was.

Then you close your laptop a little too quickly. "I think I’m gonna head out early, I don’t feel great," you offer, keeping your tone breezy, eyes still somewhere over his shoulder.

Jack doesn’t call you on it. Not outright.

But he watches you too long. Like he’s flipping through every frame of this scene in real time, and none of it quite adds up.

"Alright," he says finally. Even. Quiet. "Feel better."

You nod again, already halfway to the door.

You don’t look back.

"Hey—" Jack’s voice catches, right as the door swings shut.

Your hand freezes on the handle.

You hesitate.

But you don’t turn around.

Just one breath.

Then you keep walking.

You make it halfway down the hall before you realize your hands are shaking.

Not much. Barely. Just enough that when you fish your phone out of your coat pocket to check the time, your thumb slips twice before you unlock the screen.

He’d called your name.

And maybe that wouldn’t mean anything—shouldn’t mean anything—except Jack Abbot isn’t the type to call out without a reason. You’ve worked with him long enough to know that. Observed him enough in clinical and classroom settings. Hell, you’ve studied men like him—hyper-controlled, slow to show their hand. You’d written an entire paper on the paradox of behavioral inhibition in high-functioning trauma survivors and then realized, two weeks into seminar, that the paragraph on defensive withdrawal could’ve been subtitled See: Jack Abbot, Case Study #1.

You’d meant to file that away and forget it.

You haven’t forgotten it.

And now you're walking fast, maybe too fast, through the undergrad psych wing like the answer might be waiting for you in your lab inbox or the fluorescence of your office.

You don’t stop until you’re behind a locked door with your laptop powered off and your hands braced on either side of your desk.

You breathe.

In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

Again.

Still—when you close your eyes, you see the look on his face.

That same unreadable stillness.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Like he knew something else. And maybe—maybe—you did too.

298 notes · View notes

hivemuthur · 2 days ago

Note

Hello, I am here to be freaky and gross, buuut... since we had Viktor keeping reader's underwear... what if we had reader keep something of Viktor's? Like a garment or a pen... perhaps using it for comfort and... other activities... (you know what I mean.)

And of course Viktor finds out one way or another and things get even freakier.

Hi Anon! Reader keeping something of Viktor's? ✅ Using it for... something? ✅ Viktor finding out and things get freakier? ✅ Here's your fic!

I Think That He Knows

viktorxfem!reader explicit! freaky Reader, but Viktor keeps up. Some disgusting yearning, mutual pining, scent kink, clothing theft, a little bit of soft-dom Viktor, grinding, underwear smelling :v I've set this during the last year of uni.

word count: 4K

author’s note: Okay, in an unexpected turn of events we have a sniffer Reader, sexting will come though, I promise! I dedicate this to @crimsonlegend, the official president of cravat appreciation club :v This was brainstormed with @rennethen, my beloved wife! I would bathe in this man's sweat and I'm not even exaggerating.

—

Eyelids heavy enough that no match could keep them open, you sink into the chair, chin cradled in your hand as your gaze idly follows the movement of Viktor’s pen through the tight crack of light. The hour is late enough that the library should have emptied, yet neither of you moves to leave.

It’s a constant battle of wits—tonight’s opponents: your endurance versus the unbearable longing. An ouroboros of torment, where the more endurance you have, the better you can perform restraint—but once it slips and gives way to that slow, dreamy state of mind, the longing overtakes, unguarded. Soon, your eyes slip—up, up his hand to his elbow, tracing the line of his arm, all the way to the ultimate bane of your existence: his neck.

Your absolute woe—the space on Viktor’s body seemingly crafted for your whiffling nose, or your lips, or perhaps even your fingers, if you dared be so bold. His cravat is loosened. The collar of his shirt gapes at the throat. You can see the little notch where his neck meets his shoulder. The tendons shift when he swallows. His pulse flutters visibly under pale skin, and your eyes—traitorous things—keep returning to it.

He stays focused, scribbling something in the margin of a notebook, lips pursed, jaw working as he thinks. All the while, you are being siren-called by that sliver of skin. The curl at his nape is slightly damp. A wisp clings to him, more memory than hair.

You almost gasp when his fingers creep into the periphery of your vision—curling around the knot and pulling, unspooling the fabric. His collar gapes further. You’re nearly cross-eyed trying not to look. His voice comes soft, distracted, like steam easing from a kettle:

“I think I’m missing something… are you still with me?”

“Huh?” You jerk upright a little too fast, the sound catching in your throat. Heat flares up your neck as you scramble to recover. “Yes, yes. Just… tired.”

He hums, unconvinced but not unkind. Rolling the cravat in his hands, he flattens it with absent fingers before placing it neatly on the table between you. “Will you endure a little bit longer, or would you like to wrap up?”

“I will do my best.”

“Alright then.” He pushes himself up from the chair, movements careful. The rustle of paper and creak of wood. He pauses to stretch—his shirt pulling just enough to make your eyes follow—and then gestures vaguely over his shoulder as he turns. “Give me a minute.”

You stay frozen. A statue of want, carved from hunger and too many nights of watching that cravat loosen thread by thread. His absence leaves the table hollow. The shape of him lingers, ghost-heavy.

Your gaze trails after him, stalking the shift of his shoulders until the shelves consume him. He turns into the mechanical engineering section and vanishes behind cracked leather spines and oil-scented paper. The click of his cane follows—a metronome ticking down the seconds of your resolve.

This is the real trial. Not exams. Not thesis deadlines or sleepless nights with textbooks and too-little coffee. No—this. The simple distance of a metre and the war of what’s yours to want and what’s not yours to take.

Your fingers twitch in your lap, then still. Again, they twitch. Then rise—hesitating over the cloth like it’s a wound that bleeds heat and memory. The cravat lies there, spent and spiralled, soft silk. It smells like him, you know it does. Like soap and starched linen and something warm beneath it all—him. His skin. His neck.

You imagine pressing your face into it. Just once. Just once. Just for a second, a breath, to inhale and be full of him.

You imagine more. The cloth curled in your fist under covers. You imagine sighing into it, open-mouthed and shameless, tongue thick with the ghost of him, hips rolling to the memory of his voice in your ear saying your name.

The cane clicks again—closer now and time snaps tight around you. Without another thought, you move—one decisive sweep. The garment disappears into your bag and your hand falls flat on top of it. Palm burning, heart frantic.

When he returns, he finds you exactly where he left you—almost.

The rest of the evening blurs—notes skimmed, pages turned without reading, the crackle of a candle nearing its stub the only measure of time. Viktor offers you a few more questions, a few more thoughts, but even those seem fainter, abstract, like echoes bouncing off stone. Finally, after one too many silences and a glance that lingers too long on your face, he exhales and concedes. “I suppose it’s late. Let’s get back?”

You nod, heart clanging like a bell in your chest. Is he truly tired, or has he noticed something? Are your cheeks so hot he can feel it radiating from you like nuclear fallout?

The two of you walk in tandem through the dim corridors, footsteps soft and wordless, until the path forks between dormitories. He gives a nod, a small smile, and vanishes around the corner.

As soon as he’s out of sight, your pace doubles. You shoulder the door to your room open, hand already plunging into your bag, rifling down until your fingers brush fabric. It’s there. Still warm. Still real.

Too late for regrets. The door clicks shut behind you. You lean against it, breath hissing from your lungs in one long, trembling sigh.

The cravat comes out soft between your fingers, its fabric catching faint on your skin. You bring it up slowly, hesitant but past saving. It smells—oh, it smells like Viktor. Like clean skin and warmth, the base note of him after hours, worn into the fabric. You press your nose into it, mouth open, breath ragged, and draw the scent in deep. Indulgent. Shameless. Almost a relief, this closeness, like you’ve peeled the ache from your ribs and pressed it into your palms.

Your thighs shift. Heat pulses low and heavy. One hand remains clutched in the silk, the other—well, it moves without orders. Trails down the slope of your stomach, dips between your legs. The contact is electric, almost too much at once, overwhelming. You lean back against the door, knees soft, head tilted. The moan tears itself from your throat without warning, his name catching on it like a hook. “Viktor.”

And that’s when it happens. The knock—sharp, unmistakable—lands like a stone on water.

You jolt, tear your hand away, nearly drop the evidence of your crime of passion. As if burned. As if caught. As if the door is suddenly too thin to contain the guilt blooming in your chest.

Ruling out the impossible you shove the cravat down your vest pocket, clumsy, almost uncaring, though you care greatly. Wipe your forehead, your mouth. One deep breath. You creak the door open.

The impossible stares you in the face. Viktor stands there, hand hung in mid-air, as if about to knock again. He is flushed. Not winded—flushed. Lips parted, eyes sharp with something that has no place in polite friendship. Cheeks dusted pink like the ink spill of an unread letter. He sees you.

And your face, gods, your face—you feel the heat claw up your skin like it’s trying to drag you down. Because he knows. Somehow, he knows.

"Forgive the late hour," he begins, voice rough, not quite steady. "But have you seen—"

Then he stops. His gaze dips. There, traitorous and proud, a white tongue of silk peeks from your vest pocket like it was never meant to hide. Viktor’s eyes glaze over. He takes one step forward, measured. Then, oh—reaches.

You flinch, try to cover your face, fingers fumbling for shame. But he is faster. Cane propped aside, his hand swallows your wrist, gentle but unwavering, and peels you open like folded paper. He plucks your right hand from your face, not missing a beat. You brace for a reckoning. An autopsy of your sins right here, at the threshold of your room.

But he has mercy—he steps inside and swings the door shut with a quiet kick. Then he lifts your hand to his face—and inhales. A low sound slips from him, all breath and gravity, like it costs him something. His lashes flutter shut.

“I heard you,” he whispers, tracing your fingers with his lips, and you wince—try to flinch away, but he won’t let you. “But I didn’t think it possible.”

He stands so close now you can feel the shift of his breath. One hand holds the forsaken cravat, already creased and warm from your grip. The other still wraps around your palm—evidence of everything you were doing just seconds before he knocked. He lifts the fabric slowly, brushing it along your cheek. You lean into it without meaning to, a quiet sigh escaping as your eyes flutter closed.

“W-what?” you whisper.

“Do you like me?” he asks then, soft but direct, as if the answer will change something vital in him.

You open your eyes, startled. “Viktor—”

“Don’t be ashamed,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice low and coaxing. “I like you. But I could never figure it out. You’re so private.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles.

You laugh, dry and breathy. “Oh, that’s because I’ve been working very hard for you not to notice.”

“Why?” he breathes. His brow knits, vulnerable in a way that’s rare for him, and utterly real. “I like you too.”

You hesitate, heart thudding. “Well, we’re friends. Have been for five years. It’s not something you throw away on a whim.”

He lifts the cravat, trails it down the line of your jaw like a ribbon threading through skin, voice quieting. “Where is the whim in here?” he whispers, and finally—he brushes his nose against yours. An inch left. Maybe less.

He leans in—and you panic, not out of doubt, but because of the sheer weight of this moment, this nearness you’ve longed for so painfully. One hand shoots up and covers his mouth.

“Are you sure?” you whisper, eyes wide, your palm trembling against his lips.

Viktor’s gaze softens. He doesn’t answer at first. Instead, he reaches up, gently takes your hand from his face, and brings it to rest against his neck—right there, at the hollow you’ve obsessed over in silence. His skin is warm, his pulse skipping hard under your fingers.

Then he gives it another try and this time there is no barrier. It’s slow lips at first—startled, searching. But it catches like flame to dry grass, all dry mouths and barely restrained hunger. You breathe through your noses, his hand rising to cup the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. His lips press and pull, not sloppy, but wanting. The kind of kiss that knows it will be followed by more. The kind that curls your toes and sends your thoughts skittering from your head like marbles spilled on a floor.

You sigh into him. His arm wraps around your waist and pulls you closer, until your bodies meet fully, chest to chest, heat and want shared through nothing more than breath and fabric and need.

When you part, it’s only because you have to. Both of you gasping, mouths red, eyes glassy. “Do you like me?” he asks again, quieter now. Barely more than a whisper. And it just snaps.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes. gods, yes—I like you.” The words tumble out as your hands clutch his shirt, tugging him back in. You pepper his face with kisses—his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth again. “And you smell so nice,” you add, laughing wetly, a little breathless.

His answering laugh is quiet, and full of something so tender it makes your knees weak. “You smell nice too,” he murmurs, voice husky with heat and something else—relief, maybe. Or disbelief that this is real.

You don’t make it to the bed, neither of you suggests it. Your mouths mould together again somewhere between the doorway and the reading chair by the window, knocking into each other with the gracelessness of hunger. Kisses stretch long and deep, tongues pulling sighs loose and slackening your limbs. Hands fumble at shirt hems, tugging clumsily, not knowing when to part, unwilling to. You trip together, Viktor stumbling slightly as you both move, and you press your mouths hard to stifle the laugh.

And then—there. That holy place. You find it, finally. The space between his shoulder and throat, right where skin softens and heat pools and scent gathers, strong and damp and him. You nose in with a ragged breath, lips parted, tongue brushing salt. A tremor shudders through him and his arms tighten around your waist.

He peels your shirt up and over your head. You return the favour, dragging fabric over his arms, slow so you can watch the flex, the planes of him bared inch by inch. His skin is flushed pink, his chest dusted faintly with hair. His mouth finds your neck in kind, and when he sucks there, teeth scraping just enough, your spine arches like it’s seeking higher ground.

Your hands drift south, undoing the button of his trousers with ungodly urgency. But he pulls back, breath catching, one finger lifting. “This first,” he murmurs, glancing toward his leg.

You freeze, chest hitching, face blooming with heat. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t be.” He smiles, quiet and sure, and bends to unbuckle the brace. It drops to the floor with a dull clink of metal and leather, and he steps out of it, free, all yours.

After that, it’s a shared undressing, wordless. Fingers hooked into waistbands, trousers pushed down thighs, underwear peeled away like sunburnt skin, like secrets.

When you both stand bare, the moment stills—his cock rests flushed against his thigh, undeniably lovely. Reddish and full, curved slightly, veined with that same lattice of want you’ve traced in his throat, his hands, the backs of his knees.

Your fingers follow the sharp cut of his hips—those v-lines taut with restraint—and he groans, low and sharp, when your hands reach back and cup his ass. Clothes scatter underfoot, forgotten, as he lowers into the chair and pulls you into his lap, one hand guiding you with a desperate grace.

With thighs spread to straddle him, knees bracketing his hips, you’re both breathless already, mouths swollen from kissing, your hands tangled in the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. Viktor sits back, spine curved into the hollow of the chair, eyes half-lidded and dark, so dark you wonder how you’ve ever looked away from him.

When your centre settles against his, it’s not quite contact. Just the barest brush—heat meeting heat, wet meeting hard flesh. His cock flexes beneath you, the slick of your lust catching on the head as it nudges forward, cradled against the seam of you.

The chair creaks, and your breath shakes. You rock once, slow. Not even pressure—just presence. The glancing slide of him through your lips, not entering yet. And the sensation is so maddening it borders holy. A private heat, the flushed ache of your cunt meeting his cock like they’ve been aching for it across lifetimes.

Viktor’s hands tighten on your hips, and he groans low. Then, wordlessly, he reaches past you—down to the crumpled heap of his trousers on the floor, fingers searching. You pause, watching him, throat tight with wonder.

When he lifts the pale cloth, it dangles from his hand with a subtle weight—his boxers. “Let’s see,” he says, voice cracked with heat, “if you like how all of me smells.”

He moves slowly, delicately. Draws them up from your shoulder, grazing your collarbone. Trails them up your throat, letting the cloth whisper over your skin. And then he cups your cheek with them, brushing the edge under your nose. And oh—he was right.

It hits you all at once, that scent: Viktor, concentrated. The sharpness of his soap, yes, but buried beneath that something else—warmth, salt, the tang of skin, and beneath it all the soft rot of a body worked hard and yearned for even harder. A hint of sweetness where the fabric kissed the crease of his thigh. You inhale open-mouthed, greedy, shameless.

Your lashes flutter. Head tips back, eyes roll. It is like the cloth itself could render you undone, this second-hand closeness so intimate it borders obscene. A gasping little sound slips out of you—almost a sob for how much you want him.

Viktor watches you with eyes so dark they’ve swallowed the light whole. “Such a filthy girl,” he says, and the phrase drips from his tongue like honey, like he’s discovered a rare fruit he plans to eat with his fingers.

You exhale, laugh breathlessly, unsure if you’re laughing at yourself or at how good it feels to be seen like this. To be held in the soft mouth of his attention and not spat out.

He tucks the cloth beneath your chin, leans in close, and presses his lips to your jaw—open-mouthed, awed.

Your fingers curl around his wrist, knuckles white with want, pinning his hand to your cheek as you press the worn cotton there, breathing him in like you’ll never get enough. Your chest heaves, eyes fluttering open then falling shut again, lashes trembling as the scent floods your skull. Hot, heady, raw. It rolls over you like a fever.

You rock against him slowly, purposely, hips tipping forward in a stuttering rhythm. It’s instinct more than thought—seeking friction, chasing it. The heat of his cock against you, separated by so little, maddens. The slide of skin, the dull pressure, the way your bodies know what to do even as your brain hiccups and stalls.

Viktor groans, strained, hands coming to frame your hips, leaving the holding of his underwear to you. His fingers grip just enough to ground you, thumbs dragging along the jut of your pelvis as he matches your rhythm—helps it. Encourages it. One hand slips around to your lower back, drawing you in tighter with each grind.

His gaze never leaves your face. Watches the haze take you, drink you in—your parted lips, your unfocused eyes, the way your breath snags every time your clit catches on the ridge of him just right. He’s wrecked with it, shaken.

“So pretty,” he rasps, barely audible. “So… gods, what were we doing all this time?”

You whimper something that might be his name. Might be a prayer.

“I should’ve known,” he breathes. “Should’ve followed my nose.”

He leans in then, mouth against your jaw, your cheek, the place behind your ear that makes you shudder. Kisses and breath and heat, all around you, and you keep grinding, brazen, gasping, the fabric still clutched to your face like a reliquary. Your thighs tremble where they frame his, and the heat builds dizzy behind your eyes.

Your arms wind around his neck, fingertips finding purchase in the damp curls at his nape. You drag your mouth open along the column of his throat, just above his pulse, your breath steaming where it lands. “You smell like life itself,” you murmur, devoted, drunk on him. “I love it.” A kiss to the hollow below his ear. “Gods, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Viktor makes a sound—half-choked, half-swallowed. His hips shift beneath you, cock sliding slick through your slit, caught and cradled by your wet heat. He doesn’t push in, no need or no time. The drag of him, hot and heavy against your cunt, is enough to make your thighs quake. Enough to make you keen into his mouth when he kisses you again.

You feel full. Not inside—no breach—but everywhere else. Full of him, of his heat, of his scent. Of the warm, persistent weight of him gliding slow against you with every movement, every breath. His chest pressed to yours, heartbeat thundering where your ribs touch. His breath ragged in your mouth. He’s in your blood now, everywhere, omnipresent.

His hands cradle the back of your neck, thumbs stroking up into your hairline. “Closer,” he mutters, hoarse, voice buried in your skin. “Closer—” as if he doesn’t realise you’re already pressed heart to heart, stomach to stomach, slick joining you where you grind, slow and soaking.

Your bodies melt together, no seam between them. Sweat pearls at your temples and runs down the line of his spine where your fingers trace him blindly. The soft sounds of it—flesh, breath, mouth—fill the room in waves, each crest heavier than the last.

You feel the twitch of him—urgent and uncontrolled—where his cock slides along, dragged by the rhythm of your hips. His stomach is tight beneath yours, muscles drawn taut like string, trembling between the bars of want. The vein in his neck rises under your mouth as he tips his head back, jaw slack, lips bitten vermillion.

“I can’t,” he gasps softly, “I won’t last—”

“Kiss me,” you whisper, panting against his cheek. “Please.”

Viktor obeys instantly—like it’s the only thing he’s ever longed for. His mouth finds yours, warm and trembling, the taste of him the last spark you needed. It breaks something in you—a breath caught sharp in your throat, a tightening low in your belly—and then the snap.

It overtakes you in a long, flooding wave. Your muscles seize, thighs arresting his hips, spine arching. Your moan is swallowed into his mouth, open and dank, tongues clumsy with the rhythm of your shuddering body.

He gasps when you tighten above him—not inside, not quite—but the friction, the warmth, the slick rush of your release pouring onto him is enough. He moans out your name, his cock twitching helplessly where it’s caught between you. You feel it, hot and sudden, the spill of him striping his belly, thick and wet between you both.

Still, you move. Slow, drawn circles of your hips, chasing every aftershock, dragging your folds through the mess of it until Viktor shudders and groans—“Please,”—high and wrecked, trembling under your weight.

You kiss him through it. Through the bliss, through the overwhelmed whimper. Through his lashes fluttering and the flush climbing to his ears. You kiss him like he’s the only thing keeping you afloat, and he kisses you back like you’re something sacred.

There’s no line anymore between where he ends and you begin—just sweat and sighs and the unbearable sweetness of finally, finally having each other.

You don’t move far. Just shift your weight enough to nuzzle into his jaw, his cheekbone, dragging your face over the slick of his skin. You’re gathering him: his sweat, his scent, the salt-heat of his body, rubbing it into your own like a fevered benediction.

“I want to smell like you always,” you murmur, voice hoarse with truth. “Everywhere. On my skin, in my sheets, under my nails.”

Viktor’s breath catches, soft and stunned.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” you go on, fingers slipping into his hair to pull it back, so you can kiss the line where his jaw meets his throat. “How long I’ve stared. Dreamed. Gods, Viktor. I just—”

“I think I know,” he interrupts gently, one hand rising to cover yours, to press your palm deeper to his chest, right over his thudding heart. “I just wish I knew sooner.” Your eyes close. The confession hums between you, warm and bright, like the filament of a bulb not yet burned out. When you open them again, you’re still in his arms, still tangled in the sweat and spent longing of what used to be wanting—and is now it’s yours.

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x f!reader #viktor x oc #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation #requests

226 notes · View notes

luckycheesefoodie321 · 2 days ago

Text

Yall the way I kept repeating that one moment where Jinshi asks Shenlu where Maomao was

I was like… why is his voice different here? It’s so deep. Did he get new VA? I kept repeating the scene bc something about it hit so different from every other time.

Then I was like there’s something else going on. He sounds way more demanding and authoritative. Like this is not cunning Jinshi telling off that one lady in waiting. This is someone entirely different. He’s lost all sense of formality or politeness to his tone as well. He wasn’t using keigo. It was literally only a short sentence but it was so clearly not like him. Except it was him. The true him.

Dude was fully crashing out and his true voice coming through all bc Maomao had been missing for so long. Like we got SO MUCH internal monologue from him this episode. Him now saying Maomao in his head sounded so intimate.

Ka Zuigetsu was fully ready to step out of the Jinshi skin. His voice was so much deeper and more demanding than Jinshi’s. Regardless of his true character, Jinshi was born a crown prince. He was used to making demands and giving orders. Obviously he never wanted to pursue that, hence pretending to be a high ranking eunuch.

Even when he calmed down and put on the Jinshi voice, it suddenly sounded unnatural? Bc he couldn’t stay calm and he couldn’t truly sit back into his character as Jinshi.

He could not get a damn grip on himself. Usually when strange schemes are afoot, he’d be a lot more composed. But dude yelled at a traumatised old woman, who was a victim of the previous emperor. Then he grabbed the face of a maidservant just trying to do what she was ordered to do and scared her so bad, another lady in waiting had to intervene. “Where is Concubine Loulan?!” combined with his contorting facial expression was genuinely scary!

I hear the light novel is in a fun place/has been in a fun place with the JinMao relationship, but this angsty yearning “who did this to you?!” energy is so much fun to watch as an anime-only.

#spoilers #manga #anime #the apothecary diaries #jinmao #Jinshi #ka zuigetsu #Maomao

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enjakey · 1 day ago

Text

Through Plastic Screens

Pairing: Niki x Fem!Reader

Old fic (8k) being reposted AGAIN. Not plagiarised guys, it’s the same person. I literally cry every time I reread this. It’s gotta be one of my favourite fics I’ve written.

There’s so much yearning, so much slow burn- and I chose to hurt myself by writing this.

Summary: in which Niki, enhypen’s baby, falls in love with a fan, Y/N. And somehow, through all the tribulations of life, they stay in touch. Calls, texts, videos and pictures- it was all they ever knew of each other, how they fell in love. But how long would this last, pining for each other through plastic screens? But they refuse to leave each other’s lives- even ten years later, when they’re old enough to get married and have stable careers.

Read the extra HERE

There were many things about Y/N that Niki admired. He liked her habit of twirling locks of her hair around her finger whenever she spoke nervously, the ritual serving her endearing and beautiful features. He liked how her hair fell to her waist in waves that reminded him of a sunny day on the beach and palm trees with coconuts. He liked the twinkle in her eyes while she spoke to him, myriad anecdotes and jokes hidden behind her irises to share. He liked her fingers, supple and lean while he held them with cautious and almost shaky hands. He also liked her sense of fashion, simple and clean with the smallest pops of vibrant and neon colours that appeared in her jewellery or her shoes.

Then there was her laugh, joyous and juvenile whenever he made a joke yet the back of her hand would always hide her smile, which he imagined was captivating as well. He thought her voice was enchanting, casting some sort of spell on him that made him repeat every syllable she had ever spoken in his head like a beautiful broken tape record; like he had found his new favourite song and would listen to it on repeat until he got sick of it and would wait until he heard her say more sentences that he could repeat in his head. He found it fascinating that she wanted to study planetary sciences once graduating high school, making him realise she was smart and ambitious with great hopes for the future.

He could tell she was a shy girl by the way she would be at a loss of words with some of the things he said. He could also tell that she was the type of person to have very few friends by the way she talked about school and any experiences she thought to mention. He wasn’t judging her, but rather applauding her kind and caring personality, a personality built so graciously out of rose petals and tufts of clouds. He knew, just by the way she listened to him intently with curious eyes, that she was the girl that jumped to help any friend in need. And he also knew that she didn’t have anyone in her life who would be there for her when she needed it, regardless of whether she asked for support or not.

While talking to her, he felt like he was her knight in shining armour. He held her hand between his palms and he felt as though he was protecting her from all the misery anyone would and could bring her throughout the rest of her life. Her violet sundress was suddenly transformed into a period gown and her hair was curled to perfection, styled into what he would imagine princesses and queens used to wear back in the days of royalty. He felt as though they were riding away into the sunset on a horse, hand in hand while her sweet laughter of relief echoed into the background. She looked at him like he was a saviour, her saviour, and he wished to play that character for longer than he would be an idol.

Niki noticed and thought of everything previously mentioned in the span of eight minutes. If he was forced to be precise, it was exactly seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds. It was the total amount of time he had ever spent with her and there was little to no chance he would meet her, or see her, ever again. Because he met Y/N during an off-line fan signing and he found himself being swept off his feet by a simple conversation with a girl almost his age, visiting Korea with her parents for vacation and making use of her only chance to meet the members of her favourite boy group. By his luck, he just so happened to be her favourite member- her bias.

There wasn’t a time in his career of being a kpop idol that he felt insecure. He had always known that he was attractive, fitting the standards of modern male beauty which were enhanced by the mole on his chin and his boxy smile. But that day, after he got home from the fan-signing, Niki spent hours staring at himself in the mirror, brushing his fingers over his chin and nose and jawline, wondering if he truly was attractive and worthy enough to be favorited by Y/N and wondering if she only biased him in their similarities in age and nothing else. His hands carded through his hair, letting it fall messily past his forehead and temples and assessing whether it suited him or not and recalling if the wind had ruined it all while he was talking to her. He hoped and prayed to God, someone he didn’t even believe in, that she didn’t regret meeting him that day and that she was more in love with him by the end of their interaction because he was being himself, saying things most people would say to an old friend with trust and security and comfort. He felt comfortable around her, free like he could be himself without the curse of judgement looming over him. And he smiled freely and naturally with her without the presence of awkwardness like it was with everyone else he met that day. He could sense her aura, this pull about her that made him feel like he could do and say anything in front of her and she wouldn’t think of him any less.

He hoped his judgement of character wasn’t wrong.

Niki was part of a couple of offline fan signings till now. He had met a lot of people- girls who squealed at the sight of him and complimented him every chance they got, but he never met someone like Y/N . He never met anyone that could intrigue and endear them as much as she did, fluster him with a bat of her eyelids and a tilt of her head. He didn't think eyes of curiosity could have such a hold on him, pushing and encouraging him to speak more about himself due to the care and solace that lay underneath. A part of him was convincing himself that he would meet more girls like her as he lived on. He would meet more people like her and make him want to be himself and that people like her could be found anywhere if he simply looked in the right places. But the more he thought about it, the more he realised how that person wouldn’t be Y/N . They wouldn’t have the same hair as her or the same smile, skin, nose and eyes. He just wanted it to be Y/N.

He spent weeks thinking about her, hoping to bump into her every time he walked into a convenience store or travelled past a tourist attraction and looked around to see if he could spot her posing somewhere while her parents took pictures of her. He even bought her a necklace from one of those stalls on the streets, thinking it would be a romantic gesture if he gave it to her the next time he’d see her. But alas, no matter how much he wished to catch another glimpse of her or hear her voice for another second, Y/N was probably back in whichever country she came from and all he was left with was her name and an exchange that lasted seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

Between the third week of Niki wishing for Y/N , sadness had crashed into him like a wave, along with the tides of realization that his emotions would forever stay unrequited and unconfessed. He would brood over his schedules and drag himself around with a frown or heavy eyes. His shoulders were often slumped and his enthusiasm while playing video games with Heeseung or Jake disappeared. His only form of distraction and an outlet for his frustration became dancing, as it always had been since he was a child, and he found himself spending extended hours in the dance studio, running and jumping and even yelling throughout choreographies. It was like one day he was a boy filled with so much hope and love and now he was grieving over something that never was.

His change in behaviour didn’t go unnoticed by anyone. The management once scolded him for not showing enough enthusiasm during a V-Live and the rest of the members became officially concerned when he let the chance to make a perfectly timed joke slip by. It was painful watching the boy tut and sneer at things that would normally bring him joy- gaming, food, football and even watching horror movies with Sunoo. Every night he would come home, he would mumble his greetings to anyone else in the house and go straight to bed. Sometimes he'd skip dinner, other times he'd skip breakfast and on days where his schedule was empty, he'd lay in bed all day, watching a show while not even bothering to shower.

It took two days for Jay to beat out a confession from Niki, where he finally cried out his longing for a girl that was equivalent to a stranger. He weeded and sobbed and his eyes grew red and puffy and his body trembled while he dealt with emotions he couldn't understand because it was all so unfamiliar, so unheard of for someone to manifest such deep sentiment towards strangers. Y/N was equivalent to a girl he'd find attractive walking down the street and she was equivalent to any classmate of his he remembered from kindergarten yet here he was, curled up into a ball while his Hyung patted his head and told him that feeling confused and lost was an appropriate reaction to the predicament he put himself in.

The seven of them convinced the management to let them go out for dinner that night. They went to a Korean Barbeque not too far into the city, one which Niki used to always say he wanted to try out. Two guards stood in front of their table, standing high and mighty to make sure no one but the waiters interacted with them. The restaurant was fairly bustling, smoke filling the atmosphere along with the smell of grilled pork and lamb. From the corners of their eyes, they could tell some of the other customers recognised them, feeling sneaky cameras pointing toward them and groups of college students snickering and whispering about their presence.

Niki was talkative after a long time, contributing to whatever topic Jake was spouting about and making fun of Sunghoon when he got the chance. He ate properly after a long time, even accepting when Sunoo reached over the table to feed him enoki mushrooms. He seemed like himself after a long time and he was confiding in them, telling them about Y/N and the little things he could recall about her- her dangly earrings, silver chain around her wrist and neck and pastel yellow nails. Then he told them about his pining for her, how he spent hours trying to look for her on social media and how he carried around the necklace he bought for her in hopes of finding her someday.

“Do you have it with you right now?” Jungwon asked out of curiosity.

Niki nodded, reaching into the pocket of his jeans to pull out a slim silver chain with the pendant of a vibrant sunflower. It reflected against the tube lights hanging above them, twinkling and mirroring shades of yellow onto the white wall. The group was awed at the piece of jewellery, wondering how much it must have cost and hoping it wouldn’t go to waste. They gasped even louder when they were told that he bought it from a street vendor.

“This is stupid, right?” he said as Jungwon took the necklace from him, allowing Jay and Heeseung to admire it with him. “I mean, I’ve only known her for eight minutes and I’m so head over heels for her. Like, I’ve got to be stupid.”

“Yeah, you’re like the twenty-first-century Romeo,” Jake snickered, clicking his chopsticks together before earning a slap on the arm from Sunoo.

“Someone tell me I’m stupid,” Niki drooped his shoulders and looked around the group.

Jay cleared his throat, swallowing the last of his food. “You’re stupid,” he deadpanned and narrowed his eyes.

“Ok, that didn’t help,” Niki rolled his eyes and slumped into his seat.

“Dude, if you wanna get over her, the first thing you need to do is get rid of that necklace,” Sunoo pointed his chopsticks at Niki, a look of promise and determination on his face.

“Why would that work?” Niki asked.

“It’s like a form of cleansing,” Sunoo enthused, his voice softening as his hands. Everyone turned to look at him, some fighting the urge to laugh and others furrowing their brows in confusion. Upon noticing this, Sunoo raised his brows and tutted. “I’m serious! It’s the first step of letting go. Once Niki throws the necklace away, he’ll feel like he doesn’t owe her anything anymore and he can start to slowly move on from her.”

“And where did you get this from?” Sunghoon threw his head back in laughter. “From some k-drama?”

“No,” Sunoo jutted his bottom lip forward, puffing his cheeks. “My sister,” he looked down as though he was embarrassed as the rest of them burst into laughter.

“So you want me to throw this necklace away?” Niki confirmed and Sunoo nodded.

Jake was now holding the necklace, holding it towards the light and admiring it as though it was a crystalline diamond. The petals were a flaxen yellow, its small stem and leaf drenched in lush green. “This is a beautiful necklace, though,” he mumbled but was ignored as everyone was caught up in convincing Niki to throw it away and start anew. They were bustling like bees, arguing and urging in hushed noises so the guards wouldn’t hear while Niki sat silently, appalled by the only choice he was given.

“But what if I do see her again?” He reasoned.

“But do you really think it will happen?” Heeseung asked. “If you wholeheartedly do, then fair enough,” he shrugged.

“A huge part of me knows I’ll never see her again,” Niki sighed, looking to his side. “But I keep hoping that maybe fate will bring us together, you know? Like she’s not the only girl I’ve ever liked but she’s the only girl I’ve ever felt so strongly for. Isn’t it so pathetic of me? Right now, I’m wishing that she’ll walk through that door…”

Just then, the ring of the entry bell cut through Niki’s cinematic speech. For an instant, the entire restaurant ceased to silence and Niki’s gaze drifted towards the door. He first noticed a hand that held the door open, then her hair which was swaying to the side as she looked over her shoulder. Then she stepped into the restaurant, a smile glimmering under white lights and when her face came into view, Niki’s mouth parted, chin gapping as he soaked in the reality of the moment. The rest of the group turned in the direction he was looking, Sunghoon nudging Jake’s side so he would look away from the necklace and at the girl standing three tables away from them. All eyes were on her and Niki was shifting off his chair, slowly standing on his feet with mesmerised eyes and parted lips, an arm lifting so his finger could meekly point towards her.

“Y/N,” he breathed.

By hearing that, Jake’s brows raised, eyes widening with a gaping mouth. His chopsticks pointed at the necklace held in his hand and then at the girl everyone was staring at, his gaze focused on Jungwon who nodded enthusiastically, confirming his doubt. Sunghoon looked between Niki and Y/N , wondering what would happen next and Heeseung looked amazed, thinking about how the boy’s wish practically came true. It was too much of a coincidence, one that would go down the history book of romance. They all might as well be the side characters to a k-drama, watching the hero finally meet the heroine after an unfortunate incident.

“Y/N?” Niki’s head tilted to the side, brows furrowing like he was confused, refusing to accept that after four weeks of looking and wishing and pining she was standing right there, in front of him, under the same roof as him, breathing the same air scents as him.

She was dragging her parents to a table on the other end of the restaurant, a waiter guiding them with welcoming smiles and handing them an English menu. Niki’s eyes followed them as they took their seats. Y/N was smiling like she was on top of the world, hair bouncing around as she talked about something that made her father laugh and her mother shake her head in disappointment. She had on a different pair of earrings, as far as he could see, but she wore the same rings, bracelets and necklace from the last time he saw her.

“Am I dreaming?” Niki said, blinking profusely and pinching himself to feel some sort of sensation- he flinched and yelped in surprise. “Am I seeing things?”

“Is she wearing white jeans and a white tank top with designs of some anime character in red?” Jay raised a brow.

“Yeah.”

“She’s real,” he patted Niki’s back twice.

“Y/N!” Niki snatched the necklace away from Jake’s hand and sped away from the table. Sunghoon and Jungwon called out for him but nothing but her laugh was audible to him as he jogged towards her with no clear aim or plan in his head.

He didn’t know what he was going to say to her and he didn’t know how he was going to introduce himself to her parents without sounding like a love-struck idiot. All he knew was that he was impatient to speak to her again, to hear her words directed towards him and hear her laugh at his jokes and pick-up lines. His wishes were finally coming true, all the energy he spent drooping and whining over finally becoming worth something and as he came closer to her, his smile grew wider, a youthful excitement hovering over his head as his heart beat faster than it did while performing in front of a crowd of millions.

His signature boxy smile appeared on his face when he finally reached her table, chest heaving up and down as he tried catching his breath. Y/N noticed him with wide eyes, a tinge of fear flashing across her eyes when her parents turned their heads to find a tall boy dressed in swanky clothes with styled hair. “Niki?” She said, stunned by his presence.

“Hi,” he said, waving his hand at the group of three.

“Who are you?” Her father pointed a mean finger at him, silently asking him to walk away.

“Is he from that boy band you went to meet?” Her mother spoke softly, eyes darting between her dumbfounded daughter and awkward celebrity that was equivalent to a stranger.

“Yeah, he is,” Y/N cleared her throat. “You’re… why? How? I don’t even know what to say… why are you here?”

“I need to talk to you,” Niki said, frankly. He gulped down a lump in his throat while he tried ignoring the flashing glares her father gave him.

“What is going on?” He demanded.

“I don’t know!” Y/N brought her palms to her temples, feeling a rush of blood flow to her cheeks in embarrassment.

“Please?” Niki met Y/N ’s eyes for the first time that night and time seemed to slow for a second. His eyes were glassy, her words stuck in her throat.

“Yeah,” she cleared her throat and hastily apologised to her parents. “I’ll be back.”

Niki pulled Y/N out of the restaurant by her hand and she followed him while almost tripping on her feet. They stood near one of the windows, looking at one another for a few seconds, pacing around their feet. It was chilly and she shivered, teeth clattering as she wrapped her arms around herself. To keep her mind distracted from the fact that she was standing in front of her idol, her celebrity crush, she thought about how she should have listened to her mother and worn something with full sleeves and gotten a jacket.

“Are you cold?” He asked while removing his trench coat. “Here,” he said, handing it to her, comfortably standing in the cold with a shirt and knitted vest.

“Niki… what is all this?” She took the jacket from him, gaze not leaving his as she put it on and hugged it against her torso. “Normally, I would take a minute to be talking to you because you’re a kpop star and all that and honestly, any girl would be freaking out at the moment and even I am internally but I’m also really confused because you still remember my name and I didn’t think you would remember my name because you have more important things to remember and it’s really an honour-”

“You’re blabbering,” Niki grinned, tilting his head downwards so he could get a better look at her. He was towering over her, his hair falling onto his forehead and hands stuffed into his pockets to form an infatuated aura about him. She was also intimidated by him, her nerves only being eased by the jacket covering her arms. “Do you do that when you’re nervous?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, chewing the inside of her cheek. She was fighting the urge to meddle with her hair because if she did, then the jacket would loosen around her and she would feel cold. Instead, she would occasionally brush stray strands of her hair away from her hair.

“That’s alright. And please, call me Riki instead”

Niki didn’t know what to say anymore. The girl of practically his dreams was standing in front of him and he had all the freedom to do or say whatever he wanted but he didn’t know how to. He was shy, even embarrassed by his emotions as he looked at the girl in front of him, wondering how he was going to explain what he had been feeling for the past four weeks. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the rest of his members trying to stealthily peek at the pair from the window and he almost scowled.

She noticed the change in his expression and she looked over to find that all of them were there. Jay and Sunghoon were seated closest to the window so she could see them clearly eyeing them, observing their every move. Behind them were Jake, Sunoo and Jungwon and she could catch a glimpse of Heeseung nudging himself closer to the window so he could watch what the youngest of them was doing and acting. Realising that Y/N had caught them peeping, they all turned away and attempted to pretend like they had been eating and minding their own business all along.

“Oh, God,” she said, turning back to him in panic. “This just makes me more nervous. They’re all watching? Holy shit-”

“No, no, don’t worry,” Niki frantically shook his hands in front of him. “You don’t need to be nervous, they don’t mean any harm. I can take you to meet them if you’d like?”

“No, that’s really not necessary,” she chuckled awkwardly. “I’m a bit too shy for that.”

“It’s alright,” he said. “They all still remember talking to you during that fan signing, too.”

“Really?” she awed.

“Yeah, really.”

“It’s a miracle I’m not freaking out right now,” she grinned, leaning her head to the side. “So, why did you want to speak to me anyway?”

“Well,” Niki started, looking to his feet as he formed his words in his head.

“What is it?” She urged.

“I don’t know how to put this easily.”

“Well, then, just say it how you’re comfortable with it. You dragged me outside so you might as well just say it,” she chuckled with comforting eyes, her toothy smile soothing his nerves.

“Y/N , I really like you.”

Niki didn’t know how he let the words roll off his tongue so nonchalantly but he supposed his confidence made him look more attractive. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and darted his eyes around the changes in her face. Her brows slowly raised as she comprehended his words and her eyelids fluttered before her eyes grew to the size of baseballs. Her mouth opened and closed in repeat like she wanted to say something or spew out words of puzzlement but she couldn’t bring herself to. In the end, she was a stuttering mess, eyes glued to him and scared to shift her gaze.

“And I’d really like it if we could meet again tomorrow,” Niki added, in hopes of getting an answer from her.

There was a loud silence that followed. Y/N ’s mouth zipped shut and she pushed another lump of dread down her throat. A breeze blew past them, swaying their hair and bringing a few dried leaves to circle around them. It truly felt as though they were transported into a cliche scene from a romantic k-drama where the hero and heroine would be caught up in some quarrel but would end their argument by confessing their feelings for each other. But this was reality, as much as it felt like a dream, and the universe usually worked against the bigger pictures they dreamt for themselves.

“Riki, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

In the five years Niki worked as a kpop idol, he had met many people from celebrities and influential members of politics and media to the fans that he adored so much and in those five years, Y/N was the only friend he made that wasn’t part of his group. He had known her for a little over three years, their friendship solely based on physical interactions that lasted a whopping seventeen minutes, texts that went on for days and calls that started in the middle of the night and ended by sunrise. At the end of every day, despite their differences in time zones, they would text each other about their days, giving each other an insight into the most mundane details of their schedules and families. If Niki wasn’t tired and if Y/N was free, they would call during his night and her afternoon, sometimes watching a movie together or talking about something that would be deemed irrelevant the next hour.

Calls and texts were rare and if it weren’t for Y/N ’s patience and understanding nature, they probably wouldn’t even be friends. She cherished every moment she could spend with him, caring for him in the only form she could through the plastic screens of her phone and laptop. She would check on him every once in a while, listen to him when he ranted about homesickness or the hecticness of his schedule and she even sent him care packages every six months. The sunflower pendant he bought for her all those months ago never left her neck and the jacket he let her borrow would be on her shoulders every time winter came. Niki would update her about his day through random pictures and snippets of videos he would take in between work and travelling. He also had a habit of sending terribly long voice notes filled with conversations between him and some of the other members. There was a bracelet of hers that she had given him the last time they met. The black and white beads stayed on his wrist no matter where he went or what he was wearing. It was little things like such that kept them close despite the distance between them and despite going days or weeks without speaking sometimes. They had the type of friendship that people wished they had, the type of friendship teenagers would grow jealous over.

Yet, Niki was always disappointed with how their relationship never progressed from friends.

In all honesty, he knew they would never work out as a couple. His career in the kpop industry strengthened and monumented by the day and he was already starting to make plans for his future for the days when he wouldn't be performing on stage and recording albums anymore. There lay a lot of pressure on his shoulders, along with odds stacked against his hopes for finding love. Y/N was fully focused on building herself a career in astronomy, studying extra hours and assisting as her professor's subordinate. She even worked internships, her talent and knowledge solidifying her career before she even graduated college. There was still a long road of schools and programs she had to finish before she could call her career something to be proud of and getting into a relationship, especially one that was online, would be a risk for both of them.

There were things they expected and needed from a significant other that they couldn't offer each other through texts and calls, which weren't even as consistent as they would like them to be. They wouldn't be able to go on dates and get to know how they would act if they were physically in front of each other. They wouldn't be able to hug, hold hands or kiss as normal couples do. They wouldn't be able to console each other on bad days because sometimes, words and random memes pulled from Pinterest just weren't enough.

So, despite how much they hated it, they would stay friends, online friends, until some miracle brought Y/N to Korea or Niki to America, where she was studying.

There were times Niki would hope he would find another fan to fall in love with the way he found Y/N . During meet and greets, he would cautiously and meticulously plan questions to ask the people that came to meet him in hopes of replacing the emptiness Y/N had left in his heart. But there was no other like her. He met girls that were bold and confident and he met girls that were smart enough to graduate from all the Ivy leagues. He even met girls that were sweet and kind and didn't have the heart to hurt a fly but they weren't Y/N and they didn't have her smile or that particular twinkle in their eyes and he had eventually given up.

"You know I've always loved you."

Niki was hiding under the covers, pressing his phone between his ear and the pillow and speaking in hushed whispers so he wouldn't wake his Hyungs. It was past one am for him and Y/N had just gotten back to her dorm after spending a day in the research lab with a classmate. They were both tired but could muster up enough energy to call for the first time again in a month. She moved to stand on her balcony, letting warm air hit her wind as she held her phone to her cheek.

"I know, Riki," she breathed. "You know I love you too."

"I've been thinking of all the possibilities of us being together and I just can't see it happening unless one of us sacrifices our careers."

She could hear his voice crack, soft whispers becoming broken mumbles as he continued speaking. She would be lying if she hadn't thought the same but she had always put it off, hoping for some miracle to take place so that one day she would find herself in his arms, put each other to sleep and waking each other up to the rays of sunshine protruding through curtains. But that would never happen, just like how they would never have their first hug, first kiss or first date together. Not now, at least.

"I've thought about it too," she twirled a lock of her hair around her finger and leaned against the railings. "We've talked about us getting into a relationship before. We know it's not a good idea. I'm fine staying just the way we are, you know?"

"I know, Y/N ," he sniffled. "But there's only so long either of us can wait for the impossible to happen, right?"

"What are you getting at?"

"I don't want to be hurt anymore over you and I don't want you wasting your hopes over me either."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm trying to say that if I end up finding someone else that I like, I'm going to try and move on and I think you should do the same."

Whenever Niki would go through an exceptionally bad day, he would put himself to sleep by watching a funny video of Y/N that he'd saved in his gallery. Some were videos of herself that she sent, shot by one of her friends while she said something comedic or did something regrettable. Other videos were filmed by himself, screen recordings of their video calls together while she did something stupid and childish for the sake of passing time or making laughter. These videos would usually wipe the tears or frown off his face and have him fall asleep with a smile but he didn't bother to do that after he hung up the phone with her that night. He roughly shoved his phone under his blanket and buried his face in his pillow, a string of sobs and cries muffled into it while he punched his clenched fists into the mattress.

He had awoken everyone at one point, yelling a string of profanities that made his Hyungs jump out of bed and run to his aid. He cried minimally but the salt tracks on his cheeks looked permanent. His hand stuck to the area over his chest where his heart resided, complaining about the fact that it physically hurt and taking painkillers didn't help him either. Jay and Heeseung sat with him until the sun rose, keeping him distracted with as much conversation as they could and even offered to play a game of football in the hall if he was interested.

The next two months were filled with minimal texts and pictures from his side. While she would blow up his phone with texts and pictures of updates about her life, he would respond with a few emojis and a short text explaining how his day was tiring and repetitive just like any other. He didn't send any pictures or voicemails and when they called, he barely spoke sentences that contributed to any conversation. When she found out from Jake that it wasn't just her he was acting depressed around, she yelled at him and gave him a piece of her mind until he came around and got over himself, finally coming back to his enthusiastic antics on the third month.

Life went on that way. Whatever priority he had given Y/N had shifted towards his career and whatever hopes she had for him had diminished. She still wore the necklace he gave her and he still wore the bracelet she gave him. She still used his jacket but care packages rarely went his way. They still texted but only once in a while as though they talked to each other for the sake of it. Their calls barely lasted for a few minutes because sometimes he would be busy touring and other times she would be busy with exams. So they resorted to sending voicemails to each other but only once in a while and soon, conversations were nonexistent.

“What happened to us?”

Y/N was in tears that night and she called him because she missed him. She missed her best friend and she missed how he cared about what happened in her day. She missed being excited to update him about her days regardless of whether they were boring or eventful. She missed sending him pictures and she missed how he used to appreciate her effort in the care packages she sent him or the random compliments or flattery he would text her. She simply missed him- being around him, talking to him, being able to crack jokes and laugh with him for hours about nothing in particular. But a part of her knew it wouldn’t be easy to go back to how they used to be.

“I don’t know, Y/N .”

“I miss my best friend,” she sobbed. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, Y/N ,” Niki pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, fighting the tears that pooled in his eyes. “I’m really sorry.”

“I’m trying so hard but you’re not putting any effort and it feels like you don’t care. So, it just makes me want to do nothing and say nothing to you.”

“I’m trying too but I’ve been busy and you know that, Y/N .”

“Riki, even I’m busy. But I’m still trying, aren’t I?”

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m trying, too. I’m sorry.”

III

Seven years later, Y/N received a letter from Niki.

“I’m getting married,” it read in his handwriting. “And you better be there.”

Along with the note came a wedding invitation. It was a navy blue card with intricate designs printed in white and in the middle of it read “NIKI WEDS JOCELYN” in bold italics. Then, there was the RSVP card which asked if she was attending or not; if so, would she bring a plus one? It was simple for her to answer but she pondered whether to even attend the wedding. Buying plane tickets to Seoul, Korea wasn’t the issue but flying there meant taking a holiday from lectures at the university and if she wasn’t sure it was worth the sacrifice. She wasn’t sure if she had it in her to face Niki for the first time in forever. Even though they had a reason to meet again, to have her fly to where he was so they could finally meet, especially when he requested for her there, she didn’t think she wanted to take that opportunity.

Niki told her about Jacelyn a few years ago. It was a meaningless mention like she meant the equivalent to a coffee he drank that day. Y/N didn’t think much of the fact that he rarely ever talked about her. In the beginning, she thought their relationship must have started off smooth and loving but as time went on and when she didn’t hear her name again, she assumed they had separated. Staring at the wedding invitation in her hands, she didn’t know if she was supposed to feel surprised that his first relationship turned out to be his last or hurt by the fact that he never shared anything insightful about the girl he clearly loved so much.

Y/N didn’t know how their friendship was salvaged for such an extended period of time. Over the years, texting and calling became taboo between them. Instead, they would email each other. It was a ritual of long and chained emails they didn’t plan on breaking. They would write them once every few months, detailing the things they deemed were important to mention about themselves and she was surprised he didn’t mention the importance of his fiancee. She didn’t know when he proposed and she didn’t know how they met and she didn’t even know if it would make a difference if she attended the wedding or not.

She supposed he stopped mentioning Jocelyn for the sake of not hurting her. To be fair, Y/N wasn’t detailing her encounters of rendezvous with other men and various other love interests in her life to him either. Yet the difference was that the men in her life were flings, drifting in and out of days like clouds passing over her head whereas Jocelyn was Niki’s sun, a permanent aspect that would continue to cheer him on through day and night.

Nishimura Riki was now the proud owner of his own dance studio. He had twenty employees working under him and two hundred students learning under his aid, dreaming to be the next best dancer of Korea or another kpop star like he once used to be. He was also a brand ambassador for Prada and Bvlgari and producer for the talk show Jay and Jungwon had started hosting a while back. He needed someone like Jocelyn to cheer him on and support him and she could give him things Y/N never could.

Because, in the end, love wasn’t enough of a reason for Y/N to abandon her studies and start a life with a boy who didn’t know how to treat her the way she deserved. Love wasn’t enough for Niki to abandon his dreams and build a family with a girl who couldn’t offer him what he needed.

On the RSVP card, she ticked that she would attend without a plus one.

Y/N didn’t get a chance to meet Niki before the wedding began. Instead, the first time she saw him in person after almost ten years was while he was standing beside the priest in tears while he watched Jocelyn walk down the aisle. He listened to him recite his vows, his sweet words sounding so familiar to her because they were words he used to utter to her when they were sixteen, naive and infatuated with the confusion of lust and attraction. Now they were twenty-seven, burdened with wisdom they wished they didn’t have and experiences they wished they could wipe away. They wished they could be sixteen again and make the mistake of falling in love with the wrong person because, at the time, it was the best kind of high they could find.

After the ceremony was complete, Y/N walked around with curious eyes and the jacket he had given her all those years ago. It was old and wrinkled and no matter how many times she had given it to the dry-cleaners, she accepted that the loose strings and dried curry stains could never be fixed. She saw the previous ENHYPEN members walking around, talking amongst themselves or enjoying a glass of wine. Sunoo was the best man and he had the pleasure of greeting all the guests- she wondered why none of them approached her. She quickly realised that to them, she was just a stranger. She was someone no one knew, forgotten with ancient history and replaced by the better.

Niki no longer wore the bracelet she gave him. She wondered when he had thrown it away while she played with the sunflower pendant that continued to hang from her neck. She pondered leaving without bothering to greet the boy, to remain without the joy of being able to meet an old friend. They were only physically around each other for seventeen minutes, it would be alright if they kept it that way.

But he came jogging towards her with wide eyes and two glasses of wine held in his hands. He had that boxy smile plastered across his face, chest heaving with excitement as he stood in front of her. Deja vu washed over them, reminiscing about the time they had met in that Korean Barbeque restaurant all those years ago when he jogged up to her and her parents and gifted her the necklace that was now a relic of their history.

“I gave you that jacket to keep, you know? Not to return it on my wedding day.”

“It’s the first time we’re seeing each other in ten years and that’s the first thing you have to say to me?”

Nervous would be an understatement to describe what both of them were feeling at that moment. The wine glasses held in his hands could be seen shaking and her heart was beating loud enough for half of the guests to hear. Yet, they shrugged with awkward smiles on their faces and leaned forward, wrapping their arms around each other for the first time but it didn’t feel that way. It didn’t feel as special and cherished as they expected it to feel but rather normal and common.

“That was our first hug, huh?” Niki chuckled and she took a glass of wine from him.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” She scrunched her nose.

“It’s weird that it doesn’t feel weird.”

They clinked their glasses together and took the first sip.

Jocelyn walked towards them, her beautifully curled brown hair bouncing off her shoulders and dazzling hazel eyes smiling brighter for her instead of her lips. She was gorgeous and she started jumping around when she realised she was in the presence of Y/N , the girl Niki would talk about and praise all the time. It came as a shock to Y/N , looking between the married couple with a gaped mouth and a million thoughts running through her head.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t talk about you with her or the rest of the members?”

“None of them seem to remember me, though.”

“Oh, they remember you. I just don’t think they remember what you look like.”

Jocelyn left the pair to talk alone so she could tend to the rest of the guests. Y/N and Niki were left sipping on their unfinished wine, one replaying the events of the last few minutes and the other reminiscent of the last decade of their lives. He could still list out things that he admired about her. For instance, now, he didn’t feel the need to force out any conversation and he didn’t feel awkward now that they were meeting for the first time. He could admire her forever, not as a lover but rather as a friend because that was all they could ever be. He had a wife now and he was settled in life and Y/N was the person that had seen him grow and mature through the many stages of his life.

“You still wear that necklace,” he observed.

“Never took it off, Riki,” she pursed her lips. “And you stopped wearing my bracelet?”

“Yeah, I took it off a while back.”

“Nice.”

“It was my way of moving on, Y/N .”

She wasn’t angry, per se. Perhaps a little hurt, which manifested in the form of a pang in her chest but she accepted it in seconds, moving on from the pain and concentrating on the flavours of wine that sloshed around her tongue. Niki noticed that she was tapping her foot to the floor, almost as if she were impatient for something; he realised that her habit of twirling her hair around her finger was lost.

“I don’t think I stopped loving you until after I met Jocelyn.”

Y/N was probably the last guest to leave. Despite Niki and Jocelyn’s pleas for her to stay another night so they could go out for dinner and perhaps bond over lost time, she still hailed a cab to take her away to the airport. On her way there, she solemnly rested her head on the window, weakly chuckling when she realised that they had driven past the infamous Korean Barbeque she and Niki met at. She could almost relive the moment, see herself and him standing outside the restaurant while six other boys tried rubber-necking in their conversation.

Now that she was looking back, those memories were worthy enough to be laughed about. It was ancient history but it didn’t rip open a wound whenever it was talked about and she could accept that she wasn’t enough for her first love and her first love wasn’t enough for her.

She accepted that he got married and would start a family soon and she accepted that the next time they would meet again would probably be at her own wedding.

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bonniesbluee · 2 days ago

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first off absolutely loveeeeee ur riff stuff im absolutely obsessed with how you write him🫶🏾

buttt everyone makes art such a lapdog of a man but i need patrick to be a written like that too💔i need him to pathetically yearn and be a real lover💔💔

sub/obsessed! patrick x reader plsssssss

-🍓

stanford!reader in this!! (so basically patrick and reader are in a long distance relationship!)

you hated being away from patrick. constantly watching couples be lovey dovey whenever they want, being cheesy and cute. being touched. u wanted this more than anything.

but patrick was away. achieving his dream! and u were so proud of him, but u were so lonely.

so you made a friend! a guy from your class, both of you slowly got closer. from hanging in his dorm to going out for coffee etc. and patrick knew. mainly because art kept him up to date with everything. but also because you posted it.

a guy. a guy friend. patrick didnt take that lightly. he was already surpressing his jealousy and insecurity while being away from you, but this? set him off. so he flew over there!

without telling you.

he walked into the campus, his shoulders rolling as he looked around the campus. he had your location, and it seemed like you were walking around hallways. he took a turn and it looks like you saw him before he saw you. "patrick?!" a high pitched voice rang through the hallway. he turned to look at the source of the noise. you. and your new friend next to you. but he brushed that off, for now.

"hey baby," he smiled softly. you dropped your bag, running to him. he opened his arms, prepared to pick you up once you jumped on him. "oh gosh," you whine, chest heaving as you bury your face into his neck. "i missed you so much." he whispers against your cheek, his eyes on the guy. he deliberately cups your ass, making sure your friend is looking before he turns his attention back to you.

"c'mon lets go to your dorm." he whispers, desperate to be alone. to be in your arms. he doesn't put you down, he simply starts walking, picking up your backpack and swinging it over his shoulder. he doesn't spare a glance at your friend, and from the looks of it (your face still buried into his neck) you dont either.

once he gets to your dorm he starts kissing you, his hands cupping the back of your thighs. his chest heaving as he pins you on the bed.

"my girl? my girl." he whispers while unbuckling his belt, your eyes fluttering in anticipation. "i cant wait to be inside of you..." he leaned back, locking your dorm before getting ontop of you. he slips your panties down to your ankles, and you let out a tiny whimper at the feeling of the AC breeze hitting your cunt.

"babyyy." you whine, glossy eyes staring up at him which makes his boner harder, painful. he teases your clit with his tip, biting his lip. "ready?" you nod. he doesn't even need to prep you, you're already so wet. he goes inside of you and a he cant breathe.

the months away, constant nights hugging his pillow imagining it was you. its all so much. he lets out a whimper, burying his face into your breasts. your nose nuzzling into the valley of your boobs. "fuck- i cant-" he whines. you look down at him with teary eyes, he's stretching you out so much and he isnt moving. "can we stay like this?" he whispers, clutching you tightly. "yeah, yes please." you bury your face into his neck, nails gently scratching his neck.

he swears he can cry right now. his cock getting warmed up and cozy inside of you. you whimper with each momenr he moves slightly, but ultimately you keep your face against his neck. you both stay like that for 5 minutes, in eachothers arms, with the blanket ontop of you both. he wants to move now, to fuck you so good.

but you're asleep. his heart melts at the sight, specially with the position you're both in. "its okay, sweet girl." he whispers, rubbing your scalp. "keep sleeping." he hugs you tighter before his eyes flicker to your phone.

"now i just have to figure out how to get you to stop talking to that friend of yours." he whispers to himself, fingers digging into your flesh softly.

#challengers #josh o'connor #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #patrick challengers #patrick x reader #zweig #mike faist #art donaldson #bonniesbluee ۶ৎ

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sunafc · 1 day ago

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Cherry Smoke — 10, Meet me outside

masterlist

Suna wondered how it had all turned out to this. Y/n’s body resting against the armrest of his couch, all curled up — if not for her one leg stretched out towards him and her foot resting flat against his thigh. Suna wondered how it was possible to feel so comfortable in another person’s presence after such a short period of knowing them, so comfortable having them all over your personal space, and feeling like it’s not enough. It was never enough. Suna longed for Y/n’s presence with the same intensity as you need a glass of water when you wake up at 3 am on a random night. Which may not be very poetic, but it gets the feeling across. It scared him, though. It scared him like nothing else had ever frightened him before. So, the only reasonable thing to do was to run away, obviously. He acted indifferent, he hooked up with different girls. Even so, nothing compared, and he would find himself, once again, yearning for even just a little bit more of her. He felt jealous, too, when he couldn’t get that.

Like right now, he had left the girl he was hooking up with to take Y/n home, but she was on her phone. Tapping away on that screen, sparing not even a glance in his direction. Communicating his needs and feelings was not an option, either, so, again, he did what he did best: running away. Ignore the problem, be uninterested.

He gets up from the couch, pretending like he doesn’t care if she looks at him or if she notices at all. However, a smirk creeps onto his face when Y/n looks up. ‘Where are you going?’ She asks. ‘Oh,’ and he can feel his resolve slipping through his fingers as he says, ‘So, now I exist?’ There, with that, his casualness flew out the window. Y/n gets up from the couch, too, and stands in front of him. She cups his face, ‘You’re such a baby, sometimes,’ she says, holding back a chuckle. ‘Whatever,’ Suna scoffed, trying to regain his aloof demeanor, and grabbing her wrists to lower her hands. Then, swiftly, he picks up the girl, hoisting her around like a sack of potatoes and ignoring her futile protest to be let down, ‘Let’s get ready for bed, I’m tired.’

In the bathroom, Suna sits Y/n down on the countertop next to the sink. He glances at her, from time to time, as he brushes his teeth, just to be met with her eyes every time. ‘What?’ He mumbles, toothbrush hanging from his lips. She shakes her head, ‘Nothing,’ she smiles, ‘You just look silly.’ He hums and rinses his mouth. He turns to her, ‘Your turn, now,’ he says, shuffling through the cabinet in search of that pack of makeup wipes he had kept aside for this kind of occasion. Y/n closes her eyes, letting the boy gently remove the makeup from her face. ‘You know I can do this myself, right?’ She says, not trying to stop him, though. ‘I guess,’ he throws the wipe in the bin, ‘But I want to,’ he says like there’s nothing else to it, like he doesn’t ache to find the lamest excuse to feel close to her. Suna waits for Y/n to wash her teeth, then, when she’s done, he grabs her hand and walks her to his bedroom, murmuring a quiet ‘Time for bed.’

• • •

notes:

the guy y/n wanted to impress was suna but he's a bit dense and was too busy being jealous

let me know ur thoughts on the written part too if you'd like! i always appreciate that 🙏

a bit of a longer chapter bc i can say for sure i won't be able to update for the whole next week my bad but i'm really busy with studying + i'm visiting my gf after my exams for a few days ! 🍓

taglist: @nomyimi @nomoreilovesyou @heyhihellowhatsup @this-is-me-lolol @xoxpetals @massacremars @mo072806 @chikanmaniac @jayyyygeeee @unhinged-atrocities @sophiahearttss @akaashislovee @sexylexy12 @asp7n @silly-pigeon69 @0rangej0e @sticknpokes @honeyfewr @kzoyu @m3llypl1n1us @thatmf-jay @aneternallyexhaustedpigeon @ventiij @meguemii @nscuit @luvinazaki @reidsworld @h3xi2g0n3 @readerxyou @coercivemind @emiwoowoo @bluemailhiot @itz-phantomz @lover-no-lover61 @osamuspudding | to be added leave a comment or an ask

#haikyuu #haikyuu smau #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #suna x reader #sunarin #suna smau #suna rintaro #suna texts #haikyuu texts

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studioeisa · 6 hours ago

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i said i wouldn’t miss you 🎤 jeonghan x reader.

“she ghosted you, jeonghan.” “she doesn’t ghost. she lingers. she haunts.” ⸻ ikaw mula noon anniversary series 🎵 halik (acoustic), kamikazee

word count: 1.3k · includes: romance, angst with a happy ending; situationship struggles, jeonghan yearns/chases, the art of groveling

Jeonghan wakes to the warmth of sunlight, not you.

It pours through the sheer curtains like a promise it doesn’t intend to keep, brushing over the tangled sheets and the still-dented pillow beside him. The morning is too quiet. No soft rustle of you in the kitchen, no off-key humming into the coffee steam. Just the low, steady ache of emptiness blooming in the space where your laughter used to be.

There’s a phantom weight on his chest, the memory of your body curled into his side, the way your leg always slid between his like it belonged there. Like you did.

But the duvet is too light now.

You always kissed him awake. Always. Sometimes on the cheek, sometimes on the corner of his mouth, sometimes right on the nose if you were feeling silly. You’d lean in like a secret and whisper good morning like it meant something.

And he’d play along, eyes still closed, basking in the softness of it. Of you. Now, there’s nothing.

Just the hollow press of silence and the aftertaste of your accusation echoing in the back of his skull. You’re only good at the start.

He remembers the way your voice broke on the word start, like you already knew this was the end. Remembers the way his fingers had curled into your wrist too tightly, how he had called you delusional, how the words were a smoke screen for the panic clawing up his throat. He remembers the way you let him kiss you anyway. The way you didn’t kiss back.

The bed groans under his weight as he finally sits up, elbows on knees, face in his hands. Your scent lingers in the linen. Sweet and stubborn. Just like you.

The next day, Jeonghan texts you.

First it’s just your name. A tentative hey. Then, an hour later: Can we talk? Followed by a double-send. Please.

You don’t reply.

He calls that night. It goes straight to voicemail. He doesn’t leave one.

He tries again the next day. And the next. Different hours, like maybe your silence has a time zone.

“Still no word?” Seungcheol asks over coffee, brows drawn tight as the foam heart in his latte.

Jeonghan shrugs, half-casual. “She probably dropped her phone in a river. Or joined a cult. You know her.”

“She ghosted you, Jeonghan.”

“She doesn’t ghost. She lingers. She haunts.” He smiles, bitter and small. “She’s probably somewhere rolling her eyes at how dramatic I’m being.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, like he’s trying not to say something he’s said too many times before. “You’re not chasing someone who wants to be found,” he says delicately, but Jeonghan isn’t listening.

Later, he corners Joshua in a stairwell after rehearsal.

“Have you heard from her?”

Joshua blinks. “No. Why would I?”

“You’re nice. She liked that about you.”

“She liked a lot of things about me. Doesn’t mean she told me where she’s hiding.”

Jeonghan leans against the railing, tilts his head back like he might catch your scent on the breeze. “She kissed me before she left. Well—she let me kiss her. Not the same.”

Joshua gives him a look. Kind. Exasperated. “You always think you can charm your way out of heartbreak,” the younger man muses. “Maybe just let yourself be sad this time.”

But Jeonghan isn’t sad, not exactly. He’s something quieter. Hungrier. He scrolls through old photos and wonders how long your scent will stay on his skin. Wonders if kisses have half-lives. Wonders if he kissed you enough times to still feel full.

The days are getting longer, and they’re all missing you. Even now, he finds himself waking with his lips parted. Expectant.

And every time, it’s just the sunlight. And the ache.

After two weeks of radio silence, Jeonghan finds himself outside your apartment with a bouquet that’s too big and an apology that’s probably too late.

The flowers are your favorites. He had to ask three different florists before he found them, clutching his phone like a cheat sheet and mispronouncing the name until someone finally took pity on him. One of the stems bends under its own weight, the petals too open, too eager. Just like him—always blooming at the wrong time.

He’s been standing there for twenty minutes. Maybe more. Long enough for the streetlight to buzz into life, long enough to rehearse every variation of sorry he can stomach, long enough to remember how you used to kiss the inside of his wrist when you thought he was being brave.

He briefly contemplates doing it to himself. A press of his lips to his wrist, just enough to give him courage.

Jeonghan is old school and drenched in cliché as he throws a pebble at your window. Then another. Then—

The curtain twitches. Your light flicks on. A beat.

The window creaks open, and there you are, arms crossed in that way that means you’re dangerously close to slamming it shut.

“Seriously?” you ask, and even though you’re annoyed, your voice is still the sweetest thing he’s ever heard. “Rocks, Jeonghan? What century is this?”

He winces and offers the bouquet upward like a white flag. “The romantic one? The desperate one? Whichever one gets me in the door,” he calls out. But soft, what light through yonder breaks, he almost adds. It is the east. You are the sun. Or something.

You stare down at him. Long enough to make him sweat under his hoodie. Then, sighing like this is a burden you've carried for lifetimes, you buzz him in.

He bolts.

You’re waiting by the door, robe tied like armor. Arms still crossed, expression unimpressed but eyes—he swears—just a little soft.

“I brought—”

“I see the flowers. Talk.”

He swallows hard, fidgets, then sets the bouquet on your table like it might soften what’s coming. “I know you’re tired,” he says finally. “Of the chasing. The mess. Me.”

You say nothing.

“And I know I always show up like this—arms full of promises, too late.”

Still nothing.

“I talk too pretty and follow through too little. I know that.”

You tilt your head to one side. “Keep going,” you mumble, so he does.

He exhales, long and uneven. His voice drops, all the smugness wrung out of it. “I miss your kisses,” he blurts out, because it’s the most honest thing pressing on his chest.

You blink. Something in your face wavers, just slightly. Jeonghan pushes on, nervous now.

“I miss the one you gave me before I left for rehearsal. I miss the one you didn’t give me the night you left.” The words come spilling out of him like a dam that’s been broken. He can’t stop. “I miss the kiss behind my ear you always pretended didn’t mean anything. I miss how they tasted like forgiveness even when we were still fighting. I miss the sleepy ones. The stubborn ones. The ones you gave me when I least deserved them.”

You stare at him, a war behind your eyes. The silence stretches like a held breath.

��Jeonghan,” you warn, voice low. Almost gentle.

He nods. This is not the first time. It will be the last. He swears. He swears. “I know,” he says. “Just one more shot.”

You lift your hand. He flinches—then softens when you cup his face, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. And then you kiss him. Just once. Long enough to taste the apology on his lips, short enough to make him earn the rest.

When you pull away, your eyes don’t let go.

“If you screw this up again,” you murmur, “I’m calling Seungcheol to help me bury the body. And he’ll bring shovels.”

Jeonghan grins, dizzy with relief. “Fair. But I plan on being too kiss-drunk to screw anything up ever again.”

You roll your eyes. But your robe loosens, and your arms open, and for the first time in what feels like lifetimes, Jeonghan feels like he’s holding the warm sun instead of hiding from it. 🎼

#jeonghan x reader #jeonghan imagines #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #jeonghan drabble #svt drabble #seventeen drabble #(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook #chapter ONEEE of 13 !!! and this fawking song i swear to god

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theprettyarachnid · 1 day ago

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suguru/gojo and sucking tiddies

a/n: i really like this guy and he joked about he wanted to be dominated and GUYS i want him so bad i behave as if i have fucking rabies

also my writing skills are like HELLA rusty but i have confidence. also lemme know if yall want these to be like a full thing

suguru

You put the brush down before grabbing a hair tie and start to put Suguru’s hair in a half pony tail. He leans his head back a little with his eyes open just slightly, you knew he enjoyed getting his hair played with but you had already been at it for an hour.

Suguru opens his eyes and gives you an easy smile. He puts his hand to your cheek and pulls you down to him. His lips taste like green tea and crepes. He got them for the girls this morning, he must’ve had one himself. Your shirt rises up your back a little and you pull away a little.

“Where are you going?” Geto asks quietly, it’s almost sounded like a yearning.

“Pulling my shirt down a little.” You smile at him and he smiles back. You go back down to kiss him but he gets up from the floor and sits next to you on the couch. “Where are you going?” You tease making him huff a laugh.

“No where sweetheart.” He pulls you on top of him and pushes the hair out of your face. His hands are warm as they move up your shirt. He glances up at you and you grab his face. You pull him into a kiss and you feel Suguru unhook your bra. “Can I?” He asks a little breathless.

“Yes.” You whisper and Geto quickly takes off your shirt and bra. One of his hands grabs your breast while the other draws you closer. He kisses you while grinding your hips against his. You moan a little as you feel him twist one of your nipples.

You gently bite his lower lip while wrapping your arms around his neck. He slowly pulls away and looks you in the eyes. It was a very needy look. “You’re so beautiful.” You smile and go to kiss him but he moves his head down and wraps his mouth around your nipple.

You’re a little surprised but you pull him closer as his warm tongue swirls around. Geto grabs your hips and lays you down on the couch, being careful with your head. You lean your head back closing your eyes as you grind against your husband.

You’re breathing a little heavily as Suguru makes his way down to your pants. He pulls them down a little getting his hand between your legs. His fingers barely touch your wet underwear and you jolt up.

You whine as Suguru begins to leave a hickey on your breast. You look down at him only to find him already staring at you. Almost like he was memorizing all your reactions. You blush a little and look away.

Suguru pulls away and some drool is going from his lip to your soaked nipple. You look down at your breast and see little bite marks here and there but your attention is drawn back to Suguru when he starts kitten licking your other breast.

“Suguru please… I want more.”

“You’ll get it but she needs some attention too.” You moan as he presses against your underwear before sucking on your left breast. You run your hands through your hair and you can feel your heart rate pick up.

You feel a little impatient and move your hips so you’re brushing against his finger. You can feel him smiling against your breast making you pull his hair. Suguru pulls his hand away making you cry out a little.

“Sugu, please.” You beg and he lets go out your breast with a pop. He takes his hand out of your pants making you try and put it back down there. He playfully smacks your hand and grabs your chin.

You avert your eyes and blush a little because you know you probably look desperate. If there was anything Suguru loved, it was seeing you as a little mess just because of something he did. You both suddenly hear keys jingle in the lock.

You and Geto get off each other and he throws you your shirt while you put your bra back on. As you’re pulling your shirt down, the door opens and Suguru leans back on the couch trying to look normal.

“We’re home.” Mimi says looking towards the couch seeing you two. You’re both trying to get your breathing under control as Nana looks up from her phone. She raises her eyebrow at your disheveled selves but shrugs his shoulders.

“Okay, did you have fun?” You ask clearing your throat. You look at the bags of clothes, you’re pretty you see a Versace bag.

“Yeah, Mimi got a really cute bag.” Nana says and she pulls it out of Mimi’s bag. It was a pastel purple hand bag with a hand sanitizer holder. It distracts you from Geto and he can tell because you get up.

“Oh my god!” You take it from Nana and you could tell it was real leather. The inside was velvet.

“We also got a lot of cute clothes.” Mimi chimes in and you glance over to Suguru who’s resting his head on the couch smiling at the three of you. “Y/n?” Mimi says

“Huh?” You ask

“Want to see the clothes?” Nana repeats and you nod.

“Sure!” You follow the two of them to Nana’s room as your phone vibrates in your pocket. You take it out and see a text from Suguru.

We’ll pick it back up later <3

gojo

You flick through Hulu trying to find something to watch while Satoru takes a nap on you. You rub his back finally deciding on a show. You put the volume to 10 so it didn’t wake Satoru.

You’re about halfway through when you feel your boyfriend start to leave tired kisses on your neck. You smile and look down at him. His eyes were still closed.

“Hello sleeping beauty.” You quietly say and he hums a greeting.

“I’m asleep don’t mind me.” He mumbles moving your spaghetti strap. You roll your eyes in good humor and move Gojo’s hair out of his eyes. He bites down on your shoulder a little too hard and it makes you hiss.

“Not too rough.” You gently scold and swat him on the back. He laughs and licks the bite mark. He opens one eye at you and you laugh. Gojo smiles and rolls over so he’s no longer on top of you. He grabs your hand and kisses it but his attention moves to your chest.

You look down and see a considerable amount of your breast showing from the loose shirt and Gojo pushing it down. He smiles and you quickly fix it.

“Oh what? No!” He says coming over and you playfully fight him. He grabs both your wrists easily and smiles at you. He’s holding them loosely enough where you can easily escape.

You both maintain eye contact and he lets go of your hands and goes for the straps. He pulls both of them down revealing your boobs. Gojo smiles and immediately goes to one of your breasts.

Your breathing shakes a little as he starts sucking on your nipple. If Gojo had a favorite part of your body, it would be your boobs. He’d lie and say it was your eyes or your smile but you both know it’s not true. You smile a little and run your fingers through his white hair.

His tongue swirls around and you feel his teeth barely graze against you. You shiver a little from the sensation and wrap your legs around his. Gojo’s hands move down to your ass and you’re roughly pulled downward on the bed making you slide against the blanket.

Gojo lets go of your nipple and roughly kisses you. He wraps your legs around his waist and grabs your wrists pinning them above you. You lift your head up from the bed trying to get closer to Gojo.

He licks your bottom lip and smoothly slides his tongue in. You jolt a little when Gojo digs his nails into your breast. He kisses you one more time before going back to your breasts.

“We should try nipple clamps.” He jokes and flicks your nipple. You give him a stern look and his lips purse. “Okay, not funny.”

You push his face back down to your breasts and he starts to suck a hickey on your lower breast. Your nails trail against his bare back and you take deep breaths ignoring the growing ache between your legs.

“Do you wanna have sex?” You breathe out and Gojo stops what he’s doing. He pulls away and you see a dark red spot. Before you can say anything, he quickly gets up and goes to his drawer. He rummages around for a bit before swearing. “What?”

“I don’t have condoms.” He says and you’re a little surprised to hear that. He has such a high sex drive you’d think he’d never run out. “Can we—”

“No.” You say already knowing what he was gonna ask.

“But I’d have to go out—”

“We’re not having sex without a condom.” You say and Gojo sighs grabbing his shirt.

“I’ll be back.”

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #fanfiction #gojo saturo x reader #saturo gojo x reader #suguru geto #suguru geto x reader #gojo satoru #x reader #jjk fanfiction #smut #jjk smut

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triciawritesstuff · 1 day ago

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Content: post-break up with Juntae

Pairing: Seo Juntae x reader

Cw: angst, lowkey insecure reader, tears

You mindlessly walked through the streets of Seoul for what felt like hours. The sun had gone down, disappearing into the west. A stark reminder of the early sunsets and the icy darkness that would be soon to consume you. The sight of your own breath lingered intermittently between each exhale. Somehow, the winter in the city felt colder this year.

You dont know why you thought this would work out. Like somehow , it would be different. It always ended this way. The endless cycle of self sabotage was relentless.

Your phone vibrated in your back pocket; for what felt like the nth time today. Your cold hands fumbled to reach for it, clicking it on, the light from the screen illumining your features through the darkness.

Hundreds of missed calls filled your notification bar. All from the same boy. Seo Juntae. Even just reading his name made you feel a deep ache in your heart. You hated feeling responsible for the pain he was feeling. He will just move on—he has to.

The wind whipped at your cheeks, infiltrating through the gaps in your thin sweater. If he was here, he'd definitely scold you for not wearing your coat. Recalling the time you'd once recklessly forgotten it during a late evening date, stupidly not taking into account the rain predicted on the weather forecast. You remember the warmth you felt inside you– as he wrapped his thick woollen scarf around you both. Drawing you both closer together.

You catch yourself smiling, forcing your mouth into a tight-lipped grimace. Trying to remember the biting frost that continued its advances on you. Fingers aching, hurting to move, as you attempt to open your texts.

Juntae

–hey

–can we talk soon

–I don't want it to end this way

–hello????

–just lmk where u are just wanna make sure ur safe

–ring me when you can okay?

The guilt pangs through you in waves. The constant feeling of not being good enough served as a reminder of why you ended things. Even now, you were letting him down.

You shifted awkwardly, trying to regain the feeling in your legs. Shifting from one foot to another, pushing through the pain. You weren't sure if there wasn't any part of you that wasn't succumbing to the icey feeling.

The phone vibrated in your hand again. The screen lighting up. It was him. Calling. Your brain told you to ignore it– but your heart yearned to just hear the soft tone of his voice. You picked up the call.

The sound of wind crackled through the other side of the phone. You stood there, in silence, waiting for him to say something–anything. "H-hello? Can you hear me?" The sound of his voice poured into your ears, and you're sure it reached your soul.

"Hi juntae," You wisper, mouth dry, not prepared to speak.

"I haven't heard from you in days. None of us have—Are you outside?" He questions, concern clear within the words. You wonder if he can hear the wind through your side. "It's dark out– you should be at home, just let me know where you are." He begs, almost a hint of desperation.

"Just go home, Juntae." You spit out through gritted teeth. Jaw clenched. "You're not my boyfriend– not anymore." The malice evident in your voice. You hope he doesn't push it further because you know it will all come crashing down if he sees through this lie. Tears prick at the back of your eyes.

"I still care about you. Why are you being like this– I don't understand what I've done–" He pauses, "but I'm sorry." You can feel cracks forming around your heart. Feeling like it was about to be split into two. You can feel the tears cascading down your cool cheeks.

"Don't apologise. it's not your fault—please don't blame yourself." You say through quickened breaths, hoping he can't hear the pain in your voice.

"Just tell me what I can do to fix this– we can figure this out together." He murmers. The emphasis on together stirs something inside you. "P-please, just tell me where you are. I need to see you."

His words make you melt. It's always been your weakness. You falter for a moment, debating whether you should let this happen. "Okay." You pause. "I'm by the river."

You can hear his breathing speed up and the sound of quickened footsteps through the other side of the line. He was running. "Stay where you are– I'm coming." He says in-between breaths.

You listen attentively, gazing up at the sky. The wind stilled. The absence of light may have been unforgiving, but the stars were out tonight.

#once had a girl share her scarf with me #weak hero class 1 #weak hero class two #weak hero x reader #weak hero #weak hero class #weak hero class one #fanfic #juntae x reader #seo jun tae x reader #seo juntae

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flofaiiry · 2 hours ago

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sick day ; michael robinavitch x reader

synopsis: robby coming home sick one day from work and reader who just wants to take care of him but this man is so STUBBORN and hates accepting help.

warnings: established relationship, robby is sick & stubborn, immense amounts of fluff and domestic reader & robby

wc: ~1500

note: thank u to everyone who voted in the poll! the people yearn for robby fluff so that is what they will receive 🤲 this was supposed to be just a teeny tiny blurb but i got a little carried away. anyways!!! someone needs to take care of this man pls.

you knew he wasn't well when he got home from work last night but he insists he's fine and just needs to sleep it off but from the amount of tossing and turning you felt last night you don't think he did a whole lot of that.

you take it upon yourself to call the hospital from his phone to tell them he wouldn't be coming in today. you know he probably wouldn't want you to do that but you also know that this man DESPERATELY needs a day off, especially today, but will never take it upon himself to make that happen. you turn off his alarm in hopes that he'll sleep a little more but what you didn't account for was his internal alarm clock, refined through years of waking up at 6am or earlier.

like clockwork his eyes open right when his alarm would normally be blaring. he winces and turns over to see you already staring at him. "my alarm didn't go off," he says, voice raspy from a mix of sleep and sickness. "i know, i turned it off," you reply simply, hand going to his forehead to feel if he's warm. he is. robby squints & rubs his eyes, "you turned it off? why?"

"because you're sick," you say like it's fact (because it is). "i also called the hospital and told them you wouldn't be coming today, so you should try and get some more sleep." your voice is soft, expecting pushback from this stubborn boyfriend of yours. "baby..." he sighs, rolling onto his back and rubbing his eyes. "i know, i know, i shouldn't have done that, but look at you robby. you're miserable, you're in no condition to take care of anyone else today."

robby is nothing if not headstrong.

"i have to go to work, baby," he sighs and tries to sit up. immediately overcome with muscle aches, he flops back down onto the mattress. "if you can't even get out of bed what makes you think you're going to be able to be on your feet all day, huh?" he doesn't say anything, just sighs, looking back to you, "i can get out of bed, i'm fine just... a little sore."

you raise your eyebrows, not buying any of that for a second, "ok then, stand up." he scoffs, "oh, i can stand up." he says, but doesn't make any effort to. you watch him for a second, then shrug, "then do it." you say again, blank expression on your face.

he takes a deep breath before attempting to get up again, getting a teeny bit further than last time, but eventually collapsing back into bed again. he sighs. "ok. maybe i can't get up." you lean over and kiss his forehead, "i know. go back to sleep, let me take care of you today."

"ok," he breathes, finally accepting defeat, "fine." you smile, pleased that your efforts were coming to fruition. his eyes fall shut again and before you can say anything else, you swear he's already out. you run your hands through his hair once before pressing one more kiss to his abnormally warm forehead.

it isn't until around 11:00am that robby wakes up, the sleep ridding his body of the muscle aches and actually allowing him to get up. you're sitting in the living room, watching the news on low volume when he walks in, hoodie and sweatpants on as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. "god, i needed that." he sighs, making his way over to you on the couch. you smile, having to physically resist the urge to say 'i told you so,' and opt for wordlessly leaning your head onto his shoulder.

"thank you," he says quietly into your hair, after pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "for making me stay home." you smile, "i may not be a doctor, but i know when people need rest. and you my love, need rest." he laughs quietly and drapes his arm over your shoulder, pulling you into him. the faint smell of his cologne on the sweater filling the air around you. "i love you," he says simply, like it's the easiest thing in the world, your smile grows.

"i know, now let me love you."

you place your hand on his cheek and gently pull his face towards yours, pressing your lips together in a soft kiss.

" 'm gonna make you sick," he says when you pull away, but you just shake your head.

"don't care," you kiss him again, this time for a little longer. the high pitched noise of the kettle coming to a boil snaps you both out of it.

"mmm, coffee?" robby hums, only to be met with the shake of your head, "no, i read that it's not good when you're sick, makes you dehydrated because of the caffeine or something." he groans when you stand up, walking over to the kitchen. "that can't be true, coffee makes everything better."

you shrug, "not according to web m.d. it doesn't"

"according to michael robinavitch m.d. it most certainly does." he teases, turning around to watch you move through the kitchen.

you smile. "nice try, but no medical license for you today. i'll be doing the doctoring for now." he raises his eyebrows, amused smirk coming on his face now, "oh really?"

you nod, "yup. and this doctor's prescription is peppermint tea, watching movies, and cuddling with your girlfriend all day." you take a teabag from the box and place it into his usual mug, paint chipped from years of wear and tear.

"hard to argue with that logic," you hear the tiniest bit of rasp in his voice from the germs. "oh and tylenol," you add, looking up from pouring the water, "tylenol would probably help too."

"tylenol would definitely help," he corrects, "do we even have any of that? i thought you finished it last time you were sick."

"we do now, i went out." you reply, walking back over to the couch to hand him the mug now full of steaming hot tea. he accepts the mug from you, mouthing a 'thank you,' before taking a sip. "you went somewhere? god, i must have been out because i did not hear a thing."

you nod, taking a seat on the couch again next to him. "yup. got meds and stuff to make soup."

he raises his eyebrows through a sip, "make soup? no canned stuff?" you shake your head, "only the best for my patients."

the rest of the day is slow. robby ends up napping for a majority of the time. you make him the soup you promised and watch some history documentary netflix recommended.

as the sun falls and the moon comes up, robby's got his head on your lap, your hands are in his hair, the gentlest scratch of your nails lulling him into yet another nap. it's getting late, and you know he's gonna want to go to work tomorrow. if there's anyway that's going to happen he's going to need a good night's sleep.

"i know when i'm the sick one you'd just carry me to bed but... i don't think that's gonna work out well for me if i try." you say, voice quiet as you run your hand along his arm to slowly wake him up.

"just fireman carry me," he teases, "throw me over your shoulder like a bag of potatoes or something."

"if you want to be responsible for all my broken bones, then sure, i'll give it my best shot." you smile down at him before he sits up. rubbing his eyes and mentally preparing to stand up.

"come on, you know you'll be more comfortable in bed." you say, standing up now and pulling gently at his hand.

"yeah, i know," he hums, standing up. once he's fully straight, he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you into him. your head falls to rest on his chest like it's where it belongs. like it's natural.

"thank you," he whispers into your hair. if there were anyone else in the room, they wouldn't even know he said anything. he presses a kiss to the top of your head, before pulling away to look down at you, "for taking care of me."

you smile, "of course."

"seriously, i know i'm an ass about accepting help. i know i'm stubborn as hell but... thank you for not giving up."

you just smile. not sure what to say. there's no world in which you'd give up on taking care of the man you love who neglects himself all too often.

"let's go to bed," you nod towards the bedroom, "sleep is part of my treatment plan too."

he returns your smile, "lead the way, doctor."

as always send me any feedback / thoughts / ideas / requests u have!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

#this is so cute agh!!!#i love them #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch #dr robby #the pitt #the pitt x reader

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littlest-w01f · 1 day ago

Text

Guilty As Sin

Elain Archeron x Azriel

For @elriel-month

Music fic Masterlist

Days 8-11: Guilty As Sin

Summary: Elain and Azriel thought Winter Solstice with the visions that follow the Seer at every glance

Cw: Smut visions, yearning, angsty ending Smut 18+ MDNI

a/n: I wasn't really planning on this, but the prompt was kinda asking for it cause I do songs, and I couldn't stop thinking about this sooooo this is a gift.... Enjoy <3

Drowning in the Blue Nile

He sent me "Downtown Lights"

She stood on the balcony of her room in the Town House, sighing as she gazed at the full, hanging moon and the twinkling stars. The chill air of the Winter Solstice kissed her skin gently, giving the hairs of her arms goosebumps.

The beauty of the Night Court still caught her by surprise at times; it was all too beautiful, so much so that she felt it was a fantasy. She waited for when she'd eventually wake up from this lovely dream and return to the human lands, waiting to marry her human Lord.

Elain looked to her side, the beautiful dress that Feyre had laid out for her, a soft pink, with ruffles on many skirts and flowers embroidered on it, a light puff on the sleeves. This had to be a dream, she'd never seen such a beautiful dress before, she picked it up, placing it over her form to admire in the mirror, "Aww..." She cooed at herself, already imagining herself wearing it later for Solstice.

I hadn't heard it in a while

My boredom's bone-deep

With soft steps, Elain Archeron padded down to the main halls bustling with activity, Feyre and Cassian already two bottles deep on wine, Azriel and Rhysand reprimanding the pair as they tried to fix the decorations. She found herself smiling at the scene, even if a hollow filled her, she wished to join them, her family, and laugh with them. Still, she sneaked past them and into the kitchen to find her new friends, Nuala and Cerridwen, already cooking.

In the latest days, baking and cooking brought her peace. Donning an apron to begin kneading dough, feeling it melt under her hand, she loved showing her love for her family through food. As she watched the dough rise in the oven, Feyre came to talk to her, her words bringing up memories of her talk with Nesta.

This cage was once just fine

Am I allowed to cry?

She shook her head of the memories, not wanting to think of it. She sliced through bread, giving Feyre quick and short replies, not wanting to think of how Nesta had just left after the war. How she stopped reaching out, and when Elain tried to reach her, she'd yelled at her like never before.

She turned away, telling her sister she was fine, everything was alright.

I dream of cracking locks

Throwing my life to the wolves or the ocean rocks

As the rest of the Inner Circle walked in, Cassian approached her, pressing a kiss to her cheek before he lifted her out of the way, and Elain smiled despite herself.

She greeted everyone as they went by, Amren nodding, Mor greeting with a kiss to both her cheeks, Rhysand simply shaking his head at his brother, giving her a smile.

Crashing into him tonight, he's a paradox

Then he walked in, a glass of wine in hands, wings folding back to reveal a simple pair of black pants and shirt, his shadows melting to the corners of the room, to reveal his face fully to her.

Elain's throat went dry, stilled as she looked him over in all his beauty, the way he carried himself, the way he turned to her. She didn't even realize when Feyre left to take a seat.

"Hello..." She whispered, as if time itself stood still.

He stepped closer. Her eyes were white.

I'm seeing visions, am I bad?

Or mad? Or wise?

His hands, those scared, beautiful hands over her waist, drenched in combined sweat, back arched, moans falling from her lips. She could feel the thick length of his cock driving home inside her wet, warm, cunt. Home.

An imprint of his cock pressed in her abdomen, he was too much, too much in the perfect way as his hands gripped the plush skin of her hips, pulling her closer as she cried, almost painfully, lost in pleasure, "Ah- Ah- Ah-"

Breathy moans in the air as she covered her face to drown the sounds.

What if he's written "mine" on my upper thigh only in my mind?

His hands scratched down her thighs, wrapping them around his waist for a better angle to go deeper, as if it was even possible, his cock pressed against her walls, kissing her cervix with each thrust.

He moved his hands between their bodies, finger rubbing circle's around her clit. Her legs trembled as he put pressure on her sensitive clit, the inner muscles of her cunt gripping her tightly.

They moved as one, sounds of skin slapping against skin, her moans, his grunts, the only sounds audible.

One slip and falling back into the hedge maze

Oh, what a way to die

Her hips bucked wildly, meeting each powerful thrust, taking him impossibly deeper. The stimulation on her clit sent shockwaves through her body, pushing her closer to the edge.

With a guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, his hot seed erupting deep inside her spasming cunt. Waves of intense pleasure crashed over her, making her toes curl and her back arch off the bed.

They rode out the aftershocks, gasping for breath as he collapsed on top of her, still buried deep within her quivering heat. Their sweaty bodies stuck together, heartbeats syncing in the aftermath of their passionate coupling.

I keep recalling things we never did

Messy top lip kiss, how I long for our trysts

Elain blinked, snapping out of her vision, a blush colouring her cheeks as she looked at a now concerned Azriel, hoping he wouldn't be able to scent her arousal.

"Sit. I'll take care of it." Azriel said instead, taking he dish she was holding.

Elain stood silently with her hands still out, as if still dazed, heart hammering from the vision she had of his—their future. "I—I’ll be right back."

Without ever touching his skin

How can I be guilty as sin?

She rushed out, breathing heavily as she closed the door to her room, looking at herself in the mirror, the vision still clear in her head, of his hands, her body pressed into hers, the way he touched her.

Shaking her head, she entered the bath, washing her face, and sighing. She let her eyelids flutter shut, allowing the cold water against her skin to calm her racing thoughts. But the vivid images persisted, seared into her mind. The feel of his strong arms around her, the taste of his mouth, the sound of his ragged breaths.

I keep these longings locked

In lowercase, inside a vault

She sat at the edge of the tub, letting her hair fall over her shoulders, threading her fingers through it. Slowly, she soothed her heart, calming it of the feeling she held so close to her heart, slowly braiding her hair as she tried to empty her mind of it.

She stepped out of her room, apron off, hair redone, with a nod to herself as she made her way downstairs, to where her family was feasting

As she descended the stairs, the savory aromas wafting from the dining hall filled her senses, grounding her in the present moment. She took a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering haze of desire that clung to her like a second skin.

Someone told me there's no such thing as bad thoughts

Only your actions talk

"Please don’t wait on my account," Elain took her seat at the head of the table, noting how no one had started eating. Cassian glaring a Azriel. Azriel ignoring him.

She looked around, feeling a layer of tension in the air as she reached out to start filling her plate with food, Cassian only starting until she was done, making her wonder if something had happened, with the way Cassian had glared at Azriel, if the shadowsinger was behind none of them eating before she returned.

"Still getting used to it?" Feyre broke the silent tension, asking Amren, the ancient being, now a normal High Fae, Elain relaxed.

These fatal fantasies giving way to labored breath

Taking all of me, we've already done it in my head

Elain stood silently on the night of Winter Solstice, studying the darkness of the sky, looking deep into the abyss. She'd had another vision during dinner, nights before, him and her, tangled together, declarations of love were said, of commitment, of belonging.

And all that had triggered the vision was her stretching before getting up, her feet nudging against his.

He stirred slightly, then wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he murmured, "Always. You and me."

She smiled, turning her head to capture his lips in a slow, sensual kiss, pouring all her feelings into it, wanting him to know how much he meant to her. They stood there for a long while, lost in each other, the world fading away until they heard the distant chime of the clock tower signalling midnight.

If it's make-believe

Why does it feel like a vow we'll both uphold somehow?

Elain caught Feyre moving towards her from the corner of her eye, but the voice she heard wasn't her's.

"Happy Solstice." Azriel whispered from the opposite side, his voice soft, gentle, no sigh of the scary warrior she'd heard he was.

She turned to face him with a smile, finally looking away from the snow.

What if he's written "mine" on my upper thigh only in my mind?

Azriel tipped his head back and laughed, deep, joyous as he held the gift Elain had got for him, headache powder, since he rubbed his temples so often. The sound was unlike anything anyone in the Inner Circle had ever heard.

Cassian and Rhysand joined in, Cassian held the bottle from his brother's hands, turning to Elain, "Brilliant."

One slip and falling back into the hedge maze

Oh, what a way to die

Elain blushed at his words, at the way Azriel now looked at her, hazel eyes so bright, the hues of green amid the brown and gray like veins of emerald. "Thank you. This will be invaluable."

Elain's breath got caught in her throat, his gaze never leaving hers, as if he was drinking in every detail of her expression, the flush on her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes. In that moment, Elain felt seen, truly understood, and it sent a shiver down her spine.

My bedsheets are ablaze, I've screamed his name

Building up like waves crashing over my grave

Groaning above him, she went up and down his thick length, in the secrecy of his home, her cunt swallowing up his cock, her hips moved downwards, moving in a sensual rhythm as she rode him, taking him deep inside her with each downward motion. The leathers creaked softly with the friction of their joining, the only sound amidst the stillness of the night.

His hands gripped her waist, guiding her movements as he watched her, mesmerized by the erotic dance of their bodies entwined. His breath hitched as he felt her clench around him, the sensation sending jolts of pleasure through his veins. "You're more than invaluable to me."

Without ever touching his skin

How can I be guilty as sin?

His words were a whisper, a vow, a promise of things yet to come. And in that moment, surrounded by the quiet intimacy of the night.

His hands tightened on her waist as he pulled her down harder onto his thick shaft, burying himself to the hilt inside her tight, wet heat. He groaned low in his throat, overcome by the intensity of their connection, the way her body seemed made to fit perfectly with his.

Their eyes locked, a silent understanding passing between them—this was more than just physical attraction. There was a depth, a richness to their bond that neither wanted to ignore or deny.

What if I roll the stone away?

They're gonna crucify me anyway

She stood in the River House, quite after the Winter Solstice, her soft steps padding alone, when her eyes landed on Azriel. She halted, her breath catching in her throat.

"I..." She swallowed, a gift in her hands, "I was coming to leave this in a pile of presents. I forgot to give it to you earlier." She lied.

The gift, something to put in his ears, to block the sounds Cassian and Nesta undoubtedly made

What if the way you hold me is actually what's holy?

If long-suffering propriety is what they want from me

Her mate was just a level up, but the way Azriel chuckled, with him was where she wanted to be. "I wasn't sure if I should give you your gift." He whispered.

He couldn't do it in front of him, of their family, and Elain understood, feeling a tension shift in the air as he pulled a velvet box from his shadows.

Elain sucked in a breath, exaling softly seeing the pretty necklace nestled between the plush cussions, his shadows shifting off him and into the darkness.

They don't know how you've haunted me so stunningly

I choose you and me religiously

"It's beautiful." She breathed, taking the necklace, admiring it, a thing of secret, lovely beauty. Hues of red, pink and white. She looked up at him as his shadows took the box away, "Put it on me?"

She exposed her back to him, feeling him sweep her hair to the side, exposing her neck to him. Scarred fingers on his neck, almost melting at his touch. Azriel took his time to clip the necklace around her neck, making Elain shudder softly. She turned on her heel to face him, standing so close yet so far, his hand flat against the back of her neck.

What if he's written "mine" on my upper thigh only in my mind?

He knelt in front of her, face hidden in the layers of her dress, licking and sucking at her cunt, his tongue delving deep into her folds, lapping up her juices as he savored her sweet flavor. His hands roamed her curves, caressing and kneading the soft flesh of her hips and thighs. He loved the way she tasted, the way she smelled, the very essence of her.

His tongue circled her clit, flicking gently before applying steady pressure, drawing out her pleasure. He could feel her trembling, hear her soft moans echoing, spurring him on to bring her to the brink of ecstasy.

One slip and falling back into the hedge maze

Oh, what a way to die

She moaned, gripping his head through the dress as he continued to feast on her cunt, his tongue probing, swirling, suckling, bringing her closer and closer to the edge. Her grip on his hair tightened, nails digging in as she struggled to stay upright, overwhelmed by the intense sensations coursing through her body.

His tongue plunged deeper, fucking her with long, slow strokes as he devoured her dripping core. He could feel her walls clenching around his invading tongue, her juices flowing freely, coating his chin and lips. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, urging him on as he relentlessly pleasured her.

I keep recalling things we never did

Messy top lip kiss, how I long for our trysts

His fingers dug into her hips, holding her steady as he drove his tongue deeper, faster, revelling in her complete surrender to pleasure. Her taste, her scent, her very essence consumed him, igniting a hunger that only she could satisfy.

With a final, bold stroke, he sealed his lips around her throbbing clit, sucking hard as he felt her climax crash over her. Her scream echoed through the chamber, music to his ears, as her body shook and convulsed in his grasp. He drank in every drop of her release, savouring the sweet nectar as he brought her down from her high, his own need growing with each passing moment.

Without ever touching his skin

How can I be guilty as sin?

"Yes." Elain breathed. Just a taste, where only the Mother could see them, in the dead of night, where no one else might see them.

His hands laced through her thick hair, tilting her head up, he wanted it, she wanted it. She parted her lips slightly, eyes searching his before they closed. Giving him both offer and permission. He lowered his head towards her.

He sent me "Downtown Lights"

I hadn't heard it in a while

"This was a mistake." He said, voice forceful as he stepped back, hand pulling from her hair.

She opened her eyes, wondering if she'd heard him wrong, about what he wanted, "I'm sorry." She whispered, hurt in her eyes shining

"You don't—Don't apologize," He said, "Never apologize, it's I who should..." He shook his head, "Goodnight."

Am I allowed to cry?

She rushed back upstairs, the door to her room slamming as she sank down on her knees, sobs leaving her lips almost painfully as she cried, hair framing her face as she curled into herself, trying to hide from the world, she felt a shadow shift from her before it rushed to wherever it was Azriel had left.

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#elrielmonth #elrielmonth25 #elrielmonth2025 #Spotify #elriel #azriel x elain #elain x azriel #elain and azriel #elain acotar #elain archeron #elain acheron #elain acosf #azriel acomaf #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel #elriel smut

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little-miss-dilf-lover · 2 hours ago

Text

THE SUNDAY REGULAR. 18+

bucky barnes x waitress fem!reader

wc. 4605 summary. you’re a waitress working at some shitty run-down diner in the middle of nowhere. and every sunday you see the same person at the same time walk through the doors. the pair of you forming a bond over time. though today, he doesn’t at his usual time and you begin to worry that you’ll have to wait another week to see him. the regular then finds out some information about you that he didn’t wish to know, and in turn, information you didn’t wish to share. warnings. 18+ only! very brief indirect drug description, reader is engaged, small moment of violence, wound tending, repressed feelings, yearning and pining bc its yummy, idiots in love, filth, pinv, premature ejaculation (he can't help it. he's wanted her a while, okay?) creampie. mdni

⎯ ☆ ⎯

Sunday, 8:26pm. 24 minutes until closing time.

40-some miles outside of Washington DC.

You peer up at the clock on the wall behind you and weirdly find yourself hoping that it was displaying a lower number — wishing it to be an hour, maybe two earlier. You would never wish to be working at the diner for longer than you needed to be, but you were a customer short today and you were starting to grow restless.

The regular's presence becoming all the more noticeable as the hours passed you by. They were truly the only reason you began to pick up Sunday shifts in the first place.

Your hope begins to dwindle as you watch the second hand briskly move its way around the clock. There was a very strong chance that you won’t be seeing him walk through those doors tonight and you had to start welcoming that possibility. Unless your Sunday regular shows up in the next twenty minutes, you’re sadly going to have to wait another week more.

You rest your arms across the counter of the bar, hands stretching outwards as you slot your head between your upper arms. Using the moment as a way to ease the strain in your eyes. You hear the sound of what you know for certain is a motorcycle, his motorcycle, and your head whips up, checking if your suspicions were as true as you knew them to be.

And it was. It was him. Only several hours later than what he usually is.

You twist on your heel to the wall of mugs behind you and reach for the cleanest one you can see. You place it onto the bar just as he walks through the doors, meeting him with one of those smiles you only show to those who mean most.

The feeling of relief fills your lungs as you in turn fill his cup, pouring him some black coffee.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show,” you welcome as you turn your back to him, placing the pot back onto its spot.

“You serve the best coffees, how could I not?” Bucky smiles, taking a seat at the empty bar — dismissing his usual seat in the far left booth against the window.

“The trick is to let it sit for hours at a time.”

He takes a sip and nods, letting the particularly bitter liquid sit in his mouth a moment. “Yeah that would do it.”

“The kitchen is closed for the night, but I can offer you some pie? I was gonna take it home but it’s all yours if you want it,” you offer, suggesting a compromise to his usual order. “It’s pecan,” you tempt, pulling the paper box out from under the counter.

He looks at the singular slice and back up to you briefly, appreciating the rather selfless offer. But he couldn’t do that to you, it was yours.

“No no, I’m fine thanks. The coffee will do just fine.”

As you close the box, something shiny on your left hand catches his attention. He grows quiet and his eyes become fixed on your hand atop the box, focusing on an engagement ring.

You snatch your hand away and laugh dryly, hiding it like you were ashamed of it.

“I uh, didn’t know you were—” he stops himself, pulling his gaze away from the band. He swallows thickly and coughs in his fist. “Congratulations.”

It doesn’t match your other jewellery, he thought. It's the wrong metal.

“Thanks,” you smile weakly, stashing your hand into your pinny – keeping it from his view, and quite frankly your own. “It all happened kinda fast, but uh,” you pause, trying to find the words. “I’m happy.”

Such a lie.

“Good,” he forces a smile. “I’m happy for you.”

You clear your throat, and nod. “Thanks.”

You each still rather awkwardly, the announcement –or if that’s what you’d call it– making you both fumble for conversation for the first time ever. But what else could one say after that?

Bucky stares down at the mug in his hand, mentally plucking out conversation starters — hoping to think of something to say. But frankly, he was rather devastated, heartbroken even. The sight of the engagement ring feeling like a knife to the chest. Any chance of speaking was likely to result in further heartbreak.

He really thought you liked him.

He peers up at you when he notices your silence, though your eyes never meet his — they've become rather focused on a spot above his shoulder. He follows your eyeline and sees two men by a tree swapping items from their pockets.

Bucky’s gaze slowly finds its way back to you, moving slow like he was reluctant to see the upset cloud within your eyes.

“That’s him, right?” he asks hesitantly.

You can only scoff, head shaking disapprovingly as you watch the exchange play out. You had already previously suspected that the quitting was a ruse, and now you have the proof. All of it happening in front of your eyes.

“He said he stopped,” you mutter under your breath, forgetting your present company.

Though Bucky hears, he doesn’t say anything. Rather he doesn’t know what to say, and he’s quite sure he’d make the situation worse if something were to be uttered from his mouth. But in truth, he was disappointed in your choices, and while he doesn’t know you a whole lot –nor you him– he’s always had the assumption that you were strong of mind. That you were capable of making good choices for yourself.

“I need to start closing up,” you hint, avoiding Bucky’s eyes as you make yourself busy behind the counter.

Any other time you would’ve given anything to stall closing up shop, do anything to just spend a few more minutes in his company. But after everything that’s happened in the last few minutes, you could barely look at him. Quite frankly, you were embarrassed with the events of it all, mortified and ashamed even.

You knew you were making a mistake with your choice of partners, and you could tell that Bucky knew it too.

“I understand,” he nods.

He stands and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a ten and placing it under his mug. He can only observe you from behind, your lack of eye contact telling him all he needs to know. And so he slowly begins gathering his things, stalling to see if you would give him anything more than the back of your head.

“I’ll see you next Sunday?” he questions as he backs away from the counter.

He prays that you would give him a smile or wave perhaps, just something before he reaches the doors, though you never do — you just continue to busy yourself with things that do not require your attention. You couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in his eyes or for him to see the heartbreak in yours, so you faked work: adjusting already adjusted cups on the shelf.

“Yeah,” you hum, your back still to him.

As soon as you hear the doors shut, you begin to quickly make your way around the diner to shut things off, finding yourself in a rush to confront your fiancé outside. You lock the front doors and head out into the back, grabbing your things so you could exit through the kitchen.

You see and hear your partner’s truck off to the side and head towards it, walking to your fiancé in the driver's seat.

“You’re a liar,” you shout over his loud music, talking to him through the rolled down window. “You are a fucking liar!” your voice grows louder, physically expressing the hatred in your heart.

He shuts the music off with a smack to the console and turns to look at you.

“You’re outta your fucking mind, you know that?” he returns, his tone matching yours.

You scoff, laughing at him like it was entertaining. “Wow,” you shake your head.

“Okay then, give me back that ring,” he extends his hand towards you out the window, opening his hand. “You clearly don’t trust me, give it back.”

“Oh what, the ring you found at a fair?” you scoff. You yank it off your finger and throw it into his truck. “It’s the wrong metal anyway. I don’t wear that colour.”

In the front parking lot, Bucky waits. Lingering and pretending that he was trying to fix and adjust something on his bike. He could tell something were to go down, and he couldn’t leave you on your own to fend for yourself with a man that’s off his head. He hears voices raise from the back and his ears prickle, his suspicions proving to be correct. He slowly makes his way around on foot, walking a little faster when he hears a man’s voice raise.

“Get your own way home,” your fiancé, well, now ex-fiancé yells and unmutes his deafening music, turning it up even louder.

You weren’t sure if you were able to say anything more without crying, so instead you hit his truck, kicking a dent into the rusty door. He shouts something indecipherable and opens the door to get at you, but you push on it, shutting it closed.

And in that moment warning signs flicker rapidly in Bucky’s brain – his brisk footsteps becoming a hastened jog. He didn’t know this man or what he was capable of, and he did not want to find out.

But before he could get there, he sees you land a hefty punch to the man’s face inside the truck, a shout and a curse following after. Bucky rushes to your side, like he was offering his assistance, but the man in the truck speeds off — the large, manly company seeming to scare him off.

“Are you okay?” he swallows thickly, heart pounding in his chest. He turns you by the shoulders to face him, a look of pure worry slapped across his face.

You stare off into the distance, gaze detached as if you were trying to process everything. It all happened so fast. You direct your eyes to focus on Bucky and nod slowly, finally able to look at him once again.

And while one may think that you were lying with that nod, it was one of truth, because you really were okay. Maybe for the first time since you put on that ring.

All you can do is hug him, arms wrapping tightly around him as you bury yourself in his comfort. At first he’s reluctant, his own arms hanging at his sides while he debates with himself. This is all he’s ever wanted, why else would he travel forty miles for a cup of shitty coffee and dry pie? And so, he finally gives in, his arms finding themselves circulating you, hands tight to your back as if he’s trying to prolong this moment. Take it all in, in case this were to be the last.

You eventually pull away and look down at your feet, staring at the cracked concrete beneath you. “I uhm,” you start. “My car’s in the shop and he was my ride.”

“Of course,” is all he says, understanding exactly what you were trying to ask of him.

During the short walk to his motorcycle out front, nothing was said with words — all of the talking being said through glances and smiles, small shy looks away when gazes were to meet.

Reaching his bike, he hands you his helmet and hops on, extending a hand to help you get on behind him. You were hesitant at first, the thought of being on a motorcycle for the first time ever made you feel sick. But you knew you were in safe company, him giving you his own helmet proving so.

You reach your arms around his waist, securing yourself to him as your fingers interlock around his stomach. His eyes close briefly, the feel of having you so close to him makes it difficult to breathe. He glances downwards, wanting to curate the memory in his brain.

He watches your hands adjust in front of him and sees a lack of shine on your left ring finger. The sight practically made his heart swell.

Conversation was non-existent on the way to your house, which one would expect while on a motorcycle, but that didn’t mean neither of you had nothing to say. Quite the opposite in fact.

He pulls up outside yours with the help of your direction and shuts off the engine. He helps you off first, holding your hand as if to give you balance before he joins you on the ground. Standing a few short inches from you.

You pull out your keys from your bag and head to your small, quaint house — walking towards the windchimes and well attend to potted flowers on the porch. Bucky shadows you, keeping a respectful distance as he walks you to your house.

“Would uh,” you pause and turn to look at him, offering a smile. “Would you like to come in for a bit?”

He so desperately wants to, though he’s not sure if you’re in the right frame of mind to have a guest –practically a stranger– in your house.

“I promise I make better coffee than the diner,” you playfully offer, exhausting routes to get him to come inside.

He hesitates, footing scuffing against the doormat as he battles with himself.

“Only a small one,” he smiles and begins to take off his jacket.

Your smile widens and you turn to open the door, making your way inside. You flick on a couple lamps and gesture him inside, trying to make him feel comfortable. Doing whatever you can to get him to stick around a little longer.

“Take a seat,” you nod to the sofa in front. “Be right back.”

You head into your room and mimic a silent scream, you couldn’t remember the last time you were so excited to have a man in your house. Undressing from your work uniform, you put on your pyjamas from the night before: mismatched oversized tee and plaid bottoms. You didn’t want any exaggerated effort in your appearance to be known in case it makes him flee, so you opt only for a few spritzes of deodorant.

In the other room, Bucky shares a similar feeling. He chews on a mint from his pocket and adjusts his hair, suddenly feeling a sense of pressure in the way that you might now perceive him.

You join him in the main room a few moments later and head to the kitchen, making a start on the drinks.

“Can I ask you a question?” you call out to Bucky and he turns to follow your voice.

“Anything.”

“Do you even black coffee?” you ask, a lively tinge in your voice.

“I do,” he mimics your tone, nodding a singular time.

“Okay, let me rephrase,” you pause and reach into the freezer, pulling out several large ice cubes. “Do you like the diner’s back coffee?” you smile, heading towards him as you twist the ice into a dishtowel, securing it.

His lips form a straight line as he thinks about the weight of the question. Either way, his answer would contain a lie of some kind.

“I don’t,” he answers truthfully.

“I knew it,” you smile and plonk yourself down beside him. “No one likes our coffee.”

He twists slightly to look at you, watching your grin widen as your eyes fall to your lap. You’ve begun icing your hand from the punch earlier, holding the cold compress to your knuckles. His eyes fall to your hand, watching you struggle to hold the awkward shape in your non-dominant hand.

He once again battles with himself, mentally weighing it all in his mind. He wanted to help you, but he didn’t know if he could go without not being able to touch your skin ever again. But as he continued to watch you struggle with the shape, he thought that surely one touch couldn't hurt.

“Let me,” he whispers, moving closer.

And so his hands reach for yours hesitantly, holding your hurt one carefully within his left, metal hand as the other presses the compress to your skin. Your eyes flicker up to his, silently appreciating how attentive and gentle he’s being with you. And how he seems to be doing it all from the kindness of his heart — no other ulterior motive following.

It made you realise how much of a mistake you made by saying yes to that proposal earlier this week. How much it’s complicated things if you would have just been honest with yourself from the start. You only wanted security, and you’ve grown to realise that what you were getting with your now ex-fiancé, wasn’t safety. It was fear. Fear of being alone and for admitting you had deeper looming feelings for your regular than you had first realised.

And while Bucky could only speak on his behalf, he always had a feeling there was something more between you. He wouldn’t have travelled eighty miles every Sunday if he didn’t think there was a possibility that you could in fact like him too.

So, he enjoys this moment, eyes transfixed on the kindling of your fingers atop your lap. It’s all so casual, so intimate. The feeling in person far better than what he’s imagined.

You wanted something more. You wanted it to progress into something you weren’t yet quite sure of. So, you place your free hand atop his, holding the back of his hand as he attends to the swelling on your knuckles.

He meets your eyes to see that your focus was already set on him, gaze soft and trusting as you watch him tend to you. The ice beginning to melt between the warmth of your touch.

You move your hand from atop his and extend it outwards, slowly reaching for the side of his face. You hold him there as you lean forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek as if to show your thanks. It wasn’t originally the placement you had in mind, but truthfully you copped out at the last minute — far too afraid to be the one to ruin things.

He sensed that.

And so, he took the pressure off you by being the assertive one: guiding you back in for a kiss to the lips before you were to get too far. It was clearly what you both wanted, the prolonged contact of your lips a physical declaration of that.

Setting the ice towel on the coffee table, you bring your other hand to his face, holding him within your palms. And in turn his hands slip up to your waist, grip tight like he was afraid that if he were to let go, you’d disappear like you’ve done in all of his dreams before.

The kiss grows deeper and you each move closer, both eager to make this moment last. But it has to end at some point and Bucky parts away first, forehead resting to yours briefly. The tips of your noses rubbing against one another.

“You’ve had a tough night,” he catches his breath, speaking quietly between the close distance. “You shouldn’t rush into anything.”

“I’m not,” you pull away, shaking your head at him sternly. “I have wanted this for so long,” you finally admit, your hands falling to rest on his shoulders.

He just simply stares at you, head tilting as his lips open to speak.

“You’re the reason I started picking up Sunday shifts,” you whisper, trying to persuade him that your feelings about progressing with him could not be swayed. And that this is what you wanted.

His eyes lower bashfully and his head shakes. You were the reason he would drive that distance every week.

“And, I…” you cut yourself off, pausing as if it had all become too real. So you change what you were going to say, thinking it may be too soon to proclaim such wild, outlandish feelings. “And I made a mistake… I didn’t love him.”

Bucky places his fleshed hand to your cheek, holding you dearly while you speak into existence the things he too feels.

“I couldn’t have what I wanted… so I settled,” you divert from his eyes, suddenly aware of how little he’s speaking and how much you are..

He itches closer and closer, mouth ghosting yours once again. “And what did you want?” he whispers, speaking against your lips. It was like he was trying to pry it out of you for his own validation, tease it out of you almost.

All you can muster in response is a small, “You.”

And that's all he needed.

He directs you to lay lengthwise across the sofa, his body joining yours mere seconds later to over atop — the weight of him supported so as not to crush you. You wrap yourself around him as quick as your own body could allow it: bent knees lifting to hug at his sides, arms wrapping around his neck. Hips winding up against his desperately, keeping him close.

The deepened kisses divert, and the trail of his mouth moves across your face, heading for the skin under your ear. He litters a few flutery kisses into the patch before lowering, peppering open-mouth kisses down the side of your throat.

He wished that this moment could last, that he too could last. But he was fairly certain his stamina would fail him tonight, the way you look and smell and feel and sound all hindering his self-control. The sheer fact that this was all finally happening makes him feel like a very weak man indeed.

And suddenly the panic settled in for him. He had nothing. He wasn’t expecting this to happen, especially not tonight.

You sense a sudden worry and pull back, lusty heavy eyes flickering across his face. “What is it?” you ask breathlessly.

“I don’t have anything,” he hints, waiting for you to fill in the blanks yourself.

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassure, wandering hands moving down his sides. “I do… I’m on something,” you reassure.

He looks quite visibly relieved.

Your fingers slink into the hem of his long sleeve and you tug on the fabric. And while you’re eager to get him out of it, your pace remains slow. Like you were savouring it all. Your fingers skit over his skin as more of it becomes exposed, the top almost all the way off by now. He helps you help him out, alternating the anchoring of his hand so that you could pull his arms from either sleeve.

You drop it to the floor and in turn he starts to undress you from your t-shirt. His knuckles skim your stomach and the slow lifting begins to feel tortuous, the presence of him growing overwhelming.

And when your top half is finally bare, he adjusts himself over you, itching down your body. He presses a trail of kisses around each tit and down your stomach, moving hesitantly to the waistband of your pyjamas. His lips halt in place, searing white hot warmth to just under your belly button.

Your hands follow with him, fingers weaving through his dark hair as if to offer an ounce of the pleasure he’s giving you right now. His movements are slow and teasing as he starts to undress your lower half — removing both your underwear and bottoms with the same motion.

He stills for a few seconds, taking all of you in. How surreal that it is that you’re lying there completely naked on the couch before him, your gaze intently following every one of his movements. Sealing a final kiss to your upper, inner thigh, he sits back on his heels to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. Tugging them both down to pool at his knees — saving the trouble later on.

Bucky moves back up you to resume his prior position. Chests close, faces even closer. He reaches between your bodies and to his rock hard cock, carefully wrapping a hand around himself as he guides his aching dick towards you. Touch faint to ensure things don’t end prematurely for you both.

He presses his head to your folds, coating himself in your arousal and you both gasp at the sheer contact of the other. You were both virtually at the edge already, despite not having touched each other properly yet. It was as if this has been building for months and months and months. And now that you’re finally touching skin, it’s nearly impossible to contain yourselves. Control yourselves.

He taps his head at your cunt a couple times, swirling it around briefly before lining up with you, tip of his cock resting perfectly against your entrance. Stilling for a second, he simply allows a moment to soak all of this in, take it in that this really is happening. But he can’t leave you waiting too long, especially when you’re looking up at him so keenly.

And so he leans in to kiss you, lips locked with yours as he simultaneously feeds himself into you, cock worming its way inside your pussy. You gasp into his mouth and the noise vibrates on your tongues, the sound becoming a strained muffle. He mirrors you with a groan of his own, unable to keep himself quiet from the way you feel wrapped around him.

Bucky retracts his hand from his dick and places it on your cheek, holding you as he sinks more of himself inside, moving slowly so as to allow you time to adjust. Eventually easing the entirety of himself in you. Balls pressing firmly to your folds from the depth of him.

You feel even better than he imagined. So warm, so snug, so safe. And he has to pause, halt any further movement so that he doesn’t explode right now and then.

Your fingers grasp at his hair, using it as something to hold onto — something to pour your intense want into. You break the kiss and your head falls back against the cushion, weight of it growing far too heavy to hold up.

“I can feel you in my stomach,” you whine in a whisper, eyes half lidded as you peer up at him.

He shakes his head and his brows furrow, the utter filth you whispered seeming to strip him of his control, and he wasn’t entirely happy about it either. He’s wanted this for seven months and it was over in as many seconds. He groans faintly from atop and strength vanishes from his neck; forehead resting against yours as he empties himself into you. Muttering indecipherable nonsense

“I'm so sorry,” he murmurs, clearly embarrassed.

You’ve grown rather engrossed in the lewd display above you and you find yourself smiling, head shaking sweetly. “Not at all.”

He kisses the underside of your jaw and the crown of your head tilts backwards, exposing the full length of your throat to him. His mouth linger on the base of it and you begin to speak, your words vibrating against his lips.

“Well,” you pause. “I think…”

“Mhm?” he hums, head lifting to look you in the face.

“I think you should stay the night,” you start, eyes honing in on his, emphasising your severity. “And I think you should make it up to me.”

Who was he to object such a request?

“Yeah?” he smiles lazily, speaking softly between the close distance. “Lead me to your room.”

And who were you to object such a request?

⎯ ☆ ⎯

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