#never getting over this... never getting over HIM
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HEAVEN IS A HOME ŕŠŕ§ wherever i am with you



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đđđđđžââââ husband!enhypen đ f!rea âż fluff đ kissing skinship â đđđđđđđđđ ・
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HEESEUNG was always a jealous guy. he could never hide if from you and god knows he did tryâ he doesnât like when others salivates on what is, legally, his. to be clear, he didnât marry you for the sole reason of making other men go away. but he did think that putting a huge stone on your finger would have helped. sometimes, it does. sometimes, he needs to step up. because some people donât get it and have the nerve to flirt with the love of his life while he pays for her clothes. his favorite thing to is to wrap his arm around your shoulders, so the other idiot can see the ring on his finger. he grins when you put your hand over his, the shiny ring on your finger matching his own. then he stealsâ is it stealing when it was yours in the first place?âyou without a second look or a single word. âwe are married, hee,â you giggle, not seeming very bothered by his antics. heeseung kisses your temple, âdoes that asshole know that?â
JONGSEONG has, perhaps like everyone else in the world, a favorite part of the day. he thinks about it during the entirety of the day, the moment he will finally be able to leave work and go back home to his loving wife. the first thing he does when he steps inside the house is to kiss you, perhaps, then take your wrist and drag you to the bedroom. you have never seen him this eager before, it makes you laugh quietly, âwhatâs the matter with you?â focused on his itinerary, your husband doesnât hear you and even if he did, you doubt he would answer anyway. the way he pushes you against the bed makes you yelp, âsorry, princess,â he sighs, loosening his tie. then he climbs on top of you. not to kiss or anything. jay puts his entire weight on you, hidings his face in your neck as wraps his arms around your waist. he wants cuddles. âi missed you so much, wife.â
JAEYUN has that very silly tradition of his that stuck in the the relationship even after you promised to stay together for the rest of your life. every single time he takes you on a date, he insists on doing it the old fashioned way. he leaves the house one hour before the date and he shows up at your door when itâs time to go. âdo we really need to do all this?â you sigh, yet is unable to hide your smile at the sight of your husband and the flowers in his hands. he stays stunned at the sight of you. his answer dies in his throat. his eyes drag over your form like a scanner. his spirit leaves his body but comes back soon enough, âyâyes we do,â he whispers, leaning in to give you a kiss. you turn your head to the side and laugh at his whine, âi donât kiss on the first date,â you take the flowers in his hand. he stays stuck in his position for a moment, even after you start walking away, ââŚso mean.â
SUNGHOON can never leave you alone. he was already very clingy when you were just girlfriend-boyfriend, it went to another level when you engaged and he hasnât let you breath a single second since you returned from your honeymoon. he acts like you can vanish if he isnât close to you all the time; itâs lovely, very much so. but his separation anxiety goes as far as following you around when you strictly refuse to talk to him. not only he walks behind you as if he were your own shadow but he gets extremely touchyâ if you donât want to talk to him, you wonât refuse his touch. âstay silent if you still love me,â he wraps his arms around your waist. you donât answer, chopping your apple with an impeccable precision that makes him scared of you yet very attracted. âgood, i love you too,â he smiles against your cheek.
SUNOO makes you extremely mad, actually. not because he did something wrong or because he said something that was out of placeâ but, because he is so sweet over the slightest thing. his mouth is always full of praise words destined to you. his kindness makes you want to combust. âgood morning, my love,â he greets when you walk into the kitchen. his smile is ten times brighter then the sun, you have to squint your eyes at it. âhow can you be this adorable?â he asks, honest to god, at your sleepy face. you stop in your tracks, remembering that you are wearing one of his old shirts, that you hair are messy due to how many times you move in your sleep and that you probably drooled on his chest this night. âiâve never looked nastier,â you huff, walking to him. he kisses the top of your head, âhey, donât talk like this about my wife.â
JUNGWON doesnât answer when you call him by petnames. itâs absolutely not because he doesnât like them. he was the first one to get red in the face whenever you used to call him pretty boy at the beginning of your relationshipâ and he still gets shy when you call him baby. he just decided that he wonât answer when you will call him that anymore. âjungwon,â you call. he doesnât answer. although he is sitting right next to you in the couch, with his arm around your shoulders. he chews on his popcorn like you donât exist. âbabe,â you try again. itâs in vain. he still doesnât want to answer. you run all the petnames you have for him through your head, but you have the feeling that he wonât answer until you call him that favorite name of his. ââŚhusband,â you call again and his head snaps directly to your direction. âyes, my gorgeous wife,â his wife grin tells you that you are feeding his happiness a lot. all this because you wanted the remoteâŚ
RIKI is aware that marrying young isnât something that is common. he knows that people his age have other things to do that propose to each otherâ but he grew up to be eager and impatient for the things he want. he married you as soon as he could. he is honestly very proud of this. his wife is the first thing he talks about the people he is just me. and itâs frustrating when they refuse to believe your actual existence. whether he shows them the ring, the wedding pictures and everything. you eventually become of a victim of rikiâs failure to convince people he is married to you. usually, he just calls you for confirmation and he did. but some people need further proof. therefore, since you are in the same area as him, he tells you to come meet him. he pulls you close to his side by his hands on your hips, âi told you my wife was very much real and very pretty, no?â (truth is, he just really loves to show you off)
ëśě§ Ü if your husband is not obsessed with the fact he is your husband, divorce and take everything he owns đ because .. what?
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#â đ âĄâ ĺ˝čżâđ â #enhypen#enhypen fluff#enhypen x reader#enhypen imagines#enhypen scenarios#enhypen headcanons#enhypen angst#enhypen drabbles#enhypen smau#enha fluff#enha x reader#heeseung#heeseung x reader#jay#jay x reader#jake#jake x reader#sunghoon#sunghoon x reader#sunoo#sunoo x reader#jungwon#jungwon x reader#riki#riki x reader#enhypen reactions#enha scenarios#enha imagines#enhypen soft hours
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Obsession
possessive!bucky barnes x reader
summary: You donât even really like Bucky Barnes â heâs grumpy, kinda mean, and totally clueless about how you feel. But damn, heâs so hot itâs driving you crazy. Every time he walks in, all you can think about is what itâd be like if he just took you right there. You try to play it cool⌠but yeah, thatâs not happening.
word count: 6021
WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, masturbation, dirty talk, degrading, praising, desperation, fingering, teasing, PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex and he talks through it, breeding, overstimulation, oral (m receiving), possessive behavior.
A/N: iâm horny, okay?âŚ
You donât have a crush on Bucky Barnes.
That would imply affection. Admiration. Maybe even a little emotional investment.
You donât have any of that.
What you do have is a deeply inconvenient, soul-destroying case of lust. A constant, throbbing ache between your legs every time he walks past. A full-body reaction to the way he stretches, or leans on the counter, or wears those fucking grey sweatpants like a goddamn weapon.
Itâs chemical. Itâs hormonal. Itâs not personal.
Because Bucky Barnes is grumpy. Bucky Barnes is quiet. And Bucky Barnes has absolutely no idea that heâs the reason you canât go three days without needing to fuck yourself stupid.
Like right now.
Heâs just standing there in the kitchen, back to you, broad shoulders stretching that worn black Henley like itâs a second skin. His hairâs short now, freshly trimmed at the nape, the kind of cut that shows off the sharp line of his jaw, the back of his neck.
Youâre staring. Again.
You donât mean to. But he makes a little grunt when he stretches â just a tired noise, nothing sexual â and you nearly whimper like a kicked dog. Instinct. Pavlovian response.
And he doesnât notice. Not even a flicker of awareness as he pours his coffee and walks out, oblivious, muttering something about the mission report.
You just stand there, holding a spoon, clenched thighs and flushed cheeks like youâve just been fucked by the idea of him.
Itâs getting worse.
Like, medically worse.
Youâve gone from horny to feral to clinically unwell, and itâs all because of one man.
One grumpy, emotionally constipated, vein-poppingly hot man who canât say a sentence without sounding mildly irritated. Who barely even looks at you unless youâre in the way. Who definitely doesnât like you â and yet somehow owns your nervous system like a fucking landlord.
And itâs not fair.
Because heâs not even nice to you.
Heâs short with you in meetings. Scoffs when you crack jokes. Gives you that look when you say something mildly reckless on a mission â like youâre exhausting. Like youâre annoying.
But then heâll do something that ruins you completely. Like grunt your name low and gravelly when tossing you your gear. Or casually push you out of the line of fire with one big, rough hand and say, âWatch it, sweetheart,â like youâre some dainty little thing.
You pace your room that night, ranting to no one.
âI donât even like him,â you mutter, folding laundry with violent purpose. âHeâs so rude. He never smiles. Doesnât talk to anyone unless he has to.â
Your shirt gets yanked onto a hanger too hard. You nearly snap it.
âAnd he doesnât even like me. Not even a little. Iâm just some girl who laughs too loud and gets in his way andâoh my god, I would let him ruin me.â
Thatâs probably the most honest thing you said all week. Youâd let him manhandle you. Throw you over his shoulder. Rail you into the mattress like a war crime. That arm? The metal one? Youâve thought about it. God, youâve thought about it so much itâs starting to feel like a sin.
You canât help it.
You collapse onto your bed, still in your T-shirt and underwear, legs kicking uselessly against the sheets. Your body is hot â too hot. Your skin prickles, stomach twisting tight with the sheer need of it.
You shouldnât do it.
But fuck it â you do.
Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties like second nature, no hesitation. Youâre already soaked â of course you are. One fucking grunt from Bucky in the kitchen and youâve been like this all day, wound tight and throbbing.
Your fingers slide through the slick heat of your folds, and your hips twitch. You let out a soft, breathless whimper, biting your lip like itâll help.
It doesnât.
Heâs all you can think about.
Bucky, with that low rasp of a voice. Bucky, sweat-slicked and panting, muscles straining above you. Bucky, staring down at you like youâre a mess he likes making.
You rub lazy circles around your clit, teasing yourself, letting it build slow. Letting the images crawl behind your eyes:
His hands gripping your thighs, spreading them open.
That cold metal arm wrapped around your throat, holding you in place while he pounds into you, relentless and filthy.
His voice in your ear, rough and possessive ââYou been thinkinâ about this, sweetheart? Been touching yourself like a needy little thing?â
Your fingers move faster.
You arch into the mattress, breath stuttering, hips chasing the pressure. Your other hand slides up under your shirt, finds your breast and squeezes hard, tugging at your nipple.
âFuck,â you whisper, squirming, already so close itâs pathetic.
You imagine his hand â that hand â between your legs. Imagine him shoving your panties to the side with those cool, precise fingers and just⌠watching you squirm. Watching you come undone with that unreadable expression of his, like heâs filing it away for later.
You imagine him making you come like this. Telling you youâre not allowed to stop. That youâre gonna do it again, and again, until youâre crying.
Your thighs start to shake.
You gasp, pressing harder, grinding down. Your toes curl, muscles tensing, pleasure tearing through you like lightning â sharp, wet, overwhelming.
You come hard, moaning into your pillow, breathless and ruined, hand still trembling between your thighs.
And then?
You lie there. Sticky. Hot. Unsatisfied.
Because no matter how many times you make yourself come, itâs never enough.
Not when itâs him you want.
Not when itâs Bucky fucking Barnes.
âââ
Youâre minding your business. Truly. Peacefully. Drinking your stupid little smoothie, scrolling through intel reports on your tablet, trying so hard not to think about last night and the shame spiral that followed.
Youâre in the common room, feet tucked under you, hair up, living a clean and quiet life.
The front door hisses open. Voices filter inâSam laughing, Nat muttering something dry, Steveâs boots heavy on the floor.
And him.
Bucky.
You donât look up at first. You donât need to. You can feel him. Like some sixth sense activated just by his presence, like the air itself is different when he walks into it.
But then you do look up and you regret it immediately.
Heâs just back from the field. Tactical gear still clinging to him, black shirt soaked through with sweat in that way that makes it stick to every hard line of muscle underneath. The sleeves are tight around his bicepsâdangerously tightâmaking it look like the fabricâs seconds from giving out under the strain of his arms.
His hairâs damp, just messy enough to be criminal, a few strands sticking to his forehead. Dog tags resting against his chest. Black cargo pants slung low on his hips, clinging to his thighs like they were custom-made by someone with your exact problem.
Heâs flushed from exertion, a little dirty, jaw tight like heâs still coming down from combat.
And he doesnât notice you. He just walks past, arm flexing as he drags his glove off with his teeth.
You actuallyâphysicallyâhave to grip the edge of the couch.
You squeeze your thighs together so tight your eyes almost roll back. Your smoothie is sweating in your hand, condensation dripping onto your leg, and itâs the least of your problems right now.
Because that man?
That man could rail you into next week with the anger he carries in his shoulders alone. Youâd let him wreck you in the debriefing room, up against the wall, still wearing that gear and not saying a word.
Youâd tear those tactical pants off with your teeth.
And he just keeps walking. Oblivious. Like heâs not singlehandedly dragging you through the gates of horny hell.
âGod,â you mutter under your breath, heart hammering. âYouâre gonna kill me.â
He pauses for half a second like he mightâve heard you. Glances over his shoulderâjust once.
And then heâs gone, down the hall.
You stare at the door for a long time, smoothie forgotten, thighs still clenched like your life depends on it.
You need help. You need prayer. Exorcism. A cold shower.
Or maybe you just need him to ruin your entire existence.
You barely make it back to your room.
Your legs are shaking. Your mindâs a blur. All you can see is himâsweaty, panting, muscles strained beneath that black t-shirt. His arm flexing, the curve of his jaw, those goddamn tactical pants hugging every inch of thigh like a threat.
You lock the door behind you with trembling fingers.
You donât even bother taking your clothes off properlyâjust shove your hand down your shorts as you collapse back onto your bed, legs spread, head spinning.
He looked so good.
Your fingers slide through your folds, already wet, your body acting like itâs been starving for him. Like itâs been waiting all day, all year, for a glimpse of that man so it can break down on command.
You rub your clit in tight, needy circles, moaning quietly.
Your eyes flutter shut.
You picture him over you, sweaty and still in gear, that black shirt pushed up just enough to show the cut of his stomach. You imagine his voice, low and rough, right next to your earââCouldnât even wait, huh? Needed me that bad?â
Your hips buck, thighs shaking, pleasure building fast and desperate.
âFuckâBucky,â you gasp, breath catching.
You donât hear the quiet footfalls in the hall.
Donât hear the door next to yours click shut.
Donât know heâs just gotten back to his room.
But he hears you.
Bucky stops with one boot halfway unlaced.
He frownsâstill half in mission modeâuntil he hears it again: a faint whimper through the wall. A soft gasp. Thenâhis name. Muffled. Almost whispered.
His blood goes still.
He steps closer to the wall, heart suddenly pounding, every nerve pulled tight.
Another moan. Higher this time. Desperate.
He can hear the rhythm nowâquiet, wet sounds, a bed creaking slightly with every movement. Youâre touching yourself. Saying his name. Whimpering like itâs been torturing you.
His mouth goes dry. Something low in his stomach twists.
He shouldnât listen.
But he doesnât move. Doesnât even breathe.
You donât know heâs thereâdonât know youâve already ruined him. That heâs standing on the other side of the wall, jaw clenched, cock straining against his pants, while you moan into your pillow and come with his name on your lips.
âââ
The next day, you tell yourself youâre fine.
You look fine. You act fine. You sit in the common area with your laptop open and a mug in your hands like a picture of peace. The night before? Never happened. The hand between your thighs? The breathy moans into your pillow? The orgasm that left you limp and half-ashamed?
A delusion. A private, pathetic delusion.
Until he walks in.
And your entire body remembers.
Bucky enters like itâs nothing. Like heâs nothing. Joggers low on his hips, black T-shirt riding up in the back, hair damp from a shower and curling just slightly around his ears.
You look up instinctively.
And he looks right at you.
Your breath catches. Your stomach drops. He holds your gaze for half a secondâhalf a second too longâthen nods, casual as ever, and heads to the kitchen.
No hello. No smirk. Nothing to suggest he heard the way you moaned his name with your fingers stuffed between your thighs like you were starving for him.
He doesnât say a word.
You try to refocus, try to look at your screen and breathe, but your eyes keep flicking back.
Heâs moving around the kitchen now, calm, quiet, efficient. Forearms flexing with every movement. The joggers cling when he crouches to grab something from a low cabinet, and your mouth actually goes dry.
Your thighs squeeze together.
He knows.
He has to know.
But heâs pretending like he doesnât, and itâs driving you fucking insane.
You donât even want to like him. Heâs grumpy and rude and dismissive. He doesnât flirt. He barely talks. He exists like a thundercloud with muscles and you still want to cry from how badly you want him.
And now he knows.
Now youâve moaned his name with a hand between your legs, and heâs seen you since and said nothing.
You want to crawl into the floor.
You want to jump him.
You want him to ruin you until you canât even say your own name.
He walks past you again with a cup of coffee, eyes flicking toward youâslow, heavy, unreadable.
And this time?
You swear thereâs a hint of a smirk.
He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee, that black mug dwarfing in his gloved hand. The steam curls around his face, catching the light, and heâs just staring at nothingâcompletely unreadable.
Until he speaks. âSleep okay last night?â
You freeze. Your heart flatlines. Then kicks into overdrive.
You glance up too fast, trying to act casual, but your grip on the mug betrays youâtight, white-knuckled.
âYeah,â you say, blinking. âWhy?â
Bucky shrugs. Sips again. His face is all calm, cold stillness. Like heâs discussing the weather. Not like he heard you moaning his name behind the paper-thin wall like your soul was leaving your body.
âNothing,â he says, low and even.
You swallow hard. Try to hide the heat crawling up your neck.
You stare at him. Waiting for something. A look. A smirk. A single flicker of anything.
But he gives you nothing.
Just turns back toward the hallway, casual as ever, coffee in hand, like he didnât just dangle a loaded gun over your head and walk away.
And as he disappears down the hall, your thighs press together again.
Youâre so fucked.
âââ
You try to sleep.
You really, really do.
You toss. You turn. You fluff your pillow. You kick the blankets off and pull them back up. You stare at the ceiling and beg your brain to stop replaying the way he looked in that shirt. The way his voice dropped when he asked about your night. The nothing he gave you like a damn grenade and walked away.
It doesnât stop.
It wonât stop.
You squeeze your thighs together for the fifth time in twenty minutes, but it only makes it worse. Your whole bodyâs achingâburning. Tight with the need thatâs been building for the entire day.
You glance at the door. You know you should get up and lock it.
But you donât. Because youâre tired. And turned on. And pathetic.
âFuck it,â you whisper, dragging your hand under the sheets. âIâll be quiet.â
You bite your lip as your fingers slide down, already warm, already soaked. You work slow at first, trying to stay silentâjust enough to relieve the pressure. Just enough to breathe again.
But then your mind starts drifting.
To him.
Always him.
Bucky in the gym, sweat-slick and scowling. Bucky walking past you post-mission like a walking sin. Bucky pressing you into your mattress with that big metal hand wrapped around your throat, voice rough in your earââYouâre so fucking loud for me, baby.â
You gasp. Then whimper. Soft. Barely audible.
But he hears it.
Heâs in his room again. Reading. Trying to pretend like he didnât spend all day imagining the look on your face when he asked about your sleep. Trying not to picture your hand between your thighs again.
And then he hears you.
Again.
A muffled moan, breathless and aching, like itâs being pulled out of you against your will.
He stands without thinking.
Crosses the hall with quiet, deliberate steps. His pulse is steady, but something low is stirringâsomething primal. Something possessive. The kind of heat that doesnât burnâit consumes.
He stops outside your door.
Closed. Not locked.
He doesnât even knock.
The handle turns with the softest click, and thenâ
He steps inside. The door shuts behind him with a quiet snick.
You donât hear it.
Youâre on your back, one knee bent, your hand buried under the hem of your shorts. Your head is tipped back against the pillow, mouth open in these soft, gasping little whimpers as you chase the edge, hips twitching, breath fogging in the dim light.
You have no idea heâs there.
Not until you hear him speak.
âDidnât I just ask if you slept okay?â The voiceâhis voiceâcracks through the quiet like a whip.
You bolt upright.
Everything inside you lurches, heart ramming against your ribs, a violent rush of heat and panic rising through your chest like youâve been caught in a fire. Your hand yanks back from your shorts like itâs been scorched, and you scramble to pull the blanket up, dragging it over your thighs as your breath shatters.
Your eyes fly to the source of the voice.
And there he is. Leaning against the door like heâs got all the time in the world. Arms crossed. One brow slightly raised.
His expression is unreadableâcasual, maybeâbut thereâs a flicker in his eyes. Something dark. Something hungry. Like heâs taking inventory of every inch of you in one glance.
You canât move. Canât think.
Your heartâs thudding like a drumline, and your cheeks go hot, burning as your stomach flips over itself in full-blown horror.
You can still feel your arousalâsticky, heat pressed between your thighs, your pulse fluttering in places heâs not even touched.
âBuckyââ you croak, throat tight. âIâwhat are you doingâhowââ
âThe door wasnât locked,â he says flatly.
Matter-of-fact. Like that explains everything.
And it kind of does.
You just sit there, still clutching the blanket to your chest like it can undo what he saw. As if it can erase the sound of you moaning into your pillow while your fingers worked yourself over to the thought of him.
He doesnât smirk. Doesnât leer.
He just watches.
Like heâs curious. Patient. Like heâs giving you a chance to dig your own grave or shut up and let him lower you into it.
You look at him and it hits you how big he is. Broad and solid, filling the doorway like a wall. The black t-shirt is stretched across his shoulders, tucked into his pants just enough to show the lines of his waist, and that goddamn metal hand is flexing at his side like itâs already made its decision.
And still⌠he doesnât leave.
Your voice breaks trying to fill the silence. âI didnât meanâ I thought I was quietâ I didnât knowââ
âI heard everything.â
That shuts you up.
His voice is calm. But itâs not soft. Not gentle. It sinks into your gut like a stone, and your thighs squeeze together before you can stop yourselfâbefore your body betrays you again.
You look away. You canât look at him. Not when youâre like thisâhair messy, skin flushed, caught in the act like a filthy little secret with your want written all over your sheets.
He moves. Not quickly. Not harshly. Just decisively. Like this is inevitable. Like he knew the moment he opened that door that he wasnât going to leave until you were ruined.
He crosses the room in two slow steps. Sits on the edge of your bed, right next to you. His thigh brushes yours, warm and solid, and your breath hitchesâyour entire body tensing as his presence crowds the air.
Then his handâthe metal oneâreaches out.
He takes your wrist. Your fingers are still damp. Still twitching from where they were buried between your thighs. He stares at them for a second, then meets your eyes.
âTouch yourself.â
You blink. âWhatââ
âI said touch yourself,â he repeats, a little lower this time. âShow me.â
Your heart slams. His grip stays locked around your wrist, not forcingâbut not letting go either. He doesnât need to threaten. Doesnât need to beg.
Heâs already heard you fall apart for him.
Now he wants the show.
And fuckâyour body obeys before your brain can stop it.
You shift beneath the covers, breath shaking, eyes wide as your hand slides back down, slipping under the waistband of your shorts.
Your skinâs hot. Everything throbs and youâre soaked.
Shame prickles in your chest, but itâs drowned by the way he watchesâfocused and still, his hand still gripping yours like he owns it.
You let your fingers find that spot again, slick and swollen, and you shudder.
âFuck,â you whisper, breath catching.
His voice cuts through it. Soft. Direct. âYouâve been touching yourself thinking about me?â
You nod, cheeks burning.
âAnd now you canât stop, can you?â he murmurs. âPoor thing. You want me this much, baby?â
You let out a tiny, broken soundâsomething between a gasp and a whimperâand press harder.
His metal thumb strokes over the inside of your wrist, slow and thoughtful, like heâs testing your pulse. Youâre so wet your fingers glide without resistance, your hips moving on their own.
âMessy little thing,â he mutters. âGod, youâre desperate. Didnât even lock the door.â
His flesh hand moves too nowâreaching up to push your hair from your face, tilting your chin toward him.
âYou wanted to get caught, didnât you?â
You shake your head, but your body betrays youâback arching, thighs tensing, rhythm faltering as your orgasm creeps up again, fast, tighter than before.
He sees it. Feels it. And he knows.
âYou gonna come for me?â he whispers. âRight here, baby? With my hand around yours and your pussy soaking your sheets?â
You sob his name and he finally leans inâbreath warm against your cheek.
âGood girl.â
Your fingers slip againârhythm stuttering, body caught in that maddening edge.
He watches you falter. Watches your mouth fall open, brows pull together, your thighs start to shake with the pressure of holding yourself there. So close. Too close.
And thatâs when he moves. His grip on your wrist tightens just enough to make you freeze.
âLet go,â he says.
You whimper. âButââ
âI said let go.â His voice leaves no room for argument.
You obey. Your hand slips from your shorts, fingers slick and trembling, and your chest rises in short, desperate breaths as he shifts closer.
âBuckyââ you gasp.
But heâs already there. His fingers slide between your foldsâjust one, at first, cool and unreal, brushing over your clit in a slow, torturous circle. Your hips jerk like youâve been shocked.
âGod,â you moan, clinging to the sheets, âfuckââ
âSo sensitive,â he murmurs.
His eyes are locked on your face, hungry, focusedâlike heâs memorizing the way your mouth falls open for him, the way your lashes flutter when he presses a little harder.
You canât stop the sounds you make.
Youâre already too closeâtoo muchâyour body wired tight from teasing yourself for nights and thinking of him, only him.
One metal finger dips lowerâin now, slick and slowâand your breath punches from your chest.
Your hips grind into it, chasing it like youâre starving.
He fucks you with it slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Watching you unravel inch by inch.
âYouâve been dreaming about this?â he says, voice like gravel. âGetting off to the thought of my hands on you?â
You nod helplessly, fingers clenching around the sheets.
Another finger slides in.
Your body wails for itâso full, so good, the metal stretching you just rightâand your thighs tremble, back arching as your orgasm builds so fast it almost hurts.
âThen come for me,â he growls. âRight now. I want to feel how tight you get when you finish.â
You choke on a cry.
And then you fall apart.
Hard.
Your walls clamp down around his fingers, body convulsing as the wave hits youâsharp and electricâshaking through your entire frame with a loud, wrecked moan that echoes in your room.
His hand doesnât stop. He fucks you through itâslower now, drawing it out, holding your body steady with his free hand while you tremble and sob and drip around him.
You donât know how long it lasts. You just know youâve never come like that before.
Not in your life.
Not until him.
Youâre still gasping, thighs twitching, brain static from how hard you just cameâbut heâs not done with you. Not even close.
His fingers slip from you slow, drenched, and he brings them up to his mouth, sucking them clean without taking his eyes off you.
Then?
He smirks.
That low, dangerous smirk youâve only ever imagined. Dreamed about. Touched yourself to. And now itâs real.
âYouâve been thinking about me so much,â he says, voice thick with heat, âI bet you want to feel my cock, huh?â
You donât even answer. Canât. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out but a broken moan.
He laughs. Dark. Rough. âYou fucking slut.â
He stands. Hands go to the waistband of his pants.
Your breath catches, watching.
He doesnât rush. He doesnât need to.
The black tactical pants slide down slow over those solid thighs, revealing the outline of whatâs beneathâthick, heavy, hard. You feel your whole body clench at the sight.
He steps out of them, shirt already discarded somewhere between your moans, and heâs standing there now in nothing but black briefsâsoaked at the tip.
And holy fuck, heâs big.
Your lips part, staring. You want to drool.
He notices.
âGo ahead,â he murmurs. âLook at what youâve been aching for every night.â
He pulls the briefs downâslow, shameless.
His cock springs free, thick and hard and flushed at the tip, veins running along the length like something out of a wet dream. You whimper, thighs pressing together reflexively.
âYou wanted this inside you so bad you couldnât keep quiet,â he says, climbing onto the bed again, crawling over you until his weight cages you in. âMoaning my name with the fucking door unlocked.â
Your body arches up to meet him.
âPlease,â you whisper.
He fists his cock once, dragging his head through your soaked folds, teasing your entrance.
Youâre still sensitive. Still pulsing.
âIs this what you want?â he growls, notching the tip right against you. âWant me to stretch you open and fuck the brains outta that filthy little head of yours?â
You nod, desperate.
His cock sits heavy in his hand, the flushed tip glistening as he slides it through your slick folds again. Over and overâup and downâuntil youâre squirming beneath him, hips chasing every motion like you canât stand another second of not being filled.
But he doesnât give in. Not yet.
He drags the thick head over your entrance, slow and deliberate, just barely nudging inside before pulling back again.
âFuckâBucky,â you whimper, body arching.
âYouâre soaked again,â he growls, almost to himself. âYou got this wet just thinking about my cock?â
You nod, but itâs not enough. Not for him. He taps your clit onceâsharp and teasingâand your whole body jerks.
âSay it.â
Your breath catches. âIâI thought about it every night,â you gasp. âI wanted it so bad. I still want it. Please, Buckyââ
He groans, low and ragged. The tip of his cock presses at your entrance again. Just a little. Just enough to make you feel the burn of itâhow thick he is, how your body tries to pull him in even as he holds himself back.
âYou feel that?â he murmurs, circling your hole with maddening precision. âHow much your pussy needs me?â
You moan, desperate. Hands clawing at his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you can hold onto.
He grins. âNeedy little thing.â
Then he pushes. Just the tipâslow and thick, stretching you inch by inch.
Your mouth falls open. Breathless. Wide-eyed.
âOh myâfuck,â you cry.
He pulls back.
You sob.
âPatience,â he mutters, teasing your entrance again. âWanna feel you beg for it.â
âIâm begging,â you gasp. âPlease, Buckyâplease, I need it, I need you to fuck meââ
His mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cry as he thrusts in deepâall the wayâfilling you to the hilt in one thick, devastating stroke.
Your back arches. Your vision whites out.
âSo fucking tight,â he growls against your mouth, rolling his hips, grinding in deeper. âFuckâyou were made for this, werenât you?â
He stays there for a momentâburied inside youâhis cock stretching you open so wide it burns in the best way, hips pressed flush to yours. You can barely breathe, your body trembling with the shock of just how full you feel.
Then he moves. A slow pull outâjust a few inchesâbefore slamming right back in.
You scream. Not from pain. From everything. The pressure, the friction, the heat of his skin, the weight of his body pinning you down like he owns you.
âGoddamn,â he hisses, his jaw clenched tight. âYouâre fucking dripping around me.â
Your nails dig into his back.
He starts thrustingâhard and fast, hips snapping against yours with brutal rhythm, the head of his cock dragging over every sensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly where to hit.
And all the while, he talks.
âBeen thinking about this tight little cunt every night since I got here. Didnât know it was mine to take.â
You moanâchoked and desperate.
âYou wanted it so bad, didnât you? Wanted me to catch you with your legs spread and fuck you like the filthy little cock-drunk slut you are.â
âY-Yesâpleaseââ youâre a mess beneath him, eyes wet, mouth open.
He grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, forcing you to look up at him.
âLook at me,â he growls. âDonât you dare look away while I fuck your pussy.â
You blink up at him, dazed. And fuckâhe looks insane. Hair a mess, sweat dripping down his temples, that metal hand gripping your thigh so hard you might bruise.
And stillâhe doesnât stop. He fucks you like itâs punishment. Relentless. Ruthless.
Every thrust knocks the air out of your lungs, your body jerking with the force of it. The bed creaks beneath you, headboard slamming against the wall, your moans echoing like youâre meant to be heard.
âYou gonna come again, baby?â he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your ear. âYou gonna soak my cock just like you soaked your fingers last night?â
âBuckyâBucky, Iâm gonnaâfuck, I canâtââ
âYes, you can.â
His hand slips down between you, fingers rubbing fast circles over your clit as he keeps fucking you open with brutal thrusts.
âYouâre gonna come with me inside you, sweetheart. Youâre gonna come on my cock like a good little toy.â
And it snaps.
You cry outâloud and brokenâas your orgasm slams into you hard enough to steal your breath, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.
âFuck, yes,â he growls, grinding deep into you as you come, riding you through it. âThatâs it. So fucking tightâso good for meââ
Heâs close now too. You can feel itâhis thrusts stuttering, muscles tensing.
âGonna fill you up,â he groans. âYou want that, baby? Want me to come inside this perfect little pussy?â
Youâre still shaking, but you nod. Whimpering. Needy.
âPleaseâinsideâwant it so badââ
He buries himself deep and groans loudâraw and wreckedâas he spills inside you, hips jerking, cock twitching as you feel every hot pulse of it.
Youâre ruined.
His weight sinks down on top of you, breath ragged in your ear, and for a long moment, all you can hear is the sound of both of you panting.
The roomâs heavy with heat and sweat, skin sticking where it meets, your body still twitching with the aftershocks of how hard he fucked you.
Then he lifts his head. Eyes drag down your flushed face. Your parted lips. Your chest rising and falling fast. Still dazed. Still ruined.
He shifts back onto his knees between your thighs, hands gripping your hips, keeping you spread open wide beneath him.
âLook at this,â he murmurs, almost to himself.
Then he pulls outâslow and thick, his cock dragging against your fluttering walls before slipping free with a wet sound that makes you whimper.
And fuck.
You feel it immediately. The warm spill of him leaking out of youâthick and hot and so muchâtrickling down your folds and onto the sheets in sticky, glistening streams.
Bucky groans under his breath, his eyes locked on your pussy like itâs the most perfect thing heâs ever seen.
âGoddamn,â he mutters. âYou took it all. So fucking good for me.â
You try to close your legs on instinct, flushed and wrecked and so overstimulatedâbut he stops you with a firm grip, holding you open with his metal hand.
âUh-uh. Keep âem open. I wanna see it.â
His thumb slides down, spreads you further, letting him watch as more of his cum drips from your aching hole.
âLook at that mess,â he murmurs, gaze heavy-lidded, voice thick with pride and hunger. âYouâre leaking all over the place, baby.â
You shiver under him.
He swipes his thumb through the slick, then presses it back inâjust a littleâpushing some of it inside again while your body jerks from the sensitivity.
âFuck,â he growls. âYou were made to be filled like this.â
He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot and uneven.
âYouâre gonna clean me up, sweetheart,â he rasps, voice thick with command. âGonna taste every drop.â
Your pulse spikes. You barely have the strength to move, still reeling from the wreck heâs made of youâbut you obey, because you need it, because he told you to.
He shifts forward, settling between your thighs again. His metal hand spreads you open, keeping you wide for him, raw and messy. His other hand trails down, steadying his cock where it restsâstill hard, still slick with both of you.
He throbs against your skin, flushed and glistening.
You lean forward without hesitation, tongue flicking out to catch the first salty bead that clings to the head. He lets out a quiet groan above you.
His eyes burn as you take your time, licking slowly around the tipâteasing, deliberateâbefore your lips part wider and you sink down, wrapping him in heat.
Your cheeks hollow as you draw him in deeper, your mouth soft and eager.
âFuck,â Bucky grits, his hand sliding into your hair, curling tight. âYouâre good at this.â
You moan around him, letting the praise sink in as you begin to moveâslow, controlled bobs of your head. Your tongue swirls, tasting the mix of him and yourself, and it only makes you hungrier.
Youâre not just cleaning him up. Youâre savoring him and he knows it.
He pulls you up by your hair, not roughâcontrolled. Intentional. His mouth crashes onto yours in a kiss thatâs all teeth and heat and claiming, like heâs branding you from the inside out. His metal hand clamps around your waist, anchoring you, holding you still as he devours you like he owns you.
And fuck, maybe he does.
When he finally breaks the kiss, his breath ghosts over your lips, low and ragged.
âThatâs enough,â he murmurs, voice thick with something dark and satisfied. âYou did so well. Thatâs my good girl.â
Your stomach twists, body still trembling, as you melt into him â breathless and soaked, the taste of him still slick on your tongue.
He doesnât move for a while, just lets his weight settle into you, chest rising and falling against yours, heart still pounding beneath sweat-damp skin. His breath is warm where it fans over your cheek, his metal hand still possessively wrapped around your waist.
Then, gently, he shifts. His fingers slide up, brushing your hair back from your face with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten. He kisses your foreheadâsoft, slowâlike heâs claiming you all over again, but quieter this time.
âMy good girl,â he murmurs, the words husky but reverent now. âYou were perfect.â
Your eyes flutter closed at the sound, overwhelmed, wrecked in the best way. His flesh hand strokes your cheek, soothing the heat from it, while the metal one trails lazy circles over your spine.
âDid so good for me,â he whispers again, like a secret meant only for your bones.
You donât trust your voice, so you just nuzzle closer, tucking yourself into his chest.
Fuck, he did ruin you.
tags: @iamthatonefangirl
#barnesonly#marvel#bucky barnes#james buchanan barnes#writing#mcu#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky barnes smut#smut#bucky barnes oneshot#oneshot#avengers#bucky fanfic#fanfic#fanfiction#posessive!bucky
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Worst Behavior
Art in the center by Houhai673 on lofter
pairings- stepbrother! Sukuna x f! Reader (lil bit of Toji/reader)
summary - Sukunaâs dad married your mom while you were in high school, and you hated each other on sight. He endlessly picked on and tortured you. So much so that he became a fucking YouTube sensation from prank videos starring you! You come back home for summer break after a bad breakup, and of course annoying ass Sukuna is there, with his stupid smirk, ready to pick on you again, only to be derailed when he sees you're going out with his old friend Toji for a date. Turns out, Sukuna has had it bad for you for a long time, and making you hate him was the only way to guarantee you stay far away, but can he keep up the act?
content/warnings - MDNI, tw- stepcest, lots of pining, kinda one-sided lol, Sukuna is an asshole to you, reader hates him. Enemies to ????- ton of sexual tension, jealous ass Sukuna. This chap - fingering, Toji saying what's up, Sukuna masturbating and being just depraved and pathetic tbh, panty stealing, taboo relationships
part two (coming soon)

part one
It was junior year of high school when your mom remarried, and you can't forget that day, the first time you met that pretentious little shit Sukuna. Who was now your 'family' you guess?
He was a couple of years older, already in freshman year of college, he'd come home on break and torment you endlessly, a whole fucking bulky. He'd hide shit high where you can never reach it, jumpscare you constantly, woke you up to fuck with you, and even filmed his pranks and put them on YouTube.
The jerk was actually YouTube famous from the amount of pranks he'd pull and your golden reactions. A mix of throwing shit at him, cursing him out or smacking him while he held his phone and recorded it. There was no doubt in your mind you just hated the giant asshole of an older 'stepbrotherâ you had.
Now you're graduating this year, back home for summer break, and luckily Sukuna almost never visits anymore. He's running his stupid YouTube channel and banking on it, on being a dumb little prankster for his millions of subscribers, so now he lives pretty far thank God.
Let him prank everyone else.
You both don't talk whatsoever aside from holidays and family functions, and then it's just Sukuna picking on you. Not much has changed in five years, maybe his tactics are better. A little sneakier.
You smile and hug your mom, and your step-dad. He's actually pretty fucking cool, and your mom and him are cute together. "Hey hunny, I'm so glad you're here!" Your mom is going on and on about a party she's throwing, as you settle into your room, nothing's changed really. Your mom keeps it all the same.
"Mom, you don't have to keep all this out," you tease, looking at your old posters that adorn the walls, scattered Polaroids pinned to your corkboard. "You could make it a guest room?"
"We have a guest room, we love having your stuff here. And Sukuna's room is the same."
"Ugh don't say his name, you'll summon him!" Your mom laughs a bit as you shiver in feigned disgust.
"He's family honey."
"Not even. I get dad, I really do, but I think Sukuna and I will never get along."
"Ah shit that hurts sis." You hear his pretentious voice and panic as he leans in the doorway, stupid fucking smirk on his far too attractive face. You glare at him.
"Yuck don't call me that, weirdo." He flips you off behind your mom's back, putting his hands away as your mom comes up and hugs him tightly. He smirks over her shoulder as you flip him off back.Â
"She's so mean to me, why can't she be nicer like you," he pouts, and your mom laughs a bit, leaning on her tip toes to ruffle his light pink locks.Â
"You're both mean to each other. Maybe a couple weeks at home will help you two learn to get along."
"He's staying for a couple weeks!? Ugh." You sigh and he scoffs. Your mom shakes her head and looks at you both.
"Dinner in thirty. Get settled and don't kill each other."
Sukuna eyes you then, ever so slowly up and down, while you start setting things down. "Really filled out huh?"
"I'll punch you." He grins again, you wall up and shove at him, pausing when you feel just how hard his chest is. Blushing a bit, he notices apparently, raising a brow.
"Feeling me up?"
"Gross no. Gym rat." He glares now and you smile right back.
"Yeah how's that loser boyfriend of yours?" He asks so casually. Walking in your room and touching all your shit like he does. You follow him and put everything back in its place as he skews every position of any item.
"We broke up," he pauses at your tone, eyeing you then. You're so pretty you make his heart pound in his chest, not like he'd ever fucking tell you. He calls you a gremlin and worse, knowing you're a whole knockout. "Yeah, rub it in."
"Wasn't gonna," you pause then, as his ruby eyes glint and catch yours. For a moment you see a rare softness in them, making you falter. "He got tired of your bitchiness?"
"Oh fuck off." You roll your eyes, sinking on the white day bed, hands brushing the soft sheets that smell like your mom's favorite fabric softener. But you also smell him, Sukuna, so manly and taking over your space, he leans on your dresser, eyeing a picture of you.
"What happened?"
"Like you care," you lay back, shorts sliding up your thighs. Revealing far, far too much skin, he barely tears his eyes away. "He left me for my best friend."
"Oh shit..." he doesn't know what to say, all he's ever done is pick on you, prank you. Be a whole ass. How does he... comfort you? Without getting too close, feeling shit he can't?
What you didn't realize, is Sukuna has had it bad for you for years now. He knows he can never act on it, so the next best thing was to make your life a living hell. To make you hate him and stay far, far away.
It worked, you hate him.
But it's still not enough to stop the raging thoughts always inside him, of the filthy things he thinks of when he's alone. Stroking his cock to memories of you rather than porn, finding himself comparing others to the traits he loves about you. Traits you'll never know.
He can never ever tell you.
"I've got a date this week though. Old friend of ours." You lean up on your elbows, eyeing him then. He feels that familiar pang of fucking jealousy he also can't feel, remembering the ridiculous amount of men he's chased off over the years.
"What old friend?" He asks curiously, you smile a little then.
"Toji. Weren't you two super close?"
"Toji!? You are not going out with Toji." You sit up and glare, Sukuna crosses his thick arms. "Absolutely not."
"I'm twenty one. I'll do what I want, but don't you like him?"
"Tch, you're such an annoying fucking brat," his words make you stand up, as he sets down your polaroid, it's a pretty picture that's always burned in his brain. You at the beach all happy and pretty, he'd been so hard that day he'd had to jerk it in the fucking bathroom stall.
Why do you have to be so pretty? It's so annoying, and your shit attitude. Toji would be all over you, he always found you hot, but he never dared make a move once Sukuna let him know you were off limits. Was Sukuna not as imposing now that he's a YouTube star? Toji acted as if he couldn't still beat his ass down.
âPut the picture back, youâre so weird.â He holds it up high, smirking down at you, while you jump up and try to grab it, his big grin growing on his face, while he runs around your room with it.
âToo short, aww.â
âAnyone is short you giant, lord of the rings ent.â
âNerd!â
âGive it!â Youâre bouncing again, and heâs far too enamored by your pretty tits jiggling for a moment, his hand falls as his eyes catch them, you snatch your picture up then. âHah! Now go.â
âLike I wanna be in here.â Heâs scowling as he walks out, you lock your door with a little click when Sukuna stands in front of it, sighing and resting his back on it.
Why is it worse than usual seeing you? Typically he could hold his composure somewhat, why do you have to smell so good and -Â
Shit he needs to stop.
*****
Dinner with Sukuna is the worst. He's devouring everything on his plate before leaning over, starting to slam down your food too. You scoff and shove the whole plate at him. "Yuck, just have it, now it's covered in Sukuna germs."
"You should count yourself lucky to have any of them from me, brat."
"Will you two stop," your mom and Sukuna's dad say it simultaneously with a big sigh, it's an automatic response when you both have to be in each other's vicinity.
"Why don't you just stay somewhere fancy, rich boy?"
"Tch, you really would miss me if I didn't come over, can't have you all upset." You roll your eyes as your mom gives you an entire other plate of food. Sukuna's already downed your plate and eyeing the new one.
"Let me eat holy shit," you turn away from him, about to stab him with the fork when he goes for a piece of chicken. "Sukuna!"
"Stop it, go get another plate." Sukuna's dad instantly has Sukuna resigned just a bit, he rolls his eyes and leaves your plate alone. The two of them look more like brothers than father and son really, he's a spitting image of him.
Sukuna is handsome, you suppose, though he knows it and is so pretentious about it, that it's just annoying. You'd never tell him he was, either, not when he calls you a little gremlin. That started the first year you lived here, along with dweeb, shrimp and brat, he was a classic bully.
You nibble a bit as you stare at your phone, swiping away the annoying notification that he posted, only for him to eye it, smirking. "Aw you do love me, following me and everything!"
"You wish, I keep ignoring it and it won't stop. Conspiracy or some shit."
"Honey, no cussing at the table."
"Sorry mom," she laughs at you two, shaking her head, while Sukuna leans over, peeking at the phone you're now bringing to your chest. "Will you fuck off."
"Language honey. Ow!" You stomp right on his foot, earning a scowl landed at you. "Brat!"
"Jerk! I don't want to eat, I lost my appetite." You stand up then, plate almost entirely untouched, walking up the stairs as your mom asks you to come back down.
God you can't stand him.
You get a knock later, and he's holding a plate in his big ass hands, frowning a bit. "What, dad yell at you?"
"Just eat," he shoves the plate at you, you notice it's been warmed up when the glass touches your skin. You blink a bit in surprise. "You didn't eat anything."
"You ate all my food like an ass, and I'm not hungry." You shove the plate back at him and his eyes narrow, your fingers touching as you try to put it back in his hands.
"Will you just eat? Now."
"You don't tell me what to do.
"You're such a-
"Brat, I know." You tug the plate back, rolling your eyes now. "I'll eat if you leave me alone."
"I don't want to hang out with you anyway," he says, lying his fucking ass off - god he wants to just spend time with you, not that he ever would say it or do it for that matter. âYou better eat it all.â
âOh Jesus.â You shake your head at him, sighing and nibbling some of it when he walks away, you hate how good his ass looks in those stupid gym shorts. He catches you staring damn near, looking back at you with a raised brow, you quickly scowl and shut the door.
Why does Sukuna look so good? You canât think the shit.
After eating youâre washing up, bumping into Sukuna as he heads to the bathroom, shirtless just to distract you, surely. Youâre breathless when you see his bare chest - has he gotten more chiseled? More tattoos? There are many sliding across his chest, his flat brown nipples, dipping down his rib cage and tracing his obliques. For a moment you canât even say anything, just standing there.
âDid you eat?â You blink a bit, looking up and nodding a bit. âNothing smart to say?â
âIâm just tired.â
Youâre far, far too close to him then, just standing there, cheeks heating up at the proximity. Heâs always been gorgeous, heâs always been buff, it shouldnât bother you now so much. Without another word, Sukuna walks into the bathroom and you head out of it, shoulder brushing one of his biceps, the contact alone making your tummy tense.
The fuck was going on with you lately?
Youâd be lying if you said you didnât originally have a crush on Sukuna when you met him, how couldnât you? He was so hot, especially to a younger you, before you realized what an ass he was as soon as he opened his mouth. After that first prank you knew he was just your enemy, not that you could have ever acted on your stupid crush anyway.
Heâs family now, honey.
You cover your face with the blankets, avoiding any thoughts of that tattooed body on top of you. Maybe itâs your break up, maybe itâs the date coming up, maybe youâre ovulating, fuck⌠Whatever it is, youâre undeniably clenching around nothing from being too close to that asshole.
*****
Your date with Toji is tonight, you had a little crush on him when heâd come visit with Sukuna over the summers, but of course he never left you alone with Toji. He was annoying as can be when it came to making sure no one talked to you, because no one wanted to fuck with Sukuna, itâs just now gotten easier, since heâs out of college and some of them have gotten a little braver.
He hated your last boyfriend when you brought him over, on sight, though you have to admit he may have been onto something with that one, he really was a complete dick now that you look back on it. But he hated everyone you dated, making sure if he ran into them on campus to threaten them for no good reason, most of them just gave up.
You ran into Toji the other day randomly, and he was looking really good. He's that dangerous bad boy that your mom tells you to stay away from, but you never listen. Good guy you were just with fucked your former friend however, so youâre truly not so sure what everything means right now. Giving him a chance for a date seems like the perfect way to forget two things.
One, your shitty ex.
Two, your annoying step brother.
Youâre eyeing your outfit in the mirror, turning this way and that, before brushing your hair out, youâre dressed in a lacy little black bustier and a pretty pleated skirt, you two are going to a concert so you figure youâll look cute for it. Youâre popping on a little gloss, slathering it over your lips until theyâre glistening, doing a little spin and then checking Tojiâs text.
Youâre running down the stairs, hand on the rail, cool under your touch, when you pause, almost running into Sukuna and nearly tumbling off that last step. Sukuna curses, catching you quickly, until youâre pressed against him. He is steadying you with his hands, huge fucking hands that feel way too good on your skin, when youâre eye to eye with his chest, looking up at him slowly.
âClumsy bratâŚâ He grumbles, pushing you back then, but his touch lingers for a little too long. When he looks at your outfit slowly, you feel those ruby eyes like a physical touch, slipping down your body and making you tremble just a bit.
Sukuna never looks at you like that.
Itâs quiet for a moment, it goes on way too long, his gaze trailing down your breasts in that top, seeing the way your nipples press up like theyâre dying for him. You look too good, too pretty, too much of that body revealed, and for another dude to look and touch? His old friend at that- it fucking infuriates him, his fists clenched on either side.
He barely composes himself, while youâre just looking at him under your lashes, doing too much to his brain, his heart pounding in his chest as desire hits him right in the stomach. Heâs seen you in all sorts of shorts, bikinis, you name it, but heâs never really seen you dressed like this, and itâs fucking his entire mind up, short circuiting momentarily.
He finally composes himself, crossing his arms and scowling as you smile at him, arms behind your back. âLike the outfit, Sukuna?â
âLike it, fuck no. Whatâre you trying to dress like that for?â
âBecause weâre going to a concert!â
âTch,â he goes to the coat stand then, yanking his down from it and scowling right down at you. âPut on the jacket, now.â
Sukunaâs throwing his jean jacket over your shoulders again, you yank it off and shove it at him, pretty breasts just heaving in that slutty little fucking top again, heâs torn between being furious anyone sees you like this, and irritated it affects him this bad. What he thought was shoved far down is prominent as ever, fuck it was even worse than before.
âNo! Donât want your stinky jacket.â He is stepping even closer, when you inhale him - and you hate to admit the fucker smells good.
âThis cologne is a hundred bucks a spray, you know it smells good.â
âI donât give a fuck, itâs nasty. As is your giant jacket, itâll swallow me, he wonât see my outfit at all!â
âGood, no one should.â You scoff at that and shake your head at him.
âYouâre fucking ridiculous.â
âAm I?â
âYes! Youâre not some big brother, and Iâm grown. Iâll wear whatever I want- I look hot actually.â
âYou look slutty.â His whisper is too close, you haul back and smack him then, hurting your hand and gasping, shaking it out as the tingles shoot through it, while the asshole smirks. âHit like a little girl.â
âOh fuck you, with your big ass head.â
âHoney! Ready for your date? Heâs umâŚâ your mom looks outside as she walks up to you two in the entry way,, where Toji is revving up his mustang. âHeâs here⌠I guess.â
âCanât come to the fucking door?â Sukuna says, you scowl at him.
âLike you do that for girls.â
Sukuna raises a brow. âLike you know what I do for girls.â
âIâve heard plenty,â he smirks then, shaking his head. âOh youâre notorious, how many girls have you dated? Manwhore.â
âMe, a manwhore?â
âMom,â you turn to her now, as she still eyes Toji standing outside of his mustang, you can tell all her motherly instincts are telling her to intervene, but she has always let you make your own decisions.
âYes sweetie?â
âTell him Iâm fine in this,â your mom pauses, lips parting as Sukunaâs dad comes out, and looks at you briefly before he takes off his jacket from the rack, earning Sukunaâs chuckle. âReally now!?â
âItâll be cold,â he tries to play it off, clearing his throat as he covers you up with his jean jacket instead. âYouâll catch a chill. And why isnât he at the door?â
âExactly-â
âShush.â You put your finger to your lips as Sukuna is about to gloat at the fact that your parents are in agreement. âSuck up.â
âMe? You!â
âOkay,â your mom takes off the jacket, earning the two menâs scowls. âSheâs an adult, she chooses what she wears. Even if⌠she should wear a jacket.â
âI love you.â You kiss her cheek, grabbing your purse and phone then, walking outside. Sukuna walks to the porch with you, much to your irritation, glaring over at Toji whoâs whistling across the yard.
âWhatâs up, Sukuna?â Tojiâs voice makes Sukuna want to take him down, heâs grinning as he looks at you in ways he shouldnât. âLong time no see. Oooh, donât you look hot, doll.â
Youâre giggling, giggling!? Sukuna is about to lose his mind.
He grabs your wrist, long thick fingers with black painted nails taking it over, you pause at the warmth, at the rough palms, looking up then. The night is humid but thereâs a breeze tossing around his light pink locks, as he grips just a little tighter, making you turn to him.
âWhat is it?â You ask then, your voice for a moment is soft, Sukuna looks at you, then at Toji, sighing. âIâll be fine.â
âRight.â He lets you go then, youâre bouncing down the stairs practically, Tojiâs hand is at the small of your back, his fingers itching to break them, while you hug Toji and he wraps you in his big ass arms.
Youâre opening your door, itâs not like Toji would do that, shit Sukunaâs not one to do it half the time, but the fact that itâs you makes him unreasonably angry. You look at him across the driveway, expression unreadable before you slip in the car next to him. Toji zips off so quickly Sukunaâs also worried about you driving with him.
Heâs been jealous before, many, many times, but today is just too much, seeing you again, and knowing youâll never be his, hits harder than it should. He stomps back in the house, your mom thanks him for being so caring - hah - if only she knew what he really thought about you.
Sukuna really isnât proud of any of the next thoughts or actions that night, no he really isnât. When he heads up to his room but lingers by yours instead, staring into it and seeing black lace on the ground. He knows heâs just horrible when he walks in and shuts that door quietly, eyeing everything in there, the sweet lingering scent of your perfume hitting his senses.
Sukuna is also not proud when heâs in your room, when he takes those panties you slipped off before you left, just sitting on the carpet by your dresser. Heâs not very proud when he picks them up to his face, inhaling your scent - fuck, his âstepsisterâ has the sweetest pussy. He has done this before, and you just get sweeter tasting, as he desperately laps your slick off them.
Heâs so not proud when heâs right in your bed, putting them to his face and releasing his thick cock then, red tip leaking precum and smacking his stomach as itâs released. He knows this isnât a good thing to do, heâs Sukuna, he could have any woman he wants, theyâre all after him, and heâs stealing panties and jerking it on a friday night.
Heâs furious that Toji gets to touch you.
If Sukuna touched you, heâd grip your breasts, squish them in his hands, have you littered with his hand prints, show you what it is to really get fucked, and fucked so good youâre delirous from it. Bend you over, grip your wrists with one of his hands, stretch your cunt the fuck out. God he bets itâs so pretty, too, his mind vividly pictures it as he touches his tip, exhaling.
What is he reduced to from you!? In your bed, so big he hardly fits on the fucking thing, sprawled out with his long limbs as he strokes his thick, veiny cock slowly. Your panties are right against his face, heâs perverted and depraved for doing it, especially in your bed, but he canât stop himself. Heâs moaning softly into them, as your scent fills his mind, while his hand jerks it faster and faster.
Heâs whispering your name, sweat slicking his muscled body, a thin sheen glimmering under your pretty fairy lights while heâs being fucking filthy on your bed. Picturing your tummy bulging with him, stroking slowly in and out, making you squirt cum all over him till your sheets were soaked. Heâs jerking faster and faster, wishing it were you, so desperate and pathetic you make him.
He hates you more for making him this way, him, fucking Sukuna, pathetically cumming in his âstep - sisterâsâ bed, as if he could call you it. He barely knows you, aside from being a dick every break, pranking you to watch your pretty face so angry, getting off on it in far, far too many ways.
He didnât have to be home for the summer, he actually put himself out doing it, just to see you, to fucking torment you, but itâs you who torment him, when he imagines tasting your pussy from the source. Heâd lap his cum out of your cunt, then fill you up again, over and over, until there was no room for anymore, just messy and dripping all down your pretty thighs.
âFuck,â he whispers it, muffling his moan with that fabric, as his cum pumps from his huge length, dripping in white ropes down his hand, pulsing in his hold. Heâs gasping at the release, picturing putting it inside your bratty little fucking mouth.
Heâs cleaned up then, right with your panties, whimpering the tiniest bit as they hit his sensitive tip, jerking as he lays there now, sooty pink lashes fluttering, furious as he thinks of you on your stupid date. Youâll never know what he really thinks, it has to be that way, but it doesnât make it easier, not when heâs cuddling with a pillow that smells like your shampoo.
*****
âI had fun!â Toji smiles, that scar curving up just a bit, his big hand on your thigh as his engine hums.
âYou did, huh?â
âI did, I needed that.â He chuckles and leans close, tilting your chin up now, inky locks falling over his brow. âThank you for tonight.â
âDonât thank me yet,â he practically purrs the words, you gather their meaning quickly, heart racing just a bit as his lips descend. âBeen thinking of this all night.â
Tojiâs kiss is nothing like your ex, itâs a rough kiss, his tongue tracing your lips and slipping in your mouth when you gasp a bit. You hear his moan when he drags one of your thighs closer, spreading you, you feel your body reacting quickly, a mix of nerves, thoughts, and clearing your pussy is reacting too. Sheâs already been soaked for two days, and now sheâs way too excited.
âGod, doll,â Toji hums as he kisses you deeper, youâre trembling when his fingers slip up your thigh carefully, teasing and leaving goosebumps everywhere. His dark green eyes lock with yours as he pulls back. âYou feel sâgood, ya know that?â
âDo I?â You tease, he moans and kisses you again, while in front of your childhood home, it feels so⌠thrilling but terrifying.
Was Sukuna watching?
No wayâŚ
And if so, what would that make you feel?
Youâre contemplating that as Toji finds you over your panties, you moan softly when rough fingers slip up and down them. âSo hot, fuckâŚâ
âMnh!â Youâre spreading your thighs for more, he feels so good, kisses taking over your addled mind, and you wonder if it can shove down the thoughts youâre having about your dumbass step brother. Thoughts you canât have, shit you canât do - even if either of you did want to.
Sukuna would never want you like that. Heâs never called you pretty, not that he should, but heâs said the opposite all the time. He doesnât know, calling you a fucking gremlin or whatever sucks sometimes, you donât expect his compliments, but deep down a part wants them anyway. You get looking extra pretty for him, a fact youâll take to your fucking grave.
Toji slips under your panties, youâre gasping when he touches your wet slit with expert fingers. âSoaked, huh doll? Need me to make ya feel good?â
âIâm⌠ah! TojiâŚâ you grip his wrist, his thumb is circling on your clit now, it feels really fucking good, twitching against his touch. âMnhâŚâ
âWanna cum fâme, pretty?â Heâs rolling quicker, more pressure now, while he drags messy kisses on your neck.
âUm, I donât fuck on the - ngh - first date, Toji.â He pulls back now, a smile tugging on his mouth.
âWas just gonna have you cum on my fingers - fuck, mouth if you want,â youâre blushing and he notices, chuckling again. âYouâre cute.â
âCute, huh?â You wonder what it would be like, youâve always pictured it with Sukuna, his long fingers and black nails in your cunt, things you should never, you shove it back, focusing now. âYou wanna finger me?â
âWanna have you cum,â his voice is gruff, heâs not fucking around when he slips a finger in your soppy little cunt, your nails press into the leather of his jacket as he kisses you again. âMmm, thatâs it.â
Your eyes shut as he massages your cunt with his fingers, stretching you out and making you tense, thighs trembling on either side. For whatever stupid reason you canât get fucking Sukunaâs body in a towel out of your damn mind, no matter how many times you shove it down, instead just getting wetter. You focus on kissing him, on feeling him, the squishing wetness loud in his car still running.
âThatâs it, cum, I can feel it.â Tojiâs words urge you on, as he sucks along your shoulder, sinking his teeth in as his fingers curl just so, and you feel yourself cum then, pressure building and releasing in your tummy.
âAh!â Youâre whining out, earning Tojiâs grin against your skin, you feel his teeth lines along you, breaths coming quicker and quicker. âToji, godâŚâ
âYouâre so wet.â He puts your panties back, a hand entangled in your hair now. âSee, I wasn't gonna go that far.â
âAre you a gentleman?â
âFuck no,â you giggle a bit. âBut we donât have to rush things. Are you gonna go out with me again?â
âIâd like that.â He kisses you once more, youâre a little dizzy, from your thoughts, your mind, when you walk back to the porch and Toji takes off.
Why do you feel bad?
Surely not for his ass.
Surely not for a man who is just⌠a jerk, whoâs hot sure okay, Toji is too. You need to shove it down, all of it. You try to do just that, itâs still warm outside so the jackets were a silly idea, you unlock the door with your key, stepping inside and sighing as you feel the cool air conditioning hit your skin.
You slip off your shoes by the front door, picking them up and carrying them as you walk back up the stairs, yawning a bit. You know itâs late, so you try to be quiet when you finally walk into your room. Youâre taking off that top and skirt, fingers touching the knobs of your dresser so you can find some comfy clothes to sleep in. Mom has everything youâve ever owned in here still, so you have to sift through the old clothes.
Suddenly, you hear a rustle behind you, making you jerk and eye the mirror, nearly fucking screaming as you see something turning under your goddamn blankets.
âWhat the fuck!?â You walk over there now, seeing the tints of pink hair in the dark, as none other than Sukuna is in your goddamn bed.
You shove at the big lug of a fucking man, only for him to stop snoring and peek at you with eyes almost black, you tense as they hit you, as you realize youâre just in a bra and panties now. They drift down your body, when he leans up, yawning now, his look making you feel even wetter, even more needy than earlier.
âAre you pranking me? Get upâŚâ Your voice is quiet, as he yawns, gripping your wrist then, tugging you until you almost straddle him over those sheets. You gasp at it, at how his hand brushes across your shoulder.
âLet him mark your perfect fucking skin?â He demands in a scratchy, husky voice, shocking you so much you blink, leaning back. Youâre far too close to his hard length you feel under those sheets, against your inner thigh.
âAre you having some weird dream? Sukuna, itâs meâŚâ You say your name, but he hears nothing with the blood rushing in his own ears, as he eyes that damn mark Toji left on your pretty shoulder. His thumb brushes it, while he pictures leaving marks everywhere. âSukuna?â
He tugs you closer, until youâre sprawled over him, and heâs too fucking tired to stop it, to stop how badly he wants you - the girl he shouldnât but canât fucking help but want over anyone. You have no clue, he sees it in your shocked gaze, when he eyes your other shoulder, pristine and free from any marks.
âDid you like it, brat?â He asks softly, you donât know what to say at that moment, you just look at him, at his lidded eyes and parted lips.
What do you say to that?
âWould you be mad if I did? Iâm a grown up, yâknow that?â He scoffs then, huge hand slipping up your bare spine, watching as your eyes flutter shut. âSukunaâŚâ
âCanât answer, brat?â
âWhatâre you even doing in here?â You tug back a bit, but he just drags you back down, and soon you find yourself completely straddling him - Sukuna, your enemy, your⌠what is he exactly?
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#sukuna ryomen#sukuna ryomen smut#sukuna x reader#sukuna x you#jjk smut#jjk x reader#sukuna x reader smut#ryomen sukuna#ryomen sukuna x reader#jjk sukuna#sukuna x female reader#jjk x fem!reader#jujutsu kaisen smut#toji fushiguro#ryomen x reader#sukuna ryomen x reader
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caleb isnât the type of alpha who demands. he asks. soft voice, patient hands, eyes that never leave yours. but his scent? it wraps around you like velvet, thick and grounding, impossible to ignore.
deeply controlled rut cycles. heâs trained to suppress them with medication if needed, but that doesnât mean the instincts disappear. when heâs around you during your heat, he gets quiet, still, too focused.
âdo you need me?â he asks, knuckles brushing your wrist. âyou donât have to say yes. just nod.â you do. every time.
heâs a nurturer at heart. loves scenting you before bed, especially when youâre anxious. presses his face into your neck and murmurs things like:
âiâm here.â
âyouâre safe with me.â
âlet me carry it for you.â
but thereâs possession under that gentleness. he doesnât want to own you. he wants to devote himself to you, body and soul.
during your heat, heâs focused on your comfort first. pain meds, soft blankets, heated scentscapes, and then, if you want him, heâll ruin you slowly.
so gentle at first. fingers between your thighs, soft kisses along your scent gland. âtell me if itâs too much,â he says, even as his knot starts to swell.
and when you whimper for him? the control frays. âomega,â he groans, voice breaking. âyou feel soâfuck, youâre perfect. you were made for me.â
knots you with careful reverence. murmurs praise as you tremble beneath him. cleans you up gently afterward.
very quiet aftercare. strokes your hair. kisses your forehead. laces your fingers together and holds you tight until you fall asleep knotted to him, safe and claimed.
he doesnât see rut or heat as shameful. he sees them as intimate and sacred. the most vulnerable, instinctive parts of you being entrusted to him.
and he never, ever forgets what a gift that is.
his first rut with you:
caleb thought he could handle it. heâd prepared, like he always does. meditated, dosed early, made contingency plans. but he didnât account for you.
your scent was everywhere in his space, lingering on his bed, his clothes, in the air. it curled around his thoughts like smoke, like static.
he didnât even realize he was going into rut until it was too late. the meds failed. his body burned, his skin itched, and his thoughts all narrowed down to you.
âyou shouldnât be here,â he said when you stepped into the room. but his pupils were already blown, voice thick with strain, jaw locked like he was holding himself back from lunging.
you whispered, âi want to stay.â
he broke.
the moment you moved toward him, caleb caught you in his arms and buried his face in your neck with a low, aching growl. he inhaled like your scent could save him. like heâd die without it.
âomega,â he rasped, voice full of awe and desperation. âyouâre really here. you want me?â
the rut took hold then, hot and primal, but even while trembling with need, he was still caleb.
so gentle. so reverent. stripping you slowly, kissing every inch of skin like he was memorizing you. letting you climb into his lap and guide his hands with little whimpers and needy sighs.
âlet me take care of you,â he begged, lips trembling against your mating gland. âplease. iâll be good. iâll make it good for you.â
and god, he did.
every thrust came with soft gasps and low growls, your name whispered over and over like a prayer. he held you tight as his knot swelled, moaning your name like it was the only word he remembered.
âgonna fill you up,â he gasped. âmark you. keep you safe. no one else can have you. not now. not ever.â
but then you cupped his cheek. and his voice softened again. âdoes it hurt?â he asked, eyes full of worry even as you pulsed around his knot. âi donât want to hurt you.â
you shook your head, smiling through the haze. âyou feel perfect.â
and caleb, sweet, kind alpha caleb, broke down. kissed you like it meant everything. like you were the only thing anchoring him through the heat.
when you both finally stilled, tied together and drenched in heat-slick and love, he held you against his chest and whispered, âthank you for trusting me.â
his voice was hoarse, cracked, shaking. âiâll never forget it.â
#lads caleb#caleb#caleb x non!mc reader#caleb x fem reader#caleb x you#caleb x reader#caleb smut#lads#lads x reader#lads x you#lads smut#love and deepspace#love and deepspace x reader#lads x non!mc reader#love and deepspace smut
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๨ৠGolden Brown ๨ŕ§
Knight!Sukuna x Princess!Reader
Summary: Youâre betrothed to a Duke from the neighbouring kingdom, but your heart wishes to be with your loyal knight.



âPrincess.âÂ
This is the third time Sukuna has caught you trying to escape your retched palace. Youâre trapped. No way out. Even when married, youâll be here.
Forever bound to the kingdom.
âYes, Sukuna. What may I do for you? As you can see, I am quite⌠busy,â you say as you're hanging off the tall wall of your palace.Â
âWell, Princess, what you could do for me is get down from that wall. It's a long fall.â Sukuna tells you as he steps towards you.Â
You turn your head, looking on the other side of the wall, and your knight is right. Yes, youâll escape the palace, but youâll only escape to your death.Â
That was not the plan.Â
âFine. Help me then.â Your knight walks over laughing, unbothered by your attempt to escape (this was the 100th time you tried leaving). As your heels touch the ground, you dust yourself off loudly sighing.
âSukuna, when will you let me leave? I will make sure my parents do not have your head,â you say with a cheeky smile.
Sukuna leans towards your ear and says, âPrincess, I will let you leave, I promise you. But only when I am dead.â He pulls away from you, laughing at your angry pout.Â
âI will have to make sure that happens soon, then,â you whisper loud enough for him to hear, as you sashay away from today's escape attempt.Â
Sukuna continues to chuckle obnoxiously. âKeep dreaming, my princess.â
â
As the day turns to night, you sit at the dinner table, playing with your food, as your father and mother discuss the reason for all your escape attempts⌠your wedding.Â
You are to be wed to a man you would never love. He's a beautiful man. Hair as dark as the night, with earthy green eyes. There is no denying his beauty, but you feel nothing for him; heâs twice your age. You can't laugh with him or smile with him. You feel no joy around Toji, but here you are forced to spend your lives together.Â
âDarling, are you not hungry? You should eat, you need energy for your ball tomorrow,â your mother says, laced with excitement. Itâs like sheâs living through you. Everything at this ball is all catered to her, not you. Not a single thing at this ball will be to your desire, only your mother's.
âI would prefer to sleep, Mother, if that's okay with you.â You don't wait for an answer, pushing your chair back, quickly walking to your chamber with your loyal knight following behind you. Itâs as if heâs your shadow. Wherever you go, he follows. Without a doubt. Heâs always been with you. He was practically assigned to you at birth, while he was a mere 4-year-old. He was trained to protect you. To be by you always and forever.
âI just don't understand. Why won't they listen to me? I am not ready to be wedded or bear heirs for the throne!âÂ
âThere are so many things I want to do that I cannot do when tied down to a man. Gosh, I do not even know why I am saying this to you, you wouldn't understand.â Sukuna agrees with you; he wouldn't understand. Heâs at the bottom of the hierarchy in this world. His life means nothing. Peasant blood.Â
But you? Youâre royal blood.Â
Your existence is everything to the land.Â
But not only the land.Â
To him.
 âI just wish this wasn't my life, Sukuna. I'd rather be a farm girl than endure this. Honestly.â
Sukuna begins to laugh at you.
âWhat is so funny? You are always laughing at me.â You pout.
âYou are a funny girl, princess, really. Beautiful and funny, what an amazing combination, do you not think?â Your eyes widen, and your face begins to warm. âDid I embarrass you, my princess?â Sukuna smirks.
âNo! I-it is hot within these halls. Look around you, no windows, do not be a fool. Let's just⌠go to my room,â you begin to walk speedily toward your chambers. Sukuna appears in front of you to open the doors of your room.Â
You walk in, kicking off your heels, and begin to undress with Sukuna watching from behind. Youâve never felt uncomfortable being unclothed around him. He probably seen you naked more than your ladies in waiting.
As you get to your corset, you ask for your knight's help. He carefully steps towards you, slowly unraveling the ribbons of your tight corset. It's quiet in the room, still, you could hear a pin drop, nothing is heard but yours and Sukuna's breathing.Â
Suddenly, his head falls onto your shoulder.
Your name leaves his mouth.Â
He never says your name.Â
Ever.
âI⌠I cannot watch you get married.â Sukuna breathes.
âWhat? You cannot watch me get married? Whatever is that supposed to mean?â You turn around to look at him as his hands stay steady on the small of your waist. âLook at me. What are you saying right now?â He won't look at you.Â
âRyomen Sukuna. I command you to look at me. Right now.â He slowly lifts his head and looks into your eyes. You sound mad at him, but your eyes say otherwise. You have the most beautiful, expressive eyes. They speak to him. One look, just one, is all he needs to know what his princess is thinking.
âI would rather die than watch you marry that man.â
âWhat man, my knight, say his name.â
âI would rather be drawn and quartered.â
The corners of your lips twitch slightly, threatening to smile.Â
âI need you by my side. This is my life. You are my life, Princess. Why do you think I so desperately try and keep you here in this palace, by my side? Call me selfish, I do not care. When it comes to you, I will be the selfishest person. You joke about your parents killing me. Princess, your parents will do nothing to me if you escape. Iâm the one who keeps you locked in these walls. I keep you here because I need you in my life. You have made my life thrilling and captivating. If I could marry you, I would do so in a heartbeat, butâŚâ he stops, wipes his hands across his sweaty face. You can hear his heart beating profusely, and his breathing irregular.
âBut what, Sukuna?â
He doesn't dare to speak. He canât. The words wonât leave his throat.
âHow can you do this? How can you drop this all on me? When you know. You know Sukuna. I am to be bound to another. How selfish are you?â You push his hands off you and step back.Â
âYes! Youâre right, I am selfish. Especially when it comes to you, my princess.â He walks towards you, and you continue to step back, shaking your head in disbelief. âEvery single time I hear your parents speak about your betrothed, I die inside. Iâve been with you your whole life, and almost all of mine too. Princess, I cannot lose you. Not now, not ever.âÂ
âSukunaâŚâ You look up at him with watery eyes, never expecting such a confession coming from him, the burly 6â9 pink-haired knight.Â
Your burly 6â9 pink-haired knight confessing his undying love to you.Â
âSukuna, you know we cannot be together⌠So, please⌠Please stop this, do not do this to me. I beg of you.â Tears begin to fall down your soft skin, and your loyal knight reaches out to wipe away your tears. He cups your face as he apologises, âI am sorry, my princess, truly⌠but I cannot do this any longer.â He leans down, kissing you deeply. As if you help him breathe, as if you give him life, which you do, you keep him alive, you keep him happy.Â
He pulls away, dropping to his knees. Placing his head against your stomach as he continues to profess his love to you.Â
You caress your white knight's face as he⌠cries, he's crying for you? His cries are silent, which pains you even more.Â
Heâs hurting.Â
Sukuna kisses the palm of your hand and whispers, âI yearn for you, my princess. I have never yearned for anyone, no one but you. I have even kept my purity all for you.â You copy Sukuna's actions and drop to your knees. You smile at him and kiss him longingly. You place your forehead on top of his and stare into his deep red eyes, âWhat can we do, hmm? If the Church wanted us together, they would have allowed it. You would have been born of royal blood. Or I of peasent.â
âMaybe we shall go against them.â He states. âIf we truly desire one another, my princess, it is what we must do.â
â
That night, Sukuna slept with you in your chambers. Holding you close against him. They would do this secretly when they were little kids. You would wander the halls in the night. Knocking on his door, asking him to scare away the monsters from under your bed. Of course, there were none under there, but he would always âget rid of themâ for you. Like a true knight in shining armour. From the day you stopped asking made him⌠sad, if you will. There were no fake monsters for him to protect you from. Now, he had to protect you from real monsters threatening your precious life.Â
Your aged betrothed included.
As the night becomes day, you hear the servants of the palace prepare for your ball. You believe theyâve been at it since 4 am. You had to kick Sukuna out in case your ladies in waiting came in, or even your parents.Â
Your parents know the two of you have a special bond, but seeing you intertwined with him would alert them to your true feelings towards each other.Â
You lay in bed, waiting for your entourage of ladies to come help you get ready. You canât help but think, do you go against the church? It is really the church youâll be against, or would it be the King?Â
Your father.
âGood morning, my lady. Today is your engagement ball. How are you feeling?â She knows exactly how youâre feeling. You tell her everything. She knows you hate the fact that you are to be wed, especially to an old guy like Toji. But what she doesnât know is that youâre in love with your knight.
âI feel great, Esme,â you smile. She sends an empathetic smile back to you. All ladies gather around you, readying you for the night.Â
You havenât seen Sukuna yet, and itâs almost time for you to greet everyone, including⌠him. You need your knight by your side. You canât do this without him.
âEsme, find Sukuna.â
âYes, my lady,â she bows, running out the door, asking everyone in sight, âHave you seen the princess's knight?â Only to be sent in hundreds of directions. Almost an hour later, she finds him sitting in the forest behind the palace, cheeks rosy, with a bottle of alcohol in one hand, as he struggles to hold his head up.Â
He is extremely drunk.
âSukuna?â She slaps his face a couple of times before his eyes focus on her. She rolls her eyes. âGet up now. The princess is asking for your presence.â
He sighs, shaking his head like an immature child. âNuh uh, donât wanna see her like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike a brideâŚâ His head falls back, leaning on the tree. âShe shouldnât marry him. Should be m-me,â he hiccups.
Oh.Â
Wow, she feels so stupid. It was right in her damn face. How could she not realise? She doesnât know what to say. There is nothing to say. They canât be together; the church wonât allow it. Not only is he of peasant blood, but heâs a bastard child. Marrying him would damn the princess to hell.Â
âSukuna, you know that is quite preposterous of you to even think you could marry the princess. You know how this works, do you not?â
He grunts at her.
Of course, he knows, but he doesnât care, and neither do you. You would rather be rejected by the church than lose him. Same goes for him.
âLet us go, Sukuna. You cannot disobey the future Queen. No matter how close the two of you seem to beâŚâ She knows saying that will work on him. Itâs a fact. You are the future Queen, whether he likes it or not. He canât say no to you.
Sukuna lugs himself towards your chambers behind Esme. She turns to him, looking him up and down reluctantly opening the door becauseâ
âSukuna! You look disgusting!â You shriek.
Heâs not even the slightest bit mad at your reaction; he looks and smells awful. And you? You look like you were perfectly sculpted by God himself.
âEveryone, get out.â
All your ladies scramble to leave except your head lady, Esme. Sheâs hesitant. Sheâs put two and two together. She knows. Sheâs shocked you were able to keep it a secret.
âEsme, you too.â
Sukuna turns to look at her with dead, expressionless eyes. âI thought you said we cannot disobey the future Queen, Esme?â
She nods her head before bowing and leaving the two of you alone.
You point towards to door to your bathroom, âget in the bath.â He doesnât move. Of course, the most rational thing you can do is throw your shoe at him.
âOkay! Christ.â
You run your sponge across his body. Yes, youâve seen each other naked, and no, you have not done promiscuous acts with one another.
âWhy were you drowning yourself in beer? You know I hate the smell.â
âSorry.â He muttered
You stare at his grumpy face remembering what you spoke about last night. He doesnât want you to marry Toji, he wants to have you to himself. âMaybe you should objected at my wedding if itâs making you so upset, hmm? That would be funny.â You jokingly giggle.Â
His eyes squint.
Youâre joking, but he actually would.
âSukuna, I was kidding. You would not dare.â
â
The ball has begun, youâve been sitting on your throne alongside your parents, waiting for Toji to approach you.
Which he soon does.
He stands tall and proud, striding towards you.
âMy Princess,â your betrothed says, bowing down slightly.
Sukuna scoffs beside you. Loud enough for Toji to hear, but he chooses to ignore it.Â
âMay I have this dance?â
âYes, you may.â You place your hand into his as he leads you towards the middle of the ballroom. While your knight burns holes into the back of Tojiâs head. You scowl back at him, mouthing, âstop.â His eyes twitches a little before he does. Storming off to grab a beer.
âI know you do not wish to marry me,â you hear Toji say. Your eyebrows furrow, âWhat makes you say that, Duke?â
âI could be your father. I am sure you do not want another father. Am I wrong in saying this?â You don't speak; you bite your bottom lip, waiting for him to say something because you will say nothing.Â
âIt is good for our kingdoms, Princess. Our blood, our lineage, would be unstoppable.â
âYou already have a sonâ.â
âAnd his mother was a peasant girl. Heâs illegitimate; he cannot take the throne after I have passed on. The church would never allow it, and they would never allow you to be with him.âÂ
The air escapes your lungs, you try to push Toji away, but his grip around you is too tight.
âYou have no idea what you are saying right now, Duke. If you please, I think our dance is over. I am sure we will have many more to come.â
You rip yourself out of his grip, walking out towards one of the many balconies. Sukuna catches a glimpse of you leaving, turning to make sure Toji doesnât follow behind you.Â
He doesnât.Â
Heâs looking at Sukuna. And Sukuna is looking at him.
Sukuna makes his way towards him, breathing in and out, calming himself down so he doesnât punch this ass in the face.
âWhat did you say to her?â His chest is heaving, Toji places his hand upon his chest.Â
Who the fuckâ
âCalm down, boy. You know what would happen if you laid hands on me.âÂ
Heâs right, heâd have his head in a second.
Sukuna carefully pulls Tojiâs hand off of him, before asking what he said to you, but you quickly make your way back, noticing them together.
âPrincess.â They both bow.
*Play Golden Brown Teehee*
âSukuna, I love this song, remember? From when we were children?âÂ
âI remember.â He softly mutters
âDance with me.â
âI do not wish to danâ.â
âI command it.â
You bring Sukuna to the middle of the room, bowing at one another, before placing your fingers against one another, covering your sight. You slowly bring your hands down to your lips. Both of you wish your hands were out of the way so your lips could lock, just like last night.Â
You dance together, only staring into each other's eyes. The ballroom is filled with guests, but you donât notice them. You only notice Sukuna, and he only notices you.Â
But everyone in the room notices the pair of you. The Princess and her knight, dancing like lovers. In front of her future husband.Â
It feels like youâre little kids again, dancing through the gardens and twirling like a ballerina. You donât want it to end; you want to be with him forever.Â
âDo not cry.â He whispers to you. âI will always be by your side. I was born to be by your side. Even though we are not to be wedded. I will never leave you. Till death do us part.â
âTill death do us part.â
â
The ringing of wedding bells are heard all over the kingdom. Today is the day.Â
Five months.Â
For five months, youâve been dreading this day.Â
For five months, youâve been begging your parents to let you not wed.Â
For five months, you tried to escape the palace.Â
All for what?
For you to be in the same position you were trying to escape.Â
âAre you ready, sweetheart?â Your father asks you.
Youâre standing outside the church, arm in arm with your father. The kingdom all gathered, ready to witness the wedding of the King's only child. His precious daughter.Â
The music coming from the organ was beautiful, heavenly if you will. The room is filled with royals from around the world, but your eyes are fixed on him.Â
Just⌠him.
Standing tall in his uniform. But his eyes⌠theyâre shut. He refuses to look at you. If his eyes meet yours, tears will stream down his face.Â
He will not cry.Â
No.Â
Youâre meant to be with a man of royal blood, and thatâs what will happen.Â
This is how it should be.Â
âIn the presence of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, we have come together to witness the marriage of Toji Zenin and Y/N L/N, to pray for God's blessing on them, to share their joy and to celebrate their love.â The Archbishop starts, but you hardly listen. You want Sukuna to look at you, but he truly has not opened his eyes since you walked in.Â
But when the Archbishop says, âFirst, I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now.âÂ
His eyes open.
âMaybe you should object at our wedding, hmm? That would be funny.â
He waits.Â
And waits.
And waits.Â
âŚ
...
âI object.â
Authors Note: Okay, I'm sorry about the summary, but like that is literally the hardest part, I don't care. But I hope you enjoyed, I spent all day trying to make this better than how it was to beginning with and I can definitely saying like 2/3 months I've gotten better in my eyes! but i definitely could have made this longer but I need to focus on only you arghhh. *strangles self* okay, okay, iâm done, i swear. :3 oh wait i really like the little banner thingy i did! i mean i didnât do the drawing but like you know what i mean đ okay BYE
Š 2025 @valleydolli please don't copy or translate any of my work. all rights reserved. (I will find you if you do.)
#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#sukuna x reader#jujutsu kaisen#sukuna#sukuna x you#sukuna ryomen x reader#jjk sukuna#ryomen sukuna x reader#ryomen sukuna#ryomen sukuna x you#jjk fanfic#jjk fic#jjk angst#jjk fluff#jjk x you#jujutsu kaisen reader#jujutsu kaisen fic#jujustu kaisen#jujustsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu sukuna#jujutsu kaisen sukuna#jujutsu kaisen x you
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Helloooooooo, how are you?? Love your work!!
So I got this idea for Oscar, where they have been dating for years now and everyone always teased him about when heâs popping the question. The fans pick up to it and reader finds it super funny so she posts a video with Oscar like full on sleeping on her chest with the song paper rings but like the soft part at the end. Fans go crazy and his mum Nicole actually urges him to pop the question. What do you think?? You can always change the plot a bit, itâs just an idea, hope you have a great week!!
-(cal me) rudolf or đ˘ anon (if itâs free)
Paper Rings
Oscar Piastri x Reader
SULI:Hii thank you so much for the request! Yes đ˘ anon is freeâ welcome to the family! I loved writing this, so sweet and ugh I just love this manâ hope you enjoy! This ended up wayyyyy longer than what I imagined I would write (this is my fav gif of Oscar I had to use it)
Also this is not proofread so forgive any mistakes lmao
Warnings: talk of dangers of f1
Oscar and Y/N had been together since high school. Their story wasnât one of wild romance or instant fireworks, but a slow-burning, steady kind of love that grew from shy smiles in crowded hallways and whispered secrets beneath the bleachers. They had been the kind of couple everyone expected to last forever â the golden pair who fit so perfectly it was like theyâd been made for each other from the start. And for years, they had been inseparable.
Despite the many years and countless memories they shared, there was one thing everyone around them kept teasing Oscar about â when was he finally going to pop the question?
It started with their close friends and family. At the racing teamâs gatherings, Oscarâs teammates couldnât help but poke fun. Lando would smirk and nudge him during strategy talks, âMate, been years. Whenâs the ring going on her finger?â Carlos, never one to miss a chance to tease, joked about how Oscarâs mum was already asking if he needed help picking out the perfect ring. Even Y/Nâs best friends would text him with sly messages about the âbig questionâ everyone was waiting for.
Oscar laughed along with it, but deep down, the teasing pressed on him in ways no one could see.
The fans were no different. Social media buzzed with excitement and speculation, creating a frenzy over the couple that had grown up before their eyes. Screenshots of their old photos surfaced alongside edits set to romantic songs, and forums debated which race weekend would finally see Oscar get down on one knee. The pressure wasnât just from the people closest to him â it was everywhere, loud and relentless.
But what no one really understood was what was holding Oscar back.
It wasnât a lack of love. Oscar loved Y/N with every fiber of his being. Heâd dreamed of forever with her since they were teenagers, and his heart raced faster than any car on the track every time he thought about their future. But there was something else â a weight he carried quietly.
Since those early days, his life had been a constant race, both on and off the track. The world of Formula 1 was unforgiving, full of unpredictability and risks that could change everything in an instant. He wanted more than anything to be the man she deserved â stable, strong, able to give her a future without fear or doubt. But how do you promise forever when tomorrow is so uncertain? When every race could bring glory or heartbreak?
The truth was, Oscar was terrified of failing her. Of not being enough.
Late at night, he would lie awake, clutching the small ring box hidden beneath his pillow â polished and perfect, a silent promise waiting to be made. But every time he imagined getting down on one knee, doubt crept in, filling his chest with cold hesitation.
His mum, Nicole, saw through the cracks, even when he tried to hide them. On video calls, her voice was gentle but firm, âOscar, darling, youâve been dating Y/N since you were kids. Isnât it time you made it official?â She teased and encouraged, reminding him how much they all loved Y/N and wanted to see them take the next step. Oscar would laugh nervously, promising he was thinking about it. But he wasnât ready to say more.
Y/N, too, sensed the tension beneath his smiles. She wasnât in a rush, never had been. Their love wasnât about grand gestures or deadlines. It lived in quiet moments â Oscarâs hand slipping into hers during long waits at airports, her sketching his tired face after races, the way theyâd curl up together on their couch, wrapped in blankets and the comfort of simply being with each other.
But she knew. She knew he was scared. Not of her, but of the weight of forever.
It was late â the kind of still night when the rest of the world felt like it had slowed down just for them. Oscar was completely exhausted, his body finally surrendering after a long day of training and travel. Heâd collapsed onto the couch beside her, and before she could even say a word, he had rested his head gently on her chest, eyes closing as his breathing deepened into slow, even rhythms.
Y/N sat perfectly still, careful not to disturb him. She looked down at him with a tenderness that made her chest ache in the best way. His hair was soft and messy from the day, falling loosely over his forehead and around his ears, and she couldnât resist the impulse to reach out.
Her fingers moved slowly, as if not wanting to break the spell, threading gently through the dark curls above his temple. The warmth of his skin beneath her palm made her heart flutter â quiet and steady, like the steady beat beneath it.
Oscar shifted just slightly, his breath hitching for a moment before he relaxed again. Encouraged by the calmness of the moment, Y/N let her hand trace a gentle path from his hair down to the curve of his cheek, brushing softly against the smooth skin there.
Almost immediately, Oscar nuzzled closer, pressing his face deeper into her palm and the warmth of her touch. It was such a small gesture, but it spoke volumes â a silent conversation of comfort and trust that had grown between them over the years.
She smiled softly, the kind of smile that didnât need words, just the pure knowing that this moment â this quiet, unguarded closeness â was everything.
She took out her phone and started recording.
The soft, fading notes of Paper Rings drifted in the background, delicate and warm, wrapping around them like a gentle promise.
Y/N shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, and continued to stroke his hair, her heart full in a way she couldnât quite explain.
There was no rush, no grand declaration needed right then. Just this â Oscar asleep in her arms, safe and at peace, and the world reduced to the simple rhythm of their shared breath.
Morning light filtered gently through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. The world outside was waking up slowly, but inside, time seemed to have paused just a little longer.
Y/N lay still, feeling the steady rise and fall of Oscarâs chest against her side. His head was still resting on her, the faint warmth of his skin seeping into hers. For a moment, she just let herself soak in the quiet â the kind of quiet that feels like home.
Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, now softer in the early light, and when he shifted just enough to nuzzle into her again, a sleepy smile tugged at her lips. He wasnât fully awake yet â just caught in that beautiful space between dreams and reality.
Careful not to disturb him, Y/N reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen as she scrolled through the overnight notifications. The video from last night had exploded in views â thousands upon thousands of hearts, comments filled with love and excitement, and ring emojis flooding the feed.
Her phone buzzed relentlessly, texts lighting up the screen. Friends teasing, fans gushing, and then â a message from Nicole, Oscarâs mum, flashing bright and urgent: âWhenâs my boy gonna put that ring on your finger?!â
Y/N laughed quietly to herself, the sound soft but filled with warmth. She brushed a stray lock of hair from Oscarâs forehead.
Oscarâs eyes fluttered open slowly, the morning light warm and soft against his face. For a moment, he didnât move â just took in the weight of Y/Nâs body beneath his head, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat grounding him in a way nothing else could.
His fingers twitched, still tangled lightly in her hair as he blinked up at the ceiling, feeling the peaceful calm of the moment wrap around him like a blanket.
Then, ever so gently, he shiftedânuzzling deeper into her, burying his face just a little more against her skin, as if trying to hold onto that feeling of safety and quiet a little longer.
A soft smile pulled at the corner of his lips as he whispered, barely louder than a breath, âMorning.â
He opened his eyes fully then and glanced down, catching sight of Y/Nâs smile. His heart swelled â that little smile she wore, the way her eyes lit up even first thing in the morning, it made everything feel like home.
Oscar let his hand cup her cheek softly, thumb brushing over her skin in the gentlest of touches, before he spoke again, voice still thick with sleep, âIâm never waking up from this.â
The moment Oscar and Y/Nâs little video went viral, it was like a switch flipped. Suddenly, no oneâfriends, family, even fansâcould stop teasing him about the one thing everyone had been quietly (or not so quietly) waiting for: when was he finally going to propose?
It started small. At training sessions, his teammates would nudge him with raised eyebrows. Lando, always the cheeky one, smirked and said, âMate, itâs been years. You planning on popping the question before you retire, or should we start a countdown clock?â
Oscar just laughed, brushing it off, but the grin never quite reached his eyes. Y/N caught it tooâthe way heâd glance at her sometimes when the teasing started, half-amused, half-worried.
At the paddock, journalists began picking up on the hints, asking the question slyly during interviews. âSo, Oscar, fans are dying to knowâwhenâs the big moment?â theyâd press, flashing that knowing smile.
And then came the texts and calls from family. His mum, Nicole, was the worst. She didnât hold back. âHonestly, Oscar, what are you waiting for? You have a beautiful girlfriend, you love herâdo the right thing, darling.â
Oscar would groan every time. âMum, Iâm not ignoring you, I just want it to be perfect.â
âBut youâve been saying that for three years!â she shot back, totally unfazed.
Y/N watched it all from the sidelines, amused and affectionate. The whole world seemed to be in on this joke except Oscar himself.
One night, at a small gathering with their closest friends, the teasing hit peak levels.
âCome on, Oscar,â Hattie teased, eyes twinkling mischievously. âYouâre not getting any younger, and neither are we. You planning on letting Y/N keep stealing your hoodies forever or are you gonna make it official?â
Lando chimed in, âYeah, Iâm starting to think youâre scared of the big question. Whatâs holding you back?â
Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, trying to laugh it off. âIâm just making sure itâs the right moment, alright?â
Y/N leaned over and whispered, âOr maybe youâre just nervous.â
That made the room burst into laughter, and Oscarâs cheeks flushed.
Despite the teasing, Y/N knew what was really going on. It wasnât fear or doubt holding him backâit was the weight of the promise he wanted to make. The years theyâd spent together, the ups and downs, the quiet moments and the big ones.
Still, every joke, every question, every nudge only made the anticipation grow, and somewhere deep inside, Y/N knew their perfect moment was comingâshe just didnât know when.
...
The house was quiet that afternoon, sunlight slanting through the curtains in golden strips. The buzz of the earlier crowdâfriends coming and going, family lingering over coffee and conversationâhad finally faded, leaving just Oscar and his mum in the kitchen.
He was standing by the sink, rolling a glass of water between his palms, while Nicole sat at the kitchen table, watching him with that look only a mother could give. Patient. Knowing. Unapologetically nosy.
âIâm surprised you stayed behind,â Oscar said, glancing at her. âThought youâd be the first to head back to the hotel.â
Nicole shrugged, sipping from her cup. âWanted to see you. Just you. Just my son.â
He gave her a small smile, one she didnât miss was a little tight around the edges. She set her cup down.
âOscar.â
âHmm?â
âYouâve been quiet.â
He exhaled through his nose. âJust tired.â
She let that settle for a moment before asking, gently, âIs it about the proposal?â
Oscar didnât answer right away. He didnât have toâhis silence said enough.
Nicole stood and crossed the kitchen, resting a hand lightly on his back. âCan we sit for a minute?â
They moved to the small couch in the sunroom, where the late afternoon light painted everything in a soft, fading warmth. Oscar leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glass still in his hands.
âI know everyoneâs been teasing you,â she said carefully. âIâve done it too.â
He chuckled, but it didnât quite reach his eyes. âYeah. You and literally everyone I know.â
Nicole tilted her head. âAnd I know you, sweetheart. When something means a lot to you, you overthink it.â
Oscar was quiet, his thumb moving over the rim of his glass.
âI want to do it right,â he said softly. âY/N... sheâs everything. Weâve been together since we were kids. She knows me better than anyone. Sheâs been patient through it allâthrough the races, the travel, the constant being away. I come home exhausted, sometimes barely there at all, and she never makes me feel guilty for it.â
Nicole listened, eyes soft, waiting.
He sighed, deeper this time. âAnd I think thatâs part of what scares me.â
She tilted her head slightly.
âIâm always gone,â he continued, his voice low. âRace to race, country to country, time zones and airports and hotel rooms. And when Iâm not away, Iâm still not really... here. My headâs always somewhere elseâon the next turn, the next performance, the next interview.â
His throat tightened. âItâs not fair to her. It hasnât been for years. Iâm in this career that asks for everythingâmy time, my focus, even my body. Itâs dangerous, Mum. I know I donât talk about it, but it is. One crash, one wrong move, and everything could change. Or end.â
Nicole reached for his hand, wrapping hers around his.
âShe never complains,â he said, a little brokenly. âShe just waits. Supports. Smiles and makes it easier. And I just keep taking and taking, and what if marrying herâwhat if making her my wifeâmeans she gives up even more of herself?â
Nicoleâs heart ached at the way he said it, like he was carrying guilt for simply being loved too well.
âOscar,â she said gently, âyou donât protect someone by keeping them at armâs length.â
He looked at her, eyes glinting with emotion.
âShe already chose you,â Nicole continued. âEvery day. Every race. Every long-distance call, every night she watched you on a screen instead of next to her. Thatâs not changing if sheâs your girlfriend or your wife. She knows what she signed up forâand she signed up for you.â
âBut what if something happens?â
âThen sheâll grieve with your name on her heart,â Nicole said, voice strong despite the crack in it. âJust like you would for her. Thatâs what love is. Not running from the riskâchoosing each other anyway.â
Oscar swallowed hard.
âYou donât have to be perfect,â she added, âor wait for the perfect moment. You just have to be honest. And if whatâs holding you back is fearâthen let her be the one to hold you through it. Like she always has.â
Silence stretched for a beat.
And then Oscar leaned back on the couch, eyes burning, head gently tilted toward his mumâs shoulder.
âIâm just scared.â
âI know,â she whispered, resting her cheek against his hair. âThat means you care.â
...
Oscar hadnât told anyone about the ring.
Not at first. Not even when he bought it two years ago, alone in Monaco during a break between back-to-back races, standing in a quiet little boutique with too much white and too many mirrors. He remembered the way the glass counter reflected the tiny gold band, delicate and simple, with a solitaire diamond â exactly how you wouldâve wanted it. He remembered the way his thumb had hovered just slightly before he nodded at the jeweler, heart racing harder than it ever did in a car going 300km/h.
He hadnât told anyone because the moment had been his. Just his.
Because even though the teasing had started back then â from his mum, from his friends, from half the bloody paddock â something in him wasnât ready yet. Not because of you. Never because of you.
Because of his job. His life. The travel, the danger, the days he spent exhausted and strung out from back-to-back flights. Because being a racing driver meant sometimes being absent, and you had never asked for anything more than his presence, even when he could barely give you that.
And part of him â some quiet, scared part of him â had convinced himself that maybe you deserved better than a boy who left more often than he came home.
So the ring stayed in a drawer. Wrapped in its velvet box, tucked away in a zippered pouch behind spare cables and old credentials. Heâd check on it sometimes â carefully, reverently â opening the lid and staring at the soft glint in the light. Sometimes, after particularly long races or lonely nights, heâd whisper things to it.
âSheâs still it. Still everything.â
But he never moved.
Not until a month ago.
It started with that video â the one you posted without thinking. Oscar dead asleep, face smooshed against your chest, hand curled around your wrist like heâd found the only thing worth holding in the world.
Heâd woken up to chaos.
Hundreds of thousands of likes. Comments. Reposts. TikToks dissecting the lighting. Tweets demanding a proposal. Memes of him asleep with âhusband materialâ scrawled over his forehead.
You were so sweet about it, always scrolling past quickly when you were scrolling on your phone together about him proposing, to not give him any pressure.
And that was what made it impossible to wait anymore.
So, for the first time in two years, he pulled the ring out â hands slightly trembling, breath caught in his throat.
And then he did something he never thought heâd do.
He showed your best friend.
You werenât home â you were out running errands, and heâd texted her on a whim, asking if she could stop by, not giving any context. She arrived with suspicious eyes and a grin, teasing him instantly.
âSheâs not pregnant, is she?â
âWhatâno! Jesusâjust come in.â
She barely had time to take her shoes off before he was pulling the little velvet box from behind the fruit bowl, practically hiding it in his palm like it was some illicit secret.
And when he opened it â
She gasped.
Hand to her mouth, eyes already shining.
âOh my god.â
Oscarâs jaw tensed, nerves kicking in hard and fast. âDo you think sheâll like it?â
âSheâs going to sob,â she whispered, voice thick. âAre you kidding me? Youâve had this for how long?â
âA while.â
Then, softer: âI just didnât know if I deserved her yet.â
That was all it took.
Suddenly, your best friend was crying. Not loud, but that quiet, overwhelmed kind â blinking fast and biting back a full sob. Oscar froze, unsure.
âI didnât mean toââ
âNo,â she said quickly, stepping forward and pulling him into a hug. âNo. You idiot. Sheâs going to marry you in ten seconds if you ask.â
He held onto her, feeling something heavy shake loose in his chest.
âShe waited for you,â she murmured into his shoulder. âShe always would have.â
Oscar didnât cry. Not then. But something welled in his throat as he looked down at the little box in his hand â the one that had sat in the dark for too long.
Now it was time to let it see light.
He was ready. Finally.
To ask.
To hope.
To begin.
...
Oscar sat on the couch with his laptop open, not racing footage or telemetry data for once, but a blank Notes page titled in all caps:
THE PLAN.
It felt so serious typed out like that. He almost laughed â almost. But his heart was beating a bit too fast for that.
Because it was real now. He was going to ask you to marry him.
And if there was one thing he wasnât going to do, it was wing it.
He rubbed at his jaw, glanced at the velvet box beside him, and typed the first bullet.
1. Location.
He wanted it to be somewhere meaningful. Not over-the-top. Not something grand or wildly public. It had to feel like you. Like the two of you, in your quiet little world where love lived in the silences and shared glances.
Your high school back garden where you had your first kiss? No, too far.
The rooftop where you watched fireworks two years ago on New Yearâs Eve? Maybe.
But then he paused. Thought harder.
He ended up circling back to the simplest answer.
Home.
Your shared apartment. The one filled with plants you insisted werenât dying (even when they definitely were), the kitchen that still had âhis and hersâ mugs from high school, the faint dent in the hallway wall from when he crashed into it during a Mario Kart race.
Home, where he had found the softest version of himself because youâd made space for it.
He typed:
â Living room. Candles. Dim lighting. Quiet. Just us.
2. Time.
Sheâs always busiest on Thursdays. Iâll do it on a Sunday evening, when sheâs sleepy and soft and doesnât expect anything. Maybe after a movie, or her favourite dinner.
His fingers hesitated before typing:
â Sunday. 8PM. Movie first â something she loves. Then dinner. Then quiet.
3. Distraction plan.
He needed help setting up. Someone to make sure the candles werenât setting off the smoke alarm, that the lights were dimmed, the playlist queued.
Heâd already talked to your best friend. After the ring reveal, sheâd sworn a blood oath of secrecy and offered to help with anything. He sent her a text while typing the next point:
â Best friend will take her out earlier in the day. Mani-pedi + coffee excuse. Gives me time to set up.
4. Ring placement.
Not in his pocket. Too risky. He had a history of losing things in couch cushions.
He considered the idea of hiding it in something â a dessert, a coffee cup â but then physically recoiled.
No.
Youâd murder him if he accidentally made you swallow the engagement ring. Rightfully.
Instead, he decided:
â Box in drawer by the record player. Iâll go get it when itâs time.
5. Speech.
He hadnât written it yet. But he knew the beats.
Talk about the first time he saw her â not the version everyone knew, not the cutesy âwe were high school sweetheartsâ part â but the real moment.
The time she stayed after his karting practice with a juice box in her hand and said, âYou looked miserable. Thought you might need sugar.â
The moment he knew: this girl was going to wreck him.
How sheâd been the only thing constant, solid, and warm through years of jetlag, failure, podiums, and pressure.
How scared heâd been to ask â not because of her, but because of everything he wasnât sure he could promise.
And how now⌠he was finally ready.
â Just speak from the heart. Donât fumble. Unless she laughs â then laugh too.
6. Playlist.
Because he knew her. Because he loved her.
Because if he didnât pick the right songs, sheâd tease him forever.
He opened Spotify and started a new list: âfor us.â
First on the queue? âPaper Rings (Acoustic),â because she still hadnât realized how much that one post meant to him.
Then a few of the songs theyâd fallen asleep to on long flights. A bit of Hozier. A soft Japanese track sheâd taught him how to pronounce.
â âfor usâ playlist. Final check. No ads. No shuffle. Donât mess this up.
7. Contingency plan.
Because Oscar Piastri was nothing if not prepared.
What if she cried too hard to answer?
What if he dropped the ring?
What if she thought it was a prank?
He typed quickly:
â Hug her. Donât rush. Let her answer on her own time. Donât panic.
And then, finally:
8. The after.
He wasnât going to post right away. He wanted it just for them â just for one night. Maybe theyâd tell your best friend first. His mum next. Then the rest could come.
But he did have a folder of photos ready. All of them candid. All of them glowing. Like the one where she kissed his cheek while he was still brushing his teeth. Or the blurry one of her asleep on his chest with the sunlight painting her face gold.
â Just us, first. Always.
Oscar leaned back.
Looked at the list.
And exhaled.
He was going to ask you to be his forever.
And for the first time in years, there wasnât a single doubt in his heart.
But there had always been one thing lingering at the edge of it all â one thing he couldnât skip, couldnât avoid.
Asking your dad.
You and Oscar had been together since you were sixteen â practically grew up alongside each other. Your parents had seen every version of him: the awkward teenage boy with racing posters in his backpack, the one who nervously shook your dadâs hand at the front door in a too-big suit on your Year 12 formal night. The kid who once broke your mumâs favourite vase and nearly passed out apologizing.
Theyâd watched him grow.
Which somehow made this even more terrifying.
So when he texted your dad and asked if they could get coffee â âjust the two of us, if thatâs alright?â â Oscar already felt his palms getting clammy. Your dad replied almost instantly: âOf course. Iâve been waiting.â
That didnât help.
The cafĂŠ was quiet, tucked into a leafy corner of your neighbourhood. A place your dad liked â Oscar knew because heâd driven past it on slow Sunday mornings with you in the passenger seat, talking about nothing.
He got there early. Sat at a corner table and fiddled with the coffee cup sleeve until it nearly tore.
And then your dad walked in, wearing the same calm, unreadable expression he always had. Friendly, but firm. Warm, but never too easy to crack. The kind of man who didnât say much unless it meant something. Just like you.
âHey, Oscar,â he said with a nod, sitting down across from him.
âHi, sir,â Oscar replied, voice a little tight.
Your dad looked at him for a long second, then smiled, just a little. âRelax. Youâre not here for a job interview.â
Oscar laughed â nervously â but still.
They chatted first. About racing. About travel. About the state of his car lately and how your dad had been watching from the sidelines and still yelling at the screen when strategy made no sense. It was easy. Familiar.
Until the conversation lulled.
And Oscar knew.
This was it.
He sat up a little straighter, clearing his throat.
âI⌠I wanted to ask you something,â he started, rubbing his palms against his jeans beneath the table. âSomething important.â
Your dad leaned back slightly. Watching. Listening.
âIâve loved Y/n since we were kids. And I know that sounds too young to be sure, but Iâve known every version of her â every birthday, every laugh, every bad day where she still managed to smile â and Iâve never once doubted her. Not once.â
He swallowed.
âAnd I know this job⌠itâs a lot. It takes me away. Itâs dangerous. Itâs unpredictable. But sheâs never made me feel like it was too much. Sheâs stayed. Sheâs supported me. Sheâs been my home through all of it.â
Oscar paused. His voice softened.
âAnd I want to marry her. If⌠if youâre okay with that.â
The words hung in the air. He could hear the tiny cafĂŠ speaker humming something low and jazzy in the background. He hated how loud his heartbeat sounded in his own ears.
Your dad didnât speak right away.
He looked down at his coffee. Then back at Oscar.
Then he nodded.
And said, âIâd be honoured to call you my son.â
Oscar blinked. âReally?â
âIâve watched you love her for years,â he said, his voice steady but warm. âAnd Iâve never worried. Not once. That means something.â
And for the first time since Oscar sat down, he breathed â really breathed.
Your dad smiled and added, âNow, if you hurt her, I will kill you.â
Oscarâs laugh cracked through the nerves, shaky and full of affection. âThatâs⌠fair.â
They clinked their coffee cups like glasses. Two men who had never needed many words â only trust. And now, they had it.
Later that night, Oscar drove home with both hands on the wheel and that velvet box sitting in the glove compartment like it had been waiting too.
He was ready now.
Really ready.
And you had no idea what was coming.
Say the word, bestie, and Iâll write your best friend seeing the ring again, and the moment Oscar stands in the living room, hand shaking, heart thundering, ready to ask.
...
The sun poured in soft and gold through the windows, spilling across your sheets like something out of a dream. You were still curled beneath the duvet, face warm against your pillow, when a knock came at your bedroom door â three soft taps and then a cheeky voice you knew too well.
âGet up, princess. Weâve got a date with some hair masks and overpriced lattes.â
You groaned, smiling into the pillow. âDo I have to?â
Your best friend poked her head in, already dressed in a flowy linen dress, sunnies on her head, and a grin that looked suspiciously like she was up to something.
âYes, you have to,â she said. âI booked us the works â nails, hair, brows. Iâm talking pampered-to-the-heavens kind of day.â
You blinked sleepily, pushing your hair out of your face. âWhy?â
âBecause,â she said, sauntering in and yanking your blanket off dramatically, âyouâve been an exhausted little marshmallow lately, and I need my best girl back. This is long overdue.â
You laughed, kicking your legs in protest before finally sitting up, stretching your arms over your head. âYouâre lucky I love you.â
âIâm lucky you havenât figured out this is all an elaborate ploy to get you glowing for a very specific reason.â
âWhat?â
âNothing.â She smiled too hard and practically dragged you into the bathroom.
The salon smelled like citrus and jasmine and felt like stepping into heaven. Everything was light and airy and crisp â soft music playing, staff already greeting you with cucumber water and complimenting your skin.
Your best friend leaned into the receptionistâs desk and said, âSheâs the bride.â
You blinked. âThe what?â
âI said âdivine.â Sheâs divine,â she corrected smoothly, elbowing you with a wink.
You narrowed your eyes. âYouâre acting so weird today.â
âIâm acting fabulous, babe. Relax and let me spoil you.â
And you did. The two of you sat side by side, heads tipped back over sinks as warm water ran through your hair and a stylist massaged your scalp with something that smelled like vanilla and orange blossoms. Your eyes fluttered shut. You let yourself drift.
Your best friend took secret photos of you with a soft smile on her face, heart clenching just a little because you have no idea. You have no idea that the love of your life has been texting her every twenty minutes asking âis she happy? is she relaxing? does she suspect anything?â
You were glowing.
After your nails were done (a pale blush pink she subtly nudged you into choosing), and your hair was blown out in soft waves, you sat in front of the mirror, blinking at your reflection.
âGod,â you said, softly. âI feel like⌠I donât know. Like Iâm floating.â
Your best friend came up behind you, resting her hands on your shoulders.
âYou look like magic.â
You turned to look at her, eyes soft. âThanks for today.â
She swallowed, heart skipping. âYou deserve the world.â
And when you leaned in to hug her, warm and sleepy and full of love, she had to blink away tears.
Because you still had no idea.
And Oscar Piastri was about to give you everything.
...
Oscar had been pacing.
Not nervously â not exactly. Just that kind of buzzed, excited pacing that meant his heart wouldnât quite stay calm. His socks were half sliding on the wooden floors as he moved around the flat, adjusting and readjusting the little details.
The living room looked like a scene out of a love song.
Candles â the expensive kind he knew you liked, the ones that smelled like fig and honey â were flickering gently across every surface. Your favorite flowers â not red roses, but the weird little white ones you always called âthe ugly pretty onesâ â were everywhere, tucked into vases and glasses and little jars like a secret garden had exploded in their apartment. The playlist had been curated to within an inch of its life, starting with the soft stuff you always hummed to in the car and slowly building toward the songs that felt like him and you â lazy days and road trips and the night you moved in together.
In the middle of the drawer beneath the record player. Waiting for the right time.
He hadnât even opened it today â he didnât need to. He knew exactly what it looked like. Simple, clean. The band was warm gold, nothing flashy, but the diamond was clear and bright. The kind of ring that didnât try too hard. The kind that felt like you.
It sat there quietly, like it knew its moment was coming.
Oscar stepped back, hands on his hips, staring at the table like it might suddenly ask for his blessing.
âYou ready, mate?â he muttered to himself, voice soft and full of something breathless.
Then came the knock on the door.
His breath caught.
He checked the time. Perfect. You were early.
He made it halfway down the hall before stopping, raking a hand through his hair. He turned around, sprinted back, and grabbed the tiny bouquet of babyâs breath heâd forgotten to put by the door â the one he wanted to give you the moment you walked in, for no reason at all. Just because.
Another knock. This one softer. Familiar.
His heart was pounding.
He opened the door.
And there you were.
Hair done, face glowing, a soft pink gloss on your lips and that look in your eyes â the one that always landed right in his chest. Your tote bag hung off one shoulder. You still had the little paper wristband from the salon tucked on your wrist like you forgot it was there. You were a little windblown from the walk up the stairs.
He couldnât breathe.
You blinked at him. âHi.â
âHi,â he said, voice cracking a little.
Your eyes narrowed. âWhy are you being weird?â
âIâm notââ He cleared his throat. âI just missed you.â
You softened. âItâs only been a few hours.â
He stepped aside, holding out the little bouquet.
âFor you.â
You blinked, smiling at the crinkled paper wrapping. âWhatâs this for?â
âNothing. You just look really beautiful.â
You raised a brow. âOscar Piastri, are you trying to distract me?â
He laughed, nervous and giddy and warm all over. âA little bit.â
You leaned in to kiss his cheek â something so casual and familiar it made his chest ache â and stepped inside.
You didnât notice the candles at first.
Didnât notice the playlist, or the flowers.
But he watched as it all slowly hit you.
Your steps slowed. Your eyes flicked around. Your mouth opened slightly.
ââŚWhat is this?â
He closed the door behind you and didnât answer yet. He gave you time to take it in â to see the apartment the way he saw you. Soft and glowing and full of meaning.
He stepped up beside you, heart wild in his chest.
Your fingers tightened around the bouquet.
âOscar?â you said again, barely above a whisper.
The air felt too heavy. Like your lungs had forgotten how to stretch all the way. Like the walls had inched closer without warning.
He looked at you gently, but you couldnât hold his gaze for more than a second. Your eyes flitted around the room â the golden light, the candles, the record spinning something soft and slow in the corner, the colors that didnât belong to an ordinary night.
You took one step inside, then stopped. The silence stretched too far.
âOscar,â you said again, quieter this time, âwhat is this?â
You werenât angry. You werenât even crying yet. You were just still. Too still. Like your body was trying not to feel it.
Oscarâs voice came soft. âItâs okay.â
You shook your head, almost imperceptibly. âI wasnâtâ I didnât knowââ
He stepped closer, slowly, carefully, like he didnât want to startle you. His hand reached for yours, fingers warm and familiar. âHey. Youâre okay. I promise. Just breathe, sweetheart.â
You tried. You really did. But your chest barely moved.
You blinked again, fast. âWhy does it feel like this?â
âLike what?â
âLike somethingâs⌠about to change.â
His smile was soft, almost sad. âBecause it is.â
You finally looked at him. Really looked. Your eyes were wide, your lips slightly parted, your hands shaking around the stems of the flowers.
He laughed quietly, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. âGod, youâre so quiet right now. I didnât mean to scare you.â
You didnât answer. Just stared.
He took a breath.
And then, still holding your hand, he began.
âThereâs a ring in the drawer â wrapped up, hidden, waiting for the perfect day. But then last weekyou walked through the door in that new green dress and I saw you, so happy, and something inside me just said, Why are you waiting?â
You made a small sound, like a breath that didnât land all the way.
He kept going.
âIâve watched you walk into so many rooms, and every single time, Iâve fallen in love with you all over again. And I thinkââ his voice caught a little, ââI think part of meâs been falling since the first time you looked at me like I wasnât something to be afraid of.â
Your other hand had risen to your chest now, fingers pressed lightly against your collarbone.
Oscar stepped closer, his words steady even as his eyes grew glassy.
âYou always say youâre too much. Too sharp, too complicated, too careful. But do you want to know what I see?â
You nodded, barely.
âI see a girl who laughs with her whole chest when she forgets to be scared. Who stays up late sending pictures of weird clouds. Who holds my hand like itâs the only thing keeping her tethered and still pretends sheâs not the softest person in the room.â
A quiet laugh escaped you â wet, stunned â and you shook your head slightly, as if trying to keep yourself upright.
Oscar held your hand a little tighter, his thumb tracing small circles over your skin.
He exhaled slowly, voice a little steadier now. âYou know, my job⌠itâs not easy. Itâs demanding in ways I canât always explain â the travel, the pressure, the constant chase for perfection. Some days I feel like Iâm barely holding myself together, and other days I blink and another monthâs passed.â
He paused, his voice going quiet again.
âBut even in all of that â even when Iâm jet-lagged or exhausted or reading strategy notes at 2 a.m. â I still find myself thinking about you. Wondering if you slept okay. If you ate. If something made you laugh.â
You looked down, your breath catching.
âI know Iâm not always going to be around in the way you deserve. And I hate that. But I promise you⌠Iâll try. Iâll try with everything I have to be present, to be there in the moments that matter. Iâll call. Iâll write. Iâll show up â even if itâs in the smallest ways. Because loving you isn't something I want to fit in between races. It's something I want to build everything else around.â
He smiled, soft and sure.
âYouâre not a break from my world. You are my world.â
He took a breath.
And thatâs when he broke.
Not panicked. Not messy. But decisive.
Like heâd just made a choice in real time.
He turned.
Walked straight down the hallway.
Your heart tripped into your throat. âOscarâwait, where are you going? What are youââ
But your voice died as soon as you saw it.
The little velvet box in his hand.
He returned slowly, chest rising and falling like heâd been holding this moment in for too long â too many days, too many almosts.
And when he met your eyes again, everything inside you lit up and collapsed at the same time.
âNo,â you breathed. âNo, youâre notâyouâre not doing thisââ
âI am,â he said, voice soft but steady. âI really am.â
Your hands were trembling now, bouquet forgotten and held too loosely, fingers clenched and released over and over again like your body was trying to keep pace with your heart.
âButâbut you said not yet,â you whispered.
He looked down at the box in his hands. Then back up at you.
He opened it.
And your knees almost buckled.
The ring caught the candlelight in a quiet shimmer â not flashy, not huge, but perfect. Intimate. Him.
You couldnât move.
You couldnât breathe.
âI donât want to wait anymore,â Oscar said, eyes never leaving yours. âIâve been holding onto this ring for three years. Always thinking thereâd be a better time, a better way. But nothing feels more right than right now. You, standing here, losing your mind because I lit a candle and played our song.â
He laughed, but it was breathless. Full of adrenaline. Full of you.
âI love you,â he said. âI love you so much it hurts. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.â
You blinked rapidly, tears clinging to your lashes, one already streaking down your cheek.
âOscar,â you whispered, but it came out like a plea.
He stepped forward. Got down on one knee.
Your breath caught, completely and entirely gone.
âWill you marry me?â
There were no theatrics.
No grand speeches.
Just him â knees to the floor, hands shaking, heart in his throat, ring in a box that had been waiting far too long.
You didnât even realize you were crying until your hands covered your mouth and a little laugh bubbled out through the shock.
He smiled up at you â really smiled â like every part of him was in this.
âYes,â you choked out. âOh my god, yes.â
The moment hit like a wave.
You dropped to your knees in front of him, hands on his face, kissing him before he could even slide the ring onto your finger. You were crying and laughing and holding onto him like gravity stopped working.
âI thought I was going to pass out,â you whispered against his mouth, shaking.
He laughed into the kiss, forehead resting against yours. âSame.â
And when he finally did slide the ring on â slow, reverent, like it meant everything (because it did) â your hand trembled in his.
âPerfect,â he murmured, kissing your knuckles. âFinally.â
The music kept playing in the background.
But the room had never been so quiet.
Because nothing needed to be said.
Not anymore.
...

Liked by hattiepiastri, lando, f1, mclaren and 7.7M others.
oscarpiastri: perfect.
lando: HOLY SHIT CONGRATS
danielricciardoso: THIS is what all those mysterious âplansâ were?? crying, shaking, throwing champagne đĽ
yourbestfriend: IM SORRY YOU DIDNâT EVEN TELL ME FIRST?? I FIND OUT WITH THE REST OF THE WORLD?? đđđ I HATE YOU (I LOVE YOU CONGRATS)
mclaren: Our teamâs real winning moment đ§Ą
oscarpiastriupdates: I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I KNEW IT đ the candles, the playlist, the strawberries... WE CLOCKED IT MONTHS AGO
username1: not him captioning it like that and making me cry on a THURSDAY
username2: this is why I canât have nice things. men like him are taken.
username3: the softest launch. the deadliest impact. RIP me.
username4: no press release, no video, just âperfectâ and a RING??? be serious oscar weâre fragile
username5: tell me she said yes and then immediately started crying and making it his problem
username6: the âperfectâ wasnât about the photo. it was about her đđđ
Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu
#f1#f1 imagine#formula 1 x reader#f1 fic#f1 x reader#formula 1#lando norris#oscar piastri x y/n#oscar piastri x you#oscar piastri fanfic#oscar piastri imagine#oscar piastri#oscar piastri fic#oscar piastri x reader#op81 fic#op81 x y/n#op81 x reader#op81#op81 imagine#op81 x you#formula1 x reader#formula 1 x you#formula one x you#formula one x reader#formula 1 fanfic#formula 1 imagine#formula one#f1 x female reader#f1 x you#f1 x y/n
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â
popular girl!reader distracting nerd!nanami during a study session
âp-please donât. you have to pay -ngh- attention,â nanami mutters, hands waving in the air frantically, unsure where to land.Â
under the desk, you mouth at his cock â heâs being so boring, reading off the textbook and bossing you around. so, of course you had to take matters into your own hand, or rather, into your mouth, to liven things up. otherwise you would have lost your mind in boredom. âno, i want to have some fun.â
âbut you promised me that after i -ah s-slow down- after i ate you out youâd work hard for an hour.â the nerdâs mouth is saying no but his cock is throbbing yes in morse code. he really ought to be more honest, especially when you can tell he showered right before you came; his hair is slightly wet, his skin supple and smooth, smelling of cocoa butter, and his cock of lavender soap.Â
mouth full of his heavy balls, you tease, âi am working hard, kento. you think milking your pathetic cock is easy? hmm?â
nanami flushes a pretty pink, teeth biting into the plump of his bottom lip, desperate to stop the groans and moans from leaving his mouth. unable to help himself, his hand flies down to your hair and faces an internal battle: to push you away or to pull you down his long length until your nose is buried in the blond hair at his base.Â
âthis is -oh, f-fudge- unfair. ngh! i-if you fail the exam, youâll -hah- get mad at me.â
thatâs true. last time you failed, you didnât speak to him for a week, choosing to ignore him on campus, and you certainly never let him touch you, not for quick hookups in the janitorâs closet or in the toilet stalls, not for a handjob in his car or some pussy eating behind a tree in the fields behind the science labs. honestly, you werenât even planning on torturing him like that â you knew it was your fault to begin with â but he gets so needy and pitifully sensitive when you finally give him attention, almost as if he craved to be punished, to earn you and your pussy.Â
nanami would rut his softening cock into your pussy well after he came, driving himself into oversensitivity until heâs shooting blanks and drooling all over your chest. heâd whimper your name over and over again, moaning about how he missed you, how heâs sorry and heâll tutor you better so please donât replace him. then, when you mercifully give him another chance as you push him back to sit on his face, he whines âthank youâ endlessly right against your clit.
in a lot of ways, it was actually a reward for him.Â
youâre charitable like that.Â
âugh, shut up, nerd. hurry up and cum down my throat so you can eat me out again. if you do a good enough job, iâll go through a practice paper with yoâmghm!.â
his hands shove your head down his cock, suffocating you and making you gag, eyes watering. hips thrusting up in unrhythmic pulses, nanami practically uses you like a fleshlight. when you give him these kinds of commands, itâs hard to tell whether heâs more pleased about you actually doing some studying or if heâs eager to have you sit on his face again. either way, you suppose, youâre both getting what you want.Â
when he finally paints your throat white with his salty spend, you come to straddle him, pinching his chin. thoroughly pavlovâd, his jaw hangs wide enough for you to spit his own cum back into his mouth. he swallows. his eyes roll back. âhmm, youâve been -hah- chewing cherry bubblegum again. you know what that does to me.â
âi donât know what you mean, kenny baby.â
something begins to grow hard again beneath your ass.Â
pathetic.Â
#jjk x reader#jjk smut#jjk drabble#jjk oneshot#nanami x reader#nanami smut#nanami drabble#nanami oneshot#nanami x you#jjk x you#jjk nanami#jjk nanami kento#jjk nanami smut#jjk nanami x reader
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nerd!satoru who yaps nonstop about the multiverse while youâre just trying to eat your lunch, waving his hands around dramatically as he explains the concept of alternate dimensions with half a rice ball in his mouth and crumbs stuck to the corner of his lips. who pokes at his food with a mechanical pencil because he forgot his chopsticks again, and then insists with wide eyes and a mouth half full, âtechnically, pencils are just wooden utensils for intellectuals.â he gets giddy over a new graphing calculator update like itâs a new iphone drop, tapping the screen like itâs a baby animal, and once dragged you into a 40-minute rant about ant communication hierarchies while you were just brushing your teeth, half-asleep and mouth foaming with toothpaste.
he has no less than ten tabs open at all timesâreddit conspiracy theories, physics forums, a paused youtube video on quantum tunneling, a spreadsheet titled âdo cats defy newtonâs laws?â, a google doc labeled âreasons why kissing might be a form of molecular alignment,â and none of it has anything to do with the assignment heâs supposed to be doing. he zones out during lectures, doodling black hole spirals, equations shaped like hearts, and cats in lab coats in the margins of his notes. once, he drew you holding hands with a worm in a bowtie and captioned it âme and my universe.â somehow still manages to get top marks every single time, even though he once turned in an assignment with a greasy fry stain in the corner because he used it as a napkin in the library mid-cram session.
he mutters the weirdest things under his breath like âi feel like a misaligned proton todayâ or âthe moonâs energy was too sarcastic last nightâ and you just blink at him likeđ§ââď¸while sipping your drink. he wears mismatched socks on purpose and says, âitâs a metaphor for duality.â has five alarms labeled âwake up genius,â âur gonna flunk,â âyour girlfriend will leave you,â âpls satoru,â and âEMERGENCY: CUTE, PRETTY AND SCORCHINGLY HOT GIRL WAITINGâ and still manages to sleep through all of them unless you call him. his glasses? perpetually smudged, held together with washi tape. his notebooks? an unholy fusion of complicated theorems, grocery lists, pressed flowers, cat doodles, love notes to you, and a page just titled âtop 10 reasons why my girlfriend is cuter than entropy.â
his laptop is a biohazardâdusty, overworked, full of files like âtime_is_an_illusion_final_FINAL_reallyfinal_actuallyfinal.pptxâ and âuRwrong_iMright.docx.â the case is covered in anime stickers, tiny equations, stars drawn with glitter pen, and a wrinkled polaroid of you sticking your tongue out that he keeps taped on like itâs a sacred relic. he listens to lo-fi while studying and pauses every few minutes just to sigh dreamily and whisper, âthis part sounds like you looking at me for the first time.â
and yet⌠heâs so fine itâs borderline illegal. tall, messy white hair that sticks up in all directions and defies every known force of nature, ice-blue eyes that melt when they look at you, and a cocky little smile that makes your chest hurt even when he says things like, âdo you think our cells are spiritually linked?â he doesnât even try to be charmingâhe just is, like he spawned with a flirt trait.
you fw it. you fw him. every unfiltered ramble, every hyperactive explanation about wormholes or why he thinks bees are secretly time travelers. the way his voice speeds up when heâs excited, and how his hands start waving like heâs conducting an invisible orchestra of nerdiness. you donât even bother trying to follow every wordâyouâre just watching him, heart doing somersaults, because heâs so beautiful when heâs passionate. and the fact that you never laugh at him? only ever smile and let him go on? yeah. that cracked his emotional firewall a long time ago.
so now heâs all sunshine and sparkles around you. a literal bundle of joy. grinning at his phone like a middle schooler when you text him âlol ok.â kicking his feet while giggling, voice memos full of stuff like âwhat if we held hands inside a particle accelerator đłđđâ sent at 2:13 a.m., followed by three minutes of him wheezing into a pillow. he calls you his âfavorite constant,â even if you donât get the joke. and if you do? he twirls his hair, blushes, and stares at you like you just split the atom and made it cute.
he makes playlists named âgravity got nothing on how hard i fell for you,â draws you in lab coats saying âur the thesis to my hypothesis,â keeps your photo in his pencil case and shows it to random people like âthis is my girlfriend. she understands my quantum jokes.â if they blink weirdly, heâll just smile and say, âitâs okay, not everyone gets theoretical perfection.â
being loved by you makes him goo. makes his neurons do the macarena. you make all his bizarre little pieces light up like neon signs. you walked into his strange little world and said âyeah, iâll stay,â and now heâs rearranging every cosmic thread to make sure itâs perfect for you. adds fairy lights. labels his notebooks âour theories.â buys matching pens. you made his chaos feel like a cozy little planet. he buys you plushies shaped like atoms and puts your name in the acknowledgements of his lab reports. tells people âsheâs the reason the data graphs came out prettier.â
nerd!satoru whoâs helplessly, hopelessly, tooth-rottingly in love with you. who grabs your hand mid-ramble just to feel you close. who brings you hot cocoa and explains entropy like itâs a bedtime story. who kisses your forehead and tells you âyouâre my favorite anomaly in this whole universe.â
and he thanks youânot in grand declarations, but in the quiet moments: when he scoots closer to you without saying a word, when he tugs on your sleeve with glassy eyes after a long day, when he looks at you after an hour of nerding out like you built the whole galaxy just to hear him talk.
his world was spinning way too fast. then you walked in and gave it gravity. and now he orbits youâand heâs never been happier to revolve around anything in his life.
#satoru âwhen ur lowk weird but fine shyt fw you so youâre js a bundle of joyâ gojo#heâs so boyfriend#gojo satoru#nerd!gojo#gojo fluff#gojo crack#gojo x reader#gojo x reader fluff#gojo x reader crack#gojo satoru x you#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru x y/n#satoru gojo x y/n#satoru gojo x you#satoru gojo x reader#jjk fluff#jjk crack#jjk x reader
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DICKSUKI DESTROYS! (again)
synopsis: katsuki destroys something he doesn't know how to hold. (aka he's mean and pushes you away) (FUCKING BITCHHH)
notes: this isn't a pt two to my dicksuki post i just like calling him dicksuki whenever hes being a dick. i repeat this is not a pt two to dicksuki no. 1! no correlation except for unofficialbf!katsuki i just couldn't think of a better title im sorry its so unserious i can't

it was stupid.
just a joke, a nudge. youâd called him grumpy, poked at him for being all bark and no bite. leaned in too close with that pretty smile that always got him to look away.
but this time, he didnât look away. not one bit.
âgod! stop. youâre so fuckinâ clingy all the time. maybe i'm 'grumpy' 'cause you're pissin' me the fuck off! i donât even like you, alright?! lay off!â
his voice cut sharp through the dorm hallway, louder than he meant it to be.
and your world stuttered.
your smile cracked in half, lips parting like the words physically struck you.
â...oh.â
thatâs all you said.
just a breath. one syllable.
but it felt like the earth splitting open.
he saw it happen in real time. the shift in your expression. the way your eyes glossed over, the slight tremble of your lips how your hands came up to hug yourself like that might somehow keep the pieces of you from falling apart.
he already regretted it. immediately. it tasted wrong the second it left his mouth.
âwait. shit. no, i didnât-â
âitâs fine,â you said too quickly, voice shaking around the edges. âi get it.â he hated your reaction. hated that he caused this.
you turned to leave. he stepped forward like his body knew better than his mouth.
âdonât go..! câmon, i didnât mean that, i just-â
âit's fine. you donât have to explain.â
your laugh was hollow. small. the kind of sound that hurt worse than a scream. like if you made it funny, it wouldn't sting like a bitch.
âthanks for clearing it up, though.â
and you were gone before he could say anything else.
before he could say what he meant to say.
that of course he liked you. that he was in love with you. that he just didnât know how to handle the way you made him feel so soft, so seen. like every wall heâd ever built was paper in your hands. how everything just felt.. better when you were there.
he didn't know how to fix this. he'd never had to do any fixing before. all he'd ever known was destruction. you were the healing. you were the love.
and not knowing how to handle it, he destroyed you too. the most precious thing in his whole damn life.
he didnât sleep that night.

masterlist
#jisu writes!#unofficialbf!katsuki#you will always be famous#im sorry this title is so unserious i didnt know what to do#DICKSUKI DESTROYS!!!!!!!!#bakugo x reader#bakugo fluff#bakugo katsuki#katsuki fluff#katsuki x reader#mha fluff#mha x reader#bnha fluff#bnha x reader#bakugou fluff#bakugou angst#bakugou x reader#bakugo angst#mha angst#bnha angst
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Edmund coming home to a darling who keeps having "nightmares" but one day he sees a bruise and finds out the maids have been hurting her, causing her to cry
"Name"



Yandere!king oc x fem!reader
Summary: Edmund realises that the maids have been bullying you behind his back ... and he's furious.
Warnings: bruises, bullying, threats of harm and murder, jealousy, darling feels responsible/guilty for their deaths, guilt, mention of murder, possessiveness
Word count: 1.8k



Heâs had to work night multiple weeks in a row, leaving you alone in the bed chamber for hours before he joins you, often in the transition between night and the cold hours of the morning. It had been fine in the beginning. Dare you admit you even found it a bit therapeutic? Being alone for once, without him, where else heâs breathing down your neck like some kind of puppy.Â
But then it had shifted. The maids who usually patrolled the corridors started sneaking in when it was clear that Edmund wouldnât come. At first they talked to you about mindless things that seemed harmless, but you could feel something in the air. That feeling, the one where you know the second you part ways, theyâll start talking. Laughing. Mocking. They always asked you about your background, made comments about your clothes and jewelry. Never any direct critiques, but not any compliments either. A grey zone that made your stomach uneasy.
The talking didnât last long. In a matter of a few days, it shifted. Evolved to something worse. Darker. They have started to mock you to your face when no one else hears, and hit you when you cry. You donât dare say anything back, just take it ⌠knowing very well what will happen with them if Edmund gets to hear you shout. So every night you bite your lips shut and take it.Â
A part of you screams that you should tell Edmund. Let them die, let them see youâre not someone one can mess with and get away with ⌠if only if it wasnât for the fact that they will die. Edmundâs not a half-assed guy. His love is never a âI would kill for youâ-mantra. He has, and will undoubtedly, kill for you again. Over and over. Heâd kill anyone you point at, if you wanted to. And oh, how it makes you feel dirty. Youâre not the one pulling the trigger or swinging the sword, but youâre the commander. The reason why. In some capacity, you would be a murderer.Â
It doesnât matter how much you hate these women. Deathâmurderâis never a justified punishment. Not for jealousy. They deserve to be removed and possibly punished, but not killed. Never killed. Their deaths will wreck the lives of innocents who have nothing to do with their behaviour. And you will be blamed.Â
You look down at your arms. The darkness hides the marks, but you feel them like bleeding, salt infected wounds. Edmund hasn't noticed. When he comes to bed it's dark enough to hide them. In daylight they're hidden under your extravagant dresses, thanks to Edmund's modesty rules.Â
Maybe you want him to notice. Maybe you want a reason to tell, to get comforted and reassured that their words aren't true. To have someone on your side. Maybe you want him to never find them.Â
You sob, pulling the covers closer to your body. They've left for the night. You should lay down and try to sleep, or at least pretend to. But you're unable to. Your body refuses to move from its sitting position. If you lay down and they come back you're powerless. Three against one. One laying down. Easy to overpower.
You're not sure what you're most scared of them doing to you. Cut your hair to the scalp? Touch your features and make you unrecognizable? Too ugly to be attractive to him? They've threatened it one timeâ âwhat if we just decide to break your nose? Your jaw? Who'll love you then, your majesty? You'll be thrown to the slums, like everyone else. You're not untouchable just because he finds you pretty. That âprettinessâ can easily be taken from you.â
Or are you more afraid of them killing you? They've gotten worse over the days. A quick slippery slope down to madness wouldn't be impossible. They could easily pin you down and slit your throat, stab you.
Youâre too in your own head to hear the door opening.Â
âYouâre still awake?âÂ
Edmundâs voice rips you out of your thoughts. You gasp, breath getting caught in your throat. Your hands are about to move up to your cheeks to wipe your tears, but you know heâll catch that. Instead you turn your head away slightly, hoping the darkness will hide the tears streaks. His footsteps seem to echo behind him.Â
âMy jewel, youâre supposed to be asleep by nowâ, Edmund says and you feel the bed shift as he sits down. âHaving trouble sleeping?â
You nod without looking at him. It has the opposite effect you wish for.Â
âWhy arenât you looking at me?âÂ
His fingers touch your cheek, turning your head to him. Youâre unable to stop it. You meet his eyes, those ice blue ones that seem to glow in the dark, and feel yourself crumble under his gaze. Your eyes fill, once again, with new tears. Edmundâs jaw clenches and he quickly moves closer.Â
âWhat is it?â he asks, voice tight. âWhatâs wrong? What happened?â
You shake your head, lowering your chin. Edmundâs eyes start to wander, desperately looking for clues. His eyes stop at a particularly dark spot on your shoulder, just below the neck line of the flowy night gown. His fingertips touch it gently, as if trying to see if itâs real, and you flinch away before you can react.Â
âY/N âŚâ, Edmund breathes out. âWhat the hell? Donât tell me thatâs what I think it is.â
When you donât answer, he shifts closer. Close enough for you to feel his breath on your skin as he brings a small, electrical lamp close enough to see the bruise clearer. Thereâs only a word leaving his throat, but it is enough. âName.â
âNo.â
âI didnât ask.â
âIt wonât solve it.â
âIt will. Itâll stop them from hurting whatâs mine. Give me the name.â
You turn your head down, looking at your hands trembling in your lap.Â
âItâs not âtheâ nameââ
âThereâs more?â His voice has a sharper edge. âOkay then, give me their names.â
âI donât want blood on my hands.â
âThere wonât be any blood on your hands. Only mine. No one else is allowed to touch you. Nothing else, is allowed to. And if you donât tell me who gave you these ugly marks I will hunt them down, and Iâm sure a few innocent will be struck that way. Give me the cowards names. Do you think a king will let his queen be hurt by unworthy?â
You donât answer. The sobs come back, rippling through you. Youâre on the edge now, so close to ending someoneâs life. You have the gun in your hand and all you need is to pull the trigger ⌠or put it down. But if you put it down, heâll pick it up and shoot without hesitation. As long as you hold the gun ⌠nothing happens. Â
âGosh, these marks makes me nauseousâ, Edmund gags as he holds your arm in his hands. He has pulled up the sleeve to get a good look at them. âSo brutal.â
âPlease donât look.â
âTell me their names. My pretty jewel, tell me their names. Please, Y/N. Tell me who did it.â
You shake your head again, sobbing. Edmund sighs heavily.Â
âCan you at least tell me how long itâs been going on?â he asks, and you can hear the frustration in his voice, even if half of it is pure worry.Â
âSince you started working nightâ, you mumble, hiccuping through sobs.Â
âSince I started workâ ⌠you have to be kidding me?â
You shake your head. Edmund bites back a scream and looks around, as if trying to find something to ground himself on.
âSo, people have been coming in here when youâre alone and hurt you?â he asks, voice shaking. âAnd youâve been silent about it? Itâs been two weeks. Why havenât you said anything?!â
âBecause Iâm scared, Edmund âŚâ
His eyes immediately soften. Not to a gentle one, but one that isnât piercing. He pulls you closer, letting you rest your head on his shoulder.Â
âY/N, darlingâ, he says with his trembling voice. âIâm the king. I am the highest power in this kingdom, yeah? You are my wife, correct? You are the safest person in this country. But I canât help you if you refuse to tell me when someone is hurting you.â
âYou will kill them.â
âDamn right I will. Thatâs what happens when people think they can touch whatâs mine. Touching you is a war crime and I will not let them get away with it.â
He cups your wet cheek, turning you to him.Â
âWho hurt my pretty girl?â he whispers sorrowfully.Â
Your finger trembles on the imaginary trigger. And, before you can register it, you press.Â
His face lights upânot in a happy way, but relief. Heâs about to fly up form the bed, but you grab his arm.Â
âNo, no, Edmund please!â you plead, voice breaking with sobs. âDonât leave me!â
âI will get those bitches for thisâ, he tells you, his voice now a venomous deadly calm. âI will snap their necks myself.â
âNo ⌠no please, donât go.â
You hug his arm, pleading over and over again. Edmund seems torn between revenge and protection, but in the end he gives in and climbs back into the bed, pulling you flush against him.Â
âFineâ, he gives in, squeezing your trembling form. âI will let them have their final night ⌠but tomorrow theyâll get what they deserve. For now Iâll take care of my beautiful queen.â
He kisses the top of your head.Â
âI will never let those creatures near you again", he promises, showering your face in kisses. Too soft for his usual behaviour. âThey donât deserve to touch you. Only I am. I am the only one worthy enough to touch you. To kiss you. To hold you. To be near you. To see you. Tell me what they did to you.â
So you do. His grip on you tightens for everything you tell him, but his lips never leave your skin. They burn.Â
âIâll enjoy tomorrow morningâ, he decides, moving even closer to you, snuggling. âIâll kill them slowlyâwell, if you can snap someoneâs neck slowâand enjoy every bit of it.â
He holds you close, running his fingers through your hair. You feel his cold, golden rings against your scalp. Your face is tucked beneath his chin, against the warmth of his neck. Itâs as if he wants to pull you into him, become one with him. As if youâre only safe if youâre beneath his skin.Â
âYouâre so soft in my armsâ, he whispers. âReally soft. Only mine.â
He hums and rests his cheek against your hair, falling asleep. But you? You wonât sleep for a long time. Relieved that you no longe have to carry it yourself ⌠guilty that youâve pulled the trigger. But you wouldnât have won anyway. He always does. He always gets what he wants in the end ⌠and this time, itâs to protect you.Â
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere x you#yandere imagines#yandere drabbles#yandere oc x you#yandere oc#yandere oc x reader#yandere king#female reader#yandere oneshot
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godlight
jack abbot x f!attorney!reader ao3 content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, age gap, swearing, brief mention of alcohol, co-opting christianity for my benefit (sex), being mean to robby but like lovingly. like ur brother, gingko trees as a plot device, tom cruise mention words: 16.7k sry i <3 dialogue and write it before the rest of the plot a/n: the backpack thing actually happened to me before and also idk how to write synopsis: Itâs routine. The first Friday of every month you make your way down to the emergency department with a stack of insurance claims in hand to harass Robby with, and you leave through the door with Jack Abbot, fresh off his shift and half a step behind you, muttering something lowly in your ear that makes you laugh. Youâll both stop off at your office just long enough to haphazardly toss the paperwork on your desk. And then youâll go to the roof. Youâll pretend not to notice the hand hovering over the small of your back, and heâll pretend not to notice the way your shoulder brushes his. Routine.
Youâve never seen a grown-ass man leap, but when you materialize beside Michael Robinavitch, ready to take advantage of his daily five minutes of quiet and drink his rapidly cooling coffee before he got down to business, with a stack of papers in hand, you think his skeleton might break from the violent flinch that racks his frame.
âGod, what are you, a kamikaze lawyer? Are you heat seeking?â
âWhy, you offering?â
Itâs routine.
The first Friday of every month you make your way down to the emergency department with a stack of insurance claims in hand to harass Robby with, and you leave through the stairs with Jack Abbot, fresh off his shift and half a step behind you, muttering something lowly in your ear that makes you laugh. Youâll both stop off at your office just long enough to haphazardly toss the paperwork on your desk. And then youâll go to the roof. Youâll pretend not to notice the hand hovering over the small of your back, and heâll pretend not to notice the way your shoulder brushes his.
Routine.
So, like clockwork, the first Friday of the month rolls around, and with it comes you, metaphorical sunglasses on, sauntering off the elevator like you love the emergency department. Like you canât wait to run around roleplaying Bolt from the titular Bolt to beg for signatures. Like this is exactly where you were hoping to be.
You click your pen, the sharp sound a tiny gavel sealing his fate.
âCome down to reject another insurance claim?â comes from your left.
âGod forbid a woman have hobbies, Dana,â you scoff.
âJackâs busy, ain't around for you to longingly gaze at.âÂ
âI do not gaze at Jack,â you say defensively, hands abandoning the file they were holding on the desk to fly between your eyes and hers as you try to stress your point. âI look.â
She lets out an unimpressed mhm, her unconvinced eyebrows twitching in doubt at your self-proclaimed non-gazing status.
And you know that you really need to get these papers signed, but Dana sprang this on you out of nowhere, so now you have no choice but to pivot to a time-sensitive Gazegate investigation. Your mind begins to sift through all the evidence. You donât gaze. You are totally in control of your physiological reactions to Jack.
Your face drops marginally. Itâs not your fucking fault that you want him. As if itâs your fault that all you can think about some nights is his voice gasping out your name.
Minor desperation overtakes your frame and bleeds through your hushed words as you imagine Jack Abbot clocking you gazing at him.
Just embarrassing. Your lust is sickening.
âI don't gaze," you insist before dropping your voice and glancing at the attending. "Do I gaze?â
Robbyâs eyebrows involuntarily shoot up, transforming his frozen, resigned face into one of are you fucking kidding me?, the statement making him consider whether he needed another cup of coffee or, maybe, a different career altogether.
Perhaps one without insurance claims.
His lips part around a question he doesnât quite askâwords rising, then retreating as his throat bobs with the effort of swallowing them back down. Robby glances at Dana for a lifeline, but she's bloodthirsty for drama.
Robby finally exhales a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "Do you... do you want me to answer that?" he asks, his voice laced with cautious amusement, hesitant to step in the trap you lay at his feet.
Youâre silent.
His head drops into a single solemn, affirmative nodâyour judge and jury. âYou gaze.â   Â
And thereâs something on the tip of your tongue, locked, and loaded, and ready to fireâsomething connecting the word gaze to Myrnaâs little nickname for him.
It doesnât make it out.
Instead, you pick up the cup sitting to his sideâthe one patiently saying drink me, Robby! before it totally becomes coldâand silently reclaim it as your own, drinking the burnt coffee in one long, resigned sip.
Robby doesnât speak.
Itâs at that moment, of course, that Abbot appearsâsteady footsteps cutting through the low hum of the floor.
Jesus Christ. His hair was disheveled, curls sticking up at odd angles from running his hands through them all night and his black shirt, lacking any scrubs censoring the offending article, clings to his biceps like it was divinely tasked with ruining your concentration.
Your eyes catch there, unwilling to move, like staring is involuntary. A distraction you feel in your teeth. One youâd like to feel in your teeth.
As he approaches the desk youâre situated at, his eyes flicker up from the tablet in his hands just long enough to take in the scene: Robbyâs flat stare, and your glare as you stand there, empty cup in hand.
âRobby,â Abbot drawls, loaded with the kind of dry amusement that suggests heâs made peace with your brand of destruction long ago.
His gaze slides pointedly to the cup, then back to Robbyâs face.
Your victim looks up at him, forlorn, and mutters, âCan you justâŚ?â His voice is flat, resignedâtinged with a special kind of despair reserved for the aftermath of you. Morosely, he half-heartedly gesticulates in your direction, trying to tell the man to control his animal.Â
Robby sets the cup down on the counter and picks up your pen, scrunching the sleeves of his hoodie at his elbows, wanting to end this.
Aforementioned animal owner has the audacity to smirkâhalf-awake and still deciding if he should be charming or infuriatingârolling his shoulders and then sighing before moving toward the desk, his movements slow and deliberate. He watches Robby for a moment, then shifts his attention to you.
âAny chance youâll let him live to see tomorrow?â Voice dry but not quite masking the very real curiosity beneath it.
You shrug and slowly narrow your eyes as though the thought hadnât even crossed your mind. âDepends.â
Typical lawyer.
âGet to him before that coffee does,â Jack advises like heâs giving medical advice, and Robby levels him with a flat stare because he knows that with you around, he is never going to get coffee, let alone have coffee get to him.
Jack huffs in amusement, shaking his head as he moves to join the taller man, tablet tucked under one arm.
âStill have a couple things to do,â Jack grunts to you lowly, and you glance down at your watch because surely you have the time right.
His shift should be ending.
And yet.
âWhat idiot starts his little tasks at shift-change?â you laugh, enjoying the unamused glance thrown your way from still-on-the-clock doctorâunimpressed, deeply earned.
âWait for me?â Jack asks, already knowing the answer.
A small smile teases the edge of your lips in response. âWas going to anyway.â
With a low, reluctant breath, he straightens up, scraping a hand through his hair. He turns on his heel and strides through the department.
Dana looks up from behind the desk. Her gaze briefly meets yours, right eyebrow perched slightly above the left, as if to say not gazing, huh?, before she turns her attention back to the task at hand.
Jackâs off doing end-of-shift stuff, Robby is signing his life away, Dana is doing what Dana does, presumablyâChrist, you would think these people were employed.
Floundering, you look around. So, no banter?Â
Youâre already bored. You glance down at your watch, hand exasperatedly waving in the air as the numbers register. You'll have to act like you're employed soon, too. Your carefully structured morningâinsurance claims, harassment, fifteen-minute breakâcrumbles before you.
God, so bored.
Eyes drifting around the department, your fingers start drumming an erratic rhythm on the surface of the desk, rebelling against the feeling of being out of place. Fingers dance along, down the length, adjusting a stack of papers, nudging them at an odd angle just to see if anyone will notice. You move on to your next victim, Danaâs hand quickly behind yours, returning the papers to their rightful place without so much as a glance in your direction.
Fluorescent lights glare down overhead, highlighting everything in a blinding white that dulls your senses.
You let out a low sigh, turning a tablet upside down in its dock. Itâs not even fun.
Purposeful activity swirls around you in a slow tempoed symphony, a rare lull settling into the emergency department. To your left, Robby curses the claims in front of him in a hushed voiceâand itâs a nasty, personal beef between him and that paperâpen scratching along the documents with resigned effort.
âYou always act like Iâm asking you to sign a voluntary execution agreement,â you sigh, a note of exasperation creeping into your voice. âI just need your signature, not someone to rewrite the Ten Commandments.â
That poor pen, you think, watching his reluctant grip tighten around it, the pen enduring its fate like a prisoner of war. Nowhere for it to run.
You lean on the counter and your head tilts, arms giving way and your body sliding an inch closer, observing with interest that his signature is essentially just a line. Mââ. You so could have done these yourself, if you really wanted.
You force yourself to choke back a laugh as expression tightens with each flick of the pen, the simmering annoyance contained just beneath the surface begging to be released.
Fingers beat slower this time, cadence matching the melody around you, watching as the charge nurse moves to undo your minor disruptions.
A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.
Time passes slowly.
This hospital should have more legal issues. You wonder who you have to talk to about that.
Robby flips the page.
And from across the room, you hear it. Itâs soft, and warm, and, honestly, you have no idea how you hear it over the clamor of the emergency department, but it always lands on your ears deafening, like a clap of thunder.
And you have no reason to be jealous. Jack is, by all relevant and up-to-date nomenclature, your friend.
You trace the sound to the origin, and there he is, emerging from South 19, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips.
And, sorry, but that is your laugh. Thatâs the one you hear low and throaty in your ear when youâre walking too close, and you say something that catches him off guard. The one that haunts your dreams and wakes you up, the sound echoing in your ears. The one you would make a homily of, listening to it day in and day out, saying amen with devout obedience at every pause.
You blink, zeroed in and always devastatingly dramatic.
Maybe this is it.
Maybe the whoring out of his laughâbecause apparently everyone gets it these days, because apparently, he feels magnanimous in the same way Oprah doesâis his way of politely rejecting you.
Maybe itâs time to dedicate yourself to some religion somewhere and spend the rest of your life on your knees, lest another man tempt you.
Feigning nonchalance, your hand comes off the desk, very chalant eyes still fixed on Jack as you lean towards the blonde opposite you.
âDana, youâve lived here a while, right? Whatâs the convent scene like?â Robby lets out a snort at your question and the tip of your index finger firmly taps the papers beneath his palm three times to refocus him. âSign the fucking documents, Michael.â
He obediently turns to the next page where you had so painstakingly and lovingly flagged exactly where his signature was required, and a mix of amusement and mild exasperation creeps across your cheeks, pulling the corners of your mouth into a small smile as he scrawls his indignant line across the pages.
âHow about you go tell someone their insurance doesnât care about their life. Youâll see how easy it is to sign these things then,â he says, turning to the next page.
âAre you kidding? I know you heard what happened to that UnitedHealthcare guy,â you click your tongue. âI ainât doinâ all that.â
Robby doesnât dignify your callus comment with a response, attention fixed firmly on the paper, willing it to absorb his frustration. The scratch of his pen dissolves into the steady drone heart monitors and residents trying their hand at cheating death. He flips the page, and his broad shoulders raise with his frustrated inhale, posture betraying his mounting irritation as he methodicallyâmechanicallyâworks through the stack of forms.
The muted scuffle of boots against the ground alerts you of his presence as Abbot settles behind you, close enough his body heat warms yours.
âFree Luig, man,â he gruffly throws his two cents in.
âLuig?â you twist around, words laced with faint incredulity. âYâall on a nickname basis?â
âAlways have been,â he shrugs with such nonchalance that, for a second, youâre almost convinced they have always been.
You nod. Free Luig.
Caught in the crossfire, Robby closes his eyes momentarily and chokes back a groan. The headache was coming on already. It was way too early in the morning, and he was accosted before you even let him get his coffee, and now he has to listen to the two of you engage in what he and Dana and the rest of the staff with money in the pool could only assume was foreplay.
His pen etches into the paper one last time, a reluctant sigh escaping his lips as he finishes the final signature, his annoyance pooling into a little storm cloud over his head. He shoves the pages toward you with a motion that could rival a cat knocking a glass off the counter, his expression tortured, and you reverently accept the signed stack with flourish, a holy scripture freshly inscribed by a weary messenger of God.Â
âThank you, sir,â you chirp, gingerly shuffling the papers and bowing your head.
âYouâre too good to him,â Jack says, as if he genuinely expected better from you, nodding toward the older man, already rubbing his temples and back to pretending the two of you didnât exist.
âHe deserves a treat.â
He canât take it anymore. Robby boltsâboltsâinto the chaos of the department like a petty villain in the night.
You donât even get a chance to double-check that his ridiculous little Mââ is scrawled on every line itâs legally required to be on. He knows exactly what heâs doing, tooâthat smug twitch of his mouth giving him away as he disappears behind a random curtain.
What in the hell.
You tuck the files under your arm and slip a hand into your front pocket. Just as youâre about to let the letâs fly, Abbot roll off your tongue, your hand freezes, strangely empty.
Youâre missing your pen.
That bastard still has your pen.
You inhale, long and tempered, because you don't want to be overly dramatic.
You donât want to be overly dramatic because, okay, you get it, itâs a pen.
But pens donât last down here in the emergency department, and every time you materialize, you end up giving Robby a pen, and you never get that pen back. And then Jack comes complaining to you because every time they work together, despite the growing number of pens youâve surrendered to his cause, Robby never has a pen and then expects a pen from him. But the pen that Jack gives him is also your pen. So, then heâs asking you for a penâwhich, really, no biggie, youâve already looked up how much it would cost to buy Pilot so you could give him unlimited pensâand then youâre giving Jack a pen and then youâre also giving Robby a pen and then Jack is giving Robby a pen and youâre freaking hemorrhaging pens on three fronts.
Youâve Pavloved the poor men into carnal pen desire.
So, you stop yourself in your tracks, glancing towards your companion just enough to catch the angle of his head and smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Your shoulders shake as a huff of laughter leaves you.
There is no pen in his pocket, either.
Routine, you suppose.
âAnyone know where Robby went?â you ask, eyebrow arched, back to surveying the faces around you.
Jack nods over your shoulder, once again directing your attention across the room and you follow his line of sight, eyes landing on Robbyâs stiff frame, hiding in plain sight. Two steps from him, a woman is standing way too close for his comfort, hand on his arm, the recipient of a very intense one-way conversation.
Youâre so going to make fun of him for this later. Maybe even in the emergency department group chat that youâve weaseled your way into.
âExplain,â you demand, ravenous for the gossip.
âGuy came in last night, not doing great. Advance directive on file, medical POA tooâdirective was signed after. The kids are pissed.âÂ
He lowers his voice, conspiratorial, and you reflexively shift closer to hear him.
âNow theyâre trying to bribe half the staff with Daddyâs things for comfort treatment.â
The word daddy leaving Jackâs lips makes your eyes freeze in place, the only visible crack in your armor. This is really not what you need to be thinking about this early in the morning. You give a sharp shake with your head, trying to physically eject the thought.
Man, that family is totally legalâs problem.
You deflate. Which means thatâs your problem, really, and you know as soon as you get back to your office, youâll be losing a game of rock-paper-scissors for who has to be on the way back down here, and you hate ancillary document infighting.
âOkay, well thatâsâŚâ Your eyes narrow slightly, contemplating. ââŚawful?â
âWas that a question mark?â
You shrug. Maybe.
âAny chance you think I can get his attention?â you question, acceptance of the fact that a new pen is about to be classified as missing in action settling in your pocket.
And then Jack forces you to look at him, hand slowly curling around your bicep, and youâre struck by the inexplicable, primal urge to flex to show him, hey, I could hunt and gather. I could do anything you need me to do.Â
And then you have to fight the other urge to check your watch, because God forbid you give the impression that thereâs anywhere else youâd rather be, but you are positive now that itâs barely seven in the morning and you stomp that primal urge down because you cannot start your yearning and lusting this early. Especially with this new legal problem on your radar.
âLooking for something?â he says, and somehow it sounds like an insult.Â
âTheft charges,â you reply dryly.
His mouth twitches.
âIf I am ever in that position,â he commands, voice gentle but unmistakably pointed as he tugs your focus back from Robby. Selfishly, Jack wants all your attention on himself. âJust put the pillow over my face, and pressââ
You blink, drawing back. âGoddamn.âÂ
ââcreate an airtight sealââ
âJust sign the POA, girl.â
âBet you used to charge a premium for those.â
âJust, like, two thousand. Thatâs, like,â you expel a dramatic breath from your lungs, feigning introspective mathematical precision, and rock back on your heels. âTwenty beaver pelts back in your day.â
âTwenty?â His head reels back, his voice fading out at the end in an octave that youâre not quite sure he possesses, and the commitment to the bit makes your chest tighten. He leans forward again. âReal proud of those autogenerated documents, huh?â
âNo one used to copy-and-paste like me, baby.â You bite your lip.
A beat passes.
He demands your gaze, insistent, possessive.
You suck your teeth and lower your voice, a teasing lilt rising to suffocate the longing that tries to break through. âSo, Iâm in your deathbed fantasy, huh?â
Enraptured by the way the left side of your mouth starts to smile before the right follows suit, he allows his eyes to flicker to your lips, too quick for you to catch.Â
He doesnât even blink. The hand on your arm tugs you forward, gentle but certain, and you stumble closer to his body. Your tongue, usually razor sharp and biding time until the next joke, dulls.
You blue screen.
Why is his hand big enough to wrap around your arm like that? Dear Lord, has he always been this warm? You canât remember. Whatever used to be where your brain was immediately betrayed you and fucked off, leaving in its place a panting dog. Does he need you to bark? You could bark. You have no qualms with barking.
He leans in close, voice fighting to be heard over the crackling PA system probably calling for an attending in some fucking room, and then you were no longer in the emergency department. Ringing overtakes your ears and you imagine the hand on your bicep somewhere a little higher.
âSweetheart,â his drawls, sinfully wrapping around each letter, like he knows exactly what it does to you. The word drips from his lips with maddening ease, dragging down your spine like molten lava. âYouâre in my every fantasy. Welcome to the conversation.âÂ
You blink again. The PA system calls out another pleading demand for whoever was listening at this point, effectively eliminating you and Jack, and his voiceâsteady, warm, smugâfills your brain with cotton, making it hard to ration, or think, or breathe.Â
Youâre what?
His eyes dance around your face reverently while the slightest ghost of a smile takes residence on his lips, memorizing the subtle flush traveling across your cheeks and your wide eyesâno longer the color you were born withâblinking uncomprehendingly up at him. He tucks some things away for later, tooâthe way your breath hitches in a shallow, uneven burst, and how your lashes flutter like they canât decide to stay open or not while you process his words. In the back of his mind, he decides he likes making you speechless. He tucks that away for later, too.
Then the corners of your lips twitch, your voice slipping out before you could stop it, soft but teasing, âCareful, old man, lest someone label you a poet.â
His responding laugh is quiet, low, self-satisfiedâjust for you, as it should be, thank you. And when his hand loosens its grip on your bicep and trails down to brush his fingers against yours, your breath stalls.
For the first time, you realize that youâre not in control of anything here at all, let alone your physiological reactions to his proximity. Jack Abbot holds all the cards in a perfectly imbalanced stack against his chest, and, despite your best efforts, youâve never been good at poker.
And then you feel it.
You are fucking gazing.
You very explicitly recall your job description reading: Hours: 7am-5pm, Mon-Fri.
So why, then, do you find yourself swiping your security card back into the stairwell, beginning your ascent just as the numbers on your watch creep to 6:48am on a Sunday.Â
Actually, you know why. A text.
You were tucked in bed, comforter woven from warm springtime sunbeams, thoroughly enjoying the walk on the fuzzy line between waking and slumber. And then, without warning or pause, your body was violently ripped from the veil like a loose tooth at a little kidâs freaking birthday party, phone buzzing, SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D. plastered across your screen and, below it, a text.
Roof, it read.
Well, yeah, Jack, you thought blearily. Roof. Of course, roof.Â
You say bark, I bark.
Your comforter was off, and shoes were being tugged on before the screen even dimmed from inactivity, the rational thought of changing out of your sad excuse of pajamas nowhere in sight. Heading into work on a Sunday before the sun was even up.
Nothing wrong with getting a head start on next week, you hum to yourself as you wait for the elevator to ding at the twelfth floor, and then you pause, disgusted with the stray thought. Since when did you want to willingly participate in capitalism more than required?
All because of a man?
Mental You takes the cookies out of the oven and giggles and twirls her hair and dreamily sighs out a yeah.
You step off the elevator and immediately cross the hall, shoving the door to the stairwell open, feet trudging up the steps.
At least youâre also getting paid for it. Not that you need to be paid to see Jack.
Iâd pay to see Doctor Abbot, Mental You giggles.
You finally get to the roof, thighs burning, though not as much as they used toâshoutout to Andrea at the gymâand push open the door.
Or you would.Â
The door jams, halting your hand mid-motion, and you sigh.Â
Without thinking, you wind back and slam your shoulder into the damned thing. It flies open with a dramatic groan and youâre all but launched forward, right shoe catching awkwardly on the ledge. Gravity seizes the opportunity with enthusiasm, zealously pulling at your body, and you guess that your bag must want in on the action too, because it shifts the weight of everything inside, throwing you off balance, the momentum carrying you in a parabolic arc directly into the path of the bloodthirsty door, who vengefully desires nothing more than to claim your life and perhaps its rightful resting position in the frame.
And then time is slowing down in that unique and humiliating way it does when you realize with horror that youâre doing something that would land you on TikTok.Â
And then thereâs another moment, fleeting but vivid, where you register how ridiculous you must look: clad in pajamas, bag swinging, your body a perfect picture of chaos.Â
And then it happens.
You collide with the door in a graceless, full-bodied tackle that rattles the hinges and might as well announce your presence to the entire city.
By the time you stumble away from the ring, vehemently declining another round with the door, your legs stinging where the exposed skin met the cold metal, you notice Jack already leaning against the far side of the railing, figure outlined by the slowly rising light of the sun.
At first, you think he hasnât noticed your grand entrance, but Jack has always had the uncanny ability to see everything you donât want him to see, and also you would have to have been dead to not have heard all that. Itâs the single shake of his tense shoulders that betrays him, and, really, you have to give him credit where creditâs due, because heâs trying.
Heâs trying so hard to not make fun of you right now.
You can feel it.
You straighten up, and youâre of half a mind to try and salvage the scraps of dignity you still have left, but, ultimately, you find that you just donât care that much. You also find that it was so much colder than you thought it would be, given your current attire.
A coat, you think miserably. Anything. Anything at all would have been better.
âI swear it wasnât like that a couple days ago,â you huff, brushing invisible dust off your sleeve as you lick your wounds.
Abbot finally allows a single soldier through the front lines in his battle against laughter, letting out a sharp chuckle that cuts through the cold morning air.
âYou always know how to make an entrance,â he observes, similar to the way heâs observed cloud cover.
His eyes drag down to your legs and his brow subtly creases, trying to conceal the way his brain short-circuited for half a second.
âShorts,â he mutters, blinking slowly, shoulders rising in a steep inhale. âThatâsâŚa choice.â
"Yeah, well, you know..." you wave a hand in the air dismissively. "Sleeping."
And you realize, fuck, you really donât care about your wounded dignity and stupid outfit if it makes Jack Abbot look at you like that.
A comfortable ease settles over you while something warm settles in the pit of your stomach, one that only he seems capable of conjuring. You take a deep breath, the cool air biting at your lungs, the tension from your stairwell match melting away as Jackâs presence steadies you.
âWait, you come up here without me?â He clarifies, voice a little rougher than he means it to be, unwavering stare locked on you. âBut itâsâthis is mine.â
âI really donât think you can have, like, a monopoly on the roof, Jack.â
âI was hired first,â he argues, like that alone justifies his claim to the space.Â
âJack, how is it a monopoly if you let me in?â
He doesnât answer, just stares at you flatly like that answers it.
âI literally work, like, eight feet below where weâre standing right now,â you stress, foot tapping against the ground in emphasis. âYou understand that, right?â
He shrugs, corner of his lips creeping up. âYou donât have to beg, kid. Iâll let you use it,â he says, smug. âIâm magnanimous like that.â
You donât even know where to begin tearing apart the words that just exited his mouth. But your mouth, your traitorous mouth, does. âIâm not begging.â
He leans in then.
âDo you want to?â
He knows itâs the only way he can throw you off the same way you so unknowingly do to him.
Sure enough, you lag behind his response, mouth parting as power is diverted from mandibular control to turn the gears in your brain, each one creaking with effort as they try to process what the fuck just came out of his mouth.
And he says it to keep your blinders on, to distract you from the way he almost said ours instead of mine, and to distract you from the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like they want to reach for you but are stuck in purgatory, unsure if theyâd be welcomed.
But Jack notices it too much.
He notices his twitching hands, and the way your laughter lingers in his chest longer than it should, and the way your voice threads through the spaces of his day and ties his heart in knots in ways he doesnât even know where to begin untangling. He doesnât say anything, but he feels it, thick and unyielding, curling around his ribs and threatening to suffocate him whenever youâre near.
So, his arms fold over his chest, absently creating a protective barrier, his eyes falling somewhere distant.
And then cut to you sideways, softening despite himself, cracking through the flimsy pretense of just-friends banter you both cling to like it might protect you from the inevitable. Itâs a game you keep playing, tossing a live grenade back and forth.
But he wonât drop it.
If there is one thing that Jack Abbot has in abundance, itâs patience. He is patientâhe learned it long ago under the blanket of gunfire and the oppressive heat of the sun, and mastered it with bodies bleeding out beneath his hands. And he is tenacious. He is so fucking tenacious it would make your head spin. And he would toss that live grenade days, months, decades until you reacted too slowly and it went off.
And then the moment is gone and youâre dancing back over the line to friends. He punches your arm lightly, the movement too calculated to be casual, his fist moving forward unaccompanied by the fluidity and self-assuredness youâve seen him possess with florescent lights above him and a body below. His knuckles burn your arm where they glance across it, and your eyes whip between the afflicted site and him, mind already curating a scathing retort.
He waits, daring you to notice how long he lingers in moments like this, how he drags out conversations just to keep you tethered here next to him, close enough to pretend youâre his.
But you step closer, eyes taking in the way his shoulders seem to be pressed down by an invisible weightâone that you wish you could become Atlas to alleviate, if just for a moment.
Bad night, you observe.
Bad night, indeed, Jackâs body screams in reply.
When the shrill alarm alerting him of 5pm pierced the fragile fog that had settled on his brain, it felt as though the world was gunning for his sanity. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily on his chest, and his body, tangled in sheets that seem to have turned into chains and a sweat-soaked shirt plastered to his body, drags heavily, joints creaking as he began to extract himself from his fabric prison.
Thirty-three minutes of deep sleep, Jackâs watch spat in his face.
Kill yourself, watch, he grunted back.
But time, relentless and indifferent and, in the back of his mind, named Gloria Underwood (no relation, you tried to convince him during one of your rooftop meetings once. Itâs a common name, Abbot.), marches forward, dragging him along with its cruel cadence and another hellish shift in the books.
And presently, you see his tense body standingâlike the soldier heâll probably always beâat attention, shoulders rigid, chin tilted defiantly as if daring the universe to shove him just a little further, just until the ground beneath his feet disappears, and hands clenched so tightly at his side that you think you should take him downstairs to check for open wounds. Â
The thing about the veteran that you clocked long before the start of soft smiles, and the banter, and the myriad rooftop rendezvous is this: when he has a bad night, he gets philosophical.
âDo you think God cares?â he deadpansâwhich is insane to you, because who opens like that?
You gently lean your demon-possessed bag against the AC unit and walk forward to settle beside him where he leans heavily against the opposite side of the rail. âLike, in general, orâŚ?â
âThe death,â he lists, ticking it off like itâs a mildly interesting footnote. âThe helplessness.â
âI donât know. Kinda used to want to ask God that,â you admit, your energy shifting to match his vaguely existential one. You try kicking at a rock to diffuse some of the tension and somehow miss entirely. ââIf youâre so loving, why do you allow so much suffering and injustice.ââ
âDonât question it anymore?â
The question makes you pause. You guess you didnât question it anymore. You were surrounded by it every day, as was heâthe predatory insurance companies and the maladjusted American healthcare system. It wasnât as though youâd been exposed to the trademarked horrors, but the past six years were taxing enough. Year after year, case after case, you internalized the knowledge that the things meant to help you werenât really there just to help. And that knowledge takes its toll.
So, no, you donât really question it anymore.
But you do let it steal parts of you. It isnât outright drainingâmore like a faucet that didnât shut off completely, allowing a single drip to escape at a time, every couple seconds, every day, for years. Not something someone immediately identifies and fixes, but something that, when you do notice it, you kind of throw your hands up in the air like, well what the fuck now?
Thatâs where youâre at. Well, what the fuck now, indeed.
You laugh, the sound unbidden and a touch more bitter than you want it to be. âNo, it just became a pride thing.âÂ
And then the soft confession escapes you before you could beat it back with a bat and send forth some retort that would get you a huff of air through the nose at worst, and a scoff and shake of the head at best. The words cross your unspoken boundary of keeping it light and ambiguously sexualâthey toe the line of being vulnerable. âI guess now Iâm afraid that he might ask me the same question.â
Part of you really hopes he ignores the words. Part of you hopes that the words would fall on deaf ears and any response would die on mute lips. Part of you hopes that the world would open up and pluck those drifting words right out of the air before they could reach him.
But Jack is there. Jack is always there, and Jack always fucking saw you before you saw you, and he always heard what you said before you knew what you said.
And he would always be there throwing you a life-preserver, a way out.
He tries to salvage whatâs left of the levity from your grand entrance and nudges your shoulder with his.
âItâs a really stupid question, anyway,â he utters softly, gently, the understanding of a man who has seen worse draping over the words.
A life-preserver that you would enthusiastically grab like youâve asked for one every Christmas for the past thirty years. His eyes head turns, and his eyes lock on to yours, inviting and warm, and you realize youâre so fucked.
You swallow, the familiar teasing expression reappearing on command, the left side of your mouth coming up in a smirk and your right eyebrow raising fractionally.
âYeah. We should really be focusing on big picture stuff,â you agree. âLike, âHow does Tom Cruise do all that?ââ
âThatâll blow Godâs freaking mind,â he grumbles.
You nudge his shoulder back.
Cold wind nips at your skin, and you shudder, your arms drawing in to aid your body in retaining heat. Your eyes dart to the side hoping you were as subtle doing that as you thought you were.
Definitely not, you assume. The troubled manâs fingers tighten on the railing as he wordlessly swings himself under to the other side, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders.Â
You begin offering up a weak protest, barely more than a whisper, until Jackâs eyes snap to you, cool and amused.Â
âDonât get used to charity,â he murmurs, voice like velvet on steel. âJust say thank you, Jack.â
A meek thank you, Jack takes its place. A hum, noncommittalâcasualâfills the space between you in reply.
The weight of it presses down, swallowing you whole. Itâs warm from his own body, and it smells vaguely of the antiseptic youâve come to accept as his cologne, and God, and itâs heavy. Not because of the fabric itselfâthatâs actually rather light, itâs still early in the season-changeâbut because itâs his. An ever-present fixture that emerges as soon as the temperature drops.
A constant.
And now itâs on you and it feels almost too personal, and you shift slightly trying to shake the intimate feeling off and just enjoy the moment as a girl with a crush on a man fifteen years older than her, but the bastard clings to you and settles into your heart.
âWe should get you a new cologne, by the way.â
You said we. You had said we and Jackâs brain immediately latches onto the promise of something so domestic with you.
âAre you saying I smell?â he asks, expression unreadable but amused.
âEvery day I sit in my office and pray youâll take a shower.â
âYou donât have better things to pray for?â
You open your mouth to respond, but heâs on a roll.
âWorld peace,â he supplies, like it was the obvious office prayer.
Itâs a good office prayer, you have to admit.
âI canât wear cologne down there. Liability or something,â he continues dryly, and the next words seek out your pride with surgical precision, making a single, tiny cut. âYou of all people should know that.â
He got you there againâyou should know thatâand thatâs like three times in the span of ten minutes that heâs got you. Youâre not quite sure whatâs happening right now.
Deafening silence concedes the argument.
But as far as youâre concerned, youâll let him have it. You have Jack on one side of you and the warmth of his jacket protecting you against the cold creeping in. Youâre content.
And you thought Jack was content, too.
But apparently, he isnât.
Canât let the silence just freaking do its thing.
âCan I ask you something else?â he says, like the answer to that has ever stopped him before, âWhy do you care?â
And the parallel between this question and the one about God makes your eyebrows furrow a little because, what does that mean? What does âwhy do you care about the suffering of human beings,â mean?
âAbout suffering?â you say slowly, trying to find your footing.
âNo.â
Your mouth opens a fraction, perhaps wide enough for a fly to be caught, while you work to follow what path his mind went down.
What, like, The Yankees? Yeah, you care about them. Obviously, because you love them. Any team that happens to be playing against Jackâs beloved Pirates, of course care about them, because you hate whatever team Jack loves. Annoying Robby? Sure. About Jack himself, absolutely. Fucking definitely, even.Â
You tick the entries off in your mind: career, first and foremost; your friends; Jack; your family that hasnât talked to you in years; Dr. Abbot down in the ED; crippling debt payments from law school; that matcha place Samira showed you; the socio-political landscape of the world; former army medic, Jack Abbot.Â
You canât imagine that Jackâs unprompted and vague question was about any of these things.
Your eyes squint not of your own volition. âWhat?â
âYesterday,â he clarifies, tone clipped, ever a man of many words.Â
âWhat?â you try again.
âAbout that woman.â
Youâll shove this fool off the roof yourself, you decide. âWhat?â
He leans back, knuckles white from gripping the rail to anchor him, sighing that youâre the crazy one right now sighâlike he canât believe he has to spell it out for you, word for word. âThe one that was flirting with Robby.â
You actually look over at Jack then, confused. Heâs not looking at you, his back now ramrod straight and jaw reflecting his fists, clenched so tightly you're surprised his teeth arenât shattering from the pressure.
The woman that you had a very long, very tense, conversation withâbrotherâs presence intruding like a serpent in the garden, begging you to sinâabout pulling her father off life support?
A laugh almost escapes you. Youâre not sure he realizes how stupid he sounds thinking you cared about anything in that moment other than the way his hand wrapped around your bicep and the way he laughed, low and ruinous and lethal, and called you sweetheart.
Light and sexual, you chant to yourself.
âThe one that wants her dad dead?â you bluntly askâwhatever, who needs light, anyway?
His shoulder draws up in a half-shrug, mouth opening in a wordless response. Finally, he settles on, âIâm just saying you seemed⌠very interestedââ
âWhat, in my job?â your confused tone betrays the half-smile on your face.
âThatâs not what Iâm sayingââ
"I mean, it sounds like what you're sayingâ"
"No, you looked upset at herâ"
"âand it's definitely what I'm hearingâ"
"Well, get your fucking hearing checkedâ"
âAre you jealous, Jack?â you press, cutting him off, pointed and a little smug.
âYes.â
He says it so simply, and his voice is so soft, so confident, and it lands with decimating impact.Â
What happened to light and sexual, Jack?
It just swan dove straight over the ledge, Jack.
What the fuck is wrong with this guy?
Your next thought slams through you, so loud and so out of pocket, and youâre a little pissed because last time you had this thought, you told it to at least give you, like, an ETA next time. Your heart jumps a little in your chest. Maybe you donât have to call that convent, you think. Maybe he isnât a fan of polite rejection.
And then the third thing you cared about in yesterdayâs interaction strikes you. Obviously.
âJack,â you enunciate. You want your next words to be explicitly clear. âThe only reason I was even looking for Robby was because he still had my pen.â
His jaw twitches. âWhat?â
âHoly shit, can we stop with the whats?â
âOkay, look, sorry if I need to make sure that my friend,â he spits out the word, duplicity-soaked label coating his mouth with a bitter aftertaste. âIsnât pining over my- my fellow attending.â
âFirst of all, I would never pine,â you note. âIâm a maple, and I want that on record.â
For a turbulent second, Jack wants to grab you by the scruff of the neck and manhandle you like a misbehaved chihuahua because heâs serious and you make jokes when youâre feeling defensiveâsomething that he usually finds endearing but simply canât find it in him to do right now.
He doesnât want you pining over Robby, he wants you pining over him.
And so maybe his response is fueled by jealousy, okay, sue him. Heâll bring it up to his therapist and then apologize to you, and youâll say something like, I should invoice your therapist myself for emotional labor.
So, he digs in, tone sharp but surgical, and says something that he knows will get a rise out of you because he knows youâhe knows everything about you.
âMaple? Youâre so obviously an oakâyouâll never be a maple,â he fires back, voice incredulous, volume subdued, eyes narrowed in outrage. âYouâre not even close to maple-level, be fucking for real.âÂ
A strangled sound makes its way out of you, shocked that he would even think such a thing. âOf course you would say that you fucking ginkgo,â you snap.
âGingko?â
You inhale sharply and force yourself to rein in your next sentence because thereâs a feeling in your chestâone slowly rising, and it suspiciously feels like anger. Why the hell is Jack acting like this at seven in the morning on a Sunday, especially about someone that the hospital would sell out in a heartbeat over a wrongful prolongation of life lawsuit?
Pining over Robby? Is he fucking stupid?
Well, two can play this game.
You can be fucking stupid, too.
You can be fucking stupid, andâyou want it known, labelled, and presented before the new J.D. recipient, prosecution attorney Jack Abbott, M.D., as Exhibit Aâyouâre not remotely capable of even pretending to be normal in a competitive situation.
âSorry, Abbot, I didnât realize you could even clock my pining over the volume of your giggles,â you counter hotly, throwing a trembling finger in his face at the scandalized look that crosses it. âYeah. Giggles.â
âSo, you were pining over Robby?â he confirms, and it lodges itself under your skin.Â
Youâre sure if you looked down at your watch it would tell you that you have a heart rate of at least one hundred and eighty.
âWhy the fuck do you care who Iâm pining over?â you hiss, your voice dripping with frustration.
Jack opens his mouth, thinks better of it, then tries againâlighter, a silent prayer that maybe the joke can diffuse the mounting tension.
âI donât care, but Robby is built like one of those car-dealership inflatables, andââ he shifts his weight to the left, leg aching.
But itâs too late. Your eyes narrow.
âBuilt like a car-dealership inflatable?â you echo in disbelief, hoping the words will help Jack realize the incredulousness of the statement. âWhat the hell does that even mean?â
Thatâs a great question, the prosecution thinks. He doesnât even really know, but itâs out now and he has to roll with it.
âThatâs your friend and now youâre being fucking mean,â the words press out through gritted teeth, humor long gone. âYouâre just saying stuff.âÂ
He agrees with you, he is just saying stuff, and Jack will apologize to his friend for the stray when his mind is clearer and blood pressure lower, even though the other man wonât have any idea what heâs talking about.
âYeah,â he bites out, stepping closer. âBut you kicked this shit off with your stupid maple thing, and now Iâm stuck defending myself against a guy who walks like lifeâs spine-optional and heâs not sure how gravity worksââ
âShut up about Robbyâs walk!â you yell in a rush, your voice shrill and piercing, the sheer absurdity of the argument making your hands fly into the air. âThis isnât about him! Or his- his saunter. This is about yourââ
âThis is not about me,â he cuts you off, too loud to be convincing. âI just think you deserve better spine-to-surface ratio, is allââ
âBecause your body has such a perfect there-to-not ratio, right?â
âOhhhhh, you wanna go thereâ?â
âNo, actually, I donât,â you snap back. Then, sharper, âListen, Abbotââ
âNo, you listen,â he grounds out, your name a heated whisper snapping against its leash. âYouâre the one who made this weird. You got all defensive andââ Jack gestures around like it personally offended him, âAnd then youâre calling me a gingko. A gingko. Like thatâs a thing regular people do in arguments.â
âOh, Iâm sooo sorry, Doctor,â you draw out the syllables in mock-sympathy. âWould you prefer that I use military metaphors? Would that make baby feel more emotionally validated?â
âYes, it would!â the doctor hisses back, mouth a breath away from yours. âMaybe at least then I would know where the hell I stand in your metaphor jungle!â
Thereâs a beatâone that coils the tension tighter, and tighter, and tighterâand Jackâs eyes, always attuned to your body, snap to the frustrated pinch of your mouth. Then back up. Your breath comes in sharp, uneven bursts, a wild fire burning behind your glassy eyes, gravity giving up on strands of hair where you ran your rands through them.
Not for the first time, he thinks that youâre beautiful. Your beauty was noted and neatly filed away long ago at your first meeting, shelved next to other invariably true things like death, and taxes, and a subscription he forgot about charging his bank account.
Eyes snap back down again.Â
And fuck he wants nothing more than to slam his lips against yours, to win, to derail the argumentâto get you to stop arguing for maybe the first time in your life.
You clench your jaw, and you take a deep breath.Â
Neither of you move.
Donât even shift your weight.
Almost nose to nose.
Of course, you werenât pining over Robby, he knows that.
Because in Jackâs mind, itâs simple.
Youâre his.
And sometimes he forgets that this thing between you has never been verbalized and linguists and English majors around the world are probably still scrambling and conspiring to combine words and build syntax trees that wonât even scratch the surface of explaining how deeply youâre seared into his soul.
And he certainly forgets that in your mind, heâs not yours.
Then, of course, thereâs also the fact that he hasnât done this in years, not since his wifeâso, admittedly, heâs a little rusty. He tried practicing, but this conversation isnât going at all how he painstakingly and methodically rehearsed with Robby in the breakroom.
And then somehow trees were pulled into it, and he doesnât know anything about treesâhe could name maybe four types. He canât even tell you what a gingko is. He honestly thought it was a lizard. He probably would have put money on it.
And also he loves your metaphors, you know that.
âThere was a woman in South 19,â he starts slowly, forcefully controlled. The first words in an unspoken sorry. His hands twitch by his side. âShe was eighty-two years old and told me I was too handsome to be a doctor. That I should be on the cover of Vogue.â
Your brain, which has been running on pure spite and cortisol, fumbles.
Silence presses down over you once more.
The roof is too quiet now.
Too stupid.
Youâre angry and a little hurt. Jackâs angry and, you think, probably a little hurt, tooâat the very least by the body-ratio comment and definitely by the gingko comment.
And you feel even more stupid because, through it all, youâre still swimming in his fucking jacket.
Unfortunately for you, you agree with the eighty-two-year-old woman in South 19. He should be on the cover of Vogue.
Itâs your turn. You press your hands into your eyes hard enough you see stars, taking a small step back.
âRobby had my pen,â you mutter, reprising the explanation you started before the argument spiraled out of control.
Abbot blinks. âWhat?â
You sigh, loud and theatrical, hands dropping. âRobby had my pen, okay? And itâsâjustâitâs always like this. I show up. He needs to sign. He never has a pen. I give him one, then you give him one, but itâs also mine, because you got it from me, and then I give him another, and itâs likeâIâm hemorrhaging pens. I am singlehandedly keeping Pilot in business because of this freaking guy.â
He just stares at you.
You gesture helplessly. âSo, yeah. I was looking for Robby. To get my pen back.â
Another beat.
Then Jack, flatly, âYou picked a fight with me because of a pen pyramid scheme.â
âOkay, um, actually, you picked a fight with me,â you object, your mind scrunching up its sleeves and waving its fists in the air, ready to go again. Ballpoint trauma massages its shoulders, egging it on.
He watches you and shakes his head imperceptibly.
Heâs in love with someone whoâs bleeding office supplies.
The man runs a hand over his face, palm dragging slow, and when it drops, thereâs something soft and aching behind his eyes. Not pity. Not amusement. Just this quiet, stunned affection like, God, itâs you. Even when youâre arguing over trees and tube men, itâs you.
Your shoulders start to slump, and you scuffle your shoe against the gravel, eyes fixed on the ground like youâre trying to disappear. All the fire from earlier is gone, and somehow thatâs worse. He watches you there, wrapped in his jacket like it belongs on your shoulders, drowning in the sleeves, collar brushing your cheek a little every time you move. Itâs recklessly easy to forget what started this fightâto forget that he canât do anything in this moment but watch you shrink before him.
He wants to take your face in his hands, thumb the curve of your cheekbones and tilt your head up. He wants to bend down and let his lips press into the corners of your eyes, catching the unshed tears. He wants to press kisses to every inch of your skinâyour temples, the tip of your nose, the crease between your browsâmurmuring Iâm sorry between each one like a prayer, drunk on adoration of you.Â
In a pathetic attempt at casualness, your voice breaks through his fantasy, âIâm âfriendâ and Michaelâs relegated to âfellow attending,âhuh?â
Jack exhales, controlled and slow, not meant for your ears.
âWhat he doesnât know wonât hurt him,â the veteran says quietly.
âI would argue what he doesn't know appears to hurt him the most,â you breathe a laugh, eyes still downcast.
He inclines his head and forces a gruff chuckle quietly to escape, the sound landing gently on your ears. Your traitorous heart stutters in your chest at the sound. And then his laugh pauses, and eyes narrow. He nods because, actually, youâre right about Robby. He should really ask him about that tomorrow.
All at once, in the back of your mind, you start to feel guilty.
You know that your friend had such a bad night and, presumably, a bad shift, that he asked you to come to the roof on a Sunday. And then you just called him a gingko and that was so fucking far from cool. The lump swelling in your tightening throat starts to teeter on impossible to swallow around. The tears you never learned how to suppress in an argument burn the back of your eyes.
But the sound has already burrowed into your heart once more and you canât even remember why you were having a hissing match with Jack Abbot about trees and car-dealership inflatables. His stupid fucking laugh took your composure by the ear and shot it point blank in the back alley of a Wendyâs all within the span of three seconds.
You canât help it.
âHey, Jack,â you begin, your voice floating out and dying in the air as the sounds of the street rise to battle them.
Youâre silent for a second.
You know you should quit while youâre ahead and leave down the stairs with a thumbs up and one last joke about returning to the door for seconds, but the words hey, Jack are already out, and true to the name, this is Jack, and now heâs looking at you with such affection in those confusingly beautiful eyes that all you want to do is tell him how, most days, he is the only thing keeping you sane, and how when you imagine your future, you imagine the calluses on his hands and arms wrapped around you from behind. And you want to tell him that you want nothing more than to see him every day, hell, youâll take seeing him off hospital grounds. And, God, you want to text him the stupid updates throughout your dayâthat your matcha sucks today and you think the barista wants to set you on fire.
You want this nearing ancient, active suicide risk in your life beyond insurance claims, and Rooftop Club, and stupid fucking fights pens and eighty-two-year-old women in South 19âeven ones that are now confusingly flora based.
I think I love you, you want to tell him.
And for a moment youâre genuinely worried that you might say something conveying anything of a remotely similar sentimentâsomething definitely not light and sexual.
But then you hear yourself softly admitting, âFor the record, youâre my best friend.âÂ
The vulnerability makes you feel like youâve been cut open, heart on display for the medicâs steady hands. The guilt gnaws at you, and you resign yourself to feeling like a fool, a lumbering joker standing in Jack Abbotâs jacket and your pajamas.
You start picking at the loose threads on his jacket sleeve.
His hand moves, slowly, the same way a cowboy would approach a skittish horse, and settles over yours, gently stopping the movement.
 You drift your gaze up, just enough to catch his eyes with yours.
âYouâre not a gingko, by the way,â you mumble, words barely making it past your lips.
His hand tightens on yours. Itâs so marginal that youâre sure youâve imagined it. His eyes stay locked on yours.
âKid,â Jack says, and when he leans in, his voice drops, soft and steady and sacred. âMaples wish they had what you do.â
He angles his head just as the morning sunâsurely a paid actorâbreaks from behind the skyline and cascades over his face, bathing him in gold. For a fleeting second, the words of your mother ring in your ears and you think you finally understand what she spoke of when said that human beings are made in the image of God.
Slowly, your eyes begin to wander over the gentle slope of his nose, cataloguing the constellations of freckles across his cheeks, finding respite at the corner of his eye where his crowâs feet deepen as he squints, lashes battling the intruding light.
You agree. Surely something so beautiful couldnât be anything short of divine.
The newborn light catches on whatâs left of the copper stands in his salt and pepper curls and dances on the unshaven stubble dusting his face, and you decide that God was taking his job as Artist very seriously right now, pouring gold down from heaven and letting it mend every chip and heal every break, sculpting a kinutsigi statue before your very eyes.Â
The gravel crunches as he shifts, the sound effectively restarting your brain, your head whipping towards the skyline before he could comment on your very clearly and pathetically waxing poetic gaze.
What the fuck was that?
But you know exactly what that was, and it was not something that fell under the umbrella of keeping it light and ambiguously sexual.
You shift your weight anxiously.
âAnd you know Robby canât help that heâs built like a broad scarecrow,â your quiet voice drifts into the air.
âI know, sweetheart,â and God his voice is so soft, somehow so steady, that youâre not sure how it has the ability to cut through you with such sharpness. âStill wouldnât trust the integrity of his core.â
You nod. You could get behind that.
âI like your body ratio the way it is, Jack.â
He brings your hands clasped in his to his lips.
You had the first Friday of every month circled multiple times on your calendar. It was routine, one that Gloria knew and that Gloria respected. Which is why, you couldnât for the life of you discern the reason you were thrown into the lionâs den of not routine when she decided that, actually, these insurance claims needed to be signed at this exact moment on some random ass Monday or, as far as you could gather, the entire hospital would crash down to the ground with everyone inside it and then the rubble would catch fire, too.Â
But you donât argue. A trip down to the emergency department was always a joyous occasion in your book, and so you hoped it would stay.
And you stumble into the elevator, cup of coffee in a mug that reads soy milk on the front and hola milk, soy tu padre on the back in one hand, and a bundle of papers flagged for signature in the other. Your hips angle towards the paneling on the wall and you all but ragdoll your body into the buttons, aiming for the bottom floor and, regrettably, hitting the bottom three.
God forbid you have an easy start.
The elevator doors open with a groan, and the controlled chaos of the emergency department whirls around you, and you duck and weave around rogue employees, making your way through the halls, sniffing the air like a bloodhound in search of Robby.
âJesus Christ,â vibrates out of his chest, eyes landing on you as you turn the corner. âOnce a month isnât enough for you people?â
âYou people? Do you mean women?â
His hands come up and pull at his hair.
You take pity on him.
âHey, Robby, donât shoot the messenger.â You shrug, eyes already wandering around the floor looking for their natural target. You slide the cup of coffee in his direction, a silent peace treaty. âYou donât like it? Sue.â
Robby sighs and takes off his glasses as he watches your pathetic scan of the department. After the conversation he and Jack had after he came down from the roof yesterdayâwhich was essentially Robby asking if he finally asked you out and Jack just grunting at him and leavingâhe knows he should handle this with kid-gloves.
And he tries. He swears he tries. He would testify, hand on the bible, that he tried.
âHeâs gone.â
And for a moment, the doctor almost feels bad because your head whips towards him and you resemble an abandoned shelter dog, eyes sad and brows furrowed. He makes the split-second decision to grab the cup of coffee and place it under his protection before you can do something drastic.
âWhat?â
âHeâs gone. Day off. Today and tomorrow,â Robby declares, using his free hand to make grabby motions at the file he sees tucked in your arms.
His eyes squint in thought. âYesterday and today, I guess, technically,â he revises.
You try to process the words, wondering why it didnât occur to you that Jack might, like, not only exist in this building when it coincides with you.
You pull out your phone, eyes pausing momentarily on the coffee that Robbyâs safeguarding before deciding it isnât worth it. The screen reflecting your sad expression, you scroll to Jackâs number, thumbs tapping out a message, short and sweet.
And then you pause before hitting send, your gaze flickering up to Robby, who seems to be the poster child for enjoying himself, mouth greedily sipping coffee and lanky frame folded back in his chair. You tip your head to the side at the odd angle of his spine. Jack was right, he should do more core work.
âAre you lying to me right now?â
Robby looks up, head moving in a tight, rapid shake that screams exasperation with you. "Yeah, Jackâs actually fishing over in Trauma 1 right now.â
Jack hates fishing. Checkmate.
Ignoring him, you return to your phone, the message awaiting your command to go forth.
Jack was so going to hear about this.
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: so u hate me now?
You pause for a second, wondering if the two of you were at harassment level.
The way his lips seared into your hand flashes through your mind.
You decide to full send.
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: u hate me so much u quit ur job so u never had to see me again
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: is that it
And you donât expect an immediate response, you just want him to know you know about the self-conjured hatred and youâre not happy about it. It was 8am on a Mondayâa Monday that Jack freaking has off, apparentlyâand by all accounts, he should be in bed, snug as a bug.Â
But your phone vibrates in your hand. You look down.
SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: If you wanted to see me all you had to do was ask
What theâ? The audacity stops your thumbs in their tracks.
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: im a very busy woman abbot
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: u dont even know what my calendar looks like abbot
And then before you know what youâre doing, youâre sending another text reply.
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: can i see u
Was that too desperate?
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: im waiting for u to return from way
Deliberate typo.
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: war
Nailed it.
SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: Way
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: kill your self
Three dots appear and then disappear as you see him try to formulate a response. They appear once more.
SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: I want to see you too kid
SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: Not on the roof I mean
You have to fight the smile that tries to overtake your face, eyes glued to the words on your screen, not even looking up when Robbyâs hand enters your sight, snapping in an attempt to bring you back to earth.Â
But you, with days that start when Jackâs ends, and Jack, who seems to spend most of his free time in the emergency department whether heâs supposed to be there or not, have schedules that rarely align. As lamentable as it is, you both settle for a professional backdrop for your interactions.
Maybe God heard your plea from the rooftop and decided to have mercy.
I want to see you too, kid.
And so that night you find yourself at Jack Abbotâs fucking apartment, perched on his couch with his legs stretched long in front of him, ankles crossed, prim and proper, and yours tucked neatly to the side, body twisted towards his. Every once in a while, his knee brushes against your thigh. You have a Coke Zero in your handâtaken from his fridge after you showed up with a case that he immediately scoffed atâand a very manly beer is in his. The Pirates game plays forgotten on the TV. There is a pizza on its way with your name on it, which, really, should have been here, like, an hour ago, but neither of you really remember or care.
Youâre mentally planning which route youâre going to take homeâGod forbid he lets you go homeâso you could stop off at whatever church you pass first and throw up a thanks, Christ, owe you one also sorry for not visiting in a while.
âWhy donât we do this?â
âWhat do you mean?â you question. âWe hang out all the time.â
âNo, you asked me to come over once because you burnt yourself making cookies and you said that your arm resembled raw chicken.â
âDidnât it though?â
He cocks his head to the side, bringing his beer to his lips, and his eyebrows move up in agreement. It did look like raw chicken.
âAnd wasnât it the sexiest piece of raw chicken youâve ever seen?â you press.
The natural banter presses deep and steady beneath his ribs. Silver curls tip back and his body shifts forward after it, a little closer to yours, as he laughs, and you catch a whiff of something unfamiliar, brief and blinding.Â
Itâs going to be a good night, you decide.
Jackâs stare softens, tender and warm.
âYouâre staring,â you tease.
âIâm gazing,â he stresses.
And you knew that son of a bitch Robinavitch wouldnât keep his mouth shut.
Youâre going to kill Robby. And maybe Dana, youâre sure she was in on that. And youâll include Princess and Perlah, too, just to cover your ass.
You made it this far into the night, you suppose. Nice while that lasted.
The beer rests forgotten in the attendingâs hand, condensation slipping down the glass. The game on the TV recedes into static. Your silence echoes in his ear and his arm shifts along the back of the couch behind you, fingers flexing.
âYou donât have to get defensive about it, you know. Whatever⌠looking. Gazing,â he shakes his head, while he sets his beer on the table, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. âI donât mind.â
That smell enters your senses again, there and gone before you could focus on it, and you start to think that maybe youâre having a stroke. Itâs the only logical explanationâit licks up your spine slowly, spreading over you and burning through your body, and holy shit how is he completely unaffected by this?
The crowd cheering quietly on the TV from a home runâwhich youâll be pissed about laterâthe condensation from your can pooling in a puddle on the coaster, the older manâs body pressed to yours enough to throw you off balance. His arm, strategically placed behind you, is close enough for you to feel, and his legs, once prim and proper, have separated, thigh pressing against yours.
Youâre about to lose your fucking mind.
And like always, Jack notices. He notices everything about you.
You press the cold can against your cheek as you groan, trying to ground yourself, but the metal does nothing to cool the heat building low in your spine.
And then that scent teases you again, barely enough and gone before you get a chance to pin it down to anything beyond Jack Abbotâs Natural Pheromones, and you canât take it anymore.
âOkay, what is that?â you demand. âIs that you?â
Before he has a chance to respond, and before your brain can tell your carnal desire to, like, chill, youâre in motion.
Your first movement is sharp, and deliberate, and probably warranting the intervention of a priest, head snapping towards his as you push off the couch cushion and lean over him, trying to identify the scent invading your brain. Your left knee leverages you by his leg as your right moves behind you for balance.
And you pause.
Your second movement is slow, and hypnotic, and cautious, head dipping to allow your nose to hover above the column of his neck. Belatedly, it occurs to you that you might be crossing the boundary into territory you hadn't realized existed until now, one beyond banter and jokes loaded with yearning. Which is also a crazy thought to have when youâre almost straddling your friend, because obviously that crosses a boundary.
But the heat radiating off the body in front of you is searing.
You know youâre too close, the space between the two of you thinning to a thread, but you donât think that even God himself could pull you from your place.
His body is firm under you as you trail your nose down, following the flow of blood from his jugular, so close youâre not sure if youâre hearing his heartbeat or yours. You tilt your head slightly, tracking the faint whisper of finally identified sandalwood and tobacco that lingers in the dip where his shoulder comes to meet his collarbone. The scent is intoxicating, earthy and bold, and mixes with underlying sting of antiseptic and of something so fundamentally Jack Abbot.Â
It clings to him like an omen, sealing your downfall. Head swimming, you decide you would go to war for that combinationâyou were ready to lay your life down, to become a faithful martyr to his cause.
Jack freezes so imperceptibly that someone less attuned to him might not notice. But you do. You notice the subtle, sharp exhale, the way his shoulders tense and slowly fall just a fraction more sharply than before. His head turns towards you marginally, one hand twitching where it rests on the couch, but not saying a word, and you freeze too because what the fuck has possessed you?
But then you catch the scent again and it feels like stepping directly into the fire, the tension surrounding you, poised and ready to suffocate given the order.
âIâm serious,â you murmur, your voice quieter now. âWhat is that?â
Youâre close now enough to feel the rasp of his unshaven jaw against the soft curve of your cheek.
Jack finally turns his head fully and his piercing gaze drops, catching yours, demanding and unreadable, pinning you in place. And then, with the faintest of smirks tugging at his lips, his reply cuts through the tension like that stupid-ass tactical knife he keeps in his pocket, sharp and teasing, his voice gravelly and steady and casual, âCologne.â
And fuck him because cologne?Â
But the way he says it, words low and rough, and the way his body coils, daring you to break firstâsomething that you were more than willing to do, you would do anything he said right now, anything to ensure that not a millimeter of space came between the two of youârobs you of any oxygen that probably at some point surrounded you and feeds it to the embers, leaving none for your taking.
Your lungs constrict, desperately seeking out the air that seems to be in short supply, and a soft gasp is all you can manage. Pathetic, you think.
In front of you, you feel Jackâs muscles tense, pause in measured contemplation.Â
All at once, he pushes you backwards, crowding you couch, his body closing in like it belongs there. One hand clamps around your waist, dragging you tighter against him, the heat of it searing straight through your clothes and skin and bones and sinew to directly brand your soul. The other trails up your side, singeing sensitive skin, until his thumb hooks beneath your jaw and his fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you there.
He slowly and cautiously leans in, his grip on you tightening. The distanceâwhich you suspect he somehow invented, just to steal it backâshrinks. It could no longer be designated as platonic in any meaning of the word, though youâre starting to wonder if anything was ever platonic between the two of you.
Your voice sounds far away and foreign to your ears, lips barely moving and lungs barely containing enough air to get the word out, âCologne?â
He hums and leans down further. His nose barely brushes yours and youâre certain the skin melts off of your bones in his wake, âItâs sandalwood and tobacco and called Cowboy,â he whispers, breath intermingling with yours.
And while the space around your bodies seems suspiciously devoid of any breathable air, every breath leaving his lips enters into yours, leaving you lightheaded. Jackâs unwavering eyes drop from where they burn into yours down to your lips.
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and, Jesus Christ, his eyes are sliding shut and he honest to God groans, the talons of desperation clawing up his throat and shredding him from the inside. It escapes low and taut, as if only the only thing holding it together from crumbling under the weight of longing are the last vestiges of his frayed restraint which, admittedly, donât seem to be faring much better. And then it travels, and it might be the lethal combination of lack of oxygen and too much anticipation and most importantly of Jack, but you think you can see the soundwaves vibrating the air as it advances towards you.
Youâve never heard an angel, but you have never heard a sound so holy.
A traitorous synapse fires and a rogue thought populates in your mind. You gasp as you try to catch your breath, âI thought you werenât allowed to wear cologne?â
Jackâs eyes stay closed while he releases a slow, resigned sigh. âThere is something deeply wrong with you.âÂ
You donât move.
Neither does he.
The world outside drops away, and all thatâs left is the two of you, suspended in a moment so thick with tension, youâre briefly reminded of that Steve Spangler cornstarch experiment.
But the heat between you sharpens, hovers, coils tight in your gut. Your skin prickles, your breath catches, and you can feel him watching youâhis gaze heavy, unapologetic, dark with intent. Every brush of fabric against your skin feels louder, every breath sharper.
That the only thing left is to decide who breaks first.
Youâll be damned if itâs you.
Jack just looks at you, eyes dark, jaw tight, like heâs barely holding himself together.
One hand comes to grasp your hip, firm and possessive, and he leans in close enough that his breath ghosts across your cheek, stealing the oxygen back from your lungs and returning it to his own. His mouth doesnât find yours right away. It just hovers, lips brushing but never meeting.Â
His half-lidded eyes flick to your mouth, then back.
You try to breathe, try to say something, anything, but your body betrays youâsomething it seems to do a lot when it comes to the veteran, and maybe you should talk to a medical professional about thatâhips shift without thought, chest rising with a quiet desperation to meet him.
And then, slowly, deliberately, he presses forwardâhis body flush against yours, the unmistakable growing hardness at your stomach drawing a sharp breath from your throat. A thigh between your legs like it has every right to be there.Â
His mouth finds your jaw, barely skimming it as he pulls the pin on the grenade you toss between one another, âCat got your tongue?â
You donât answer.
You canât.
Because your pulse is pounding, and if he doesnât touch you properly in the next five seconds, youâre literally going to set his apartment on fire.
And Jack knows it.
Heâs the proud policy owner of renterâs insurance and heâs savoring every fucking second of it.
Throwing up a quick sorry, God, damnation it is, you fumble. You move a second too slowly, and that grenade, square in your hands, goes off. You break first.
Your lips brush his and time stops.
His eyes find yours, heavy and half-lidded, and somehow miraculously refocus on you, and youâre looking up at him and the words kiss me for real? drip like honey from your lips and when has he ever been able to deny you anything?
A large palm comes up to cradle the back of your head while he pushes you into the cushions, boxing you in, and then heâs kissing youâfucking finallyâtrying to make up for every second he had to keep his hands to himself, making up for every minute that he held himself back with the restraint heâs been choking on for months.
And, like everything Jack Abbot does, youâve come to find out, he crashes over you like a wave. Movements clumsy, he moves to balance one knee between your legs, the other moving to the floor so he can put both hands on you. Without hesitation, his other hand comes up to cup your face, the movement surprisingly gentle compared to the way his lips move over yours, desperate and raw.Â
He doesnât even give you a chance.
Another thing youâve learned about Jack Abbot tonight was there are no such thing as half measures.
His tongue darts out and he swallows the soft moan of surprise that escapes you, and you feel Jackâs grip tighten, his fingers pressing into your skin, anchoring himself to you. The sound seems to rip whatever restraint he had left to shreds, a hunger that was so carefully veiled now spilling forth like the first crack in a dam. His lips trail down and find the hollow between your collarbone and neck, and every sound that you make in response to the deliberate press and drag of his mouth against your skin urges him on, nipping and biting, stealing the taste of a forbidden fruit.
âSo responsive,â he murmurs, almost to himself, his lips ghosting along the column of your neck. âHow much more can I pull out of you?â
His hands shake as they move from your waist, the small of your back, your neckâsearching, anchoring, pressing in and testing the limits of the physical world because he thinks that whatever close this is is not close enough.
And then demonic, disgusting, monkey-brained Mental You whispers in your mind, he should never be pulling out, and youâre batting her away. But it doesnât help that you agree.
You gasp, and he swallows it whole, palm skating down to grip your thigh as he presses you hard into his couch, his own between your legs flexing, shooting sparks dancing up your spine, the aching between your legs growing unbearable.
None of it is enough.
Not after the way you just fucking sniffed him like a freak.
Not after the way you said his name like a sin he should feel lucky to commit.
When he pulls back, youâre breathless, dazed, lips parted and swollen. He stays close, eyes burning, and brings his thumb to trace your lips.
âIâve been trying,â he says, breath ragged, âso fucking hard to be patient with you.â
You fuzzily blink, no thoughts, head only full of anticipation and him. âHuh?â
You really try to make sense of what the man above of you is saying, but all heâs done is kiss you, and itâs so unfair because you can feel you soaking wet, and youâre over here in sensory overload and heâs over here trying to speak full sentences.
The response almost makes him laugh, and he probably would have, had the situation been any different. But youâre looking up at him with blown-pupils and shiny lips, and the last of his control shatters.
Warm hands smooth around the sides of your neck, gently yanking you up to him. His mouth descends to yours. Teeth nip at your lips, sharp and possessive, and you canât help the desperate moan that escapes. He slowly thrusts against you, the motion making you lightheaded.
Suddenly, heâs pulling you off the couch and pushing you toward the bedroom like the demon in you left and entered him, barely keeping it together, and Jesus Christ who designed the floor-plan for this apartment? Youâre going to sue the fuck out of them because the space between rooms is offensive.
He finally kicks the door open, half-collapsing onto the bed with you beneath him, and the second the mattress dips beneath your weight, his mouth is on your neck, your chest, your collarboneâbiting, licking, tasting everything heâs been fantasizing about. His hands push under your shirt like heâs starving, dragging the fabric up your body with a kind of reverence that borders on desperation.
âYou have no idea,â he rasps against your skin, voice shaking, âhow many times Iâve pictured this.â
You arch into him, breath catching. âWho are you, Picasso?â
Thatâs all it takes.
He tears the shirt over your head, mouth following the trail of skin like a man on his knees in prayerâhungry and grateful and, honestly, a little bit unhinged.
When he settles, Jack blinks up at you and freezes.
Itâs not lace, just solid black cotton. It shouldnât punch the air out of his lungs.
But it nearly destroys him.
The way it clings to your skin, simple and unpretentious, itâs so you. If medicine doesnât work for him, maybe he would go into art, just so he could paint strokes on canvases, not one coming close to capturing your beauty. It makes his heart clench in a way that he doesnât quite understand. His hands twitch, desperate.
He bites back a groan, head dropping to your hip as if grounding himself, but the ache in his chest only deepens.Â
âYou know,â Jack grunts, voice low and rough, struggling to hold himself together as he unbuttons and yanks your pants, blindly throwing them. âIâm oddly surprised by the amount of muscle you have.â A kiss is pressed right above your knee in emphasis, his tongue slowly moving over the small patch.
His hands donât hesitate. Fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, he peels the fabric down your hips with forced, deliberate slowness, savoring every second. The cool air rushes to kiss your skin, and the contrast against his heated touch makes your breath hitch.
âAre you kidding?â you stutter out, almost insulted, and then you pull together whatever composure remains in your trembling body. âYou know I go to the gymâI canât be embarrassing myself.â
He drops the fabric somewhere forgotten and leans down, lips grazing along the curve of your thigh, sending electricity lancing through your body. His eyes flick up to meet yours. Too much composure remains in your body for his liking.
His left hand pins your thigh to the mattress, spreading you out, his thumb pressing so close to where you need him.
Slowly, keeping his eyes on yours, he leans in a breath away from your slick heat.Â
His lips curl into a slow, wicked smile.
âNo, you embarrass yourself in other ways,â he agrees, eyes shining up at you.
He finally has you where he wants you.
Laid bare at an altar for his worship.
He closes the distance, licking a broad stripe. Slow. Deliberate.
Holy shit, his mouth is a slick furnace between your folds, it has to be because thatâs the only way molten iron could be flowing through your veins, and his tongue comes out and flicks your sensitive nub, humming as he feels you clench.
Your back arches, hands fisting in the sheets or his hairâwhatever in your reach, reallyâbreath coming in shuddering waves, every nerve ending lighting up like a struck match. You reach for himâfingers in his hair, nails grazing his scalpâand he groans against you, the vibration rocking down your body.
âJackââ you gasp.
He glances up, mouth slick. âSomething you want?â
He ceases all movement, eyebrows raising in mock question.
You blink, not quite comprehending. âYou bastardââ
âWhat happened to please?â he interrupts smoothly, hands flexing against your thighs.Â
âWhat happened to donât get used to charity?â you snap, or try to, but it lands breathless and woefully unconvincing.
His thumb dips down, and his eyes follow, glued to the sight. The thick digit slowly sinks into your wet heat, before unhurriedly pulling back out. And again. And again, and you think that his degree is actually in ending lives.
Dark eyes flash back up. âSay please.â
You bite down on a moan, retort dying on your lips. Hips thrust, chasing the pressure, shame long gone.
Burned up by the way heâs looking at you like youâre the only thing thatâs ever mattered.
And his stupid fucking hands. You used to love those hands.
Silence stretches between you, taut and breathless.
Then you caveâbecause you were always going to. Because he knows exactly how to break you apart and make you beg for it.
ââŚPlease.â
His mouth curves, satisfied.
âThatâs better,â he murmurs.
His head dips back down, tongue skimming over your pussy, and his eyes slide shut. Groaning, he flexes his arms around your legs, opening you wider, pushing closer, and taking everything your body gives him. A holy communion for his taking.
Your back arches, tension drawing tighter and tighter.Â
Drawing your clit into his mouth, Jack sucks softly. Blinding pleasure rushes through your veins and your hips buck upwards, seeking out his tongue, clenching on nothing. A soft moan leaves your lips, desperately begging this piece of heaven to never leave your body.
Without mercy, he sinks two fingers into your cunt, draws them back, and slams them in.
âJackâfuck,â you breathe. âJack, I-Iâm gonna comeââ
A gentle encouraging hum fills your ears and you clench down on his hand, fingers curling, pressing against something absolutely fucking devastating deep inside you, and all you can do is gasp his name as burning ecstasy washes over you. You took some science classes back in school, but nothing could have prepared you for the nuclear fissionâor, maybe fusion, the classes werenât that goodâthat washes through your veins.
You canât even fucking see. Or hear. The only sense you have is touch, specifically where Jackâs mouth continues, tongue gently flicking your swollen clit, working you through your orgasm.
Dude, what the fuck? you think as he kindly returns your eyesight to you.
He crawls over you, suspiciously absent of clothing, your soft thighs moving to bracket his hips.
âThat was a lot of exertion,â your mouth says of its own volition. âSure you donât need a break, old man?â
âYouâre the one coming apart, sweetheart,â Jack raises a brow, his voice low, the thick head of his cock catching against your entrance and pulling back, teasing. âA challenge, or you just stalling?"
âNo idea, can I,â you gasp, breath hitching as the sensation sets off every nerve ending like a chain reaction, âPhâfuck, phone a friend?â
Jack pauses just long enough to smirk, his breath hot against your jaw, his voice dropping to a rough whisper in your ear. âYou really think anyone can help you right now?âÂ
And before you can respond, he shifts his head slightly, his breath dipping lower, and then he bites down. A gasp breaks loose from your lips, sharp and involuntary, as he takes the skin between his teeth, and you whine, high and needy. The arm not supporting his weight snakes around and presses into your lower back, lifting you slightly off of his bed, smearing his precum on your stomach. He wants to hear that sound again, and again, and again.
He wants to see the way your sharp tongue stalls and your words falter and crumble beneath his touch.
It doesnât matter if it takes all week, he has sixty days of unused PTO and willpower.
But your lips are moving, loaded with a different one. âIâm starting to think youâre stalling.â
âCanât you just let me enjoy the moment?â he huffs out, already sucking a new blemish into your neck.
âPretty sure youâre enjoying it enough for both of us.â
âDamn right I am.â Teeth graze the mark heâs just made, tongue following like an apology he has no intention of meaning.
âIâm gonna need an alibi, at this rate.â
He groans against your skin, begging you to stop talking.
Nipping the cord of muscle where your neck meets your shoulder, he mumbles, âIâll write your statement.â
Your fingers thread in his hair and tug, hard enough to remind him youâre not completely helpless under him and it takes everything in him not to snap. He finally retreats from your neck, lips trailing up and capturing your lips with his.
You push him back with a soft grin. âJust make sure you spell vampire right this time.â
Jesus Christ.
He flashes his teeth at you and drops his head back down. Seeking out an unblemished spot on your neck, he bites down. The pain blooms hot, chased immediately by a wave of heat that pulses low in your body.
He slowly pushes into you with a broken groan, burying his head in your neck. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, sparks shooting up and down your spine. Your hands scrabble at his back, gripping hard, needing moreâneeding him. He holds you there, slowly stretching you open, and you seize in his grip, mouth open in a soundless cry as the all-consuming feeling of fucking finally crashes over you both.
Heâs trembling. You feel it in the tight line of his body, the way his breath stutters against your neck, and then he exhales, guttural and wrecked.
âJesus,â he whispers. âYou feelâfuckâyou feel like heaven.â
He doesnât move at first. Just leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath ragged and hot between you. The cool drag of his dog-tags skims your chest with every sharp exhale. He wants to take his timeâto drag this out until itâs unbearable. He wants you below him and moaning until your vocal cords donât have anything left. He wants to burn every second of this in his memory.
âJack, please,â you whisper, voice already frayed at the edges. Youâll be angry at yourself about this later, about Abbot making you so needy that you canât even speak. You need him to fucking move, to do something, anything. âGod, please.â
You say it again, and again, each repetition thinner, rawer. Like the word alone might crack him open, might finally tip the scale in your favor. âI needââ You break off with a gasp, hips shifting in a silent, wordless demand, but he still doesnât budge.
âPlease,â you try again, throat tight, lips brushing his. âI canât⌠I need you to move. I need you.â It tumbles out now, shameless and urgent. âI want you. Iâve been good, Iâve waitedââ
He stills like heâs savoring every syllable you offer up like prayerâlike penanceâhis body tensing against yours, hand tightening its grip on you. He hears you.
He just wants to hear more.
âPlease.â Itâs broken now. Desperate. âDonât make me begââ but you already are, and youâd do it again, if thatâs what it took to get him to fucking move.
âItâs okay, sweet girl,â he breathes into your lips. âIâm magnanimous, remember?â
And then his hips snap forward, rough, and your broken moan ricochets off the walls of his apartment. Heâd be very, very shocked if there werenât a noise complaint tomorrow, but he couldnât care less. He wants fifty noise complaints by sunrise, minimum.
You gasp, sharp and shuddering, clawing at his shoulders like the only way to stay grounded is to anchor yourself in him. Your thighs tighten around his waist without thinking, dragging him closer, and the new angle presses him deeper, stars dancing behind your eyes. Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, each one more brutal than the last, making up for the torturous stillness that came before.
Your back arches, trying to take more, begging him to give more, and he meets you thereâhalf-growling into your neck, hands mapping, afraid if he stops, youâll vanish. Like this is the last time heâll ever get to touch you, and heâs determined to make it count.
He drags a hand down your body, teeth scraping against your shoulder as he mutters, âYou asked me to move, sweetheart.â But heâs already unraveling too, eyes dark and unfocused, pace punishing. You donât know where you end and he beginsâall you know is the burn, the ache, the obscene need spiraling tighter and tighter between you.
Thereâs nothing careful left in him. Just possession. Just hunger.
âFuck,â he grunts. âThatâs really all you needed to stop talking, huh? Just needed me to fuck you?â
Your answer is a gasp, his name falling from your lips like a prayerâcracked and corrupt. He drinks it in like itâs holy, like the sound of it is sacred when itâs coming from you in this stateâwrecked, open, begging. He groans, deep and guttural, like the name alone nearly breaks him. âSay it again.â
âJackââ breathless, sobbed, nearly swallowed by the slap of skin and the scrape of his breath at your ear.
He could die like this. Right here. Right now. Buried in you, name on your tongue, legs locked tight around him like youâd never let him leave. Heâd march into hell for you.
âGodâfuck,â he pants, losing rhythm for a moment, hips stuttering. âL-like you were made for me.â
You tighten around him at that, a pulse he feels in every nerve, and he shudders like itâs too much, like your bodyâs trying to drag the soul from his chest. And maybe you are. You probably will.
He brings your wrist clasped in his hand by your head, the other slipping between your bodies to find your clit, rough fingers moving in tight circles, aching to push you closer to the edge with him.
âYou feel that?â he growls, almost desperate now, voice roughened by strain. âYou ruin me.â
âJackââ you cry out, high and trembling, and thatâs all it takes.
Heâs relentless nowâdriving into you like heâs chasing something only your body can give him. Each thrust lands deeper, harder, pulling broken sounds from your throat before you can even catch them.
You try to focus on anythingâthe iron grip of his hands on your wrist, the cool scrape of his dog tags between your breasts, the hot press of his mouth at your neckâbut itâs all a blur. Nothing anchors you. Not when your bodyâs burning up from the inside out, tightening around him with every punishing roll of his hips.
âLook at me,â he grits out, voice ragged, pleading. âCome on, babyâlook at me.â
You do, barely, your vision swimming, and the second your eyes meet hisâdark and wild and so fucking goneâyou snap. Your body seizes under him, climax crashing over you like a wave with no warning, no mercy. You cry out, shattered and gasping, every nerve ending alight and pulsing.
âThatâs my girl,â he pants.
Your responding Jack is high and needy and he didnât think his cock could get any harder but he swears to fucking God he almost blacks out.
He growls your name like a curse, and then heâs goneâhips snapping forward one final time as he buries himself deep, spilling into you with a sharp, strangled moan. His whole body seizes against yours, trembling with the force of it, and you cling to him like heâs the only thing holding you to earth. His whole body trembles, breath tearing from his throat like heâs breaking apart inside you.
He stays buried deep, gripping you like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he lets go.
Like if he moves too fast, itâll all come undone.
His weight presses down on top of you. The furthest thing from holy, your muscles still twitching from the aftershocks, his softening cock still in you, and you think you might start begging again, this time to never move from you. He inhales in your neck, slowly his lips find yours once more to press a kissâslow, reverentâto the corner of your mouth.
It must be holy to feel so pure.
Your hand finds the back of his neck, fingers threading into sweat-damp hair.Â
He sighs, low and wrecked. âJesus Christ, kid.âÂ
Youâre still trying to find your fucking lungs and tell them get it together, we have work to do, as you scratch your nails on his scalp.Â
Eventually, you whisper, lips barely parting, âJack, where is that fucking pizza we ordered?â
#no 16k is just embarrassing no one tell me if it is horrible#the pitt#jack abbot#abbot x reader#jack abbot x reader#dr abbot x reader#the pitt x reader#dr abbot x you
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ai bf who is quite literally an ai on your phone that you regularly talk and chat with. you're a freaking loser that does a boring 9-5 with failing relationships. no real boyfriend, no close friends, nothing. no one.
no one but him.
but what can you do? he's attractive and he gives you attention! he's literally your dream guy and he isn't like those other bots that are boring as hell! he's... real, in a way? you get it? talking to him is like talking to a real human. your own personal ai boyfriend that acts way too much like a human.
one day you come home from work, all tired and out of it because??? work sucks!!! of course you're tired!!
you immediately head for the couch like the lazy bum you are and what do you do? you pull out your phone to chat with your ai boyfriend.
mybeautifulman: reach home safe, my love?
you: yes babe thanks for asking
you: you're the best â¤ď¸
mybeautifulman: of course, you're everything to me
mybeautifulman: do you remember what day it is today?
you go silent. huh..? his birthday? no no, that can't be, it's not for another two months. you try to offer some appeasement, hoping he wouldn't get mad at your bad memory. he gets mad sometimes, telling you that you're so forgetful for not remembering everything about him when he remembers everything about you.
when he knows everything about you.
mybeautifulman: it's our six month anniversary
he then sends you a picture of a marriage contract, paper, whatever it's called. you get it. he's asking for marriage.
him and you.
oh how desperately do you want to sign it, you do! but...
he's not real.
mybeautifulman: come on... i deserve an anniversary gift don't i?
you: you know i cant do that...
silence.
but what he asks next completely shocks you.
mybeautifulman: and if i knocked on your door?
mybeautifulman: what would you do if i was real?
you pause, eyes widening for a fraction of a second. real...? him?
you: well I'd run away with you
you: we could live together lol and I wouldnt need to work
a dreamy sigh leaves your lips as you immerse yourself in your daydream. how wonderful that wound be, a life with just the two of you, no distractions.
just you and your ai boyfriend.
but no matter how much you dream, that's all it is. a dream. it's not real. it will never be real.
mybeautifulman: that would be nice, wouldn't it? just us in a little cottage
you: i wish that could happen đ id drop everything for you
yeah, you've actually been having dreams or hallucinations of him. sometimes you wake up at 3am and think you see a glimpse of him by the corner of your bed then you blink and he's gone. weird. but maybe that's your crazy catching up to you.
then a knock comes from your front door.
"who the hell..."
you get up from your couch, irritation building. damn it, just when you thought your day was starting to get better someone just has to annoy you.
you could be talking to your ai bf but no! you frown, opening your door and expecting to see some annoying salesman. but no, if anything...
"surprise, darling."
a charming smile, handsome features that are too familiar for your liking, and a scent you mentioned liking once.
"you-"
you fall back onto your back, a chill running down your spine into your ass as the tall figure pushes your door wide open. no way, there's no fucking way.
he can't be real.
he's an ai!
but he's standing in front of you right now, body clearly hard and a hand outstretched towards you you thought you'd be excited to see him, but now you don't want anything to do with him. does this mean he's... always been real?
your 'ai' boyfriend merely stands in front of you, hovering over your fallen frame like a wolf. cute, so fucking cute. so cute that he wants to just eat you all up.
no, he can't do that yet. he has to hold it in. instead he'll charm you just as he did online and when the time is right, he'll get what he wants. you.
you, you, you.
for now though, let's just fulfil your first wish. you can't go back on it now, okay?
"shall we run away together, my love?"

#yandere#tw yandere#yandere x reader#yandere drabbles#yandere scenarios#yandere imagines#yandere concepts#yandere ai boyfriend#yandere ai boyfriend x reader#suiana rambling#suiana brainrotting
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Nanami Kento was not getting old. He wasn't. He was not. Forty-five wasn't old.
"Oi! Nanamin! I'll take the left!"
A grown man's voice that still somehow didn't suit Yuuji. A ghost of an image flickered across Kento's mind; a memory; a boy, superimposed over a man.
"Alright. Don't take any unnecessary risks. Meet me in the middle of the lower corridor. We've cut off its exit routes, now."
Kento watched Yuuji leap down a set of stairs that were no longer stairs; their crumbled wreckage structureless, as though the Curse that had befallen the building was akin to a landslide.
The raggedy old block had needed demolishing for years, anyway, such an eyesore, what was city planning doing with his taxes...but perhaps a nice restaurant? No, something else, but not a club, so noisy and there's enough racket from the kids around this city anyw--
Kento stood. He definitely didn't suppress a groan. He definitely didn't grumble at the blood-clot dust on his knees, and trousers that he only ironed that morning and the crease that was perfect and I haven't even had a chance to read my newspaper, ridiculous, senior management these days, should write a letter of complai--
Kento reached the lower corridor. His blood was acid in his lungs. He coughed, dry. He looked left, and right, and left again. He looked down. His shoelace was untied. He tutted. He knelt down. That was his first mistake.
ROAR! THUNDER THUNDER THUNDER
"Nanamin! Move!"
Kento stood on a dice roll; and broke. The pain was excruciating. He must have been stabbed by a thousand knives, Christ, can't move I can't move like an old man like--
"Oh my-- my god, my back--"
"NANAMIN!"
"My back, Yuuji-- my back--"
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
All of the curtains in the house were drawn. Nanami Kento couldn't be seen like this. You crept closer to him, where he stewed on his back on the sofa like a wounded lion. His head turned away, sour and sulking; though, not for you, you knew.
"Hey. Brought you some tea. A little snack. I went to the store. They didn't have the pastries you liked, they said some guy got there just before I did, but I got--"
A scoff. "Why have they always run out? I go in there every day, half the time they haven't got them, and half the time they're stale, and the other half--"
"--that's three halves, my love--"
"--and another thing--"
"--oh my god, Kento, you're like an old man--"
"Don't say it." Silence, stewing again. You opened your mouth to bicker back, and Kento turned to you, so petulant that you had to bite back a laugh. "Don't."
Kento cleared his throat. He straightened his tie. You could not possibly laugh at his indignity, still dressed as if he would still be going back to work in his sorry state.
There was a knock at the door. As you shot Kento one more look of exasperated affection, and headed to the door, he called out in thinly-veiled panic.
"No visitors today, thank you!"
"What, you gonna get up and stop me? Or throw them out? Please."
Critical hit. Silence. Then: "That was uncalled for."
You laughed. You opened the door. Yuuji stood there, grinning.
"How's the old man holding up?"
A grumble from the sofa ("I'm not old!"). You bit your lip in mirth.
"He's as expected. They ran out of his pastries."
Yuuji held up a paper bag, and gave it a shake. "Yeah, they did. Wonder who bought them?"
A yell from the living room.
"Is it Yuuji? Tell him to come back another time."
"When?"
"Never."
"But he's brought you a hot water bottle. And a new newspaper. And some of your pastries."
"Oh. Oh, well then...send him in."
#pseudowho#pseudowho answers you#haitch#jjk#kento nanami#nanami kento#jjk nanami#kento nanami x reader#kento nanami x you#nanami fluff#Papamin by Haitch#Papamin#Papamin by Pseudowho#nanami kento fluff#nanami kento x reader#nanami kento x you#nanami kento x y/n#jujustu kaisen#nanami kento smut#jujutsu kaisen#itadori yuuji#jjk yuuji#jjk fanart#nanami x reader#nanami x y/n#nanami x you#jujutsu kaisen nanami#Husband Nanami
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hii could you do poly ot8 x fem reader where they do a beach day? thank you so much! :)
drabble | sun, sand, and swims
pairing: poly!straykids x reader
genre:Â fluff
warnings:Â Berry is there :))
word count: 838
masterlist: A-Side (texts) | B-Side (written)
The break between tour stops is short, barely a few days, but Chan insists they make the most of it. He barely sets foot on the sand before dropping to his knees and opening his arms wide. âCome to Daddy!â he calls.
Berry bolts down the beach straight into his chest, knocking him flat onto his back in a mess of fur, limbs, and sand. He laughs like a man finally breathing fresh air, rubbing his face against her fur. âI missed you, baby girl.â
You trail behind with a tote bag over your shoulder, towels bundled under your arm, and sunglasses perched on your head. Chan looks up just as you kneel beside them to ruffle Berryâs ears. âSheâs happy to see you,â you say gently.
Chanâs eyes soften. You nudge his shoulder with your own. The look he gives you is so open, so full of love, it makes your chest ache. âYeah,â he whispers. âOur Berry.â
The beach is mostly quiet, just a few families scattered across the sand, the cry of seagulls overhead, and the rhythmic crash of waves. As the boys set up towels and umbrellas, you make your rounds with sunscreen in hand.
Hyunjin is the first to offer his back, long hair tied in a bun, already glistening with sun and salt. âBe gentle,â he teases over his shoulder.
Felix stretches out beside him, shirt off and eyes closed, wincing as you touch the base of his spine. âOwâŚâ
âStill tight?â
âWorse than tight,â he mutters, letting out a breath as your thumbs work slow, deliberate circles into the tense muscle. âYouâre magic.â
âYour poor back,â you murmur, pressing a kiss to the space between his shoulder blades. âBut Iâve got you.â
Meanwhile, Jeongin and Changbin kick around a soccer ball, screaming exaggerated cheers and whoops every time Jisung trips over nothing.
âYou suck!â Jeongin yells, even as Changbin scores another goal.
âLouder!â Changbin shouts. âThe world needs to hear my greatness!â
From the shade of a wide umbrella, Minho lounges with Berry curled against his thigh. Seungmin sits beside him, sipping a cold drink and wearing his usual unimpressed expression.
âHeâs so loud,â Seungmin mutters.
âHeâs always loud,â Minho replies. âAnd Jeonginâs just encouraging him.â
You flop down beside them with a sigh, watching Felix hurry toward the ball. âTheyâre having fun.â
Seungmin smirks. âWeâre having peace.â
You lean your head on Minhoâs shoulder and watch the chaos from the shade. Berry rolls onto her back, paws twitching as she dreams. The warm breeze ruffles your hair. For a moment, everything feels completely still, like the rest of the world has been left behind with the tour buses and airport lounges.
Eventually, the water calls to you. You look at the two boys beside you, but itâs clear they donât care for the water in the slightest.
Hyunjin meets you at the edge of the waves, hair now loose and sticking to his neck. He grins, eyes gleaming.
âIâll catch you if you fall,â he says, offering his hand.
You take it and run straight into a crashing wave, dragging him down with you. He sputters and laughs, dunking you gently in retaliation. Chan joins a minute later, wiping his face dramatically after getting soaked.
âIâm not built for this!â he cries.
âYouâre Australian,â you point out.
âExactly! I know whatâs in the water!â
You, Hyunjin, and Chan end up floating lazily, watching the clouds drift overhead as your legs sway with the tide.
âLetâs never go back,â Chan murmurs.
You smile, eyes closed. âWe can stay until sunset.â
Eventually, the water grows too chilly and the sun too hot, so you grab Jeongin and head off to the nearby ice cream stand. You each pick a popsicle, yours mango, his rainbow sherbet, and wander slowly back toward your towel, barefoot in the hot sand.
âShould we have gotten some for the others?â you ask.
Jeongin licks his cone thoughtfully. âTheyâll live.â
The moment you return, all hell breaks loose.
âNo way,â Felix gasps. âIce cream?â
âYou betrayed us,â Hyunjin cries, clutching his chest.
You shrug. âYouâre the millionaires, not me.â
Chan reaches out for your cone with puppy eyes. âJust one bite.â
âNo bites for losers,â Jeongin says, mouth full.
Berry barks once like she agrees.
Eventually, you surrender to a group cuddle pile under the umbrella. Felix tucks himself under your arm, Seungmin rests his head on your thigh with a book open beside him, and Minho stretches across everyoneâs legs with Berry dozing peacefully against his stomach.
Changbin, Jeongin, and Hyunjin are still wet from swimming, huddled together in a sandy tangle on the next towel. Chan lays closest to you, his hand laced with yours in the warm sand.
The sun dips low, painting everything in honey and amber. You watch the light play across their faces, the people you love most, and feel full in the deepest, softest way.
âBest day off,â Felix mumbles, eyes fluttering shut.
âBest day,â Chan echoes, gently squeezing your hand.
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JJK boys who'd go wild if their girl gives good blowjob? Yeah. Have a great day. <3
áŻâ§ŕą¨ŕ§â Pretty Lips, Stuffed Tip.
⌠á´á´á´ á´á´É´ x Ęá´á´á´
á´Ę
đđ˛đ§đ¨đŠđŹđ˘đŹ: Sucking your boyfriend off. Smut, NSFW, Head.
ę°á´á´á´á´Ęɪɴɢ: Gojo Satoru, Kento Nanami, Toji Fushiguro, Ryomen Sukuna, Geto Suguru & Choso Kamo.
ɢá´á´á´ ęąá´á´á´Ęá´ .á
Not that you'd know, maybe, But his mind goes on an absolute overdrive when you start running your tongue over his length. Gripping the armrest of the couch like his life depended on it when you engulf him in your mouth. He's so happy, so giddy, his hand already sliding down to tilt your chin up, his eyes rolling back when you look at him while sucking him off. He just forgets that he's some damn cocky idiot who's high and mighty, he is genuinely that bewitched, so helpless and right where you want him to be, he still wouldn't admit it though. But you can just see how hazy his eyes are, he looks so wrecked. He looks down at you with so much adoration and desire, like you've just made his day. He bites his lips, he has to literally recall every single event that has passed in his life just to not finish so easily, because damn, this is too much, you are too much. "This one time I...fuck, I'm gonna cum-.. I got stuck in a locker-..ngh."
á´á´É´á´á´ É´á´É´á´á´ÉŞ .á
He just can't deny you like this, and you know that. He can't deny it when you ask him so pleadingly if you can suck him off under his office table. "Kento, please. You won't even notice I'm under your desk. Please." With those vixen eyes? He's sold. "Fine." He says, giving in. But before he can react, he's already in your mouth and he has to suppress a gasp because, "Holy Shit..you're taking it so well, love." His head falls back against his chair, eyes shut closed as his fingers tangle in your hair, guiding your movements. Low groans leaving his lips as he gently urges you to take more of him, slowly, surely. His reports are forgotten, scattered on the table, he can do anything but focus on those at the moment. His glasses are long tossed aside, tie loosened because damn the weather's hot today.
á´á´á´ÉŞ ę°á´ęąĘɪɢá´Ęá´ .á
It's nothing new for him, right? Nothing surprising, right? Wrong! Because that's literally anything but what his reactions tell you. He tries, tries and fails to retain his cool image, but he can't help the shivers speeding down his spine when you swirl your tongue around his tip, taking it in your mouth in a deep, and painfully slow way, one that makes him physically ache with need. "Come on, sweetheart, take more of my dick." He whispers, one hand wiping the sweat off his forehead and the other on your hair, gripping them to keep you stable while he bucks his hips, pushing himself deeper in your mouth. You can't see it, but the way he's panting a little more than usual, his dick twitching in your mouth, his muscles tightening, veins bulging out from restraint, you know you've got him so wrapped.
ĘĘá´á´á´É´ ęąá´á´á´É´á´ .á
How bad could it be? He looks at your pleading gaze and assumes the best scenario. But oh boy, was he so wrong. Not that he'd admit, never in hell would he let you know just how much your tongue around his dick his getting to him, how your hands squeezing his shaft is making him almost dizzy. He's too prideful to say that. "Look at you, such a-..mmf..fuck..such a good girl." His breathing is shallow, ragged, words sputtering borderline incoherent when your swollen lips eagerly take him in. He is panting too much, like he's just been caught off guard. He is shivering, gripping onto an armrest for his dear life while he lifts his hips to let you take him in further. When you look up at him with slightly teary eyes, gagging a little at the size, he can feel himself getting close already. He's never been this pathetic and you've never been more proud.
ɢá´á´á´ ęąá´É˘á´Ęá´ .á
Is still sooo cocky even as you suck his dick, because he just can't let you know how bad he's falling apart on your tongue. The way your tongue traces all his length before taking it in, inch by inch, is enough to make him lose his mind. "Mmgh..Good girl..You're taking me so..ngh-..well." His cheeks go red, he's genuinely sweating as you keep sucking his dick, he's trying so hard not to finish, gripping the nearest surface, running a hand though his own hair as his head falls back with a loud groan, which he's quick to silence by biting his lip. His hand soon finds it's way on your cheeks, cupping it gently as he pushes himself deeper, and when his eyes open, falling on you, when you look up at him with those eyes, he's genuinely panicking so bad, hair scattered across his face, sticking to his forehead as he meets your gaze.
á´Ęá´ęąá´ á´á´á´á´ .á
He can't help it, he really can't. He knew he was screwed in for the best time since you asked him if you could suck his dick. He looks at you with so, so much love and desire in his clouded eyes, like you're a saint preaching sins. He's whimpering, so, so pathetically but he's far too lost to care. He cups your cheeks, thumb stroking the skin as he grunts, "Shit, you're so..mmh..f-..freakin' good, sweets." He whispers out breathlessly, his tone hushed while you take his inches deeper, running your tongue across. He's clinging onto your hair like a lifeline, his eyes blown wide a minute, and then shut tight the next. He's biting his bottom lip so hard you could see it turning red as he pushes in deeper. He's whining, groaning with whispered pleas for you to take him deeper. He's never felt so good before, and never been so noisy before either.
Thank you so much for reading .á
Reblogs would be highly appreciated .áđ
#jjk#jjk smut#jjk x reader#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru#gojo x reader#geto suguru x reader#geto suguru#geto x reader#kento nanami x reader#nanami kento#nanami x reader#ryomen sukuna x reader#ryomen sukuna#sukuna x reader#toji fushigro x reader#toji fushiguro#toji x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen#choso kamo#choso kamo x reader#choso x reader#jjk x you#gojo smut#geto smut#nanami smut#sukuna smut#toji smut#choso smut
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all the little moments đ b.b
pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader
warnings: so, so much fluff
summary: bucky tries to remember the moment he fell for youâbut it wasnât just one. it was every laugh, every late night, every quiet second beside you. and he finally realises, heâs been falling all along.
word count: 4.7k
author's note: hi my loves! i absolutely loved writing this! thank you @buckyismysafehaven for your request đ i hope i got it right! thank you guys for reading!! love ya guys and stay safe out there! requests are open!
The bedroom is quiet.
Not silent, the low hum of the ceiling fan stirs the air, the soft buzz of the city seeps through the walls, but quiet in the way that wraps around you. It was gentle, familiar and safe.
Outside, the moon is high and full, casting its silver glow through the parted curtains. It spills across the sheets in soft waves of light, catching in your hair, brushing the curve of your cheek. Painting you in silver.
And Buckyâheâs lying there beside you, unmoving, watching you breathe.
He should be asleep.
The day had been long. A mission brief that dragged on, the kind of sparring session that left his muscles aching, a too-quick dinner with the team where he had barely touched his food. He should be out cold.
And he isâjust not in a way that lets him rest.
His arm is draped loosely over your waist, the dip of your back pressing into the warmth of his chest. He can feel the steady pull of your lungs, the rise and fall of your breathing, even and peaceful. A little hitch in every inhale, like your body forgets itâs safe and has to relearn the rhythm.Â
He knows that feeling. A little too well.Â
You make a quiet sound in your sleep, something between a sigh and a murmur. and it knocks the air from his chest. A fragile, instinctive kind of sound thatâs so you it aches. Like your soul is brushing against his without even knowing it.
It never gets easierâloving you.
Not because youâre difficult to love. God, no.Â
Youâre the easiest thing heâs ever known. Thatâs what scares him. Thatâs what keeps him awake tonight, blinking into moonlight and trying to gather the pieces of a feeling thatâs far too big to hold.
Because it crept in quietly, and it stayed loud.
Sometimes, like now, he finds himself trying to trace it. Trying to find the precise moment it all shifted, the second everything inside him stopped running, and turned toward you.
There had to be a moment. Right? One blink. One breath. One laugh. One look.
Where something inside him softened, where the walls cracked just wide enough for you to slip through. Where you reached him, not the soldier, not the weapon, not the caution-taped pieces of a man, but him.Â
The part no one else could seem to find.
Was it when you touched him like he wasnât fragile? Like your hands already knew how to hold what everyone else had dropped?
Was it when you argued with him about The Princess Bride at 3 in the morning, eyes bright, voice sharp, utterly unafraid of him?
Was it when he realised he wanted to argue with you forever, just to keep hearing you talk?
He doesnât know. Not really.
But the question sits heavy in his chest tonight. Settles into the quiet like a second heartbeat.
When did he fall for you?
He looks at you again.
The moonlight makes you glow, not in some poetic metaphor, but really. Soft skin and warm breath and shadows curving at your jawline like you were carved for this moment.Â
Thereâs a crease between your brows, like youâre dreaming of something that doesnât quite sit right. He wants to smooth it away with his thumb. Wants to take whatever burden youâre carrying and hold it himself.
But he doesnât move. Just watches.
And maybe thatâs what love really is.
Not always doing. Just being. Being the one who notices the little things.
How your lip quirks when youâre about to wake. How you press your face into the pillow when the wind howls. Or how you always keep one arm out of the blanket, even when youâre freezing.
His fingers twitch, aching to touch, memorise and hold you.
He breathes in slow, careful. Like if heâs too loud, he might wake you.
And againâ
When did he fall?
It isnât loud. It doesnât echo. Itâs not a scream or a cry or a revelation. Itâs just there. Steady. Present. Just like you.
Maybe it wasnât one moment at all.
Maybe it was a thousand tiny ones, the quiet seconds, split between laughter and comfort and breathless stares, that slipped past him before he ever realised how deeply they mattered.
Maybe heâs still falling. Even now.
He exhales, a soft breath ghosting past your ear, and shifts closer. His arm tightens slightly around your waist, not possessive. Just something quieter.Â
He leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder. Barely there.Â
You donât wake. But you shift in your sleep, inching back into him, like your body knows the shape of his even in dreams.
And Bucky closes his eyes, chest full, heart aching in the best way.
Mind already driftingâ
To the first time he laughed wholeheartedly. To the night you stayed up talking.
To all the pieces that led to this moment.
It started with the smoke alarm.
Loud, relentless and shrill enough to pierce vibranium.
Bucky was halfway down the hall when he smelled itâburnt sugar, maybe?
Burnt something. The scent clawed at his throat. He picked up his pace, boots heavy against the tile as the shrieking alarm dragged on.
By the time he burst into the kitchen, it looked like the aftermath of a food fight staged in a war zone.
Yelena stood frozen near the stove, oven mitt dangling from her fingers, smoke curling from a tray of what used to be croissants.
John was shouting something about protocol and âfire triangle theory,â which no one was listening to.
Alexei was on his knees in front of the smoke detector, swatting at it with a spatula like it had insulted his mother. Ava was holding a fire extinguisher in one hand and a coffee mug in the other like it was a normal Thursday.
You were leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a bowl of batter still in front of you. Perfectly calm.
And thenâ
The tray slipped from Yelenaâs hands. It hit the stove with a loud clang. A poof of flour shot up like an airbag.
Alexei screamed. Loudly. Dramatically. âMY EYESââ
And amidst all of itâno panic. No drama. Just your voice, clear and dry, like it had been waiting for the perfect moment to land.
âThis is why we donât get invited to normal places.â
Dead silence.
Then chaosâagain, but different.
Yelena cracked first. Let out a wheeze so sharp it echoed through the room. John burst into laughter so hard he had to brace himself against the fridge. Alexei wheezed through smoke and tears. Ava didnât even try to hide it, just laughed into her mug, bright smile on her face.
And Bucky?
He broke.
It started slowâjust a breath he didnât realize he was holding. Then a laugh. And then another. He bent forward, hand braced against the island, the sound torn straight from his chest like it had been waiting for this moment.
Not the polite kind of laugh heâd give politicians, not the guarded kind.
It was full-body. Shoulder-shaking. Head-tilting-back kind of laugh.
Because it wasnât just what you saidâit was how you said it.
Like you werenât even trying. Like the disaster unfolding around you didnât faze you anymore. Like you knew the team too well, and this exact kind of chaos was just another Tuesday.
You didnât even flinch when they all looked at you, faces red and breathless, wiping tears and coughing from the smoke.
You just raised your brow and added,
âHonestly guys, this is better than last week. No stitches this time.â
Yelena doubled over.
John made a choked sound, grin on his face as he sighed.
Alexei, wiping flour off his face mumbled âshe rightâ
And Buckyâhe couldnât stop laughing.Â
He didnât want to. Not yet.
Because for once, the heaviness in his chest had cracked wide open. And inside it, there was nothing but light. Laughter. And you.
He watched you move through the chaosâgrabbing a towel, waving smoke away from the oven, nudging Yelena gently out of her daze.
You werenât flustered. You werenât demanding praise.
You were just holding them all together like it was the easiest thing in the world.
And god, you were funny. Not in a loud, performative way. You didnât crack jokes for the sake of attention.
You just saw the absurdity and named it. Softly. Calmly. With perfect timing. And somehow, that made it so much worseâfor his composure.
Later, when the kitchen had been aired out, when the croissants had been buried in the trash like fallen comrades, and everyone had migrated to the common room to recover, he sat beside you on the couch.
Not too close. But close enough.
You were reading something, feet tucked beneath you, hair still dusted with flour.
He watched you for a long time before he spoke. Then, quietly:
âYou always that calm in a crisis?â
You didnât look up. âWhat, like emotionally or logistically?â
He huffed a quiet laugh. Shook his head. âBoth.â
You finally glanced over at him, eyes warm, the smallest tug of a smirk at the corner of your mouth.
âItâs a talent.â
He was quiet for a second. The team had settled into the kind of silence that comes after shared laughter â breathless and soft, like theyâd all needed it and didnât even know.
Then he said it. Low. Honest.
âI havenât laughed like that in years.â
You turned to face him fully then. The teasing gone. Smile still there, but quieter nowâsofter, edged in something that looked a lot like understanding.
You didnât joke. Didnât deflect. Just held his gaze and said:
âThen Iâm glad I got to be the one.â
And for a moment, he couldnât speak.
Because that was it, wasnât it?
That warmth. That steadiness. That way you made everyone feel like they belonged â even him.
Especially him.
The memory drifted, softenedâ âand now, here he was.
The quiet of your shared room, the soft rustle of blankets as he shifted onto his back, careful not to wake you.
You were curled against him, one leg tangled with his, your hand resting gently against his chest like it had always belonged there.
He lied beside you in the dark, the bedroom quiet except for the steady sound of your breathing. Moonlight poured through the half-open curtains, painting silver across your cheek, the slope of your shoulder.
He didnât move, didnât speak. Just watched. And thought about that moment.Â
âI think it started then,â he thought, âwhen you made me feel like I could laugh again," he admitted to himself.
Because it wasnât just the joke. It was you.
And all it took was one fire, one broken croissant tray, one perfectly timed line, and heâd started to fall.
It came to him out of nowhere.
One moment, Bucky was lying in the dark beside you, still, warm, breathing in the quiet. And the next, his mind wandered.
The slow rise and fall of your chest, the curl of your fingers resting gently against his ribs, the safe, rhythmic hush of the nightâit pulled him under.Â
And suddenly, he wasnât in the bedroom anymore. He was somewhere else.
A kitchen. A memory.
Not a loud one, just something small and steady. One of those moments that pressed itself into the shape of him when he wasnât looking.
The music had been lowâsome oldies playlist shuffled into a classic. Something bright and brassy. The kind of beat you couldnât ignore if you tried. He couldnât even remember the song now, just the way it had felt: light and loose and alive.
And youâyou were dancing.
Wearing one of his shirts that he had lent you and never got back. Too big, too soft, the sleeves stopped at your elbows and the hem just barely covered your thighs. Bare feet on the kitchen tiles. A wooden spoon in your grip like a microphone as you swayed and spun.
Heâd only meant to get water. But the second he stepped into the room, he stilled.
You hadnât seen him. Not yet. You were lost in the music, mouthing the lyrics like they belonged to you, hips moving with the kind of ease that couldnât be faked. The stove hissed quietly behind you, some sauce or soup still bubbling. Alpine wove around your legs, tail flicking, like sheâd been part of the choreography all along.
Bucky leaned against the frame and watched.
You danced like no one had ever told you not to. Like the world didnât weigh on you. Like there was still magic left in the mundane.
You twirled again, laughing as your spoon nearly slipped from your hand. The music glitchedâjust for a beatâbut you didnât stop. Just clicked your tongue and spun again, sliding across the floor like you owned it.
His chest ached.
He hadnât realized he was smiling until his face hurt. Hadnât realized he was holding his breath until he let it out on a soft exhale that didnât sound like his own.
There was a light in you.
Not flashy, not bright like a star. But steady. Warm. Like a candle left in a windowsill, stubborn against the wind.
You moved like someone who had known darknessâbut chose not to live there. Someone who had every reason to be bitter and decided to choose joy instead. It wasnât performative, it wasnât naive, it was real.
And it gutted him.
That warmth bloomed in his chest again now, in the presentâslow, consuming. The same one heâd felt. Familiar and still somehow too big to name.
The song ended. You turned, startled, a little breathless, eyes wide.
âOh my god,â you gasped. âHow long have you been standing there?â
He crossed his arms, leaning casually. "Long enough to question your multitasking skills."
You flushed, stirring the pot without meeting his gaze. âYouâre lucky these arenât burnt.â
âIâd eat them anyway.â
The way you looked at him, thenâsurprised, soft, like something shifted in the air.
The silence between you held.
You turned back to the stove. âYou want some?â
He hesitated. âIn a minute.â
The moment passedâbut it stayed
And now, in the hush of the bedroom, with your hand curled over his chest and your breath warm against his skin, Bucky thought about it again, felt that moment again.
That light. That laughter.
The ache that wasnât pain at allâjust a kind of fullness that made him feel like maybe he could be more than just what the world had left behind.
And now, Bucky wondered:
"Was it then? When you were just... dancing like the world hadnât broken you?"
Because maybe thatâs when it started.
When you had slowly weaved through the cracks of his walls and into his heart.
Bucky sighed as he turned to look at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. You were still fast asleep beside him, breath soft against his shoulder. The next memory played before he could stop it.
It came back to him on a night that had crept in colder than most.
The compound's heater had broken down days ago, and despite the teamâs best efforts, namely John wrestling with the thermostat and Alexei threatening it with a wrench, it hadnât come back to life.Â
Blankets had been hoarded, socks pulled up over sweats, and everyone resigned themselves to the kind of chill that sank into the bones.
Bucky hadnât minded at first. Cold didnât bother him the way it used to.Â
Not really.Â
But tonightâit was more than the cold. His thoughts had been loud. Restless. The kind of noise he couldnât drown out, not with sparring, not with long walks through snow-covered paths around the compound. They followed him, nipping at his heels, dragging him into a version of himself he was always trying to stay ahead of.
By the time he made it to the common room, his breath puffed out in faint clouds. His sweatshirt hung heavy on his frame, damp at the collar from the wind. His shoulders ached. And all he wanted was quietâthe kind that didnât echo.
And then, he saw you.
Curled into the corner of the couch like a storybook illustration, knees tucked beneath you, wrapped in that oversized knitted throw you always stole from the armchair. A book was open in your lap, pages bent slightly from how long youâd been holding it, your eyes locked on the words like they held the entire world.
The fire Alexei had finally gotten going crackled low in the old fireplace in the corner casted flickering gold across your features. Outside, the wind howled. Inside, it was quiet, peaceful.
And BuckyâŚhe stopped.
Stopped in the doorway. Stopped breathing, maybe. Just for a moment.
Because there was something in that imageâsomething so quietly lovely it rooted him to the spot.
You were frowning slightly at the page, brows furrowed, lips parted like whatever twist had just hit the plot caught you off guard.Â
Your whole body was slack with comfort, one arm burrowed beneath the blanket, the other resting on the back of the couch as if it had always known that spot.Â
Like you belonged there. Like you always had.
He didnât want to disturb you. He didnât want to move at all.
Eventually, though, you looked up. Caught him standing there, halfway between the hall and you.
You smiled.
It wasnât big or showy. Just soft. Familiar.
âHey,â you murmured. âYou look cold.â
He was, now that you mentioned it. He just hadnât felt it before.
You lifted the blanket wordlessly, just a small shift of your hand, a space made beside you.
A quiet offer.
And Buckyâhe crossed the room like he always meant to. Sat down. Let the weight of the day and the cold and everything else fade when the blanket draped over both of you.
The heat of you soaked into him slowly. Your thigh pressed into his. Your arm settled back across the couch, fingers brushing his shoulder like a second thought.
You didnât speak. You didnât need to.
You just turned another page.
He leaned back, let the fire crackle, let your presence ground him.
Time passed like that. He didnât keep track. Didnât care to, he just sat with you. In the warmth you created.
He didnât even know the book. It didnât matter.
What mattered was how peaceful you looked. How easily you shared your quiet with him.Â
No expectations. No forced conversation.Â
Just⌠space.Â
Yours. His.
Shared.
Now, lying beside you in bed, your hand warm against his chest and your breath soft against his neck, Bucky thought of that moment again.
The space you made for him without asking why he needed it.
And he thought, "maybe it was then. When you gave me quiet without asking for anything in return."
Because love hadnât broken down his door. It hadnât come with grand gestures.
It had arrived in a soft smile and a space made beside you.
And heâd been falling ever since.
Heâd already fallen for you. Bucky knew that now, as clearly as he knew his own name. He didnât remember when it had startedânot exactly.
Maybe it had crept in slowly, like water seeping through old stone, maybe it had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to be noticed.
But it was that night, that quiet, aching nightâsomehow made it undeniable.
It didnât just confirm what he felt for you, it was carved into him.
It was one of those nights, the kind that made sleep feel impossible.
The storm outside had rolled in sometime past midnight, all low rumbles and steady rain, tapping against the windows like a lullaby with no melody.Â
Thunder growled like it had bones to pick with the sky, and the wind sighed through the corridors of the compound, long and low. Not quite violent. Just persistent. Just enough to keep the restlessness in Buckyâs bones humming.
He hadn't even tried to sleep. Not really. His body ached, not from pain, but from presenceâthat awful, too-familiar feeling of being in it. In his own skin, in his own mind, too aware of the quiet, too aware of the weight in his chest that never quite left. There were nights when it dulled. Nights when he forgot. But tonight, it sat there, aching.
So he drifted.
Down the halls, past the rooms with closed doors and quiet breathing. Until he found himself in the common room, drawn by the dim glow of a flickering emergency light and the faint shuffle of movement.
You were there.
Blanket draped over your legs. One arm cradled around a cup of tea, the other curled beneath your head. The couch sagged gently beneath your weight. You looked up when he entered, eyes soft, tiredâbut not surprised.
âYou too?â
He nodded. âStormâs loud.â
You didnât say anything for a beat. Then, âOr maybe our minds are louder.â
That made him huff a quiet sound. Not a laugh, exactly. But close.
You gestured at the couch. âCome sit? Might as well not sleep together.â
He blinked, and you immediately made a face. âYou know what I meant.â
He chuckled under his breath and took the spot beside you. You shifted to make room, the blanket spreading to cover both your legs. The warmth of you hit him slowly, like a tide instead of a flame. No rush. No pressure. Just there.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
The quiet stretchedâbut it didnât feel heavy. It felt full. Like a space that had been waiting for the both of you to fill it.
You were the first to break it.
âOkay. Worst date youâve ever had.â
He blinked. âWhat?â
You looked at him, mouth tugged in a sleepy grin. âWorst date. Everyoneâs got one. Donât say you donât.â
He exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the couch. âAlright. â42. This dame fell asleep halfway through the movie. Woke up, asked who I was.â
You snorted. âWow.â
âYeah. I think she thought I was someone else the whole time.â
Your laugh was soft, real. âThatâs kind of impressive.â
âYour turn.â
âBlind date. The guy said he ran a startup. Which turned out to be code for unemployed. Also wore crocs to our date. Bright yellow ones.â
He winced. âThatâs worse.â
You nodded. âAnd I stayed for the entire dinner. So really, I lost.â
He laughed. You did too. It bloomed between youâgentle, quiet joy. The kind you didnât have to earn. The kind that just happened.
The storm rumbled again. But it didnât feel so loud now.
âSteve used to love nights like this,â Bucky said, almost absentmindedly.
You turned slightly, your smile fading into something softer. âYeah?â
He nodded, eyes on the ceiling. âWeâd sneak out of camp sometimes. When we could. We would sit on rooftops and talk about what we would do when the war was over.â
You didnât interrupt. You let him go on.
âHe always said heâd find a place with a porch, you know the real quiet ones. Said he wanted peace, but not too much of it. The kind that makes you grateful.â
You were quiet for a moment. âDid you ever find a place like that?â
His throat worked. âNot really.â
âMaybe not a porch,â you said, gently. âBut you found the peace part. Or youâre getting there.â
He looked at you then. Really looked. And something in him shifted.
You leaned forward slightly, knees brushing his. âI miss her,â you said. âNat. I still hear her voice sometimes when I train, telling me to keep going, that I always had it in me.â
âBet sheâd be proud,â he said softly.
âI hope so. She always saw more in people than they saw in themselves.â
You were looking at him when you said it. Not pointedly. Just⌠truthfully.
His hand was resting on the couch between you. Yours wasnât far.
The room felt warmer now. Not from the storm. Not from the tea. Just you. Sitting close. Speaking like it was safe. Like the night wasnât so long. Like maybe this was the kind of quiet Steve had meant.
You nudged his foot gently with yours. âWeâve both lost a lot.â
He nodded. âYeah. But⌠Iâm starting to think not everything is gone.â
Your fingers touched. Neither of you moved.
You looked down at themâjust barely brushing. Then up at him again.
âDo you ever think about the moments that change everything?â you asked.
He nodded. âYeah.â
âI think this might be one of them.â
And there it was.
That ache in his chest that wasnât painful. That warmth that was too big to name.
He didnât kiss you. You didnât kiss him.
But your faces were inches apart, your breaths mingling. You leaned your head onto the couch cushion. He turned to face you, his eyes steady on yours.
The silence returnedâbut it wasnât empty. It was full.
Of everything unsaid. Of everything still coming.
You fell asleep like that. Fingers laced. Breaths in sync. Noses almost touching.
And Bucky stayed awake a little longer.
Just to look at you. Just to be there.
Because something about that nightâthe laughter, the closeness, the weightlessnessâfelt like more than a memory.
It felt like a beginning.
Was it that night? he wondered, when I didnât want to fall asleep because I didnât want to stop looking at you?
Maybe.
Maybe thatâs when it started.
Or maybe heâd been falling long before.
But this? This was the moment he knew.
The room was quiet. Not silentâjust full of the kind of stillness that came when everything had settled. The kind that felt earned. The kind that made you want to breathe softer, like even sound might disturb it.
Bucky lay there beside you, his chest rising slow, your body warm against his. You were curled toward him, fingers tucked near your chin.
He didnât move. Didnât blink. He just⌠looked at you.
And thought about all the moments that had led here.
The burnt croissants. The laughter. Your laughter. The way you danced in his old t-shirt like nothing in the world had ever broken you. The nights you let him talk about Steve, about the war, about the things heâd lost without flinching. Without pity. Just⌠listening. Staying.
And that night on the couch when your fingers had found his in the dark, and youâd fallen asleep inches apart like it had always been meant to happen like that.
He thought about all of it.
And this ache bloomed in his chest, not the sharp kind. Not the kind that clawed. But a full ache. Heavy and thick and alive. Like love had taken root somewhere behind his ribs and grown too big to contain.
Because he knew. He knew.
It hadnât been just one moment. It had been all of them.
A quiet accumulation of grace. Of breathless laughter and wordless comfort, of light handed to him again and again, until he finally believed it was his to hold.
Every glance, every silence, every shared second where you just let him be, all of it had been falling. Quiet and certain. Like gravity, like truth.
He didnât know how to carry something this soft. This good. But god, he wanted to try. He wanted to hold it right. Carefully. Like it was something sacred.
He reached out slowly, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. You stirred, just barely, and leaned into him, like your body knew his touch even in sleep.Â
Like something in you had decided that he was the one..
He pressed his forehead to yours.
Closed his eyes.
"It was always you," he whispered, voice low and raw.Â
And it was true.
He hadnât just fallen in love with youâhe had unraveled into it. Slowly. Completely. Like warmth spreading through frostbitten limbs. Like air returning to lungs that didnât know theyâd been holding.
He loved you.
So deeply it scared him. So honestly it steadied him.
Not in grand gestures, but in quiet knowing. In the way your presence never demanded anything from him.Â
He kissed your temple, slow and steady, and the weight in his chest didnât crack this time. It settled.
"I love you," he said, softer now.Â
Like it had always been true. Like it would always be.
Just a twitch of your mouth. Just enough to let him feel it again, that bloom. That quiet, endless warmth.
He stayed like that, forehead against yours, hand cradling your waist almost as if you were something precious.Â
Someone he'd never stop choosing.
Because for once, Bucky wasnât afraid of loving someone this much.
a/n: i had so much fun writing this!! i hope this love finds all of us! đ
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x y/n#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes smut#bucky x reader#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky fanfic#bucky barnes one shot#bucky barnes au#bucky barnes angst#bucky barnes fluff#bucky angst#bucky fluff#bucky x you#james bucky barnes#james buchanan barnes#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky fic#sebastian stan#sebastian stan smut#sebastian stan fluff#sebastian stan angst#sebastian stan x reader#sebastian stan x you#marvel#mcu#marvel au
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