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sunbeamlessreads · 2 months ago

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Let Him See - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot

❝ He kisses you like he’s waited for permission. And that’s what makes you break. ❞

[oscar piastri x reader]

~8.2k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, emotional neglect, infidelity, porn with plot, smut, possessive behavior, complicated breakup dynamics

lando stopped seeing you. oscar never missed a thing. now the whole paddock knows.

notes: i tried writing in present tense for this, which really isn't in my ballpark. not sure if i loved it, but maybe i'll do more of it later on. i’m sorry i made lando out to be such a dick. i promise ill make up for it!! enjoy! <3

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The McLaren party is elegant in that vaguely overstated way team events always are—polished chrome fixtures, dim gold lighting, and drinks served in glasses that clink too delicately for the kind of tension simmering beneath the surface.

You walk in on Lando’s arm. A black strapless dress hugging you like it was tailored in vengeance. The ruffled ruching along the bottom cascades like spilled ink with every step you take. You planned everything—the heels, the bold red lipstick, the subtle shimmer in the inner corners of your eyes. All for him.

He barely glances down at you.

Lando says something to a passing engineer, nods at a sponsor, then slips out of your grasp as naturally as water slipping through your fingers. No one notices the slight shift in your balance when he lets go. But you do.

You’re left standing beside a bar you didn’t want to be near, surrounded by people who smile too brightly and ask questions you don’t want to answer.

You’re his girlfriend—the public face of a dying relationship neither of you have the courage to end. He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. He’s across the room within minutes, grinning down at a woman in a red backless dress, hand resting low on her spine. It’s a familiar stance. You’ve seen it before. You’ve even been on the receiving end of it—back when he still bothered.

Your chest aches, but you don’t flinch. Not here. Not while people are watching.

Someone asks you if you want champagne. You decline with a polite smile, then excuse yourself—something about needing to take a call, voice breezy, unbothered.

You step out of the ballroom like you’re slipping out of a skin that doesn’t fit anymore.

The hallway is dim and mercifully empty. You exhale, back against the cool wall, and pull your phone out of your clutch—blank screen. No missed messages. No excuses to stay outside longer than you should.

You open WhatsApp. You type a few words. Delete them. Start again. Then stop. You let your head tip back until it rests against the cool wall, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

You wore this dress for him.

You practically starved yourself all day, got your makeup done by the same artist who preps you for photoshoots, shaved every inch of your body until your skin ached—and he didn’t even look at you.

A sharp sting pricks behind your eyes, but you blink it back. Your mascara is too good to waste on someone who hasn’t kissed you in public in weeks.

You shift your weight in your heels. They’re taller than you usually wear—he once said he liked when you looked just a little out of balance, like he had to catch you. He hasn’t caught you in a long time.

The hallway feels like limbo. You’re not sure if you want to scream or vanish. The silence settles over you like a second skin—until it breaks.

“Hey.”

You look up.

Oscar stands a few feet away. Hands in his pockets. Brows knit with something like concern—or maybe anger, but not at you.

You straighten up instinctively, “Hey.”

His gaze flicks toward the ballroom, then back to you, “He didn’t even notice you left.”

Your voice catches before it comes out, “He never does.”

Oscar doesn’t speak. He just stays there, watching you like you’re not crazy for feeling the way you do.

For a few seconds, that’s enough.

You look away first. Not because you’re embarrassed—but because his eyes are too steady, too full of something that burns beneath the surface. Like if you look too long, you’ll start crying or say something you can’t take back.

Your gaze falls to the floor, to the veins in the marble tile, to the perfectly manicured hand holding your clutch like it’s the only thing holding you together.

Then, softly—like the truth finally scraping its way up your throat—you speak.

“He does this a lot,” you murmur, “Leaves me at these things. Flirts with whatever blonde he hasn’t slept with yet. Sometimes it’s just talking. Usually it’s not.”

You swallow. The bitterness coats your tongue.

“And I’m supposed to smile through it. Pretend I don’t care. Because we’re McLaren’s golden couple, right? I look good enough on his arm, and he looks better in the photos. Win-win.”

Oscar doesn’t interrupt. He stays where he is, still but attentive, like if he moves too fast you might break.

You don’t stop. It’s pouring out now.

“I tell myself it’s fine. That I knew what I was signing up for. That it’s just how he is. But then I see the way he touches them—like they’re interesting. Like they matter.”

Your voice drops, quiet and sharp:

“He hasn’t looked at me like that in a long time.”

The silence after that is loud. Heavy.

You take a shaky breath and force out a dry laugh. “God. I sound pathetic.”

“No,” Oscar says immediately, “You sound hurt.”

You blink. His voice is too honest. Too kind.

It cracks something wide open.

“Of course I’m hurt,” you whisper, “I feel disposable. And maybe I am. Maybe that’s why I don’t leave. Maybe I’m scared if I do, no one else will want me.”

Oscar moves then.

Just a step. Slow. Controlled. Like he’s grounding himself.

“That’s not true,” he says, sincerity and care laced in his voice.

You lift your eyes to his. His tone doesn't match how furious he looks. Not at you—never at you—but at everything you just said. At every bruise Lando left behind that didn’t show up on your skin.

“I’m tired of watching him hurt you,” he says, voice like steel wrapped in silk.

The breath catches in your throat. You didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect him to say it. Not so simply. Not so seriously.

You fold your arms across your chest, trying to find a shield in sarcasm. It’s the only armor you have left.

“What, you want to make him jealous or something?” A laugh, light and mocking. A shrug, “Go ahead.”

You don’t mean it. It’s a deflection, a defense. Something to push him back before he gets too close to the bleeding parts.

But Oscar doesn’t laugh.

He steps in.

Close.

Too close.

You feel his hand brush the side of your face, gentle fingers slipping behind your ear. He pauses—waits for you to stop him—and when you don’t, he tilts your chin just enough.

And then he kisses you.

Your body locks. Every muscle goes taut.

Your lips are frozen against his, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

But his mouth is soft. Steady. Patient.

He kisses you like he’s waited for permission.

And that’s what makes you break.

You melt.

Fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt, you kiss him back. Rough. Desperate. Furious with yourself for how good it feels. For how long you’ve wanted this, buried it, pushed it down under years of Lando’s carelessness.

Oscar groans when your hips tip into his.

The kiss deepens. His hands grip your waist—hard, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, grabbing fistfuls of cotton like you need to hold on or you’ll collapse.

You hit the wall with a soft thud. He doesn’t stop. You don’t want him to. One of his hands finds your bare thigh where your dress has shifted, the other cradling your jaw.

He kisses you like he needs to prove something. Like he’s making up for every second Lando didn’t touch you.

You moan into his mouth—too soft, too shocked at yourself.

He pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips.

You’re both breathing heavily; you more than him.

Your lipstick’s ruined. His pupils are blown. His chest is rising and falling like he’s just come off a cooldown lap.

Then—voice low, rough, shaking with restraint—he says,

“Room 321. If you mean it.”

And he steps back. Hands still curled like he wants to reach for you again.

But he doesn’t.

He leaves you standing there in a dim hotel hallway, breathless, shaking, lips tingling, with your heart slamming against your ribs and your mind screaming that something just changed forever.

Room 321.

You stare at the number plaque for a moment.

You knock once, and the door opens like he was already standing behind it—waiting.

Oscar stands in the soft glow of the hotel room, still in his suit pants, white shirt rumpled with the top two buttons undone. His jacket’s folded neatly over the back of a chair. His hair’s a little mussed like he’s been running his hands through it since he left you.

His eyes land on your lips first. Then your throat.

Your lipstick is smudged from the hallway kiss. You didn’t fix it. You didn’t want to.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there. Chest rising slowly. Eyes locked on yours. There’s something sharp in his silence—not anger, not regret. Restraint.

You step into the room slowly. The door closes behind you with a dull thud that feels heavier than it should.

He still doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

The tension crackles between you like a tripwire no one wants to step on first.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly, eyes dark.

Your chest lifts, lips parted slightly as you look at him across the room, “Then tell me to leave.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he takes a slow step forward.

You mirror him.

Another step. Closer. Breath catching.

Until there’s no more distance between you.

He reaches out—hesitantly—fingers brushing your chin, then trailing along the line of your smudged lipstick.

“You look like you’ve already been kissed,” he says.

You breathe, “You did that.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I did.”

That’s when the tension snaps.

The second his mouth meets yours again, everything else dissolves.

It’s rougher this time. Starved. Less like a kiss and more like a confession torn from his chest. His hands cradle your jaw, fingers pressing just beneath your ears like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you. Your arms loop around his neck instantly, your body melting into his like it always belonged there.

His tongue slips past your lips, hot and slow, as your backs bump blindly into the desk behind you. A McLaren cap falls to the floor unnoticed. You gasp softly into the kiss, and he groans into your mouth like it’s killing him not to take more.

His hands slide down your arms, then to your waist, where he grips you tightly—not to push, not to rush. Just to hold. Just to feel.

You don’t pull away when he reaches behind you and finds the zipper of your dress. It comes down slowly, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet of the room. His knuckles brush your spine as he guides the fabric off your shoulders.

You’re still kissing when it falls to your ankles.

Still kissing when you push his shirt off, fingers slipping under the undone buttons, palms brushing warm skin. He shrugs it down his arms and lets it fall with a soft rustle to the carpet. His pants follow soon after, as you blindly undo his belt and unbutton them.

His hands don’t leave your body. Not once.

You walk backward together, mouths fused, breath short, until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you.

Then he bends slightly and lifts you—carefully, like you might shatter in his arms—and lays you down on the sheets as if it’s an offering.

Your hair fans out against the pillows. Your chest rises and falls quickly. Oscar stands over you for a second, chest heaving, jaw tight, eyes moving across every inch of your skin.

Then he climbs onto the bed and kneels between your thighs.

You watch him watch you, lips parted, body burning.

He leans in and kisses your neck—softly at first.

Then lower.

And lower.

Down the column of your throat, over the swell of your chest. He shifts the fabric of your bra aside, reaching beneath you and removing it gently, with trembling fingers, and kisses the curve of your breast, then bites gently.

You gasp, fingers grasping at the sheets.

He sucks gently—and when he pulls back, there’s a blooming red mark just beneath your collarbone.

Then another. Between your breasts.

Then one lower, over the swell of your ribcage.

He takes his time. His mouth moves down, and you lose count of how many places he claims with his lips and teeth.

You squirm as he shifts, adjusting on his knees to reach lower, pushing the edge of your panties aside so he can press another kiss just above your hipbone—then right at the inner curve of your thigh.

He sucks there, too. A long, slow draw that makes your fingers fist the sheets.

“Oscar—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice husky, “Let me leave them.”

Another bite. Another mark, just shy of the place where you’re already aching for him.

“I want him to see every single one of these.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

You’ve never been kissed like this—not for show, not for ownership, but for the sheer need to leave a piece of himself behind on your skin.

By the time his mouth trails back up your thighs, your panties are damp with heat and your breathing’s gone shaky.

Oscar leans up, one hand bracing beside your waist. His other hand finds the waistband of your panties and begins to ease them down—slowly. Carefully. Like unwrapping something delicate.

He watches your face the entire time.

They slide down your legs with ease, and he tosses them aside.

You’re bare for him now—fully, completely—and you’ve never felt so seen.

He kisses your knee. Then the inside of your thigh again. Then finally, finally, his mouth hovers over where you need him most.

You’re already soaked. He groans when he sees it.

“Fuck. Look at you. I’ve thought about this,” he says softly, eyes fixed on where you’re already wet for him. “So many times.”

You can’t answer. You can barely think.

His hands spread you open gently—reverently—and then his mouth is on you.

Warm. Wet. Soft.

The first stroke of his tongue is unhurried, a slow drag from bottom to top that makes your spine arch off the mattress. You gasp, hips twitching, but his grip is firm on your thighs.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against you.

He licks again—long and deliberate—then presses soft kisses to your clit, switching between his tongue and his lips like he’s tasting something he wants to savor.

You moan—high and broken—and he groans back like he feels it.

His hands hold your thighs open, thumbs stroking slow circles into your skin. You’re writhing now, overwhelmed, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly with every passing second.

Your fingers claw at the sheets. You feel it coming, your body locking up—

Until he pulls back.

Your hips lift off the bed, chasing the loss, but his hands still you.

He leans in, kisses the inside of your thigh again—slow and deep—a soft, open-mouthed press that lingers just long enough to leave another blooming bruise.

Then he hovers over you, mouth wet, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, “I can feel it. You’re shaking.”

You nod, lips parted, breath stuttering.

His hands slide up your thighs, grounding you—but instead of returning to where you’re desperate for him, he pulls back more.

“Don’t come yet.”

Your brows draw together, lips twitching in protest, “What—why—?”

Oscar leans in again, hand wrapping around your thigh to hold you open as he presses a kiss just above your aching heat.

His voice is low, but firm, “Because I want to be inside you when you fall apart.”

The authority in his tone makes you clench around nothing. You whimper as he sits back on his heels, rubbing his palms over your thighs in soothing strokes.

“Please…” you whisper.

His mouth tilts into the faintest smirk—not smug. Hungry.

Then he crawls back up your body, leaving another trail of slow kisses across the bruises he’s left down your chest.

“You don’t come without me tonight,” he says quietly against your skin. “You understand?”

You nod, barely breathing.

“Say it,” his tone is demanding, but not impatient.

“I—I won’t come until you’re inside me,” you surrender.

He moves back up to kiss you—soft at first, then deeper, longer—as he reaches over to the nightstand. You hear the foil tear, the familiar sound grounding the moment in something real. His body shifts against yours as he sits back briefly to roll the condom on, his breath catching as his hand moves.

Then he’s back above you—one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand sliding down to guide himself to your entrance. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick and so ready.

But still, he pauses.

“Are you sure? You won’t regret this later?” he asks, voice quieter now. Not demanding. Not coaxing. Just open.

You reach up, cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek.

“Yes. I’m sure. I want this. I want you.”

Oscar exhales—one soft, shuddering breath—and presses his forehead to yours for a moment, like he’s soaking those words in.

He sinks into you slowly—not teasing, just careful, controlled, like he’s doing something sacred. His hips press forward inch by inch, stretching you open, filling you fully until your thighs tremble against his sides.

You gasp, clutching his biceps, head tipping back into the pillows, “Oscar…”

“I know,” he breathes. “Fuck, I know. You feel—”

He cuts himself off with a groan, jaw tightening as he bottoms out, “So fucking tight. Like you were made for me.”

He stills inside you for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking with the effort of not losing it too soon. He brushes your hair away from your face with the gentlest touch, his palm cupping your cheek like he’s afraid you might break if he lets go.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” you whisper, “Move. Please.”

So he does.

The first thrust is slow and deep, rolling through your whole body. His hips pull back and push forward in a smooth rhythm that feels like worship. Each time he fills you, you feel more of yourself unravel, like he’s stripping you bare with every stroke.

He kisses you through it—long, lingering kisses against your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs, “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

You breathe it against his lips, broken and honest:

“I’m yours.”

He groans, burying himself deeper.

His pace stays steady, grounding—not brutal, not rushed, but deliberate. Like he wants to make this last. Like he needs you to feel it for hours after.

His hand slides down your side to grip your thigh, pulling your leg up around his waist to angle you just right—and when he thrusts again, you choke on a moan.

“Right there?” he pants.

You nod frantically, eyes wide and wet.

“Yeah, baby. That’s it,” He stumbles through his words, deep within his own pleasure, “You take me so well.”

You cling to him like he’s the only real thing in the world, his name slipping from your lips between soft gasps, your body clenching around him, slick and pulsing and completely his.

When your orgasm hits, it’s not sharp—it’s deep. A wave that rolls through you, full-body and consuming. You cry out, and he swallows the sound in a kiss, fucking you through it with soft praise and steady hands.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let go. I’ve got you.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he kisses the corner of your eye.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, “You’re safe.”

He comes only seconds later, thrusts stuttering, mouth falling open against your neck. You feel him groan into your skin as he grips your thigh and spills into the condom, his whole body shaking with the effort.

And when it’s over, he doesn’t pull away.

He just collapses into you—gently—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapping around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his hold.

You lie there tangled in each other, your fingers brushing through the damp hair at the nape of his neck, your thighs still parted around his hips.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t have to.

You’re both suspended in that quiet stillness—the kind that only comes after something real, something that changes the shape of you.

After a long moment, he shifts slightly, careful not to crush you. His hand strokes your thigh where it’s still curled around his waist. He places a soft kiss on your cheek, then another on your jaw. Then he pulls out gently, drawing a small whimper from your throat.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, brushing his hand down your hip, “You okay?”

You nod. Your voice is still trapped somewhere in your chest, so you let your hand answer for you, fingers curling around his bicep. He disposes of the condom quickly, then returns to the bed without hesitation, lying beside you and immediately pulling you into his arms.

He doesn’t ask if it was good.

He doesn’t need to.

Instead, he cradles you, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other brushing soft fingers through your hair.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “Just… a lot.”

You feel his smile against your forehead. His hand slides up and down your back, slow and steady, grounding.

“Hey,” he says gently after a pause. “You don’t… regret this, do you?”

You shift slightly to look at him. His eyes are wide, open, vulnerable—stripped of all the heat and control from earlier. He’s just Oscar now. Soft-spoken and careful with your heart.

You shake your head slowly, “No. I don’t.”

His shoulders relax.

“Okay,” he says, “Good. I just—I need you to know…”

He hesitates, thumb brushing your side, “This doesn’t have to mean anything. If it was just about him—if it was just something you needed to do — that’s okay.”

You blink. His voice is steady, but there’s a hint of sadness tucked into it. Like he means what he’s saying, but part of him hopes it isn’t just that.

You slide your hand up his chest, over the steady beat of his heart, “It wasn’t just about him.”

His brows lift slightly. You lean in and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t mean anything.”

Oscar exhales—slow and shaky—and you see the tension leave his body like someone just untied a knot that’s been there for months.

He pulls you in tighter. You tuck your head beneath his chin, leg slipping between his, arms around his torso, his scent already warm on your skin.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “Stay?”

You nod against his chest, “I want to.”

You fall asleep like that—in his arms, his fingers tangled in your hair, your body marked with proof of what happened.

Not revenge.

Not just sex.

Something.

The first thing you feel is warmth.

Oscar’s chest beneath your cheek. His arm still slung around your waist. The faint hum of city life beyond the hotel windows. You blink slowly into the early light, your lashes brushing the skin of his collarbone.

He’s already awake.

You can feel it in the way his fingers trace lazy, absentminded shapes along your back. He’s not in a rush. Not trying to move you. Just… there, soaking the moment in.

You shift slightly, stretch, and wince a little—your thighs ache, in the best way. Oscar immediately pauses.

“Sore?” he says, voice still rough with sleep.

“A little,’ you respond quietly.

He kisses your forehead, “Good sore or… need-an-ice-pack sore?”

You snort, hiding your smile in his chest, “Good sore.”

He hums, content. His hand returns to your back. You both stay still for a few more seconds—not talking, not overthinking—just breathing together.

Then, softly, “You don’t have to sneak out,” he says, “You can walk out like you belong here.”

You glance up at him, “I kind of do belong now… don’t I?”

His lips lift into a tired smile, “Yeah. You do.”

You press a soft kiss to his jaw before finally sitting up, the sheets slipping down your body, baring the constellation of love bites he left down your chest. His eyes flick to them, and his smile shifts—pride, possession, a little satisfaction.

“He’s gonna see those,” he says.

“Good,” you echo, voice quiet but sharp.

You find your underwear, pull on your clothes from the night before — everything still wrinkled from the floor. You go to the mirror, fix your hair just enough, and borrow his hoodie. He watches you do it all in silence.

Before you leave, he stands, cups your face in both hands, and kisses you slow. Sweet.

“See you down there?”

You nod, “Yeah. I’ll be around.”

You open the door.

Step out.

And you’re not five steps down the hall before you hear the elevator ding.

You hear the sound of footsteps before you register anything else—then the shift in atmosphere. Heavy. Cold. Unwelcoming/

You turn.

Lando steps into the hallway off of the elevator, coffee in hand, hoodie tied low around his hips, damp curls falling over his forehead like he just stepped out of the shower.

He doesn’t speak right away.

He just stops—eyes locked on you—and stares.

At the heels.

At the wrinkled black dress from last night.

At the hoodie hanging off your shoulders—Oscar’s '81' hoodie.

Then his gaze lands on your neck.

The bruises.

The silence stretches, thick and venomous.

“Wow,” he mutters, taking a slow sip of his coffee, “Didn’t think you’d stoop that low.”

You raise an eyebrow, heartbeat steady, “Funny. I was thinking the same about you for the last six months.”

His eyes flicker—a flash of guilt, gone in an instant.

“So what, then?” he snaps. “You fuck my teammate to even the score?”

You shrug one shoulder, “I didn’t realize we were still keeping score.”

“You really let him leave those on you?” His voice cuts sharper now, bitter, “Is that what you’re doing now? Walking around marked up like a fucking trophy?”

“He didn’t do it to prove a point,’ You step closer, just enough, “He did it because he wanted to touch me. Because he actually looked at me.”

Lando’s jaw clenches,

"You’re still mine.”

That’s when you laugh—not cruel, but quiet. Final.

“No, Lando. I was never yours,” you say with a confidence you didn’t know you possessed, “I just played the part.”

His lips part like he wants to fire back, but no words come.

You walk past him without another glance, heels echoing softly against the hotel carpet. His coffee hand twitches like he wants to stop you—to say something that could undo what he just saw.

But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

The bruises on your neck do all the talking.

The tension hits before you even step onto the concrete.

You’d heard whispers all morning—something about a joint media pen meltdown, Lando snapping mid-question, storming off, Oscar handling it with trademark calm. Nobody quite knows why. No one’s saying anything aloud. But everyone feels the shift.

Especially in the McLaren garage.

The energy is tight. Controlled. Like an engine revving just a little too high.

You move through it like a blade through silk.

Sunglasses on, McLaren pass hanging low on your chest. Hair neatly pulled back, hoodie zipped halfway. You tried to cover the hickeys— light foundation along your collarbone, you hadn't expected to need color corrector on this trip—but Monaco’s heat is unforgiving. The bruises are starting to bleed through the coverage, soft and red and obvious.

You don’t adjust your zipper.

Let them wonder.

As you step through the divider into the team area, a few heads turn. You're familiar enough to them. People don’t stare—not directly—but eyes flick. Conversations pause. It’s subtle, but you’re used to it by now.

Oscar’s standing just to the side of the media tent, debrief notes in one hand. He looks up the second you appear—and though his expression doesn’t change much, you catch the tiny lift at the corner of his mouth. Just for you.

He doesn’t come to you.

You don’t go to him.

Not yet.

You pass close enough that your arm brushes his, and the heat between you sizzles like something private. He doesn’t look, doesn’t touch.

But he says, quiet enough for only you to hear, “He cracked.”

You smile faintly, “I heard.”

“They asked about quali, he said something about ‘teammates knowing their place.’”

You raise a brow, amused, “Classy.”

“Zak pulled him out. Press has no idea what the fuck he meant,” Oscar says, with a hint of boyish triumph laced in his voice.

“But you do.”

He doesn’t answer that—just smiles again, a little wider this time.

You walk past him and take your place in the viewing area beside one of the engineers. From across the garage, you feel Lando’s eyes land on you. Just a flicker.

Just long enough.

He sees the bruise peeking above the collar of your hoodie. The faint outline of teeth just beneath your jaw.

He looks away.

You don’t need to say a word.

Oscar already said it for you—with his mouth on your skin, with his name on your lips, with every mark he left behind.

Qualifying starts, and Monaco doesn’t give anyone room to hide — not on track, and definitely not off it.

From the team pit wall, you watch it unfold through tinted lenses, headset perched loosely around your neck.

Oscar’s smooth. Fast. Calm through Sector 1, surgical through the hairpin. Lando’s twitchier. Overcorrecting. Radio sharp. He goes wide into Turn 12 and mutters something that gets bleeped on the live feed.

The garage knows.

Everyone knows.

Even the engineers are glancing at each other between data runs. The tension hasn’t lifted—it’s just gone quieter. Deeper.

Zak walks past you once, then again, and doesn’t say anything.

You don’t move.

Oscar finishes P3. Lando P7.

When Oscar’s lap time flashes on the board, there’s a flicker of something like satisfaction in the way he lifts his visor. He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t gloat. Just pulls back into the garage like he’s done his job—and knows you were watching.

You head toward the back hallway after the session ends. Quiet space behind hospitality, where the drivers come through before facing the press.

You’re leaning against a wall when you hear the voices before you see them.

Lando’s.

“Why don’t you tell them what you were really thinking on that last lap?”

Oscar’s.

“Excuse me?”

Lando’s.

“You wanted to beat me. You needed to. Don’t act like this was just another quali for you.”

Oscar’s voice is quieter, cooler, “Every quali, I want to beat the guy next to me. That’s the point.”

Lando laughs, sharp and joyless, “You think you’ve won something, don’t you? Some prize of a woman?”

You step into view.

They both go quiet.

Oscar’s eyes flick to you first—not surprised, not smug. Just aware. Present.

Lando sees the faint hickey blooming again, the one the foundation couldn’t fully hide, and his jaw ticks. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to.

You tilt your head, “Everything alright?”

Oscar looks at Lando for half a second longer, then turns to you.

“Yeah,” he says, calm and even. “We were just clearing the air.”

This earns him a glare from Lando.

You smile at Oscar, brush your hand lightly along his arm as you pass.

Lando stays frozen.

It’s dark when you find Oscar again—rooftop level, away from the noise. He’s leaning on the railing in his McLaren hoodie, watching the city lights flicker over the water.

You slip in beside him.

He doesn’t look away from the skyline.

“He’s pissed,” Oscar says.

“He’ll stay pissed,” you admit quietly.

“He’s not just mad about it being me,” a beat, “He’s mad because he never thought you would leave him.”

You nod, fingers grazing the edge of the railing, “He never thought I’d let anyone else touch me.”

Oscar turns to you then. The tension’s gone now, burned out somewhere between the lap and the hallway. He notices you shivering and removes his hoodie, handing it to you without a word.

“Do you regret it?”

“No,” you respond, more assurance in your voice than the last time he asked. You turn fully toward him, “Do you?”

He just looks at you—steady, thoughtful, something softer than anything he’s shown all day.

Then he shrugs one shoulder and smiles faintly, “Not even a little.”

You lean in.

Kiss him.

The kiss is soft—nothing like the one in the hallway, or the ones from last night, hot and breathless with desperation. This one is calm. Confident.

Yours.

Oscar’s hands rest lightly on your waist, the cool night breeze lifting strands of your hair between you. Monaco glitters below, impossibly golden. You kiss him once. Then again. Slow. Unrushed. Like no one’s watching.

Except someone is.

You don’t notice it at first—the small mechanical click behind you. Subtle. A shutter. A camera lens adjusting to the low light.

By the time you pull back, it’s already done.

Oscar’s head lifts just slightly, eyes narrowing toward a corner of the rooftop—barely visible through a line of glass. Not press-official. Paparazzi freelance. The ones who sell exclusives when the media team’s off-duty.

“Shit,” Oscar mutters under his breath.

You turn, eyes locking on the shadowed figure just as they duck behind cover.

Too late.

“Think they got it?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Oscar nods slowly, expression unreadable, “Yeah. They got it.”

You exhale—not panicked. Just… bracing.

Because the image will drop. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow morning. You in his arms, mouth on his, Oscar’s hoodie on your shoulders, his fingers curled around your waist like he’s holding something that matters.

It’s not a rumor anymore.

It’s not a whisper in the paddock hallway or a locker room assumption or something Lando only suspects.

It’s proof.

The photo drops sometime after 2 a.m.

It’s soft. Intimate. The Monaco skyline blurred behind you, Oscar’s hands gentle on your hips, your lips brushing his in a kiss too tender to be casual. You’re wearing his hoodie, your body leaning into his like you belong there. The headline spins fast, and the image spins faster.

“Piastri and mystery girl— late-night kiss confirms more than paddock rumors.” #MonacoGP #OP81 #McLaren #F1WeekendRomance

By the time the sun rises over the harbor, the image has circled the globe. Instagram reels. Reddit threads. Private group chats with McLaren team tags.

Some know who you are. Others ask. Everyone guesses.

No one’s surprised.

Not even Lando.

He sees it around 6 a.m. His phone buzzes with the notification, a WhatsApp ping from someone in media: “Bro…?”

He clicks it, thumb slow, still groggy from a half-slept night.

The image fills his screen in just about a second flat.

And for a second, he doesn’t feel anything at all.

Then it hits—slow and thick, like cold water spreading under his ribs. He stares at the photo, eyes scanning over the curve of your smile, the way your fingers curl into the back of Oscar’s shirt, the undeniable ease in your body.

You look happy.

He hasn't seen that look on you in months.

The worst part is how quiet the fury is—how it doesn’t come out loud, how it just sits there in his chest.

He doesn’t throw the phone.

He just stares, jaw tight, thumb hovering above the screen like he could rewind the moment and undo it.

But it’s already out.

And nothing will unsee it.

The paddock is different that morning. The kind of quiet that’s not actually quiet—just loaded.

Oscar walks in calm. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t shrink. He gives one quick nod to Zak, another to the comms lead. Then walks into the garage like he hasn’t just become the most searched man in F1.

Lando’s already in the back, zipped into his fireproofs, eyes locked on the telemetry like it might give him something to hit. When Oscar appears beside him in the media pen, the tension is immediate—even before the interviews start.

“Oscar,” one reporter says, half-laughing, “you’ve been trending all morning. Surprised by the attention?”

Oscar’s lips tug into a polite half-smile, “Not particularly.”

“Balancing a fast lap and a fast… personal life?” someone else jokes.

He doesn’t miss a beat, “One lap at a time.”

Lando laughs then—too sharp, too loud, “He’s got more than enough time to focus on everything else, clearly.”

The PR handler stiffens. The reporters go quiet. One camera clicks. Someone tries to move the topic on, but the moment lands.

Oscar doesn’t react. Just folds his arms across his chest, gives a small smile, and looks straight ahead.

You hear about it an hour later.

And when you enter the garage, it’s like parting smoke. The space tenses. Heads turn. No one quite meets your eyes, except for Lando —a glance, sharp and quick, from across the space.

He looks away.

Oscar doesn’t.

You find him standing near the screens, headset tucked around his neck, one hand in his pocket. He sees you and offers the smallest, softest smile.

You pass close. Don’t touch. Don’t stop.

But your fingers graze his as you go.

He breathes like it’s the first time all day he’s been allowed to.

Later, after the final briefings wrap, you find him alone behind the paddock—tucked into a quiet service alley, the marina glittering beyond the concrete walls.

He doesn’t hear you approach. Just stands with his back to you, hands braced on the railing, still in his gear. His shoulders rise and fall in slow rhythm.

You stop beside him.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then, “So,” you murmur, “that’s one way to go public.”

He huffs a laugh. “Guess we don’t get to control the timing.”

You glance sideways at him. “Regret it yet?”

He finally looks at you — eyes soft, voice quieter than it was all day, “Not even a little.”

You nod slowly, “Me either.”

He exhales, like that’s what he was waiting for.

“It’s going to be loud,” He warns

“I know.”

“He’s not going to take it quietly,” Oscar adds.

“He’s not my responsibility anymore.”

Oscar studies your face — the calm in your expression, the steadiness in your voice — then lifts a hand to your jaw, thumb brushing gently beneath your cheekbone.

“If it gets messy—” Oscar starts.

“We’ll deal with it,” you reassure him with a confidence foreign to you.

He nods once.

"Good luck out there."

The Monaco sun glints harshly off the harbor, but the air inside the McLaren garage is colder than it should be. Everyone’s already seen the photo. The photographers couldn’t have asked for a cleaner shot.

No one says a word about it — not to your face. But there’s something in the silence. The way engineers glance between Lando and Oscar before looking away. The way a strategist clears his throat before relaying sector data like he’s afraid it might ignite something.

You stay quiet. Poised. Present in the garage like you’ve always been. Just another figure with a headset and a McLaren pass. Except now, yesterday's bruises aren’t just hickeys—they’re headlines.

Oscar’s composed during formation laps, fully in the zone. Lando, on the other hand, can’t seem to keep still. His fingers twitch on the wheel. His visor drops early. And when he lines up behind Oscar on the grid, his car nose to the back of the #81, the message is clear:

He’s not racing for position.

He’s racing him.

The lights go out at the start, and the tension snaps taut.

Oscar gets off the line clean. Fast. Aggressive, but composed—the kind of driver who cuts through chaos like he’s above it. He settles into P3 behind Leclerc and Max, calm radio calls rolling through your headset.

“Tyres feel stable. Brakes coming up nicely.” His tone is smooth. Professional. Locked in.

“Copy that, Oscar. You’re looking good. Just manage the gap.”

Lando, meanwhile, is chewing through the field from P7, but he’s not driving—he’s fighting. And it shows. He’s too heavy into the Nouvelle Chicane. Nearly clips the barrier at Mirabeau. Gets squeezed by Hamilton going into the tunnel and screams down the radio like it’s personal.

“Is anyone actually gonna call shit today, or should I just punt him off the fucking track?”

“Lando, stay focused.”

“Oh, now you want focus. Should’ve told golden boy to stay out of my way in quali.”

Twenty laps in, Oscar’s holding steady in third with tire wear perfectly balanced. Lando’s muscling his way up to P5, then P4 after a gutsy dive into Sainte Devote. It’s impressive. Chaotic. Pure Lando.

“Tell him if he’s going to block me, he better commit to it. This half-ass defending doesn’t help anyone.”

The pit wall tries to smooth it over.

“Copy, Lando. Maintain focus. Oscar’s running clean.”

There’s a beat of static. Then Lando again.

“If he wants to play team leader, he better drive like it.”

In Oscar’s car, there’s only quiet. Steady updates. Clean cornering. No rise. No reaction.

Just sector after sector of control.

But it’s Oscar who makes it look effortless.

Final laps tick down. Lando’s close—closer than he’s been all weekend—but not enough.

You watch the checkered flag fall from the garage viewing area, headset still clutched in one hand, heart thudding in your chest. Oscar crosses the line second—a solid, beautiful finish. No mistakes. No drama.

Lando follows in fourth.

The crowd roars. The team celebrates.

But inside the garage, the energy is split.

Half the crew glances toward the monitors. The other half glances toward you.

No one says anything.

But the silence speaks volumes.

The garage claps for Oscar’s podium. It’s not dramatic. No confetti. But the applause is sincere. You stay tucked to the side as he peels off his gloves and helmet, curls damp and jaw clenched with adrenaline.

He doesn’t look for you.

He knows you’re there.

The podium happens in a flash champagne, interviews, cameras. Oscar is graceful. Deflecting the kiss photo with a shrug:

”I try to keep focus on track. Everything else…” He shrugs. “That’s not what wins points. I let the track speak louder than the tabloids.”

Clean. Cool. Unbothered.

Lando’s post-race media scrum doesn’t go as smoothly.

His smile is too tight. His answers too short.

“Happy with your pace today?”

“No.”

“Anything you’d like to say about team dynamics?”

“I think a few people need to remember who they were before the cameras showed up.”

You’re not sure if it’s coincidence or fate. Lando's leaning against the wall near the back of the hospitality area, arms crossed over his chest, fire suit still half-zipped, sweat drying on his neck. The air between you tightens instantly.

He sees you before you speak.

“So that’s it?” he says, voice low, mocking, “You get your moment? Photo hits the press and suddenly you’re Piastri’s girl now?”

You keep your voice even. “It’s not about the photo.”

“No?” His eyebrows lift, “Looked like it. Looked like perfect timing, actually. Right before race day. You really going for the full storybook arc, huh?”

You cross your arms, matching his stance, “You think I planned that? You think I wanted to be caught?”

He snorts. “Certainly didn't stop.”

You step closer.

“You didn’t stop sleeping around. You didn’t stop ignoring me. You didn’t stop until I was already gone.”

His mouth twitches—not a smile. Something bitter.

“And you think Oscar’s different?”

“I know he is.”

He studies you then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to find the part of you that still belongs to him. The part he can poke and prod and control like he used to.

But it’s not there.

His breath stutters. He looks away—jaw tight, hands clenched.

There’s movement behind you.

Lando glances past your shoulder—posture tensing.

Oscar stands just beyond the corner. Silent. Watching.

But he doesn’t step in.

He meets your eyes—not Lando’s—and with one subtle nod, he turns to go.

Because he trusts you to handle this.

Because you needed to take this one yourself.

You find Oscar later by the hospitality coffee station, half-dressed down from his suit, fingers curled around a water bottle, his race boots unlaced. The crowds have thinned. The crew’s winding down. But he’s still here—waiting.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“You saw?”

“I heard,” he says. “Then I saw.”

He studies you.

“You handled him.”

You nod, then smile faintly. “So did you.”

Oscar lifts his water bottle and takes a sip.

You step closer. Not rushed. Just enough.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For what?”

“Not stepping in.”

“Didn’t need to,” he replies, “I knew you could handle him.”

You lean into his side, your hand resting on his chest. His arm slips around your back like it’s instinct.

There are still cameras around.

Still whispers.

Still fallout coming.

But for now, it’s just the two of you.

Still standing.

FROM PADDOCK DARLING TO PIASTRI’S MYSTERY GIRL: MONACO GP’S MOST TALKED-ABOUT WOMAN

Well, well, well. Things are heating up in more ways than one at McLaren—and this time, it’s not just on track.

In case you missed it (though how could you?), Oscar Piastri made headlines this weekend for more than just his flawless P2 finish in Monaco. The 23-year-old Aussie was spotted sharing a kiss with a woman who—until recently—had been very publicly linked to his teammate, Lando Norris.

Yes. You read that right.

The viral photo, snapped late Saturday night on a rooftop terrace above the Monaco paddock, shows Piastri in what can only be described as a very cozy moment with a mystery girl who fans quickly identified as Lando’s longtime (but reportedly estranged) girlfriend.

Wearing his hoodie. With his hands around her waist. And what appear to be love bites peeking out from beneath her collar.

(We zoomed in. Don’t act like you didn’t.)

The woman once seen at every race on Lando Norris’ arm is no longer just a grid-side accessory—she’s made it very clear whose garage she’s in now. And it’s not Norris’.

Neither Oscar nor the woman in question have made an official statement, but the body language has said plenty. The pair has been spotted multiple times, hand-in-hand, unabashed.

While reps for McLaren offered no official comment on the photo, the tension in the garage during Saturday qualifying spoke volumes. Sources inside the paddock describe Norris as “visibly short-tempered,” with one engineer claiming he was “racing like he had something to prove.” As for Piastri? Calm, composed—and, if we may, focused.

He brought home P2.

Norris? P4—and reportedly less than thrilled.

Let’s not forget: this isn’t the first time Lando’s off-track antics have made waves—rumors of infidelity have followed the Brit through the past few seasons, though they were often brushed aside by his ever-loyal girlfriend. Until now.

While nothing has been confirmed (yet), it would certainly appear that she’s Oscar’s now.

Whether this unexpected romance will fuel drama or just give Oscar a boost on track remains to be seen, but one thing’s for sure: we’ll be watching.

Very closely.

Stay tuned. The summer break’s never felt so far away.

#oscar piastri #op81 #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri smut #ln4 #mclaren #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 smut

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thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

Text

Anatomy of Want

summary: Jack Abbot never thought he'd be this undone over a resident. But you were unlike anyone he'd met—brilliant under pressure, quick on your feet, and impossible to ignore. What begins as admiration quickly becomes something deeper, something that simmers beneath every shared shift, until it threatens to boil over. warnings/notes: 18+ MDNI, age gap, slow burn, mutual pining, jealousy, praise kink, shameless smut, oral sex (f&m receiving), body worship, depictions of war scars, literally just an excuse to write jack abbot smut & you kissing his scars bc that man lives in my head rent free wc: 5.4k a/n: forgot i posted this on ao3 but not here :}

You joined the night shift in a flurry of quiet confidence and dazzling competence, and Jack noticed you immediately. It wasn’t just the way you handled patient load like clockwork, or how you navigated the trauma bay with a calm assurance usually reserved for seasoned attendings. It was the way you asked questions, the way you looked at problems sideways, the way you never folded, even when things got messy.

He told himself he was just impressed. That it was his responsibility, as your mentor, to push you. And he did—assigned you the trickiest cases, brought you into every complicated intubation, every crashing patient. You rose to each occasion like you'd been waiting for it, and Jack couldn't stop himself from watching.

"Nice call on that bleed in bay three," he said one night, as you stripped off your gloves, blood spattered on your gown. "You didn’t hesitate."

You shrugged, a wry smile on your lips. "Wasn't much time to, I could've acted faster."

He looked at you a beat longer than necessary. "Take the win, Dr. L/N."

That was how it went for months. Shifts passed in a rhythm he hadn’t felt in years. He trusted you. Relied on you. Admired you, yes, but more than that. There were moments—lingering looks across trauma bays, soft laughs shared over half-spilled coffee at 3 a.m., casual brushes of your hands when passing charts that lingered a beat too long.

Once, when you struggled with a stubborn intubation, he’d leaned in close, murmuring, "You've got this," low enough that it was meant just for you. His hand steadied your elbow, brief but grounding. You’d nailed the tube placement. He’d smiled the whole rest of the shift.

After the harder nights, he started climbing to the roof again. The first time he found you there—legs dangling off the ledge, coffee in hand, still in scrubs—he thought it was coincidence.

It wasn’t.

"Couldn't sleep either?" you'd said without looking at him, voice soft with exhaustion.

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

You didn’t say much after that. Neither did he. Just silence, and the hum of the city below, and a sense of belonging he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

Some nights, you’d pass a bag of vending machine pretzels back and forth in companionable quiet. Other nights, you'd trade war stories—the worst consults, the craziest saves—your voices low, private, confessions to the stars.

It was easy. Natural. Dangerous.

Jack tried to tell himself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just friendship. Just exhaustion.

But then there were the nights he caught himself watching you laugh at something small, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and his chest tightened with something he couldn’t name.

The tension built slowly, like pressure behind a dam.

Then came the morning you were signing out charts at the nurse’s station, still in your scrubs and rubbing at a bruise forming on your shoulder. Samira Mohan breezed in, bright-eyed, coffee in hand.

"Don’t forget," she said, pulling up beside you. "8pm tonight. David from anesthesia."

"Shit." You'd totally blanked. "I almost forgot, I'm sorry."

"You’re gonna be great," she assured. "He’s nice. And hot. Like... surgery hot."

You couldn't help the snort that escaped you. "What do I even wear? It’s been so long. I bought that one thing..."

Samira's eyes lit up. "Oh, the black lace set?"

"Samira!" Your hands flew up to cover her mouth, cheeks pink and lips pressed tight. "Keep your voice down!" The words came out tight.

"It’s classy!" she laughed, prying your hands off her mouth. "I stand by it. Black is always a good call."

Neither of you noticed Jack at the far end of the nurses' station, flipping through charts but not actually reading them.

He stood there longer than he needed to. Long enough to hear about the date. Long enough to hear about the lingerie. Long enough for his mind to start betraying him—already picturing you in it, delicate black lace against your skin, curves he'd only admired from a respectful distance until now. He wasn't sure whether he'd be more desperate to tear it off you with his hands or his teeth.

And something in him shifted. Just a little. But enough to curl his fingers tighter around the chart in his hands, to clench his jaw until it ached. You sounded hesitant, unsure, nervous in a way that didn’t track with the woman who could crack a diagnosis under pressure without breaking a sweat.

He heard the waver in your voice when you said, "I’m just… worried," and it rang in his head like bolded text. Jack knew you too well not to read between the lines. You weren’t worried about the guy—you were worried because someone else already occupied your mind.

And damn it, he wanted nothing more than for it to be him.

He didn’t want anyone else to be close to you like that. Not because he thought you needed protecting, but because he’d never met someone whose mind, whose hands, whose presence made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he could let someone in again.

Samira nudged you with her elbow, oblivious to the ripple effect her words had left in their wake. "Go home, take a nap, put on something that makes you feel good, and just... have fun, okay? It's your first night off in weeks—you deserve to enjoy it."

You hesitated, biting your lip. "I don't know... it's been a while. What if it's awkward? What if I forgot how to do this?"

She grinned like the devil herself. "You don't forget. It's like muscle memory. Besides, you’re hot. And smart. And wearing black lace. You'll be fine."

You laughed weakly, dropping your voice. "It's just... first date sex? After a dry spell? I feel like I'll crash and burn."

Samira waggled her eyebrows. "Best way to crash. Trust me."

A snap echoed through the room—the sharp, unmistakable crack of plastic breaking.

You and Samira both glanced up.

Jack bent calmly, retrieved the shattered halves of a pen from the floor, and tucked them into his pocket like nothing had happened.

You blinked. Samira blinked. Then shrugged and kept talking.

"Go have fun," she repeated, nudging you again. "Tonight's about you. No pressure, no expectations. Just... have a good time."

You nodded, though your heart wasn't in it. The twist in your stomach wasn't nerves about the date.

It was the thought of someone else entirely.

You smiled weakly and nodded, though your stomach twisted in ways that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with someone else entirely.

On your way out, you passed Jack by the charting station, offered him a quiet, "See you on Monday, Dr. Abbot." He gave you a tight-lipped smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Eight o’clock rolled around faster than you expected.

You stood outside the restaurant, already regretting your decision. The lace set beneath your outfit felt less like a confidence boost and more like a secret that didn’t belong to this version of the night. Still, you squared your shoulders and walked in, searching the tables until you saw a man wave—clean cut, kind smile, textbook charming.

David was, by all accounts, exactly what Samira had described. Funny, intelligent, a bit pretentious, but typical for your average resident. He complimented your dress. Asked about your shift schedule. Talked about scuba diving in Belize, his past summer at his parent's beach house.

But your smile stopped at your cheeks. You laughed at the right moments. You answered questions politely. And every so often, your mind wandered back to a different voice—rougher, lower, more familiar.

You thought of Jack’s dry wit. The way he tucked his hands into his scrub pockets when he was thinking. The sound of his laugh, more of a chuckle, rare but always sincere. The heat in his gaze when he really looked at you, like he was trying to hear what colors tinted your thoughts.

You forced yourself back to the conversation with rapid blinks, nodding at whatever David was saying about residency rotations and placements. He was nice. He really was.

So why did you feel like you were somewhere you didn’t belong?

Maybe it was the way David's hand reached for yours across the table, smooth and tentative, and how you instinctively pulled back before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t rude—just reflex. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel familiar.

Not like Jack’s hands—callused and warm—when they’d guided your wrist during your first real incision, steadying your nerves with his quiet presence. His grip had been firm, reassuring. You could still remember the way his fingers curled gently but purposefully around yours, the scent of antiseptic and adrenaline in the air.

David’s hand was too small. Too soft. Too unsure. There was no strength in it. No certainty. No experience.

God you were going insane.

"Sorry," you exhaled, offering him a polite smile. But your attention was already drifting, your eyes drawn to a familiar silhouette across the room.

Salt and pepper curls caught the neon light just right. Jack Abbot stood at the far end of the bar, one hand wrapped around a beer, the other resting on the wood tabletop, eyes cast toward the floor—until he looked up.

And found you.

Your breath caught. The background noise dulled to static. For a suspended moment, the two of you just stared. Time slowed. Jack didn’t blink. He didn’t look away.

He didn’t have to.

You felt it in your gut—the electric pull of something intangible.

David started talking again, but it was white noise. The clink of a glass, the hum of conversation, all drowned out by the weight of that look, of Jack watching you like you were the only person in the room.

And suddenly, you were.

You raised your wine glass slowly, holding his gaze as you took a sip. Jack mirrored you, bringing his beer to his lips with a quiet intensity that made your chest tighten. The silence stretched between you like a live wire.

Fingers tightening around the stem, you set your glass down with a little too much force, feigning a glance at your phone as if a sudden messaged had triggered a vibration. "Shit, it's an emergency," you lied, offering a rushed, apologetic smile. "Something came up at the hospital. I have to go. I'm so sorry."

David looked disappointed, but nodded, ever the gentleman. "Of course! Rain check?"

A small, apologetic smile tugged at your lips as you rose, shrugging into your coat. Pulse pounding in your ears, you threaded your way through the maze of tables, slipping out the door with a tight exhale.

Behind you, the scrape of a barstool echoed a second later—quick, deliberate.

Out in the cool night air, you rounded the corner into the alley beside the building, your breath misting as you leaned against the brick wall. The adrenaline had only just begun to settle in your bloodstream when you heard the trailing of familiar footsteps.

Jack Abbot appeared a moment later, turning the corner with his hands outstretched, his brow furrowed like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there until his eyes found yours.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low. He shifted closer to you, arms now crossed.

You nodded. "Yeah. I just... needed air."

A pause. Eyes dipped, then lifted again, something unspoken skating between you.

You cleared your throat. "How was your evening?"

Jack blinked at the pivot, letting it settle between you. "Uneventful."

"What were you doing at that bar?" you asked, an arch to your brow that softened the tension.

He allowed himself a grin, shoulders relaxing just slightly. "It’s my usual spot. Popular with the old folks."

"Samira did say it had a vintage charm to it when she picked it out," you replied with a smirk.

Jack scoffed at the poke at his age, making both of you laugh.

"Alright then," he countered, eyes narrowing with a spark of mischief. "What were you doing there?"

You hesitated, then exhaled a slow breath. "Ruining my chances of settling down."

His expression flickered.

"What?" You gave a half-laugh, smile twisted with self-deprecation. "Isn't that the whole point of dating as a doctor? Just a long game of figuring out how emotionally unavailable I still am and forever will be?"

Abbot sighed, long and quiet, like it came from somewhere deeper than just the moment.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him, curiosity tugging at your features. "Were you… waiting on someone?"

That gave him pause.

Jack stilled. The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a frown, not quite a smile. His gaze didn’t meet yours at first. He looked past you, to the mouth of the alley, like the answer might be written in the shadows or the neon lights beyond. Like if he stalled long enough, you might forget you asked.

"Not exactly," he started, voice rougher than usual.

You lifted a brow.

He exhaled again, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I didn’t come here for that. But when I saw you…" He trailed off, eyes finally locking onto yours. "Guess I started waiting."

Your breath caught. The weight of his words settled in your chest—slow and warm and heavy. Something about the way he said it made it feel less like a confession and more like an inevitability.

He’d been waiting. Watching. Wanting. The same way you’d been tiptoeing around the truth since you'd stepped foot into that ER—since the very first time your fingers brushed as he passed you a chart, since the first time your eyes met across the trauma bay, since that first quiet moment together on the roof.

With the dim alley light casting soft gold between you, something gave. Tension melted into gravity, and gravity into pull, pull into a quiet explosion. You stepped forward just as he did, meeting in the middle, neither of you saying a word. The kiss hit like floodgates bursting—urgent, aching, years of held-back desire finally snapping loose.

His mouth was warm, tasting of beer and something deeply Jack. His cologne clung to the collar of his coat, smoky and crisp, and you inhaled it like oxygen. Hands found your waist, large and steady, trailing down to your hips and cupping your curves like he'd memorized them long before ever touching. Your fingers curled around the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, needing more.

It felt like one of those messy makeouts from college—reckless, hungry, impossibly heady. But this wasn't some clumsy hookup. This was the culmination of every stolen glance, every almost-touch, every moment spent not saying the thing that burned between you.

You were both sober enough to know what this was—what it meant. When Jack pulled away, just slightly, his breath brushing your lips, his voice dropped into something gravel-soft. "You're not drunk?"

You shook your head, words catching in your throat. "One glass of wine. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

That was all he needed.

You surged forward, capturing his mouth again with a need that bordered on desperate. Jack backed into the wall with a soft grunt, pulling you in like the space between you had always belonged to him. His hands roamed—one sliding up to cup your jaw, the other finding your lower back, anchoring you like he was terrified you'd disappear.

The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing yours, tasting of mint and longing and everything unspoken between you. You whimpered into his mouth, fingers threading through the curls at the nape of his neck, feeling him shiver at the contact. He devoured you like a man starved, and when he pulled back, just enough to look at you, lips swollen and voice rough, he rasped, "Let me take you home."

You nodded, breathless, pulse thundering in your throat. The walk back to your apartment was quiet, the tension between you humming like electricity under your skin. Jack simply held your hand the entire way. The air crackled, your hand brushing his once, twice, before he finally laced your fingers together.

Arriving at your front door, your hands trembled slightly as you unlocked it. The weight of what was about to happen anchored itself deep in your stomach. You stepped inside, the warm light of your living room spilling over the hardwood floors. Jack hovered in the doorway, hesitant, until you reached for his hand again.

"Come in," you said softly.

He followed.

You led him to the couch, asking quietly if he wanted anything to drink. Jack shook his head, stepping closer until your bodies were barely apart.

"I don’t need anything," he murmured. "Except you."

You inhaled sharply, but before you could speak, his lips were on yours again—slower this time, reverent, like he was memorizing every contour of your mouth. His hands cupped your face as he pulled you closer, until you felt the full heat of him against you.

You reached for the hem of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, then your fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly. Jack took over, shrugging out of it with ease. Beneath, his skin was warm and firm beneath your wandering hands, the light dusting of chest hair catching the soft glow of your floor lamp.

Jack’s hands slid under the hem of your top, brushing up your sides, warm palms skating over bare skin. When he pulled it over your head and saw the black lace lingerie beneath—filigree against your skin, delicate and dark—his breath caught in his throat.

"That kid," he spat, "wouldn’t know how to take care you."

You managed a breathless laugh, the tension and heat between you turning reckless. "And what exactly does taking care of me imply, Dr. Abbot?" you teased, voice low and daring.

Jack's eyes darkened immediately, his fingers tightening slightly where they gripped your waist. "Everything you need," he rasped. "And more."

You smiled, bold with adrenaline, tipping your chin up toward him. "And you think you can handle me?"

He leaned in, mouth grazing your ear, voice wrecked and certain. "Sweetheart," Jack said, "I'm counting on it."

He unclasped your bra with one hand, letting it fall away before sliding his palms across your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate strokes. "You’re perfect."

You arched into him with a quiet gasp, his touch both soothing and incendiary. He kissed your neck, down your collarbone, until he was lowering you gently onto the couch.

"Let me take care of you," he said, voice hoarse with restraint.

Your only answer was a nod, a whispered, "Please."

Jack kneeled between your thighs, kissing his way down your stomach, murmuring soft nothings against your skin. He slipped your underwear down slowly, eyes locked with yours. He paused only briefly, kissing the inside of your thigh before taking two fingers and teasing them along your entrance.

You gasped, hips bucking as he gently eased a finger inside, curling it expertly. "So wet for me," he murmured, awed. "God, you’re dripping."

And then he was lowering his mouth to you, tongue parting you gently. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, your back arched and your fingers dove into his hair, holding tight.

Jack groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. "I could live here," he muttered. "Die happy between your thighs."

You whimpered, tugging harder at his hair. "Jack—please—"

He didn’t stop. His tongue moved in rhythm with his fingers, slow at first and then faster, guided by your every gasp and shudder. The sound of him—soft groans muffled against your slick, the wet sounds of his mouth working you over—had your skin tingling. The taste of you seemed to drive him wild, his chin slick with your arousal as he murmured, "Fucking incredible," into your core.

His fingers curled just right, finding that perfect spot with unerring precision. Your moans spilled out freely, hands clutching at his hair, holding him there. He groaned again, a sound of pure pleasure. "That’s it, sweetheart. Let go for me."

When it broke—when you shattered with a breathless, keening cry—Jack held you through it, grounding you with his strong hands bracketing your hips. His lips never left you, drawing out every tremble, every ripple of your climax until it became too much. Your thighs twitched, pleasure tipping toward the edge of pain, and with trembling fingers, you tapped gently at his shoulder. A silent plea for mercy.

He stilled instantly, pulling back with his mouth slick and eyes dark, but gentle.

You could only scoff, breath shaky and a smile of bliss coloring your face. Jack leaned forward to press a kiss to your thigh, tender and unhurried. "You’re unbelievable," he whispered, voice rough with awe and restraint.

He pulled back slowly, face glistening, licking his fingers clean before sucking them into his mouth, savoring every bit of your taste. Then he looked up at you like you were the only thing that existed. Like he'd just touched heaven.

As he kissed up your body, his breath fanned across your damp skin—each kiss a pause, a confession. His facial hair scraped lightly in contrast to the softness of his lips, leaving trails of heat along your ribs, then your collarbone. When he reached your neck, he lingered there, nuzzling the hollow beneath your jaw before pressing a kiss to it, like he couldn't get enough of the way you tasted, the way you felt, the way you breathed beneath him.

"Can I undress you?" you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. He looks up at you like the morning sky, warmth, admiration, and affection—but there's hesitation there too.

He swallows, jaw flexing slightly, before nodding. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Just... heads up."

You pause, thumb brushing the edge of his cheek. "Jack?"

His voice is rough. "You’ll see scars. From before. It’s not a big deal, just... some of them are pretty bad." He tries to laugh it off, but his eyes flicker away and his shoulders tense. Your heart cracks open at the vulnerability he rarely lets anyone see.

"Hey," you murmur, tilting his face back toward yours. "Whatever you’ve been through, whatever you carry—I want to see all of you. Every piece."

Jack's throat bobbed with a swallow, eyes glassy as he searched your face for doubt—and found none. His fingers brushed lightly along your jaw.

You undressed him slowly, fingers trembling as you tugged his belt open, then popped the button of his slacks. His cock strained against the fabric, an eager outline that made your mouth water. When you pushed his pants down, the sight made you pause—he was perfect. Not too much, not too little—cut, well-groomed, thick and just the right length. A light trail of hair led up to a stomach carved with muscle, the kind earned by years of hard work, not vanity.

You wrapped your fingers around him, gave him a few slow pumps, marveling at the weight of him in your hand. When you ducked your head and pressed a kiss to the flushed tip, he hissed softly, hand threading into your hair. You licked him experimentally, kitten licks at first, savoring the velvet softness of his skin, the way he twitched at every flick of your tongue.

You took him into your mouth, slowly, a few shallow bobs that had him groaning low in his throat. His other hand gripped the back of the couch behind you as his hips twitched forward, but just when you began to settle into a rhythm, he gently but firmly pulled you back.

Jack crushed his mouth to yours, desperate and breathless, his hands cradling your face. "Not like that," he murmured, voice trembling against your lips. "I’m not coming anywhere but inside you. I want to feel you, every inch, every heartbeat." He drew back just enough to look at you, something raw and uncertain flickering in his eyes.

"If you're sure," he whispered, thumb stroking your cheek, "I want to take care of you. Let you shut everything else out—just feel me."

You nodded, breath catching. "I need you."

His breath shuddered out, the last thread of restraint snapping in his chest. With worship and heat in his eyes, Jack kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, as if trying to memorize the very shape of your mouth. Reaching over to the end table, you pulled out a condom wrapper and tore it open, your fingers trembling with anticipation.

With a breathless murmur of his name, you rolled it onto his length—slowly, deliberately—giving him a few teasing strokes first. His cock twitched in your hand, heavy and perfect, and your thumb brushed over the slick tip, spreading the pre-cum like a promise. Jack's breath caught, eyes dark as he watched you, jaw clenched with restraint, like you’d just lit a match in a room full of gasoline.

He guided you down gently, his body pressing into yours, firm and certain, a grounding weight that promised not just desire, but devotion.

You moved first, hips sliding up and down in slow, deliberate strokes, and Jack almost exploded at how good you felt. Every part of him molded to you, surrounding you like safety and fire all at once. His hands cradled your face like something sacred, and the press of his chest against yours ignited sparks beneath your skin. You couldn't remember sex ever feeling like this—like your very soul was unraveling. It was almost a religious experience, divine and consuming, the way he fit with you, moved with you. It felt like surrender.

"Fuck." It punched out of Jack Abbot like a confession, like he’d been holding it in for months. You felt like pure velvet around him—tight, warm, impossibly soft, dragging him to the edge with every glide of your hips. His head tipped back for a moment, jaw clenched, trying to hold on. The sounds spilling from your lips—soft gasps, high whimpers, breathy moans—were branded into his memory already. God, he thought, if he could bottle them, he’d keep them forever. Hoard them. Pray to them for forgiveness.

Your hands were grasping onto whatever they could—his shoulders, the cushions, the curve of his neck—anything to anchor yourself. When your nails dug into his back, Jack groaned low and deep, the sound vibrating against your skin like a warning and a reward. He definitely had a thing for rough, and that knowledge thrilled you.

You leaned in, breathless, and whispered praises against his ear—how good he felt, how perfect he was, how he filled you like no one else ever had.

"Please," you begged, voice shaking.

Jack groaned, the sound catching in his throat. "You’re everything I've ever dreamed of," he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours. "You feel like heaven."

Your nails raked down his back, and he hissed through clenched teeth, clearly loving it. "You take me so well," he murmured, lips brushing your temple, his hand smoothing along your spine. "So fucking good—perfect, you’re made for me."

"Jack—God, please—don’t stop," you whimpered, arching into him. His rhythm faltered for a heartbeat at your words, his grip on your waist tightening like a man barely holding on.

"Never," he whispered. "Gonna keep you like this. You're mine."

Each word wrapped around you like silk, the praise as intoxicating as the rhythm of his hips. You drank him in like water in a desert, letting it fill every hollow part of you until you were burning with it—consumed, adored, alive.

Jack shifted, pulling you with him, guiding you until your hands were braced against the couch and your body arched for him. The air thickened as he pressed behind you, one hand splaying over your lower back, the other skimming down to grip your hip firmly.

He slid back inside slowly, a groan torn from his throat at the new angle. "Fuck, look at you—" he breathed, eyes roaming over the arch of your spine, the way your skin glowed beneath the dim lights.

Your breath caught at the intensity. He moved with purpose now, hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the dim light. His grip bruised in the best way, grounding you, guiding you, adoring you with every thrust.

Every movement lit you up, sending shocks through your body until you were keening, meeting him stroke for stroke. Jack leaned over you, one hand splaying across your lower back while the other slipped beneath to rub tight, teasing circles over your clit. The added pressure was too much, the timing of his thrusts too perfect. You were a whining mess, trembling and begging for release, the pleasure cresting like a tidal wave.

"That's it, baby," he groaned, his voice wrecked. "Let go for me. Give it to me."

You clawed at the cushions, barely able to hold yourself upright, your body burning at every point of contact. And when his teeth sank gently into your shoulder, scraping over sensitive skin and biting down with a growled praise, everything inside you shattered.

You came with a strangled cry, ears ringing, vision going white around the edges, the force of your orgasm crashing over you like fire and light. Jack held you steady, worshipful even now, as you pulsed around him—his voice in your ear, a low whisper of your name like a prayer he’d never stop saying. He pressed kisses down your shoulder blades, pausing to give you a break, his breath shaky with restraint.

Then, without a word, he gathered you into his arms, shifting you with care. He carried you up effortlessly, propping your legs over the edge of the couch so you were just hanging off, perfectly open for him. Nestled into the crook of your neck, Jack rocked into you with purpose, his thrusts slow but relentless, chasing his own release. Your hands wrapped protectively around his head, fingers stroking through his hair, grounding him.

"Are you going to fill me up?" you edged, voice breathless, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Have me dripping for days so everyone knows who I belong to?"

"Jesus Christ, Y/N," he gasped.

That was it.

Jack shuddered, a low, desperate groan escaping him as he pressed himself deeper into you. He trembled, a broken moan tearing from his throat. His fingers clutched your thighs as he buried himself to the hilt, the sound of your voice—the permission, the trust—pushing him over the edge. His release surged through him, hips stuttering as he spilled into you, heart hammering as he held you close, breathless and undone. He collapsed gently against you, all tension melting as he pressed a kiss into your neck, lost in the aftershocks of something that felt like more than just pleasure.

A long moment passed before he pulled back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, the edges of his eyes glistening with overwhelmed want, cheeks flushed with effort and awe.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he murmured, cracking with disbelief. His gaze searched yours—earnest, sincere, undone.

He leaned in again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, as if he couldn't stop reassuring himself you were real. "You okay?" he asked softly, still breathing hard. "Was that too much?"

You smiled through the afterglow, brushing your fingertips over his jaw. "I've never felt anything like that. It was perfect."

Jack exhaled a shuddering breath of relief, then smiled too—soft and disbelieving, like he’d just found something sacred.

Later, after the two of you had cleaned up and slipped beneath the covers, the world slowed to a hush. Jack lay beside you, one arm tucked beneath your shoulders, the other lazily tracing shapes across your skin. Hearts, spirals, question marks—he wasn’t thinking, just moving, touching, grounding himself in your presence.

The silence between you was full—not empty—with comfort and understanding, the kind only found in someone who sees every scar and stays anyway.

Your body ached in the sweetest way, muscles languid and sated. You felt Jack’s chest rise and fall with slow, steady breaths against your back, the heat of his body a constant balm. You turned slightly to glance at him, catching the way his eyes fluttered closed, then opened again to meet yours.

"Stay with me?" you whispered, though it wasn’t really a question.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple. "Always."

Every quiet morning after that was a sort of miracle—waking tangled in his warmth, with the sun filtering through the curtains and the scent of coffee already brewing. Even the hardest days felt lighter, the sharp edges dulled by his steady presence, by the simple truth that he was yours, and you were his.

And in that stillness, that shared understanding, you knew: this was only the beginning.

#the pitt #jack abbot #dr robby #dr abbot #jack abbot x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #shawn hatosy #noah wyle #dr abbot x reader #smut #dr abbot smut #jack abbot smut

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starktonyx · 2 months ago

Text

Alone in this shitty world (Bucky Barnes x Reader x John Walker)

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Word count: 2.4k

Description: After Yelena’s sudden outburst, the group scatters around the streets of New York. And, as if this wasn’t already the weirdest day of your life, you find yourself reaching to comfort the last person you ever thought you'd feel sorry for, John Walker. And Bucky is as confused as you are.

Content warnings: Supersoldier!reader, John Walker being a bitch as usual, protective boyfriend Bucky, mental health talk, hurt/comfort.

Note: After watching Walker’s storyline in this movie I felt like I needed to write some hurt/comfort with him. Enjoy!

Masterlist

"So, what kind of super serum you both get?" Alexei's thick accent cuts through the silence.

You were sharing the front cabin of a stolen truck, Bucky behind the wheel, you in the middle, and Alexei by the window. He'd already declared the ride to Valentina's location a 'super soldier party', clearly over the moon about the whole thing.

"I ... uh don't know. Regular? Hydra" Bucky is the first to answer, quickly brushing off what he considered to be an irrelevant topic. Alexei on the other hand, reacted like it was the only thing he'd been wanting to know the whole time.

"Hydra! Ohh, fancy" Alexei grinned wide, Bucky just huffed at his excitement. "I got something mixed, still good, still powerful" he puffed his chest a little. "And you, pretty one, what is your serum ah?"

"Uh ... mine was Shield's. It was developed from Steve's dna" You reply. Alexei's face lights up with more amazement.

"Ayy Shield! Straight from captain Rogers. She gets the premium brand, ah winter soldier?" He speaks to Bucky like he was breaking news, the latter just nodded absentmindedly.

"A super soldier couple, ha! what are the odds? you two lovely creatures made for each other, strong, beautiful and dangerous. Like spy movie" his laugh booms through the cabin as he pats a heavy hand on Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky pretends to ignore him, eyes still on the road, but his smirk was undeniable.

You just gave Alexie an amused smile, then gently squeezed Bucky's hand resting on the wheel. Without hesitation, he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on it without taking his eyes off the road. Alexei just watched with a knowing grin.

Bucky kept driving in silence, enjoying the calm before of the storm, because once you found Valentina, and her new shiny creation, at the former avengers tower, all hell broke loose.

God, how you missed being back in that truck.

Now, you were limping away from the tower where Bob– or Sentry now, whatever the hell Valentina was calling him now, had beaten the living shit out of all you. Your thoughts were cut short when you noticed Yelena snapping at everyone.

"What, it's my turn now?" Walker asked defensively, his tone only adding fuel to Yelena's anger.

"Oh no, you already know you're a piece of shit. And your family knows too" Yelena shots back without missing a beat.

"Wow" he muttered, his eyes dropping to the bent shield in his hands. He didn't argue to that, he didn’t know how to.

"Yelena, you're not alone in this–" you started, but she cut you off before you could finish.

"You shut up! We're all alone in this shitty world, you only say that cause you have Bucky" She cries out, her finger pointed at you like a dagger.

You didn't fight back to her, you knew she wasn't lashing out at you, not really. Maybe it was the pressure, maybe it was the just the fear taking over her.

Bucky turned to you, curious about your reaction, but your small smile was enough to say 'I'm okay'. She wasn't wrong, after all.

Then your gaze drifted to John, when you noticed from the corner of your eye his posture had shifted. It wasn't only anger you saw in him, it was something heavier. Something that stuck with you longer than it should've.

Normally you would just ignore Walker, silence had always been your preferred way to keep your sanity intact around him. But this time you couldn't help it, you kept your eyes on him a little bit longer.

And you saw it.

The way mentioning his family made his entire demeanor shift. The same reaction you saw the first time Bucky brought them up. And now Yelena had rubbed it in, like salt in an open wound.

You couldn't believe it, and would probably never admit it out loud, but you felt something for John Walker.

Pity.

The next thing you knew, the group had scattered, everyone going in different directions after Yelena's outburst.

And without really thinking, with Bucky walking by your side, you walked towards the same direction Walker had taken. You didn't exactly know why, but you felt like you needed to say something to him.

"This is a mess, doll" Bucky sighs, eyes scanning around like he would find an answer in the clueless people walking by. "I didn't think I'd come to this, but I think I should call Sam"

"Uh huh. Sure, let's call Sam. He can totally take down Sentry" Your tone was half sarcastic half distracted, as your gaze darted around trying to find John, who had walked fast enough to get lost in the busy streets of New York.

"I think he might know something– wait, are you okay, doll? What are you looking for?" Bucky stopped walking, but you didn't, giving him no choice but to catch up.

"Huh?" You ask, barely registering the question.

And then you spotted it, a flash of black and red cutting through the crowd, stomping rather than walking.

"There he is!" Your voice lit up, picking up your pace to reach your target. "Walker!" You shouted his name, loud and clear. No way he didn't hear you, not with his enhanced hearing. The way he sped up to get further from you confirmed it.

"Okay now, Walker?" Bucky asks, completely baffled. As far as he knew none of you could stand the guy.

"Listen honey" You say softly, weaving between pedestrians "I love you, but it wasn't cool to bring up in front of everyone that his wife took his baby and left him. They're just gonna keep throwing it in his face now"

Bucky shifted slightly, but still defensive. "Yeah well, he doesn't exactly make it easy not to"

"I know" you admitted. "But weirdly enough we're all stuck in this shit show together. We might as well try to work with him" You pause for a second, knowing you could catch up to Walker anytime now. "Just give me a second with him Buck, please babe?" You bat your eyelashes at him.

He gave you a long look, raising an eyebrow, clearly ready to protest. But he knew what you were doing. And you knew he knew.

"Alright" he grunts, rolling his eyes. "I'll be right behind you. With my favorite knife. In case you need me to stab him for you, doll" He flashed you an ironic smile, and you nodded back amused.

You turned back around and quickened your pace, finally catching up to Walker. Bucky kept his promise, a hand resting on his knife holder as he trailed behind you at what he considered a safe distance.

"Walker!" You called again, now standing just behind him.

"For fuck's sake, give me a break!" He came to an abrupt halt, turning around to face you, but still keeping his distance. "What, Y/N?” His harsh tone pulled you straight out of your rush.

"Wow, okay. I didn't really think this through" you admitted, realizing you hadn't actually planned what to say.

"You know what? I'm done. I'm done with everyone making fun of me. I get it, okay? I suck. What's new?" He threw his hands in the air dramatically, bitterly trash-talking himself.

"About what Yelena said—"

"Oh, I heard her just fine. And she's right, isn't she? You're all right. I'm a fucking asshole. That's why my family left, why everyone hates me" He continues letting the anger speak for himself.

But now that you stared at him for a little longer, instead of seeing the prick he portrayed in front of everyone, you could see underneath all that rage, there was something much softer.

Hurt.

So you didn't get defensive, instead, you speak softly to him.

"That's not true, John"

He froze. Taken aback by the fact that you've never called him by his first name before.

"Really? Be fucking honest with me" His voice cracked just slightly. "Cause everyone's made it pretty damn clear"

"We don't hate you" you said carefully. "You're just... hard to be around sometimes" You explain, his brows lifted at your honesty. "Look, I'm not trying anything here. I just want to talk, okay?. That's all"

He looks around, hesitant at first, but decides to drops his guard. He rolls his eyes before taking a step closer to you, never admitting he was curious about what you had to say. You pretend to not notice the sheen in his eyes once he's close to you.

He looks behind you, catching a sight of Bucky in the distance, arms on his hips, watching your interaction like a hawk.

"Don't worry about him, he's keeping watch" you brush it off, slightly amused.

And after a deep breath, you start.

"So, you know how the serum works, right? It …enhances everything"

He gave a faint nod, prompting you to continue.

"It can make the good parts of you better, but it can also make the worst parts unbearable" you continue, letting memories you had buried down a long time ago, come to the surface. " When I first lost Bucky and Steve, back in the 40's, I was completely consumed by grief, by this ...” You pause for a second, searching for the right word. “Emptiness” you continued.

“They were all I had back then, and suddenly all my days just went by, all alone. Until one day Peggy Carter contacted me, offering me a spot on a super serum program. She said it was developed from the last blood sample taken of Steve” That seemed to finally peak his interest.

“It was quite experimental but I didn't mind, I had nothing left to lose. So I said yes, because I felt like that was my way to honor them, but deep down, I just wanted to be strong enough to destroy Hydra myself." You let out a bitter breath.

"As you can imagine, I was in no condition to take the serum. But once I did? that emptiness only grew louder. I lost control. I let all my pain out on the battlefield, told myself it was for the greater good. But really, I just wanted to hurt the world as much as it had hurt me" You confess to him, not being able to make eye contact. He didn't mind, he just listened attentively, finding he related to you in more ways than he could have ever imagined. "It went on like that for a long time, and I thought I would never stop feeling that anger. And then one day, the loss felt lighter, the emptiness began to fade away. That's when I finally stared seeing things clearer" You finally lift your gaze to meet his eyes through your glassy ones.

"That anger you feel inside you? It's real, it's the serum turning the volume up on your worst pain, but it's not everything you will ever be" You explain, and now it's his turn to drop his gaze to the floor. "I know what it feels like to drown in that, I know how hard it is to climb out of it, but trust me, it will fade eventually. I got Bucky back. I got my miracle. Maybe you'll get yours one day"

He bitterly chuckles.

"It doesn't feel that way. I'm just ... too messed up" He mumbles, and you shake your head.

"Look around, Walker. Every one of us is messed up too" you chuckle ironically, gesturing vaguely behind you. "We're all running on red numbers here. The only difference is, our worst mistakes weren't, you know... broadcasted to the whole world" You carefully admit, remembering his public incident back in Latvia.

You paused, then added softly. "I'm sorry yours were"

He didn't say anything right away, just blinked a few times, processing everything you told him.

"Thank you" It came out quiet, but it was honest.

It was is the kindest someone had treated him since the day his wife left.

"You know, it's never too late to start over with us" You admit, referring to the new dysfunctional group you had accidentally became a part of. “So, are you? with us?" You question.

He lingers for a second, before he gives you a small nod. He didn't have to say much, you could see how much your words meant to him by the way he looked at you. It was different than before.

You patted his shoulder gently and nod happily, before turning to head back to Bucky.

Walker notices Bucky's face shift into a smile the second he saw you coming. And just before you were too far away, you hear his voice once again.

"You know... I can see why he's so protective of you. He's lucky to share this shitty world with you" He grants, hinting back at what Yelena said earlier. A smile tugs at your lips.

Before you could turn around to respond, a sudden explosion cracked through the air, followed by pedestrian’s screams. Chaos erupted in the streets as people began running in every direction.

You barely had time to process it before you caught the sound of something heavy crashing down, a huge chunk of concrete, straight above you.

In less than a second, two super soldiers blocked the blow, Walker with his dented shield raised above you and Bucky with his vibranium arm braced against the falling debris that shattered around them.

Even though you were as much of a super soldier as he was, Bucky still protected you like you were made of glass.

"Are you okay, doll?" he asked immediately. His hands swiftly dusting away little rests of concrete off your suit, eyes scanning your body for any injuries.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Walker doing the same, he was more subtle, but still watching you closely, making sure you weren't hurt.

"Yes. Thank you. Both of you." You nodded quickly, still catching your breath.

Bucky gave a short nod in Walker's direction, a silent acknowledgment.

Then your eyes lifted, and your heart dropped.

"Oh my god" You exclaimed, horrified at the sight. The people who had been running were now vanishing. One by one, melted into silhouettes.

You looked back to Walker, desperation setting in.

"You're with us, right?" You ask one more time.

This time, his nod came without hesitation.

"Great" you said, turning now towards Bucky. He nodded firmly, ready to jump into action. "Let's go"

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comments and reblogs save author’s lives, thank you so much for reading <3

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moonstruckme · 17 days ago

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OMG IDEA....

Fwb doctor! Remus- so reader ends up at his work sick and then he ends up being the one to treat them like 'why didn't you tell me' and they're like 'well you're not my boyfriend so I didn't-' and whatever else but basically that prompts them to have the awkward convo that goes from fwb to dating

Thanks!

cw: mention of nausea, allusion to past sex but no sex takes place in this

fwb!doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

“Oh.” Remus falters halfway through the door. You look up from your phone, clearly as surprised to see him as he is to see you. You blink a couple of times as though clearing a film, your lips parting on a breath. Remus wishes his first thought were something more practical, something other than that it’s absurdly attractive. He may be developing a sort of Pavlovian response to you. “Hello.”

“Hi,” you say, as shy as if this is the first time you’ve met. “What are you…” Your eyes move down to his coat, to the clipboard in his hands. “Do you work here?”

“Yeah.” His voice sounds a tad softer than usual, and it’s the strangeness of that—him acting so out of place in an environment where he’s supposed to be an authority—that helps Remus remember himself. He steps the rest of the way into the exam room, closing the door behind him. “I take it you’re not here to see me.”

A tiny smile graces your lips. “I might’ve been, if I’d known.”

“Maybe next time.” Remus sets down his clipboard, opting to get his answers from you instead as he leans against the desk across from you. “What brings you in?”

“I’ve, um…well, it feels weird talking about my problems now that it’s you.”

Remus ignores how that stings. “It doesn’t need to. This is my job; I promise I can take care of you just the same as anyone else. Of course,” he forces himself to tack on, “if you’d be more comfortable with someone else, I can arrange that. You may just have to wait a while longer.”

“That’s okay,” you say. “I’m fine with you. Sorry, it’s just different, you know?”

Remus softens. He does know, to some extent. If he imagines himself going to get a cup of coffee, or boarding an airplane, or calling maintenance to his apartment and then finding out that you work there (He actually has no clue what you do, either, he realizes now. That’ll have to be remedied.), it would probably be a bit of an adjustment for him as well.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he assures you. “We can go about this however you’re comfortable. Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Right, yeah.” You’re playing with your fingers, not quite looking at him. You’re acting shy, in a way Remus had almost forgotten you could be. It’s fucking adorable, honestly. He assumes it’s because of this new environment and the shift in the dynamic between you, but it amuses him to think of you being more self-conscious in clothes than out of them. He wants to tease you, but he has a new role to play, too. “I’ve not been able to eat very much lately?”

Remus feels his brows come down.

“I’ve just been feeling rather nauseous,” you say, picking at your nail. “I thought maybe I was nauseous because I wasn’t eating, but eating didn’t seem to help either, so.”

“How long has this been going on?” he asks.

“A few days. Almost a week.”

You know what he’s going to say. Remus knows you know, because your eyes flicker up to his for just a moment, sheepish.

He was with you two nights ago.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry,” you say, quietly. “I know I should have, but I really didn’t think it was contagious.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Remus feels his body gravitating towards you. Wanting to touch you, hold you, envelop you. He keeps it where it is. “It’s just that we spent all that time together, and you didn’t mention once that you weren’t feeling well.”

“Well, I didn’t know that you did—” you gesture vaguely about the room “—this at the time.”

“Even so.”

You shrug, looking heartachingly unsure of yourself. “I don’t know. I didn’t think it was relevant. It’s not the sort of thing we usually talk about, is it? I mean, you’re not, like…”

Remus can fill in the blanks. It hurts to do it. He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not someone you open up to about the everyday things in life. For fuck’s sake, you haven’t even asked each other what you do for work.

But you are something to each other, aren’t you? Aren’t you at least friends? It’s not like all the time you spend together is taken up by wordless, impersonal, utilitarian sex. Remus tries to spend time with you before or after. At first it was just to make himself feel better about the transactional aspect of your relationship, but it wasn’t long until he was just doing it because he wanted to. He’s bought you coffee, and dinners, and pastries. He’s fixed the squeaky leg on your bed. You’ve sat on the roof of your building together and made up stories for passersby on the sidewalk below. He’s made you eggy toast in his kitchen. Your clothes have been in his dryer, for Christ’s sake; what could be more intimate than that?

“I’m your friend,” he says, because he won’t be leaving any room for argument, not on this. “You can tell me these things. You can tell me anything you like.”

“Oh,” you say softly. You have that same look as when Remus first came in, like you’re seeing him entirely differently. “Okay. I didn’t know.”

He feels his lips twitch. “Well, now you know.”

“Okay,” you say again. Blinking.

Remus puts you out of your misery. “Have you noticed anything else out of the ordinary?”

You start listing symptoms, tentative, unsure. Remus forces himself to stay right where he is and listen rather than step forward to take your temperature, or get your blood pressure, or any of the other things that would help him get to the bottom of this more quickly. He doesn’t usually have to hold himself back, with other patients. It’s just that you…well, while Remus always cares about making things better for his patients as soon as he can, it’s possible that he cares just a little bit more in this case. It’s also possible that there’s still an instinctive part of him just dying to get closer to you. He wants to feel you beneath his hands and know that you’re okay.

“Alright,” he says once you’re done, taking his stethoscope from around his neck, “I need to check a few things to be sure, but I think I know what we’re dealing with.”

“Really?” Your expression glows with relief. A flicker of humor warms your eyes. “How did I know you’d be good at your job?”

Remus hums, pleased beyond reason at your assessment of him. “You’ll need a prescription. You’re my last appointment of the day, so, if you’ll let me, I can take you to pick it up and get you set up at home afterwards.”

“Oh, Remus…” You look up at him as the bell of his stethoscope settles over your heart. He ignores the drumbeat to hear you. “You don’t have to. I know we’re friends now, but that’s too much. You’re not obligated to do those sorts of things for me.”

“I’d like to do those sorts of things for you,” he responds unflinchingly. “It wouldn’t be out of obligation, it’d be because I want to.”

Your heartbeat ratchets up. “I don’t want to feel like a job for you.”

“Sweetheart” —there it is again, that soft tone. Entirely unprofessional— “you could never be a job. I love spending time with you, alright? I’d love to look after you, if you’d be okay with it.”

“I love spending time with you, too,” you murmur, so sweet Remus could kiss you if that wouldn’t truly put him at risk of getting fired. And yet he’s still thinking about it. “Of course you’re welcome to come over if you want to. I just…I don’t know how to…”

It’s clear by now that Remus is a weaker man than he thought himself to be. He gives in, covering your lips with his.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promises you.

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tbaluver · 3 months ago

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Hewoo! I'm so so soo weak for your family fluff headcanons aaa can I request a scenario of the little kiddies of LADS men sneaking off with reader's phone and made a video call to their papas because they've been away from home and/or simply making a silly video call to brighten up their papas day? 🥺🫶🏻

˗ˏˋ Incoming Baby Call!˗- The Love And DeepSpace Men

featuring ( in order ): xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, caleb genre: fluff fluff summary: your child(ren) sneak off with your phone to call them a/n: hihi anonnie! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ WAHHH THANK YOU MWAH i love writing them as dads like i fear i want no husband as long as its them .·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·. this one is not beta read so i apologize for any mistakes! i have so much wip of them as papas that i hope to post soon <3 anyways i hope i did this request with justice ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ i hope you enjoy reading! (∩˃o˂∩)♡ any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

Xavier was exhausted and hungry, his mission dragging on longer than he’d hoped. He couldn’t wait to get back home, pick up some dinner for his family, and finally relax. He couldn’t wait to wrap up this mission and be back home with you both.

Just as he refocused on tracking the wanderer, a soft ringtone caught his attention. Without a second to spare, he answered once he saw your name flash through his screen. But instead of you, his little boy appeared instead holding his plushie-shaped cookie.

“Hi, little buddy.” Xavier smiles softly. His son, as usual, flashes a cute peace sign in front of the camera. It was a little habit he did whenever there was a camera around and it’s a habit that you both hope he’d never outgrow.

“Papa,” his son whispers, holding up the tiny plushie to the screen as if he were offering it to him.

“Are you offering me a bite?” Xavier asked, playing along as his son nodded eagerly. “Thank you. It tastes great,” He adds, pretending to chew thoughtfully and giving a mock critic nod. “I think we should get more of these.”

It warmed Xavier’s heart to see his son share food even through the screen. Perhaps it’s something he’d watched you both share meals often and picked up on it. “Don’t forget to share with mommy too, okay?” His son nods enthusiastically, his chubby cheeks puffing out. “By the way, where is mommy?”

His son placed a finger to his lips to quietly shush him as he tilted the phone to the side, revealing you peacefully napping close to him, a plushie tucked under your arm. Xavier chuckles softly, not wanting to disturb you.

“Alright, let’s keep it quiet so we don’t wake mommy up okay?” He whispers, “If you take a nap now, I’ll be home before you know it.”

His son nods sleepily as he snuggles up closer to you. Even in such a small and simple moment, Xavier couldn't help but feel grateful. It reminded him just how lucky he was to come home to a family with so much love.

Zayne:

It was another busy night at the hospital. Multiple reports to go through before checking up on several other patients who are waking from surgery in a few hours. Another stressful night, but he’ll manage like he always does. Just as he was about to settle down in his seat, he checked his phone.

11 missed calls

Concern floods his body as he immediately calls you, only to find your baby daughter on the other end. “Papa!” She coos, her sweet little smile makes him feel slightly relieved.

“Hi my love, where is Mommy?”

“in the bafroom,” She replies casually, his heart easing. That would be correct, her snowman pajamas tell him that you both should be getting ready for bed right about now. “Papa! I miss you..Are you going home now?” She pouts into the screen and Zayne only chuckles into the camera, adjusting his glasses.

“Not yet my love.” He says softly, her pout deepening further. “I’m sorry but it seems that I’ll be here for a while.” His heart twinges at his own words. As much as he hates to disappoint his daughter, he knows this is a part of his job, something she’ll understand better as she grows older.

“But whyyy? Can’t you work here instead? You look tired papa.” She whines with pleading eyes, hoping this time she can make her father come home early again.

He chuckles, he must’ve heard you both talking about his reports in the morning and mistaken it for something like homework. “Not tonight my love. Unfortunately, some patients need me right now”

She pouts, her head turning away, and he can’t help but feel worried. Did he upset her? He would hope not, he would want her to sleep well tonight. Maybe he should come home early or he can make it up by getting secret sweet treats together again.

“Papa, how about I read you a book then?” She asks, breaking his thoughts. She held up a book that she’s been practicing with. Maybe she noticed the bags under his eyes from the lack of sleep and is trying to cheer him up in her own little way.

“Of course,” A smile tugs on his lips as he adjusts the phone so he can hear her better. She opens the book, sounding out each word with Zayne occasionally helping her with the tricky ones. His heart swells as he watches her, she’s already growing up so fast.

She stops reading when he hears your voice in the background, asking her what she’s doing. “I’m talking to papa, mommy! I’m reading to him right now” You chuckle, thinking she was talking to a picture of him on your phone again but don’t realize she’d manage to call him this time.

“Sorry, Zayne! We can call you another time!” You quickly grab the phone to see your handsome husband’s face on the screen. You know at this hour isn’t his break but before you can say anything more, Zayne gently cuts you off.

“No, it’s fine. Stay, please. Let her keep going. I haven’t taken my break yet anyway.” His voice softens with a chuckle when he hears her cheer in the background. You smile, adjusting the phone and settling her on your lap. Together, you both help her continue reading her story before you say your goodnight’s.

Rafayel:

Boredom isn’t even the word to cover it. Rafayel felt tired, drained, from the endless back and forth conversations with multiple collectors, sucking away all the energy from him. The more he conversed with them, the heavier his eyelids became. He wanted to yawn, to make it clear how uninterested he was in their never-ending rambling. However, if he did, Thomas would surely give him an earful later or worse another due date for another art project.

He glanced around the room, jealousy gnawing at him as he watched a group of an artist's family admiring art together. He wished you and the kids were here with him. He would’ve had you here if he hadn’t procrastinated to accept the invite, the room’s capacity was already maxed out and the lists of invites were soon closed.

As the collector rambled on, Rafayel could feel his eyes slowly drooping, surely soon enough the glass in his hands would drop. Luckily, just when he thought he might lose the last bit of focus, his phone ringing caught his and the collector’s attention.

“Excuse me, it’s my wife.” The collector nodded, walking away, giving Rafayel the perfect opportunity to slip into a private bathroom.

As soon as he answered the phone, his heart lifted. On the screen were his little bundles of joy. “My little glubs!” A wide grin spread across his face, his eyes lighting up as the kids' tiny smiles beamed back at him. “What are you guys doing? Where’s Mama?" He asks, tilting his head, hoping to catch a glimpse of you through the screen.

“She’s cleaning!” One of the kids chirped, earning a playful shushing from her siblings. Rafayel chuckled, they had definitely taken your phone again.

“Papa, can you come home now? We’re bored and we miss you!” Their pleas echoed from each other, hoping he could understand that they really missed him. His heart ached, he could practically feel their tiny arms reaching out to him through the phone.

“Just a couple more hours and I’ll be home, I promise. Then we can play all night long, yeah?” He raised a brow, tilting his head.

“No Daddy! We made something for you!” One of them piped up, excitement bubbling in his voice.

“Yeah! We made our own art...ex..exa? examission?” The word came out cute, and Rafayel’s sure he meant to say was exhibition. Rafayel didn’t know yet but they had planned to surprise him with their own little art show that you were secretly setting up in the living room. You figured it would be a good idea to cheer him up after a long day without his family. However, you didn’t know the kids would take your phone while they ran off to go ‘play’.

“Papa, you have to come soon or else we’ll close!” His youngest insisted. Raf smiled, realizing this was one of their clever little ways of getting him to hurry home before they had to go to bed.

He paused for a moment, tapping his finger on his chin. His kids waited in anticipation, a playful grin spreading across his face as an idea sparked in his head. “Got it!” He said, snapping his fingers. “I’m coming home now!” The sounds of cheerful giggles erupted on the other side of the line.

Rafayel quickly exits out of the bathroom, Thomas follows behind closely while he asks where does he thinks he's going. Rafayel mentioned briefly that he had another art exhibition that was way more important than this one, making it enough to leave Thomas confused and stop in his tracks.

Sylus:

There’s nothing more infuriating when the tradesmen don’t want to cooperate even if they’re tied up. They whine and complain but the moment they realize no one’s listening, they cry out for help. But before their pleas can even form properly, Sylus silences them with a single look, fear flickering across their faces.

“One moment,” He says, raising an index finger to quiet them. Everyone's attention shifts to his ringtone, a melody of a childish tune unexpectedly playing from the speakers. The tradesmen freeze, exchanging confused glances at each other.

“Bossman said one moment!”

“Yeah, one moment!” Luke and Kieran chimed in, nodding as they let Sylus step away

Sylus taps the green button, his brow furrowing as he sees your name and contact photo flash on the screen. A wave of concern washes over him, did something happen while he was away? But that worry disappears when he sees his daughter's bright, familiar face light up on his screen.

“Daddy!! Hi daddy hiii!!” She chirps, waving excitedly at him.

“Hello, my little dove. What’s going on? Are you and Mommy alright?” He feels the tension in his shoulders ease when she nods rapidly, her little pigtails that you tied bouncing up and down. His heart melted at the sight of her, she looked almost identical to him, with white hair and red eyes yet her personality reminded him so much of yours.

“She’s in the kitchen,” She whispers as if she was sharing a secret. He assumes that she’s taken your phone in secret again. It should be fine, he has taught her to use the phone for emergencies. This wouldn’t count as much as one but he needed to take a step away before he caused one. “Papa, are you okay?” Sylus pauses, taken aback by just how perceptive she is. Perhaps it’s the vein on his forehead that’s threatening to pop. She’s sharp just like her mother.

He exhales deeply. “It’s just a rough night sweetie.”

Her brows furrowed with concern and her pout deepened, pitying her father. How she wished to hug him through the screen. “Papa, how about I sing you a song!” She offers, earning another soft chuckle from Sylus. He always sings her to sleep or cheers her up with a song so it’s no wonder she picked up the habit from him.

“Go ahead, my dove.”

Her vocals were very much like her father’s. When she spots his grin, her confidence grows, making her sing even louder.

“Make it stop!” One of the tradesmen suddenly screams, his voice cracking in desperation. “I’ll give you whatever you want- just please make it stop!” He cries, making Sylus’s ears twitch, the vein in his forehead threatening to make a reappearance.

“Papa, what was that?” She asks, tilting her head innocently.

“I think it was your audience dear. They seemed to enjoy your performance.” Her face immediately lights up, letting out a gleeful cheer.

“Can you give me a moment sweetie? I’ll be right back,” He quickly mutes the call and shuts off the camera. Quickly he extracts the necessary information before the men are lifted from the ground, their feet dangling helplessly in the air as red tendrils swirl around them. Despite their begs and cries, they vanished into thin air, leaving the room finally quiet.

With the problem dealt with, Sylus flips his phone back on. He hears your daughter’s cheerful greeting from the other end of the call, her innocent enthusiasm makes his smile return.

“Looks like you brought some good luck little dove. It seems we’re heading home early tonight.”

Caleb:

It had been a long, grueling shift in the skies. Nothing but endless stretches of blue with a few clouds to break the dullness. The minutes dragged by, each one feeling longer than the last. Caleb sat in his cockpit, his elbow propped on the console and his chin resting on his hand as he gazed at his screen. He could handle a shift here and there but ever since your family has grown, miles away from everything he cared about, it weighed on him.

That’s when a familiar, cheerful ringtone broke through the silence.

Caleb immediately perks up, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips when he sees your name and a photo of you flash on the screen. However it wasn’t you on the other end, it was someone much smaller and cuter and very much identical to him.

“Dad, dad!” The little boy grins ear to ear. Caleb couldn’t help but grin back, the weariness from his shift fading away.

“Hey there, squirt! What’s up?” Nothing seems to be wrong as he reads from his son’s facial expression. “Where’s mom? Everything alright there?” But of course, he just had to make sure. He would not hesitate to fly this ship back around.

“Yeah! She’s in the kitchen cleaning up. I ate all my vegetables just like you said!” His son beamed, making Caleb chuckle, shaking his head fondly.

“Good job! Don’t forget to thank your mom too, alright?” Your son nods enthusiastically, his eyes sparkling but Caleb couldn’t figure out why he could be so hyper until he held up a thick book about the Jurassic era.

“Dad, I finished this whole book!” He said, flipping through the pages to show his dad the pictures. “Did you know black beetles are one of the only creatures that survived the Jurassic era? We should go find some!” His tiny finger lands on a picture of a massive beetle, his eyes wide with awe.

Caleb chuckled, his heart melting at how much his son was almost like him. “That’s awesome buddy. You know, I think-”

Before Caleb could say anything more, a soldier by his door interrupts him. “Colonel, sir-!” Caleb’s fingers twitched, slamming the door shut before he finished his sentence.

He returned his attention to his son, letting him continue his chatter about dinosaurs, and beetles while Caleb would chime in, sharing a little fact or story like how he used to tell you when you were walking on your way to school or just to help you fall asleep at nights.

Time seemed to slip away as Caleb listened to his son’s excited ramblings, the hours of his shift seemed to go faster than he realized. Even though he still had a while to go, hearing the voice of his family was enough to keep him going.

ʚɞ cr. for the divider @/ cafekitsune

ʚɞ my other works if you want to check it out! Love And DeepSpace Masterlist, Pg. 2

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sleepyjuice · 11 months ago

Text

toxic!rafe will blow your phone up the second you post something on instagram that he’s ‘iffy’ about.

you posted a photo dump which consisted of some random photos of the beach, some of your friends, one of you and rafe of course, but the one that had rafe seeing red was the last slide, which was you in a bikini. he texted you several times at first, and while you were literally typing your response, he called you. your fingers were typing so fast to respond to him that you accidentally declined the call, and he did not like that. you immediately went to call him back, but another text from rafe rolled in, saying ‘fuck you don’t talk to me we’re done’ you sighed loudly, knowing damn well he was talking out of his ass right now, so you sat back and waited for the inevitable next string of texts to roll in. which they did, only seconds later.

rafe <3: do you get off on making me mad or something

rafe <3: like i’m racking my brain trying to understand why you do the things you do and that’s all i can come up with

rafe <3: and i see at least 4 guys have already liked your post like that’s crazy to me?? thought i told you to block all the guys that followed you?? of course you didn’t

rafe <3: also who even took that pic of you??? bc i know damn well it wasn’t me so who the fuck you posing for with your fucking ass and tits out? WHAT THE FUCK

rafe <3: DO NOT PUT YOUR SHIT ON DO NOT DISTURB answer me rn.

rafe <3: nah it’s cool actually i’m gonna go hit up my other gfs so you have a good night.

you rolled your eyes at that last text, deciding to fully turn your phone off. you knew he would likely try to text or call you again very soon but you didn’t want to deal with it right now. this wasn’t your first rodeo, you knew nothing you could say to him right now would calm him down, so letting him freak out on his own was the best method to his madness.

three hours had passed since you turned your phone off. you had caught up on some reading and turned on your current favorite show, but found yourself interrupted by a knock at your front door. you expected it to be rafe, but instead it was a large bouquet of your favorite flowers and a gift bag. you glanced around to see if rafe was lurking around, but saw nothing. when he freaked out over text and was able to reread his actions, he usually waited a bit longer to show his face as opposed to a verbal argument.

you brought the flowers inside and set them on the counter before grabbing the card attached to the side of the bouquet.

sorry we argued. you are so beautiful and i love you so much. got you a little gift and sent you some money for food and i set your appointment with your nail girl for tomorrow at 10. love you forever baby -rafe

you couldn’t help but smile just a little. the flowers were beautiful and the note was pretty sweet, so you chose to ignore the part where he said ‘we argued.’ you didn’t get a word in, but you let it slide. especially after you opened the gift bag to see the new dior bag you had been wanting.

you hurried to turn on your phone, immediately seeing a $500 apple payment from rafe as well as a new text from a few minutes ago.

rafe <3: hope you like the flowers and bag baby. love you! :)

you: i love them. thanks rafe, love you too

rafe <3: good to hear. lmk what you end up getting for dinner and i’ll pick you up tomorrow to take you to your nail apt. can’t wait to see you baby

you would order yourself dinner that was obviously way less than $500, but you would send rafe a picture and thank him again. you’d facetime him before bed and conversation flowed like nothing had even happened just hours before. he’d ask you what color nails you were getting, tell you funny stories about the old men at the country club and excitedly plan what you two were going to do the next day. the cycle seemed like it would never end, but you often forgot about the bad when he was talking so sweetly to you and all you could think about was how excited you were to see him tomorrow.

#rafe cameron #toxic!rafe #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe x reader #rafe imagine

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orimuraa · 4 months ago

Text

── ⋆⋅ ೀ Until I found her - OT7

꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆when the bad boys are down bad ⨾

۶ৎ bad boy!enhypen x fem!reader┆fluff┆enha is whipped, kisses, petnames┆wc 698

⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: eaurahhh i need down bad enhypen so bad it's nawt even funny dawg

꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱

𝑳𝒆𝒆 𝑯𝒆𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒈 - 이희승

"doll face..how many are you putting in?" heeseung laughs lightly, trying not to move his head too much. "just sit still seungie," you answer, putting in the finishing touches. heeseung was sat on your shared bed, his signature, black, leather jacket adoring his body, while you carefully covered his hair in your favorite hair clips featuring sanrio, stars, flowers, hearts, and so much more. "done!" you smile, letting heeseung turn around to see the mirror. at one glance at his reflection, he just smiles, turning around to look at you. "angel, you're so precious."

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑱𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒈 - 박종성

jay never let anyone touch his car. it was his prized thing and always loved to show it off. so when you came along, stealing his heart and all, how could he say no to your decorations? within a swift blink of an eye, you had placed little stuffed animals all around his car, adding in car pillows and cute little stickers on the seats and steering wheel. at first, jay almost had a heart attack, but when he saw your bright smile, he just couldn't be mad. "oh princess, i love you so much," he says, kissing your lips and admiring his now bedazzled car.

𝑺𝒊𝒎 𝑱𝒂𝒆𝒚𝒖𝒏 - 심재윤

"yunnieee, stop moving!" you whine, making an angry-pouty expression at your boyfriend. "i'm sorry, pretty," jake says, smiling at your adorable face. you had set up a bunch of pretty colors to paint jake's nails, deciding that he needed more colors than just black in his outfits. once you had carefully finished each nail, you smiled, staring down proudly at your work. "wow baby! it's..beautiful!" jake smiles brightly--something he only did around you. "they match well with the black," you snicker, scrunching your nose. jake takes this as an opportunity and leans in swiftly, leaving a small kiss on your nose. "my payment."

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒏 - 박성훈

sunghoon had a motorcycle that he treasured almost as much as he treasured you. so when he came home to find you squatting down next to the bike, a bunch of sheets of stickers in your left hand and your right hand delicately placing them along his bike, he knew he loved you most. "angel? what are you doing?" he smiles softly, admiring the cute stickers. "your bike needed a makeover," you hum, still very focused on your stickers. sunghoon gently tilts your chin towards him for a minute, kissing your lips and smiling against them. "thank you, precious."

𝑲𝒊𝒎 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒐𝒐 - 김선우

sunoo tended to have a lot of dark colored things, so naturally, you needed to fix that! you started with his black backpack, adding three key-chains to the zippers. they were brightly colored and stuck out very much against the black bag, but that was exactly what you wanted. "baby? was this you?" sunoo asks, walking in with his backpack in his hand and a small smile on his lips. "uh huh," you nod. "it was too boring," you add, simply looking at him with a smile. "well thank you for the glam," he smiles, leaning in and kissing your forehead.

𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝑱𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒘𝒐𝒏 - 양정원

"wonnie!! i got us matching hats!!" you giggle, showing him the two little cat beanies you found at the mall earlier. jungwon usually opted for darker and "cooler" clothes, but when it came to you, he just couldn't refuse. upon seeing the fluffy cat beanies, jungwon just smiled, letting out a small laugh. "thank you princess, they look adorable." you know that deep down, underneath his bad boy persona, jungwon secretly loved things like this. but you wanted to gate keep it for a little longer. your boyfriend was just too cute to share.

𝑵𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒂 𝑹𝒊𝒌𝒊 - 西村力

"little love, are you sure that that's natural?" ni-ki asks cautiously, staring at how clumpy his hair looked. "yes ki! i told you, that's just the dye! it'll wash out, i promise," you huff, turning off the timer. "okay now go wash it out," you say, helping ni-ki out of the trash bags you put him in so he wouldn't turn pink. "alright..i'm out," ni-ki says after finishing rinsing his hair. it was adorable. his base was still black but he let you had in streaks of pink, making him even more adorable. "hm, maybe i could get used to this."

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬: @en-diaries, @k-films, @k-nets

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝐉𝐢𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean, @annybah, @ijustwannareadstuff20, @chaeneu, @17ericas, @firstclassjaylee, @riribelle, @right-person-wrong-time, @cheruphic

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nitadllyss · 4 months ago

Text

The wrong pill.

Plot: Han takes a pill for his training, not realizing it’s viagra—let alone on the day he was going to see you.

Genre:smut, nsfw, Erotic Romance, PWP.

Warnings: Smut, NSFW, use of Viagra, sex under its influence, oral sex (m!receiving), no condom use, semen, penetration (m/f), praise, etc.

----------------------------

Han had been fighting hard with the staff to be able to show off his body and tattoos. For this reason, he was preparing physically with great dedication. He never skipped a day at the gym, and it was obvious how much more muscular he had gotten.

He was now getting ready to train with Changbin. They were at his house, since Han had stayed over the night before; it had been too late for him to return home. To prepare his pre-workout shake, he used Changbin's stuff.

"Where do you have the creatine?" Han asked while rummaging through the drawer where Changbin kept his supplements.

"They are the transparent capsules" Changbin answered, focused on making his own pre-workout shake.

Han took his shake followed by the corresponding pills.

Everything was going well during the training. He was really satisfied with the results he was getting. For him, gaining muscle was easier, so in a short time he could already notice a noticeable difference.

As he was training, his alarm went off to remind him to take his intra-workout pill. He was committed to getting good and fast results, so he never missed a dose of vitamins or supplements.

“Hey, Bin, do you have any intra-workout pills?” Han asked, a little worried when he realized he hadn’t brought any.

“I think there’s L-Carnitine in my bag. Check it out and take one,” Changbin said, pointing to his gym bag.

Han walked over, opened the bag, and saw a mess of pills. Changbin definitely needed to be more organized. He assumed it was one of the white capsules, so he wasn’t too careful when taking one.

About 40 minutes later, after finishing his workout, he headed home. He was excited because he would see you today. They were having a sleepover. They weren’t a couple or anything, just best friends… although Han had been in love with you forever.

As he arrived, he started to feel strange. He was sweatier than usual, and as he looked in the mirror, he noticed his neck and ears were red. He brushed it off and went to take a shower, making sure he looked good for when you arrived.

After getting ready, however, he noticed that his face was still red, his heart was racing, and most worryingly… he had an erection. And it wasn't a regular one.

He didn't understand why, but his erection was strong and persistent.

Just as he was trying to do something to disguise it, he heard a knock on the door. He felt a chill in his chest and his nervousness increased.

When he opened it, there you were, looking cute and radiant as always. But something was different. He no longer noticed how pretty your makeup or hair looked. He could only focus his attention on how your breasts stood out under the neckline of your blouse and how juicy your thighs looked under your skirt.

"Hey!" you greeted, smiling, and went over to hug him, like you always did.

"Hey, babe" he replied playfully, using the nickname he used to call you.

You smiled at him and walked into his house.

"I'm sorry if I look all dressed up, I just got back from an outing with friends. Could you lend me some comfortable clothes to sleep in?"

He felt his erection throb as he heard that. Just imagining you in his clothes was driving him crazy.

"Ah… yeah, yeah, I'll be right back," he stammered, hurrying to his room. He looked for one of his shirts and, upon returning, handed it to you.

You changed without a problem, leaving you only with the shorts that you were wearing under your skirt.

"Thanks, Ji," you said, turning around to show him how his clothes looked on you.

Was he drooling? He wasn't sure, but he was literally mesmerized by the way your breasts were poking out from under his shirt. He was going to lose control.

"Come on, let's find the movie," you said, sitting next to him on the couch and resting your head on his shoulder as he browsed through the options.

You picked a horror movie, his favorites. Han hoped it would distract him from you, but every time you freaked out and came closer, his erection throbbed harder. It had even started to hurt.

After a while, you went to the bathroom. When you came back, you froze.

Han was on the couch, rubbing the bulge in his pants, panting softly.

"Ha-Han?" you asked, approaching him cautiously. It was then that you noticed the wet spot on his clothes.

"Mmh… I'm s-sorry…" he mumbled, throwing his head back, unable to keep his hands away from his crotch.

"Han, wtf?", you said, a bit embarrassed, not fully understanding the situation.

"Please don't be mad… I don't know what's wrong with me, but it hurts so much…" he whispered with his eyes closed, wishing the earth would swallow him up.

Just then his cell phone rang. It was Changbin.

"Bro, I think you took one of my viagra pills. That, or one went missing… I hope it doesn't cause you too much trouble."

"Are you kidding me?" Han almost screamed. "Why the hell would you have that in your bag? Ahg, it would kill you!" He hung up the call, frustrated.

Now everything made sense. At least for him.

You, on the other hand, were still standing in front of him, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

Han looked up and let out a gasp as he watched you fix your eyes on his erection. His face flushed with embarrassment and he quickly placed a cushion on his lap.

"I'm so sorry..." he whispered, feeling like crying from both the shame and the pain in his pants.

"Don't worry... I'll leave so you can, uh... fix that..." you said, looking away, your cheeks flushing.

"Please... stay..." he asked almost in a plea.

You hesitated for a second, but seeing him like this, you couldn't help but feel a little sorry. And what was worse... you felt the wetness in your underwear since you noticed his bulge.

Han grunted as he felt you approach and pressed the cushion harder against himself.

“Does it hurt?” you asked, curious. You didn’t know if his gasps were from pain or pleasure.

“A lot…” he closed his eyes, rubbing himself more desperately.

You bit your lip. You hesitated for a moment before speaking.

"Would you...want me to help you?"

Han felt his breath hitch.

“You don’t have to… I don’t want you to be uncomfortable…” but his hips contradicted his words. Not to mention the way his cock thrashed around in his pants.

But instead of answering, you placed a hand on top of his and pulled the cushion off his lap.

“I want to do it,” you whispered before leaning in and devouring his lips.

You could feel him holding back in the kiss, making hesitant movements, so you went deeper, mixing your tongues and sitting on top of his lap.

He couldn't help but growl into your mouth, the firmness with which he held your hips applying pressure having that slight relief that at the same time made him thirsty for more.

They got lost in the messy kiss, Han was already more confident and in control of the situation. As he pulled away he bit your lower lip in an attempt to chase you.

"Han~" you began to move your hips in circles, enjoying how his body reacted, feeling him so firm under you.

Han was so lost, he felt very high.

He was drowning in your neck, licking and biting every trace of visible skin.

"Han wait" you pulled away from the addictive sensation of his hot and wet tongue on your skin.

"Do you want to stop?" He said a little worried and disappointed, leaving a little space.

"No, I just want to make you feel good" you smiled and gave him a chaste kiss leaving him stunned.

You climbed off his lap and knelt in front of him.

You gave his thigh a caress before pulling down his fly. Seeing the wet spot on his underwear made your mouth water. You gave his clothed cock a kiss and then a lick.

Han's hands clenching the couch, his white knuckles trying not to fuck your mouth madly.

You pulled his underwear down along with his pants to his ankles and felt the saliva pooling in your mouth.

His tanned cock with its red head very sensitive. It was shiny from the precum that bathed it excessively.

With your thumb you touched the slit of his head probing a little. You smiled at the gasps from him.

"Ahh~ Y/N don't play" he clenched his jaw a bit desperately.

You gave him a kitten lick along his length and then swirled around his tip, you felt that with so little he was close to his release.

You started jerking him off with your hands, mixing your licks and squeezes.

Han was literally struggling not to cum and that started to bother you. You took him in your mouth, sucking lightly and making a mess of saliva and his fluids.

“You look so cute like this,” he said, totally pleased by the way your chin was disgustingly dripping with saliva. His duality made you clench your legs, minutes ago he was all whiny begging like a bitch and the tone he let out was so different.

You let out a moan and took him deeper, making yourself gag.

"Mmh you like being good for me? I'm sure you were drooling seeing me hard" he put a hand on your head, gathering your hair in a handful.

You rolled your eyes and moaned again, not quite understanding if it was his tone that caused it or the simple fact of being him.

"You feel so fucking good, you have a very skilled little mouth" he threw his head back growling at your gasps.

Determined to make him cum you forced your poor throat accompanying with your hands squeezing and massaging his balls.

You felt his cock move in your mouth.

"Mmh Y/N w-wait" he tried to stop your movements, but you only stood firmer, watching him stagger was everything.

Out of instinct he pressed your head towards him, betrayed by his pleasure seeking body.

Then after a few more seconds he cum in your mouth with many thick loads straight to your throat.

The growl followed by a pornographic moan was beautiful. He threw his head back and let go of your head.

"Was it good?" You said smiling licking your cum stained corners.

"It was literally amazing" he smirked and covering his eyes with his arm.

"Thanks Y/N" he said looking at you and caressing your cheek with his thumb.

You snuggled into his hand lovingly until you saw him frown.

"What? You're still hard? How is that possible" you said stunned, he was still rock hard AFTER CUMMING.

"It's not really something I can help" he grimaced.

"It's a good thing" you said standing up.

"Hmm?" Han said confused looking at you.

"It would really be a shame if you left me wanting to fuck, I really appreciate that pill" you said biting your lip and pulling down your shorts along with your underwear.

Han followed your movements attentively, as if he was bewitched by your charm. Seeing your underwear on the floor he let out a gasp at the visible stain of arousal you had left.

"You're needy aren't you?" He smiled shamelessly as if it wasn't his cock that had been erect for over an hour.

He took off his shirt showing his tattoos, you had already seen them, but seeing them together with his needy cock is something different.

You followed his steps and undressed completely, he stretched out his hand, in a quick movement he left you on your knees on the couch, your face against the couch and your ass completely exposed to his mercy.

"I promise that after this I will take the time to adore you as you deserve" he said in your ear followed by a kiss on your cheek.

You felt your heart flutter.

"But now I'm going to use you however I want" he ran his tongue disgustingly across your cheek, dirtyly erasing the tender kiss he had left.

He took your moan as consent and positioned himself behind you.

"So cute, willing to help me even if she has to give me her body" he smacked your ass with his hard cock making you gasp. He bit his lip to stop himself from moaning.

He spit on your entrance and without preparation pushed the tip in stretching you deliciously.

You both let out a gasp, the desire that was there making the pleasure double.

"You're so tight" he pushed himself in a little further and you could only moan begging for him to bottom out.

When he reached his base you arched your back and threw your head back.

"You're being so good for me" he began to give slow but deep thrusts.

"You don't know how many times I masturbated imagining having you like this for me" he growled.

In response you moaned and clenched around him.

He put his hand on your head pushing hard against the couch and began to penetrate you faster and harder.

You just moaned with each thrust totally lost in the way you felt every inch of his cock in your insides, the pain of his grip on your head making it even more pleasurable. You were completely at his mercy.

He put his other hand on your hip, helping him thrust more violently, moaning and grunting at how close his climax felt.

And before he had a chance to pull out of you, he cum deeply.

Feeling his hot cum fill you and his grunt you joined him in the climax moaning and clenching yourself choking his member against your rubbery walls now painted white.

You were so exhausted you could only gasp waiting for him to pull out.

He was still buried deep appreciating the warmth of your shared orgasms.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't want to..." he said, still without leaving you.

It's like his brain works, but his body has control.

"Calm down, actually, I liked it" you said trying to get over the climb.

He withdrew from you slowly, making you feel every inch you were losing. When he pulled out completely he admired your stretched entrance dripping with your mixed fluids.

"Are you okay?" He came back to reality and approached your face to check.

" It was so good" you said smiling and a bit sleepy "so you masturbated thinking about me? That's interesting" you laughed mockingly.

"Shut up, there's no need to repeat that" he was blushing as if you hadn't fucked two minutes ago.

You lay down and looked at him a little worried about what would happen to you after that.

"Can we leave that talk for later?" Literally as if he had read your thoughts.

"What needs to be done now?" You said, not understanding why he was putting off the talk.

You then saw him turn bright red and look down at his cock. He was hard again.

This was going to be a long sleepover.

----------------------------

English is not my first language, so if you see a mistake, please let me know 🙏🏻.

I need more practice writing smuts :((

I have several Chan fics waiting to be reviewed before posting 🤭.

If you have any requests, send them💞.

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thedensworld · 5 months ago

Text

My Baby, My Sugar | J. Ww

Genre: fluff, billionaire au!, smut (18+ only)

Summary: His love for you is unconditional. He gives you everything, he takes you everywhere, and he'll do anything for you.

Wonwoo noticed something was different about you tonight, but he couldn't quite grasp what it was. From the moment he picked you up to the quiet drive to the upscale restaurant his secretary had booked, you had been unusually silent. He knew you weren’t one to talk endlessly, but tonight, the silence felt heavier—weighted with something unspoken.

"Hey, are you alright, love?" His voice was gentle, laced with concern.

You turned your head to him, your gaze flickering down to where his hand rested on your lap, fingers laced with yours. His grip tightened slightly when you didn’t answer immediately, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin, silently urging you to speak. You let out a soft sigh.

"I'm fine… Just a bit more tired than usual," you finally said, offering him a small, weary smile.

Wonwoo didn’t look convinced, but he smiled anyway, a quiet reassurance in his expression. "We’ll be there soon," he said softly, his free hand reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Tonight, you looked absolutely breathtaking. The black dress he had bought you last week hugged your figure elegantly, its half-long sleeves giving you an air of effortless sophistication. The delicate jewelry adorning your neck and wrists—pieces he had insisted on getting you last month as a reward for finishing your semester as a teacher—only enhanced your beauty. You always looked stunning to him, but tonight, something about you felt untouchable, distant, like a painting behind glass.

Once seated across from you at the candlelit table, Wonwoo barely touched his food. Instead, he watched you. Observed the way you pushed the vegetables around your plate, the way your fingers toyed with the stem of your wine glass, how you sighed so softly you probably didn’t even realize it.

"You don’t like the food?" Wonwoo asked, his voice warm but firm.

You blinked at him, then hastily picked up your fork, shaking your head. "No, I love it."

"Then why haven’t you touched it, love?" His eyes softened as he leaned in slightly, his fingers tapping lightly against the table.

He was done waiting. Whatever was troubling you tonight, he wanted to know.

"Talk to me. What’s wrong?"

The way he looked at you—with so much patience, so much affection—made it impossible to keep up the facade any longer. You sighed, setting your fork down before finally voicing the thought that had been weighing on you all evening.

"You donated a lot of money to the school…" Your voice was quiet but firm, cutting through the comfortable ambiance of the restaurant.

Wonwoo raised his brows, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected topic. He nodded, confirming your statement.

"The headmaster was ecstatic," you continued, but there was something about the way you said it that made his stomach twist. It wasn’t excitement or gratitude he heard—it was something else.

"Why?" He tilted his head slightly, studying you closely. "You don’t like it?"

You shook your head, your fingers absentmindedly brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "It’s not that. I appreciate it, really. But… you should’ve discussed something like this with me first."

Wonwoo’s lips parted slightly as he took in your words. He bit his lower lip, exhaling through his nose. You were right. He had promised—promised that anything involving you, anything that mattered to you, would be something you both discussed together. He hadn’t intended to overstep, but he understood now where your disappointment was coming from.

His hand reached across the table, fingers wrapping around yours with a gentle squeeze. "You’re right," he admitted, his voice softer now. "I should’ve talked to you about it first. I’m sorry, love."

You glanced at him, your features softening slightly at his sincerity.

"How about we talk about this properly after dinner? At your place," Wonwoo suggested, his thumb brushing the back of your hand.

You hesitated before mumbling, "My place is messy…" a small pout formed on your lips.

Wonwoo let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head fondly. "Alright, then let’s talk at my place, okay?"

This time, when he looked at you, the weight in your eyes seemed a little lighter. And though you didn’t say it, the way your fingers curled slightly tighter around his hand told him that you appreciated him listening.

Wonwoo met you through a friend. He had been desperate, though he’d never admit it out loud, to find a woman who could steal his heart effortlessly. Someone who could make him fall so hard that he wouldn’t even bat an eyelash at the thought of simping for her. Because Wonwoo had always believed he was a lover at heart. When he loved, he loved deeply—down bad, hopelessly devoted.

But every date his mother arranged had been a disappointment. They were all perfectly respectable women, but none of them had that spark, that something that could make his heart race. Frustrated, he turned to Mingyu—the one person he knew who seemed to have connections with almost everyone in the world.

"I think I know someone," Mingyu had said one day, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. Without hesitation, he reached out to his sister, asking her to introduce Wonwoo to her best friend—you.

"I hear about her all the time," Mingyu continued, scrolling through his phone. "She’s nice, kind, smart—which is totally your type. I think she’s cool."

Wonwoo narrowed his eyes at him, skeptical. "Why don’t you date her, then?"

Mingyu barely looked up as he chuckled, tilting his phone toward Wonwoo. "Oh… she doesn’t like me."

That caught Wonwoo’s attention. He raised a brow, leaning in slightly. "She doesn’t like you?" he repeated, intrigued.

A girl who wasn’t charmed by Mingyu?

Now that was interesting.

However, when he finally met you for the first time, picking you up from school, his heart raced in a way he hadn't expected. You walked through the gates dressed in a modest, simple outfit, yet there was something about the way you smiled and waved at him that sent a jolt of nervous excitement through him. Even now, after all this time, you still managed to make him nervous sometimes.

From the very start, you led conversations with confidence, your eyes brimming with passion whenever you spoke about something you loved. It was effortless—how time slipped away when he was with you. And it wasn’t just him who enjoyed it; he could tell you did too.

One date turned into two, then three, and by the fourth, he knew he didn’t want to waste any more time. He asked you to be his girlfriend on a Saturday night, aboard his family’s yacht, the city lights flickering in the distance as the ocean breeze carried his words to you.

Since then, he had been completely, hopelessly, utterly whipped for you.

Every day after school, he was there to pick you up. And on the rare occasions when work held him back, he made sure his secretary, Chan, took care of it, ensuring you got home safely.

He learned to cook—not because he had to, but because you once mentioned that fine dining all the time made you a little uncomfortable. So, he tried. He practiced. He wanted to make dinner dates at his place special for you, even if it meant burning a few attempts along the way.

One time, when you had a week-long workshop in Jeju, he booked a last-minute flight just because he hadn’t seen you in days and couldn’t stand another minute apart.

Expensive gifts? Of course. If you so much as mentioned something in passing, he would have it ready for you in no time. But it wasn’t about the price—it was about the way your eyes lit up, the way you smiled, the way you kissed him and whispered thank you like he had just given you the world.

Because to him, you were his world.

He loved you unconditionally, without hesitation, without limits.

And he would do anything for you.

You sat curled up on Wonwoo’s couch, completely absorbed in a book from your favorite author—one that he had been collecting ever since you started dating a year ago. It was a quiet, cozy night, just the way you liked it. You had already changed into a pair of pajama pants that Wonwoo had bought for you a while ago, paired with one of his old, oversized T-shirts—the one he could never bring himself to throw away because you loved it too much.

The sound of water running in the bathroom had stopped, but you were too engrossed in your book to notice. Your fingers flipped through the pages eagerly, your heart racing as the tension in the story built.

And then—

A pair of strong arms suddenly wrapped around your waist from behind.

You gasped, nearly dropping the book as you jumped in surprise. "You scared me!" You turned your head to glare at him, breathless. "I was literally at the most intense part!"

Wonwoo chuckled, his deep voice rumbling against your ear. "Sorry, love. You just looked too cute sitting there, all focused." He pressed a quick kiss to the side of your head, his damp hair tickling your skin.

You sighed dramatically, putting the book down on the coffee table before turning fully toward him. Without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around his torso, pulling him close as you rested your head against his chest. His skin was warm from the shower, smelling faintly of his fresh, clean scent—the one that always made you feel at home.

His arms tightened around you, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back. "Better?" he murmured.

You hummed in contentment, closing your eyes.

"Why did you donate so much money to our school?" you mumbled, barely loud enough for him to hear. You felt embarrassed bringing up the topic again, but it had been weighing on your mind too much to ignore.

Wonwoo turned to look at you, his gaze gentle but questioning. "Before I answer that… may I know what’s wrong?"

You sighed, your thoughts swirling with everything the teachers had been saying. It wasn’t exactly a secret anymore—there were already rumors going around the school about you having a crazy rich boyfriend. The moment people started seeing Wonwoo pick you up in his sleek car, the whispers began. And while you had never directly addressed it, the weight of it all had started to burden you.

The worst part? Some of the teachers had been unprofessional enough to bring it up in front of the students, which only made things worse. Now, even your students had started asking questions—questions you weren’t sure how to answer.

You licked your lips, hesitating before finally admitting, "I’ve kind of become a hot topic among the teachers and students."

Wonwoo’s brows furrowed instantly. "Are they saying something bad?"

You shook your head, trying to be honest. "Not entirely bad… but it’s just burdensome. They talk about you, about how I must’ve done something to get you—like I had to scheme my way into this relationship or something." You exhaled sharply, waving your hand as if that could brush off the weight of their words. "It’s not exactly important, but it’s tiring to hear."

Wonwoo didn’t say anything right away, but you could feel the shift in his energy. His sharp mind was already putting pieces together, and before you could stop him, he asked, "Has this been going on for a while?"

You hesitated, then finally gave in to the truth, nodding slowly.

Wonwoo’s jaw tensed ever so slightly. He didn’t like that. Not one bit.

"I’m starting to dislike everyone in that school. Can’t you just quit, love?" Wonwoo suggested, his voice firm as he met your gaze. His hands, warm and steady, tightened ever so slightly around your waist.

You sighed, shaking your head. "No, I still have a contract until next semester. I can’t just leave."

Wonwoo exhaled sharply, his jaw tensing. He remembered the things you had told him about your workplace—particularly about the headmaster. From the way you had described the man, Wonwoo already knew he was the type of person he couldn’t stand.

One moment stood out in his mind. You had mentioned how the headmaster once made an inappropriate comment about a photo you had posted on social media—a picture of you wearing a stunning red dress that he had bought for you. It had been slightly revealing, but when you had asked for his opinion before posting it, Wonwoo hadn’t minded at all. If anything, he had thought you looked breathtaking.

But then you told him what the headmaster had said.

"You should dress like that more often, Ms. Ji. Your work outfits are a little boring."

Wonwoo felt his grip on you tighten instinctively as the memory resurfaced. Just thinking about it again made his blood boil.

He let out a slow breath, grounding himself before speaking. "I donated to show him power," he admitted, his voice quieter this time. "I wanted everyone to respect you. Especially the headmaster." He paused, his fingers gently rubbing circles on your back. "But I was wrong."

Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to your lips—a silent apology, full of warmth and sincerity.

"I’m sorry, love," he murmured against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

Wonwoo pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. His hands cupped your face gently, his thumbs tracing soft circles along your cheeks. His voice was quiet, steady, but filled with something deeper—something only you could decipher.

"Love," he murmured, pressing another lingering kiss to your lips before pulling away just enough to speak again. "Have I been a burden to you?"

Your breath hitched slightly at the question, surprised by his directness. His eyes, dark and full of concern, searched yours for the truth.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" he continued, his voice softer now. "If being with me has made things harder for you… I want to know."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of your thoughts pressing against your chest. You hadn’t wanted to make him feel guilty, hadn’t wanted to let the whispers and judgments of others taint the love you shared. But this was Wonwoo—he had always been patient with you, always listened without judgment. And now, he was asking for honesty.

You sighed, leaning into his touch, closing your eyes as he pressed another kiss to your forehead. "It’s not you that’s the burden," you admitted. "It’s… everything that comes with being with you."

His grip on you didn’t falter, if anything, it tightened as if grounding you. "Tell me," he urged, lips ghosting over yours before stealing another slow, tender kiss, coaxing the truth out of you with every touch.

You exhaled shakily. "It’s the way people talk. The way they look at me like I don’t deserve you. Like I had to do something manipulative just to be with you." Your fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt as you continued. "It’s the pressure of being seen as your girlfriend before anything else. People assume things about me because of who you are, and sometimes… it’s exhausting."

Wonwoo let out a quiet hum, his lips pressing against yours again, deeper this time, as if trying to soothe the frustration and exhaustion you carried. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding you in the warmth of his presence.

Wonwoo pulled back just enough to look at you again, his gaze unwavering. His fingers traced slow, reassuring patterns on your waist, urging you to continue.

"Tell me more," he said softly, his voice gentle yet firm. "What else has been weighing on you, love?"

You hesitated, biting your lip. The words were right there, but voicing them felt daunting. You didn’t want to come across as ungrateful or make him feel misunderstood. But the way he looked at you—with so much patience and love—made it easier to open up. "It’s… the way you spoil me," you finally admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling as it escaped.

Wonwoo furrowed his brows, leaning in slightly as if trying to read your emotions. "What do you mean?"

You let out a soft breath, trying to find the right way to explain. "I don’t want our relationship to feel like some kind of… transaction," you continued, your words quieter now. You looked down briefly, collecting your thoughts before meeting his eyes again. "The expensive gifts, the luxury things… I know you do it out of love, but sometimes, it feels like you’re paying me to be with you."

Your voice wavered slightly, but you pressed on, knowing this was something you had to say. "And that—it hurts my ego, Wonwoo."

His grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly, but his expression softened as he processed your words. He didn’t say anything immediately, just let you continue.

"I love that you care for me, and I know you don’t see it that way," you quickly added, almost as if you were trying to reassure him. "But every time you buy me something extravagant, it feels like I’m being… taken care of in a way that makes me feel small. Like I can’t stand beside you as an equal. And I hate that feeling." You bit your lip, trying to steady your nerves. It felt like your pride was slowly unraveling, but you needed him to understand.

Wonwoo let out a deep sigh, his hands moving to cradle your face, his touch tender yet firm. "Love," he whispered, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, his voice full of sincerity. "I don’t spoil you because I think you need taking care of. I do it because I want to. Because I love you. You deserve everything, Y/n."

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. Your eyes flickered between his, the vulnerability in your chest raw and exposed. "I know. And I don’t want to sound ungrateful," you said, your voice cracking a little. "But sometimes, I feel like… I can’t give you the same in return. Like I’ll never be able to match what you do for me."

The words hung in the air for a moment, and a quiet tension settled between you, the vulnerability and honesty of the moment tangible.

Wonwoo’s eyes softened as he gently tilted your chin upward, guiding your face closer to his. "You don’t have to match me, love," he whispered, his voice firm but soothing. "This isn’t about keeping score. I’m not trying to buy your love. I’m giving you what I can, because I want you to have everything you deserve. But you don’t owe me anything. Not a thing. Just… be with me. That’s all I need."

You didn’t realize it at first, but as the conversation continued, the weight of everything you'd been holding in began to pour out. The tears fell quietly, tracing down your cheeks as your emotions finally found an outlet. You hadn’t meant to cry, but the vulnerability had cracked something open inside you, something that needed release.

Wonwoo immediately noticed, his expression shifting from concern to tenderness as he gently cupped your face in his hands. "Hey, love," he whispered, his voice low and soothing, "don’t cry, please."

His thumb brushed over your cheeks, wiping away the tears before they could fall, but they kept coming. You could feel the tightness in your throat as you tried to hold it together, but it was impossible. You didn’t know why this moment, this conversation, was making you so emotional, but it felt like everything had finally come to the surface.

"I’m so sorry," you whispered between soft sobs, your voice shaky. "I didn’t mean to fall apart like this."

Wonwoo’s heart ached as he watched you struggle, and without hesitation, he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a tender embrace. He didn’t say anything right away—just held you, letting you cry into his chest as he stroked your back in gentle, rhythmic motions. His scent, his warmth, enveloped you, calming the storm inside you little by little.

After a while, he pulled back just enough to look at you again, his eyes filled with nothing but care and understanding. He gently kissed the tip of your nose, then your forehead, his lips soft against your skin. "You don’t have to apologize, Y/n," he murmured. "I’m here. I’ll always be here for you."

His words were like a balm to your aching heart, and you leaned into him again, feeling his chest rise and fall with each steady breath he took. He was your anchor, always there to help you calm the chaos within yourself.

His words settled in your chest like a warm, comforting weight, and for the first time in a while, the heaviness in your heart began to lift. Wonwoo's steady presence was all you needed in that moment. He had a way of making everything feel manageable, even when it seemed like the world was too much to bear.

His hands gently cupped your face again, his thumb softly tracing the curve of your jaw. His touch was tender, but there was an undeniable heat in the way his eyes lingered on yours, the depth of his gaze speaking volumes.

"Y/n," he murmured, his voice low and husky now, sending a shiver down your spine. "You have no idea how much I need you."

Your breath caught in your throat at the intensity of his words. It felt like the air between you both had shifted, the space between you now charged with an electric tension that had been building since the moment he walked into your life.

"You’re everything to me," he continued, his voice growing softer, but more sincere. "And I don’t want you to feel like you have to carry any of this on your own. Let me take care of you, let me be the one to ease your burdens."

The way he spoke, with so much raw emotion and sincerity, made your heart race. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your lips as he leaned in closer, his presence overwhelming and comforting all at once. You didn’t even realize your body was inching toward his until his lips brushed against yours again, this time with more urgency, more desire.

Wonwoo’s hands gently cupped your face, his touch tender, yet firm as though he wanted to ensure you felt his presence, his affection in every moment. He paused for a brief moment, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath warm against your skin.

"You’re beautiful," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear, making your heart flutter. He kissed your temple softly, as if you were the most precious thing in his world, and in that moment, you felt it—how real, how deeply he cared.

"Can i, love?" he whispered, his voice low and filled with sincerity, as if asking for your permission, as if giving you the space to decide without any pressure. His eyes searched yours, waiting for your response.

You nodded, your fingers lightly brushing against his shirt, pulling him closer once more. “i always trust you,” you whispered back, your voice filled with both certainty and vulnerability.

The moment lingered, soft and intimate, as if time had slowed around you. The way he held you, the way his lips moved against yours—it all felt so right,

As Wonwoo’s hands began to roam, they found the hem of your shirt and slowly lifted it, exposing your smooth skin beneath. He trailed kisses from your jawline down your neck, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. Your breathing grew heavier, and you could feel your pulse quicken in anticipation.

Wonwoo's mouth worked its way lower, pausing just above your lace-clad breast. You let out a soft moan as he teased the material with his teeth, pulling the fabric aside to reveal your nipple. His tongue flicked over it, making you gasp and arch your back, pushing yourself further into his touch.

Your hands moved to undo the buttons of his shirt, and when he was bare-chested before you, you reached up to caress his pecs, feeling his muscles tense under your fingers. Desire coursed through both of you, and you could no longer deny the urgency of your passion.

As Wonwoo's passion continued to build, he scooped you up in his arms and carried you towards the bedroom. The anticipation was almost unbearable as you watched him close the door behind you, ensuring that the two of you were alone in this intimate moment.

He carefully placed you on the soft sheets of the bed before kneeling down next to you. With a tender smile, he began to undress you, removing the final barrier between the two of you. He looked at your body, admiring every curve, before following suit and removing his own clothing.

You lay there, both vulnerable and confident, your gaze fixed on each other's bodies. The desire between you both grew, and he leaned in once more to kiss you, his lips brushing against your neck, your collarbone, and finally your breasts, which he took into his mouth one by one, sucking and biting gently.

Your hands roamed over his chest, his abs, feeling every hardened muscle before wrapping around his strong back. You could feel his erection against your thigh, pulsating with need, as he moved further down your body.

As Wonwoo's tongue delved deeper, you let out a soft moan, arching your back to offer more access. "Oh, Wonwoo..." you whispered, your breath hitching as pleasure courses through you.

Feeling your arousal building, he withdrawn, leaving you panting and craving more. "Not yet," he murmured against your ear before moving up your body once more. You squirmed beneath him, your body trembling with need.

Positioning himself at your entrance, he gazed into your eyes, his own filled with a burning desire. "I want to feel you," you plead, your voice husky with want.

He slowly entered you, stretching you with his length, his gaze never leaving yours as he began to move, filling you completely. The sensation of being so intimately connected with him was overwhelming. As he started to pick up the pace, his thrusts became more urgent, more powerful, and both of you were swept away by the tide of passion.

"Wonwoo!" you cried out, your nails digging into his back as he sets a rhythm. "Don't stop..." you mumbled, lost in the euphoric connection between the two of you.

The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, the two of you locked in this intimate dance. Wonwoo's breath caught, his movements growing more urgent. "I can't... I can't hold back," he grits out.

In the heat of the moment, you thrown your head back, your body tightening. "Me neither... I'm coming!" you gasped, and with that, pleasure overtook you, sending shivers through your entire being. Feeling you clenched around him, Wonwoo followed moments later, his hot release filling you completely.

Collapsing on top of you, he held you close, his heartbeat pounding against your chest. The room was still, the only sound the two of you catching your breath, your bodies tangled and spent.

You could feel the warmth of his bare skin against yours as you shifted in your sleep, the soft rustle of the sheets under your movements. The bedroom was still dimly lit, the first light of dawn creeping through the curtains, hinting that it was probably around 5 or 6 a.m. There was still plenty of time before you needed to get ready for school, but the comfort of his arms around you made the thought of getting up feel so distant.

His arms tightened around you, pulling your body closer to his. You smiled softly, relishing in the safety and warmth of his embrace.

“You tired?” His voice, soft and hushed in the early morning, broke the silence. You shook your head slowly, feeling the warmth of his body seeping into yours.

"Wanna do it again?" His teasing tone was unmistakable, and you could feel the playful glint in his voice. Before you could respond, you slapped his bare chest lightly, a small laugh escaping you, but he was quick to catch your hand, bringing it to his mouth and placing a gentle kiss on your palm.

“You look so pretty waking up in my arms,” Wonwoo murmured, his words a soft caress against your skin. "Can't wait to wake up like this every morning."

You chuckled softly at his words, his hints about marriage becoming more frequent these past few weeks. You had a feeling that soon—maybe sooner than you expected—he’d be down on one knee, asking you for forever. But last night, the conversation had shifted something inside of you. You knew, without a doubt, that you would say yes, even before he could ask.

He had proved it to you, over and over again, that he loved you unconditionally, that you deserved everything he had to give—and more.

Wonwoo’s voice broke the peaceful quiet as he let out a soft chuckle, pulling you from the warmth of the moment. "Chan will be here with breakfast," he said, as if he were casually mentioning the weather.

Before you could respond, Wonwoo pressed a button on his bedside table, and the automatic curtains of his bedroom slid open. The sudden burst of sunlight caught you off guard, and your eyes widened as the room was flooded with golden light. You quickly glanced at the clock beside you, your heart dropping when you saw the time.

It was already 08:54.

"Oh no, I’m late!" you exclaimed, panic rising in your chest. You cursed under your breath, shooting a glare at Wonwoo's automatic blinds. You shot up from the bed, scrambling to get your bearings. "Why didn’t you wake me up?!"

Wonwoo chuckled softly, clearly amused by your sudden rush. He propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on you with a playful smile. "Relax, love," he said, his voice smooth and calm. "I already called your school. You’re off today. You’re sick."

Your eyes narrowed in disbelief. "You did what?"

"Yep," he replied nonchalantly, his tone unbothered. "You’ve been working too hard lately. I figured you could use a little break."

Your mouth fell open in shock, and you let out a breathless laugh, though it was mixed with a touch of annoyance. "You can’t just call my school and pretend I’m sick! You know I’ll get in trouble for this. We talked about this last night, Jeon Wonwoo!" you protested, feeling a mix of frustration and amusement bubbling up inside you.

Wonwoo grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he casually stretched and reached for your hand. "I couldn’t discuss it with you. You were asleep, remember?"

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at his audacity. "You’re unbelievable!" you said, your voice dripping with mock exasperation. You slid out of the bed and grabbed your robe, walking briskly—almost stomping—towards the bathroom. Wonwoo watched you with an amused glint in his eyes, clearly entertained by your reactions.

He leaned back against the pillows with a satisfied grin, knowing full well he had won this round. “Take your time, love,” he called after you. “I’ll be here when you get out.”

You didn’t look back, but a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. The playful banter and the way he cared for you—whether you liked it or not—was part of what made him so irresistible.

The grand hall was bathed in a soft, golden light, with chandeliers that seemed to glitter like stars above. Every inch of the room exuded opulence, from the intricate tapestries lining the walls to the marble floors polished to perfection. Floral arrangements in hues of white and gold filled the air with their delicate scent, while the soft murmur of the guests whispered in the background, all waiting for the moment that had been years in the making.

"And now," the officiant said, with a smile, "you may kiss the bride."

Wonwoo could already sense the impending storm. He knew you were going to kill him once the wedding ceremony was over and the two of you had to leave for your honeymoon. The honeymoon you had dreamed of—Ireland, watching the aurora borealis together, indulging in romantic moments while exploring nature. The thought of it made his heart swell with happiness. He loved the idea as much as you did.

But then, Chan, his ever-loyal secretary, had come to him with bad news a week before. Apologetic and flustered, he explained that there were no available tickets for the wedding day. Wonwoo's heart sank. There was no way he could cancel all the bookings he’d meticulously planned for months.

"How could this happen?" Wonwoo asked, frustration seeping into his voice.

Chan looked guilty as he spoke, "I... I forgot to book the tickets, sir."

"Are you kidding me?" Wonwoo muttered under his breath. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out how to make it work.

Your face was set in a perfect expression of disbelief and annoyance. "You’ve got to be kidding me," you mumbled, turning on your heel to walk away when you saw the jet. Your reaction was the complete opposite of the excitement you had shown during the wedding ceremony.

Wonwoo's heart raced, panicking. He couldn't let you walk away, not when you were this upset. He hurried after you, grabbing your arm to stop you. "Love, I can explain," he said, his voice full of panic. "It was Chan’s fault. He forgot to book the ticket. So this is the only solution. I promise it won’t happen again."

You pulled your arm away, looking at him with disbelief. "How could you blame your secretary for this? He’s worked so hard for you! He’s been running around non-stop because you decided to have the wedding on such short notice."

Wonwoo looked down at his shoes, guilt flashing across his face. "I know... But please, love, they're waiting for us."

You crossed your arms, glaring at him. "You're unbelievable!"

Suddenly, with a determined grin, Wonwoo scooped you up into his arms, lifting you effortlessly. You gasped in surprise, your breath catching in your throat, but Wonwoo was clearly amused by your reaction.

"Wonwoo, put me down!" you squealed, but he just laughed, his arms holding you tightly as he walked toward the private jet.

"No way, love," he teased, his voice soft but playful. "You're not getting away from me that easily."

You let out a sigh of exasperation, but there was no denying the flutter in your chest at the sight of Wonwoo's playful grin. He was carrying you like it was nothing, as though the private jet was just a small obstacle on the way to your honeymoon. As he approached the steps leading up to the jet, you finally stopped resisting, your body melting into his embrace, realizing that no matter how much you wanted to be annoyed, you couldn't stay mad at him for long.

"You're lucky you're cute," you muttered, resting your head on his shoulder as he gently placed you down on the stairs of the jet.

Wonwoo chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "I know. And I plan to keep it that way, especially when you’re around."

With one last playful look, he took your hand, leading you inside. The sleek interior of the jet was luxurious, the setting perfect for the adventure that awaited you both. The two of you settled in, the soft hum of the engines beginning to fill the cabin as the jet prepared for takeoff. It wasn’t the trip you had imagined—far from it—but as you sat next to Wonwoo, feeling the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours, the day’s earlier frustrations seemed to melt away.

You both settled back into your seats, the tension lifting as you exchanged soft smiles, your heart finally feeling at ease. The world outside the windows blurred as the jet soared higher into the sky, heading for a destination that was just the beginning of something beautiful.

After a while, Wonwoo leaned over, his lips brushing softly against your ear as he whispered, "We’re going to make unforgettable memories together, love. I promise you, this is just the start."

You smiled, your heart swelling with the truth in his words. No matter the bumps in the road or the surprises along the way, this was the man you loved. And with him, you were ready to face whatever came next.

"With you, Wonwoo," you whispered back, "I’m ready for anything."

As the private jet glided through the sky, the two of you sat side by side, hand in hand, knowing that this was just the beginning of your forever together.

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