#[ he's decided to be a little shit about it ] | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

somanyideassolittletime · 3 days ago

Text

Hints.

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Fem!Attending!Reader

Summary : 4 Times Shen Hinted to Jack about you, only for you to beat him to it .

Warnings: fluff, Jack is yearning hard, slow-ish burn, language, grammar inaccuracies (maybe? idk), Shen being a lil shit. Not beta read.

Author’s note: this is my first time writing a fic, sooooo might be shitty, but I can’t stop thinking of this trope so I decided to take matters into my own hands.

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Jack has always noticed you. He notices that you always spend just a little bit more time with peds patients, he notices that you always indulge in small talks from your coworkers, he notices which nurses you are closest with, he notices almost everything about you.

He was well aware of how close you and Shen are—from seeing both of you for the first time ever, seeing the two of you whispering, thinking “these two are either way too stupid or just way too capable,” which he later proved was indeed the latter. Both you and Shen have the honor of being nicknamed ‘dumb and dumber’ due to how much you bicker with each other. It came with the territory of being best friends since med school.

He was glad to have you both under his guidance; the two of you seemed to be able to work autonomously, and his weight has been lighter ever since ‘dumb and dumber’ started working with him.

He knows that you always carpool with him every time you both are on the same schedule, knows that you are the one who introduced Shen to his current girlfriend, and knows that you and Shen tell each other about everything. He also knows that the care you two have for each other is nothing more than a sibling bond.

What Jack doesn't notice about you? How much you are actually in love with him.

What Jack doesn't know? Shen is so tired of seeing both of you pining for each other.

Both of you always held the same admiration for each other, and the caring nature you both have somehow multiplied when either one of you is on the receiving end of said nature. But Jack, being Jack, brushed it off as you being in your usual caring nature. Which was true, to some extent, you have always been caring for others. And you, being you, always brushed it off as Jack being a good senior.

For others, though, it was as plain as day that you both are in love with each other, and since Shen was basically your body double, he often gets asked about the two of you which pisses him off to no end.

(‘You can’t put a bet when you know what’s going on,’ Perlah once argued with him. Earning a nod of approval from others.

‘I know nothing, all I know is that she’s got a big crush on someone. I don’t even know if it’s Abbot,” Shen reasons.

‘The moment she tells you anything, anything at all, you be a man and back off from this.’ Princess points at him.

‘Yeah, yeah, you guys know I’m a good sport.’ )

| one

After finishing up a GSW case on a police officer, Jack walked out of the room, eyes scanning for you—a habit he realized he's been doing way too much of.

When his eyes found your figure, he watched as you were talking to an officer, friends of the patient he just finished up on, no doubt.

Now he knew that you had been asked out many times before this, but he had only heard it in passing, on gossip, on jokes that usually involve you cutting in with a laugh and a mocking tone of “yeah right as if”. Now that he has had the chance to see it in action, he doesn't know how to feel.

The officer you were talking to was smiling, with his hands on his vest, a straight posture, and chest slightly puffed. He could easily pass as the poster boy of the force, like he just came out of a police TV show you and Shen liked so much. He knew it because he once overheard you and Shen talking about it, and he arrived home, searched all of his subscriptions to watch one of the episodes.

He tried to tear his gaze away. Really tried. But he couldn't, he was curious about what that boy could possibly be talking about with you.

Even from afar, without hearing what you two were talking about, he can confirm that the officer was definitely asking you out, with how much machismo he's exuding while offering his name card.

But he knows you better, he can see that you look awkward, like you just indulge him in a conversation out of respect and common courtesy, not out of interest.

Deciding that he could not see another minute of this, he decided to approach you but not even a step later that Shen stepped beside him and snorted.

“Jesus, she could probably make a yellow page by now if she doesn't throw those cards away.”

“What?”

“He's too young for her. She's too smart for him.” He commented as if it were obvious.

“He probably is the same age as you, man, and he seems…nice,” Jack argued, though he did find a slight comfort in Shen’s comment.

“Trust me. The moment he stepped away, she’ll throw that card.”

“And how are you so sure?”

“You.” He said it casually.

“What?” He croaked out.

Shen sighed, patted his shoulder, and walked away from him.

wanting to search for some truth in Shen’s words, he stayed in his spot, still looking at you.

True to Shen’s word, the moment the officer stepped away far enough from you, you walked over to the nearest trash bin and smoothly threw the card away.

He's not sure what he's supposed to be feeling now. Happy that you declined that guy's offer? Or sad that you didn't get a good night out with a guy that seemed nice.

But somehow his mind kept repeating what Shen told him. Looking for any reason—one that didn't give him any hope.

He must've zoned out for a while because you suddenly appeared in front of him, “Jack. Hey. Are you good?” Waving your hand in front of his face.

He's gotten you to call him Jack when it's just the two of you. Courtesy to one time you were looking for him on the rooftop, and you jokingly said, “Do I get to call you Jack now that I just walked an ungodly amount of stairs just to search you? Because I really just used the stairs.” Upon hearing his name uttered by you, he said yes, to please call him Jack.

He shook his head and searched for your eyes. “Yeah. No, I'm good. He seemed nice,” he pointed his chin towards the officer from earlier. Now standing in the ambulance bay, looking at his phone.

“Not my type,” you replied with ease. Because it was the truth, you never wanted to put anyone you decided to go on a date with, only for you to spend the entire time wishing it was Jack.

“You never seem to be hit on by your type, huh?” He commented. Because that’s what’s been bothering him, why is it that you never even got interested in the slightest with anyone who came across interested with you?

You smirked at that. “What would you know about my type now?”

“What is it then?”

Before you could reply, your name got called away, and you stepped away from him before saying, “Just wait and see, Dr. Abbot.”

| two

It was unusually cold tonight in the ER, and the city was raining for the entire day. Hell, the weather even got everyone who always swore by iced coffee switching it up to hot ones now.

Jack was glad for the weather, it meant that fewer people would come to the ER unless it was something like life-threatening injuries or one requiring immediate treatment.

A small part of him deep down also likes nights like this because it usually meant he got to spend more small moments with you. Not that he would ever admit it out loud sober.

Tonight, it seems fate has a different plan. It's been two hours into the shift, and he hasn't even said hi to you. He noticed that you keep moving around, busying yourself with everything.

Jack was charting on his station, looking up once in a while, looking at you talking to patients, when Shen approached him. Seeing this as his moment to ask about you, he cut to the chase.

“What's going on with her?” He nodded to your figure.

“Was gonna talk to you about it.”

Hearing that, Jack straightened up and looked at Shen, urging him to continue.

“This cold bothers you?” Shen started.

“You came to me to ask ‘bout the fuckin weather?”

“2 hours no contact and it’s grumpy Abbot today, huh?”

“No. And no.” He answered, not liking what Shen was trying to insinuate at him.

“You got a jacket lying around?”

“In my locker. What for?”

“She won't admit it, but she's cold as hell. Been moving around like she got the fuckin zoomies to manage it” he explained.

“Where's her jacket?” Jack asked, since he knew you always brought your jacket every day.

“We ran late today. Was gonna give me my jacket, but why should I when you're here,”

“What do you mean?” Jack knew what he meant, but he'd have to be held at gunpoint to admit it.

“Jacket. Give. To. Her. Okay?.” Shen mockingly said, emphasizing every word he said, miming an act of giving a Jacket and pointing to your figure.

“Yeah, okay.” He mutters under his breath just loud enough.

Before he left his station, he called for Shen again.

“Thanks for telling me.”

Shen laughed at him and waved his hand dismissively.

Jack decided to walk over to you and intervene before you even move to another bed again.

“Come with me.” He touched your exposed elbow to gain your attention, now finally close enough to see goosebumps from the cold.

“Okay. Yeah.” You nodded at him

He leads both of you to the lockers, you following him on his side.

He stopped in front of his locker, pressing his code on the keypad, and opened the door.

You were dead curious about what stuff he had in his locker, that you forgot to ask yourself why he brought you here. So you tiptoed to get a good look inside his locker over his shoulder.

Realizing this, Jack chuckled and stepped away from his locker and let you get a good look inside. “Hope you're not expecting anything.”

His locker is filled with things you could expect: a toiletries pouch, a black t-shirt, a cargo, and a jacket. All neatly placed inside. Seeing that you already got a good look inside, he reached over his locker, extended his arm in front of you, and snatched his jacket.

You looked at him curiously, wondering where this going, why is Jack bringing you here, is he just flaunting that he got a jacket??

He handed his jacket over to you. “Wear it. Before you replaced the Iceman in X-Men” you smiled at his reference and took his jacket in your hand, softly saying thanks out of habit to him, undoing the zipper.

“You finally watched it?” You said as you started to put your arms in the sleeves.

“I liked cyclops,” he shrugged, taking in your figure in his jacket. The jacket fit perfectly. Like it was meant to be worn by you only. His stomach churned because that Jacket was, in all seriousness, his favorite jacket, and seeing you in it might just made his entire day.

“’ Course you liked the simp,” you commented, receiving a ‘hey’ from him.

You snuggled into his jacket and frowned. “Smells like Tide Pods”

“You know I do wash my clothes, right?”

“You got your cologne there?” You asked him, pointing at his locker with your chin.

“That pouch,” he nodded and pointed at his toiletries pouch.

He was going to ask a follow-up question when you reached inside his locker and took out his pouch, unzipped it, and rummaged through it. So he decided that watching you was better than asking you.

You seemed to have found his cologne when you pushed the pouch into his hand, urging him to hold on to it, and sprayed his cologne on his jacket.

Thank god I wasn't lured by those apple watches. Would've given me notifications on irregular heartbeat by now.

You took the pouch, put his cologne inside, zipped it, put it back inside his locker, and rubbed your nose on the jacket to smell it again.

Jack couldn't form a proper sentence—the best he can do is croak out a “why?”

You shrugged as if it was no big deal—it was, you were just good at schooling your expressions.

“You smelled nice. I don't want to wear your jacket if it doesn't smell like you.”

Fuck

“5578? You should've closed your hand over the keypad before punching it in. Now I’m gonna steal your cologne when you're not looking,” you thought that your earlier statement was too bold. So you tried to change the topic.

“Be my guest.” He challenged.

You walked past him, saying, “I will, Jack, I will,” and muttered a thank you once again, but fell on deaf ears as his tactile, visual, and olfactory senses were overwhelmed by you in his jacket, smelling like him, patting at his shoulder.

| three

Jack arrived in ED 15 minutes before his shift change that night. He did the usual— putting his bag down, greeting Dana, and asking her where he could find Robby. Dana answered that he was in the break room, with Shen last time she saw Robby.

He entered the room, finding eye contact with Robby, who was sitting at the table with Shen, eating donuts. Both of them muffled a ‘hey’ to him, pushing the leftover donut in the box to him.

He muttered a ‘no thanks’ and went to the coffee machine to nurse himself a glass before perching himself on the edge of the counter.

Shen spoke up first. “It's her day off”.

Jack, who was sipping on his coffee, stopped mid-motion and searched for Robby’s eyes, who, as it turns out, is smiling smugly at him.

“So?” He replied coyly.

“Just a heads up, though I don’t recall John saying a name,” Robby replied.

Shen muttered something under his breath—just enough to be heard. “He's gonna be insufferable tonight.”

Robby laughed, “Best of luck to you, John.”

“Aren’t you two sweet now?” Jack grumbled to nobody in the room.

Deciding that it was time to torture Jack further, Robby asked Shen in a tone Jack knew all too well. “How’s your girl?”

Shen smiled at him, even from behind, Jack could see him breathing out a sigh of contentment every time someone brought his girl up.

“She’s doing great, kept asking me to find Y/n a guy so we can double date, I mean it’s not even my problem, whoever she’s got her eyes on doesn’t have the balls. She got me a girl for God's sake, why can’t she find herself a guy?” He shrugged and twisted his head to look at Jack. “Abbot, you gonna eat this or can I claim it?”.

Jack hated where this conversation was going – not that he was actively joining, he was already mulling over the idea of surviving this shift without having something to look forward to. Though he couldn’t ignore the pang of fear when Shen looked over at him, he felt like a kid getting caught stealing by their parents at that moment.

“Go ahead,” hearing thi,s Shen muttered a ‘nice’ and reached over, taking another donut which was probably rationed for Jack.

He was munching on his donut when he started again, eyes looking back at Robby. “You know I asked her out after 3 months liking her, one hint from Y/n and I was like, you know what? Fuck it. Thank god she was right.”

“3 months? Didn’t peg you for someone to wait that long.” Robby mused back.

“Exactly, man, I was miserable for three months. Can’t imagine pining for someone for 4 years and not making a move. Owe it to y/n though, if she didn’t make that hint, I would’ve been still single and miserable.” Shen was fucking with him. He was sure of it. Because he realized it long time ago that Shen has been hinting at him about you. From always giving a heads up on where you are, to giving hints about you that he didn’t ask for himself. And he was glad, in a sense, he could know more about you, but now that Shen has sussed him out that he is indeed screwed over, he kept on hinting to him.

And Robby? He laughed, knowing where this was headed. He looked over to Jack, who stood still, perched on the edge, unmoving, pretending to enjoy his cup of coffee – but he knew Jack, Jack was listening intently to Shen, and that the coffee was not so good that you could enjoy it. So he decided to join in more.

“Hey, maybe some guys just like playing the long game.”

“Yeah, way too long of a game, more like. What if the girl’s starting to lose hope and decides that you’re not worth it anymore, huh?” Shen was so fed up with whatever is going on with Jack and you that he was dropping hints like flies.

The thing was, you never explicitly told him who it was, but Shen knew you too well – he knew what your type was, knew when you were serious about someone you’d dated or not, and he knew that a certain Jack Abbot was checking every box in your mental list.

Shen was reminiscing about a certain memory now, both of you were 4 years younger, fresh out of med school, stepping for the very first time on this exact floor. He remembered you talking his ear off in the car, worrying about your attending. Scared that your attending will be a close-minded drill sergeant. Your words, not his.

He remembered the two of you introducing yourselves to Robby and hearing happy squeals from you because “thank god he's nice,” only for Robby to say that he is not your attending. But when the two of you finally got introduced to your attending, Shen elbows you and leaned over, whispering “oh you’re definitely fucked now, Wishing on that drill sergeant now huh”. He would’ve continued teasing you if it weren’t for Abbot’s “you two hear me now, kid?” cutting the joke train he’s been holding on forever.

“Well, I'm going to pee now.” He said, pushing his chair while standing up from the chair. He turned his back, pointing at Jack with his finger. “Hope that didn’t go over your head.” he walked away, leaving two men – one smirking his ass off and one suddenly interested in contemplating his life choices.

Robby was going to say something when Jack cut him off. “What the hell did you say to Shen man?” He was irritated now. Robby lifts his hands in a mock surrender at him.

“Didn’t say anything, man. You do realize that your girl’s close with him, right?” he tried to reason.

“I only confide in you man, now Shen’s as bad as you in fuckin with me over it”

“Well, if it's any consolation, maybe she talked to Shen about you?” Robby was trying to get his point across now. “And listen to Shen, he just told you that she’s starting to believe that you don’t feel the same.”

“How do you even know that she’s talking about me, huh?”

“Jack, as much as I love you brother, I gotta say this, you’re fucking stupid in this case for your own good.” Robby stands up, walking closer to Jack, pointing his finger at his shoulder, and says, “Just tell her. For everyone’s sake here, okay?” and that big betting money I put on you to say it to her first. Robby would’ve said.

He left the room, leaving Jack still perched as the last 5 minutes, unmoving, and deep in thought.

| four

Jack was on his way to see the improvement of the kid currently held in Trauma 2 when his stride was stopped by Jeremy, the new intern. “Hey, Dr. Abbot, can I have a minute?”

“Yeah, what is it?” he said curtly.

“Got multiple lacerations and a fracture. I was supposed to be with Dr. Ellis, but she is currently overseeing other patients, so if you can assist me, maybe. If you got a minute, of course.” Jeremy, like any other person who worked under Jack for the first time, is always timid every time he talks to him. Something Jack is not proud of, actually, he’s a gruff man, sure, but scary? One conversation with him and everyone would realize that he is a yapper himself.

“I gotta go check the drowning case earlier for a sec, you can ask Dr. L/n or Dr. Shen, I saw them charting earlier,” he explained to him.

Jeremy nods, “Oh okay, I’ll ask one of them. Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” Before he can move, however, Shen walks over to Jack and asks him about the seizing patient he was assigned to. Jack sighs, looks over to Jeremy, and says, “Guess Dr. L/n is with you,” before he walks with Shen to Trauma 1.

After a few trips in between cases with Shen, Jack finds himself and Shen in front of the nurse's station, telling Bridget that some of the beds are okay to be discharged when Shen asks. “Hey, Bridget, who’s in South 12?”. Jack steps a few steps backwards to search the board, his eyes scanning over it.

South 10

South 11

South 12, - multiple lacerations, fracture.

“Y/n is. With the new kid.” Jack answered him. “Holy shit.” realizing that Jack and Bridget are looking at him waiting he continues “sorry, it’s just I know the guy, Aaron, he’s her ex.”

“Damn, he’s cute,” Bridget says pointedly. Though she was telling the truth, she also wanted to see how Jack would react.

Jack felt weird in his stomach. For the first time in forever, he felt green. Like something was eating him alive. he was your man for some times in your life. He gets to spend mornings with you. He got to date you. He gets to call you- his thought was cut off by Shen saying that he’s going to go over there to say hi.

“Between you and me, that kid got no chance of ever getting her back,” Bridget says. Jack huffs and says that he’s going to go see who can move to free up some beds, looking more sour as the second passes.

Jack promised himself that he wouldn’t care about what’s going on behind the South 12 curtain, but somehow his feet have a mind of their own because now, he finds himself in South 11, not necessarily doing anything, and he was suddenly interested in the sleeping form of the patient occupying the bed though his ears were trained on the next curtain.

“Okay, you’re done for now. Just gotta wait for ortho to be cleared so you can go upstairs,” he hears your voice, characteristically soft. Followed by Jeremy’s voice saying goodbye, and a curtain being opened.

“Thanks, seriously, didn’t know you both worked here,” he hears an unfamiliar voice.

“No problem, man. Thanks for letting that kid work on you.” Shen replied then with a familiarity.

“Nah, with y/n watching him like a hawk, I’ll trust him with my life.” Aaron, albeit high from the pain meds registered to him still talked with a lilt to his voice.

Realizing that you’re done with Aaron, you excused yourself, “Well, I’m going now. Shen, you wanna-” your voice was cut off by Aaron’s hand shooting up, catching your wrist, “Actually, can we talk for a bit?”

Jack clenched his jaw, he didn’t like where this was going.

“Ookay, I’ll leave you both to it,” Shen speaks up, opening the curtain. Earning a glare from you.

“What is it now?” you start, your eyes darting everywhere, only to find Jack’s familiar boots in the next bed, giving you comfort you didn’t know you needed.

“I’m sorry, okay? All these years, I kept on wondering where we went wrong.” You sigh, “Aaron, what went wrong was… everything, and between you and me, parting ways was the best. We've got to focus on ourselves, and it worked. Besides, we were young back then, we didn’t know any better.”

“You could’ve replied to my texts. You owe me that, at least.”

“Last I recall, we have nothing going on anymore-” Aaron cuts you to it. “You’ve found someone. That’s why you’ve been ignoring my texts, why you can pretend that what we had back then was nothing.”

“Being together was a mistake, Aar, we both know that.” You try to reason with him. Not wanting to give his opinion as an answer, because honestly, you didn’t even know whether you had a chance with the man who has your heart or not.

Jack realized that he wasn’t supposed to hear any further, he felt like shit now that he’s heard something very personal. So he decided to leave.

You look at Jack’s boot leaving and suddenly feel less comfortable now that you are alone with your ex.

Jack finds himself in the ambulance bay, his feelings brewing in his stomach as firm as ever. He was feeling everything all at once now – guilt, jealousy, and most prominently, yearning.

“He made a mistake, a big one, she’s been holding off dating because she knows no one is ever gonna replace you, sure as hell not gonna come back to him.” He doesn’t realize that Shen was behind him until his words sink in.

“I don’t even know what to say to her, how are you even so sure that she feels what I feel?” For once, Jack listened to his heart and asked Shen the big question he’s been itching to know for the longest time.

“Look, I know her, okay? I know she never explicitly told me that it was you, but I know that whatever it is you’re feeling, she feels the same.” Shen never speaks to him in such a manner; he realizes it was almost comforting to him.

Jack doesn’t have an answer to that, so he stayed silent. Hoping an ambulance would come in – just to take his mind off of things he’s been thinking. Shen understands him, he doesn’t expect an answer from Jack, so they both stay silent.

Jack woke up on his day off with a call from you, not that he knew it was you who called him that morning. He was awake on the second ring, annoyed but still reaching for his phone on the nightstand to check the caller ID. Upon realizing that it was you who called, he shot up from his position and mentally prepared himself for your voice.

“Jack, are u up?”

He knows that you have seen better days— your voice is strained, tired, and almost giving up.

“Hey, yeah, I’m up now. What's wrong?”

He hears your chuckles and he realizes that this is a good way to wake up.

“Nothing’s wrong, listen- do you wanna maybe get some breakfast with me? Oh wait, you just woke up, never mind, I’ll-”

“I would love to. where are you thinking? I’ll come and get you from the hospital” He cuts you off. Scared that you've decided that he shouldn't go out.

“The diner near your place, I’m walking there currently. I’ll order your usual.”

The diner was a one-time occurrence, after both of you worked the day shift, and with two cans of beer in his system, you offered to drive him with a waffle as a bribe on the way home.

Before he can ask why you were walking alone in the cold, you cut off the call, leaving him practically jumping from his bed to brush his teeth and change his clothes.

Jack was walking to the front door of the diner when he saw you from the glass window, sitting in one booth, head tilted backward, and arms crossed with two coffee mugs and a plate of waffles on the table. His heart stopped the moment he realized that you were wearing his jacket—the one you keep on telling him you were planning to give back, but it never seemed to land on his locker ever again.

He walked to the booth, muttering your name, and he must have looked like he just woke up because you smiled— that loopy smile that always leaves him frozen. “Good morning. You definitely raised the standards for ‘I just woke up’ look”.

“Well, aren’t you cozy in that jacket?” He jested, “Always wear this one if you’re not working.” You replied with a small smile, looking at his eye.

He smiled bashfully and was going to sit across from you when you held his hand and said, “Sit beside me, please,” and he obeyed. He sits beside you, shoulder almost touching, when you put your head on his shoulder. He went stiff for a while, before slightly leaning his position backward so you could be more comfortable.

“I'll give you this jacket back,” you speak first, your voice slightly muffled by his shoulder. he laughed, and moving his head slightly to the left to press a kiss on your hairline. You took it as a chance to put your arms around his waist, snuggling into him further as he put his arm around you, rubbing it in a soothing motion.

“Keep it.” You kissed his shoulder, the intimacy of this moment isn't lost on him, to ground himself, he decided to lift his mug and carefully take a sip of his coffee with his free hand.

“You want to talk about it?” He started, earning a simple nod against his arm and listening attentively on you talking about the shitty shift you just had—one where you lost a boy, and having to talk to his girlfriend who cried on you saying how she never got the chance to tell him she love him was just too much for you. So you made up your mind that moment to tell Jack as soon as you can.

“Jack.” You called out to him, and he hummed at you, hands still moving up and down your back. You continued. “You know I love you, right?.” His hand stopped at that, and you straightened up, hands falling on his thigh, looking at his eyes now.

He couldn't say anything— his heart beating too hard for his liking, his mind went blank, he was sure he'd never felt peace and adrenaline at the same time.

So he looked down, seeing your hands on his thigh, taking it on his own and lifting it to his lips to press a kiss on it.

He breathed deeply. “Fuck. I love you so much, I don't think it's healthy.” His voice was still breathy, from the adrenaline or the fact that he just woke up 10 minutes ago, he never knew.

“Good. 'Means I got custody of this jacket and its owner now” going back to the same comfortable position you were in earlier, and he laughed softly, with a crooked smile, he whispers, “You already have my heart, You can have any of my jackets, honey.”

“But you have to eat first, and after that you can raid my closet and take anything you want, okay?”

“Will you kiss me now?”

He leaned in and kissed you softly—not a hurried kiss, not even a hungry one, it was a genuine soft kiss with years of yearning over each other, pining over one another with nothing but pure love. He kissed you like he meant it, like how you are meant to be kissed—with nothing but love.

The next day, you weren’t even walking together to the ER, but somehow, everybody knew. Robby was talking with Shen, Dana with Bridget, when you joined in to greet everyone, followed by Jack, who put his bag on his station, not even acknowledging the gossip circle.

You were going to say something when Shen beats you to it, “shhhhh before you say anything, who said it first?” Now this caught Jack's attention, who joined in with a smirk on his face.

“She did,” Jack said with a smile. Looking at you now. Dana and Bridget were high-fiving with a ‘yes’. While Robby and Shen quietly muttered a ‘fuck’.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck, I was so close to that 300,” Shen said exasperatedly. Rubbing his face.

“What the fuck, you bet on me John?” you asked him.

“Eh, we all did. Though I technically bet against you.”

You turned to Robby, “You?” he shakes his head and juts his chin out to Jack beside you.

“Before you ask, we both bet that you would be the first to say it,” Dana said cheerfully, thinking of ways she’s going to spend the money.

Shen looks over to Jack before saying, “what the fuck, man. I even gave you hints.” Jack only shrugged his shoulders, “Sorry, man, I wasn’t even expecting it.”

“That’s what you get for playing dirty, John.” Dana shoved his shoulder.

“Told you the girl’s fierce. Never underestimate a woman in love.” Bridget commented on Shen and Robby.

Jack nudged your shoulder, looking at you, smiling fondly before saying, “Yeah, my girl’s fierce.”

Your face turned red at that comment. “Though, you deserve to lose that you got so little faith in me you fucker.” You pointed at Shen. who replied with a “whatever”.

Shen walked over to Jack and put his hand on his shoulder, “Thank you for lightening my burden, now she’s your burden.” you mock hurt at the comment, though the smile on your face says otherwise.

“Gladly. Though you gotta walk me step by step later.” Jack nudged your shoulder once more, you shoved him back as retaliation, “Hey! I’m not the one eavesdropping when I’m talking to my ex.”

Jack was frozen, his ears burning red, when everybody laughed at him.

“While Jack could’ve given me the win, I’m happy for you both, truly,” Robby said earnestly.

Jack leans down, whispering to you, “You should tell Shen he’s not gonna get free coffee anymore now that you’re driving with me.” You whispered back to him, “Nah, he’s a big boy, he’ll understand.”

Your whispers were responded to with sighs and grunts from the others, who decided to leave both of you alone. With Dana walking away, smiling hard, and says, “Keep it PG now, you two.”

You both smiled at each other before parting ways. You turned over to look at him from a distance and mouthed ‘I love you,’ and Jack, who meets your eyes with his stare – now softer than ever – mouthed back ‘love you more.’.

And that was enough, for now.

#jack abbot x reader #the pitt #jack abbot

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rmview · 2 days ago

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cold shoulders, SKZ.

featuring — stray kids members x gn!reader ( masterlist )

summary — how the stray kids boys react when you give them the cold shoulder after an argument and don’t forgive easily!

contents — angst, hurt, ignoring.

bang ˠ chan

chan wasn’t used to you giving him the cold shoulder. not like this. sure — you’d gotten mad at him before, bickered over small things, had moments where you huffed and turned away when he got too bossy or distant. but this? this silence was heavier. this was you not replying to his texts. not looking at him when he spoke. moving past him in the apartment like he was invisible. it killed him.

the fight had been over something stupid. some late night at the studio when you’d begged him to come home, just one evening, just one dinner together after weeks of him being locked up in those four walls with nothing but music and stress weighing on his shoulders. and instead of agreeing, instead of apologizing, he’d snapped. told you you were being clingy. that he didn’t have time to babysit feelings when deadlines were crushing him.

the moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. but his pride, tired and overworked and frustrated, wouldn’t let him back down.

now here he was — two days later — watching you move around the kitchen, headphones in, ignoring the way his gaze followed your every step. he left your favorite drink by your side of the bed. it stayed untouched. ordered takeout from that place you loved. you barely touched the food. every attempt he made to bridge the space between you, you quietly shut down.

but chan wasn’t the type to give up. not when it came to you. he hovered in the doorway that night, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, hair a mess from restless fingers. “y/n,” he called softly, voice rough with the apology he couldn’t quite force out yet.

you didn’t turn around.

“i know you’re mad… and you should be,” he sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “i was a dick. i let stress get to my head and said shit i didn’t mean. you didn’t deserve that.”

nothing.

chan bit his lip, stepping closer. “i hate this, you know. us… not talking. it’s driving me insane.” when you didn’t respond, still scrolling through your phone, he sighed and sank onto the couch across from you, resting his head in his hands. “i miss you,” he mumbled into his palms.

that made you pause. just for a second. but you didn’t say anything, didn’t soften. and honestly? he understood. because this wasn’t about a quick sorry and moving on. this was about trust. about how you’d begged for a little time, a little space in his life that wasn’t buried under pressure, and he’d brushed you aside like you didn’t matter.

so, for the first time in a long time, bang chan decided to wait. no grand speech. no half-assed jokes to make you smile. just him, sitting quietly, hoping you’d let him earn your forgiveness the hard way. and if it took days, weeks — hell, months — he wasn’t going anywhere. because losing you, even for a second, was worse than any deadline.

felix ˠ

felix had never seen you like this.

you’d always been soft with him. even when you were frustrated, even when you rolled your eyes at his teasing or swatted his arm when he clung to you like an overgrown puppy, you never… iced him out. but after the fight last night — if you could even call it a fight — you’d shut down. completely.

he stood outside your room for what felt like forever, his hand hovering near the door, chewing on his lip as he debated knocking for the hundredth time. the light from under the door flickered with your tv, shadows moving. he knew you were awake. knew you’d heard him when he came in earlier, when he called your name softly, voice heavy with regret. but you hadn’t answered. felix wasn’t used to this kind of distance.

it had started over something small — it always did. he’d made a joke. some careless, teasing remark about how you were “too sensitive,” when you opened up about something that had been bothering you. he hadn’t meant it to sting, but the moment your expression fell, the guilt had hit him like a brick wall. and instead of apologizing properly, he’d awkwardly laughed it off, hoping you’d do the same.

but you didn’t. you went quiet. and now, hours later, you still hadn’t said a word.

felix paced the hallway, glancing at the door every few seconds. his chest hurt in that tight, awful way it did when things felt wrong. when people he cared about pulled away. he hated conflict. hated when the air between him and someone he loved felt heavy.

so he grabbed his phone, sent a message.

i’m sorry, angel. i messed up. can we talk?

read. no reply.

he sighed, leaning his forehead against the cool wood of your door. “y/n,” he whispered, voice cracking. “please don’t hate me.”

still nothing.

felix sank to the floor, back against the wall, fingers picking at the sleeve of his hoodie. he scrolled through your shared photos, stupid videos you’d taken of him half-asleep on the couch, goofy selfies he’d demanded after a coffee run, little snapshots of a relationship that had been his safe place. and now it felt like the walls were crumbling.

he stayed there for what felt like hours, the house eerily silent except for the faint hum of your tv. he didn’t try to force his way in. didn’t flood you with texts or beg you to come out. felix wasn’t that type. he knew sometimes people needed space. but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell.

before heading back to his room, he slid a note under your door — his handwriting messy and rushed.

i know i hurt you. i’ll wait. however long it takes. i just… i need you to know you mean everything to me. i’ll do better, i promise.

and then he left the hallway in silence, hoping you’d read it. hoping one day you’d believe it. because losing you over one stupid, thoughtless moment? that was the kind of thing felix knew he’d never forgive himself for.

lee ˠ know

lee know wasn’t used to being ignored. especially not by you.

you’d always been the person who called him out, pushed past his walls when no one else dared to. the one who teased him right back when he got sarcastic, who softened him with a smile when his words were sharp. but now… now you wouldn’t even look at him, and it was all his fault.

the fight had started ugly. tension building all week, small frustrations piling up until he said something he shouldn’t have. something cruel. defensive. his voice had been cold when he’d spat, “maybe if you weren’t always acting like you know everything, we wouldn’t be fighting all the damn time.”

and the second he saw the way your face fell — the way you’d swallowed hard, biting your lip like you were forcing yourself not to break — his heart had dropped straight to his stomach. especially since you didn’t yell back. didn’t cry. you went silent. and that silence hurt worse than any words you could’ve thrown at him.

now, hours later, you’d locked yourself in your room, your phone untouched on the counter. every time he passed by your door, the knot in his stomach tightened. the part of him that always needed to win, to have the last word, crumbled under the weight of how badly he’d messed up.

lee know paced the living room, restless. he thought about leaving — giving you space, like maybe that would help — but he couldn’t do it. not with the way your silence haunted the house. not with the memory of your eyes flickering, just for a second, like he was someone you didn’t recognize anymore.

“y/n,” he called softly, standing outside your door, voice rough with regret. “i didn’t mean it.”

nothing.

he let out a heavy breath, raking a hand through his hair. “i’m… i’m bad at this, okay? at saying how i feel. and when i get scared, or—” he cut himself off, scowling at how pathetic he sounded. “i push people away. but i don’t wanna push you away.”

silence. the kind that made his chest ache in a way he didn’t know how to fix.

lee know leaned his forehead against the door. “i’m sorry,” he whispered, his pride cracking wide open. “for being a dick. for not knowing how to handle someone who actually… cares about me.”

he stayed there, listening to the quiet hum of your music inside. he could picture you lying on the bed, headphones in, pretending you didn’t hear him. and honestly, maybe he deserved it. deserved to stew in it a little. but that didn’t stop the urge to fix it.

“look,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “i don’t expect you to forgive me right now. hell, i don’t know if you ever will. but i’m not gonna pretend like it doesn’t matter to me. because it does.”

his fingers brushed against the doorknob before he pulled away. “i’ll wait,” he said, softer now. “and when you’re ready to yell at me or cuss me out or whatever… i’ll be here.”

and then he left, the hollow ache in his chest heavier than it had been in years. because losing you? that wasn’t something lee know could stomach.

hyun ˠ jin

hyunjin wasn’t good at waiting. you hadn’t said a word to him since the fight. not a glance, not a muttered complaint, not a teasing shove. the silence was brutal — worse than any shouting match you’d ever had, worse than when you used to push each other’s buttons just to see who’d crack first. but this time, it was different, because he’d gone too far.

the words still echoed in his head, laced with heat and spite. he’d been tired. stressed. the comeback preparations were gnawing at his nerves, and the last thing he wanted was to drag you into it. but you’d called him out — like you always did when he started spiraling — and instead of leaning on you, he shoved you away.

“maybe it’s easier if you just stay out of my life,” he’d snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.

the moment the words left his mouth, he felt it. that gut-wrenching regret, the instant knowledge that he didn’t mean it — not for a second. but it was too late. he watched the light drain from your face, watched your jaw clench like you were holding back tears. and then you left, the soft click of the door behind you feeling louder than any slammed one.

now, hours later, the apartment was too quiet. the lack of your presence gnawed at him. hyunjin sat on the couch, a sketchbook in his lap, though his pencil hadn’t moved in ages. he kept glancing at his phone, willing it to light up with your name. an angry text. a scathing message. anything. but nothing came.

“y/n,” he muttered to himself, scrubbing a hand down his face. “god, i’m such an idiot.”

he finally got up, heart pounding, and padded toward your room. the door was cracked open, but you weren’t inside. the bed still made, the window slightly ajar. he bit his lip, guilt settling heavier in his chest. “can we… can we talk?” he asked softly, though the room stayed empty.

hyunjin sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “i don’t know why i always do this. push people away when i’m hurting. you didn’t deserve that. you didn’t deserve any of it.”

he blinked hard, his throat tight. the sketchbook in his hands felt heavier than ever. he flipped it open, revealing the latest page — a half-finished sketch of you. quietly beautiful, eyes crinkled in laughter like the way you used to look at him.

“i keep trying to pretend i’m okay on my own,” he continued, voice breaking a little. “but the truth is… i’m not. not without you.”

the silence felt suffocating. he left the sketchbook on your bed, open to that page, and stepped back. he didn’t expect you to forgive him right away. honestly, he wasn’t even sure if you’d come back tonight. yet he still hoped.

“whenever you’re ready,” hyunjin whispered, backing out of the room. “i’ll be here, waiting.” and for once, he meant to wait.

jeong ˠ in

jeongin knew the second the words left his mouth that he’d regret them.

but in the heat of the moment — heart pounding, frustration thick in his chest — he hadn’t cared. he just wanted to win the argument. he wanted you to stop looking at him with that wounded expression, to stop making him feel like the bad guy.

“i don’t even know why i bother with you sometimes,” he’d muttered bitterly, storming out before he could see the way your face crumpled. and now, he wished he hadn’t. because it had been two days. two entire days.

you’d ignored his texts, left his calls unanswered, even avoided the group chat the two of you usually spammed with memes and inside jokes. at the dorm, he caught himself glancing at your contact every few minutes, wondering if maybe you’d just decide to yell at him and get it over with. anything would’ve been better than this complete, aching silence.

jeongin hated this. hated not hearing your laugh. hated knowing he was the reason you weren’t smiling. he sat alone on the rooftop that night, hoodie pulled up, fiddling with his phone while his stomach churned. the city lights blurred below him, and every notification made his heart stutter — hoping, praying it was you. but it never was.

“damn it,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. he remembered the way you always brought him snacks after a long practice. the way you’d mock him for being dramatic but still hug him when he was down. the little things he took for granted until now. and now? he might’ve lost you for good because of his stupid temper.

he scrolled through your old messages, fingers trembling a little when he reached a picture you’d sent a week ago — you and him at the arcade, grinning like idiots with matching plushies on your heads. his throat burned.

“i didn’t mean it, y/n,” he whispered into the night. “i was angry. and scared. and stupid.” he bit his lip, hesitating before typing out yet another message.

i miss you. i’m sorry.

he stared at the words, thumb hovering over the send button, before eventually locking his phone without sending it. because he knew sorry wouldn’t be enough this time. not right away. but jeongin wasn’t giving up.

tomorrow, he’d wait outside your place with your favorite pastries. he’d sit in front of your door if he had to, leave notes, beg your forgiveness with every cheesy rom-com move he could think of. because losing you wasn’t an option. not to him.

“i’ll fix this,” he promised quietly to the empty sky. “no matter what it takes.”

han ˠ

han wasn’t used to you ignoring him. you were the one person who never made him feel like he was “too much.” the one who laughed at his dumb jokes, let him ramble at three a.m., and knew how to calm his overthinking when it spun out of control. but now… the silence was unbearable.

he could still hear his own voice from that night, sharp and reckless in the heat of the argument. “you always do this! acting like you’re perfect when you’re just as messed up as the rest of us. maybe i need someone who isn’t always breathing down my neck.”

the minute it came out, he regretted it. your face had fallen — not angry, just quietly devastated. and that hurt worse than if you’d screamed. yet instead of apologizing, han did what he always did when he didn’t know how to handle emotions: he ran. left before you could reply, thinking he’d cool off, come back, and fix it later.

except later never came, because now you weren’t replying. not to his spam messages. not to the voice notes he left you at midnight. not to the random memes or his half-baked apologies typed and deleted a hundred times.

even when he tried casually showing up outside your building with bubble tea like it was just another day, your roommate told him you didn’t want to see him. and han… han was spiraling.

“idiot,” he cursed himself, pacing his room for the tenth time that night. his phone buzzed with group chat nonsense, and he barely glanced at it. his world felt a little too quiet without you in it.

he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling as the weight of everything sank in. you made him better. you kept him grounded when his brain turned against him. you were the only one who understood that when han cracked a joke, it sometimes meant he was falling apart underneath. and now? he might’ve ruined that.

“i miss you,” he whispered into the emptiness of his room. his chest ached when he scrolled to your contact, thumb trembling as he typed.

i get it if you don’t wanna talk. but please… can you just tell me if you’re okay? that’s all i need.

he sent it this time. didn’t care if it made him look desperate, because han jisung would rather be a fool in love than lose you forever.

tomorrow, if you didn’t reply, he’d show up anyway. bring your favorite snacks, stand outside your door like a lovesick puppy, and refuse to leave until you opened it. he didn’t know how to be okay without you. and maybe he didn’t deserve you, but he wasn’t going to give up. not this time.

seung ˠ min

seungmin never expected you to forgive him easily. he knew you. you didn’t play games. if something hurt, you wouldn’t pretend it didn’t. but this… this silence hurt more than he was prepared for. he could still hear the words he’d thrown that night, laced with frustration and pride. “if you can’t handle being with someone like me, maybe you shouldn’t be with me at all.”

he didn’t mean it. god, he didn’t mean it. it was the kind of thing you said in a moment where your pride bruised before your heart could catch up. you’d been calling him out for shutting down when he was stressed, for acting like he didn’t care. and instead of explaining that he cared too much, seungmin pushed back.

it wasn’t his style to beg for forgiveness. he thought time and space would cool things down, that maybe in a day or two you’d send a dry text like, ‘you’re still an asshole.’

but nothing came. no good morning text. no sarcastic comeback in the group chat. no midnight video call asking if he ate. seungmin felt the emptiness in ways he didn’t know how to name. the apartment was too quiet without your teasing remarks. the coffee he made tasted wrong without your constant complaint that it was “too bitter, like your personality.” even the ridiculous variety shows you forced him to watch alone felt dull.

he found himself checking his phone every few minutes, not even pretending it was for anything else. days passed like this. and though his pride tried to convince him it was fine, his heart knew better. you weren’t ignoring him to win a fight. you were hurt and he was the one who did it.

seungmin sat on his couch one evening, your favorite snack in a bag beside him — he’d instinctively grabbed it on his grocery run. without thinking, he opened his messages.

i’m not good at this. but i’m sorry. i said something i didn’t mean because i was scared you’d leave first. i get it if you don’t want to talk to me now, but… i miss you. and i’ll wait.

he sent it before his overthinking could stop him. then he stared at the screen. waited. hoped. even if you didn’t forgive him soon, seungmin promised himself he’d show up. in his own quiet, stubborn, seungmin way — one snack, one dry text, one poorly hidden soft moment at a time. because you mattered more than his pride ever could.

chang ˠ bin

changbin could deal with shouting. hell, he preferred it. if you screamed at him, told him he was an idiot, threw a pillow in his face and called him names — at least it meant you still cared enough to be mad. but this? this silence? it was killing him.

it had started after that stupid fight. something small and dumb at first — he came home late from practice without texting, you were already upset from a bad day, words escalated, tempers flared. and in the heat of it, he’d let frustration speak for him.

“if being with me’s such a burden, maybe you shouldn’t be.” the second it left his mouth, changbin wanted to snatch the words out of the air and swallow them whole.

but your face… the way it fell, the way your eyes glossed over, like you physically felt those words hit you — he knew he fucked up. and now, three days later, you hadn’t answered his texts. you didn’t pick up his calls. he even sent you a voice note because you always teased him about how he sounded in them — but even that, left on read.

when you crossed paths at the company building by accident, you didn’t spare him a glance. didn’t even acknowledge his presence. that crushed him more than he thought possible.

in public, changbin still smiled, still cracked jokes with the boys, but they could see something was off. he was quieter. distracted. constantly checking his phone like a man waiting on a miracle.

back home, your absence was everywhere. the sweatshirt you left on his chair. the playlist you made still queued on his speaker. your favorite mug untouched on the shelf. he missed you so bad it made his chest ache.

one night, unable to take it anymore, changbin grabbed his keys and headed to your apartment. his hand shook when he knocked, heart pounding like it was trying to break out of his ribcage.

you opened the door, expression guarded, arms crossed like a barrier between you and the storm he brought.

“i know you don’t wanna hear from me,” changbin started, voice rough. “and you don’t owe me anything. but… i had no right to say what i did. i was pissed, and i took it out on you, and that’s not okay.”

you stayed silent, but your eyes glistened.

“i miss you. everything about you. even your nagging, even your bad taste in tv shows. i miss you so much it hurts.” he took a breath, chest tight. “i’m not here to beg. i’m here to tell you i’m sorry. and… that no matter how long it takes, i’ll be waiting for you to forgive me. ‘cause you’re it for me.”

your gaze faltered for a second, and in that tiny crack, changbin let hope slip in. he didn’t know when — or if — you’d let him back in. but he’d wait. because some people are worth it, and for changbin, you always would be.

notes: aww poor guys xp but anon wanted them to suffer so that’s all they’ll do this fic xD no part 2!

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stargirlrchive · 1 day ago

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some bad traits i think the cod men would have are:

if price is in a bad mood, you know it. like cannot for the life of him play it off or tamper it down. and he’s not mean to you but he’s definitely in a mood. like slamming the cabinets a little too hard, stomping across your house, grumbling about not being able to find shit. (even though it’s right in front of him)

he loves his men but goddamn can they stress him out. and unfortunately sometimes he takes it home.

simon is stingy with money. but to a point where it is excessive. always telling you, s’okay, we got tha’ at home. comes from a good place, but like let a girl buy what she wants, you know?

it truly stems from him trying to be resourceful, man’s hasn’t had an easy life or an easy upbringing. money was tight. but his jeans and shirts and shoes have tears or holes in them and he refuses to buy himself more things because it’s too expensive.

gaz (not always but) can be really close-minded, stubborn. knows he’s wrong but just won’t admit it. doesn’t gaslight you but is trying to prove why he thinks he’s right (even though you both know he’s wrong!)

and won’t really drop it unless you decide to agree to disagree. it irks you especially if it’s something trivial because it’s like you can be wrong sometimes. but you’ve come to realize it’s hard for him to accept any mistakes on his end, because a mistake out in the field can cost him and his boys everything.

and johnny is messy. especially after returning from a mission. which is why it’s a bit harder because you get used to having a clean, organized house and now you come home to dirty clothes strewn on the bedroom floor or bathroom floor.

dishes piling up and dirty. you’ve literally seen him go to the kitchen, grab a cereal box and decided to not want to eat it but instead of putting it back in its place, will leave it on the counter.

#simon riley x reader #john price x reader #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #johnny mactavish x reader

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sturnsblogs · 3 days ago

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DEADBEAT

Fratboy!Chris X Toxic!Fwb!Reader

—

Chris had been helping around your apartment like it was his full-time job. He cleaned more than you did. Did the dishes, mopped the floors, vacuumed, wiped down the counters—even folded your laundry with that terrible little smirk like he was the best boyfriend in the world.

He wasn’t, technically. You weren’t even sure what he was to you now.

But still, he was there.

Every night.

He stayed over almost every evening now, claiming the couch at first but somehow ending up in your bed more times than not. He woke you up every morning with some kind of breakfast—sometimes just cereal in a chipped bowl, other times pancakes shaped like animals, with uneven blueberries as eyes. You never asked for any of it. But he did it anyway.

He kissed your forehead every chance he got. Rubbed your back when you were nauseous. Held your hair when you threw up. Whispered stupid little compliments like, “You’re still so fuckin’ pretty, even when you’re hurling into a Target bag.”

It was weird.

Sweet, but weird.

You didn’t know how to feel.

Especially today.

You were supposed to be getting ready for your first appointment, and Chris was acting like you were eight months pregnant with twins and not barely two weeks along.

He had already laid out your clothes—leggings, hoodie, fuzzy socks. He was fussing in the kitchen about something when you stomped in and rolled your eyes.

“Chris,” you said flatly. “I can dress myself. I’m not dying.”

He glanced over his shoulder, unbothered. “Didn’t say you were. Just figured you’d wanna be comfy.”

“I can decide what’s comfortable,” you snapped.

His brow twitched, and he turned around fully, towel still in his hand. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you muttered. “I just don’t need you babying me every two seconds.”

“I’m not babying you,” he said calmly. “I’m just helping.”

“You won’t even let me carry the fucking laundry basket,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “I’m not disabled, Chris.”

He raised his hands. “Alright, damn. Sorry for wanting to make sure the mother of my child doesn’t pass out trying to lift a pile of t-shirts.”

You let out an annoyed sigh, grabbing your hoodie from the couch and tugging it over your head. “I’m not even two weeks pregnant. Can you chill?”

Chris grabbed his keys and looked at you with his mouth slightly open, like you’d just said something insane.

“You don’t know that,” he argued. “We haven’t even gone to the appointment yet.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” he said, following you as you stormed into the bathroom to fix your hair. “You’re over here acting like it’s not a big deal—”

“I never said it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Well, you’re acting like it,” he replied, leaning on the doorframe. “Like I’m crazy for wanting to take care of you.”

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a second, brush mid-air. “You never did before.”

That shut him up.

The silence stretched between you, thick and awkward.

You set the brush down quietly and leaned against the counter. “You never acted like this until I was pregnant. And now you’re doing dishes and folding socks and waking me up with fruit bowls like…” You trailed off.

“Like what?” he asked softly.

“Like we’re some happy little family,” you whispered, biting the inside of your cheek.

Chris stepped closer, enough that you could feel his presence behind you but not enough to touch. “I’m trying,” he murmured. “I know I was shit before. I’m not trying to play house. I’m trying to be there—for you, and for the baby. Even if it’s early. Even if it’s small. I don’t want you doing this alone.”

You blinked fast. “I don’t even know if I want to do this at all.”

That made his stomach drop—but he didn’t argue.

He just nodded. “Then let’s go to the appointment. One step at a time. No pressure. Just information. Just… answers.”

You finally looked at him. “You’re still not carrying the damn laundry.”

Chris smirked. “We’ll see.”

The ride to the clinic was quiet at first. The kind of quiet where every little sound felt louder than it should’ve—the AC humming, the turn signal clicking, the occasional thud of the car passing over a pothole.

Chris had one hand on the wheel and the other resting on his knee, thumb twitching like he wanted to say something but kept second-guessing himself. You were staring out the window, arms crossed, chewing on your thumbnail.

Then, he broke the silence.

“You ever think of names?” he asked casually, like it wasn’t the most terrifying question either of you could bring up. “Like… if it’s a girl. Or a boy, I guess.”

You blinked slowly, jaw tightening.

He continued without noticing your change in expression. “I always liked the name Luca. Or like… Mila, if it’s a girl. But I don’t know. That’s probably dumb.”

You let out a bitter laugh and turned your head toward him. “Seriously?”

Chris glanced at you, confused. “What?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Quit acting like you aren’t gonna be a deadbeat dad.”

The words slipped out fast, venom laced in every syllable.

Chris’s hand on the wheel stilled. His entire face went blank—eyes straight ahead, jaw clenched so tightly you saw the muscle twitch. He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask you to explain.

Didn’t laugh it off like he usually would.

He just… went quiet.

And that silence hit way harder than any yelling ever could.

You looked back out the window, suddenly wishing you hadn’t said it. Not because you didn’t feel it in the moment—because you did. You were scared, overwhelmed, angry at everything. But watching the way his whole demeanor changed made something in your chest twist.

The rest of the drive was silent. Uncomfortably so.

Even when he pulled into the parking lot, he didn’t say anything. Just turned the car off and sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it had answers for him.

You finally looked over at him.

“Chris—”

He shook his head. “Let’s just go in.”

But his voice was hollow now.

And the guilt settled heavy in your stomach as you followed him into the clinic, the waiting room smelled like hand sanitizer and old magazines. A baby cried somewhere across the room, and you tried not to flinch.

Chris sat next to you, arms folded, legs bouncing restlessly. He hadn’t said a word since pulling into the parking lot. Not when the receptionist handed you the clipboard. Not when you muttered a half-hearted apology while filling out your name on the forms. Not even when the nurse called your name.

Now, you were both sitting in the little exam room. Sterile walls. A crinkly paper sheet on the table. The faint sound of a monitor beeping in the next room over. You were sitting up on the table, feet dangling nervously, while Chris sat in the corner in the little plastic chair like he’d rather be anywhere else.

You watched him for a second. He hadn’t looked at you once.

“Chris,” you said softly, forcing a small smile. “You’re really gonna sit there and ignore me in a gynecologist’s office? That’s kinda cruel.”

Nothing.

You tried again. “Remember when you told me you thought ultrasounds were, like, sci-fi movie stuff? You were so scared it was gonna show the baby waving.”

Still nothing.

You sighed and picked at your nails. “Okay, I get it. You’re mad.”

Still nothing.

You bit your lip, voice going quieter. “I didn’t mean it. What I said in the car. It was a shitty thing to say. You’re not— you’ve been… good to me. Better than I ever expected.”

He finally looked up at you, and his eyes were tired. Really tired.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said flatly. “You meant it.”

The door creaked open before you could respond, and a kind-looking nurse stepped in with a clipboard and a soft smile. “Hi, Y/N? Ready to get started?”

You forced a smile and nodded.

Chris didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

Even when they told you everything looked fine. Even when they said you might be further along than expected. Even when the doctor turned the screen and pointed out the little fluttering heartbeat—he just sat there. Quiet. Numb. Like he wasn’t in the room at all.

When it was all over and you walked out with a printed photo in hand, you looked at him.

“It’s real now,” you said softly, holding up the ultrasound.

He glanced at it for a moment.

Then looked away.

And you didn’t know what hurt worse, his silence, or the fact that, you were starting to feel truly alone in this.

The ride home was silent.

No music. No small talk. Just the soft hum of the engine and the occasional sound of a turn signal clicking. Chris kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight. You sat with your arms crossed, the ultrasound photo burning a hole in your lap.

You didn’t say anything when he pulled into your spot.

Didn’t say anything when he turned the car off.

But when he got out without waiting for you, that’s when the sinking feeling started again.

You trailed behind him, keys jingling nervously in your hand as he unlocked your door and stepped inside. The place looked exactly the same as when you left it—blankets on the couch, his hoodie draped over a chair, an empty glass on the counter.

Comfortable. Lived-in. Yours and his.

And maybe that’s why it hurt so much when he walked straight into your room and started gathering his things.

Your voice cracked the silence. “What… what are you doing?”

He didn’t look at you. Just grabbed his charger from the wall, the sweats he left on your dresser, the cologne you always secretly used when he wasn’t around.

“I’m gonna head home,” he said quietly. “Give you some space.”

“Space?” You blinked. “Chris—what? Why?”

He finally looked at you. And he looked tired. Not just tired—defeated. Like today knocked something loose in him and he hadn’t been able to recover.

“Because I need it,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t wanna say something I can’t take back.”

You swallowed hard, stepping toward him. “You don’t have to go. I—I’m sorry, okay? What I said in the car, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just being defensive. Scared.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “But it doesn’t change that it stuck.”

He turned, walking toward the living room with his stuff in hand. You followed him again.

“Please don’t leave,” you said, voice quieter now. “I don’t… I don’t wanna be alone.”

He paused.

You watched his shoulders rise and fall with a shaky breath. His back was still to you when he finally mumbled, “Alright. Just for tonight.”

He dropped his stuff by the door and sank onto the couch, leaning back with a long sigh. You stood there, frozen for a moment, unsure if this counted as a win or not.

Later that night, the apartment was dark and quiet.

You couldn’t sleep. You tossed and turned under your sheets, the silence somehow louder with the distance between you. And when you finally got up, your feet padded softly across the floor until you reached the living room.

Chris was lying on the couch, facing the back cushions. His chest rose and fell slow and steady—but you knew he wasn’t asleep.

You hovered for a second, then whispered, “Chris?”

He didn’t move.

You stepped closer. “Will you come to bed?”

Still nothing.

“Please?” you said, and this time, your voice cracked. “I can’t do this alone.”

He rolled over slowly. His eyes were glassy. Tired. Quiet.

But he nodded.

Didn’t say anything. Just stood, followed you back to your room, and climbed into bed beside you. And when you curled into him, pressing your face into his chest, he wrapped his arms around you like it was the only thing grounding him.

Neither of you said a word.

You just laid there, skin to skin, heartbeats mismatched—but together.

The only sound was the distant hum of cars outside and the ticking of the cheap clock on your nightstand. You lay curled into Chris’s chest, but he hadn’t held you the way he usually did. His arms were around you, sure—but not tightly. Not protectively. Just… there.

That hurt more than anything.

You shifted slightly, pressing your face closer to the soft fabric of his hoodie. And then the tears came again, slow and silent this time, soaking into the cotton. You didn’t want to cry. Not again. But it was like your body couldn’t help it.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I didn’t mean it, Chris. I was just scared.”

He didn’t say anything.

You moved your hand up to his chest, resting it there gently like it might tether him to you somehow. “You’ve been so good to me. I just— I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like I’m ruining everything.”

He exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound that didn’t quite count as a sigh.

“Chris,” you whispered again, voice cracking, “please say something. Please.”

You tilted your head up, your lashes still wet, and looked at him in the dim light filtering through your curtains. His jaw was tense, lips pressed into a line, eyes unfocused as they stared at the ceiling.

He finally spoke—quiet, calm, and unreadable. “Go to bed.”

That’s all.

“Chris,” you said again, desperate now. “Please—”

You leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth. Soft. Hesitant. Your lips trembled against his skin.

But he pulled back.

Your stomach dropped.

His eyes flicked to yours for only a second, and there was no malice there. Just hurt. Deep, quiet hurt.

“I’m not ready to pretend everything’s okay,” he said softly. “Not tonight.”

And then he turned on his side, back facing you.

You lay there frozen, eyes wide, heart aching. You wanted to say something—anything—but the lump in your throat made it impossible.

So you just stayed there. Alone in a shared bed.

Staring into the dark.

And realizing that this kind of pain didn’t come from just anyone—it came from someone you loved.

—

A/N- @sturniolosymphony you said him not her

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy @chriss-slutt @franticroads @thecrawlys @ribbonlovergirl @freshlyinlovewchris @whore4chris @matts-girlfriend @ariana3lovesu @sturnl0ve @cass-sturn @sturns-mermaid @sunrisemill @fadedstvrn @ikyoudreamofme @mattsdemi @kitkatbar1275 @skelet0nsinmyycloset @lezleeferguson-120 @bells-sturn @sturniolosymphony @kenziesturniolo54 @kikirasweatsweathoho @emely9274 @cherryystemm @realuvrrr @zenithsturniolo @kier-with-a-k @eeyoresturnz @elizasturn @ribread03 @sturnslux3 @costalgirlyr @pizzapocketpocketpizza @arianna1342 @mattsplaything @ed1tssturnn @ivysturnss @ilovemenwithlonghairr @whore4-chrissturniolo

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dexxtrosee · 2 days ago

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Safekeeping (Part 2)

Summary: a father loses his mind over a silly little thing that Robby has to deal with, of course. Needless to say, he fucks up when you come into the picture and his judgement gets clouded.

A/N: sorry for the long wait, this is still like setting the ground lmao I'm sorry, promise things will pick up after this one.

Part 1.

Robby has always tried his best to be approachable.

The irony doesn’t pass him by. He knows what he must look like, 6’1 and sleep deprived all the time, annoyed and at the brink of yelling at the next person who comes to him with a stupid ass remark about patient satisfaction scores or vaccines being harmful or whatever the fuck conspiracy theories are spinning around lately. He would argue being approachable doesn’t equal putting up with bullshit, though.

But he tries, honest. The last thing he would want is to become one of those doctors people pray to avoid rotating with, he knows the feeling. He dreads ever seeing a patient sighing when they notice him approaching, or have a nurse press their lips together whenever they work a case with him. And he knows the job inevitably gives you nightmares, how could it not? But he hopes he doesn’t have a recurring guest role in his students’ dreams.

The hospital is overwhelmed and understaffed, the nurses are not safe, his new students have gone through the horrors since day fucking one (God, he already sounds like them). There’s no time to sit down and talk, barely time to stuff his mouth full of whatever he can get his hands on to eat, and he doesn’t really check his phone almost in the entire shift. On good days, he finds it hilarious. On bad ones, he doesn’t really get why they’re still trying, why all of them haven’t quit on the spot.

But he’s the one in charge, right? So he has to be approachable.

“Doctor Robby? Could you help me out here? The father keeps telling us he doesn’t want the vaccine to avoid the, uh, ‘tracking device created by the government’?”

He takes a deep breath. Well disposed, easy going and approachable, goddammit.

“I’ll be right there.”

Whitaker scurries off and Dana starts laughing her ass off somewhere to his left. He can’t really help it when he starts laughing too, despite covering his mouth and turning away.

At the corners of the entire ER, there are these metallic things that are supposed to serve as mirrors, circular as to give a better perspective of every place. They have cameras too, of course, but he can’t really use the CCTV system to sneak glances at the mother of the babygirl, can he?

He tries to be subtle. Stands in front of the closest with a chart and plays dumb, ignores Dana's teasing smile and Samira's weirded out looks. He finds it interesting that they don't say anything though.

He takes another deep breath and walks to the room with the conspiranoic parent, grabbing the inside of his sweatshirt for dear life.

He doesn’t quite manage to smile, but can anyone blame him?

“Good morning sir, heard we’re having some trouble here. Mind if I help out?”

He already met this man, so he has already decided he doesn’t like him. Still, he keeps his face neutral and bites back the snark and the snapping.

“You’re not getting any injections anywhere near him.”

Ah, of course, not like we already pumped him full of other shit to help with the state you brought him in.

“It would just be a vaccine, sir, nothing more.”

The man scoffs.

Robby doesn’t quite understand people, despite having a career longer than their lifespan. They had to sedate the patient- Dylan, when his father had brought him in with a deep cut that had torn his right thigh and he was so deep in a panic attack he wouldn’t answer a single question they asked, just kept sobbing and screaming while his father kept frowning at him. A piece of rusty metal had done it, after his father had taken him to a wrecking yard for a “fun time”.

Dylan is now laid in bed, with stitches going from the right side of his knee to the upper middle of his thigh. He’s barely ten.

“Yeah sure, how stupid do you think I am?” Very. “I said no.”

Robby nods, turning his head to the side in hopes of hiding the anger. “I understand your decision, but I’m sure you can understand too that we’d rather wait until his mother gets here so she can tell us as much, if she agrees with you. Ultimately, it is her decision.”

Sweet satisfaction spreads through his veins when the man seethes in front of him, clenching his hands by his sides and walking around like a caged animal. “I’m his father.”

It’s so hard for Robby to hold back the shrug, but he manages. “And we’re aware, but we also have registered that the mother has full custody of the boy. I’m sorry, but what she says goes.”

The man in front of him is big, younger than him by at least ten years. If Robby got close to him, he thinks they’d look at each other eye to eye.

That said, he thinks a simple punch would get him on the floor, in case he loses his mind. Not like he can do it though, he’s not about to lose his license over some stupid ass man that has more air than brain inside his skull.

“I could sue you for this.”

His voice rises, setting Robby on high alert in seconds. He gets his hands out of his hoodie and threads them behind his back.

“You are free to do so, sir, but we are following the law and the mother’s wishes. She set on record her consent for vaccines whenever they are required.”

He already feels frustrated by not giving it to him as soon as he arrived. It was a deep cut, deep enough that the cleaning was messy and had made Javadi turn a little pale. McKay had held the little boy’s head while it happened until he passed out, then had asked Robby for her break and ran outside, to the ambulance bay.

“You’re not getting a single fucking thing inside my boy, you hear me?”

It rings louder this time, loud enough that everything seems to quiet down outside the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dana approaching. He takes a few seconds to step back and shake his head, motioning for Mateo instead.

Relief fills him when she doesn’t protest, only to be squished as soon as he notices she turns around and goes to the room you’re in. You’re right outside, standing at the curtain with your hands shaking. Dana grabs you and pushes you inside, closing the blue cloth behind her.

Fuck.

He turns back around, rising his hands with his palms open.

“Sir, please calm down. This is a hospital, there are many other patients here that would appreciate some silence.”

It comes out harsher than he intended. The man walks closer to him, and Robby was right, they meet eye to eye.

Mateo comes inside right then.

“Should I call security?”

Some sort of stupidity must be infecting him today, cause he raises his eyebrow before he speaks. “I don’t know. Should we, sir?”

He braces for impact when the man’s face turns red.

Oh well, at least he’ll have some days off.

You looked so shaken, eyes darting around the room in search of the voice that kept yelling. He never likes to see his patients so unsettled, but God, what he had felt was something else entirely. It was almost like someone was choking him, tied down to the place he’s standing at while he was forced to take the beating.

He’ll go take a look at you right after Langdon fixes his soon to be broken nose, he decides.

“Are you out of your fucking mind, you imbecile?”

A woman comes rushing inside the room, pushing the man that was about to punch him away from Robby.

He won’t admit it to anyone, ever, but he almost cries out of relief. He really likes his nose to be intact.

“Get the fuck out.”

She’s the mother, he notices. They come to the hospital for check ups often enough that he recognises her, even if he’s just treated them once before, after Dylan threw up blood once only to discover it was just a nosebleed that had gone to his stomach.

“I’m not going anywhere, he’s my son too. Where does it say he’s only Sydney’s?”

The mother, apparently Sydney, scoffs. “By law, he is, remember? You don’t have fucking custody and I was stupid enough to allow you to see him, but not anymore. Get the fuck out before I call the cops.”

A few beats pass. Mateo looks at Robby like he has the answer for world peace right at the palm of his hands, so he sighs and gets between them.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to remind you that this is a hospital and we cannot allow you to have this type of behaviour here. If you don’t stop now, I’m gonna ask you both to leave.”

He seriously thinks he’s about to get tackled to the floor by both of them before Sydney nods and grabs the man by his arm, pulling him away. “I’m sorry, we’ll keep it quiet. Can you tell me what’s going on with Dylan?”

He nods, nodding at Mateo so he can go get McKay and Withaker. “We’ve stitched the wound and had to sedate him to do so, he was in blind panic when they arrived and made it nearly impossible for us to treat him properly. He’ll be fine, one of our doctors will explain further to you. For now, we need to get him a tetanus shot too, to prevent any infection.”

Sydney nods, ignoring the way the father glares at her. Robby’s sure he’ll end up being escorted out of the place sometime soon, but he’ll deal with it later. “He got the full scheme when he was little, if that matters.”

“Unfortunately, since the wound was dirty, we had to stitch it together, and it has been close to ten years, the booster is needed. He’ll be fine more than likely, this is just protocol.”

Once she tells him the go ahead, McKay comes inside smiling at her. Whitaker understandably looks six seconds away from jumping out of his skin.

With a warning look to both of them, he steps outside and tries his best to appear nonchalant as he nearly runs to your room.

His stomach twists in knots when he hears you sniffing inside, but he doesn’t dare go in.

He catches Dana’s soft tone talking to you in reassurance, doesn’t quite get any words but knows how she looks like, bent over by your side, rubbing your back while she holds your hand.

The baby girl is quiet now, probably taking her much needed rest after crying for so long and getting a relief from her colics. He can’t really help it when a smile blooms over his face, picturing you holding her and talking softly. You’re so pretty, but it makes him dizzy to think what you must look like when you’re loving your daughter. There’s something so soft and gentle about you, tender in a way that he didn’t believe possible in times like these. A raw, dormant part inside him wants to jump out and wrap itself around your frame, letting your arms keep the baby close to your chest while he keeps you safe inside his.

He nearly jumps to the roof when Dana steps out and finds him in the middle of the daydream. A nervous laugh bubbles out of him when she raises her eyebrow at him, but he brushes it off and clears his throat.

“So, how’s she doing?”

Dana shrugs. “Better now that you’ve shut that piece of shit up. Good job, doc.”

He preens at the praise, satisfied with helping you feel better in any way possible.

He doesn’t dare ask to go inside, afraid of shaking you further. Still, he thinks he can ride the high of having helped you until he has a chance to see you again.

He doesn’t really expect you to step outside and stare at him with wet eyes, clutching a piece of cloth-a baby’s blanket, he thinks, close to your chest. His legs feel like jelly.

“Are you okay, doctor Robby?”

Dana, that traitor, scurries off, leaving him with his mouth hanging open.

“W-well I-uhm, yes ma’am, don’t worry.” He gives you a shaky smile, so pathetic he can feel his entire face turn red. “All in a day’s work.”

You frown at him. “That’s awful.”

A stupid little nervous laugh leaves his mouth, rubbing his neck subconsciously.

“I hope it didn’t bother you too much, I try-we, we try our best to keep things as calm as possible here.”

You shake your head. And there it is again, that subtle shift between the scared woman he’s dying to take care of and this other version that seems ready to eat the world whole.

“I’m fine, it just set me off a little. It hasn’t been the easiest day today.”

He nods in understanding, wringing his hands while wrecking his brain in hopes of finding a way to keep you here, talking to him for hours and hours and eternity and then more.

“Hopefully we can keep it this way now.”

A sweet smile is gifted to him again.

“I know you’ll try your best, doctor Robby. Thank you.”

You go back inside your room, and he has to brace himself against the wall. Holy fuck.

There is no way he’ll stay with just your name and a one time meeting. He needs to figure something out before you leave, or else he’ll regret it for the rest of his life.

#dr robby #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt #dr robby x reader #micheal robinavitch x reader #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby x you #dr robinavitch #michael robby robinavitch x reader

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sirfrogsworth · 18 hours ago

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So Elon has decided to skip the imminent disaster of global climate change and just move on to a calamity 5 billion years in the future.

If you ever need to understand Elon's motivations, it's all this.

Okay and a little bit the woke mind virus.

But mostly this.

He wants to get to Mars more than anything. It's why the only thing he can speak intelligently about is his rockets. He has put in the time and effort to learn about them because this is his singular passion.

A lovely Youtube physicist did a video about SpaceX and she said half of the rockets blow up and Elon just wants more money. And it was disappointing to hear her say that because she is a scientist and both things are inaccurate.

SpaceX would be an amazing company without Elon. His leadership is the only thing really holding it back. They have put lots of cool shit into space. Their Falcon program is the most productive and cheapest rocket program in history. They put more stuff into space than everyone else combined.

They had to blow up part of the graph just so you could see the competition. Half of the SpaceX rockets are *not* blowing up.

Starship is a specific prototype. It has nothing to do with their main rocket business. Starship is Elon wanting to go to Mars. It is basically him trying to send a 3 story building into space. And he keeps blowing it up because that is the fastest way to develop a rocket. He's wasting a lot of money by trying to speedrun a trip to Mars in his lifetime. And these tests are bit more like crash test data than expecting the rocket and Starship to actually function properly. It's a process and they have goals for each launch, and for the most part, they reach those goals. Any success after those goals is gravy to them. But they are pretty certain it is going to end in fireworks at this stage of development.

I don't know if they will get it to work. It would be nice because a functional spaceship that size could do a lot of cool science. But Elon's goals and NASA's goals are going to conflict in a major way at some point in the future. And I'm worried that may damage space exploration.

Starship is very different than their Falcon program. It's a science experiment. Falcons rarely blow up. They get shit to space like the James Webb telescope.

And as far as Elon just wanting more money... sort of.

His personal wealth has not been a huge concern of his for a while. Otherwise he wouldn't have let Tesla fall apart like it has. The wealth he is actually concerned about is not his own. Going to Mars is a trillion-dollar-plus endeavor. Even the richest man in the world cannot raise that much money.

Only a government could fund that.

Elon knows this. He figured it out a while ago. And when he saw an opportunity to get his hands on the government purse strings, he jumped at the chance.

He jumped in the shape of an X like a giant loser.

I'm *positive* Elon thought, "If I could save the government a trillion dollars, they'll give it to me so I can go to Mars."

But it is probably breaking his brain right now after learning he isn't this super genius who can figure out government bureaucracy in a weekend with a bunch of coding dorks.

He got depressed and realized his cool plan to get to Mars was falling apart.

Whoops.

Elon will say anything to get to Mars. He will lie about anything to get to Mars. He will consort with anyone to get to Mars. If you are ever unsure why Elon is doing something, it's to get to Mars. His moral calculus is based on this. In his delusional mind, everything is justifiable to save the human race.

He does have side quests. He wants to repopulate the Earth with his seed. And he uses IVF because you can drastically increase the odds of getting a boy if you pay extra. And he is angry at his trans daughter because he wants boys to continue his mission to spread Musk seed. He spends $50,000 extra to make sure he gets boys and she is messing with the plan.

Oh, and he really really wants people to think he is good at video games. And he wants people to like him. And he wants to kill the woke mind virus because he didn't get the boy he paid for.

But Mars is *almost* all he cares about.

Elon thinks Earth is doomed and he wants immortality from being the man who saved human civilization. He truly believes our existence is dependent on being "multiplanetary." It might be the only thing he believes.

Saving the human race is supposed to be his legacy.

And it is killing us.

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no-144444 · 2 days ago

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chapter 5: inner workings

꩜ summary: lando norris was a preppy asshole in secondary school, and you were the girl he despised. years later, you're a hot-shot sports lawyer rewriting the rules of the sport he calls home, and your paths cross, whether you want them to or not.

꩜ pairing: lando norris x fem! lawyer! reader

꩜ a/n: anything in orange and bold is the past/ in school

Can I get another one?” you asked the bartender. Being the designated sober friend was fine, until it got to that time of night where people started running off and becoming a headache, and you decided you’d just go home and start on your write-ups. But not before one last glass of this restaurant's home-made lemonade. It was like crack, you couldn’t stop drinking it.

“How many of those have you had?” the bartender, a young guy, about your age, chuckled. You smiled, a small chuckle leaving your lips.

“It’s good,” you shrugged. “And I don’t drink.”

“This one’s on me,” he served it to you. “Want to close out your tab?”

“Yeah, the ‘Planned’ tab,” you explained. “Do you prefer cash or card tips?”

“Well thanks for tipping first of all, and probably cash,” he smiled, flashing perfect teeth. You’d always noticed people’s teeth for some reason. Liam had the nicest teeth you’d ever seen, but that was only due to braces. As much as you didn’t want to admit it, Lando had the nicest natural teeth you’d ever seen. That little gap between his top front teeth always reminded you of a bunny or something. It was cute. Wait- why the fuck were you thinking about Lando right now? “The tab is 347.”

“Great, there should be a card on it,” you nodded and fished your wallet out of your bag. “Here’s a 50, you’ve been great all night.”

His eyes lit up. “Thanks,” he smiled. “You guys were great.”

You rolled your eyes. “They’re drunk and annoying- no need to lie. I’m sorry,” you smiled and he waved you off, a bright smile on his lips as you left the bar, lemonade in hand, and walking back over to your table. You hated team-building shit. Your team was built based on the people you worked with, and you were never once compelled to see them outside of work, especially with how close you already were. You were basically a friend group who got to work together at this point, which was great. But your ideal evening this evening would’ve been getting a few extra hours in bed, or going out to a club and trying to get laid, which you couldn’t really do with your team watching you. You rounded them up, and sent them on their way in a taxi, you wanted to get another lemonade. You walked back into the bar, ordered another one to-go, and waited outside for your uber.

“Fuck, sorry,” a hard chest hit directly into your forehead, and you grasped it in pain, swallowing a curse. “I’m so sorry- fuck’s sake.”

You looked up, seeing Lando in front of you. “Oh, hey,” your expression was plain and slightly awkward.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his eyes glued to the floor.

“You’re fine,” you assured him, rubbing the spot on your head. “No damage done, I don’t think.”

He nodded, his jaw clenched.

“Are you alright?” you asked, a rare moment of humanity between the two of you. He looked up at you for a split second and looked back down.

He huffed. “Fine.”

He was blatantly not fine. The way he curled in on himself. The way he gave the shortest answers possible. The way he wasn’t chastising you. The way he wasn’t angry with you.

“Are you heading in there?” you asked, pointing at the bar behind you. He shrugged. It was answer enough for you. “Lemonade’s good,” you help up your half-drank to-go cup. He raised an eyebrow. “I know you’re not allowed to drink on the weekends,” you rolled your eyes. You could’ve sworn you saw a half-smile.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he nodded, hsi face setting back to its original concrete state. “Enjoy your night.”

“Let me buy you one,” your mouth worked faster than your brain, and he stared at you like you had about 14 heads. You had even surprised yourself. “If you want.”

He stared at you for another beat. The way the low light of the street lamps framed your face against your hair should’ve been criminal. He was going crazy, and he wanted to spiral alone. But who was he to turn down a Y/n Y/l/n invitation? Especially when you were standing there, looking adorably confused at your own choices. But there was that subtle glow in your eye that made him think you knew what you were doing.

He shrugged. “Sure.”

“Back for more?” the same bartender from earlier questioned, his eyes zeroing in on you as soon as the two of you sat down to the bar. “It seriously can’t be that good- oh. Hi,” his smile went from flirty to kind when he noticed Lando behind you. He offered him a polite nod. “What can I get you two?”

“Two lemonades please,” you asked, finishing off your last one. He smiled and nodded, getting right on it despite the line of people at the bar “Thanks.”

You turned your attention back to Lando, his jaw was clenched, but there was a cheeky smirk on his lips. “He likes you,” he whispered, competing with the many voices and music in the bar. “You should ask him for his number.”

You shook your head, visually becoming flustered, so much so that he did in fact laugh. “That’s a) highly unlikely, b) highly impractical, and c) inappropriate to speak about,” you reminded him of his slip-up, and he nodded, looking down again. He looked back up with a smile. You smiled back, confused. “What?” you demanded.

“You don’t have to be so logical about everything,” he shook his head, laughing. “You could just get his number.”

“I don’t want it,” your voice was a lot more cutting than his own, and he quietened his laughter. “I live in Monaco, it makes no sense.”

“You can have fun, y’know,” he shrugged.

“I don’t find leading people on, fun, Lando-”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he scoffed.

“It means you’re a dick who leads people on and I’m not interested in joining that club, thank you very much,” you enunciated every syllable, making sure he heard every word perfectly clear. “And I don’t need his number. I’m seeing someone.”

If there had been a worse time for the bartender to come back, it was now. And of course, he did. “Two lemonades for the pretty lady,” he smiled and Lando’s jaw clenched as his eyes widened. “Anything else?”

“What did you just call her?” Lando demanded. “Mate, fuck off she has a boyfriend-”

“I never said that!” you argued. “I said I’m ‘kind of seeing someone’, god you still can’t fucking listen to a voice other than your own,” you turned your body the other way, crossing your arms.

“Wow, real mature Y/n, no please, base my character on what I was like as a fucking 14 year old! Great idea considering 14 year olds are notorious dickheads!”

“Doesn’t seem like much has fucking changed, does it?” you shot back, turning to face him once again. The bartender’s face dropped further with every word being spoken.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” he backed away, getting onto the line of people to your left.

“You’re so childish,” you scoffed, starting to drink your lemonade. He did the same.

“Shit, this is great,” he admitted, taking another sip. “Fuck.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not completely useless.”

“Never said you were,” he scoffed. You were both silent, focusing on different things. You looked around the bar, enjoying people-watching the various groups you’d been watching all night. The clear first date, the group of business people who are clearly all waiting to go home, the friend group that’s already almost broken up twice in one night, the group of girls who keep crying.

He focused on the way your leg was still up against his, and how he could feel the heat radiating off his own body onto yours. “I’m sorry,” he cleared his throat. “I’m just… tense. Quali was shit.”

“Saw that,” you admitted. “It’s fine. You’ll recover tomorrow. You always do.”

He huffed out a half-laugh, half-scoff. “Yeah, sure.”

“Don’t tell me you’re letting that bullshit the press keeps saying get to you,” you sighed. “Lando, come on. You’re a brilliant driver and your ego used to be the size of the room!” The joke was a long shot, but it got a slight chuckle out of him, so you counted it as a win. “What happened to that?”

“I got humbled by SkySports?” he questioned, a desperate look in his eyes. You rolled your own eyes.

“I need a better excuse-”

“Why are you here?” he questioned, turning the tables. You swallowed, hard. “In F1? Why are you here?”

“I’m changing the rules-”

“I know that. I mean why the fuck are you in my sport changing my rules?” he questioned, hsi voice heavy with something you couldn’t quite explain.

“You can’t own a sport-”

“Stefano Domenicali does,” Lando scoffed. Part of you wanted to correct him and tell him that while yes, he’s the CEO of F1 as a corporation, that wasn’t really the key part of your defence, but you didn’t. You were stunned mostly into silence. “And I need to know why you’re here, because you’re not here for me.”

Your breath hitched despite yourself. “That was a long time ago Lando-”

“Was it though? I remember sitting out on that terrace with you on fucking grad night, promising me that you’d come to a race for me. Not for research. Not for anyone else. Not for data. For me. So is that why you’ve done this, is this whole thing to see me-” You could’ve hit him, and you did. How dare he assume your life’s work was for him. You’d had this plan since you were a kid when you watched karters get fucked over by FIA rules, and now you had the power, knowledge, and resources to change that. To change the lower formulas and karting championships to make it better for them, for everyone. “Go fuck yourself Lando,” you spat before getting up, dropping a twenty on the bar and leaving him in the dust.

𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟

twists and turns masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

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iovesentry · 2 days ago

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something in my eye

robert reynolds/bob x reader

summary: you were baking something for the team, hands covered in flour and all until something got stuck in your eye.

warning(s): curse word, smooching in the tower hehe, thats about it!

A/N: this is my first time writing, so apologies for the wonky story! but i do hope you guys like it 🥹

It was surprisingly a quiet afternoon in the tower. No assigned tasks, no annoying phone calls from Valentina, and no mayhem occuring in the city. You decided to occupy yourself by baking. You’ve got to admit, it has been ages since you last baked—but you weren’t so bad at it—and the tower had the supplies you needed.

You opened up your iPad and searched up a recipe for red velvet cupcakes. You hoped the team would enjoy it, but after spending almost a year with them, you know they’d devour it in minutes.

After successfully mixing the dry ingredients in the bowl, you suddenly felt something inside your eye. “Shit,” you muttered under your breath while you looked at your flour-covered hands. Hearing footsteps approaching the kitchen, you sigh in relief when you see Bob.

But here’s the thing. You’ve been kinda crushing on Bob for like the past 5 months, but you never really did anything about it, the shyness always overtaking your senses. Little did you know, Bob also liked you too. Always being so caring and sweet when you’re around. It’s painfully obvious to the team that you both have feelings for each other, but you both are so oblivious—and you both also think you’re way out of each others leagues.

“Hey Bob.” You greeted Bob with your left eye closed and your right eye tearing up. You couldn’t rub your eye since it was covered in flour.

“Hey, you alright there? What happened?” He walked up to you and quickly examined your face, cupping your cheeks and looked for anything that could be bothering you.

“Yeah no, I think I got something in my eye. Can you blow on it?” He took a hold of your face much better and blew on your eye. Turns out it was just a stray lash.

“Oh thank goodness you’re here. Thanks Bob.” You realized he was still holding your face in his hands. Holding you so gently, his eyes looking at you so adoringly.

“How are you so… beautiful?” His question sounded so sincere, it made your stomach flutter.

Your hair was a mess, makeup probably smudged, flour all over your face, and the messy apron. But he still thinks you’re beautiful. A thousand thoughts are rushing through your mind right now, you can't comprehend how close you are to your crush, and he just called you beautiful!

“Bob, I’m probably a mess right now.” You chuckled, suddenly getting shy.

“A mess or not, you’re beautiful.” He tucks away a strand of hair behind your ear, noticing the red tint on your cheeks.

“I sorta have a crush on you, you know.” You confessed, covering your face even though your hands were covered in flour. He could see the smile behind your hands and he quickly removed them so he could see your face.

“Can I… kiss you?” He asked so innocently, how could you say no?

Your lips immediately made contact, a slow, passionate, and sweet kiss shared. You threw your arms around his neck and pushed him closer, his arms automatically snaking around your waist. You eventually parted to catch your breaths, foreheads touching, a sweet smile plastered on his face.

“Ha! I knew it!” Yelenas loud, booming voice immediately made both of you distance each other—even though you were already caught—and stare at each other awkwardly.

“You say a word about this and I won’t share my cupcakes with you.” Bob chuckled at your attempt on making Yelena keep a secret, but knowing her, she’ll slip up eventually.

“O-kay!” She saluted you and quickly left the room, leaving both you and Bob alone again.

“Well… do you wanna help me out here? I mean, i’m nearly done. Just need to mix the wet and dry ingredients–” You were interrupted by another kiss from Bob, melting into his touch.

Who would’ve thought a stray lash that got into your eye would lead you to this? In the grasp of your crush? Well, luck was on your side today.

#robert reynolds x reader #sentry x reader #thunderbolts fanfic #avengers #marvel #marvel fanfic #lewis pullman #the void x reader #thunderbolts x reader #robert reynolds #avengers x reader

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possesseddesiress · 1 day ago

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Skinfit

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue. All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes.

If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.

Skinfit

My name is Tristan, I study economics in college. My dream since I was a teenager was to be part of a fraternity, to live with other guys, to form lifelong friendships, and even to be popular.

And of course, to see a lot of muscular guys, but those are other details that I discovered later. But my "average" looks and my almost null sports skills, left me completely out of the fraternities. So I could only hope for a shared room.

I was lucky to find Zachary, a very nice guy. I thought having a jock as a roommate would be chaotic, smelly and even dirty, but Zach wasn't like that.

He was pretty organized and clean, sometimes he would come in stinking of sweat and leave his clothes all over the room, but it was only when he came in tired from his workout, took a shower, picked everything up and it was like nothing had happened.

Besides, I don't complain about his scent at all... Intoxicating, penetrating, extremely masculine, and completely out of my league.

He was straight, never brought girls to the house but it was well known around campus how successful he was with girls. He was a good friend, but geez... how many times hadn't I had vivid dreams about him (that would never come true).

- Lately the light has been failing, a false contact in the bathroom light - I whispered as I took a sip from my coffee cup.

- Really? - he asked, wearing his purple compression shirt - I've hardly been home, sorry mate - he gave a sigh, though then seemed to have an idea - I know! You remember I took an electrical course, don't you? I could try to fix it, I don't think it would be that hard would it?

- Dude, really?

- Sure! I must have my tools forgotten somewhere in my room, but anything for you, buddy - he patted me on the back before going to get something from his room.

He returned shortly after. To which we both went into the bathroom.

- Are you sure you know what you're doing?

- Yes, I sometimes skipped classes in the course but I think I know the basics.

He set up a chair so he could repair the ceiling light, removed the bulb and began to move the electrical inlet carefully.

- Don't you want us to call a technician?

- Dude! Trust me, besides, we can save several dollars, trust me, look, I think I found the problem.

He placed the tip of his tool on the metal, moved it a little and at first nothing happened. Until it sparked.

The sound of electricity chilled my skin as Zach let out a choked scream, his body trembled violently without being able to break free. I swallowed nervously. I didn't know what to do, so I did the best thing I could think of: push him.

As soon as I touched it, electricity ran through my nerves as well, it was an intense pain from head to toe, but thanks to the momentum, I ended up knocking it down and cutting off the power.

Everything went dark for a second, and then I lost myself.

Soon after I opened my eyes, I felt my head hurting, my body numb and heavy. Things were blurry all around me, and everything was dark.

- Shit...

I mumbled, touching the floor, getting up with difficulty though staggering in the process. I placed my hands against the tile, feeling a strange force in my hands.

I stood up, moving darkly around the room.

- Zach? Are you...?

Before I finished the sentence, I realized something wasn't right.

My voice felt different, deep, more... masculine? My original voice wasn't high-pitched, but it wasn't this deep, I almost felt it echoed loudly every time I opened my lips.

I touched my throat, feeling a thick adam's apple. What was going on? For a moment I stopped thinking about Zach, staggered out of the room until I advanced to my own, then I saw the reflection.

- What... what the hell?

The reflection that greeted me was Zach's, mimicking my every move. For a moment I felt fear, almost panic, but then I looked at those fat pecs.

They were mine now.

I was full of muscle! I stroked my new muscles, how good my biceps felt wrapped in the tight purple fabric.

I flexed my muscles, widening my arms and enjoying how my pecs felt, even how the reliefs stuck against my T-shirt, making me let out a gasp.

Was Zach so sensitive to such an area?

It was like letting go of my senses all at once, I kneaded and squeezed my pecs hard, letting out a loud gasp. I went crazy for a while, stroking everywhere, every mound of muscle.

I reached down to my pants. Pulling the elastic to observe what was hiding inside.

- Not bad... - I smiled - I can see why you're such a hit with the ladies, dude. Just look at the size of this thing.

I sniffed with some force, which caused a wide, loud gasp that I'm sure was heard throughout the building.

I lifted my armpit to smell it, I loved the scent... And now it was mine! How many times had I dreamed of smelling it, and now it was within my complete reach! I stuck my nose again and again, filling my whole nose with sweat.

I gasped awkwardly, like a teenager with raging hormones.

I stopped touching myself for a moment to run out to Zach's room, I loved feeling my strong legs, how each footstep echoed with weight and force across the floor.

I opened the closet to start pulling out different clothes. Although there was a larger amount of t-shirts, lycra and other sportswear, so I decided to take off what was intruding between my eager hands and my dreamy body.

I weighed my fat pectorals, changed my shirt and put on a white one that was even tighter, and flexed my arms.

It was like feeling in the glory...

It had been at least five months after the change. And I couldn't be happier about it.

At first Zach, or now I should say Tristan, had a hard time getting used to the change, always complaining that he didn't want to be in that body, that he wanted to change back.

He tried again and again to recreate the accident to return us to our original bodies. But I wasn't at all interested in going back to who I was before.

I loved the way I looked now. How others were interested in me, the fact that getting anywhere, got everyone's attention. How good my body looked in tight sportswear.

And best of all: How I attracted the attention of the fraternities.

I don't understand why Zachary didn't join any of them as soon as he entered college, he was the perfect himbo to be a brother! Within mere weeks in his body, I ended up joining one of the most important and exclusive fraternities on campus.

And I loved it.

Almost every weekend there were parties, sweaty smells, and guys walking shirtless through the halls every day. It was like heaven. And best of all, no one knew that the new Zach was actually me.

Everyone was surprised for a while at how self-centered I turn out to be, how obsessed I was with my scent, or even the change from straight to gay.

Because what I loved most about this body was how guys drooled over me, I could have anyone in the palm of my hand even.

Barely five months in and I had already been with almost every guy in the frat (some "curious", some with their sexuality under wraps and some who just wanted to have a good time), I was living what as Tristan wouldn't have happened even on my best day.

Now it was Zach, full of muscles, tight clothes that left nothing to the imagination and with such an intoxicating aroma...

Anyway. I'd have a costume party in less than an hour, the good thing about being Zach now was that whatever I wore, it would look good on me.

And I could let my nerdy tastes out. All in all, I looked hot.

----

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it, don't forget to follow it and share it so more people can discover it.

I'm always open to suggestions and ideas, so if you have any fantasy or scenario in mind, let me know in the comments or in messages. See you in the next story... Who knows what body you will occupy this time?

---

#body swap #malebodyswap #body switch #bodyswapping #mental change #straight to gay #twinktohunk #nerd to hunk

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levanterhaze · 2 days ago

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SUPERNATURAL, BANGCHAN

♡ ― 󠀬󠀬producer!bangchan x f!reader praise kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, possessiveness, creampie, mention of anxiety, slightly toxic relationship, phone sex, dirty talk, fingering, thigh riding, overstimulation, masturbation (both receiving), angst and a bit of fluff bc why not?

♡ synopsis ― You left Bangchan to protect your heart. He waited, hoping you'd come back. A silent month, one crowded room, and the gravity between you never left. Some loves don’t vanish—they haunt, they ache, and if you’re lucky, they bloom again.

[14.3k words ]♡― guys, it was supposed to be a one-shot, but tumblr wouldn't let me post it all at once? rude. so i decided to split it in half and tomorrow i'll post the second part!

This love's possessin' me, but I don't mind at all It's like supernatural It's takin' over me, don't wanna fight the fall It's like supernatural

Bangchan never thought you’d actually dump him. Not him. Not when he spoiled you rotten, kissed every bratty little pout off your lips, and let you steal the covers every damn night without a single complaint.

But you did.

You broke up with him on a random Tuesday, mascara clinging to your lashes, pout on your lips, arms crossed tight like you were trying to hold yourself together. You didn’t want to leave — he could see it all over your face — but you did it anyway. Because apparently "love isn't enough when all we do is fight," or some other dramatic bullshit you said while he sat there blinking at you like you’d just grown two heads.

He laughed. Actually laughed.

"You're breaking up with me?" he repeated, like the words didn’t even make sense in the same sentence. You? Leaving him? The girl he practically worshiped? His spoiled pretty girl who threw a fit when he forgot to buy her favorite snack, but still made his whole damn world brighter?

Yeah, no. He wasn't letting you just walk away like it was some casual Tuesday errand.

But you were stubborn. Always had been. You slammed the door to his apartment like you meant it, like you weren't about to miss the way he pulled you onto his lap every time you argue just to shut you up with his mouth.

Spoiler alert: you missed it.

And Chan? Chan was a fucking mess.

Studio sessions got longer. Songs got sadder. His friends started looking at him like he was one bad day away from showing up at your place with a giant boombox over his head. And honestly? He almost did.

You were still everywhere — in the worn hoodie you stole, in the coffee order he still got wrong because you weren’t there to fix it, in the damn songs he tried and failed to write without thinking of you first. You were the muse he never asked for but needed like oxygen. The bratty, perfect princess who ruined him for anyone else.

So yeah. You thought you could just walk out of his life? Cute.

Because Bangchan had a plan now: He was going to get you back — messy, dirty, stubborn and completely in love with you.

No matter what it took.

Luckily for him — or maybe unluckily, depending on how you looked at it — you had way friends in common. Which meant every time there was a party, Bangchan knew you'd show up. And he used every damn opportunity to haunt your space like a lovesick idiot with a cocky smile.

And fuck, did he miss you.

He missed your laugh, your stupid eye-rolls, the way you stole his hoodies and looked ten times better in them. He missed your mouth — talking shit, teasing him, gasping for him. He missed how you’d curl up against him at night and pretend you weren’t clingy. He missed how you were a pain in the ass and his favorite thing in the world at the same time.

He could make a fucking list. It would take him until sunrise.

His spoiled little brat. His princess. His goddamn downfall.

One of those nights, after a brutal day at the studio, Bangchan stumbled home at nearly three in the morning, muscles aching, brain fried. He should've passed out the second his head hit the pillow.

But no. His brain decided to go into hyperdrive, and every single fucking thought led right back to you.

After a hot shower, he sat on the edge of his bed, hair dripping, sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips. He grabbed his phone like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He stared at your contact. The one still saved under that stupid nickname he used to whisper in your ear when you got bratty just to hear you whine. The one no one else would ever understand — your secret language.

He should’ve gone to sleep. He really should’ve.

Instead, he muttered "fuck it" under his breath and pressed call.

Impulse. Stupidity. Loneliness. Love. Maybe all of the above.

But he just needed to hear your voice. Even if you hated him for it.

Bangchan honestly didn’t expect you to pick up. Especially not at ass-o’clock in the morning. But the second your voice floated into his ear — sleepy, annoyed, real — his heart damn near jumped out of his chest.

"Still awake?" he asked, voice low, rough with exhaustion and something else he didn’t dare name.

You sighed like he was the biggest inconvenience in the world. "What do you want?"

He leaned back against the headboard, squeezing his eyes shut, trying not to say the first hundred filthy, desperate things that came to mind.

"I miss you," he said instead, voice soft, almost boyish.

You didn’t answer right away. He heard the faint rustle of your bedsheets, imagined you curled up with your laptop, rolling your eyes so hard they almost got stuck.

"And how exactly," you said sweetly, "is that my problem?"

Chan winced, grinning despite himself. Damn, he missed that mouth of yours. The way you could make him want to kiss you and bend you over in the same breath.

"Ouch. Don’t be snippy, princess," he teased, letting the nickname slip, letting it cut you both a little. "We both know you don't actually want to be."

You bristled. He could practically feel it through the line. You didn’t want to be rude. You wanted to be angry. There was a difference and you were losing the fight fast.

"Are you done?" you snapped, fake-sweet. "I'm hanging up."

"Wait! Wait, princess, c'mon..." he rushed, sitting up straighter, hand dragging through his damp hair in frustration. "You really don’t miss me?"

Silence.

It was deafening. Torturous. Delicious.

He let it stretch just long enough before letting his voice drop, dirty and coaxing.

"Don't lie to me," he said slowly. "I bet you're sitting there all pretty in bed, pouting at your screen, squeezing your thighs together because you can't even think about me without getting worked up."

"You sound drunk," you hissed, but your voice was shaking.

"Believe me, I’m not," he chuckled darkly. "I just know exactly what you need, even better than you do."

You hated him. You hated how good he was at getting under your skin.

You hated that your body responded before your brain even caught up.

"Go to sleep, Chan," you muttered, but it sounded weak, pathetic even to your own ears.

"Not until you say you miss me," he pushed, voice downright sinful now. "Or better yet... say my name like you used to when I had you squirming under me."

Your whole body burned.

Bangchan grinned into the silence. He could wait all night if he had to. After all... when it came to you, he never fucking gave up.

"Bangchan, we're done. It doesn't matter," you said, trying — and failing — to keep your voice flat.

Your eyes flicked back to your laptop, pretending you could still focus on the blurry article in front of you. But all you could actually hear was him — that stupid voice, low and raspy and somehow everywhere.

"It matters to me," he said, softer now, almost cocky. "I miss you, you know. All fucking day."

It wasn’t what he said — it was how he said it. That wrecked, teasing tone like he was right there, mouth at your ear, smirking when he saw the goosebumps rise on your skin.

"Stop saying bullshit like that," you snapped, but it was weak. Pathetic. You hated how easily he could undo you with nothing but his voice.

Bangchan has always been your greatest weakness. And he knew it.

"I wish you were here," he rasped. Silence fell. Thick. Heavy.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding way too fast. You slammed your laptop shut with a frustrated groan, tossing it to the side.

Studying was officially over.

"It's almost three," you hissed, hugging your knees to your chest like it would somehow protect you from how stupidly warm you felt.

"Exactly," he said, that cocky smile dripping through the phone.

Bangchan was sprawled out in bed, back against the headboard, sweatpants slung low. Eyes closed, hand fisting the sheets because just thinking about you — your bratty little voice, your body, your mouth — had him half-hard already.

"What were you even doing at this hour, huh?" His voice dropped, that slow, lazy slur that always meant trouble.

You rolled your eyes even though you knew he couldn’t see. "Studying. I have an exam next week."

Bangchan let out a low grunt of approval that vibrated straight down your spine. It made you shift uncomfortably, thighs pressing together on instinct.

"That’s my brilliant girl," he murmured, voice thick with awe.

Your stomach flipped. Your whole body burned. And you hated yourself for the way you smiled into the darkness like an idiot.

The words caused irreversible damage to your mind. Bangchan knew exactly what he was doing — that wicked, cocky little smirk playing on his lips like he could already feel your walls crumbling.

He knew how you loved being praised. How dirty words slid under your skin and stayed there, rotting you sweet.

"I'm not your girl," you shot back, weak, stupidly defensive.

He chuckled, low and dirty. "You’ll always be mine, princess."

God, that voice. That fucking voice.

It made your thighs press tight without permission, heat blooming under your skin like wildfire. The room suddenly felt suffocating.

"Bangchan, I'm fucking serious," you said through gritted teeth, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to will him and yourself into behaving.

"Yeah, same," he muttered, so casually it made you want to throw your phone across the room. Then he paused — and the silence wrapped around your throat like a velvet rope. "Do you still wear my clothes?" he asked, almost smug.

Your whole body jolted like you’d been caught red-handed.

Because yes, you were still curled up in his old T-shirt right now, drowning in it, still obsessed with how it smelled like him. Still stupidly aching for a boy you pretended to hate.

"No," you lied, instantly hating yourself for how fake it sounded.

Bangchan let out a lazy, knowing laugh. "Liar."

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly fell out. "Actually, I burned everything," you snarked, sarcasm dripping off every word.

"Mhm," he hummed, voice thick and teasing. "I bet you’re wearing it now. Nothing else underneath."

He shifted on his bed, the mic picking up the delicious rumple of sheets.

"Fuck, just thinking about it..." His breath hitched. "You have no fucking idea what you do to me, princess."

You clenched the phone so tight your knuckles turned white, heat pooling low in your belly, unbearable and sweet. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath.

"Want me to tell you what I’m picturing right now?" he asked, voice filthy, honey-thick.

Like a devil whispering in your ear.

You should have said no. You didn’t.

"In my shirt. No panties," he murmured. "Squeezing those pretty thighs together 'cause you’re aching so bad for me." He chuckled darkly when you didn’t respond — didn’t have words anymore — like he could see straight through the phone how wrecked you were becoming. "I know you, baby. I know you’re wet just hearing my voice."

You whimpered before you could catch yourself, face burning. You buried your face in the pillow, mortified.

"I can almost feel it, you know," Bangchan rasped. "How tight you always get for me. Fuck. The way you used to whine when I fucked you slow, made you cry for it."

Your whole body trembled.

The desperate, humiliating slickness between your legs soaked through your panties, leaving you throbbing, aching for relief.

"Don't..." you gasped, so weak, so embarrassingly close to shoving your hand under the waistband and finishing yourself off to nothing but his voice.

"Don't what?" he taunted, smug as hell now. "Don't make you cum without even touching you? Shit, princess, you’re so easy for me. You always were."

You bit your lip so hard it hurt, a desperate little noise catching in your throat.

"If you were here," he groaned, the sound making you whimper, "you’d see the mess you made of me. Hard as a fucking rock for you. Only you."

You closed your eyes — and that was your first mistake.

Because the second you imagined him, sprawled out lazy and wrecked on his bed, cock tenting his sweatpants, leaking just from thinking about you, you were done for.

"I could fuck my hand," he rasped, voice thick and ragged, "but it wouldn't be the same without you. Should be your pretty little mouth drooling on my cock right now."

"Chan..." you gasped, helpless, your free hand already sliding into your panties like it had a mind of its own.

Fuck him. Fuck him for making you this way. Horny. Hopeless. So easy.

If that was his plan all along, he’d won.

Bangchan groaned softly at the sound of your breath hitching. He could feel you through the phone — could see you in his mind, legs spread wide, fingers playing with your dripping cunt, just the way he liked it.

Fuck. It should be his fingers knuckle-deep inside you, his cock stretching you open until you forgot your own name.

He reached into his boxers, hissing through his teeth as he wrapped his palm around his aching cock, smearing the leaking pre-cum around the tip with a slow, dirty twist of his wrist.

"Angel," he growled, voice ruined and low, "stick those fingers in your pussy. Let me hear you fuck yourself for me. Is that what you want? My fingers in your tight little pussy, making you drip all over my hand?"

A moan tore itself from your lips — raw and real — and his cock twitched at the sound.

"Yeah, fuck. Whine for me," he urged. "Say my name like I'm there, fucking you so slow it drives you crazy."

"That's wrong..." you whimpered, but your voice betrayed you — soft, needy, trembling.

And worse, he could hear the obscene slickness of your fingers moving between your folds. He could hear how wet you were.

"Fuck," he groaned. He squeezed the base of his cock, fucking up into his fist, pre-cum slicking him up, panting like he was already right on the edge. "Wish you were here, princess... wish you were on your knees, swallowing every inch like the good girl you are."

You bit your lip so hard it almost bled, hips rocking desperately into your own touch, mind blank except for him him him —

"How's it feel, baby?" he taunted, voice molten. "How's it feel to fuck yourself thinking about my cock splitting you open?"

"So good," you choked out, pathetic and ruined.

"Stick another finger in," he commanded, and you obeyed blindly, whimpering at the stretch, at the shame of how much you needed it. "Think of my fingers making you drip down your thighs. Making a fucking mess of you."

You rubbed frantic circles over your clit, needy noises spilling from your lips without permission, fingers pumping in and out of your tight, soaking hole.

It wasn’t enough. You needed him. Needed his weight crushing you into the mattress, his teeth against your throat, his cock inside you, claiming every inch.

"I'm so fucking hard, shit baby," Bangchan growled, breathing like he was seconds away from snapping. "Wanna fuck that snippy mouth until you couldn’t speak."

You whimpered, high and broken, hand moving faster and faster, chasing the blinding, hot rush pooling low in your belly.

"Fuck, I'm gonna—" you gasped, hips stuttering. "I'm gonna—Chan—"

Bangchan didn't stop, didn't let up.

"My pretty girl, cumming on her fingers like a desperate little whore for me," he moaned, voice all grit and pleasure. "Cum for me. Fucking cum all over yourself thinking about my cock fucking you dumb.”

A ragged cry ripped from your throat “Oh fuck, yes!” as you felt hot slickness gush from your pussy, spilling over your fingers, making a filthy mess.

Bangchan’s mind spiraled, picturing you like this: spread open and desperate, cumming hard with his cock buried ass-deep inside you, slamming into you over and over, stuffing you full of his cum, ruining you exactly the way you needed — sloppy, dripping, and his.

The orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, brutal and mind-shattering. You cried out, his name ripped from your throat, body convulsing around your fingers as wetness gushed out, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Somewhere through the haze, you heard him groan raggedly — the unmistakable sound of him cumming too, thick ropes splashing across his stomach. You could practically see it — Bangchan flushed, sweaty, wrecked — all for you.

When you finally caught your breath, shame and heat tangled together in your gut. You snatched the phone from the bed, heart pounding.

"You're an asshole," you snapped, your voice still shaky and fucked-out. "Don't ever—" you gasped for air, "don't ever fucking call me again."

And then you hung up on him — before you could do something even stupider — like beg him to come over.

The next day was a full-blown disaster — because all you could think about was him. Not your to-do list. Not your deadlines. Not the fact that you were supposed to be a responsible adult with goals and ambitions. No.

Just Bangchan — and the memory of last night, which was exactly what you didn’t need right now.

You had promised yourself you’d be serious this time. Work. Study. Prioritize yourself. Not get dragged back into Bangchan's orbit like some hopeless idiot with no self-preservation instincts.

What happened last night was a slip-up. A pathetically delicious, toe-curling, dignity-shattering slip-up.

Still, you got dressed like it was just another Tuesday. Skirt. Heels. Lip gloss. Maybe you spent a little more time in front of the mirror. Maybe your skirt was a little shorter. Maybe you were absolutely ridiculous.

Who could blame you? Inspiration was a bitch.

Bangchan had always spoiled you rotten. He got off on it, honestly. Clothes, jewelry, shoes, lingerie, makeup, salon appointments — if it sparkled or looked good on you, he bought it.

You never even had to ask. You were his favorite luxury item. All he wanted in return was your heart, served on a silver platter, the way you used to give it to him without thinking twice.

And God, did he love fucking you after a long day. You, dripping in brand-new lace he had picked out himself — letting him ruin you in it.

He was simple like that. Didn't need much. Just you. Always you.

You were his girl. You always have been. And if he had to move heaven, earth, and your stubborn ass to make you admit it again, he would.

The day dragged on, but the routine was good for you. Work, study, grind — all the mindless stuff that keeps your heart on mute. And when it was finally over, when you powered down all your screens and the office emptied out, you just sat there — in the quiet, in the dark — pretending you weren't still thinking about him.

After wrapping up, you powered down your equipment and stretched, only to realize you weren’t as alone as you thought. Mingi was still there, jacket slung casually over his arm like some corporate heartthrob out of a drama.

“Hey, you heading out?” he asked, falling into step toward you.

“Yeah. I think I’ve hit my limit for today.” You smiled, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.

“Mind if I walk with you?” Mingi asked, giving you a lopsided half-smile that, unfortunately, was very effective.

You couldn’t exactly say no. Not to Mingi — handsome, polite, alarmingly smart Mingi — who had always been a quiet sort of presence on the team. You worked well together, but you’d never really crossed into friend territory.

Which made this... surprising.

You ended up walking together toward the elevators, his stride easy next to yours.

“There’s a happy hour tomorrow,” he said, pushing up his glasses, brown hair falling slightly into his eyes. “Are you going?”

You hesitated. Exams were coming up. You really should prioritize studying over cheap drinks and questionable decisions. But also? You desperately needed to hit the mental reset button before you spiraled.

"Sure," you said, surprising yourself. "I’ll be there."

The cold slapped you the second you hit the building’s exit. You cursed under your breath for skipping the coat this morning — your legs bare and goosebumped, the cold air feeling a little too personal against your skin.

Going back home to grab a jacket and then heading straight to college? Yeah, that was going to be hell.

You bit your lip, stuck in a ridiculous debate with yourself over what to do next. That's when your phone buzzed.

Bangchan: Who the fuck was that?

You frowned, confused and immediately suspicious.

You: First of all, what the fuck are you talking about? Second, who said you could text me?

A pause. Then two rapid-fire replies:

Bangchan: So mouthy. Missed that.

Bangchan: The guy you left with. Don’t play dumb, angel.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. He was insufferable.

You: Newsflash: not your business anymore.

A beat.

Bangchan: Cute. You almost sound like you believe that.

You swore under your breath, fingers flying over the screen.

You: I don't have time for your little tantrums.

Bangchan: Tantrum?

Bangchan: You looked real cozy with him. Thought maybe you needed a reminder.

Your stomach twisted, infuriatingly, traitorously.

You: Reminder of what? That you're insane? Pass.

Bangchan: Reminder of who makes you cum so hard you forget your own name.

You squeezed your phone like it personally offended you. God, he was infuriating.

You: Go fuck yourself.

Bangchan: Would rather fuck you, babe. You free?

You groaned, stuffing your phone into your bag like that could muffle your rising pulse. You told yourself you were done. Totally, absolutely done with him.

And yet... as you walked down the main avenue, your eyes scanned the crowd, the streetlights, the parked cars — searching for him.

You pretended the night air didn’t feel like knives against your bare skin. You pretended your phone hadn’t gone silent. You pretended you weren't half-hoping it would buzz again.

And then — because the universe hated you personally — a black sports car prowled up to the curb beside you, slow and steady.

You didn’t even have to look.

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your brain. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

The window whirred down and there he was, grinning like the devil himself. “Get in the car," he said, casual, like he hadn’t been stalking you from the shadows two minutes ago.

“No.” You kept walking, clutching your skirt before the wind could flash half the city.

Horns started screaming behind him. Someone yelled something. Bangchan didn’t so much as flinch.

"Get in the fucking car," he repeated, inching along beside you. "You're gonna turn into a popsicle."

You whipped around, teeth chattering. "I would rather die of hypothermia than get in your stupid fucking car."

Another volley of honking. A guy behind him leaned out the window and made an obscene gesture that probably wasn’t in any official driving manual.

"You’re blocking traffic, you maniac!" you hissed, arms folded tight over yourself.

Bangchan just shrugged, infuriatingly unbothered. "Not my problem. My problem’s standing out here being stubborn and freezing."

He leaned in, smirking slowly and mercilessly. "I'll leave... if you get in."

You glared at him so hard your vision blurred, and for one perfect, freezing second, you honestly believed you might resist.

Then another gust of wind hit, cutting straight through your willpower. You muttered something that could generously be called a curse, yanked open the door, and threw yourself into the passenger seat.

"Happy?" you snapped, slamming it shut.

Bangchan just smiled. Slow, victorious and pulled back into traffic like he hadn’t just held half the city hostage for you.

"Ecstatic," he said.

The second you slammed the door, Bangchan hit the gas like he was escaping a crime scene. He kept his eyes locked on the road, which was impressive, considering your skirt had ridden halfway up your thighs — one of his favorite skirts, by the way.

He’d definitely fucked you in it. Several times.

“You’re so stupid,” you muttered, arms crossed like a bratty little princess.

Bangchan just laughed — that low, rough laugh that made your pulse misbehave — because of course he loved you like this. He loved all the versions of you.

“‘Thank you, Bangchan. If it weren’t for you, I’d freeze my ass off,’” he teased, pitching his voice higher in a brutal imitation of you. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” you snapped.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, veins flexing under golden skin, and you hated yourself a little for noticing.

Self-control, girl. Pull it together.

“You don’t have to owe me, princess," he said, voice casual but his knuckles whitening on the wheel. "You just have to get in the fucking car when I tell you."

You glared at him, arms still folded like a shield across your chest.

A beat. Then he said, way too casually: “That guy. Gonna tell me who he was?”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh and whipped your head toward him. “Seriously? Who the hell do you think you are, Bangchan?”

He said nothing, just drove — jaw locked tight, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in that way he always did when he was about two seconds from losing it.

Good. Let him simmer.

“You don’t get to stalk me and interrogate me like some jealous ex-boyfriend,” you snapped. “You don’t even get to ask.”

Still silent. Still fuming. Still looking better than any man had a right to look while being told off.

You shifted in your seat, the silence between you thick and hot and dangerous, and for a wild second you wondered what it would take for him to pull the car over and remind you exactly how much he hated — and loved — being told no.

"I should fuck that bratty little mouth of yours, I swear to God," Bangchan muttered under his breath, but you caught every sinful syllable.

You forced yourself to roll your eyes, pretending that your thighs weren't already pressing together at the sound of his voice. Pretending that your pulse wasn’t hammering in your ears.

"You should fuck off to that precious studio of yours and stay there," you shot back sweetly, voice dripping with sarcasm. You flashed him a sugary, fake smile, the kind you knew drove him insane.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. "Or," he growled, "I could just drag you into my studio and fuck you against the soundboard. Shut you up properly. What do you think, princess?"

You let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "You're such a fucking idiot. Why am I even here? Stop the car."

Bangchan just laughed, that low, cocky rumble that sent unwelcome heat curling through your stomach. "I'm not stopping the damn car. Stop being a little pain in my ass and let me drive you to college, alright?"

You hated him. You hated him because he was still the only person who could talk to you like that and somehow make you want him even more. He kept his eyes locked on the road, cool as ever, while you stewed in your own frustration and something else much, much filthier.

When he finally pulled up in front of your college, you immediately reached for the door handle, desperate to escape. But click—he locked the doors.

You snapped your head toward him, glaring. "What now?"

"Don't you think we need to talk?" he asked, arching a smug eyebrow like he already knew you weren't going anywhere.

Your heart thudded against your ribs. You knew what he meant. He was talking about the night before—the filthy moans, the breathy whimpers, the way you'd fallen apart just from his voice. But you weren’t about to hand him that satisfaction.

"We have nothing to talk about. Now unlock the damn door."

Bangchan chuckled darkly, humorless. "Don't play dumb, angel. You think I forgot the way you said my name last night? Fuck, you practically begged for me."

Your face burned so hot you wanted to scream. You slapped your hands over your cheeks like that could erase the memory—or the way your body still reacted to him like a live wire.

"For fuck's sake, stop," you groaned, wanting to disappear into the seat.

He tilted his head back against the headrest, grinning like the devil himself. "Why? You love it."

You sucked in a shaky breath, slumping in the seat like you could somehow sink through it and escape him. He was impossible. Irrefutable. Catastrophic.

"Chan," you began, voice strained, "what happened yesterday was a mistake. I—I got carried away, and it’s not happening again. We’re over. You need to get that through your thick skull."

He turned toward you fully now, his playful smirk fading into something far more dangerous. His dark eyes raked over you, making your skin tingle.

"Funny you say that," he murmured, voice low and almost cruel, "when your body’s telling a whole different story."

You froze. Only then did you notice—your chest heaving, the frantic way you were breathing, the way you were basically squirming in your seat. Like a junkie itching for a fix.

His fix.

You ripped your gaze away, humiliated, scrambling for the door handle again. "Just—just let’s forget it. Please. I have to go."

Bangchan stared at you for a long moment, jaw tense, but in the end, he relented. He reached into the backseat, grabbed his jacket—his jacket that still smelled like him, still clung to him—and tossed it into your lap.

"Take it," he muttered gruffly.

You didn't argue. You couldn't. You just grabbed it, clutching the worn fabric between your fingers like a lifeline. You didn't even look back as you shoved the door open and slipped out of the car.

Bangchan didn't say another word either. He just watched you walk away, jaw clenched, hands tight on the steering wheel.

And you could feel it—the burn of his gaze drilling into your back the whole way inside.

You were so exhausted after the endless grind of the week that the idea of happy hour with your coworkers felt like salvation.

As soon as the clock hit the end of the workday, you, Mingi, and the rest of the creative team slipped out and made your way to a cozy bar not far from the office—a place famous for cold drinks and some of the best barbecue you’d ever tasted.

It was another one of those freezy nights, the kind that wrapped around your skin like a second, unwanted layer. You grabbed your own jacket on the way out—your jacket, not the black one that still hung in your apartment entryway, quietly mocking you with Bangchan’s lingering scent every time you walked past it.

Everyone at work adored you, and you knew it. Women, men, it didn’t matter—everyone said the same thing: you were the prettiest damn girl the office had ever hired. Some of them said it shyly, others more bluntly, but either way, you never let it go to your head. You were too busy being genuinely grateful to them for welcoming you so warmly, especially your boss.

Mingi refilled his glass with another shot of soju, raising it in your direction. You clinked glasses with him and everyone else, laughing as the room buzzed with conversation and the cozy clatter of plates and glasses.

The food was incredible—juicy, smoky barbecue, spicy side dishes, sizzling meat still crackling on hot plates—and the conversation even better. You all talked about work, about who was secretly seeing who, about how much alcohol was "too much," and laughed yourselves stupid.

Soyeon, one of your colleagues, kept throwing not-so-subtle glances between you and Mingi across the table, hiding her giggles behind her hand. It was ridiculous—and a little hilarious. Apparently, the office fantasy was that if you dated someone like Mingi, it would somehow restore everyone's faith in love.

But Mingi was just a friend. A nice guy. Respectful. Safe. The kind of guy who smiled warmly at you and never, ever crossed any lines.

One shot led to another. Then another. And before you realized it, your vision blurred, the world spinning slightly every time you tried to focus. Everything around you—the colors, the lights, the sounds—smeared together into something loud and soft and dizzying, like a dream.

You saw a couple of your coworkers nearly face-planting into the table, and Mingi's blurry figure pacing nearby with a phone pressed to his ear.

"Are you okay? Can you stand?" Mingi’s voice filtered into your ears, strained with concern.

You blinked up at him, then giggled. "Of coooourse I can stand. Oops. Maybe?" you slurred, flopping back down against the table with a dramatic huff and knocking over two empty bottles with your arm.

Everything was so comfortable. You could have curled up there and fallen asleep if it weren’t for the loud thudding of boots approaching.

Footsteps. Voices.

You opened one eye sluggishly, just in time to see two dark figures approaching the table.

"Thanks," Some voice said distantly.

And then—suddenly—you were lifted off the ground like you weighed nothing at all. Strong arms cradled you against a warm, broad chest, and you blinked through your hazy vision to see familiar lips, a strong nose, and messy black hair peeking out from beneath a hood.

"Hey! What—what are you—" You shrieked, squirming uselessly in his hold. "Are you insane?"

"You love making a fucking scene, don’t you, princess?" Bangchan growled low against your hair. "Keep your voice down. I'm taking you home."

"I don't want to go home! I was having fuuuun and—and—" you sniffled, your voice wobbling embarrassingly. The bar, the lights, the laughter were all fading away as Bangchan marched toward the car, his pace determined and irritated.

"You’ve had enough fun for tonight," he muttered under his breath, as if speaking to a disobedient child.

The second he set you down inside the car, everything changed. The world turned softer, warmer. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he buckled your seatbelt, his fingers brushing your coat as he secured you in place.

You inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of something sweet and familiar—vanilla, musk, leather. Him. You sighed, feeling your body sink deeper into the seat.

"Why do you smell so good?" you mumbled, your lower lip jutting out in a pout as you crossed your arms stubbornly.

Bangchan just shook his head and laughed—a deep, throaty sound that filled the car. "You're adorable, you know that?"

And you were too drunk, too soft, too wrapped up in him to say anything back.

"That would be comical if you were sober," Bangchan muttered under his breath, slamming the passenger door shut before rounding the car and sliding into the driver's seat.

"Hey!" you protested weakly as he buckled in, his fingers brushing against his hoodie. "I didn't even drink that much."

Bangchan huffed a dry laugh. "Angel, you can’t even stand up straight. You’re like a drunk bambi on ice."

You groaned, slumping back against the seat. Ugh. As much as you wanted to argue, he wasn’t wrong. And it annoyed you even more that he was right. You tugged at the seatbelt uncomfortably and with a huff, pressed the button to roll the window down. The cold night air immediately hit your face, shocking your skin and making you shiver, but you welcomed it. Anything to clear your head.

The car smelled like him. Leather and something a little sweet—something infuriatingly comforting. You closed your eyes and tried to focus on the sharp, bracing wind instead of the fact that Bangchan was sitting just inches away, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel impatiently.

It stung, the kind of sting that settled in your bones, to think about how close you'd once been under different circumstances.

You met Bangchan years ago, back when the air between you still crackled with teasing and unsaid things. It took time — time and reckless choices — before you both stopped pretending it was harmless.

He was always brutally honest, almost cruel in how easily he wore the truth. You’d known it was him, long before you had the courage to admit it. And he had never cared about messy pasts or whether he was your first anything; he only cared that you were his last.

He met you through Jisung — who, true to form, stuck to your side like a second shadow — and it hit him like a punch to the ribs. That kind of sick, dizzy want that didn’t go away no matter how hard he tried to drown it.

Bangchan had been patient in the way only a man desperate for something real could be. Every party, every careless night out, he made sure he was there — close enough to touch, close enough to drive you crazy with it. Until you finally gave in and kissed him like he was air and you were drowning.

And he didn’t say it out loud — he wasn’t that kind of man — but he knew he’d won the fucking lottery. You weren't just beautiful; you were built from the same sharp, stubborn material he was.

You knew how to love him in a way that didn’t shrink him or tame him.And he loved showing you off — not because he needed to prove anything, but because he could.

Wherever you went — parties, concerts, rooms full of people who wished they were you — heads turned. You didn’t just look good together. You fit. Like some cruelly perfect puzzle, made to make everyone else feel like they were missing something.

You were the ‘it couple’ — not because people said so, but because no one could look at you and believe otherwise.

And now you had to pretend like it was easy that none of it had ever meant anything. That you hadn’t once been stupid enough to build your whole heart around him.

The ride was quiet for a few moments, except for the hum of the engine and the occasional shuffle of your jacket as you shifted. Your head lolled slightly to the side, and even in your blurred state, you caught the way his knuckles tightened around the steering wheel every time he glanced at you.

"You always cause trouble," he said finally, voice low, almost fond. "Even when you don't mean to."

You scoffed. "You're the one kidnapping me from my fun."

"If I left you there, you'd either end up passed out on the floor or flirting with some idiot," he said coolly, not taking his eyes off the road. "Neither option sounded good to me."

"I wasn't flirting," you muttered, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. "I was just... being friendly."

Bangchan snorted. "Yeah, well. You're mine. You don't need to be friendly with anyone else."

The words hit you harder than the cold wind. Your eyes snapped open, your heart giving a traitorous, unsteady beat. He said it so easily. Like it was just a fact of life, as simple as breathing.

You opened your mouth to say something, to argue, but no words came out.

And Bangchan just kept driving, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the dashboard.

When he pulled up outside your apartment, Bangchan didn't even give you a chance to reach for the door handle. He was out in a flash, slamming his door and rounding the car like a man on a mission.

You caught up to him, your boots clacking against the sidewalk in a staggered rhythm. He didn’t even bother to look back; he knew you were following like he always knew, smug bastard that he was.

"You think you're so clever," you muttered as you caught up, breath puffing in the cold air.

"Well," Bangchan said, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets. "That's because I am."

You rolled your eyes so hard you were surprised they didn't fall out of your head. Still, you brushed past him at the entrance, key in hand, making a show of being thoroughly unimpressed.

The door creaked open under your push, and you turned just enough to toss a casual, biting smile over your shoulder. "You coming in, or are you too scared I'll bite?"

Bangchan's mouth twitched, that almost-smile he saved just for you. "If I was scared of your teeth, princess," he said, stepping inside after you, "I wouldn’t be imagining all the places I'd want you to leave marks."

You slammed the door a little too hard behind him, the bang echoing off the hallway walls. Not because you were mad, because if you didn't, you might've launched yourself at him like a woman starved.

"You need therapy," you said, dropping your keys in the dish by the door.

"Probably," he agreed, kicking off his shoes like he owned your place, moving through your apartment with easy familiarity. "But you first."

You crossed your arms, leaning against the wall as you watched him with half-lidded eyes. "You’re awfully confident for someone who just manhandled a half-drunk girl out of a bar."

Bangchan grinned, throwing himself down onto your worn-out couch like a king claiming his throne. "I call it rescuing."

"I call it kidnapping."

He shrugged. "Semantics."

You hated—hated—how good he looked sitting there, manspread like he paid the rent, your hoodie bunching around his arms, the glint in his eyes daring you to push him. To challenge him. To keep playing the game you two were never quite able to quit.

"You’re so annoying," you muttered, peeling off your jacket and tossing it somewhere near the coat rack.

"And you're drunk," he said, patting the spot next to him without a hint of shame. "C'mere, princess. Let’s have a little chat."

"I’m fine right here, thanks."

Bangchan tilted his head, studying you with the kind of intensity that made you want to squirm. "You sure? ‘Cause you look like you’re one good glare away from either ripping my head off or climbing into my lap."

You scoffed, pretending not to trip over your own feet as you crossed the room and dropped into the armchair instead, curling your legs up under you.

"Dream on, studio rat," you said sweetly.

He smiled slowly, eyes dark and lazy and a little dangerous. "You call me names like that, and then wonder why I wanna ruin that mouth of yours."

The worst part? You did wonder. You wondered all the time.

You tucked your chin onto your knees, flashing him a slow, mocking smile. "Big words, Bangchan. Too bad that's all you're good at. Talking."

The spark that lit behind his gaze was damn near nuclear.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice dropping so low and smooth it wrapped around you like silk.

"Careful," he said, voice edged with warning and wickedness. "You poke the wolf enough, princess, don't be surprised when he bites back."

Your heart was beating so fast it was almost dizzying. And you knew—you knew—you should tell him to leave. Should tell him you needed to sleep it off. Should slam a thousand doors between the two of you before you made a mistake you couldn't take back.

Instead, you grinned like the little devil you were.

You batted your lashes like a brat, voice dripping sugar and spite. "What are you waiting for then? Afraid you’ll get bitten too?"

Bangchan let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were real.

"One of these days," he said, standing up slow, every muscle under his hoodie stretching and pulling in ways that made you bite your lip, "you're gonna push me too far."

You kept your smile in place, but your mouth was suddenly dry. "Promises, promises."

He came to stand over you, his shadow swallowing you whole. He leaned down, palms braced on the arms of the chair, caging you in without touching. Without meaning to, the chain around his neck slipped loose from his sweatshirt, dangling just above your eyes like a silent dare.

"You have no idea," he whispered, his breath ghosting across your lips, "what you're asking for."

Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. Still, you refused to look away. You refused to be the first one to break.

Bangchan’s mouth curled into something feral, something proud, like he could see every stubborn, reckless thought in your head and loved you more for it.

He brushed his nose against yours, just barely, before pulling away.

"Go to sleep, princess," he murmured, backing off like it cost him something. "Before we both do something we'll regret."

You watched him move across the room, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and tossing it onto you in one smooth motion.

"Goodnight," he said, turning toward the door.

"Goodnight, asshole," you mumbled back, snuggling into the chair despite yourself.

Your head was pounding before you even opened your eyes.

The sunlight filtering through the blinds felt like a personal attack, and the taste in your mouth was proof that maybe you weren't as immune to soju as you thought.

You groaned softly, pressing the heel of your palm against your forehead, cursing every life choice that had led you to this very moment.

Everything hurts. Your brain, your pride, your soul.

You didn’t even remember getting into bed. The last thing you recalled was sitting in the armchair in the living room, long after Chan had left. You turned your head carefully, expecting to find an empty room, expecting to be alone—like you always were after nights like that.

Instead, you found him. Curled up like a fucking angel in your beat-up armchair.

One arm slung lazily over his stomach, the other bent so his hand could half-cover his face, messy black curls spilling out from under the hood of his sweatshirt. His legs were awkwardly folded up to fit, his whole body making a kind of soft, exhausted nest in the chair way too small for him.

And God, he was beautiful. Ridiculously, stupidly beautiful.

Your throat tightened without permission. Because somehow, it hurt a little, seeing him like that. Vulnerable. Still. Peaceful, like he'd finally stopped fighting the world for five minutes.

You sat there blinking at him, trying to convince yourself it was just the hangover making you emotional. Definitely the hangover. Had to be.

Slowly, you shifted to sit up, careful not to make any noise. But even that tiny movement made Bangchan stir, his body tensing instinctively before relaxing again.

You watched as he buried deeper into the chair, pulling the hood lower over his eyes like a child hiding from the morning.

It was absurd. He looked like a stray puppy you accidentally fed once and now couldn’t get rid of.

And the worst part? You didn't even want to get rid of him.

You loved so many things about him — stupid, quiet things. The way he smiled, all crinkled eyes and wrinkled nose, like he couldn't help himself. The way his face looked when he just woke up, soft and defenseless, so beautiful you couldn’t resist tracing his skin with your fingertips, half-convinced he might dissolve like a dream.

You loved his curls too — how, beneath all that cocky, rough-edged swagger, he still looked like a boy you could never quite stop loving.

You sat there for a few minutes, silent, just...watching. Taking in the ridiculous boy who drove you insane but still made sure you were safe. The guy who would argue with you all night but leave you his coat when he left. The boy who threatened to bite and ruin and wreck, but slept like a kid in your living room without asking for anything in return.

Your chest aches in that stupid, traitorous way you hated.

"Idiot," you whispered, your voice breaking the silence.

Bangchan didn’t stir.

You dragged yourself up off the bed, every muscle in your body protesting, and grabbed a blanket. With more gentleness than you’d ever admit to, you tucked it over him, careful not to wake him.

For a second, your fingers hovered over his hair, aching to brush the curls back from his forehead.

You didn’t.

Instead, you backed away, wrapping your arms around yourself, needing the distance before you did something even stupider. You padded into the kitchen and turned on the kettle, moving slowly, quietly.

Because you could be a lot of things. You could be stubborn and sharp and bratty as hell. But you weren't heartless. Not with him.

Not when he looked like that.

You were halfway through pouring hot water into a chipped mug when you heard the shift of fabric and the low, scratchy groan of someone waking up.

You didn’t turn around. You weren’t ready to see him awake yet.

Not when you were still trying to glue your heart back together after catching him sleeping like some exhausted little god on your chair.

Instead, you muttered, “Morning, sunshine,” as you dumped two sugars into your cup.

Bangchan’s voice was still thick with sleep when he answered. "You're alive, huh?"

He sounded way too pleased about that fact. You shrugged, sipping your tea. "Barely. And only because I’m too stubborn to die of embarrassment."

He chuckled behind you, the sound low and rough, and you cursed how good it sounded.

"You should be embarrassed," he said, stretching his arms above his head, making the chair creak. "You were one soju away from getting banned from half the bars downtown."

"Bold words for someone who kidnaps girls from happy hours," you shot back, finally turning around to look at him.

Big mistake.

His hoodie was bunched up around his waist, revealing a sliver of tan skin and the waistband of his sweats. His hair was a glorious mess, dark curls flattened on one side, and he had the nerve—the nerve—to blink at you like he wasn't aware he was slowly killing you just by existing.

You yanked your gaze away. "I need a shower. I feel like death."

"Yeah, you look like it too," he teased under his breath.

You flipped him off lazily as you padded toward the bathroom.

Inside, the hot water was bliss. You stood under the spray for long minutes, letting it wash away your headache, your regret, your dangerously soft feelings. Or trying to.

When you finished, you wrapped yourself in a towel and wandered back into your room, dripping wet, not even thinking.

That's when you saw him again. Through the mirror.

Bangchan was standing just outside the doorway, frozen halfway into a movement, like he hadn't meant to be caught. His eyes caught yours in the mirror’s reflection—and then flickered lower, to your bare shoulders, the curve of your back, the towel barely clinging to your hips, and your wet hair dripping water down your spine.

For a second, neither of you breathed.

He clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides, as if he could physically force himself to behave.

You smirked at his reflection, wickedly pleased at the way he was practically vibrating from the effort of not touching you. You snickered and sauntered toward your closet without another word, feeling his gaze burn into your skin the whole way.

By the time you made it back to the kitchen, fully dressed and mostly composed, the smell of something burning hit you in the face.

"Chan," you said, deadpan. "What fresh hell is this?"

He looked up from the stove, sheepish. A frying pan in one hand, a horribly mangled attempt at eggs in the other.

"I was trying to make you breakfast," he said, voice half-defensive, half-hopeful. "Y'know, so you don't die from alcohol poisoning."

You folded your arms and tilted your head. "You can't cook for shit, can you?"

He tossed the spatula into the sink with a clatter and scowled at you, but there was no real heat behind it.

"You're welcome, princess."

You plopped into a chair, grinning like a little devil. "Aw, you really do love me."

Bangchan grumbled something incoherent under his breath, ears turning slightly pink as he banged around the kitchen trying to salvage whatever dignity he had left.

You bit your lip to hide your smile. Because he could fight it all he wanted. You both knew exactly where this road was heading.

You were still towel-drying your hair when Bangchan’s phone buzzed across the counter.

He checked it absently at first — one glance — but then his entire posture changed. He straightened up, jaw clenching, and answered it with a tight, low, "Yeah?"

You hated the way your chest dropped before you even knew why.

From the kitchen, you heard bits and pieces. Another producer. Some “quick fixes” needed. A session that apparently couldn’t survive the weekend without him.

When he hung up, the room went heavy. He didn’t meet your eyes. He just shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatpants, shoulders stiff with guilt.

You sat down with your mug of burnt coffee, the faint smell of your vanilla soap clinging to your skin. You looked... soft. Kissable. And for a wild second, Bangchan thought about crossing the room just to taste you — hair damp, cheeks flushed from the hot shower — to press his mouth to yours and make you forget the rest of the damn world.

But the words came out instead. "I gotta head to the studio," he said, voice almost apologetic.

You took a slow sip of coffee, then set it down harder than necessary, the sharp clack making both of you flinch.

"You’re seriously going to the studio?" you asked, too casual, too light to be anything but fake.

Bangchan finally looked at you. His eyes were heavy, tired. Maybe even sorry.

"Yeah," he said, like he hated himself a little for it. "Deadlines."

You hummed — a sharp, disbelieving sound — and tapped your nails against the mug.

"It's Saturday," you said quietly.

"And?" he shot back, more defensive than necessary.

You stared at him, really started, like you were trying to scrape something real out of him with your eyes alone. "And nothing," you muttered, voice tight.

He sighed, confused and already losing patience. "What? You want me to blow it off or something?"

You laughed, sharp and humorless. "Oh, no. God forbid you miss a day at your precious studio."

Bangchan blinked at you, and you saw it happen — the slow realization that this wasn’t about today, or even about the stupid phone call.

It was about every time before it. Every late night. Every broken promise. Every time you sat exactly where you were now, waiting for someone who never really came home.

"You’re mad," he said slowly, stupidly, like he was still putting it together.

"No. I’m not." you snapped, standing so quickly your chair screeched against the floor. "Maybe it’s a hangover. Or maybe I’m just allergic to the same fucking story."

His jaw tightened. "What story?"

You crossed your arms across your chest, feeling dangerously close to either screaming or crying.

"You," you spat. "You and your work and your excuses. The plans you cancel, the calls you forget to return. The way you make everything — everyone — secondary to your next big project."

Bangchan flinched, and for once, he didn’t try to spin it. He didn’t even deny it. He just stood there, breathing shallowly, like he was bleeding out and didn’t know how to stop it.

"That was different," he finally managed, voice rough. "That was when—"

"When we were together?" you cut in, voice low and sharp as a blade. You watched him wince like you’d hit him.

Good. He deserved it.

"It’s easier to forget about someone when they’re still stupid enough to love you, isn’t it?"

He opened his mouth — maybe to apologize, maybe to plead — but you shook your head, feeling the final snap of something deep inside you.

"You should go," you said, barely above a whisper. "Wouldn’t want you to be late for your real life."

Bangchan looked at you for a long, breathless second. There was so much there — regret, anger, longing — but none of it mattered anymore.

He grabbed his keys off the counter without a word. You turned your back to him, rinsing your empty mug in the sink even though your hands were shaking.

You heard the door creak open.

He hesitated. Waited. You didn’t look. You didn’t move. You didn’t stop him.

Except—"Bangchan," you called sharply, almost involuntarily.

He froze, half-out the door.

When he turned back, there was a flash of hope in his eyes, quick and raw.

You crushed it without mercy.

You threw his jacket at him, hard enough that it hit his chest with a dull slap. He caught it reflexively, stunned.

"There," you said, your voice brittle and shaking. "Go save the charts or whatever."

Bangchan’s face darkened. His jaw flexed hard enough to crack. But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t beg. Didn’t stay.

He just yanked the jacket on stiffly, avoiding your gaze, and left, the door clicking shut with a finality that made your stomach twist.

You stood there long after he was gone, feeling hollow and breakable and so, so stupid for still loving the sound of his stupid footsteps fading away.

You had sworn you’d stay in this weekend — locked away with bad TV and worse wine — but then Jisung, being Jisung, practically collapsed at your feet, begging you to come to a party some friend of his was throwing.

Apparently, the guy was rich, bored, and had a habit of throwing the kind of parties that made people lose entire weekends without noticing.

On one hand, it sounded like the perfect distraction. On the other, it meant risking running into the headache you were currently trying to scrub out of your system: Bangchan.

After the last fight, he'd gone radio silent. No texts. No late-night calls. No nothing. And, really, that was for the best.

If he wasn't reaching for you, it made it easier not to reach back.

You chose violence anyway — or at least the fashion equivalent — sliding into a rose-gold slip dress so decadent it felt illegal. Fendi and Versace had stitched the thing like they wanted you arrested. Paired with heels sharp enough to commit crimes and a final swipe of lipstick, you were ready to forget him, even if it was only for a few hours.

Jisung pulled up, grinning like he'd just pulled off the heist of the century. Almost on time. Almost.

The second you stepped out in front of the mansion — all cold marble and warm bodies packed inside — Jisung shifted nervously beside you.

"I should probably tell you something," he said, his voice too light, too innocent.

You gave him a flat look, elbowing him hard enough to make him grunt. "Spit it out, Han."

He winced, hands raised in surrender. "Bangchan... might be here. Maybe. Possibly. Almost definitely."

You stared at him for a beat, then shrugged, hooking your arm through his.

"Relax, Ji. I came here for you," you said, flashing a grin that maybe even you didn’t fully believe. "I’m going to have fun. With or without him."

Jisung exhaled like he'd just narrowly avoided death by your hand. And maybe he had.

The interior of the house was obscene in the best way: sleek, brutalist luxury. An infinity pool glittered beyond the glass walls, champagne flowed like water, and waiters glided around balancing trays stacked with cocktails too pretty to drink.

A guy passed by offering glasses of something pale pink with tiny flowers floating inside. You plucked two without hesitation. "Fancy," you muttered, raising a brow at Jisung, who just laughed and stole one from your hand.

The party belonged to some entertainment mogul — the kind of man who collected artists the way other people collected cars — and, apparently, he was old friends with Jisung, Changbin, and your ex.

Music production royalty. Big names. Bigger egos.

Wading into the crowd was like slipping into warm water: bodies pressed together, laughter sticky in the air. You felt it immediately — the stares. The second skin your dress had become. It clung in all the right places, caught the light like it was made to worship you.

You moved through the room like a knife through silk, cruelly aware of the way heads turned, conversations stuttered.

The music was loud, a beat that pulsed in your bones. You danced with Jisung, spinning, laughing too loudly. Letting the thrum of the night drown out the creeping awareness settling at the back of your neck.

Of course he was here. And of course you saw him.

You didn’t even have to look hard; his presence was magnetic — or maybe it was just the fact that you could feel his stare burning into your skin.

Leaning against the table like he had every right to be the center of the universe. Black long-sleeve shirt clinging to the brutal cut of his muscles, like sin wrapped in cotton. Chains glinting at his throat, sliding obscenely down the line of his leather pants.

It should have been illegal to look that good in anything. It should have been illegal to look at you the way he was looking at you.

And when your paths crossed — when you drifted closer on the tide of the crowd — his gaze sharpened, darkened, locked onto you with a slow-burning intensity that made your spine straighten involuntarily.

It took every ounce of your willpower not to react. Because you knew that look. You knew what it meant when Bangchan looked at you like that.

And it wasn’t fair.

Not when you knew damn well that dress — that very dress — had once been a gift from him. A whispered promise wrapped in silk. A secret only the two of you shared, stitched invisibly into every thread.

You could feel him watching you — his stare carving a path along your skin — but you refused to meet his eyes.

Instead, you let your gaze skim over every other face in the circle. Everyone but him.

“Ji," you purred, tipping your head toward him, "aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” The sweetness in your voice was pure venom, and you knew it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Bangchan's hand tightening around his glass. So tight the blood drained from his knuckles.

Changbin you already knew — he greeted you with a familiar grin — but the others were new: “Wooyoung, Yeonjun, Hongjoong,” Jisung rattled off, and each offered you a hand and a polite smile.

Musicians, all of them. Some of their biggest tracks? Produced by 3RACHA. Produced by him. Not that you spared him so much as a glance.

Bangchan stood there, rigid and simmering, a silent storm cloud just beyond the conversation. Acknowledging you only in the sharp way his jaw flexed. The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You could almost hear the accusations unsaid: How dare you wear that dress. How dare you parade yourself around like that. How dare you pretend he wasn't standing right there — burning for you.

You tilted your glass back and drained the last of your drink with a careless shrug.

“I’m grabbing another,” you announced, lifting the empty glass between two fingers like it was something disposable. “Ji, want one?”

Jisung shook his head, distracted by something someone said.

You turned on your heel without waiting for an answer, feeling the hem of your dress flutter like a taunt around your thighs. You knew the way the fabric shifted when you moved. You knew exactly what you looked like walking away.

And you knew exactly who was watching you — fists clenched, jaw locked, fighting the losing battle not to follow.

You ordered a Sex on the Beach and leaned casually against the bar, tapping your manicured nails against the counter. The party roared around you — glittering, chaotic — and you welcomed the momentary lull.

That was when someone appeared. Leaning against the glass with the lazy confidence of a man who thought he had a shot.

"You here alone?" he asked, eyes skating over you without a shred of subtlety.

You tilted your head, lashes brushing your cheekbone in a mockery of innocence. "Why?”

"Would be a crime if you were." He smiled — all teeth and ego — and even had the audacity to bite his bottom lip.

You almost laughed.

He was textbook: handsome in that obvious, forgettable way. The kind of man who thought every pretty girl at a bar was just waiting for him.

The bartender slid your drink over. You took a slow sip before answering, savoring the citrusy burn. "Oh, yeah?"

"I could make your night a hell of a lot better," he said, stepping closer, his voice low. "If you come dance with me."

You barely smothered a smirk. Empty promises rolled so easily off their tongues, didn’t they?

"Then show me," you said, voice syrupy sweet, slipping your hand into his outstretched one.

He led you toward the dance floor, weaving through bodies under the pulse of strobe lights and pounding bass. The air thickened with sweat, perfume, and something wilder.

In the crush of the crowd, he planted a heavy hand on your shoulder, sliding it boldly — too boldly — down your spine to your waist. Guiding you into the rhythm like he owned you.

You let him. For a moment.

The music throbbed through you, rattling your bones. You moved your hips, eyelids fluttering shut, letting yourself drown in the beat — in the slippery feeling of rebellion and defiance.

Behind you, he pressed closer. His hands skimmed down the backs of your thighs, fingers hooking under the hem of your tiny dress, tugging it higher without shame.

Your jaw tightened.

You caught the stranger’s wrists mid-climb, dragging his hands back to rest just above your waist — a silent warning. You didn’t know what game he thought he was playing, but you weren’t about to be the pawn.

Another song bled into the air — a pounding, bass-heavy beat — and you let yourself sway lazily against him, pretending you didn’t feel the way he tried, and failed, to take control.

It was cute, really. Men always thought they were the hunters.

After a few more minutes of indulging his wandering hands, you turned around, flashing a sugar-sweet smile that didn’t even reach your eyes.

"I really need to go to the bathroom," you purred, lips grazing the shell of his ear.

He grinned, clueless. "It’s okay, babe. I’ll be right here."

You gave him one last pitying look — poor thing — and slipped into the crowd, knowing damn well he’d never see you again if the universe had any mercy.

Bodies pressed around you, glittering, sweating, shouting. You ducked and weaved, humming under your breath to the song vibrating through the walls — Guess by Charli XCX — your hips still carrying the ghost of the dance.

The mansion was a maze of glass staircases and too many doors. People were tucked into dark corners, mouths on mouths, hands lost in hair, slipping into rooms to do things better left unspoken.

Finally, you spotted salvation — a guy stumbling out of a door, belt half-buckled. Bathroom.

You moved fast, fingers curling around the handle — only for a much larger hand to slam the door wide open, forcing you back inside with a jolt.

You barely spun on your heels before a wall of heat and muscle cornered you, the door clicking shut with a deliberate, dangerous finality.

His chest rose and fell like he’d sprinted through hell to get to you. His jaw was locked tight enough to crack, and those dark eyes��

You knew that look. You knew it too well.

Anger. Lust. Hunger.

The kind that never asked permission. The kind that didn’t need to.

He took a step forward — and the bathroom shrank into something much too small for the two of you.

"You think you're fucking funny, huh?" His tongue poked his cheek, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your stomach gave a traitorous flip. "Not in the mood for your little games tonight."

"Don't fuck with me, princess." His voice dropped, low, gravelly — as he crowded you against the marble sink.

You had to lean back, your ass brushing the cold counter, because there was nowhere else to go.

"I didn't do anything," you shot back, biting the inside of your cheek to hold your nerve. "You're imagining shit."

He let out a humorless laugh, the sound scraping low in his throat. "Yeah? You didn't let that asshole put his hands all over you in my fucking dress just to get under my skin?"

Touché.

Maybe you had. Maybe you wanted him to burn. To suffer the way you had. Maybe you were desperate enough to crave this — the anger, the jealousy, the way it made his whole body vibrate with restraint.

Bangchan shook his head slowly, a wicked glint in his eyes.

"I always knew you were a little fucking attention whore, but this?" His gaze dragged down your body like a physical touch. "Dressed like a wet dream and acting like you're not desperate to be caught."

His mouth ghosted over yours — not a kiss, just a threat of one — and your fingers dug into the cold edge of the sink so hard they ached.

"What part of we're not together anymore you don’t fucking get?" you hissed, hating the way your voice cracked at the edges, giving you away.

Bangchan’s smirk deepened — like he knew exactly how close you were to losing it. Like he was savoring it.

And God help you, if he came even a breath closer, you would do something reckless and ruinous, like drag his mouth down onto yours, like admit that you were still starving for him.

As if he could read every filthy thought running wild through your head, his fingers brushed the hem of your dress, just skimming the bare skin of your thigh. Your breath caught — your whole body betraying you in a single, shivering heartbeat.

You squeezed your eyes shut for half a second, as if that would save you from the avalanche rolling through your veins. One month without him, and his touch still had you crumbling like a fucking amateur.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice dark silk as he pressed closer — chest to chest, heat to heat — the hard line of his body trapping you against the marble. His hand slid higher, fingers grazing your inner thigh now, so close it made your hips tilt on instinct. "Fucking glowing." The praise was venomous, devouring.

"You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?" His lips brushed the shell of your ear, almost tender, almost cruel.

"You think I'm gonna let you walk around like that—" his fingers inched up, grazing the thin, soaked scrap of your panties, "—let some other asshole touch what’s fucking mine?"

His hand flexed against you like he wanted to tear you apart.

Your cheeks burned, your body burned — your thighs, your stomach, your ribs — everything thrumming with desperate, unbearable heat.

And worst of all, you were wet. God, you were soaked for him.

He could probably feel it without even sliding his fingers under.

You hated it. You hated him for knowing it. You hated yourself for wanting him to ruin you all over again.

You wanted him brutal. You wanted him careless. You wanted him to use you until you forgot your own name. But somewhere, buried deep under the throb of your pulse, that thin, pitiful thread of reality was still whispering:

You’re not his anymore.

He kissed you — but it wasn’t a kiss you were ready for. It was brutal, a quick, greedy clash of mouths that stole the breath from your lungs.

By the time you tried to react, he’d already pulled back, staring down at you with eyes so dark they barely looked human.

"I won't do anything you don't want," he said, voice dropping low, a threat wrapped in a promise.

Meanwhile, his hand dragged upward, maddeningly slow, fingertips grazing the inside of your thigh like he had all the time in the goddamn world. He ghosted over the thin barrier of your panties — a brush, a tease, not enough, never enough — and the pressure made your knees weaken.

His fingers barely pressed against you, just enough to make you ache harder, just enough to make you silently beg.

"Tell me to stop," he said, fingers still tormenting the edges of your sanity. "Come on, angel. Open your pretty mouth."

You couldn't. You couldn’t even think straight, not when he was touching you like that, not when your body was trembling with how badly you needed him.

It wasn’t fair — how he could burn through you with nothing but a touch.

He stilled his hand purposely, the absence of movement so punishing it made your stomach drop.

"I need to fucking hear it," he growled, forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged.

Your voice broke on the first attempt, your throat so dry it hurt. Finally, you swallowed hard and forced the word out. “No.”

The second it left your mouth, something snapped in him — like you had given him the keys to every dark, filthy thing he'd been holding back.

His mouth twisted in a smile that wasn’t kind at all — it was wicked, ruined. His pupils were so blown out, he looked possessed.

"Turn around," he ordered, voice sharp enough to cut.

Your body obeyed before your brain could even catch up. You turned to face the mirror, your hands gripping the edge of the marble sink like it was the only thing keeping you standing. The reflection was obscene — your face flushed, your pupils wide, your body vibrating with want.

And behind you — him — towering, overwhelming, the black of his clothes a stark contrast to the mess he was about to make out of you.

He shoved your back down with a firm hand, bending you over until the marble sink disappeared from view and all you could see was the cold, impersonal wall. Your ass lifted automatically, desperate to meet him, and Bangchan let out a sharp breath between his teeth at the sight.

“Fuck, princess.” His voice was rough, shredded with want as he shoved your dress higher, bunching the delicate fabric around your waist.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging hard into your flesh like he could brand you with them. He rubbed a slow, dirty circle over your panties, right where you were soaked for him.

“I missed this pretty little pussy,” he muttered, almost to himself, almost reverent.

You moaned under his touch, your whole body vibrating with the filthy thrill of being manhandled like this — like you were something he owned.

Bangchan smiled against your skin, because it was exactly what he wanted — your surrender, your desperate little sounds.

You gasped when he pressed his body against you, his erection thick and straining against the rough line of his pants. You couldn't help it — you pushed your hips back, chasing the friction, needing more, needing everything.

He bent low against you, lips brushing your ear as he ran two fingers slowly, maddeningly, along your lips. The fabric of your panties clung wetly to your folds, making the sensation almost unbearable.

“Suck them," he ordered, voice low and wrecked. "Make them nice and wet for me."

You let out a shaky breath, the filth of it lighting your nerves on fire. You twisted enough to meet his hand, parting your lips and taking his fingers into your mouth without hesitation.

The second you did, Bangchan groaned — a raw, broken sound that made your thighs clench.

You wrapped your tongue around his fingers, licking slow and deep, dragging your mouth up and down them like you would if it were his cock. You sucked, sloppily, tasting yourself faintly on your own tongue.

Bangchan watched you with hooded eyes, his breathing heavy, his whole body coiled tight.

"Good girl," he praised, voice dripping with satisfaction. The words hit you harder than they should have, sending a fresh ache between your legs.

He pulled his fingers from your mouth with a slow, wet pop — a thin string of saliva stretching between them — and he smirked, absolutely wrecked by the sight of you.

The sight of you like this — desperate, obedient, filthy — was dangerous. Because all he wanted now was to fuck you so hard you'd forget your own name, until you were nothing but pretty, broken noises under his hands.

"Hold the sink," he commanded, voice low and dangerous. You spread your fingers along the cold marble, bracing yourself, every nerve in your body screaming for him to just touch you already.

Bangchan stepped closer, breathing heavily through his nose.

With a rough tug, he pulled your panties down, exposing you completely — slick, glistening, dripping for him. The second he saw you like that, he swore under his breath, his cock pressing harder against him like it physically hurt to wait.

He dragged two fingers slowly through your folds, gathering the wetness, coating his skin in you. You let out a breathy, involuntary moan, your hips twitching at even that minimal contact.

He watched, obsessed, as your body reacted to him, so easy, so natural — like you were made for this, made for him.

Three fingers circled your clit in a slow, maddening rhythm. You bit down on your lip, trying to muffle the desperate whine building in your throat.

It was useless. You squirmed under his hand, hips jerking against his teasing strokes, shamelessly greedy for more.

Bangchan laughed — low and cruel and possessive. "I'll show you who this greedy little pussy belongs to," he promised darkly.

Without warning, he slid two fingers deep inside you, filling you with a brutal, perfect stretch that tore a hoarse moan from your lips. Your knees buckled, the shock of it nearly sending you collapsing onto the sink.

On instinct, your hand shot up to cover your mouth, but Bangchan was faster.

He yanked his fingers free, leaving you clenching around nothing. Your head snapped up in frustration, but he was already growling in your ear:

"Hands on the fucking sink. Be a good girl and take it."

You barely managed a whimper of compliance. Trembling, aching, you placed both palms flat against the cold marble again, desperate to behave if it meant he'd touch you again.

Satisfied, Bangchan plunged his fingers back inside you — deeper this time, rougher. Your whole body jolted at the sudden invasion, a broken cry ripping from your throat.

He crooked his fingers ruthlessly, zeroing in on that perfect, devastating spot he knew too well.

You sobbed his name, helpless, lost to the overwhelming pleasure. Bangchan leaned closer, his chest flush against your back, murmuring filth against your ear while he fucked his fingers into you like he never planned to stop.

He knew your body better than anyone ever had. And tonight, he was going to make damn sure you remembered exactly who you belonged to.

"Want me to fuck your pretty pussy with my hand?" His voice dripped mockery, even as he thrust shallowly, barely letting you feel the stretch before pulling back again.

You moaned, your body shuddering against the marble. But it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

"Say please," he demanded, slowing his movements to a cruel, torturous crawl.

You gritted your teeth, rage flaring hot inside you. This was a punishment — and you both knew you deserved it.

Still, when he stilled his hand completely, your pride crumbled like sand.

"Fuck. Please." You whimpered, the word breaking out of you, raw and desperate. "Please, please, fuck me."

Bangchan muttered something under his breath — a filthy prayer or a curse, you couldn’t tell — before he slammed his fingers back inside you, hard and deep. You sobbed, the sound guttural, ripped straight from your chest.

He set a brutal pace, fingers pumping in and out of you, making a messy, obscene noise every time he bottomed out inside your dripping heat.

It was filthy. It was everything you needed.

"More," you gasped, hips chasing every thrust shamelessly. "I need more."

He groaned low, a sound almost pained. "Fuck, princess. You're too greedy."

And then, without warning, he shoved two more fingers alongside the first — stuffing you so full you thought you might snap. Your body seized, a broken scream caught in your throat. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming stretch, the ache, the impossible fullness.

Bangchan didn’t give you a second to adjust. He moved slow at first, deep, devastating strokes that made you feel every inch of his hand inside you. You whined his name, nonsense spilling from your lips, your hips rolling uncontrollably against him, desperate for more.

"Stay the fuck still," he growled, pressing a heavy hand between your shoulder blades, forcing you down against the sink. You whimpered under his weight, blinking away the tears threatening to fall.

He shifted his stance, muscles flexing — and then he started fucking you fast, reckless, fingers slamming into you at a brutal pace that left you gasping, clenching around him, chasing an orgasm that was already boiling over inside you.

Your toes curled against the floor. That fire built and built in your belly, spreading up your spine until you were teetering right at the edge He didn’t let up for a second. Bangchan drove his fingers into you brutally, mercilessly, the slick, wet sounds of your body devouring every thrust filling the bathroom like music.

You were swollen, red, and trembling uncontrollably. Every nerve ending screamed with overstimulation, but the way he pressed you down — completely at his mercy — only made it filthier, made the pleasure spiral harder, darker, sweeter.

"Fuck," he groaned, voice rasping with something feral. "Look at how you take my fingers."

He leaned closer, tongue darting out over his lips, starving for the sight of you wrecked and desperate for him.

"I—I can't anymore—" you choked out, voice cracking in a whimper. "Chan!"

His hand moved faster, the thrusts deeper, knuckles brushing obscene against your insides.

"Are you gonna cum for me, princess?" he taunted, rough and low against your ear. "Show me. Show me who this greedy pussy belongs to. Cum for me."

It was a command you couldn’t disobey.

Like a snapped wire, your orgasm hit you so violently that your whole body jolted forward. Bangchan ripped his fingers free at the exact moment, flattening his hand against your clit and rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves with the heel of his palm.

The sensation tore a scream from your throat, your vision whiting out.

He wrapped one thick arm around your waist, holding you upright while you convulsed, grinding his palm against your throbbing clit, prolonging every brutal, ecstatic wave of pleasure. You sobbed against the cold marble sink, tears streaming hot and fast down your cheeks.

"Look at yourself," he snarled, voice thick with pride and hunger. "Look at you when you cum for me. All fucked out. Mine."

His hand moved up, gripping your chin roughly, forcing your gaze to the mirror. What you saw made your knees almost give out: Your face flushed, wet with tears, mouth slack in a helpless moan.

Behind you, Bangchan looked like a fucking monster — wild-eyed, hair a mess, his body pressed possessively against yours.

And when your cum spilled down your thighs in thick, shining streams, soaking his hand, his grin was wolfish.

"That's it," he growled, dragging his wet fingers slowly over your skin, smearing the mess across your trembling thighs. "My girl. So fucking good to me."

You slumped back against his chest, your head dropping onto his broad shoulder, boneless and ruined. Bangchan stroked your waist like you were his prized possession, tracing the outline of your body with greedy, adoring hands.

"Taste it," he murmured against your temple, voice gentler now, darkly satisfied. "This is how good you’re, baby."

He shoved two fingers between your lips, pressing them flat against your tongue. You accepted them greedily, wrapping your mouth around him without a second thought.

Because deep down — as much as you tried to deny it — you belonged to him in ways that you couldn’t undo.

Bangchan stared at you like he was starving, his eyes black with lust, devouring the sight of you so eager to please him. His thumb dragged lazily across your bottom lip, smearing your gloss, leaving a wet, messy sheen all over your mouth like a mark he wanted the world to see.

For a split, torturous second, you thought he was going to kiss you.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your body tilting toward him instinctively, aching to feel his mouth against yours. One simple touch that would have undone you completely.

But he pulled away at the last second.

It was like being doused in ice water. The heat between you evaporated instantly, leaving a hollow ache behind.

You stumbled back, spine hitting the cold bathroom wall, every part of you trembling — not from pleasure now, but from something colder, crueler.

He stood there for a long, agonizing moment, his face carved into something unreadable, chest heaving like he was still fighting himself.

Then he said, voice hoarse and brutal, "Better clean yourself up, princess. You're a fucking mess."

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel, unlocked the door, and vanished into the pounding music and flashing lights beyond.

You were left alone, the door swinging half-shut, the air around you still heavy with the smell of sex and sweat. Staring at your ruined reflection — lipstick smeared, cheeks wet, eyes hollow — you barely recognized the girl looking back.

Destroyed. Empty.

Still aching for a man who had just reminded you exactly how much power he still held over you.

PART TWO TOMORROw!

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somanyideassolittletime · 2 days ago

Text

To be loved is to be changed.

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader

Summary : 3 ways you changed Jack, and one time Jack changed you.

Warnings: fluff, Jack is in love with his wife, language, grammar inaccuracies (maybe? idk), so much fluff I felt giddy writing this.

Author's note: I love Jack so much, enjoy!

| one

Jack, albeit all of his typical stereotypes people use to box him into, is secretly tech-savvy. It comes with the job, he supposed. Working in a field where technology is always evolving, he learnt to adapt, and he learnt to love it. It started with geeking out when the newest, most updated machine was delivered to the hospital, up to buying himself handheld medical pieces of equipment delivered to your door – he would wait for you at home before unboxing the most recent ‘toys’ he ordered, and he would talk your ears off about how cool and innovative it is.

You loved it, you loved hearing him talk passionately, you love that even after all this time working in his job, he still finds wonders in it (it doesn’t help that he looked so hot with his forearms flexed, knife in hand, while opening the package).

He understands technology, he does. But he doesn’t get the idea of FaceTime. He wasn’t a big texter himself; nothing beats the good old phone calls, where you can get your point across without fear of miscommunication on both sides. Even when you dated, you never went as far as FaceTime; it was always a phone call with a promise of meeting each other, and now that you are married, sharing his home, he still doesn’t get it.

“Why do you even need to look at their faces when you call? What matters is what you say, y’know, besides, it’s awkward to call someone with your phone far away from your ears,” He once said while holding you tightly in his side, cuddling in his far too comfy leather couch. Both of you watching a movie, where the scene of people facetiming each other just finished. You laughed at him back then, nudging his sides, “Eh, don’t knock it till you try it, hon.”

What a turn of events now for him, as you were called away across the country for a few guest lectures and seminars for two weeks. Away from Pittsburgh, away from him – that he finds himself thankful for whoever invented the damned thing. He’s sitting on his bed, currently deprived of your presence beside him, when he decides to try out FaceTime.

“Hi, handsome,” you pick up on the first ring, he’s greeted with the face he’s been missing for the past few days, smiling at him. He sighs in contentment, he finally gets to see your face. “Hi, sweetheart.”

He can hear you rustling around, looking for something to prop up your phone before you settle on your water bottle. Your screen is now steady. You grin at him, “Finally getting the whole FaceTime thing now, huh?”

He huffs, “Don’t wanna get used to it, i’d rather have you here.” he starts, “But yeah, thank god shit’s exist. Been so long since I've seen that face.”

“I’ve been here four days and you turned grumpy, huh?” You tell him, referring to the text Dana sent you earlier, “Your husband is Mr. Grumpy. Med students scared to approach him all day”

“What do you mean?” You’re still grinning at him, you’re afraid your cheeks might be too sore to talk to the faculty tomorrow. “Dana texted me, said you were being bad teacher.”

He groaned, “I’m annoyed at everything, it seems.” he mumbles just loud enough for you to hear him on the other end. He’s holding the phone a little too close to his eyes, he squints to look at you. You noticed it, “Wear your glasses, hon.” He hates wearing his glasses, which you know, but he’s squinting so hard you’re afraid he’s gonna get a headache later on. He’s contemplating debating you, but he knows that you’re right; he’s getting too old to see something so close to his eyes now.

“Ugh, fine. Wait,” he puts his phone in the bed, now his screen is showing the ceiling of the bedroom you share back home. A few rustling and groans later, you find yourself looking at Jack wearing his glasses. Your breath hitched. The sight of him in his glasses always gets to you, even after all this time. “Looking good, Dr. Abbot,” you joke. He smiles, “You’re Dr. Abbot yourself.” You frowned mockingly. “I was looking at my reflection, y’know.”

He laughs, and your heart aches to be with him. You missed him as bad as he missed you, it seems. You lift your phone, standing up now, he’s curious, “What are you doing?” You reverse the camera now, showing your room. “I’m doing a room tour. Now shut up and listen to me yap.”

He gladly obeys, he loves listening to your voice, he watches as you explain everything in your room, from the bathroom, the wardrobe, the bed, all the way to the balcony. His eyes caught something when your camera points at your desk, a familiar bottle of cologne – one he’s been wearing for ten years – so he decides to jab at you. “Is that why I can’t find my cologne in my bag?” You turn the camera facing you, and he’s glad now that he can see your face again. “I miss you. Sue me.” You stick your tongue out at him. How he wishes to wipe that shit eating grin from your face.

“I’m suing you for that with a lifetime with me,” he says earnestly. You look at him fondly, “Jack Abbot, I didn’t know you get sappier the further we departed.” He puts his phone on the nightstand, angled so that you can still see his face, pulling the comforter up to his chin.

“I miss you so much, baby,” you blegh at the nickname, phone now back at your desk, “You sounded like a teenager,” he chuckles, he looks at you putting on your glasses, the light from the laptop reflecting in your eyes. “Talk to me,” you say.

So he did, he tells you about the shift he’s had today while you’re typing away at your laptop, looking at him every once in a while. He tells you about the boy who went berserk, hands flailing around, making Langdon drop the scalpel in his hand, dropping it to his prosthetic feet, panicking the entire trauma room, only for him to be unfazed. You laugh fondly at him, eyes twinkling with the same mesmerization you only hold for him (and for a crazy innovation that you find interesting).

He’s holding his yawn, but you know better. His eyes are glassy now. “Go to sleep. It’s late,” you say, he obeys you, taking off his glasses, relaxing into his pillow. “Don’t turn it off,” he says softly, eyes fluttering. You shake your head, “I’ll turn it off when you snore,” he huffs, “what? You snore.” you start, “But I need to hear you snore to sleep nowadays.” you explain.

His eyes are half-closed now, and he finds himself relaxed, hearing your breaths on the other side, keys clacking softly. “I love you,” he whispers to you. You stopped your typing, now looking at his eyes fully closed, “I love you too, goodnight, hon.”

For the next 7 days, he finds himself loving FaceTime, finds himself looking forward to FaceTime with you every night before he sleeps, and like other technology he once frowned at, he finally gets it.

| two

Jack is not a man of pop culture, he never understands the appeal of it. He rarely watches movies by himself, let alone pop culture movies or series. But you loved it to no end, you often ask him to watch those movies with you, ranging from sci-fi, fantasy, to superhero movies, whatever you want to watch, he’ll gladly oblige. He’ll pretend to be uninterested in your series whenever you watch it alone with him moving around the house. But you always find him standing behind the couch, watching the show intently, before finding him beside you, starting to give commentary on what's happening on the screen. And slowly, he finds himself enjoying watching those movies and series with you.

He loves watching you explain to him about the complexity of a character you like, loves hearing you badmouth a character you hate, and when you both find yourself watching sci-fi movies with futuristic technologies, he finds himself falling a little harder, hearing you explain to him the concept of the technology in said movies. “I don’t understand a single word you just said. Is this what you feel when I explain procedures to you?” he once asked you. You nodded, “Yeah, pretty much, but you’re hot when you’re explaining it. So I love it,” you said to him. And he agreed with you on that one.

Jack was covering the night shift tonight, it’s Halloween night, so he’ll find himself drowning in patients in costumes, no doubt. You had dropped him off earlier with a kiss on his cheek and a promise to pick him up later in the morning.

He’s talking to a ten-year-old kid in a yellow uniform, one he recognized as a Star Trek uniform when Ellis enters the room, “I got this, Abbot. You go ahead,” she says to Jack. Jack nods at her before saying, “You’re in good hands, kiddo.” Ellis looks at the boy in the bed, saying, “Well, what do we got here, Mr.Spock?” The kid was about to protest when Jack reactively says, “He’s Captain Kirk,” Earning a look from Ellis. He fistbumps the kid and leaves the room, fully trusting Ellis.

The rest of the shift is pretty slow, filled with kids getting food poisoning from the candy being given away, typical drunks, and some OD patients from parties. It was now one hour left in the shift, everyone was either hanging by the hub or just doing a frequent check for their patients. He was charting when Shen and Ellis approached him.

“Hey, Abbot. How’s the stormtrooper guy?” Shen asks him. He’s currently scanning through his memory, not finding a single stormtrooper costume in his recollection of the night. “We haven’t got a stormtrooper,” He frowns at Shen. Shen points his fingers over Jack’s shoulder, he turns his head – now looking at a man in a Mandalorian get-up, his helmet on the chair beside the bed – he turns back to Shen, “That’s a fucking Mandalorian, good to go in a few hour, ” Shen doesn’t say anything, opting to look at Ellis beside him. Who, for the second time that night, gave him a weird look. He’s been doing medical procedures that might be crazy ballsy for some, but never once he received that look from either Ellis or Shen until tonight.

“Okay, you know what, what the hell?” Ellis starts, “You corrected me earlier cause of a fuckin costume, and now, what the hell, man?” Jack shrugs, “What?” Shen points his finger at Jack, his voice accusatory, “Dude, you only ever turn your TV on for penguins games, now you tellin me you know fuckin sci-fi shit, now.?” Jack looks at him, “Wrong, I turn on my TV for the Steelers and Pirates too,” he says casually.

“Ugh, you know what we meant. Since when do you even watch that stuff?” Ellis says exasperatedly. Jack crossed his arms, shrugging, “My wife likes that stuff.” He says that so casually that Shen and Ellis might combust at his tone.

Shen laughs at him, “Holy shit, you’re whipped.” Jack smirks, “Yeah, I wouldn’t get married if I weren’t.” his hands find the ring in his necklace now. Fully smiling at Shen and Ellis, both of whom groan at him. “Ughhh, please be a simp somewhere else, not here.” Shen rolls his eyes.

Shen and Ellis walked away from him before he muttered, “God forbid a man is in love,” smiling to himself with the thought of you in his mind.

So slowly but surely, he understands the appeal now that he can see how your eyes lit up every time he referenced something. And like any other form of entertainment, he once cringed at, he finds himself enjoying and looking forward to the next time he has you curled up beside him, whispering theories he doesn’t get. Anything that makes you happy, it seems, makes him happy.

| three

Jack is a man of many talents, but not of many coffee orders. He takes his coffee as plain as possible. Black, no sugar. He never ordered his coffee sweet, not before he met you at least. For him, coffee should be something simple, he doesn’t need extra flavor in his coffee, he just needs it to fuel him through the day.

But you? You take your coffee as abstractly as possible. Though you do enjoy a plain black coffee once in a while, once the occasion calls for it, you actually prefer some flavor and sweetness in your coffee.

“black , no sugar, please. What about you hon,” he asked you, ordering for himself to barista; he never ordered for you since he knew he would botch the task. “Uh, let me think. I ordered the almond latte yesterday. I think I’ll go with hazelnut today, please. Thank you,” you answered to the barista, who punched in some buttons. Jack tapped his card to pay before moving over to wait for your order.

“Here, try this. You’ll like it.” you said to him. He shakes his head, refusing to take a sip. “Just try it, I swear” he takes the coffee in his hand, sipping on it. Fuck. that’s good. He thought. He bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile, not wanting to give you the victory. You pointed at him victoriously, “aha! You like it don’t you.” he shrugged, giving you back your coffee. “Eh, black’s still better.” though you know that he actually enjoys it.

But now that it’s been a while since the two of you went on cafe dates, he finds himself missing your random coffee order. So when the opportunity comes for him to drink your coffee order, he’ll take it.

“Hey, I’m ordering coffee, your usual?” Robby asks him, typing in his notes app to list everyone’s coffee order. Jack thinks for a second before answering him, “I’ll have a vanilla latte,” earning a raised eyebrow from Robby, who types it down without question before moving over to the others. Making a mental note to ask him later on.

It was a while later when the order came in, and everyone stopped by the break room to take their coffee. Jack is greeted by Langdon and Robby inside, both holding their coffee. Langdon doesn’t even think before handing him a black coffee, one that Jack doesn’t take. “It’s not mine,” he says, walking over to the table, reading the labels in each cup before settling on his order.

He holds it in a way that the label is visible to Langdon, who looks at him weirdly, “a Latte? Really? Vanilla latte?” Langdon asks him. Jack sips on his coffee before entertaining Langdon, “What? It’s good,” he answers. Langdon, who looks at Robby as if saying, dude, you seeing what I’m seeing???. Robby teases him, “Yeah, I don’t think that cuts it, brother.”

Jack huffs, sipping some more, “Fine. My wife takes her coffee like this.” he wants to look annoyed, but he can’t bear himself to do it; not when he just drank your coffee order, being reminded of you seems to have that effect on him.

“I’m a married man myself, but I never even order my coffee her way, man.” Langdon laughs at him. Robby smiles at him, putting his hand on Langdon’s shoulder, slightly leaning toward him. “I believe we are seeing Jack in love. What is it? To be loved is to be changed?” says Robby to Langdon’s who laughed at Jack.

Jack wants to retort something smart as usual, but somehow, he doesn’t want to. So he opted to just smile at both of them before taking his coffee outside the break room.

Because yeah, he might realize himself that his preference is changing, but what Robby said earlier was right, that he’s in love and that he’s loved – and he wouldn’t change that for the world.

But the next time the two of you went on your cafe dates, he would still order his usual, not because he wanted it, he ordered it because for him, nothing beats the mischievous smile you gave him after asking him to try your coffee. (and it doesn’t help that he liked seeing your lip product mark on his cup after you drink his coffee, and that both of you just did an indirect kiss) Though that was a thought he’ll keep to himself forever.

“How do I look?” you walk into the living room, twirling your body to Jack, who is sitting on the leather couch, now looking at you. You were sporting a Penguins jersey with a big 87 on the back, CROSBY above it. You were offered a sideline ticket to the Penguins game by your friend, which you excitedly accepted. So here you are, getting ready for the game with the Penguins heartbreaker’s Jersey on you.

Jack smiles at you. “Well, you look like you’re drowning in it, Mrs. Crosby,” he says coyly. You frown at him, walking over to him, “Jack, as much as I love Sid, I actually prefer being Mrs. Abbot,” you say to him, leaning down to give his lips a peck.

Jack puts his hand on your waist, capturing your lips on his. Pulling back, Jack let out a breathy chuckle, “Yeah? Say that after you see him, hon. You know I’m straight, but he’s hot as hell,” he jested. You laugh at his confession, about to say something when you hear a honk in the driveway. Jack walks you over to the door, opening it for you.

Jack pecks your lips once again before saying, “Stay safe, okay? I love you.” You smile, kissing his cheek, “I will. Love you too.”

It’s almost midnight when you come home, and the Penguins won, so it was a victorious night out in your books. You open the door slowly, not wanting to disturb Jack, who should be sleeping by now. You can hear the TV still turned on in the living room, so you decide to check it out.

Jack was sprawled over the couch, the light from the TV illuminating his figure, his prosthetic placed by the table, as much as you want to move him to the bed because you know that his back would scream at him tomorrow if he spends as much as an extra hour on the couch, he looked so cozy you can’t help yourself, so you lay down on the couch, joining him.

Your movement startles him at first, but upon seeing that it’s you, he relaxes, “Hey,” he whispers into your ear. “It was fun, wished it was with you though,” you confess to him. His arms now caging you, drawing soft circles on your back. It was quiet before you started.

“Jack,” you whisper softly, he hums, acknowledging you. You continue, “I think you broke me.” Jack stops his hand, pulling his head just enough to look you in the eyes. “What do you mean?” you snuggle further into his chest before saying, “I don’t find Sid attractive anymore.”

“Huh?” Jack asks, You sit up, placing your hand on his stomach. “Imagine, I was that close with him, I could practically see his pores, Jack.-” You put your hand in front of you, in an attempt to emphasize just how close you are to The Sidney Crosby earlier. “But all I can think about is eh, he’s okay. Jack’s way more attractive.” Jack’s entire body warms at hearing your confession.

He’s about to comment before you put your hand that was previously on his stomach to his mouth, not allowing him to speak, “No, you don’t get it. It's THE SIDNEY CROSBY, Jack. You know how much I love him, right?” he nods against your hand, now smiling as wide as ever. You lift your hand from his mouth, continuing your explanation. “I was supposed to be entranced by him, Jack. But I kept on thinking that he had nothing against you.”

“You’re putting me on a damn high pedestal now, hon,” he says jokingly, though his eyes shows nothing but adoration looking at you.

You lie back on the couch again, cuddling him. “Nah. I think I just love you too much that I find any other guy to just be….mid.”

He chuckles, resuming his hand motion on your back. “I love you too, so much.” You don’t say anything after that, you're both snuggling, the TV playing softly as background noise – the intimacy of this moment has nothing against anything else.

You both stayed that way for a while until you mentioned to him that you needed to move before you both fell asleep on the couch, so you walked over to the bedroom, Jack behind you, searching for the remote to turn it off, seeing the highlight of the day on the screen, with crosby’s goal earlier. He smirks proudly at the TV, remembering your earlier admission.

Sid 0 - 1 Jack.

#jack abbot x reader #the pitt #jack abbot

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wheresarizona · 2 days ago

Text

Big News

summary: Ellie and Dina have something to tell Joel.

pairing: Ellie/Dina

rating: G (*Spoilers for S2E4* This is fluff, Joel POV, Joel being the best dad, Ellie giving Joel shit, big news, domestic fluff, AU where Joel lives, not canon compliant)

word count: 600+

a/n: *Spoilers for S2E4* Hi, I made myself really sad thinking about how excited Joel would be finding out he’s going to be a grandpa, so I wrote it to make myself feel better. Enjoy this fluff!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Masterlist

“We need him to sit down,” Dina whispers to Ellie, but Joel can clearly hear as the pair stand in front of him.

“Good idea,” the other girl quietly replies. “He’s old. We gotta think about his heart.”

Joel takes a deep breath as he closes his eyes and presses his fingers to his forehead.

Ellie and Dina had met him at the house for their weekly dinner and movie night. When they arrived, they found him in the kitchen, where they are now, and said they had something to tell him.

“Girls,” he cuts in, and lowers his hand to look at them. “What is goin’ on? Did you get in trouble for messin’ around on patrol and not checkin’ in again?”

“Hey,” Ellie responds. “That happened one time, and we’ve explained many times that we don’t know how the radio got turned off!”

“Uh huh, and you smelled like weed because?”

“There was that blizzard, and we had to hole up at Eugene’s weed-growing place, but forget about that. We have something to tell you, and you need to sit down.”

He sighs and decides to humor them by walking the few steps to take a seat at the little breakfast table. In all honesty, his heart is pounding over what they possibly had to say. He’s thinking the worst, but he’s not quite sure what that would even be.

“Okay,” he says. “What is it?” Ellie inhales deeply and says something so quickly on the exhale that it sounds like gibberish. His eyebrows pull together, and his attention goes to Dina. “What did she say?”

“We’re having a baby,” Dina answers.

Joel looks between them. “I beg your pardon, what?”

“We’re having a baby,” Dina repeats.

“I’m gonna be a dad,” Ellie adds.

Now, Joel knows they’ve been dating for a month or so, and he loves seeing them together. He just has one question. “How…?”

Dina uses her thumbs to point at herself. “I’m pregnant.”

Again, he asks, “How?”

“If you want to get into the specifics, I had sex with Jesse—”

That’s enough for him to hear, Joel putting up a palm as he interrupts her, “Okay, okay, alright. Jesse’s the father. That’s all I needed to know.” Then it dawns on him what they’re saying, and his hand drops, his eyes widening as he looks at Dina. “You’re pregnant?”

“Yes.”

His attention goes over to Ellie. “You said you’re gonna be a dad?”

“Yep.”

Now, he’s looking between them. “Does…” His throat feels tight. “Does that mean, I’m gonna be a grandpa…?”

Both girls nod and say at the same time, “Yep.”

He stares off behind them at the kitchen wall.

He’s going to be a grandfather.

After losing Sarah, and with Ellie dating girls, he never in a million years ever thought he’d be a grandfather. He figured he lost that chance when he lost his oldest. Really, it wasn’t something he even thought about until now.

A grandfather.

He’s going to be a grandfather.

His girls are having a child.

“Did we break him?” Ellie whispers.

“Shh, he’s processing. Give him a second.”

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels the tears rolling down his cheeks.

“I’m gonna be a grandpa,” he breathes, focusing on them.

Dina nods, her eyes red-rimmed and teary. “Yeah, Joel. You’re gonna be a grandpa.”

There’s no stopping his big grin, as he quickly rises to his feet. “I’m gonna be a grandpa!” he excitedly says, wrapping his arms around them. Dina giggles, and Ellie groans, but they hug him back. “I’m so happy for you kids,” he tells them. He’s already thinking about what he’ll carve the baby—maybe a giraffe. “You’re gonna be great parents.”

And that’s not a lie. They’re good together. They'll be great.

This might be the happiest day he’s had in over twenty-five years.

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know!

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #ellie williams #ellie x dina #tlou spoilers #tlou hbo spoilers #the last of us spoilers #tlou #tlou hbo #wheresarizona writes

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lila-lou · 2 days ago

Text

✨Beyond his true fate - Part 1/14✨

Summary: Sequel to "His true fate".

(Jensen hasn't been happy for years. But it seems almost impossible for him to escape. After another nasty argument between him and his wife, he decides to visit his ´former´ best friend for his birthday. Back in Austin, an encounter awaits him that will turn his life completely upside down.)

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, age gap, tough topics

Word Count: 5779

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes. I love them all.

Day 1 Jensen stared at his phone, thumb hovering over your name in his call log. Five missed calls. Five times he let it ring until it went to voicemail. Five times he hoped, prayed, begged that you would answer.

You didn’t. Your last message had been clear: “Jensen, please. I need space”.

He hadn’t replied. What could he say? That he didn’t want to give you space? That he wanted to get in his car and drive straight to wherever you were, pull you into his arms, bury his face in your neck and apologize until his voice gave out?

Instead, he shoved his phone into his pocket and turned toward the living room, where Zeppelin was currently attempting to stack pillows taller than himself. Arrow was chasing JJ around the couch with a stuffed animal.

Jensen forced himself to smile. Forced himself to laugh when Zeppelin collapsed into the pillows. Forced himself to focus on them and not the aching hole in his chest where you used to be.

But that night, after he tucked them in and the house was quiet, he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the spot where you should be. Where you belonged. And for the first time in a long time, he felt truly, completely alone.

Day 3 He found one of your sweaters in the laundry. He hadn’t noticed it before, tangled up in the mix of clothes from before you left. It still smelled like you.

He sat on the couch with it in his lap for hours, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers, his chest aching so damn bad he could hardly breathe.

Jensen had never been the kind of man to hold onto things like that. He wasn’t sentimental about clothes or perfume or little trinkets. But right now? Right now, he would have given anything to hear your voice. To hear you hum under your breath while cooking, to feel your fingers thread through his hair when he sat on the couch beside you, to have your body pressed against his at night—warm, soft, real.

But all he had was this damn sweater. And a silence that was suffocating.

Day 5 Jensen took the kids out for ice cream, trying to distract himself with their laughter. It worked for a little while. Zeppelin got chocolate all over his shirt, Arrow declared she was officially “too old for baby flavors” and got something she hated, and JJ? She barely said anything.

She was watching him.

And later, when the other two had gone to bed, she sat beside him on the couch, arms crossed, her sharp eyes way too knowing. “You look like shit, Dad”, she finally said, her tone blunt.

Jensen scoffed, running a hand over his face. “Thanks, kid”.

“Are you gonna fix it?”.

Jensen looked at her then, feeling the weight of everything press down on his chest. “I don’t know”, he admitted.

Day 7 The kids went back to Danneel’s today. The house was too quiet after they left.

Jensen paced the kitchen, his phone in his hand, your number pulled up for what felt like the hundredth time.

Just one message. Just one call.

But every time, he stopped himself. Because if you wanted to hear from him, you would have called by now.

Instead, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a drink.

Then another. Then another.

By the time he stopped, his head was heavy, his limbs sluggish, and the only thing he could think about was the way your lips felt against his. The way your voice sounded when you whispered his name in the dark. The way you had looked at him the last time you spoke—broken, distant, done.

He didn’t deserve to call you. Didn’t deserve to beg.

Day 9 The whiskey burned going down, but he barely felt it anymore.

Jensen sat on the couch, staring at the dark TV screen, the bottle sitting half-empty on the table beside him.

He had ignored his emails. Ignored his agent’s calls. Ignored everyone except the bartender from the local place he had gone to earlier that night just to get out of the house.

But none of it mattered. Because no matter how much he tried to distract himself, the only thing he could think about was you. And the fact that he had no idea if you were coming back.

Day 12 Jensen hadn’t shaved. Had barely slept. He was a mess, and he knew it.

The couch had become his bed, the bottle of whiskey his closest companion. Every time his phone buzzed, he snapped his head toward it, hoping—praying—it was you.

But it never was.

Day 14 Jensen barely registered the sound of knocking at first. His head was pounding, a dull ache from too many sleepless nights and too much whiskey. He had half a mind to ignore it—until the knocking turned into full-blown pounding.

Groaning, he rubbed his hands over his face and pushed himself off the couch, stumbling slightly as he made his way toward the door. He swung it open without checking, expecting maybe the mailman, maybe a delivery—hell, maybe even you.

Instead, it was Jared.

Jensen blinked, his vision hazy. “What the hell are you doing here?”.

Jared gave him a once-over, his expression unimpressed. “Checking to see if you’re dead”.

Jensen scoffed, stepping back so Jared could walk in. “I’m fine”.

Jared shut the door behind him and immediately let out a low whistle, taking in the disaster that was Jensen’s living room. The coffee table was cluttered with empty glasses, the bottle of whiskey still sitting there, and a blanket was thrown haphazardly over the couch—the only place Jensen had been sleeping.

��Yeah”, Jared muttered. “You look great”.

Jensen rolled his eyes and dropped back onto the couch. “Why are you really here?”.

Jared exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. “Because you’re a miserable fuck when you’re heartbroken, and I figured you’d be too stubborn to reach out for help”.

Jensen scoffed, shaking his head. “I’m not heartbroken”.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “Really? So, this”,—he gestured around the room—"this is just your new aesthetic?”.

Jensen shot him a glare, but Jared wasn’t fazed. Instead, he dropped onto the armchair across from him, leaning forward slightly. “Look, man”, Jared said, his voice softer now, more serious. “I know you. And I know you’re hurting. But you can’t just sit here drowning yourself in whiskey and self-pity, waiting for her to come back”.

Jensen’s jaw clenched. “She won’t even talk to me”.

“Yeah, because she’s hurting too”, Jared shot back. “And from what I can tell, she’s not the one who fucked this up”.

Jensen exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He knew Jared was right. He didn’t need to hear it.

Jared leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Jensen, do you even want this kid?”.

Jensen’s stomach twisted, and for a moment, he couldn’t even answer.

Jared shook his head. “That’s the problem, man. You’re waiting for some grand epiphany, but that’s not how it works. You either step the fuck up, or you lose her. It’s that simple”.

Jensen let his head drop back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. His chest felt tight, his mind racing, his heart a mess. “I don’t know how”, he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jared exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Then figure it out. Before it’s too late”.

Jensen closed his eyes, his fingers gripping the blanket on the couch. Because deep down, he knew—he was already running out of time.

Jared leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. “Alright, enough”.

Jensen barely cracked an eye open. “Enough of what?”.

“This”, Jared gestured around the disaster of a living room. “This whole pathetic, self-loathing, whiskey-drenched thing you’ve got going on. It’s over”.

Jensen scoffed, running a hand through his messy hair. “What, you gonna fix my life, Jare?”.

Jared didn’t flinch. “No, you are. Because I’m not letting you sit here wallowing while (Y/N) is out there figuring out if she can live without you”.

Jensen’s stomach twisted. He already knew the answer to that. You could.

Jared stood up, towering over him with that stubborn-as-hell look Jensen had seen too many times. “Get up”.

Jensen groaned. “Dude—”.

“No. Get the fuck up”.

Jensen blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the edge in Jared’s tone.

Jared gestured at him. “You look like hell, man. When’s the last time you shaved?”.

Jensen rubbed a hand over his scruff, glaring. “I don’t know. Who gives a shit?”.

Jared let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, see, that’s the problem. You don’t give a shit. And that’s why you’re losing her”.

That one landed deep.

Jared didn’t let up. “You say you don’t know how to do this? Fine. But sitting here doing nothing sure as hell isn’t helping”. He pointed toward the stairs. “So go shower. Shave. Clean this place up. And when you’re done, we’re gonna figure out how to make this right”.

Jensen exhaled heavily, rubbing his hands over his face.

Jared stepped closer. “You don’t get to be the victim here, Jensen. You did this. But you can still fix it”.

Jensen looked up at him, his jaw clenching. He wanted to snap back, to tell Jared to fuck off, to say he was too exhausted, too broken. But deep down, he knew his friend was right. So, without another word, he pushed himself off the couch and trudged toward the stairs.

“Atta boy”, Jared muttered, shaking his head as Jensen disappeared toward the bathroom.

As the water hit his face, Jensen let out a slow breath. He had to fix this. Before it really was too late.

Jensen ran a towel over his face, exhaling as he walked back into the living room. He felt a little more human—showered, shaved, wearing clean clothes—but inside, he was still wrecked.

Jared was sitting at the kitchen table now, arms crossed, watching him expectantly. He had cracked open a beer but hadn’t touched it yet.

Jensen sighed, dragging out a chair before dropping into it. “Alright”, he muttered. “Let’s hear it”.

Jared lifted a brow. “Hear what?”.

Jensen gestured vaguely. “Whatever lecture you’ve been dying to give me”.

Jared shook his head. “Nah, man. I’m past the lecture phase. Now, I just want the truth”.

Jensen looked down at his hands, jaw clenched. He wasn’t ready for this. But at the same time? He was fucking exhausted from running from it.

Jared leaned forward. “What are you so scared of?”.

Jensen swallowed hard, his throat tight. He ran a hand over his face before finally forcing the words out. “I swore I’d never do this again”.

Jared didn’t say anything, just let him talk.

“After the twins, after everything with Danneel…”, Jensen exhaled heavily, gripping the edge of the table. “I told myself I was done. No more kids. No more sleepless nights, no more stress, no more feeling like I’m failing at being a dad when my career is pulling me in a hundred different directions”.

Jared nodded slowly. “So when (Y/N) told you she was pregnant—”.

Jensen let out a humorless laugh. “I panicked. I shut down. Because I knew what was coming”. He shook his head, staring at the wood grain of the table. “The late nights. The exhaustion. The pressure to be everything all at once”.

Jared’s voice was quiet but firm. “And the difference this time?”.

Jensen hesitated, his chest tightening. “This time… I can’t fuck it up”.

Jared frowned. “What do you mean?”.

Jensen looked up at him, his green eyes stormy with emotions he hadn’t let himself feel until now. “I already screwed up one marriage, Jared. My kids already have to split their time between two homes. And now I’ve got this—this perfect, amazing woman who actually loves me for who I am, and I’m fucking ruining it”.

Jared exhaled. “Jensen—”.

Jensen shook his head. “I don’t get a redo if I mess this up. (Y/N) deserves more than that. This baby deserves more than that”. His voice cracked slightly. “And I’m so goddamn scared that I don’t know how to be enough for them”.

Silence settled between them.

Then, Jared leaned back, crossing his arms. “Okay”, he said simply.

Jensen blinked. “Okay?”.

Jared nodded. “Yeah. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, it’s time to do something about it”.

Jensen let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound so fucking easy”.

Jared smirked. “It’s not. But neither is sitting here feeling sorry for yourself”. He tilted his head. “You love her?”.

Jensen’s chest ached. “More than anything”.

Jared nodded. “Then prove it”.

Jensen exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He knew Jared was right—he had to do something. He had to prove to you that he wasn’t just going to keep running, keep shutting down when things got hard.

But how the hell was he supposed to fix something that felt this broken?

Jared studied him carefully, taking a slow sip of his beer before setting it down. His tone was different this time—slower, more deliberate. “Have you ever thought about proposing?”.

Jensen’s entire body tensed. His green eyes snapped to Jared’s, his breath hitching for just a second before he forced himself to scoff. “Jesus, Jared”, he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m trying to fix things, not push her away even more”.

Jared didn’t flinch. “I’m not saying you gotta do it tomorrow. I’m just asking… have you thought about it?”.

Jensen looked away, jaw tight. His hands clenched into fists on the table. “No”, he said automatically. Then, softer, almost to himself, “Not really”.

Jared hummed like he didn’t quite believe him. “Okay. And why not?”.

Jensen let out a humorless laugh. “Because marriage is right next to ‘another baby’ on my list of things I swore I’d never do again”. His voice was rough, bitter. “I barely survived it the first time. You really think I’d be dumb enough to sign up for that shit again?”.

Jared’s expression didn’t change. He just nodded like he had expected that answer. “And yet”, he said slowly, tilting his head, “you´re kinda willing to do the whole baby thing again for (Y/N)”.

Jensen opened his mouth, then shut it.

Jared leaned forward, his voice even. “So maybe this isn’t about marriage itself. Maybe this is about the fact that Danneel took that idea, chewed it up, and spit it out until all you see when you hear ‘marriage’ is something ugly”.

Jensen clenched his jaw, his chest tightening. Jared wasn’t wrong.

When he thought about marriage, he thought about fights behind closed doors. About feeling like a failure no matter what he did. About a relationship that had turned into nothing but resentment and obligations.

But when he thought about you?

He thought about quiet mornings with your legs tangled in his under the covers. The way you absentmindedly played with his fingers while you watched TV. The way you whispered his name in the dark, soft and certain, like you never doubted he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Jensen swallowed hard, rubbing his hand over his face.

Jared was watching him carefully. “I’m not saying you gotta run out and buy a ring right now”, he said. “But if you want to show her that you’re all in? It’s gotta be something big, man. Because right now, she thinks you don’t want this—don’t want her. And if you don’t do something to prove otherwise, she’s gonna walk”.

Jensen’s chest ached. Because that was his biggest fear. Losing you. Losing everything.

He exhaled slowly, his hands still gripping the edge of the table. “I don’t know if I can do marriage again”, he admitted, his voice raw. “But I know I can’t lose her”.

Jared nodded, like that was enough for now. “Then figure out what the hell you’re gonna do about it”.

Another week had passed. Another week full of Jared pushing, prodding, and dragging Jensen through what he sarcastically called “therapy sessions”. Another week without a single word from you.

It was fucking killing him. But at least now, he was trying.

Two days ago, in the middle of another long conversation about what the hell are you doing, man? Jensen had suggested painting the nursery.

It had come out of nowhere. One second, Jared was rattling on about emotional vulnerability or some shit, and the next, Jensen had blurted it out. “I should probably paint the nursery, huh?”.

Jared had frozen mid-sip of his beer, staring at him like he’d just spoken a foreign language. “You what?”.

Jensen had shrugged, playing it off. “She’s not gonna get rid of the baby”. Saying it out loud made something heavy settle in his chest. He cleared his throat. “And even if I still don’t—I mean, I don’t—”. He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck, I don’t want this, man, but I know I have to get there somehow. And I sure as hell won’t let her leave me over it”.

Jared had watched him carefully for a long moment, then simply nodded. “Then we better get some paint”.

Which led them here. To a damn hardware store.

Jensen walked down the aisles with his hands in his pockets, eyes scanning rows of paint samples while Jared followed behind, arms crossed like some judgmental therapist. “So… you’re painting the nursery”, Jared mused, eyeing Jensen with an annoyingly smug look. “Big step”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, grabbing a handful of swatches. “It’s just paint”.

Jared scoffed. “Right. And I suppose you just accidentally wandered into the baby furniture section earlier, too?”.

Jensen shot him a glare.

Jared grinned. “That’s what I thought”.

Jensen sighed, glancing at the blues, greens, and neutral tones in his hand. “I have no fucking clue what I’m doing”.

Jared clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You got this".

Jensen huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah”. His eyes flickered over the soft pastel colors, and before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed a few cans of paint. “Let’s get this over with”.

Jared didn’t say anything, just smirked knowingly as he followed Jensen to the checkout.

Jensen dipped the roller into the tray, watching the soft, muted green coat the surface before pressing it against the nursery wall. The rhythmic motion—up, down, up, down—was the only thing grounding him, keeping him from spiraling into the thoughts he had been trying to avoid all day.

But the silence made it impossible to outrun them.

It was just him, the paint, and his own fucked-up mind.

He hadn’t told anyone, not even Jared, why he chose green. But he knew. Deep down, he knew.

It was the color of your sweater—the one you always wore around the house, the one he found in the laundry after you left, the one that still smelled like you.

And maybe, on some subconscious level, he thought if he filled this room with something that reminded him of you, maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t feel so terrifying.

Jensen sighed, pressing the roller harder against the wall. The sound of it gliding over the drywall filled the empty house, the scent of fresh paint mixing with the whiskey lingering on his breath.

He still didn’t know how to want this. That was the worst part.

He had spent years swearing he’d never do this again. The sleepless nights, the crying, the constant feeling of never doing enough. He had already lived through it, and he had barely survived it then.

And now? Now, he was older. His patience was thinner. His life was different.

So why the hell was he here, rolling paint onto these damn walls like a man preparing for a future he still didn’t know if he wanted?

Because she’s leaving you. The thought came so fast it knocked the wind out of him.

Jensen froze mid-roll, his grip tightening around the handle. That’s what this was, wasn’t it?

That’s why he had spent the past two weeks drowning himself in whiskey and self-pity. Why Jared had to drag his ass off the couch just to function like a normal human being. Why he was standing in a half-empty nursery at one in the morning, painting walls for a baby he had spent months trying not to think about.

Because for the first time, he felt it.

The empty space beside him. The missing presence of the woman he loved. The gaping hole you had left behind when you walked out of that house.

And if he didn’t fix this—really fix this—he was going to lose you.

Jensen swallowed hard, his chest tightening as he stared at the half-painted wall. He needed to stop being a coward.

The next morning, Jensen woke up stiff as hell, his back aching from falling asleep on the floor of the half-painted nursery. His hands were speckled with dried paint, his shirt a mess, and his head still a little foggy from everything running through his mind the night before.

He had never planned on getting this far.

Never planned on standing in a room he was preparing for a baby. Never planned on thinking about cribs or carpets or curtains.

But here he was.

With a groan, he pushed himself up, rubbing the sleep from his face before reaching for his phone. He knew what he had to do, but fuck if he was going to do it alone.

Jensen: I need your fucking moral support today.

It didn’t take Jared long to respond.

Jared: Moral support for what?

Jensen exhaled through his nose, running a hand over his jaw before typing back.

Jensen: Baby store.

Jared: …holy shit.

Jensen: Shut up and get your ass over here.

Jensen locked his phone, rolling his shoulders before standing up and taking a good look around the room. The green walls were dry now, the color softer in the daylight. The room still felt empty as hell, but it was a start. And he was going to make damn sure it didn’t stay empty for long.

Jared was already waiting when Jensen pulled into the parking lot, leaning against his truck with his arms crossed and an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face.

Jensen groaned before even stepping out. “Don’t”, he warned the second his sneaker hit the pavement.

Jared just chuckled. “Oh, I am gonna”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he walked past him, straight toward the entrance. Jared followed, his grin only widening. “I just need a crib”, Jensen muttered. “Maybe a carpet. Some curtains”.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot coming from the guy who, just a couple weeks ago, was acting like this baby was an alien invasion”.

Jensen shot him a glare. “Moral support, Jared. Not moral commentary”.

Jared held up his hands in surrender, still grinning as they stepped inside.

The second they entered, Jensen felt like he had been hit with baby shit everywhere. Cribs. Strollers. Little clothes that were way too tiny. Shelves filled with things—things that made his head spin, things he had completely forgotten about from when his own kids were babies.

This wasn’t just picking out a crib. This was preparing for something he had been trying to run from for months.

Jensen swallowed hard, but before he could backtrack, Jared clapped a hand on his shoulder, grinning like the bastard he was. “Alright, man. Show me where the cribs are”.

Jensen sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s just get this over with”.

Jensen had faced a lot of difficult things in his life. Grueling film schedules. Long flights. Even longer nights. Divorce. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for standing in the middle of a baby store, staring at rows of cribs while Jared fucking Padalecki grinned at him like he had just won the lottery.

Jensen let out a long breath, crossing his arms as his eyes scanned the options. Too many choices. Too many colors. Too many damn cribs that all looked exactly the same.

Jared, on the other hand, was having way too much fun. He leaned against a display, arms crossed, watching Jensen with pure amusement. “Never thought I’d see the day”, he mused, shaking his head. “Jensen Ackles, shopping for a crib. It’s like watching Bigfoot pick out furniture”.

Jensen shot him a glare. “Shut the hell up”.

Jared smirked. “Nah, man, this is too good. Should I call Gen? Maybe get Danneel on FaceTime? This is history right here”.

Jensen groaned, running a hand down his face. “I swear, if you don’t shut up—”.

Jared just laughed, clapping him on the back. “Relax. I’m proud of you, dude”.

Jensen rolled his eyes, pretending to be irritated, but the words did hit somewhere deeper. He didn’t respond to that, though. Instead, he turned back to the cribs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Which one of these things is… I don’t know. The best?”.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “Best at what?”.

Jensen exhaled sharply. “Best at keeping a baby alive, Jared. Isn’t that the whole point?”.

Jared snorted. “I mean, yeah, but it’s not that deep, man. Just pick one”.

Jensen frowned. “It’s not that simple”.

And apparently, it wasn’t—because before he knew it, he was running his hand along the wooden railing of one crib, testing the bars, then moving to another one, checking its sturdiness like he actually knew what the hell he was doing.

Jared watched in amusement as Jensen muttered to himself, comparing features, shaking cribs slightly to test their stability. “Wow”, Jared drawled. “You’re really putting your dad instincts into this, huh?”.

Jensen scoffed but didn’t stop inspecting. “It’s a crib. It’s gotta be solid. What if the kid starts climbing? What if the bars are too wide?”. He frowned at one and moved on to another. “What if it’s got some cheap-ass paint that chips?”.

Jared blinked. “Dude. Babies don’t just come out the womb climbing like monkeys”.

Jensen ignored him, still scanning the options. His eyes landed on white crib—solid wood, no flimsy parts, simple but sturdy. He ran his hand over the rail, nodding to himself.

“This one”.

Jared smirked. “Oh, so now you care about the details?”.

Jensen shot him a look but didn’t argue. Because, yeah, maybe he did care. Maybe picking this crib meant something. Maybe it meant he was trying.

Jared must have sensed the shift, because his smirk softened into something more genuine. “Alright”, he said, nodding. “Let’s get it”.

After the crib was loaded onto a cart, Jensen turned toward the next item on his list. “Curtains”, he muttered.

Jared raised an eyebrow. “You actually giving her a choice on those?”.

Jensen huffed. “She’ll pick everything else. I just wanna get something neutral”.

Jared smirked but didn’t argue, following as Jensen made his way toward the fabric section. And somehow, some-fucking-how, Jensen found himself holding up two different sets of curtains, actually considering shades like it was the most important decision of his damn life. “These?”. He held up a soft gray set. “Or these?”. A muted sage green.

Jared blinked. “Dude. They’re curtains”.

Jensen glared at him. “Yeah, but they gotta match the room”.

Jared snorted. “Alright, Martha Stewart. Go with the green. It matches the walls”.

Jensen grumbled but tossed them in the cart.

Next up: a rug.

Jensen wandered toward the aisle, scanning the options before stopping at one with a soft, plush texture. Simple, neutral, nothing fancy—but it looked comfortable.

While Jensen was focused on loading the cart with the essentials—crib, curtains, rug—Jared had somehow wandered off to another aisle. And that was never a good sign.

Jensen found him standing in front of a display of tiny baby clothes, holding up an impossibly small onesie with a goofy grin. “Man”, Jared muttered, half to himself, half to Jensen. “Maybe I should have another one”.

Jensen groaned. “Oh, hell no. Gen would kill you”.

Jared smirked but didn’t put the onesie back. “I mean… look at these”, he said, holding up a tiny pair of socks between his fingers. “They’re like… this big”. He pinched his fingers together dramatically.

Jensen exhaled, rubbing his forehead. “Jesus, Jared”.

Jared laughed, tossing the socks back into the bin before glancing at Jensen. “You know the gender yet?”.

Jensen shook his head, his fingers tightening on the cart handle. “No. Won’t know for another four weeks or something”.

Jared nodded, his expression turning more thoughtful. “You gonna find out?”.

Jensen hesitated, glancing down at the items in the cart. The crib. The rug. The curtains. The first things he’d actually bought for this baby.

For his baby.

“Yeah”, he admitted, voice quieter now. “I think I wanna know”.

Jared grinned, nudging him with his elbow. “Good. That way, I can get you something really obnoxious”.

Jensen rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Because, for the first time, he realized—he actually wanted to know. And maybe that meant something.

Eventually, Jensen stood in front of the rack, staring at the onesie like it had personally offended him. The design was so familiar, but just… off enough to avoid a lawsuit.

Jared stepped up beside him, taking one look before bursting into laughter. “No way this is legal”.

Jensen scoffed, shaking his head. “Someone at Warner Bros. is definitely gonna lose their shit if they see this”.

Jared picked up the tiny black onesie, reading the white lettering aloud. “‘Saving People, Hunting Things… My Family Business’”. He whistled. “Damn. They really just went for it, huh?”.

Jensen crossed his arms, smirking. “I mean, they changed like, one word. That’s gotta count for something, right?”.

Jared grinned. “Yeah, let’s see how well that argument holds up in court”.

Jensen let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he reached for the onesie. He turned it over in his hands, fingers brushing over the fabric. It was small. So damn small. His throat tightened a little. Before he could overthink it, he tossed it into the cart.

Jared’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait—seriously?”.

Jensen shot him a look, raising a warning brow. “Don’t”.

Jared bit back a grin, holding up his hands. “Just saying—you’re actually picking out baby clothes. On purpose. This is a big moment”.

Jensen rolled his eyes. “It’s just a onesie, Padalecki”.

“Yeah, yeah”, Jared said, clearly unconvinced. “And the crib was just a crib”. He nudged Jensen’s shoulder. “Admit it, man. You’re getting into this”.

Jensen sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know what I’m doing”, he muttered. “But if I let you pick shit, my kid’s gonna end up in a ‘Uncle Jared is my favorite’ onesie, and I refuse to let that happen”.

Jared grinned. “I mean… that can still be arranged”.

Jensen groaned. “We’re leaving”.

Jared laughed as he followed him toward checkout, watching as Jensen—Jensen Ackles—paid for a crib, a rug, and a damn Supernatural-adjacent onesie.

Maybe he wasn’t all the way there yet. But damn if he wasn’t trying.

That night, Jensen sat on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by unassembled crib parts, screws, and an instruction manual that looked like it had been translated into English by someone who had never seen a crib in their life.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders before picking up the first piece of wood, aligning it with another.

Alright. Let’s do this.

The rhythmic process of assembling the crib—slotting parts together, tightening screws, rechecking everything—gave him something to focus on. Something to do. It kept his mind from spiraling into places he didn’t want to go.

But as the frame started to take shape, something inside him shifted.

Jensen sat back on his heels, looking at the half-assembled crib in front of him. It was real now. Tangible. A thing that was going to hold a baby—his baby—in just a few months.

His hands rested on his thighs, his fingers curling slightly as he exhaled.

For weeks, he had pushed this away, refused to let himself think about it too much. But now, sitting here, surrounded by baby furniture and walls he had painted himself, the truth settled in his chest like a weight.

This was happening. No matter how scared he was. No matter how much he hadn’t wanted this. It was real.

And maybe—just maybe—he was starting to want it, too.

He let out a slow breath, brushing his fingers over the wooden frame, imagining tiny fingers gripping the edge one day, little kicks against the mattress, quiet breaths in the middle of the night.

Jensen swallowed hard, his throat thick with emotion he wasn’t ready to name. He reached for another screw, tightening the last side panel into place.

And for the first time since you had left, he let himself think about the moment you’d see it. Would you be proud of him? Would you even care? Would this be enough?

He didn’t know. But for the first time in weeks, he knew one thing for sure. He wanted you to come home.

———————————

A/N: Hello and welcome back, lol. I didn't want to keep you waiting for the first chapter any longer, even though I still don't know when I'll post the following chapters. I might post one or two chapters per week, but maybe just one. I don't have a fixed day for that. Just a heads-up in advance.

And of course, please let me know what you think.🥰

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#jensen ackles #jensen x reader #jensen ackles smut #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles the boys #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles x reader #jensen x y/n #jensen x you #beyond his true fate

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blank-slate-jay · 3 days ago

Text

"Long Time No See"

(Elias 'Stack' Moore x Male!Reader)

Word Count: 1.9k+

Summary: You get yourself a visitor from a familiar face who wants nothing but to see you; allegedly.

Tags: Black!Reader, Sexual Tension, Kissing, Teasing, Established Relationship, Mild Angst

Author note: Ok, so first, I'm out of retirement lol. I saw Sinners (2025) a few days ago, and holy shit it was good. I'm gonna see it again today! To my dismay, the male reader fics for Sinners, specially either Elias 'Stack' and Elijah 'Smoke' is so low. So, for all the other male readers who liked the film this is for you all! This took way longer than it should've and shorter than I wanted, but it's finished! Enjoy!

You sigh deeply, eyeing the empty shelf where your main source of canned fruits were missing. Bummer, you thought not giving it much as a thought other than glancing at the young girl by the register. You settled on the canned peas instead, shoving a couple in your nearly full sack. Rolling your items around, you decide you had sufficient enough food.

Although not enough, you could at least experience the slight joy of having a few extra dollars to spare; awaiting expenditure. You were sure you'd burn through it sooner or later, saving init of itself was a gift you'd wish it didn't feel like anything but a miracle.

"Thank you for comin'".

You nod, with a small smile, "Thanks."

Exiting the store, you take the long trek home. The weather conditions never bothered you, Mississippi’s heat, sometimes an annoyance, made you consider another plantation north, but at the cost of losing contact with the community you’ve grown to find endearing; no way.

You didn't ponder on it very much, it served very little to dream big but sometimes you felt doubting kept you from reaching for opportunities beyond yourself, as if there was much to reach for. The rich life was madly tempting, you weren't gonna deny that. You bit your lip, scoping the vast fields with distance where huddled up homes were. You shake your head not even noticing the passing vehicle in parallel with your trajectory.

The polished motor growing smaller by the second almost felt comedically timed, acting as the external world’s method of rubbing what you could never have right in your face. It wouldn't be all too bad, at least you had the rest of the day to kick back til morning.

Circling into the small village, you give a nod to your known neighbors, picking up your pace as noon was soon to hit. Your eyes catch a glimpse of your house which was occupied by both someone on your doorstep and a vehicle by the front steps. Stunned, your brows furrowed as you picked up your pace. The man, wearing a top hat, gave your door a knock which only urged you to shout out to him.

"Hey!"

The man turned at your voice, his face slightly more visible. "Oh" he exaggerated, "There he is..."

You squint, tracing his face as the man leaned against the porch’s post.

"Thought you was ignorin' me."

The moment you got close enough, his features ran clear; the smug smile, familiar voice and stance. You didn't realize it, but you were expressing awe in his new attire; brisling in a tux that hosted room for a chain or two to hang freely. The unfamiliar look in both his outfit and vehicle made you consider if you were merely hallucinating. But no, the slight gust brushing against your skin proved otherwise. This was reality, and Stack was back after a year and a half of no contact.

"What?" he inquires, getting you to make eye contact with him. "Somethin' on my face?" The hints of gold on his teeth had you scoffing before flicking your eyes in an exaggerated manner. You trot forward, not bothering to make eye contact with him. Before you could get into your house, he slid in front of the door; blocking your method of entry.

You stare at his shoulder for a moment, tracing up to his expression reading as ‘well…?’ You mimic his features, tilting your head to the right, “Can I get in, please?”

“Not without hello. Or how about, ‘Long time no see.’ Yeah, that’a do it.”

You sigh, “Hello-”

“Ah!” he raises a finger before pointing at you, “Welcome back, Stack. How bout you give it a try.”

You roll your eyes, already being pulled back into his charming nature, “How bout you get that motor out my grass.”

Stack gets a good chuckle out, “Alright, my bad”, he grips your shoulder, squeezing it, as he passes you, “You got it. Baby.”

A huff left you the moment you push indoors, placing your pouch down onto the small but creaky wooden counter. You hated when he called you that with the knowledge of his infrequent visits.

With the sniff of your shirt, your feet drag you into your bedroom instead of pondering. Quickly you throw on a fresh enough cassimere shirt with a hole or two in it, but nonetheless, a garment you consider nice enough for a visitor. Applying extra lotion for your skin, the door swung open followed by two whistles.

You suck your teeth, “Come in.”

Stack enters, immediately you drop your shirt, hoping the smell of salt was mitigated by the cream. It wasn’t for him, you told yourself, you’d do this for anyone visiting; your parents, friends, even Smoke on a good day.

Your steps have him snapping his head toward you, soldier instincts you supposed, you guess you couldn’t blame him for that like you could for other things. You gulp, with mixed feelings at Stack’s eyes looking you over. Typically it’d be a queue for sizing you up or the alternative of checking you out; face alone was proof alone that anyone could deduce that the former was practically zero. You had better reasons to mimic him however; his light brown cargos and clean coat, the traits of a wealthy man.

You digress, biting your tongue, no way Stack was gonna get you fumbling easily over his current display, not without him even touching or sweet talking you.

Stack smirks as you come into your living space. He takes his hat off and sets it down on your table before gently resting against it. He glances around, seemingly giving you an opportunity to get yourself situated with your items.

Stack huffs to himself, “Not much change huh?”

“Hmm?”

“Here. Home.”

Your head shakes, “Nope. I mean, it's been quieter for the last seven years, cause…”, you look at him momentarily.

He puts two and two together, “Shit! My brother is quite the talker.” He knew well, you weren’t referring to Smoke, rolling your eyes once more. “Am I really that annoyin’?” You nod slowly. Stack sucks his teeth, walking up to and mounting his weight against the counter right next to you, “Now you’re gonna have to suffer with me then.”

You let out a long breath due to his proximity, but you kept focus on your food. You clear your throat, pivoting, “The plantation’s been calm as well…if you could believe that.”

He takes a second to respond, “None of the them Klan members try to-”

“Nope. As far as I know.”

Stack nods, and what follows is a long pause. Whether it was him deciding to eye you again, or if there was nothing he had left you speak up, balling up your pouch in the process. “So why’d you come back? Aren’ you supposed to be in…Chicago, doing-”, ‘god knows what.’

He looks down at his boots, “Yeah…things up there have been alright. We still have our business. But shit! Let me tell you, we got our pockets chiming.”

‘Business’, what he really meant was killing for profit or getting involved in illegal activity. You knew it, he knew it. If there was something he couldn’t fool anyone on, it was this.

A sharp breath comes, reminded all over again that the SmockStack twins still were pursuing that life. Being on and off with Stack over the years, felt constantly unsatisfying, only amplified by the infrequent visits; you’d be lucky if he’d visit once a year. You were sure every time he’d head north that he was essentially walking to his demise. Planning robberies, getting involved with gangs; was just as equally dangerous as the country was to the two of you.

You gritted your teeth, unsure of what to say. The pushing and pulling between ecstasy and dread was exhausting. You weren’t even sure what to say, your opinion previously conveyed, and yet he still kept at it.

Instead of replying, you turned away, the silence even more deafening than ever. Almost instantly, or perhaps a moment of you staring out the window clouded your perception of time; either way a soft touch graces your side. The feeling of Stack’s fingers nearly have you tremble however you attempt to remain unshaken.

His grip tightens ever so slightly, his warmth growing with his weight chest to your back; straightening your posture. You pear down, thoughts swimming, tenderness soothing over both your mind and physique.

Stack’s hands carefully trace up your concealed stomach. Dare you try swatting them away to save yourself the trouble. No, your hands cup over his, where it was methodically caressing your abdomen. A warm breath tickled your ear, Stack’s head leaning against yours, soothing your nerves.

“Is this alright,” he asked in a low tone.

You swallow, tilting slightly toward him. He’s got you trapped yet again, the temptation overbearing. You gave in with a nod.

Stack took the chance to start kissing your cheek. You lean into him, biting your lip, “Shit.” His pecks started as soft, turning into an attack on your neck. You closed your eyes in both sensitivity and enjoyment. Bite, lick, then kiss over; you had forgotten that was his usual routine while buried in your neck. You recall having to worry you’d have to account for the marks on your neck to others, but no worries ever came up thanks to your collar garb.

Spinning around, you lock lips with his, your hand wrapping around his back, his thick hands cupping your face. A mix of his salt and reminisce of a cigarette lingered, you didn’t care, you’d been craving the intimacy with him for a long while, and certainly it was mutual. His kisses had a certain sense of passion, his tongue slipping in, not even a few seconds into it. While expected of him, there was something a lot deeper you felt by how prolonged, how tight and long he’d hold each kiss. Maybe you were grasping for straws in the repetitive nature of everyday life, that Stack’s presence could alter your mindset. Or it could’ve equally been your growing bulge doing the talking.

You weren’t sure either or could’ve been possible, but what you were sure of was his neediness for you. He releases his palm to cup your grotch, “-fuck…!’, you blurt into his mouth.

He smirks against your lips.“Mhmm, you like that baby?”

You, of course, didn’t get a chance to answer when he nibbled on your lips. Hands now rubbing against his collar, you slowly start undoing his button up coat. He grips your hands, mumbling ‘uh uh’. Stack instead seemingly had other plans, releasing your wrist and unbuttoning your flannel. He lets out a sharp huff, looking over your chest, pupils enlightened by your skin.

Slipping his fingers into your shirt you speak up, “What’re you thinkin’”?

“Lotta things”, he softly plays with your nipples, “Some I bet you're going like?”

Your breath becomes shaky, “Really?”

“Yeah. Whichyousay we drink a bit and I’ll show you.”

You snicker to yourself, “I don’t got no beer in here”

Slack’s eyebrows raise, stopping the motion of his hands, “Guess that means you're gonna have to wait,”

“You’re not thinking of the bar, are ya?”

He nods, “It’s not far out from here. Couple of rowdy folk in and out of there, but I doubt that’d be an issue.”

“Certainly won’t be, I hope,” you breathe, fingers interlocking with him. So much for a peaceful day.

#male reader #sinners 2025 #sinners #sinners x reader #elias stack moore x reader #elias stack moore x male reader #stack x reader #elias stack moore #sinners x male reader #elijah smoke moore #elijah smoke moore x male reader #x male reader #x masc reader #x black reader

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joelmillerssugarbaby24 · 2 days ago

Text

Joel’s girl- part five

BUCKLE UP FOR THIS ONE LADIES. We get to see jealous Joel ;)

Chapter 5- JEALOUS

You lay motionless in bed long after the sun has risen, staring at the ceiling. Your body is humming and in between your thighs is slightly sore from where Joel’s rough fingers had been. You couldn’t shake the look on his face as he touched you. The longing. The image flits across your mind and sinks straight to your core with liquid heat. You miss him. Already. And you know you’re being pathetic, laying there waiting for him to come with your breakfast so you could see him again. But you simply didn’t care anymore. Let him see how desperate you were for him. For more.

You perk up when you hear footsteps outside the door, but frown when you realize they are lighter than Joel’s. The door cracks open and Ellie pokes her head inside. Your stomach sinks but you smile anyway.

“Hi there.”

She smiles and enters cautiously.

“Hey there, Gimpy. How’s the leg?”

You giggle and slide towards the edge of the bed and shakily stand in response. She squeals and rushes to your side.

“You’re standing??? Finally!!! I can show you around now!! Ah!”

You squeal with her and your heart rushes with warmth at the thought of going outside, smelling the crisp air, walking without assistance and exploring. It’s almost too much to bear.

The heavy clomping of footsteps outside the door is your only warning before Joel pops his head in, trademark scowl on full display.

“What’s all that noise?”

Ellie points to you with a huge grin. “She’s walking, Joel!!! Can you believe it?”

He turns his piercing, dark gaze to you and drags it slowly up your body- starting at your toes, pausing for a minute at your breasts before meeting your eyes. You’re melting inside but you attempt to stay composed. Cool.

“Wow. Would ya look at that.” He says with a half smile, crossing his arms.

“Joel?” I squeak, wringing my hands. “Can I please go out today? I think I’ll die if I have to lay in this bed one more minute.”

He rolls his eyes and scrubs a hand down his face, seemingly thinking it over.

“Come on, Joel. Let her go. Just for a short walk?” Ellie pleads. Both of you have your doe eyes turned to him, pleading. He huffs

“All right now that ain’t fair. Enough of that two against one shit.”

“Pleasssseeeee??” You say in unison, and you quirk a smile as you watch him shift uncomfortably. He slips his hand in the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pocket watch- checks the time. Then he looks up at you with a scowl, although you could see the smile dancing in his eyes.

“All right. Just a little.”

You both squeal and grab each others hands, elated. Joel scoffs muttering something about “women” before turning to leave the room.

“Ive got a cane to help you get around and I don’t want to hear no complaining about it you hear me?”

You huff and cross your arms over your chest.

“A cane? Seriously?” He looks over his shoulder at you with a fierce expression that dares you to argue. You decide to let him have this one.

“All right…” you grumble as he returns with a rough wooden walking stick with a curve for your hand to rest in at the top. You bite back a smile.

“Did you make this?”

He shrugs and his cheeks grow red as he stares at the ground, refusing to meet your gaze.

“Weren’t nothin” he mutters.

You lean in and kiss his cheek before taking the stick and testing your weight on it. He watches you but doesn’t move, scared to come closer and even more scared to move further away. He inhales deeply. You smell like his soap and the realization stirs something primal in him. He resists the urge to grab you and finish what he started that morning. Shaking himself, he takes your other arm- so small in his big hand- and guides you toward the door. Ellie shuffles behind you, clearly impatient to show you off.

“Where to first?” You ask beaming up at Joel. He suppresses a smirk at your excitement, something tightening in his chest. He clears his throat.

“Anywhere you want, ba- he catches himself, coughing, glancing at Ellie.

“Anywhere you want.”

You blush and look toward the front door then back to him.

His hair is tousled, soft curls tumbling down his forehead. He smells clean with a hint of pine and something undefinable- Something masculine. You want to kiss him so badly. Instead you loop your arm in his and gesture to the door.

“Lead the way, cowboy”

The walk is slow as you’re still getting the hang of balancing your weight on the cane Joel so sweetly made for you. The temperature is perfect- not too cold but crisp. You stop and breathe in the fresh air, turning your face to the sky. It feels so good you don’t notice Joel staring at you with a look so intense you could almost feel its burn on your exposed skin. You glance at him embarrassed, before turning to reach for Ellie.

“Come on girl we ain’t got all day.”

She laughs, teasing you back and Joel watches, transfixed. Something was happening that was starting to scare the hell out of him. It felt like his heart was defrosting, blooming like a flower in the first days of spring- and he wasn’t sure he liked it. It was only then that he realized that you were still in your nightgown, nipples pebbling in the cold. He resists the overwhelming urge to suck one in his mouth and shrugs off his jacket, placing it on your shoulder. You mouth a thank you with a smile so sweet it makes his teeth hurt. He just grunts and leads you along, rubbing at his traitorous chest with his free hand.

Joel and Ellie lead you to what appears to be the dining hall where a scattered group of people seem to be finishing their breakfast. You smile at the sight, relieved at how normal it all felt. How special to be a part of a place like this. To be welcomed in. You hear a gasp and turn to find Maria, rushing towards you, arms outstretched.

“Look at you honey!! It’s so good to see you looking better? How’s the leg?”

You smile and accept her quick hug.

“I feel great! It’s slow going for now I can’t get very far before it starts to pain me, but I’m too excited to be up and around to care.” You reply, smiling so big your cheeks hurt. You feel Joel glance down at you questioningly while Maria pulls you gently towards an open table. There’s a few men sitting there and you smile politely at them before sitting down. One of them grins and nudges his friend earning a scowl from Joel. You don’t notice.

Joel and Ellie sit on either side of you and you’re painfully aware of his big thigh brushing yours ever so slightly. It sends a twinge of awareness licking down your spine and you straighten.

Maria gestures to the men. “This is Tommy, my husband. And also incidentally Joel’s brother.”

You head whips to Joel in surprise but he doesn’t meet your eyes. A brother? You quickly compose yourself before turning once again to greet Tommy with a winning smile.

“Hi. Nice to meet you. How’s Joel treating ya? Minding his manners I hope.”

You smirk, flashing Joel a knowing look.

“Oh don’t worry. He’s been a perfect gentleman.” Your hand brushes his thigh as you say it and you see his scruffy jaw tick. You loved riling him up. It was quickly becoming your favorite pastime.

Tommy laughs and returns to his food.

“Im Jimmy.” A voice pipes up. You look at the man beside Tommy and nod politely. He’s handsome in a boyish way. His green eyes sparkle beneath strong brows and his full lips are curled to reveal perfect white teeth. He’s clean shaven, sporting a fitted black tshirt, and you can’t help but admire his body. This is who you should be pursuing, you think to yourself. Unfortunately….

You jump imperceptibly as a large hand grips your thigh. It’s warm and rough on your bare skin and you bite your lip at the contact.

Unfortunately you’re quickly falling for the grumpy old man sitting next to you and just his hand on your leg is enough to trigger an ache in your core that only grows as his thumb traces small circles on your inner thigh. You clench your teeth together.

“Nice to meet you, Jimmy.” You say in your sweetest most saccharine voice and Joel’s hand tightens its grip as you tell him your name. This feels dangerous, teasing Joel this way. But damn it feels so good to have his attention. You need more.

You shrug off Joel’s jacket, revealing the white straps of your nightgown. Jimmys eyes slide down, down, before they meet yours again. You smile, feigning nonchalance. Joel’s grip is bruising. He leans down to whisper harshly in your ear.

“Put the fucking jacket back on.”

You look up at him innocently, eyes wide.

“But I’m hot, Joel.” You breathe unaware of anyone else around you in that moment. Arrested by his dangerous gaze, those chocolate eyes that can hold such warmth and tenderness one minute and be stony cold the next. He grunts quietly and removes his hand from your leg. You stifle a whimper at the loss of contact. He stands.

“Im gonna get somethin to eat. You hungry?”

You nod slowly, perplexed by his behavior.

“Sure. You know what I like.”

Joels intense eyes flash to Jimmy when you say that, his gaze almost cocky at your admission before he nods and turns to get your breakfast.

“And coffee please!” You call after his broad back before turning back to face your companions. Ellie seems to be completely unaware of the tension between you and Joel, as she happily tears into her breakfast like it’s the first meal she’s had in weeks. Jimmy is still looking at you.

Painfully aware of his appraisal you turn to her.

“Hey. Do you think we could stop by the stables before we go back?” You ask, eager to meet the horse she talks so much about.

She nods, mouth full. “Yeah! That would be fun! I’ve gotta meet my friends in about an hour but we should have time.”

You smile politely at her in response as Joel returns to the table with your food. You smile up at him, hoping he can read your expression. He places the plate in front of you gently alongside a steaming cup of black coffee. You clasp your hands around the mug, the warmth seeping into your fingers and making you shiver.

“Thank you.” You murmur as you sip it slowly, heat scalding your tongue but too turned on at Joel taking care of you to give a shit. He nods in your direction before plopping down next to you.

“So” Jimmy begins again, eyes locked on yours “we got a get together this Friday in the main hall. Music, drinks all that fun stuff. You should come.” Your eyes brighten and you nod vigorously.

“I would love that! Joel can we?”

He casts a sidelong glance at you and you already know what he’ll say.

“Don’t wanna push it too far.” He grunts in response.

“Joelllll” you whine. You turn back to Jimmy.

“Well be there. Don’t worry about him. He could use some loosening up anyway.” Jimmy chuckles and Joel scoffs, shaking his head. You nudge Joel playfully and start to eat. A party?? Drinks and dancing? You could hardly contain your excitement. Also it wasn’t lost on you, that you would have a reason to dress up. And maybe, just maybe get Joel’s attention and keep it this time.

Friday came before you knew it. You were walking more every day and even though Joel insists you use the cane, your excitement to be up and around again is all-consuming. Ellie has been spending more time with you, hanging out in your room, listening to music and laughing at your stupid jokes. You felt yourself beginning to like her company, look forward to it in fact. Your first real friend. Well, other than Joel.

You and Ellie were currently rummaging through her friends drawers in search of a dress that would fit you for the party later. Luckily she was about your size and you gasped when you came upon a sea green strapless dress that stopped mid thigh. The neckline was low enough to be tantalizing but not slutty and it hugged your curves in all the right ways when you tried it on.

“Fuck you’re wearing that dress!” Ellie says, demanding you spin around so she can see it at all angles. You giggle and oblige, feeling so girlish and carefree. You couldn’t believe this was your reality. You had friends and safety. You didn’t have to rummage through trash and dead people’s clothes for food and supplies. Jackson was starting to feel like home. And Joel. Well. If you were honest with yourself, he was beginning to be home to you. He didn’t feel the same way clearly. He hadn’t so much as touched you since that early morning when he had made you cum, when he had kissed you and held you so tenderly it made your heart flip to think of it. All he did was stare at you in dark unreadable way, and you knew his walls were back up. Well. You weren’t going to let that stop you from enjoying the first party you’d ever been to. Maybe you’d get laid. A smile touched your lips when you admired yourself in the mirror. See if Joel likes that.

You’re in your room, putting the finishing touches on your makeup when you hear a knock at the door.

“Come in” you say, applying your borrowed bright red lipstick painstakingly. Ellie waltzes in in her trademark flannel and jeans. You laugh.

“That’s what you’re wearing?”

“Oh fuck off. “ she says collapsing onto your bed with a huff.

“You know I don’t like all that shit.”

You giggle and take one last look in the mirror. Your hair is down and you’d taken the time to tease your brown curls to give it more volume. You had kept it simple, applying some mascara, blush, then lipstick. You felt…. Pretty. Beautiful. Like a woman.

Ellie groans.

“Come on stop preening, Joel’s waiting downstairs. We’re gonna be late.”

You flick your hand at her and stand, smoothing down your dress. You were starting to second guess your choice as you glanced at your reflection. Maybe you shouldn’t have dressed so…flashy. The dress was tight. Tighter than you was used to and your breasts were all but spilling out of the top. You huffed. Well too late to turn back now.

“Finally!” Ellie says dramatically and you shove her laughing. “Oh shut up.”

Your heart flips in your chest when you see Joel’s broad back at the bottom of the stairs. He’s looking out the window, giving you a chance to admire his form. He’s wearing a white button up shirt and clean blue jeans over black shiny boots. You bite your full lip and clench your legs together. Keep it together girl

At the sound of your footsteps, Joel turns and his jaw falls open. His eyes scan your body with as much intimacy as if you were naked. Realizing he is gawking he quickly snaps it shut and his eyes burn into your skin as you slowly ascend the stairs. His stare is intense, so intense you wonder if he’s going to take you upstairs right now. You decide to play coy.

“Im ready.” You say innocently, chewing on your bottom lip.

“You can’t go out in that.” He says firmly, hands fisting at his sides.

“She can go out in whatever she wants, Joel, shit. You’re not her father.” Ellie exclaims before brushing past both of you out the door.

You lift your chin and meet his stare, trying not to look as intimidated as you felt.

“Well?” You breath, watching as he clenches and unclenches his jaw, as his breathing quickens to the point where it sounds labored.

“Fuck. All right. But you’re not leaving my side.”

You roll your eyes and grab the cane standing by the door.

“Whatever you say, daddy”

He grips your bicep hard, and pulls you back into him your chest flush to his.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why” you ask innocently, peering at him beneath your lashes.

He glares down at you for a moment, eyes dropping to your lips then to your face before releasing you.

“Fucking trouble.” He mumbles and you smile sweetly as he opens the door for you.

“You love it.” You say as you brush past him into the street.

People are milling around outside of the barn the party is being held in and excitement clamps your chest. You grab Joel’s strong bicep without thinking, wrapping your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

“Joel look! Look at the fairy lights! And the music!!”

You giggled and skipped to the door, heart racing.

“Take it easy.” He warns, but there’s an affectionate smile playing on his lips as he watches you practically vibrate with awe and excitement. His eyes drop to your ass as you pull the door open and he feels a stirring low in his groin. He grimaces and adjusts his cock as he feels it starting to grow, tucking it in the waistband of his boxers. This is going to be a long night, he thinks to himself.

You immediately sidle up to the bar and smile at the man behind it. He has tattoos covering every inch of his skin and a wide grin revealing crooked teeth playing on his lips.

“What can I getcha?” He drawls, pulling out a glass and setting it on the bar top.

“Water” Joel says from behind you before leaning against the bar, turning to face you. You laugh.

“Fuck no. I’ll have a whiskey.” The bartender raises his brows before nodding and obliging your request.

“I thought we agreed you’d take it easy.” Joel hisses into your ear through gritted teeth.

“I will.” You said turning to face him and putting a hand on his broad chest. It was warm and solid as a rock and you could feel his heart racing beneath your palm.

“Promise.”

He shakes his head and orders the same as you before turning to lean against the bar casually. You seize the moment to admire him fully. his shirt is unbuttoned at the top revealing a tuft of chest hair and he’s pulled his sleeves to his elbows revealing strong, tanned forearms. You were imagining tracing the veins with your tongue when you heard someone call your name.

You turned to wave at Ellie, sitting at a nearby table with a group of girls. You took your whiskey and shot Joel a glance “I’m gonna say hi. Be right back.” He grunts in reply and you make your way to Ellie’s table feeling his searing gaze on your back the whole way. You take a seat and tip the glass taking the whiskey in one shot. Ellie whistles.

“Ok so it’s gonna be that kind of night.” She says laughing. You laugh with her reveling in the warmth of the alcohol quickly spreading in your stomach.

“Why isn’t anyone dancing?” You ask turning to find only a few stragglers on the dance floor. She shrugs and motions around. “These people ain’t the partying type if you know what I mean.”

You grab her hand and pull her up.

“Well let’s show them how to party, then shall we?” She laughs, a blush gathering on her cheeks as you tug her to the dance floor. “Genie in a bottle” is playing. One of your favorites. You felt the music thrum through you, igniting a fire in your veins and you began to swing your hips, lifting your arms. Ellie is stiff. “I dont..” she begins hesitantly “I don’t know how to dance.”

“Neither do I.” You respond lifting her hand above her head and giving her a twirl. “That’s not the point. The point is to have fun!” She laughs when you twirl her again and you dance together, quickly joined by the rest of her friends. You dance in the carefree way only girls can- laughing, giggling, swaying your hips and belting out the lyrics with abandon. It’s more fun then you could ever remember having in your life. You’re lifting your arms above your head and running your hands down your body when you spot Joel at the bar. He looks frozen, his whiskey halfway to his lips, his mouth parted. His knuckles are white as his free hand grips the bar top. His eyes are black, and you know that look. You’ve seen it before.

Knowing his eyes are on you causes your heart to stutter in your chest, and you move deliberately now, tracing your body with explorative hands, tilting your head back and swaying with the music. That is until you feel a strong hand grip your shoulder. You turn to find Jimmy standing behind you with a stupid grin on his face.

“Hi!” He shouts over the music.

“Hey there!” You yell back laughing when one of Ellie’s friends bumps into you.

“You sure know how to party, don’t you?” He asks running his appreciative gaze down your body. You fidget a little beneath his appraisal all too aware of who is watching this whole scene. He takes your wrist and gently tugs you to him. You can’t help but sigh as you fall into his broad chest. It feels so good to be held. Even if it wasn’t by who you would choose.

“Dance with me?” He asks against the shell of your ear.

“Ok.” You breathe, as he twirls you around and around.

Then you jump when you feel a calloused hand on your bare shoulder and turn to find a stony faced Joel a breath away from you.

“Thought you said you was gonna take it easy.” He hisses eyes flicking between you and Jimmy.

“Oh relax Joel.” You say forgetting about Jimmy completely and tugging at his wrists.

“Have a little fun for once.”

“I don’t dance.” He says through gritted teeth when his chest brushes yours.

“But you will.” You whisper in his ear, hands tangling into the curls at the back of his neck.

“You’d do anything for me.”

He groans so quietly you almost don’t catch it. “You’re drunk.” He says but he doesn’t move to pull away. You giggle and sway, forcing him closer as you take his hand and twirl yourself under it.

“Just a little.”

He chuckles then, against his better judgement and lets you pull him against your chest. His hands wander, tracing your arms then your hips, and he breathes raggedly against the shell of your ear.

“I want you.”

He whispers it so quietly that you are sure you imagined it.

“I want you so bad, baby.”

You stifle a groan at his confession and pull back to meet his gaze.

“Im right here.” You reply, only loud enough for him to hear.

“Want you for myself.” He grunts tugging you back into him by the wrist.

“Don’t want another man’s hands on ya.”

You stare into his eyes, marveling at his confession. Is he drunk too?

“Only want your hands on me, Joel.” You breathe into his ear before taking his wrist and tugging him towards the bar. He’s transfixed by you, utterly starved and he can’t tear his eyes from your face. This is dangerous, dangerous ground, he thinks to himself. But the way you look in that dress, the way your hips sway and you dance with complete and utter abandon, the way you pull Ellie out of her shell… the absolute fucking ray of sunshine you’ve become in his life… It’s all too much. He’s falling hard and at this point he’s not sure he can stop it. Or that he wants to.

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Ahhhhh im obsessed with this chapter!! Let me know if you like it in the comments ;))))

#joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joelmiller

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