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tonycries · 1 year ago

Text

Unmistakably Yours - G.S.

Synopsis. In which the strongest bends space and time - literally - after coming back from deatḣ, to do what he’s always wanted to do - you.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, best friends to lovers, Satoru goes a little (very) INSANE, oral (fem receiving), fíngering, manga spoilers, use of jujutsu powers, unprotected, créampie, spitting, overstim, féral Satoru, heinous things, happy ending, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.5k

A/N. Yeahhh that poll was cooking up something devious heheh. Gege give me back my man.

Gojo Satoru was going to kill someone.

He was going to kill someone and it didn’t matter who. It didn’t matter how. It didn’t even matter if he had to haul his broken body - scarred and barely-healed - out of this stiff infirmary bed, because the great Gojo Satoru awoke and the world shook.

Because you weren’t here.

“Ah. The oh-so deadest one, I see you’re awake.” Satoru flinches at the sharp, exhausted drawl from his left.

Slowly, he blinks away the haze in his aching eyes, desperately trying to adjust to the cold room. Shoko’s voice was too loud. The lights too bright. His waiting arms too empty - where were you?

With a low hiss, Satoru’s body is moving before his mind, sitting up like a man possessed. Goosebumps prickle his skin as the thin blanket falls off his shoulders. Temples throbbing because the world was spinning and spinning and you-

“Calm down, Satoru.” Shoko sounds almost panicked now - as much as she could, anyway. Uselessly trying to push him back onto the mattress. “I don’t care if you’re the ‘strongest’. Sukuna did a number on you and you have to rest-”

“Where is she?”

---

It was the final nail on your coffin - that slight, steady rumble beneath your feet. So fleeting that you’d written it off as your weary brain, too goddamn tired from today. Heaving out a sigh, you rub your eyes in frustration, so fucking alone in this too-large penthouse.

Fingers jittery, you rifle through your best friend’s closet for his box of blindfolds, because you knew he’d be complaining about the sensory overload at the infirmary if- when he woke up. Though, you think that was more an excuse for Shoko to send your wrecked self away than anything.

Grabbing a few more than necessary, your heart lurches as you eye that dusty framed photo by his bedside. A much younger Satoru, Suguru, Shoko, and you - probably the last time any of you smiled so carelessly.

One dead and the other just on the cusp of it.

He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He’s the strongest, right?

Swallowing heavily, you try to put your mind to something - anything - other than the memory of that battlefield and the blood. So much blood. Everywhere.

God, you should’ve stayed. What if Satoru-

That was when you felt it.

The tight, uncomfortable feeling of atoms standing at attention all around you. The air was so stagnant and heavy that it was almost hard to breathe.

You don’t know how you realize what it is - but you don’t get the chance to wonder about it either. Because the thought has barely even crossed your mind before everything else is thrown at the window at those two words.

Hoarse, and whispered, voice ever-so-slightly cracking at the end. One you recognized, one you knew you always would.

“My love?”

Satoru.

It was a miracle that you didn’t get whiplash from how fast you whirled around to face the doorway - and it was an even bigger miracle that you didn’t trip at how your legs were carrying you to that tall, familiar flash of white hair without a second thought.

Hell, you don’t think you’ve ever run this fast in your life, and it still wasn’t quick enough when Satoru engulfed you in his arms. Letting out a soft sigh as he hugs you tight enough that it hurt, like he never wanted to let go.

All familiar warmth and a rapid heartbeat that matched your own.

A shiver runs down your spine at that scent of the infirmary, tinged with something so dangerously metallic, miles away from the usual hints of pine and candy. But you only pull Satoru closer - not even realizing the tears staining his snug t-shirt, nails digging into his sculpted back.

“S-Satoru?” you murmur wetly, as if you still couldn’t believe it - even when you were in his strong arms.

It killed you to pull away, and Satoru wasn’t any better, pulling you firmly to his heated body with a guttural grunt as soon as you showed any signs of shifting away. Grip almost bruising, fingers tight on your hips. But you didn’t mind, why would you?

Because the strongest was nothing under your will - he always was. And it’s only once you break the embrace just a fraction of an inch that you confirm that this actually was Satoru - your Satoru.

“You’re here.” you breathe out unsteadily, not knowing where to look first - his heaving chest, as if he’d run all the way here, or those faint scars along his exposed skin. Jagged, running down his pale skin like he was too impatient - too distracted - to let them heal properly. Satoru’s face was scarily blank, pretty lips set in a tight grimace like every second you weren’t locked in his arms killed him.

He doesn’t answer - like he didn’t know himself. Nervously, you raise your eyes to meet his and-

Oh, Satoru, he was here. Alive.

Looking like he was ready to make sure that no one else was.

You just wondered where they’d pile all the casualties. Too many to bury at Jujutsu High if those tiny blue flickers of lightning at the corners of Satoru’s eyes were anything to go by.

Gaze hooded, pupils blown, he didn’t look at you with that usual warmth. No, he looked at you like a man that had crawled back from death just to rip you apart. And you had half the mind to wonder whether this was some special grade curse that had just come disguised as your best friend.

“Are you okay?” you try again, raising a hand to cup his cheek. “Toru?”

Oh, you might as well have just signed your own will, because no sooner are the words out of your mouth before Satoru’s jolting. Like the mere sound of that stupid little nickname from high school was enough to shock him to his very core.

Electrify him just enough to finally look at you like it was the first time. Like he was seeing you after a thousand years. “My love.”

There it was again, that quiet, strained little mantra.

Followed very closely by the deafening slam! of the door behind him, so hard that you spy one of the hinges rattling off. Startled, you look over Satoru’s broad shoulders just to catch a glimpse of the single, large handprint charred into the wood, slight steam wafting from his hand.

Shit. He’s lost it.

Almost like the strongest has forgotten his restraint - or didn’t care about it either way. Heated, you wondered what this boded for you.

Will you be lucky number one on his kill list? You wonder, as Satoru presses his mouth right above your pulse. Racing. Dangerous. Feeling the rapid thump! thump! thump! under his lips.

Breathing you in, dragging his nose up, up, up- He mutters into your skin, “Y’can kill me if you don’t want this.” Will you go down - if there’s anyone left to remember, that is - as the casualty that surely and officially signaled the honored one’s descent into madness? Only the second best friend he had to kill?

Or, Satoru pulls away slowly from his little haven, breath ghosting your lips as he gasps out a shaky, “No God can take me away without doing this.” Will it be something else entirely?

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him.

Because fuck, how could you not? This is Satoru, and this is all you’ve ever wanted since those late night convenience store runs in high school, hand-in-hand and teleporting away from a furious Yaga.

The same Satoru that had cockily winked at you goodbye before facing Sukuna - leaving you crying with nothing to hold onto but those cold, cold hands and wishes that you’d have just fucking kissed him before. Maybe even put aside your pride to just tell him.

But none of that mattered now, because Satoru was so desperate - drinking you in like you were the last breath of air on Earth. Like it hurt more to part with your lips than it was to be cleaved in half.

Such a mess of teeth and saliva, and you were addicted. Drunk off his sweet taste - like candy, almost, and those cheap mochi he always got from downtown - and the electricity pricking at you each time your skin grazed against his.

It almost hurt - but it hurt so good.

Gasping, you pull away for air - impossible with the way Satoru was like a madman, kissing your swollen lips again and again and-

“Toru!” you squeal, muffled through his lips. “Aren’t you-” His mouth drops into a soft oh! at the delicate strings of saliva snapping in the non-existent space between you two. Surging forward like he couldn’t help himself. “Battlefield- mmpf- now?”

With a pained grunt, Satoru finally halts, just a hair’s breadth from your lips. And if you were in any better state of mind, maybe you’d have noticed the brief flicker of blue lightning all over his body. The way the lights flicker.

“Special curtain.” he pants against your open mouth, a muscled thigh shoving between your weakening legs. “Time barely passes in here.”

You don’t know what your head is reeling more from his words or his hands - hands that kill - caressing you like a lover everywhere. Unable to decide between your hips, to your ass, to your pretty pretty face. Kiss-bitten lips uttering, “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

“So?” Satoru lets out a humorless laugh. About an octave higher than usual, like he was at the end of his rope now. Eyes hazy and glowing, looking as if it took everything in him to not just tear off that uniform and take you right now.

“But-”

“Shut up and let me ruin you, my love.”

Your back is hitting the mattress before you can even start to wonder what the fuck is happening. One second standing at the doorway and the other all sprawled out on Satoru’s bed.

Besides yourself, you blurt out, trying to make sense of the situation to both of you two. “Did- did you just teleport us?”

“Don’t know.” he answers. And Satoru sounded like he genuinely didn’t know, as bewildered as you were. Powers acting before him - way, way before he can think - as he fists your shirt in his hands. “Don’t care.”

And you half wondered whether Satoru was even aware of what he was doing as he pulls, down, down down.

Rip!

It tears through the air - both the sound, and the way he’s just pulling your shirt to shreds. All depravity and no repentance as Satoru throws it behind God-knows-where. Buttons hitting the floor at a maddening little rhythm to which he was slowly losing his sanity.

He was kissing you like he was angry - taking it out on your poor clothes. Because before you know it, he’s pulling your bra off. Fingers searing on your skin, skirt just tatters on the floor.

“Waited too long.” he groans, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “Always wanted to do this.” And once he started, it was like Satoru just couldn’t stop, rambling into the valley of your breasts, “Ever since I first saw you and oh-”

That was it - only one look at your panties, all flimsy and drenched - and you’re back to wondering what Satoru’s kill count would be. You shudder as his eyes widen, letting out a strangled gasp from some deep, primal part of himself. Voice so broken and starved as he muses, “-can’t believe I waited this long.”

Shit. You weren’t making it out alive.

Immediately, Satoru’s dropping further down the mattress, easily pushing your knees up all the way till they were at your breasts.

And it was so unfair.

Unhair how he was still fully clothed, while you were spread so shamefully. Unfair how he was sliding his underneath your panties up and down, grazing your swollen folds. Up and down, up and down up and- Pooling your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips before pulling, marveling at how sinfully soaked they were.

And it was like something snapped - maybe his whatever restraint he had left, probably you by the end of this. Because just a split-second later, Satoru’s tearing right through your panties. Not even taking a second to breathe before burying his pretty face into your dripping cunt.

Unfair how you were liking it so dangerously. Being so used.

And Satoru knows - he thinks, with whatever rationality he has left intact - that he wants to admire your pretty lil’ cunt. To finally drink in what he’s been dreaming about for years all these lonely nights. But, no, that’s for later - for a different Satoru, one that didn’t feel like he was going to fucking die if he didn’t taste you right now.

“Ah! Hngh- T-Toru-” you arch into his hot tongue, as he licks erratically up your folds, long, sloppy movements of his tongue all the way from your base to your swollen clit. Lapping at your juices like he couldn’t stop.

“Tha’s right.” words muffled into your cunt. Throwing your legs over his sculpted shoulders. “Gimme more, use me. Use me- fuck fuck fuck- yeah.”

He sounded as delirious as you were already, flinching with each word spat into your sensitive cunt. Drunk off your pussy and so messy, like he was well and fully intent on ruining you.

And it’s all you can do to sob so needily as he swirls his tongue around your sensitive clit. Seemingly unable to decide between sucking on it harshly and dipping into your sloppy hole. In and out. Wanting everything. Anything.

“Fuck. S’too deep. Sh-shit.”

“Oh yeah?” he’s grinning, a cruel, cold little grin. You can feel it as he rolls his tongue against your clit over and over. “S’not deep enough.”

You pathetically try to close your legs around his head in shock, as the tips of his long fingers spread open your pussy further, teasing your entrance.

But who were you against the strongest? The one that got everything handed to him on a silver platter since birth? Except you - until now, that is.

Because Satoru’s swatting thighs back open like it was a mere inconvenience, and feel your cunt clench in- fear? Anticipation? as you realize how gently he was throwing you around like a ragdoll, in comparison to that door from earlier.

“No.” he sounds absolutely wrecked, babbling around your throbbing clit. “Need this- need you.”

And then he’s plunging knuckle-deep in your plushy pussy, so greedily that your slick is trailing down his wrist. Drinking in your pretty gasps of his name as he roams for that one spot he knows will have you seeing stars - only the best for his girl, right? The only thing on his mind right now, like a predator starved.

You can only tug on his hair and buck wildly underneath him, inching Satoru closer to where he was desperately searching for. Close - so close.

“Toru-” you moan, like a prayer.

But it wasn’t fast enough.

Not for Satoru, at least.

Even through the haze in your eyes, you could make out that brief flash of electric blue in-between your legs, eyes widening as ah-

That cheat.

You wondered if he even knew he was using his powers right now. Or whether Satoru was too far gone at this point. Way too smug with the way he hits that one spot. Hard.

Ah, you quiver as something so dark sparks in his eyes. Looking like a man starved, that had finally come across his favorite meal. Moving with frightening accuracy as he pumps his fingers in and out, hitting it each and every time.

“Shit, ngh-” you let out a shrill moan, “It’s too good. You’re so fucking-”

One hand was so messy toying with your dripping entrance - the other digging into your hips. Dragging your sloppy pussy senselessly all over his mouth.

Hard enough that you were sure it’d leave marks for tomorrow. If you even made it that long, that is, if the tiny shocks of electricity at his fingertips told you anything.

Desperate. Violent, even.

So it only makes sense that your orgasm was the same. “Fuck- m’cumming m’cumming, fuck fuck fuck-” You’re shaking as you cum, crying out Satoru’s name and delirious little moans that you’d otherwise be embarrassed of.

And he doesn’t stop. Not when you’re blinking your vision back. Not when you’re shying away from his tongue, the stars behind your eyes too much with each flick of his tongue.

“S’too much- too- fuck, sensitive, Toru.” you whine, big fat tears clinging to your lashes.

Ah, there it was again. Just when Satoru was beginning to think that he might just be veering into a state of mind that could be considered sane - you have to call him that goddamn nickname again. And it’s only driving him wild.

Well, he muses, fumbling with the hem of his t-shirt, it’s really on you then.

You let out a fucked-out little whine as Satoru finally takes his shirt off, revealing such milky, toned skin. All sharp curves and dips like he was sculpted so meticulously, going down, down, down and- Your breath hitches at the large, pink scar standing out of his torso, so uneven and fresh that you feel a fresh wave of tears - different ones, this time.

You take a steadying breath, eyes unmoving from the injury. “Satoru-”

“No.” Satoru’s tone is firm, so different from the metallic tinkling of his belt. He was moving now, shifting in between your legs to kiss those tears away. “Need this. Need you. Need you need you need you so bad-”

“But your…” you trail off. The words catch in your throat as he finally unbuckles his belt, pulling down his pants just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, hitting his sculpted abdomen. Red, and so so angry, soaked in precum.

He was so…massive. Now, you expected your best friend to have a big dick, but this was ridiculous. He was so intimidatingly long, thick enough that you could feel the slick beading out of your sloppy hole already.

Yeah, you definitely weren’t making it out alive.

Satoru sees it too, of course, because his cock twitches furiously. A low hiss leaving those pretty pink lips before he’s spitting on your quivering cunt. Once. Twice.

And you know that if this shameless bastard could use six eyes to find your g-spot, then he could’ve done the same for this. But, no, he lets some of it miss, splattering against your inner thigh, smearing all over as Satoru thumbs in his saliva with your slick.

God, he was treating you like some object. Wordlessly throwing your legs over his shoulders, dragging his weeping tip down your swollen folds. So fucking filthy.

And then you feel like you’re been split apart - because Gojo Satoru was unforgiving. As was his aching cock. He’s barely even pressing through the first ring of muscle, and you already feel like he’s pushing all the way into your lungs.

“T-Toru.” you yelp, glancing down at the way your pussy was stretched so lewdly around his thick cock. Quivering as he keeps pushing and pushing and- no mercy. Absolutely none at all. “Can feel you so deep inside ngh- I don’t think I can…”

“No no no no no-” he’s panting into your open mouth. Fucking into your heavenly cunt in mindless, shallow little thrusts just to squeeze deeper inside. “Need this. Want this. Always did. God, fuck fuck fuck, you can do it-”

“But-”

God, Satoru can’t help but kiss you - to shut those cute lil’ whines up more than anything, he’s sure he’ll cum right there and right now if he didn’t.

Because Satoru wasn’t any better. Body bowing into yours, eyes rolling to the back of his head, mouth falling into a delirious oh! as he finally bottoms out. Balls smacking your ass too hard, your pussy too tight, you too beautiful underneath him.

Blindly, he reaches for the headboard - white-knuckling it so hard that it’s a wonder it doesn’t break.

It does - and later you’ll find a pile of splinters behind the bed. It’s just that neither of you notice. Too high off the feeling of Satoru’s cock pushing inside you. You’re clawing at his back now, gasping for air. Letting him fold you in half to filthily lick away the tears pooling at your cheeks.

“Shit- y’got this, my love. You gotta- ah- Breathe-” he can’t even speak properly, sharp tongue so heavy. Eyes glowing with such insanity as he rocks his hips harder into yours.

He was right - you needed to breathe. To finally wrap your head around the fact that this was Satoru - your best friend - the same one that binge-watches sappy rom-coms with you after every breakup. Every. Single. One. Somehow, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Both of you were barely-lucid at this point. And he was out of control now.

Funny, how in all his dreams when you were screaming his name - Satoru was always suave, methodical, playing with your pretty pussy like a fine instrument. Right now, he was anything but. Sloppy - like he didn’t have enough time, never would, even in this room where time slowed.

“Don’t you run away.” he grunts at the way you’re so adorably torn between running away from his cock and bucking for more more more- “Waited twelve fucking years for this. N’ m’gonna take it.”

You almost sob at the pressure as he laces his fingers on top of your head to slide you impossibly deeper. Down, down, down. “S’too good, Toru. Wan’ more-”

“More.” Satoru breathes, more to himself than anything. Eyes widening almost comically, a fucked-out smile spreading all over his face. “Y’want more even when you’re filled to-” He traces an invisible line halfway down your tummy. “Here?”

“Yes.” you gasp as he reaches down to toy with your throbbing clit, drawing tight, frenzied little circles. Balls smacking your ass so painfully, thumb pressing down right where his tip was hitting your cervix - as if he used six eyes to see. “Always wanted more. Always have, Toru.”

And you swear you could see something physically snap inside Satoru. Because his eyes glaze over, grin dropping instantly from his face.

If you weren’t so cockdrunk maybe you’d have caught the way the bedroom lights flicker, the one down the hallway bursting.

“Always, huh?” he’s muttering, grip on your body tightening like a vice. “Wanted more like me?” Rocking into you so sloppily, cock twitching so painfully as he speeds up. Fingers just as desperate - as depraved as his hips.

And this time, he doesn’t even have to use six eyes to find that one spot. Knowing your body well enough to hit it over and over until you were sobbing. “More more more more- fuckin’ take it then.”

At this point you didn’t know whether Satoru was always this ruthless in bed or you’d just broken him. It felt so good that it was almost scary. And your delirious mind wandered into the thought that maybe the bed would break - and your bones to follow.

Well, they would have if Satoru hadn’t been using reversed cursed technique. But you didn’t need to know that just yet.

“Satoru-” you squeal as he only gets more erratic. “I’m…”

“Close?” Satoru’s grunting, smacking his lips against your own.

It’s laughable, really, that muffled question - because Satoru knew you were close. Losing his fucking mind, actually, at how you were squeezing so hard around him. Balls squeezing so painfully right now, but he wanted you to cum first - needed you to cum first.

“Yeah, so close. Wan’ cum- Ah! Please-”

“Then cum. Fucking cum, wan’ed this so bad.” he’s babbling deliriously. Little sparks of lightning visible even to your glassy eyes, fingers humming with a dangerous little energy that stimulated you so good. “Yeah, yeah yeah yeah fucking cum, wanna hngh-”

And then you are. So sudden and hard that you don’t even realize it at first. Just that you’re seeing stars behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears. Rocking your hips into Satoru’s like such a slut.

Oh, if heaven was really then the part of Satoru that can still form coherent thoughts thinks this just might be it.

Because only the sight of you creaming all around his swollen cock and he’s cumming and cumming so hard that it hurts. Thick, hot ropes of cum that he can’t seem to stop. Doesn’t want to stop, and God he thinks he could cum until you beg and beg and beg it’s too much. Until you’re yelling for-

“Mercy!” you moan, head spinning with how fucking overfilled your pussy was. “Please, Toru-”

Satoru lets out a slight gasp, “Mercy?” Chuckling so cruelly at your dazed nod, “No mercy, my love. None at all.”

And God, it was so fucking hard to look at him too - eyes half-lidded and miles away, flushed and looking like he was anywhere but laid out on a hospital bed just a few minutes ago. In fact, Satoru looked like he was in heaven on Earth as he only milked his painfully hard cock on your snug pussy.

Pretty. Always so fucking pretty.

And he kept whispering that, over and over in your ear as you both ride out your highs. Oh how he loved you.

Your eyes fly open, and Satoru knew he’d said that out loud. Shit. But, well, with the way you were immediately pulling him to collapse into your arms, he thinks he really doesn’t mind.

“Love you, love you. Love you so much. Always did, always wanted to love you- to fuck you.” You barely even notice him marking down your neck, sharp canines digging into the flesh like he wanted to break something. Hard enough that you distinctly wondered whether he was out for blood. “To ruin you.”

It was oozing out of you, both Satoru’s cum - dribbling down your legs in thick globs, pooling on the overpriced sheets below - and his power. Jolts of electricity running down all the way from your poor, abused cunt to your hazy mind.

“So do it.” The air was crackling - crackling with intensity and the smell of jujutsu. It was in your veins, in your words as you whisper, “Ruin me. You’re the- ngh- only- one f’me, Toru. Always was.”

The lights go out. All of them - all across Tokyo, in fact. Shining so bright that it was blinding, until they burst. The last thing you see are his eyes - electrified with blue lightning, burning into your brain.

And then it’s black.

---

“I’ll be back before ya know it, my love.” he whispers against your forehead, cooing at the way you stir sleepily. “Gotta pest to take care of.”

Taking down that curtain wasn’t the hard part, the hard part was actually fucking regaining his senses enough to do so.

And now, all cleaned up and fucked to sleep on his bed, you were looking so unbearably delectable that it made some part of Satoru just want to stay behind this curtain. To forget the waiting sorcerers on the battlefield. Saving the world be damned.

Well, no matter, Satoru had time. He was the strongest, right? After all, how could he give you the world if there was no world to give?

“N’ when I’m back, m’gonna kiss ya to death till you go out with me. Till everyone knows you’re unmistakably mine.”

A/N. GET IT - that unmistakable bit from the panel?

Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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sincerelysatoru · 1 month ago

Text

Satoru was late.

This shouldn’t have come as a shock. As much as you loved your husband—adored him with every fiber of your being—you had long since accepted that Satoru Gojo was hopeless when it came to managing his time.

But this morning, when you were tucked into the warm sheets of your shared bed, still half-asleep, Satoru had kissed you awake, lips brushing over your forehead, cheeks, and jaw, whispering promises against your skin.

“I’ve missed too much time with my wife,” he’d murmured, voice thick with affection. “I promise I’ll be home early. Don’t miss me too much, 'kay?"

You had believed him. Of course you had.

Now, it was well past dinner time, and there was still no sign of your husband anywhere. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of your overly expensive penthouse, the sky was swallowed in a violet-black haze and the city was beginning to come to life. Neon lights flickered off restaurant signs, car headlights illuminated the dark roads, and the occasional office building still glowed on the top floors.

You found yourself pacing, wandering back and forth to the windows, squinting down at the streets below as if you could somehow spot your husband's familiar white hair through the blur of the city. Of course, it was useless.

So, you settled for sending him a quick text.

Then a phone call.

Then…maybe sending another text.

And definitely calling a few more times.

You even tried FaceTiming him once, just for good measure.

With every unanswered ring and message that went unanswered, the knot in your stomach coiled tighter and tighter. What if something had gone wrong? What if he was hurt? What if–

No.

You shoved the pessimistic thoughts down, pressing a hand to your elevated heartbeat as if you could physically smooth away the sharp edges of your nagging thoughts. He was Satoru Gojo. The strongest sorcerer alive. Nothing could happen to him…right?

But no matter how often you reminded yourself of that, the worry was still gnawing at the corners of your mind, whispering terrible little possibilities. Because, for all his strength, Satoru was still human. And you knew how cruel and unforgiving his job could be.

The minutes ticked by. Eventually, you climbed back into bed, curling up on the side that Satoru always sprawled on after a long day. The cold stretch of sheets was unbearable without his warmth and his limbs lying in every direction. You breathed in the faint scent of him, something you usually found solace in, but sleep still wouldn't come.

With a heavy sigh, you grabbed your phone, still empty of a reply from Satoru, and wandered out to the living room once more. You grabbed the comfiest blanket you have and curled up on the couch, the soft glow of the TV illuminating the room, and hoped for a distraction from the anxious spiral you found yourself falling down. No matter how hard you tried to focus on the screen, your mind wandered back to him. Back to his smile, his laugh, his careless, infuriating charm.

You didn't hear the door unlock.

It wasn't until you heard the shuffle of footsteps, the low, off-key hum of Satoru singing something under his breath that you shot up, nearly tripping on the blanket tangled around your legs as you stumbled towards the door.

And there he was.

Satoru, stripping off his jacket, white hair gleaming even in the dim light, sunglasses perched on his nose, arms overloaded with…gift bags?

“Hi, baby!” he chirped, flashing a grin so bright it rivaled the city lights outside. “Miss me?”

He pecked you on the top of your head as he moved past. You stood frozen, following him silently as he wandered to the living room, humming happily as if he didn't have a care in the world.

“Satoru,” you finally whispered, voice thin and trembling.

He turned, beaming at you with that same irreverent, dazzling joy he always carried when looking at you. “Happy 500th day of being married!”

You stared at your husband. He stared back, grin as bright as the moon.

Your mouth opened, then closed again. “That’s…not a real anniversary.”

“It is to me,” he said proudly, unloading his haul for you to see. “I got your favorite food. You know, from the place across town? And then I saw this florist booth, but they didn’t have your favorite flowers, so I went to a different one, and then I passed this little shop and saw the cutest plushie that I knew you’d love. I also got your favorite chocolates, snacks, and— oh! Hold on—”

He rummaged through the bags and pulled out a small velvet box, flipping it open with his signature dramatic flair. Inside lay a delicate bracelet glittering even in the dim lights. Attached was a small blue charm, shimmering almost the same shade of blue as his eyes (although the charm was nowhere near as beautiful).

“You always say my eyes are your favorite color,” he murmured softly.

For a long moment, all you could do was stare at him. This man, this ridiculous, infuriating, devastating man, who kept you worrying as he was out buying more gifts than you needed for some minuscule milestone in your marriage.

“Satoru Gojo,” you breathed, stepping forward until you could press yourself into his chest, fist curling weakly into the fabric of his shirt. “You are an idiot. Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

His arms folded around you easily, as if they were simply meant to rest there. He drew you in with a warmth that was so achingly familiar that it made your throat tighten. He was here.

“I promise,” he whispered against your hair, lips grazing your temple with a softness that made your heart ache. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

And despite yourself, despite the lingering panic still ghosting through your bones, you let yourself melt into his embrace, into the scent of him, the warmth, the beat of his heart under your ear.

Because no matter how late Satoru Gojo was… He was always, always, worth waiting for.

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru x reader #satoru x you #gojo x you #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk #jjk gojo #jjk x reader #satoru gojo #gojo jjk #gojo fluff #satoru fluff #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen satoru

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yakshxiao · 3 months ago

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FIVE MINUTES AT A TIME ; JACK ABBOT

wc; 9.3k synopsis; You and Jack only ever see each other for five minutes at a time — the tail end of day shift and the start of night shift. But those five minutes? They’ve become the best part of both of your days. Everyone else in the ER has noticed it. The way you both lean in just a little too close during handoff. The way both of you leave a drink and a protein bar next to the chart rack. The way neither of you ever miss a single shift — until one day, one of you doesn’t show up. And everything shifts.

contents; Jack Abbot/nurse!reader, gn!reader, medical inaccuracies, hospital setting, mentions of injury and death, slow burn, found family, mutual pinning, mild jealousy, age gap (like 10-15 years, reader is aged around late 20s/early 30s but you can do any age), can you tell this man is consuming my every thought? tempted to write a follow-up fic lemme know what u guys think.

You only see him at 7 p.m. — well, 6:55 p.m., if you’re being exact.

You’re already at the nurse’s station, chart pulled up, pen poised, pretending you’re more focused than you are — just waiting for that familiar figure to walk in. The ER is barely holding itself together, seams straining under the weight of another long, unsparing shift.

You’ve witnessed Mckay go through two scrub changes — both stained, both discarded like paper towels. Dana’s been shouted at by too many angry patients to count, each new confrontation carving deeper lines into her already exhausted face. And if you see Gloria trailing behind Robby one more time, arms crossed, mouth already mid-complaint, you’re sure you’ll have front-row seats to the implosion of Robby’s self-restraint.

The end-of-shift exhaustion hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. It seeps into the walls, the floor, your bones. The scent of bleach, sweat, and cold coffee hangs over everything, a cocktail that clings to your skin long after you clock out. The vending machine’s been emptied of anything worth eating. Your stomach gave up asking hours ago.

The sun is still trying to claw its way down, its last rays pressing uselessly against frosted windows, too far removed to touch. The ER isn’t made for soft light. It lives under fluorescents, bright and unfeeling, leeching color and kindness from the world, one hour at a time.

It’s then, right on time, he arrives.

Jack Abbot.

Always the same. Dark scrubs, military backpack slung over his shoulder, the strap worn and fraying. His stethoscope loops around his neck like it belongs there and his hair is a little unkempt, like the day’s already dragged its hands through him before the night even starts.

He walks the same unhurried pace every time — not slow, not fast — like a man who’s learned the ER’s tempo can’t be outrun or outpaced. It’ll still be here, bleeding and burning, whether he sprints or crawls. And every day, like clockwork, he arrives at your station at 6:55 p.m., eyes just sharp enough to remind you he hasn’t completely handed himself over to exhaustion.

The handoff always starts the same. Clean. Professional. Efficient. Vitals. Labs. Status updates on the regulars and the barely-holding-ons. Names are exchanged like currency, chart numbers folded into the cadence of clipped sentences, shorthand that both of you learned the hard way. The rhythm of it is steady, like the low, constant beep of monitors in the background.

But tonight, the silence stretches just a little longer before either of you speaks. His eyes skim the board, lingering for half a second too long on South 2. You catch it. You always do.

“She’s still here,” you say, tapping your pen against the chart. “Outlived the odds and half the staff’s patience.”

Jack huffs a quiet sound that’s almost — almost — a laugh. The sound is low and dry, like it hasn’t been used much lately, “Figures.”

His attention shifts, following the slow, inevitable exit of Gloria, her unmistakable white coat vanishing around the corner, Robby sagging against the wall in her wake like a man aging in real-time, “I leave for twelve hours and Gloria’s still haunting the halls. She got squatters’ rights yet?”

You smirk, shaking your head and turning to look in the same direction, “I think Robby’s about five minutes away from filing for witness protection.”

That earns you a real smile — small, fleeting, but it’s there. The kind that only shows up in this place during the quiet moments between shift changes, the ones too short to hold onto and too rare to take for granted. The kind that makes you wonder how often he uses it when he’s not here.

Jack glances at the clock, then back at you, his voice low and dry. “Guess I better go save what’s left of his sanity, huh?”

You shrug, sliding the last of your notes toward him, the pages worn thin at the corners from too many hands, too many days like this. “Too late for that. You’re just here to do damage control.”

His smile lingers a little longer, but his eyes settle on you, the weight of the shift pressing into the space between you both — familiar, constant, unspoken. The clock ticks forward, the moment folding neatly back into the rush of the ER, the five-minute bubble of quiet already closing like it always does.

And then — 7 p.m. — the night begins.

The next few weeks worth of handoffs play out the same way.

The same rhythm. The same quiet trade of names, numbers, and near-misses. The same half-conversations, broken by pagers, interrupted by overhead calls. The same looks, the same five minutes stretched thin between shifts, like the ER itself holds its breath for you both.

But today is different.

This time, Jack arrives at 6:50 p.m.

Five minutes earlier than usual — early even for him.

You glance up from the nurse’s station when you catch the sound of his footsteps long before the clock gives you permission to expect him. Still the same dark scrubs, the military backpack and stethoscope around his neck.

But it’s not just the arrival time that’s different.

It’s the tea. Balanced carefully in one hand, lid still steaming, sleeve creased from the walk in. Tea — not coffee. Jack Abbot doesn’t do tea. At least, not in all the months you’ve been on this rotation. He’s a coffee-or-nothing type. Strong, bitter, the kind of brew that tastes like the end of the world.

He sets it down in front of you without fanfare, as if it’s just another piece of the shift — like vitals, like the board, like the handoff that always waits for both of you. But the corner of his mouth lifts when he catches the confused tilt of your head.

“Either I’m hallucinating,” you say, “or you’re early and bringing offerings.”

“You sounded like hell on the scanner today,” he says, voice dry but easy. “Figured you’d be better off with tea when you leave.”

You blink at him, then at the cup. Your fingers curl around the warmth. The smell hits you before the sip does — honey, ginger, something gentler than the day you’ve had.

“Consider it hazard pay,” Jack’s mouth quirks, eyes flicking toward the whiteboard behind you. “The board looks worse than usual.”

You huff a dry laugh, glancing at the mess of names and numbers — half of them marked awaiting test results and the rest marked with waiting.

“Yeah,” you say. “One of those days.”

You huff a laugh, the sound pulling the sting from your throat even before the tea does. The day’s been a long one. Endless patient turnover, backlogged labs, and the kind of non-stop tension that winds itself into your muscles and stays there, even when you clock out.

Jack leans his hip against the edge of the counter, and lets the quiet settle there for a moment. No handoff yet. No rush. The world is still turning, but for a brief second it feels like the clock’s hands have stalled, stuck in that thin stretch of stillness before the next wave breaks.

“You trying to throw off the universe?” you ask, half teasing, lifting the cup in mock salute. “Next thing I know, Gloria will come in here smiling.”

Jack huffs, “Let’s not be that ambitious.”

The moment hangs between you, the conversation drifting comfortably into the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand filling. Just the weight of the day, and the knowledge that the night will be heavier.

But then, as always, duty calls. A sharp crackle from his pager splits the stillness like a stone through glass. He straightens, his expression shifting back to business without missing a beat.

You slide the last chart across the desk toward him, your hand brushing the edge of his as you let go. The handoff starts, the ritual resumes. Vitals. Labs. Critical patients flagged in red ink. Familiar, steady, practiced. A dance you both know too well.

But even as the conversation folds back into clinical shorthand, the tea sits between you, cooling slowly, marking the space where the ritual has quietly shifted into something else entirely.

And when the handoff’s done — when the last name leaves your mouth — the clock ticks past 7:05 p.m.

You linger. Just long enough for Jack to glance back your way.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks. The question light, but not casual.

You nod once, the answer already written.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

After that, the handoff’s change. Tea was only the beginning.

It’s always there first — sometimes waiting on the desk before you’ve even finished logging out. The cup’s always right, too. No questions asked, no orders repeated. Jack learns the little details: how you like it, when it's too hot or too cold. When the shift’s been particularly cruel and the hours stretch too thin, he starts adding the occasional muffin or protein bar to the offering, wordlessly placed on the desk beside your notes.

In return, you start doing the same. Only you give him coffee. Black, bitter — too bitter for you — but it's how he likes it and you’ve never had the heart to tell him there’s better tasting coffee out there. Sometimes you give him tea on the calmer nights. A granola bar and an apple join soon after so you know he has something to eat when the food he brings in becomes a ghost of a meal at the back of the staff fridge. A post-it with a doodle and the words “I once heard a joke about amnesia, but I forgot how it goes” gets stuck to his coffee after an especially tough day shift, knowing it’ll bleed into the night.

It’s quiet, easy. Half-finished conversations that start at one handoff and end in the next.

You talk about everything but yourselves.

About the regulars — which patient is faking, which one’s hanging on by more than sheer luck. About the shows you both pretend you don’t have time for but always end up watching, somehow. About staff gossip, bets on how long the new hire will last, debates over whose turn it is to replace the break room coffee filter (spoiler: no one ever volunteers).

But never about what you two have. Never about what any of it means.

You pretend the lines are clear. That it’s all part of the handoff. That it’s just routine.

But the team notices.

Mckay starts hanging around the station longer than necessary at 6:55 p.m., her eyes flicking between the clock and the doorway like she’s waiting for a cue. Dana starts asking loaded questions in passing — light, but pointed. “So, Jack’s shift starting soon?” she’ll say with a knowing tilt of her head.

The worst offenders, though, are Princess and Perlah.

They start a betting pool. Subtle at first — a folded scrap of paper passed around, tucked in their pockets like an afterthought. Before long, half the ER staff’s names are scribbled under columns like ‘Next week’, ‘Next Month’ or ‘Never happening’.

And then one day, you open your locker after a twelve-hour shift, hands still shaking slightly from too much caffeine and too little sleep, and there it is:

A post-it, bright yellow and impossible to miss.

“JUST KISS ALREADY.”

No name. No signature. Just the collective voice of the entire ER condensed into three impatient words.

You stand there longer than you should, staring at it, your chest tightening in that quiet, unfamiliar way that’s got nothing to do with the shift and everything to do with him.

When you finally peel the note off and stuff it deep into your pocket, you find Jack already waiting at the nurse’s station. 6:55 p.m. Early, as always. Tea in hand. Same dark scrubs. Same unhurried stride. Same steady presence.

And when you settle in beside him, brushing just close enough for your shoulder to graze his sleeve, he doesn’t say anything about the flush still warm in your cheeks.

You don’t say anything either.

The handoff begins like it always does. The names. The numbers. The rhythm. The world still spinning the same broken way it always has.

But the note is still in your pocket. And the weight of it lingers longer than it should.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. Maybe never.

The handoff tonight starts like any other.

The same exchange of vitals, the same clipped sentences folding neatly into the rhythm both of you know by heart. The ER hums and flickers around you, always on the edge of chaos but never quite tipping over. Jack’s there, 6:55 p.m., tea in one hand, muffin in the other — that small tired look in place like a badge he never bothers to take off.

But tonight, the air feels heavier. The space between you, thinner.

There’s no reason for it — at least, none you could name. Just a quiet shift in gravity, subtle enough to pretend away, sharp enough to notice. A conversation that drifts lazily off course, no talk of patients, no staff gossip, no television shows. Just silence. Comfortable, but expectant.

And then his hand — reaching past you to grab a chart — brushes yours.

Not the accidental kind. Not the casual, workplace kind. The kind that lingers. Warm, steady, the weight of his palm light against the back of your fingers like the pause before a sentence you’re too scared to finish.

You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world outside the nurse’s station slows. The monitors still beep, the overhead paging system still hums, the hallway still bustles — but you don’t hear any of it.

There’s just his hand. Your hand. The breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

And then the trauma alert hits.

“MVA — multiple injuries. Incoming ETA two minutes.”

The spell shatters. The moment folds back in on itself like it was never there at all. Jack pulls away first, but not fast. His hand brushes yours one last time as if reluctant, as if the shift might grant you one more second before it demands him back.

But the ER has no patience for almosts.

You both move — the way you always do when the alarms go off, efficient and wordless, sliding back into your roles like armor. He’s already at the doors, gloves snapped on, voice low and level as the gurneys rush in. You’re right behind him, notes ready, vitals called out before the paramedics finish their sentences.

The night swallows the moment whole. The weight of the job fills the space where it had lived.

And when the trauma bay finally quiets, when the adrenaline starts to bleed out of your system and the hallways return to their usual background hum, Jack passes by you at the station, slowing just long enough for your eyes to meet.

Nothing said. Nothing needed.

Almost.

Weeks after the same routine, over and over, the change starts like most things do in your world — quietly, without fanfare.

A new name slips into conversation one morning over burnt coffee and half-finished charting. Someone you met outside the ER walls, outside the endless loop of vitals and crash carts and lives balanced on the edge. A friend of a friend, the kind of person who looks good on paper: steady job, easy smile, around your age, the kind of life that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or ring with the static of trauma alerts.

You don’t even mean to mention them. The words just tumble out between patients, light and careless. Jack barely reacts — just a flicker of his eyes, the barest pause in the way his pen scratches across the chart. He hums, noncommittal, and says, “Good for you.”

But after that, the air between you shifts.

The ritual stays the same — the teas and coffees still show up, the handoffs still slide smooth and clean — but the conversations dull. They're shallower. You talk about patients, the weather. But the inside jokes dry up, and the silences stretch longer, thicker, like neither of you can find the right words to fix the growing space between you.

The new person tries. Dinners that never quite feel right. Movies that blur together. Conversations that stall out halfway through, where you find yourself thinking about Jack’s voice instead of the one across the table. It’s not their fault — they do everything right. They ask about your day, they remember how you take your tea, they show up when they say they will.

But they aren’t him. They never will be.

And the truth of that sits heavy in your chest long before you let it go.

When the end finally comes, it’s as quiet as the beginning. No fight. No grand scene. Just a conversation that runs out of steam and a mutual, tired understanding: this was never going to be enough.

You don’t tell Jack. Not directly. But he knows.

Maybe it’s the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes that night, or the way your usual jokes come slower, dull around the edges. Or maybe it’s just that he knows you too well by now, the way you know him — a kind of understanding that doesn’t need translation.

He doesn’t push. He’s not the kind of man who asks questions he isn’t ready to hear the answers to, and you’ve never been the type to offer up more than what the job requires. But when you pass him the last of the handoff notes that night, his fingers brush yours, and for once, they linger. Just a second longer than they should. Long enough to say everything neither of you will.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Neutral. Studied, “You get any sleep lately?”

It’s not the question he wants to ask. Not even close. But it’s the one he can ask, the one that fits inside the safe little script you’ve both written for yourselves.

You lie — both of you know it — but he doesn’t call you on it. He just nods, slow and thoughtful, and when he stands, he leaves his coffee behind on the counter. Still hot. Barely touched.

And that’s how you know.

Because Jack never leaves coffee unfinished.

The next handoff, he’s already at the nurse’s station when you arrive — ten minutes early, a tea waiting for you, exactly how you like it. There’s no note, no smile, no pointed comment. Just the small, familiar weight of the cup in your hand and the warmth that spreads through your chest, sharper than it should be.

You settle into the routine, pulling the chart toward you, the silence stretching long and comfortable for the first time in weeks. Jack doesn’t ask, and you don’t offer. But when your fingers brush his as you pass him the logbook, you don’t pull away as quickly as you used to.

And for a moment, that’s enough.

The world around you moves the same way it always does — busy, breathless, unrelenting. But somewhere in the quiet, something unspoken hums between you both. Something that’s been waiting.

They weren’t him. And you weren’t surprised.

Neither was he.

It’s the handoff on a cold Wednesday evening that brings a quiet kind of news — the kind that doesn’t explode, just settles. Like dust.

Jack mentions it in passing, the way people mention the weather or the fact that the coffee machine’s finally given up the ghost. Mid-handoff, eyes on the chart, voice level.

“Admin gave me an offer.”

Your pen stills, barely a beat, then keeps moving. “Oh yeah?” you ask, as if you hadn’t heard the shift in his tone. As if your chest didn’t tighten the moment the words left his mouth.

The department’s newer, quieter. Fewer traumas. More order. Less of the endless night shift churn that has worn him down to the bone these last few years. It would suit him. You know it. Everyone knows it.

And so you do what you’re supposed to do. What any friend — any coworker — would do. You offer the words, gift-wrapped in all the right tones.

“You’d be great at it.”

The smile you give him is steady, practiced. It reaches your lips. But not your eyes. Never your eyes.

Fortunately, Jack knows you like the back of his hand.

He just nods, the kind of slow, quiet nod that feels more like a goodbye than anything else. The conversation moves on. The night moves on.

You go home, and for him, the patients come and go, machines beep, the usual rhythm swallows the moment whole. But the shift feels different. Like the floor’s shifted under his feet and the walls don’t sit right in his peripherals anymore.

The offer lingers in the air for days. No one mentions it. But he notices things — the way you're quieter, the way you seem almost distant during handoffs. Like the weight of the outcome of the decision’s sitting on your shoulders, heavy and personal.

And then, just as quietly, the tension shifts. No announcement. No conversation. The offer just evaporates. You hear it from Robby two days later, his voice offhand as he scrolls through the department’s scheduling board.

“Abbot passed on the job.”

That’s all he says. That’s all you need.

When your shift ends that day, you linger a little longer than usual. Five minutes past the clock, then ten. Just enough time to catch him walking in. Same dark scrubs, same tired eyes. But this time, no talk of transfers. No talk of moving on.

You slide the handoff notes toward him, and when his fingers brush yours, neither of you let go right away.

“Long night ahead.” you say, your eyes lock onto his.

“Same as always,” he answers, soft but sure.

And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

But he stayed.

And so did you.

The holiday shift is a quiet one for once.

Not the kind of chaotic disaster you usually brace for — no code blues, no trauma alerts, no frantic scrambling. The ER hums at a lower frequency tonight, as if the whole department is holding its breath, waiting for the chaos to pass and the clock to turn over.

You’ve been working on autopilot for the last few hours. The patient load is manageable, the team is mostly intact, and the usual undercurrent of stress is more like a murmur than a shout. But there's something about the quiet, the softness of it, that makes you more aware of everything, every moment stretching a little longer than it should. It makes the weight of the day feel more pressing, more noticeable.

As the last patient leaves — nothing serious, just another sprain — you settle into your chair by the nurse’s station, the kind of exhausted calm that only comes when the worst is over. The clock inches toward the end of your shift — 6:50 p.m. — but you’re not in any hurry to leave, not yet.

As always, Jack walks in.

You look up just as he passes by the station. His usual tired look is softened tonight, the edges of his exhaustion blunted by something quieter, something a little more worn into his features. The shadows under his eyes are deeper, but there’s a kind of peace in him tonight — a rare thing for the man who’s always running on the edge of burnout.

He stops in front of you, and you can see the small, crumpled bag in his hand. It’s not much, just a bit of wrapping paper that’s a little too wrinkled, but something about it makes your heart give a funny, lopsided beat.

"Here," he says, low, voice a little rougher than usual.

You blink, surprised. “What’s this?”

He hesitates for half a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should say anything at all. “For you.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-laughing. "We don’t usually exchange gifts, Jack."

His smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. "Thought we might make an exception today."

You take the gift from him, feeling the weight of it, simple but somehow significant. You glance down at it, and for a moment, the world feels like it falls away. He doesn't ask you to open it right then, and for a second, you think maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll leave it unopened, just like so many things left unsaid between you two.

But the curiosity wins out.

You peel back the paper slowly. It’s a leather-bound notebook, simple and unassuming. The kind of thing that makes you wonder how he knew.

“I... didn’t know what to get you," Jack says, his voice soft, almost sheepish. "But I figured you'd use it."

The gesture is simple — almost too simple. But it’s not. It’s too personal for just coworkers. Too thoughtful, too quiet. The weight of it sits between the two of you, unspoken, thick in the air.

You look up at him, your chest tight in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. "Thank you," you manage, and you can’t quite shake the feeling that this — this little notebook — means more than just a gift. It’s something that says everything neither of you has been able to put into words.

Jack nods, his smile barely there but real. He takes a step back, as if pulling himself away from something he doesn’t know how to navigate. The silence stretches. But it’s different this time. It’s not awkward. It’s soft. It feels like a bridge between the two of you, built in the quiet spaces you’ve shared and the ones you haven’t.

“I got you something too,” you say before you can stop yourself. When you reach into your pocket, your fingers brush against the small, folded package you had tucked away.

His brow furrows slightly in surprise, but he takes it from you, and when he unwraps it, it’s just a small, hand-carved keychain you had spotted at a market — simple, not much, but it reminded you of Jack.

He laughs, a short, quiet sound that vibrates in the space between you, and the tension between you two feels almost manageable. “Thank you,” he says, his fingers brushing over the little keychain.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The noise of the ER seems distant, muffled, as if it’s happening in another world altogether. The clock ticks, the final minutes of your shift inching by. But in that small, quiet space, it’s as if time has paused, holding its breath alongside the two of you.

“I guess it’s just... us then, huh?” he says finally, voice softer than before, quieter in a way that feels like more than just the end of a shift.

You nod, and for the first time in ages, the silence between you feels easy. Comfortable.

Just a few more minutes, and the shift will be over. But right now, this — this small, quiet exchange, these moments that don’t need words — is all that matters.

The day shift is winding down when Jack walks in, just before 7 p.m.

The usual rhythm of the ER is fading, the intensity of the day finally trailing off as the night shift prepares to take over. He arrives just as the last few nurses finish their rounds, their faces tired but steady as they begin to pass the baton.

But something feels off. The station is quieter than usual, the hum of conversation quieter, the buzz of the monitors almost unnaturally sharp in the sudden stillness. Jack glances around, noting the lack of a familiar face, the way the department feels a little emptier, more distant. He spots Dana and Robby at the nurse’s station, exchanging murmurs, and immediately knows something’s not right.

You’re not there.

He doesn’t immediately ask. Instead, he strides toward the counter, his mind racing to calculate the cause. A sick day? A last-minute emergency? Something’s happened, but he can’t quite place it. The thought that it’s anything serious doesn’t sit well in his chest, and yet, it presses down harder with every minute that passes.

It’s 6:55 p.m. now, and the clock keeps ticking forward.

By 7:00, Jack is halfway through his handoff, scanning the patient charts and mentally preparing for the usual chaos, but his focus keeps drifting.

Where are you?

He finally asks. Not loudly, not with urgency, but quietly enough that only Robby and Dana catch the edge in his voice. “Have they called in tonight?”

Before he even has a chance to follow up with your name, Dana looks up at him, a tired smirk on her face. “No. No word.”

Robby shakes his head, looking between Dana and Jack. “We haven’t heard anything. Thought you’d know.”

He nods, swallowing the sudden tightness in his throat. He tries not to show it — not to let it show in the way his shoulders stiffen or the slight furrow between his brows. He finishes up the handoff as usual, but his mind keeps returning to you, to the way the shift feels off without your presence, the absence weighing heavy on him.

By the time the rest of the night staff rolls in, Jack's focus is split. He’s still mentally running through the patient roster, but he’s half-waiting, half-hoping to see you come walking to the nurses station, just like always.

It doesn't happen.

And then, as if on cue, a message comes through — a notification from HR. You’d left for the day in a rush. Your parent had been hospitalised out of town, and you’d rushed off without a word. No call. No notice.

Jack stops in his tracks. The room feels suddenly too small, the quiet too loud. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he puts his phone back into his pocket, his eyes flicking over it again, like it will make more sense the second time.

His mind moves quickly, fast enough to keep up with the frantic pace of the ER around him, but his body is still, frozen for a heartbeat longer than it should be. He doesn’t know what to do with this — this sudden, heavy weight of worry and concern.

The team, in their usual way, rallies. They pull a care package together like clockwork — snacks, tissues, a soft blanket someone swears helps during long waits in hospital chairs. A card circulates, scrawled with signatures and the usual messages: thinking of you, hang in there, we’ve got you. It’s routine, something they’ve done for each other countless times in the past, a small gesture in the face of someone’s crisis.

But Jack doesn’t sign the card.

He sits quietly in the break room for a while, the weight of his concern simmering beneath the surface of his usual calm. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel — concern for you, for the situation, for how the ER feels without you there. The package is ready, and with it, so is a quiet, unsaid piece of himself.

When the others step away, he tucks something else inside, sliding it between the blanket and the box of cheap chocolates the team threw in at the last minute — an envelope, plain, unmarked, the handwriting inside careful but unsteady, like the words cost more than he expected.

Take care of them. The place isn’t the same without you.

Short. Simple. Honest in a way he rarely lets himself be. It isn’t signed. It doesn’t need to be. You’d know.

The team doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they make no comment on it. The ER continues to move, steady in its rhythm, even as Jack’s world feels like it’s been thrown off balance. The package is sent. The shift carries on. And Jack waits. He waits, in the quiet space between you and him, in the absence of your presence, in the weight of things he can’t say.

The clock ticks on. And with it, Jack misses you a little more that night.

Two weeks.

That’s how long the space at the nurse’s station stayed empty. That’s how long the chair at the nurse’s station sat empty — the one you always claimed without thinking. Nobody touched it. Nobody had to say why. It just sat there — a quiet, hollow thing that marked your absence more clearly than any words could’ve.

Two weeks of missing the familiar scrape of your pen against the chart. Two weeks of shift changes stripped down to bare-bones handoffs, clipped and clinical, no space for the soft edges of inside jokes or the quiet pauses where your voice used to fit. Two weeks of coffee going cold, of tasting far more bitter than it did before. Two weeks of the ER feeling off-kilter, like the clock’s gears had ground themselves down and no one could quite put the pieces back.

When you walk back through the automatic doors, it’s like the air catches on itself — that split-second stall before everything moves forward again. You don’t announce yourself. No one really does. The place just swallows you back up, the way it does to anyone who leaves and dares to return.

You clock in that morning. The shift goes on as normal, as normal as the ER can be. The others greet you like they’ve been told to act normal. Quick nods, small smiles. Robby pats your shoulder, light and brief. Dana leaves an extra coffee by the monitors without a word.

When the clock hands swing toward 6:50 p.m., you’re already at the nurses station. Sitting at the desk like you’d never left. Like nothing’s changed, like no time has passed at all. Like the last two weeks were some other life. Scrubs pressed, badge clipped at the same off-center tilt it always is. But your hands hover just slightly, resting on the chart without writing, pen poised like your mind hasn’t quite caught up to your body being back.

The air feels different — not heavy, not light, just suspended. Stalled.

And then you hear them. Footsteps.

Steady. Familiar. The cadence you’ve known for months.

Jack.

He stops a few feet from you, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, the faintest crease between his brow like he hasn’t quite convinced himself this isn’t some kind of trick.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

No patient names. No vitals. No shorthand. The handoff script that’s lived on your tongues for months goes untouched. Instead, you stand there, surrounded by the soft beep of monitors and the shuffle of overworked staff, wrapped in the kind of silence that says everything words can’t.

It’s a strange sort of silence. Not awkward. Just full.

For a long moment, the chaos of the ER fades to the edges, the overhead pages and the low mechanical hums turning to static. You look at him, and it’s like seeing him for the first time all over again. The small lines around his eyes seem deeper. The tension at his shoulders, usually buried beneath practiced calm, sits plainly in view.

You wonder if it’s been there the whole time. You wonder if he noticed the same about you.

His eyes meet yours, steady, unguarded. The first thing that breaks the quiet isn’t a handoff or a patient update.

“I missed this.”

The corner of his mouth twitches into something that doesn’t quite make it to a smile. When he replies, it’s not rushed. It’s not easy. But it’s the truth.

“I missed you.”

Simple. Honest. No side steps. No softening the edges with humor. Just the truth. The words sit there between you, bare and uncomplicated. For a second, the world feels smaller — just the two of you, the hum of machines, and the weight of two weeks' worth of things unsaid.

His gaze shifts, softer now, searching your face for something, or maybe just memorizing it all over again.

“How are they?” he asks, voice low, careful. Not clinical, not casual — the way people ask when they mean it.

You swallow, the answer lingering behind your teeth. You hadn’t said much to anyone, not even now. But his question doesn’t pry, it just waits.

“They’re stable,” you say after a moment, the words simple but heavy. “Scared. Tired. I stayed until I couldn’t anymore.”

Jack nods once, slow and sure, as if that answer was all he needed. His hand flexes slightly at his side, like there’s more he wants to do, more he wants to say — but this is still the space between shifts, still the same ER where everything gets held back for later.

But his voice is steady when he replies.

“I’m glad you were with them.”

A pause. One of those long, silent stretches that says everything the words don’t.

“And I’m glad you came back.”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t have to.

And then, the clock ticks forward. The night shift begins. The world presses on, the monitors start beeping their endless song, and the next patient is already waiting. But the weight of those words lingers, tucked just beneath the surface.

And this time — neither of you pretend it didn’t happen.

But it’s still not quite the right time.

Jack’s walls aren’t the obvious kind. They don’t come with sharp edges or cold shoulders. His are quieter, built from small hesitations — the steady, practiced way he keeps his distance, the careful deflection tucked behind dry humor and midnight coffee refills. And at the center of it, two stubborn truths: he’s older, and he’s widowed.

Being widowed is a quiet shadow that doesn’t lift, not really. It taught him how easily a future can disappear, how love doesn’t stop the world from taking what it wants. He doesn’t talk about her, not much — not unless the shift runs long and the coffee’s gone cold — but the space she left is always there, shaping the way he looks at you, at himself, at the idea of starting over. Jack tells himself it wouldn’t be fair. Not to you. Not when you’ve still got years ahead to figure out what you want. Not when he’s already stood graveside, watching the world shrink down to a headstone and a handful of fading memories.

You’re younger. Less worn down. Less jaded. He tells himself — on the long drives home, when sleep refuses to come — that you deserve more time than he can offer. More time to figure out your world without him quietly shaping the edges of it. It’s the sort of difference people pretend doesn’t matter, until it does. Until he’s standing beside you, catching himself in the reflection of the trauma room glass, wondering how the years settled heavier on him than on you. Until he’s half a sentence deep into asking what you’re doing after shift, and pulling back before the words can leave his mouth.

Because no matter how much space he tries to give, the part of him that’s still grieving would always leave its mark. And you deserve more than the half-mended heart of a man who’s already learned how to live without the things he loves.

And you?

You’ve got your own reasons.

Not the ones anyone could spot at a glance, not the kind that leave scars or stories behind. Just a quiet, low-grade fear. The kind that hums beneath your skin, born from years of learning that getting too comfortable with people — letting yourself want too much — always ends the same way: doors closing, phones going silent, people walking away before you even notice they’ve started.

So you anchor yourself to the things that don’t shift. Your routine. Your steadiness. The hours that stretch long and hard but never ask you to be anything more than reliable. Because when you’re needed, you can’t be left behind. When you’re useful, it hurts less when people don’t stay.

Jack’s careful, and you’re cautious, and the space between you both stays exactly where it’s always been: not quite close enough.

So you both settle for the in-between. The ritual. The routine. Shared drinks at handoff. Inside jokes sharp enough to leave bruises. Half-finished conversations, always interrupted by codes and pages and the sharp ring of phones.

The ER runs like clockwork, except the clock’s always broken, and in the background the rest of the team watches the same loop play out — two people orbiting closer, always just out of reach.

The bets from Princess and Perlah are at the heaviest they’ve ever been, and so are their pockets. There are no more ‘Never happening’ — everyone’s now in the ‘Next week’ or ‘Next Month’. The others have stopped pretending they don’t see what’s happening. In fact, they’re practically counting the days, biding their time like a clock ticking in reverse, waiting for that moment when everything finally clicks into place.

At first, it’s subtle.

One less handoff cut short by timing. One more overlapping hour “by accident.”

You and Jack work together more and more now, whether it's trauma cases, code blue alerts, or the quieter moments between chaotic shifts when the floor clears enough to breathe. The careful choreography of your daily dance is starting to wear thin around the edges, like a well-loved sweater that’s a little too threadbare to keep pretending it’s still holding together.

The soft exchanges in the middle of emergency rooms — the handoffs that are always clean and professional — have started to bleed into something else. You don’t mean for it to happen. Neither of you do.

But you find yourselves walking the same hallways just a bit more often. You swap shifts with an ease you hadn’t before. Jack’s voice lingers a little longer when he says, “Good night, see you tomorrow,” and the weight of that goodbye has started to feel a little like an unspoken promise.

But it’s still not enough to break the silence.

The team watches, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but neither of you says a word about it. You can’t, because the truth is, it’s easier to let things stay where they are. Safer, maybe. To just let the rhythm of the shifts carry you through without the sudden plunge of vulnerability that might shatter it all.

Still, they see it.

Dana, ever the romantic, gives you that knowing, almost conspiratorial look when she catches you making eye contact with Jack across the floor. “You two need a room,” she’ll joke, but it’s always followed by that soft exhale, like she’s waiting for the punchline you won’t give her.

Princess’ and Perlah’s bets are always louder, and always in a language neither of you understand. Every shift, they pass by the nurse’s station with sly grins, casting their predictions with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re talking about.

“Next month, I’m telling you. It’s happening in the next month. Mark my words.”

Neither you or Jack respond to the teasing. But it’s not because you don’t hear it. It’s because, in the quietest corners of your mind, the thoughts are too sharp, too close, and there’s something terrifying about acknowledging them.

The room holds its breath for you both, watching the space between you become thinner with every passing minute. You can’t feel the ticking of time, but the team certainly can.

And so it goes. Days blend into each other. Hours pass in a blur of frantic beeps and calls, hands working together with that comfortable rhythm, but always keeping just a little distance — just a little bit too much space.

But it’s getting harder to ignore the truth of what everyone else already knows. You’re both circling something, something that neither of you is brave enough to catch yet.

Almost.

Almost always. But never quite.

The shift is brutal.

The ER’s pulse is erratic, like a heart struggling to maintain rhythm. The trauma bays are full, the waiting room is overflowing, and the chaos — the relentless, grinding chaos — is a constant roar in your ears. Alarms bleed into each other. The phone rings off the hook. Machines chirp, beds squeak, someone shouts for help, and the scent of antiseptic is powerless against the metallic undertone of blood lingering in the air.

It’s the kind of shift that makes even seasoned hands tremble. The kind that swallows hours whole, leaves your back sore and your mind frayed, and still, the board never clears.

At some point, you’re not sure when, maybe after the fifth code blue or the eighth set of vitals skimming the edge of disaster, Robby mutters something sharp and low under his breath, peels his phone out of his pocket, and steps away from the desk.

“Calling Abbot,” he says, voice tight. “We’re underwater.”

Jack isn’t due for another two hours, but the call doesn’t surprise you. The ER doesn’t care about schedules. And Jack — he shows up twenty minutes later.

His eyes meet yours across the station, and there’s no need for words. Just a nod. Just the quiet understanding that this isn’t going to be easy, if such a thing even exists.

The clock ticks and skips, seconds folding into one another, meaningless, until finally, the worst of it comes.

Trauma alert.

A car accident. The usual chaos.

Rollover on the interstate, the kind that dispatch voices always sound too steady while reporting. The kind where the EMTs work in grim silence. Two patients this time. A married couple.

The usual chaos unfolds the second the gurneys crash through the double doors — shouting, gloves snapping on, IV lines threading, vitals barking out like a list of crimes.

But this time, it’s different.

You notice it before anyone says it aloud: the husband’s hand is tangled in his wife’s, their fingers blood-slick but still locked together, knuckles white with the sheer force of holding on. Their wedding rings glinted under the harsh fluorescents, a tiny, defiant flash of gold against the chaos.

Neither of them will let go. Even unconscious, the connection stays.

You’re already in motion. Jack too. The usual rhythm, muscle memory sharp as ever. But something in the air feels different. He glances once at the woman, blood matted in her hair, her left hand still clutching the man’s. The rings. The way their bodies lean toward each other even in a state of injury, as if muscle memory alone could keep them tethered

And for just a second, he falters.

You almost miss it, but you don’t.

Jack works the wife’s side, but her injuries speak for themselves. Her chart is a litany of injuries: internal bleeding, tension pneumothorax, skull fracture.

You watch Jack work the case like his hands are moving on instinct, but his face gives him away. It’s too quiet. Too closed off. You see it all in real-time — the silent war behind his eyes, the years catching up to him in the span of a heartbeat. The lines around his mouth tightening, the weight of something too personal rising behind the clinical routine.

You know who he’s thinking about.

It’s her — it’s her face he sees.

Jack’s gloves are stained, jaw tight, voice steady but clipped as the monitor flatlines for the third time. You watch. You press hands to bleeding wounds that won’t stop. You call out numbers you barely register. But the inevitable creeps in anyway.

At 6:41 p.m., time of death is called.

No one speaks, not right away. The monitors fall silent, the room too. The husband, still unconscious, is wheeled away. His hand finally slips from hers, left empty on the gurney.

It’s Jack that calls it. He stands over the woman’s bed for a beat too long, the silence of it all thickening in the air. His shoulders sag ever so slightly, the weight of it settling in — the anger, the grief, the helplessness. There’s no denying it, the hours and hours of labor, of lives teetering between life and death, have begun to take their toll.

You watch him and know the exact moment it breaks him.

He doesn’t even need to say it. You can see it in the way he moves — stiff, distant, a bit lost. His hand hovers by his stethoscope, his fingers curling slightly before dropping. The tension in his face is the kind you’ve seen only when someone is holding themselves together by a thread.

He catches your eye briefly, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. There’s an unspoken understanding, a shared grief between the two of you that’s settled like an old wound, reopened. He turns away before you can even ask, stepping out of the trauma bay and heading toward the on-call room, his pace a little slower than usual, weighed down by more than just the fatigue.

The shift drags on, but the tension, the heaviness, only grows. Finally, when it seems like it might never end, you make the decision. You leave your post, quietly slipping away from the chaos, and find your way to the on-call room where Jack is already sitting.

It’s dark in there but you don’t need to see him to know what’s there. His chest rises and falls with a weary sigh. There’s nothing to say at first. Nothing that would make this any easier, and you both know it.

You sit beside him in silence, the space between you both filled with the weight of the night, of the patient lost, of the things neither of you can change. You don’t push. You don’t ask. You simply exist in the same room, the same quiet, like two people who are too exhausted, too worn, to speak but too connected to stay apart.

Minutes pass. Long ones.

It’s Jack who breaks the silence, his voice a little rough, like it’s been buried too long.

“I kept thinking we’d have more time,” he says. It’s not addressed to you, not really — more confession than conversation, the kind of truth that’s spent too long locked behind his ribs.

You don’t answer right away, because you know the ache that lives under those words. You’ve felt it too. So you sit there, listening, the silence making room for him to say the rest.

And then, softer, barely above a breath —

“She looked like her. For a second — I thought it was her.”

The words hang in the dark, heavier than any silence.

You reach over, placing a hand gently on his. Your fingers brush his skin, warm, steady. You just sit there, the two of you, in the dark — the only light seeping in from under the door, pale and distant, like the world outside is somewhere neither of you belong right now.

Minutes pass, slow and shapeless, the kind of time that doesn’t measure in hours or shifts or chart updates. Just quiet. Just presence. Just the shared, unspoken ache of people who’ve both lost too much to say the words out loud.

When he finally exhales — long, steady, but still weighted — you feel the faintest shift in the air. Not fixed. Not fine. But breathing. Alive. Here.

When his gaze lifts, meeting yours — searching, fragile, waiting for something he can’t name — you finally offer it, soft but certain.

“We don’t get forever,” you whisper. “But we’ve still got now.”

And it’s enough. Maybe not to fix anything. Maybe not to make the night any less heavy. But enough to pull Jack through to the other side.

He exhales, slow and quiet, the tension in his chest loosening like it’s finally allowed to. The moment is small — no grand revelations, no dramatic declarations.

Just two people, breathing in the same quiet, carrying the same scars.

When the next shift change arrives, the rhythm of the ER doesn’t quite return to normal.

The pulse of the place still beats steady — monitors chiming, phones ringing, stretchers wheeling in and out — but the handoff feels different. Like the pattern has shifted beneath your feet.

The familiar routine plays out — the smooth exchange of patient reports, the clipped shorthand you both know by heart, the easy banter that’s always filled the spaces between — but now it lingers. The words sit heavier. The pauses stretch longer. The politeness that once held everything in place has softened, frayed at the edges by the weight of what’s left unsaid.

You stay five minutes later. Then ten.

Neither of you points it out. Neither of you needs to.

The silence isn’t awkward — it’s intentional. It hangs easy between you, unhurried and unforced. The kind of silence built on understanding rather than distance. Like the quiet knows something you both haven’t said out loud yet.

The rest of the team doesn’t call you on it. But they see it. And you catch the glances.

You catch Dana’s raised eyebrow as she clocks out, her expression all knowing, no judgment — just quiet observation, like she’s been waiting for this to finally click into place. Robby doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk behind his coffee cup this time, his glance flicking from you to Jack and back again, as if he’s already tallying another win in the betting pool.

And still, no one says a word.

The ER lights flicker, humming softly against the early morning haze as the next shift trickles in, tired and rumpled, faces scrubbed clean and coffee cups refilled. The world moves on — patients, pages, paperwork — but Jack doesn’t.

His glance finds you, steady and certain, like an anchor after too many months of pretending there wasn’t a current pulling you both closer all along. There’s no question in it. No hesitation. Just quiet agreement.

And this time, neither of you heads for the door alone.

You fall into step beside him, the silence still stretched soft between you, your shoulder brushing his just slightly as you cross through the automatic doors and into the cool, early light. The air is crisp against your scrubs, the hum of the hospital fading behind you, replaced by the quiet sprawl of the parking lot and the slow stretch of a sky trying to shake off the dark.

The weight you’ve both carried for so long — all the almosts, the what-ifs, the walls and the fear — feels lighter now. Still there, but not crushing. Not anymore.

It isn’t just a handoff anymore. It hasn’t been for a while, but now it’s undeniable.

You glance toward him as the quiet settles between you one last time before the day fully wakes up, and he meets your look with that same soft steadiness — the kind that doesn’t demand, doesn’t rush, just holds. Like the space between you has finally exhaled, like the moment has finally caught up to the both of you after all this time skirting around it.

His hand finds yours, slow and certain, like it was always supposed to be there. No grand gesture, no sharp intake of breath, just the gentle slide of skin against skin — warm, grounding, steady. His thumb brushes the back of your hand once, absentminded and careful, like he’s memorizing the feel of this — of you — as if to make sure it’s real.

The world beyond hums back to life, ready for another day beginning. But here, in this sliver of space, between what you’ve always been and whatever comes next — everything stays still.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You don’t need to.

It’s in the way his fingers curl just slightly tighter around yours, in the way the last of the shift’s exhaustion softens at the edges of his expression. In the way the air feels different now — less heavy, less waiting. Like the question that’s lived between you for months has finally answered itself.

The first thin blush of sunrise creeps over the parking lot, painting long soft shadows across the cracked pavement, and neither of you move. There’s no rush now, no clock chasing you forward, no unspoken rule pushing you apart. Just this. Just you and him, side by side, hand in hand, standing still while the world stumbles back into motion.

It’s the start of something else.

And you both know it. Without needing to say a thing.

©yakshxiao 2025.

#jack abbot x reader #the pitt x reader #the pitt fic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt hbo #shawn hatosy #the pitt #dr abbot #jack abbot #michael robinavitch #dana evans #cassie mckay #x reader #dr abbot x you #jack abbot x you #the pitt max #the pitt imagine #the pitt x you #jack abbot imagine

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rodolfoparras · 1 year ago

Text

Don’t cry over spilled milk (or do)

Pairing: The Milkman x Male reader

Content warnings: 18+, anal fingering, Francis is one vocal fellow

Thinking about Francis Mosses who’s always been considered the perfect top, mostly because of his size- getting to bottom for the first time in his life.

Down on all four, with his ass in the air big fat cock uselessly hanging between his legs, and feeling himself flushing red from being in such a vulnerable position.

Besides the embarrassment brewing in his gut, he feels restless just laying like that , so used to being able to see what his partner is doing to him, now he can only rely on the feeling of your two thumbs prying his cheeks apart, and exposing the sensitive flesh to the cold air.

Goosebumps raise across his skin, a sharp breath escapes his lips and he can feel the impatience growing inside of him. “Come on come come on just hurry up!,” he hisses out, feeling even more vulnerable from the way your gaze seems to be burning into the pink flesh of his ass.

“Patience love” you say, hand firmly landing on his cheek, and as much as he’s embarrassed to say it, the action manages to silence him.

His dark eyes glare down at the bright white sheets, thumbs fiddling with the loose threads of it, trying to ignore how his face must be as red as the cheek you just slapped while you freely ogle at him.

“Anybody told you that you look pretty like this hm?” You say, thumbing curiously at his puckered rim, but not adding enough pressure to push your finger inside him.

Another wave of embarrassment washes over him, and he feel the urge to cuss you out with every curse word to exist in the English language but he knows but he knows by doing so you, you’ll further prolong this.

So he clears his throat, swallows down his pride before he mutters the word “No,”

A contended hum escapes your lips, your hot breath washing over his skin and this time he knows your face is just a hair away from his puckered rim. “Well you are,” you say, words as firm as your grip on him. “So so pretty”

And you’re so so close yet so far away.

He clears his throat again, swallows the last bit of pride in him before he utters the words “Please just please-“

“What is it sweetheart? What do you want hm?” You say, amusement clear in your voice. He can even feel the way the tip of your nose drags along his bottom half, doing everything and anything in your power to wind him up and he doesn’t know how much more he can take before he combust.

“Please just please fuck me!” He cries out, tears threatening to spill from his glassy eyes but all the air is suddenly punched out of his lungs when you slip the tip of your finger inside.

There’s a slight sting that comes with the stretch, body momentarily tensing as you carefully work your finger inside him”Oh! Oh oh fuck!”

“Francis? You okay?” You say, carefully massaging the pink flesh.

With each brush of your finger tip; the burning sensation dulls a bit and he feels himself relax back onto the sheets, a soft hum rolling off his tongue before he manages to properly answer you. “Good, it’s good,” he hums out, as he further relaxes into your touch.

Eventually the stinging sensation completely subsides and he starts feeling empty with only your fingertip inside. “More, please more,” he grunts out hips subconsciously buck up into your hand.

“Such a demanding little thing” you say to him as a chuckle escapes your lips but you don’t waste a second working your finger deeper inside of him til you’re buried knuckles deep, and tactically grazing the wall of nerves that sends sparks of pleasure through his body, specially down to his dick.”Mmph-God! Just- ah just like that”

This isn’t something he’s felt before, your touch feels ever so intoxicating especially when your calloused finger grazes the sensitive wall of nerves and before he realizes what he’s doing he finds himself begging for more, greedy as ever and drunk on pleasure.

It doesn’t take much before you fulfill his wish, pushing two fingers past his puckered rim, the stinging sensation briefly returning , as he gets used to the feeling of having two thick digits inside of him. “Come on sweetheart, you can take it yeah? I know you can” he hears you say, familiar word spilling past your lips and for a brief seconds he imagines the times he’d been the one to say it when he had someone under him.

Eager to prove himself, he starts fucking himself back onto your digits, something that starts off slow as he gets used to the stretch before he increases the pace. “Ugh fuck - fuck feels so so good yes yes yes!!”

By this point he doesn’t register when you work a third finger inside of him, only registering the fullness that comes with it and the way your hand slides between his legs, gently palming his ballsack

“Look at you love, haven’t even fucked you yet you’re already so close to cumming,” You say , puncturing every word with a thrust to his prostate while tugging at his hard and weeping dick.

Francis couldn’t care less about the fact that you’re taunting him, couldnt care less about how pathetic he looks like this, all he can care about is how every thrust - every stroke, has him inching closer to his orgasm.

“Please oh god please -“ He cries out, begs and pleads sounding something akin to a mantra, fingers practically digging holes into the mattress and the muscles in his thighs cramping up from how hard he’s fucking himself onto your hand.

It doesn’t take much before he feels his toes curl, pulse roaring in his ears as a wave of hot white pleasure washes over him.

“Ah ah God ‘m cumming ‘m cumming please-“ he cries out, feels himself spill all over the sheets and his thighs, body shaking as you continue to milk his cock.

“Stop- stop, please.” He finally slurs out, once there’s nothing but pathetic spurts of cum coming from his cock, hand blindly pushing you away from him before he finally slumps down onto the mattress.

Exhaustion creeps up his bones, eyelids feeling heavier than ever and all of a sudden he feels himself fading away in the dream land.

“Ah, ah ah,” he hears you say, the sound of your sharp voice snapping him awake. “We’re not done here,”

#that’s not my neighbor #that’s not my neighbor milkman #that’s not my neighbor milkman x reader #that’s not my neighbor milkman x male reader #francis mosses #Francis mosses x reader #Francis mosses x male reader #milkman x reader #milkman x male reader #dom male reader #sub male character #top male reader #bottom male character #x reader #male reader #x male reader

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flwrkid14 · 7 months ago

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Letters in Green Ink: Phantom's Footsteps on Gotham's Rooftops

Tim Drake was no stranger to paranoia. It was practically a job requirement in Gotham. But this? This was getting weird.

It started small: the feeling of being watched on rooftops, a shadow a little too close. Harmless, at first. But then the sticky notes began.

Random, anonymous sticky notes. Clues he’d missed. Addresses for gang hideouts. Details on corrupt businessmen.

He found one on his motorcycle seat. Another on the Batcomputer. A bright green note scrawled with:

“Check the docks. Midnight.”

Tim had learned to trust his gut, and his gut was screaming: This is not normal.

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

Meanwhile, in another corner of Gotham:

Danny Fenton was hovering invisibly above a warehouse, nervously biting his lip. He was shaking. Not because he was scared of Gotham’s criminals. Nope. The real danger? Red Robin’s eyes.

Danny: internal screaming 'Why did I think this was a good idea?'

Also Danny: hovering invisibly above Tim, whispering to himself: “Okay, Danny. You’re helping. You’re useful. He doesn’t need to know you’re a stalker. A cool stalker. Like a… guardian angel! Yes. Totally fine. Not creepy at all.”

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

Tim, mid-stakeout, could feel the eyes. Again. He spun around, batarang ready. Nothing. Just empty shadows. The wind.

He scowled. “Alright, whoever you are. You’re getting annoying.”

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

Danny floated a few rooftops away, clutching his chest. “Oh my god, he spoke. And he’s mad. Why is that hot?”

He watched as Red Robin took down three thugs single-handedly. His fighting was brutal, efficient. Danny, invisible and swooning, whispered: “He’s so cool.”

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

The next night: a bust gone sideways. Tim found himself cornered by more goons than expected, already calculating the least-bad injury. Then, out of nowhere, a ghostly chill swept through the alley.

Blowtorch thug? Frozen solid.

Gunman? Knocked out cold.

And there, floating in the moonlight, glowing white hair and intense green eyes: Phantom.

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “You. You’re the one who’s been—”

Phantom blinked, stammered, “Uh, gotta go!” and vanished like a startled deer.

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

Back in his lair (aka an abandoned Gotham clocktower because aesthetic™️), Danny spiraled. “He saw me. He saw me! Oh god, why did I freeze that guy? Cool guys don’t freeze goons.”

Jazz’s voice in his head: “Danny, you have to stop.”

Danny: “I CAN’T, JAZZ. HE’S TOO PRETTY.”

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

Tim was in full detective mode. Batman-level scowling. “Phantom. Ghost powers. Clearly interested in my cases. Why?”

He scanned the city. Ran searches. No results.

But the sticky notes kept coming.

“Check the East End warehouse. 10pm.”

“Watch out for the armored guy. He has backup.”

Tim didn’t know what was more frustrating: the lack of information, or the fact that Phantom was always right.

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

Finally, one night, Tim cornered him. Literally. Phantom turned a corner and smacked into Red Robin. Hard.

Tim crossed his arms. “Alright. Talk.”

Danny, blushing so hard his glow flickered. “Uh… hi.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “Why are you following me?”

Danny, brain short-circuiting: “I LIKE YOUR… uh, CAPE.”

Tim blinked. “My cape.”

Danny nodded furiously. “It’s… cool. Flowy.”

Tim stared. Silence stretched. Then: “You’re helping me.”

Danny swallowed. “Um. Yeah?”

Tim’s voice softened. “Why?”

Danny, panicking, blurted: “Because I like you!”

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

Silence.

Tim’s brain: Error 404.

Danny: contemplating phasing into the floor.

Finally, Tim sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You… are the most chaotic stalker I’ve ever had.”

Danny, grinning nervously: “So, um. Friends?”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “We’ll start with coworkers.”

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

Danny, flying away, fist-pumping in the air: “He didn’t say no!”

Tim, watching him go, muttering: “I need coffee. And maybe an exorcist.”

#tim drake #danny phantom #brain dead #dead tired #danny fenton #dc x dp #Danny has a crush on red robin and the only way he can express it is by taking care of him #this means he stalks red robin on all his patroles and makes sure he's always safe #tim is extremely paranoid at first but then he meets phantom and fuck is he pretty #how could such a pretty boy like him? phantom looks like he was sculpted by the gods and he cares so much for tim and looks out for him and #fuck he's already crushing on the guy isn't he? oh well #can you really blame him?

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t4kalcvr · 6 days ago

Text

THE TWIN SIN

𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 word count :: ( 3,807 ) genre :: dark romance, erotica, forbidden love, && secret desire. content contains :: extremely spicy read 🌶️, explicit content, infidelity, cunnilingus, penetration, orgasm, BORDERLINE somnophilia, reader & rumi are twins. PART ONE ! PART TWO PART THREE !!

𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯

your room is darker than usual. the curtains haven’t been drawn in days, and the faint blue from the hallway security lights bathes everything in a false calm. the silence is thick, but not empty. it’s never truly quiet here. not when your mind speaks louder than the demons you hunt, not when the walls remember things you wish you could forget.

you’re curled on the edge of your bed, knees pulled to your chest, hoodie swallowed in the folds of your limbs, sleeves half-twisted and fingers white-knuckled from holding too tight. the air feels heavier tonight — and not from demons. it’s the kind of weight that sinks into your bones, into the part of you that still hasn’t forgiven yourself for that one night.

no. not night.

morning.

early.

sunlight leaking like gold sin across rumi’s sheets.

your sister’s bed.

your twin. your mirror. your better half. the one with the conviction, the one who doesn’t falter. the one who smiles like a sword and sings like she was born to cut monsters down.

and you?

you were in her bed, beneath a demon’s hands, your back arched and your voice a hoarse, broken thing as you whispered his name like it tasted forbidden. like it was burning your tongue on the way out.

jinu.

you hear her now. behind her closed door. breathless laughter. soft, rhythmic thumps. her voice wraps around his like a silk ribbon — seamless, beautiful, whole.

the difference is — everyone knows about them. they’re allowed to be a secret in plain sight.

you’re just the mistake he doesn’t talk about.

and god, you hate yourself for wishing you were anything but.

you hate that you remember how he sounded the first time. how he gripped your hips like they were made for ruin. how his demon eyes glowed beneath your skin, lighting you up from the inside out.

you hate that you wanted it.

“thinking too hard, don’t you think?”

his voice cuts through the fog in your head like a blade sheathed in velvet. slow. smooth. serpentine.

you flinch. you hadn’t even heard the door open. hadn’t heard footsteps. but there he is — leaning against your windowsill like he belongs in a dream you’re trying to forget.

only this time, he’s not dressed in black.

he wears a loud, silk button-down shirt splashed with watercolor pinks and reds, open halfway down his chest — exposing collarbones like carved marble and smooth, unbothered skin. gold chains catch on his throat like he stole them from heaven and bent them into something unholy. bright white slacks hang low on his hips, spotless, expensive. his hair is swept up like he’s ready for a stage, not a haunting.

he’s color. he’s warmth. he’s everything beautiful and burning and wrong.

you shoot to your feet.

“leave.”

he tilts his head like you’re adorable. like you’re a pet scolding its master. “so cold tonight,” he hums, stepping forward. “and here i thought we were past pretending.”

“i’m not doing this,” you snap. your voice is quiet but sharp. fractured. “you shouldn’t be here.”

he doesn’t stop moving. not until he’s standing close enough that you feel it again — that warmth. that heat. that overwhelming gravity he always carries with him, like the air bends around him and forgets who it belongs to.

“why?” he murmurs, voice like smoke against your cheek. “it wasn’t a problem before. the first time… you didn’t seem so conflicted. if i remember right, you—”

“because it was my sister’s bed.”

your voice breaks. not from volume. from everything else.

“because she’s my twin. because you’re hers, jinu. everyone knows it. she smiles when she looks at you. she talks about you like you’re a miracle. and i…” your hands tremble at your sides. “i let you touch me first. before her. before you even saw her like that.”

he has the audacity to look guilty. no — not guilty. concerned. like it matters. like that makes it better.

“it was a moment,” he says, stepping closer again. “it didn’t mean—”

“it meant everything.”

you shut your eyes, voice shaking. “and it’s eating me alive. i can’t stand the sound of her happiness because i know the secret under it. i know what you’ve done. i know what i let happen. and i don’t want to do it again. i won’t.”

he reaches out — his fingers brush your jaw, almost reverent. almost. but you step back before he can trace the edge of your skin, before he can worm his way back under it.

“leave.”

this time your voice is steady. steel, not sand. and something shifts in his face. he stares at you for a long, breathless moment — eyes unreadable. his lips part like he wants to say something. like there’s still more temptation where that came from.

but he doesn’t.

he turns. disappears in silence.

and you’re left with nothing but the echo of your own heartbeat and the aching in your spine. you walk to your bathroom, flick on the light, and stare at yourself. you don’t look like her. not really. not in this moment. you look tired. older. like someone who’s finally decided not to be devoured.

you brush your teeth. wash your face. change into the shirt that still smells faintly of rosewater and lavender.

rumi’s scent.

you hate that it still comforts you.

you climb into bed and pull the sheets up to your chest, heart loud in your ears. you don’t cry. not tonight. tonight you made the right choice. and maybe that’s enough.

but even as your eyes close, you swear you can still feel him.

his voice, coiled behind your ear like a whispered curse:

“thinking too hard…”

𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯

sleep comes eventually. not easily, not gently. it drags you under like thick velvet — heavy and warm, suffocating in its sweetness. it clings to your skin, wraps around your limbs, lulls your mind into stillness with the false promise of rest.

but even in dreams, he finds you.

it starts with heat.

not fire — but humid. sticky. breathless. the kind that clings to your neck like sweat in the middle of july. your body shifts against the sheets, already damp, and your thighs press together instinctively. there’s a pressure building low in your stomach, soft at first — then aching.

you hear something.

a voice?

no — a breath.

your head tilts in the dream, like you’re watching yourself from inside your own skin. your body lies there, vulnerable, untouched and waiting. the room is painted gold and amber, flickering like candlelight though you own none. and then—

lips.

wet, slow, starving — on your neck, then lower. someone’s mouth suckles the curve of your collarbone like it belongs to them. hands ghost over your chest, thumbs brushing your nipples until they stiffen. it doesn’t feel like a dream. it feels real. almost too much. too sharp. your breath stutters as your back arches on instinct, and a tongue traces the underside of your breast like it’s a promise.

a whisper curls at your thigh.

warm breath, so close you twitch.

and then — his voice. silk-drenched, amused, wicked.

“i like when you make those noises…”

your eyes fly open.

and he’s there.

not in your head. not some figment. jinu. real. above you, straddling you on the mattress like he’d always been there. his hair is tousled, mouth slightly parted, his chest rising with uneven breaths. the hunger in his eyes is unholy — and not just desire. it’s something deeper. primal. like he hasn’t eaten in weeks and you’re the last drop of sweetness on earth.

your body freezes. but not with fear.

with recognition.

he’s shirtless. glowing faintly under the moonlight pouring through your blinds, a sheen of sweat across his skin. his pants hang dangerously low, the band of his briefs peeking out in the dimness, teasing. you know what you should do — scream, shove, demand answers. but your lips part for something else entirely.

“you’ve got the wrong room…” you whisper, voice hoarse from sleep and something heavier.

but your legs fall open wider.

an invitation.

jinu exhales a laugh — dark, amused, and dangerous.

he lowers himself slightly, palms bracing on either side of your head, his nose brushing yours.

“oh no, baby,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “this is exactly where i’m meant to be.”

his weight presses into the mattress, warm and real. he hovers above you like a fever, eyes glittering with that dangerous gold, barely human in the dark — even dressed like one. his body gleams in the moonlight, all lean muscle and long limbs and a kind of grace that doesn’t belong to the living.

you try to sit up, to say something sharper than the breath caught in your throat — but your wrists are already pinned gently, not harsh, not cruel. reverent, almost. like he’s handling something sacred.

“jinu…” his name escapes in a breathless warning, one that doesn’t sound like no.

his smile curves like sin. “you always say it like that,” he hums, voice like warm syrup. “soft. scared. sweet.”

his mouth finds your neck again, and you gasp, spine curling as he sucks slow and deep, tongue dragging like he’s savoring every second of your skin. his hands roam down, slow — thumbs grazing under the hem of your shirt, teasing.

“don’t…” you whisper — but your thighs squeeze around his hips, grounding him. holding him there.

he chuckles against your collarbone, the sound deep and indulgent. “you say that,” he murmurs, “but your body never listens.”

he licks down the valley of your chest, lips dragging heat in his wake, his hands slipping under your shirt like he’s unwrapping a gift.

and god, you let him.

you let him.

your fingers curl into the sheets, and your chest rises to meet his mouth, betraying every half-hearted protest. his tongue circles your nipple before pulling it into his mouth, wet and hot and dizzying. you moan — sharp, guttural — and he groans in response, low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“see?” he whispers, trailing kisses down your ribs. “this. this is why i come back.”

his hand cups between your legs, warm and possessive, and you jolt — breath hitching as he rubs slow, heavy circles through your underwear. his head dips, lips grazing just above your waistband.

“i could fuck rumi a hundred times and it wouldn’t feel like this,” he says, and you freeze.

not because it hurts.

because it doesn’t.

because it makes your pulse race. because you want to be the one he loses control over. because the idea of him never forgetting you feels too powerful to refuse.

“you don’t mean that,” you whisper, even as your hips lift into his hand.

he looks up, hair messy and lips red, expression worshipful and wild. “i mean every word. i like her — we have something pretty. clean.”

he leans in, breath hot over the soaked fabric between your thighs.

“but you…” he kisses just above your core, eyes locked to yours, “you ruin me.”

you shudder beneath him. you should push him off. scream. call for rumi. claw your way back to some version of right.

but your fingers are tangled in his hair now, guiding him lower.

and jinu — wicked, beautiful, starving jinu — sighs like he’s found god between your legs.

his mouth presses against you through the fabric — slow, savoring, deliberate — and your thighs twitch around his shoulders. your breath stutters out of your lungs like it’s trying to escape the room entirely. you can’t think. not clearly. not when he’s already soaking you in praise without a single word.

his tongue moves in slow, devoted drags, and you swear your vision dims at the edges. he hums against you like he’s content, like he could live right here, between your legs, drinking down every tremble you give him.

and still — still — you whisper, “we shouldn’t…”

you say it like a prayer that’s already halfway to hell.

his fingers slide beneath the waistband of your underwear, so slow it’s cruel. he pulls the fabric down your thighs like a ceremony, kissing each inch of newly exposed skin. he doesn’t say a word for a moment, just watches you, breathless and open beneath him, your hands gripping the sheets like they’ll keep you grounded.

“you’re still trying,” he murmurs, voice low and fond. “adorable.”

his lips press to your bare thigh, then higher. he kisses like a man possessed — no, not possessed. possessing. like your body is already his and you’re just now figuring it out.

“you keep saying ‘no’ with your mouth,” he breathes against your heat, “but your body is screaming ‘please.’”

your hips lift into his face before you can stop yourself.

you want to lie. you want to tell him he’s wrong, that you don’t want this, that it was a mistake then and it’s still a mistake now — but his tongue is sliding over you in long, slow strokes, and every thought is stripped away in pieces.

he eats you like he’s starving.

not messy. not brutal. tender. each flick of his tongue is calculated, each kiss against your clit a love letter written in fire. he moans into you like you’re the one ruining him.

your fingers thread into his hair, your thighs tightening around his head as your back arches — and it’s then that he grips your hips, pinning you still.

“don’t run now,” he says, voice wrecked with hunger. “i haven’t even started.”

you whimper — a small, broken sound that betrays every fight left in you.

and when he slides a finger into you, slow and perfect, curling just right, you swear you see stars burst behind your eyelids. your mouth falls open, no words, just breath. just sound. and he drinks every noise like it’s his reward.

“that’s it,” he growls softly. “let go. be honest with me for once.”

your hips roll into his face, your hands trembling in his hair, and you know — you know — this is the last line. after this, there’s no pretending. no going back. no erasing the way he touches you like he was born to, like he knows every soft part of you better than you do.

you’re already falling when he slides another finger inside.

your legs shake. your lips part around a half-formed “jinu—”

and he answers with a moan that melts straight through your spine.

it’s too much. it’s perfect. you hate him. you want more.

you want to scream. you want him to stay.

and when your climax hits you, it’s with the force of every sin you swore you’d never repeat.

you fall apart beneath him — voice a wrecked melody of pleasure and guilt, thighs clenching around his head, fingers locked in his hair like you’ll drown if you let go. he doesn’t stop. not until you’re trembling, crying out softly, your body twitching with aftershocks.

he finally lifts his head — lips slick, eyes wild, expression full of that unholy devotion that makes your heart ache.

he crawls up your body, leaving a trail of kisses along your stomach, chest, throat.

then he stops above you. one hand on your cheek. soft. adoring.

“see?” he whispers. “you were never just a mistake.”

your chest rises and falls like the tide, still catching its rhythm after everything. the room feels quieter now, but not safe — never safe. jinu’s weight settles beside you on the mattress, his skin still warm from the way he touched you, his breath brushing the top of your shoulder like he hasn’t really left your body at all.

you sit up slowly, tugging the blanket around yourself like it’s armor, even though he’s already seen every part of you unguarded.

you don’t look at him when you speak.

“we can’t keep doing this.”

your voice is soft. but final.

“one day we’ll get caught. and it’ll hurt everyone. it’ll destroy things that don’t deserve to be broken.”

you pause. the ache in your throat is worse than anything between your legs.

“this is selfish.”

a silence stretches between you, and then — fingers. gentle. beneath your chin.

he tilts your face toward him, eyes glowing dimly in the dark. molten. soft. sure.

“baby,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb against your bottom lip,

“why do you think i’m a demon?”

you blink.

his smile deepens, slow and indulgent.

“selfish is what i am. that’s the whole point.”

he kisses you before you can answer — slow, warm, and laced with sin. not demanding. not greedy. hungry in that reverent, unraveling way again. and this time, it’s not just his mouth that touches you.

he peels the rest of his clothes away with that effortless grace he always carries, like he was born to be looked at — and god, he is. he’s carved of fire and desire and danger, every line of his body sharp and fluid at once. when he presses you back into the sheets again, it’s not rushed. it’s not wild. it’s worship.

he kisses your jaw. slow.

“here,” he whispers between each kiss, “because this is where you lock your anger, right under your skin. always clenched. always afraid to speak.”

he kisses your collarbone. teeth dragging slightly.

“and here — because this is where you carry the guilt. i taste it every time.”

he kisses the curve beneath your breast, and your breath hitches.

“this part,” he murmurs, “is the most delicate. you flinch when i touch you here. like you’re waiting to break.”

he kisses the underside of your thigh — slow, thick with heat — and your entire body burns from the inside out.

“these legs,” he grins against your skin, “you don’t even know what they do to me. they wrap around me like chains, and i willingly drown.”

he crawls back up your body, trailing his fingers across every inch like he’s painting a map. like he’s memorizing the very shape of you.

“every part of you,” he whispers against your lips, “makes me worse. makes me want more. i could have any body in this city. do you know how many i’ve had?”

you nod faintly, eyes hazy. because of course you know. he’s jinu. beautiful. untouchable. untamed.

his voice drops.

“and still, i always end up back here. wanting you.”

your body moves before your mind can stop it. hips lifting, hands gripping his shoulders, mouth crashing into his again.

because maybe you’re selfish too.

maybe being wanted like this makes the sin worth it.

maybe, just maybe, damnation has never felt so good.

his breath is heavy now — thick with want, coiling like smoke as it leaves his mouth and dances across your skin. you feel it more than hear it. his body above yours, all heat and pressure and temptation made flesh. your fingers trace the curve of his shoulder, the dip of his spine, and your eyes meet his — gold, burning, starving.

your thighs part naturally, like your body remembers him before your mind even catches up. his fingers slide down, slow and deliberate, stroking over you with practiced ease — and when he groans under his breath, it’s like he’s been holding it in for days.

“you’re still so warm for me,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “like you never stopped wanting me.”

you bite your bottom lip, but don’t argue.

can’t.

he presses the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing, dragging it through your slick folds — and your entire body trembles with the weight of almost. the stretch. the pressure. the heat building in your core like a second heartbeat.

“jinu…” you whisper, half warning, half plea.

his voice is soft. raw.

“i missed this. missed you.”

and then he pushes in.

slow. inch by inch. your walls stretching around him, welcoming him back like he never left. the intrusion is dizzying — the ache, the burn, the way he fits so perfectly inside you. a sound escapes you, broken and low, and jinu answers with a groan that vibrates in his chest.

“fuck…” he breathes. “you still feel like heaven.”

he stills for a moment, buried deep inside, his hips flush against yours, like he needs time to memorize how it feels — how you feel — before he moves again.

your nails scrape down his back. you tilt your hips upward, silently begging.

and then he begins to move.

slow thrusts, deep and deliberate, grinding his hips into you like he wants to ruin the shape of you from the inside. every motion drags a gasp from your lips, every roll of his pelvis sparks fireworks behind your eyes. your legs wrap around him instinctively, locking him closer, deeper.

he leans down, kissing your throat, your collarbone, your breast — leaving no inch untouched, no breath wasted.

“this body,” he murmurs, voice shaking, “was made for me.”

your head falls back into the pillows as he starts to move faster, needier, but still controlled — a perfect balance of rhythm and wreckage. his hands roam your body, sliding from your waist to your thighs to your throat, where his fingers hover, barely touching.

his eyes find yours again.

“say it,” he whispers, “say you missed this.”

you gasp as his hips snap into yours.

“say it.”

“i—” your voice is breathless, strangled, trembling, “i missed it. i missed you.”

a growl tears from his chest — something unholy and primal — and he presses into you harder now, the bed shifting with each thrust. the sound of skin meeting skin fills the space between whispered curses and muffled moans. he bites your shoulder, not enough to mark, just enough to make you feel it. to make it real.

your body arches into him, chasing release, needing it like air. his thumb finds your clit, circling tight, perfect, relentless — and your body begins to tremble, the pressure building again, this time more dangerous, more consuming.

“you gonna cum for me again?” he pants, voice thick with praise. “look at me. i want to see you fall apart.”

your eyes meet his, and that’s all it takes.

your orgasm rips through you like a wave crashing through glass — sharp, overwhelming, beautiful in its destruction. you cry out, body convulsing around him, and jinu doesn’t stop — he fucks you through it, chasing his own high as your name stumbles off his lips like a prayer.

he cums with a low groan and his eyes glowing with a vibrant golden hue, spilling into you as he buries himself deep, hips stuttering against yours. his body collapses over you, breath hot in your ear, hands cradling your face like you’re something holy.

for a moment, the room is nothing but sound — your heartbeats, your breathing, the echo of everything you shouldn’t have done and can’t stop doing.

his lips press to your cheek.

“you feel like home,” he whispers.

and that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

💬, YOU GUYS ARE FIENDS FOR BABY SO I WILL BE WRITING ANOTHER ONE FOR HIM NOW !!! PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF THERES ANYTHING YOU GUYS WOULD LIKE ME TO INCLUDE OR WRITE ABOUT !! ENJOY THIIIIIS LITTLE EXTRA BIT FROM THE TWIN SIN !!!! MUAHHHH !!! yalls can thank @haloangelfics for this 😛 AND A PART THREE WAS REQUESTED FOR MY FIRST BABY SAJA FIC, OH MY GOSH YALL ARE SO FUNNY

ko-fi 🎧

next recommended read : Praise The Sinner (jinu smut)

look here for more reads 📚!!

🔖: @sukunasrealgf @sinamew @haloangelfics @valentique

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cameronsbabydoll · 20 days ago

Text

BEFORE YOU NOTICED — CHAPTER TEN

WARNINGS — last chapter! grief, pregnancy loss, emotional neglect, death, terminal illness, sorta open ending / haunting the narrative

years slip through the house like ghosts, quiet, uninvited, leaving traces rafe can’t hold. it’s been five years since you left, since he found you in the garden, your silk robe bright, blood on your lips, a letter in your pocket with a pressed forget-me-not. he carried you inside, his voice breaking, your name a prayer that didn’t work. the mansion’s the same—glass walls, cold marble, too big for one—but it’s different, softer somehow, like it’s learned to mourn you. rafe moves through it, older now, his hair graying at the edges, his eyes heavy with a grief that’s settled into his bones. he’s alive, but not really, caught in a life where you’re everywhere and nowhere, a memory he can’t touch.

he reads your letters, one a year, sometimes two, when the ache’s too much and he needs your voice. they’re in the safe, your birthday still the combination, envelopes worn from his hands, ink faded but your words sharp, cutting him open. he reads the sixth anniversary letter on a july evening, sitting in the guest room where you wrote it, the air thick with dust and memory. i love you, rafe, even when you didn’t look, you wrote, and he chokes, his fingers tracing your shaky script, the pressed forget-me-not crumbling under his touch. he reads the birthday one in november, on his fortieth, alone at the kitchen counter, no lemon tart, no you. time matters, you said, and he cries, quiet, because he wasted yours. the letter for lily, the child he didn’t know, stays unopened most years, too heavy, the baby shoes on the dresser enough to break him. he saves the one for her, the future wife you imagined, for last, afraid to face the you who loved him enough to let him go.

sometimes, in the hallway, he swears he smells your perfume, the swan-shaped bottles’ scent—soft, floral, like you—lingering where it shouldn’t. the bottles sit on the dresser, dusty, untouched since you sprayed them, hoping he’d notice. he stands there, eyes closed, breathing it in, like it’s you passing through, your coral nails brushing his arm, your laugh echoing from the apartment you shared. it fades, always, and he’s left with the quiet, the empty space where you should be. he doesn’t move the bottles, doesn’t clean the dust, afraid to lose the scent, the last piece of you he can’t keep.

the garden keeps blooming, against all odds, the lily you planted for lily now tall, white petals swaying in the breeze. the forget-me-nots are gone, but rafe plants new ones every spring, his hands clumsy in the dirt, your letter’s words in his head: plant it somewhere, please. he waters the lily daily, kneels by it like it’s a grave, and talks to you, to lily, his voice low, rough from disuse. “you’d like this,” he says, touching a petal, “you’d say it’s strong.” the silk robe’s on the garden bench, folded now, bloodstain faded to rust, tag catching the wind. he moved it last year, couldn’t leave it to rot, but can’t bring it inside, can’t let it be yours in a closet again.

the robe’s folded at the foot of the bed, too, a second one, the one you wore in the house, its tag tucked under, soft as your skin. he sleeps on your side, the sheets changed but your pillow untouched, its dent still yours. sometimes, just before sleep, he reaches for your hand, his fingers stretching across the cold, empty space, hoping to find you. he always misses, his hand closing on nothing, his chest tight with a pain he can’t name. he lies there, eyes open, the photo from your first date on the nightstand—your laugh, his arm around you, a jukebox night he can’t get back. he whispers, “i’m sorry,” like you’re listening, like it matters now.

his friend, mark, a business guy from the old days, calls one february, says it’s time, says rafe’s too young to live like this, alone with a ghost. “one dinner,” mark pushes, his voice tinny through the phone. “she’s nice, you’ll like her.” rafe wants to say no, wants to hang up, but mark’s persistent, and rafe’s too tired to fight. he agrees, hating himself, feeling like he’s betraying you, your letter to her burning in his mind.

the restaurant’s small, warm, all wood and candlelight, the kind of place you’d have loved. she’s there, claire, blonde, kind eyes, a smile that tries too hard. rafe sits, his suit stiff, his hands fidgeting, the menu blurring in front of him. she talks, about her job, a trip to italy, a dog she loves, but rafe’s somewhere else, seeing you in the garden, your robe bright, your letter in his hand. “you okay?” claire asks, her voice soft, and he nods, automatic, but he’s not.

“i had someone,” he says, sudden, his voice rough, like it’s been scraped out. “she was... everything.” he talks, can’t stop, words spilling like blood—your coral nails, chipped when you wrote, your lilies, the shoes for lily, the letters you left. he tells her about the voicemail, stage four, the way he didn’t see you, the way you loved him anyway. “she wrote me letters,” he says, his eyes wet, “for years i’ll never have. she told me to find someone, but i can’t. i won’t.”

claire’s quiet, her fork still, her eyes sad but kind. “she sounds incredible,” she says, and rafe nods, his throat tight, because you were, and he didn’t know. “i’m sorry,” she adds, and he shakes his head, because it’s not her fault, it’s his.

“i promised her,” he says, his voice breaking, “not out loud, but in my head, every night. i’ll never love anyone else. i can’t. she’s still here.” he touches his chest, like you’re there, like your perfume’s in his lungs. claire nods, doesn’t push, and the dinner ends early, her hand on his arm, brief, like your mother’s at the funeral. he drives home, the city lights blurring, and vows it again, to you, to the silence: no one else, ever.

he plays the voicemail when he gets home, 9:47 pm, the living room dark, the glass walls reflecting nothing. this is dr. ellis from st. mary’s. it’s stage four. call us back when you have someone to bring you. he listens, his head in his hands, hearing your silence, the weight you carried alone. he thinks of henry, the chauffeur, your letter’s words: you carry too much alone. he wants to scream, to break something, but he’s too tired, too broken, so he sits, the voicemail looping, his tears falling like they did when he found the letters, the shoes, the photo.

the house stays yours, a shrine he can’t leave. he doesn’t change the sheets, doesn’t move the robe, the photo, the shoes, the jar of forget-me-not ash. he reads a letter in july, the one for when you’re ready, and sobs, because you wrote about lily, about the blood, about loving him through it all. he kneels in the garden, by the lily, and whispers, “i miss you,” like you’re there, like the petals can carry it to you. he smells your perfume in the hallway, faint, fleeting, and stands, eyes closed, reaching for you, always missing.

he lives, but it’s not living, not really. he’s a man reaching for a hand he’ll never hold, loving a woman he’ll never see. he keeps the garden blooming, the robe folded, the letters unread until the next year. he plays the voicemail, sleeps on your side, and dreams of you, your laugh, your lilies, your love he didn’t deserve. he wakes to the quiet, the memory of you haunting, and carries it, like you carried him, alone, until the end.

and maybe you’re there, in the hallway, in the garden, in the letters he reads. maybe you’re watching, your perfume lingering, your hand just out of reach. or maybe it’s just him, holding onto you, promising forever, in a house that’s yours, in a life that’s empty without you. he doesn’t know. he keeps reaching

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a-casxandra · 24 days ago

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❝𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗟𝗘𝗙𝗧 𝗠𝗘.❞

Caleb x you [non-mc] | Caleb x mc

𝑺𝒚𝒑𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒔 : After the war ends and the world is declared wanderer-free, you wait for the man who promised to return—Caleb, your over and a colonel with gravity powers. But he never comes back. Years later, you finally met again.. but things were different. He's Alive. Older. With no memory of you. Now, watching him smile at another, living the life you once dreamed of, you're left with only one question: 𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝗱𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗻 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗶𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗱—𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗹𝘆 𝗻𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀?

"Do you really have to go?"

Your voice barely carries through the heavy silence of your shared quarters. You sit on the edge of the bed, hands trembling, knuckles white as you clutch his glove. Caleb turns at the door—tall, imposing in his colonel’s uniform—yet softened by the tenderness in his eyes as he looks at you.

You already talked about this. Pleaded. Asked him to resign. But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“This is my duty,” he’d said. “My dream. I want to protect you—so you could live without having to worry about wanderers. to everyone else too."

You remember how his arms wrapped around you that night. How he whispered promises against your skin. "I’ll come back to you. I always do."

So you let him go.

And you waited.

The world descended into chaos. Wanderers roamed freely, grotesque echoes of corrupted Evol energy. Evolvers fought back—Caleb among them. The government ordered a lockdown. Civilians were instructed not to interfere. Rations were delivered. Streets emptied. Skies darkened.

But you waited.

Weeks became months. Months turned into years.

You blamed yourself more often than not.

You were powerless—just a civilian. No Evol, no strength, no use.

All you could do was survive.

All you could do was wait.

Then, the world declared itself Wanderer-Free.

The war was won. The streets opened again.

And Caleb...

Didn’t come back.

You went to the Farspace Fleet. Demanded answers.

They told you he was missing. Then, days later—presumed dead.

Just another name on a long list of the lost.

You didn’t believe it. You refused to believe it.

You waited still.

Two Decades Later – Winter, Linkon City

You’re 42 now. You look it too—lines softening your once-youthful face, silver threads starting to braid into your long, uncut hair. Hair he once trimmed for you. You never let anyone else touch it.

People asked you to move on. Some even tried to love you. You turned them away.

How could you let go of a love that never said goodbye?

Then you met her—MC.

A kind woman who recently moved to Linkon City. Around your age. Warm-hearted. Glowed when she spoke of her son, and her husband.

You liked her. You liked the boy, too. Ten years old. Bright eyes.

But the first time you saw him, your heart stuttered.

He looked familiar. Too familiar.

You told yourself it was just your imagination.

Today – Outside the Library

“Mom! Dad is here!” the boy calls out as he runs toward the man waiting by the curb.

MC laughs. “Ah, my dear’s here.”

She turns to you. “Come! Let me introduce you—this is my husband—”

Your world stops.

“Caleb...?”

You don’t mean to say it aloud. But it spills from your lips before you can catch it.

The man—taller, older, refined with age but unmistakably him—blinks, puzzled. “Do we… know each other?”

MC tilts her head. “Oh? You two know each other?”

You force a shaky smile, swallowing the sob clawing at your throat. “...Childhood friends,” you lie. “We were childhood friends.”

Caleb’s brows knit slightly, and then he offers a small, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry… I had amnesia. During the war. Some memories never came back. If we were close… I’m sorry I can’t remember.”

MC gasps softly. “That’s unexpected… but what a small world.” She beams at you. “I’m so glad you found someone from your past!”

Caleb smiles, warmer now. “It’s good to know I still have connections here. Even if I don’t remember them.”

“Maa! Let’s go home! It’s cold!”

The child tugs at his sleeve. Caleb chuckles and bends to lift him into his arms.

He turns to you one last time.

“Nice to meet you… again, I guess.”

And just like that, he walks away. Hand in hand with his wife. With their son.

With your dreams.

You stand frozen in place, the ghost of his smile seared into your memory.

“Yeah… it’s nice to see you again,”

you whisper, but your voice trembles. Cracks.

You don’t move, even as their silhouettes blur into the snowfall.

He’s alive. Caleb is alive.

And he doesn’t remember you.

He built a new life. New love. New child.

You should’ve been in her place. It should’ve been your family.

But you can’t hate her.

She didn’t steal him—she simply loved him in your absence.

And he…

He loved her the same way he once loved you.

And so, beneath the heavy silence of winter: “Maybe it’s time I accept the changes…” you whispered, as snow began to fall. But the wind carried no answer.

Just silence.

And still—you waited.

Not for him.

But for the day it would stop hurting.

You were once his future.

Now you’re just a whisper from a forgotten past.

And fate, cruel as ever, let you live to remember it.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : i just lost caleb to zayne, and i'm legit crying. because i already didn't got sylus's "where the heart lives" (i started playing during sylus's bday) and now i also didn't get caleb's birthday "no return night" so yeah, i'm gonna be petty and write caleb angst because i didn't get him.

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #caleb x reader #Caleb x mc #Non-mc #juneleb #lads caleb #lads zayne #lads xavier #lads rafayel #lads sylus #angst #casxandraꔛ♥️

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pohyuck · 1 month ago

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never just friends

ᯓ friends to lovers, hyuck & reader are both graduating, and both pining ☻ 5.3k wc!

ᯓ this one is inspired by one of your requests! but as someone who just graduated, it also draws a bit from my own daydreams, of having a high school or college sweetheart to walk across the graduation stage with :p

──── ☀︎

an interview. two chairs. one camera. and all the words they never said.

they both want to fix it. neither knows how

but if there was ever a moment to try again, it’s now—before the caps are tossed, before the goodbyes, before they go their separate ways for good

because sometimes, endings are just new beginnings waiting to happen

──── ☀︎ ────

the first snowfall of the semester comes early, blanketing the campus in white, like the sky is trying to cover up everything you’ve tried not to feel

you’re late. again.

the lecture hall door creaks open, and thirty pairs of eyes glance your way, but only one glance really lands

haechan.

you hesitate, just for a second. it’s not because you’re surprised to see him, of course he’s here. he always was. it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s trying not to feel something either. and just like that, ten months of silence feels like it never ended, like it’s still hanging in the air between you, thick and unfinished

the only empty seat is next to him. of course it is.

you make your way down the row, slow and quiet, and slide into the chair beside him. your hands grip your pen too tightly, like maybe it’ll hold you together

“wow,” he says under his breath, not even looking at you. “out of all the seats in the universe.” you don’t skip a beat. “trust me, i’m just as thrilled”

the professor starts talking. you try to focus, to pretend you can’t feel the weight of his presence next to you, but then your arms brush. just for a second. and neither of you move

it shouldn’t feel like anything. but it does. ten months ago, he was your best friend. now, he’s the guy you don’t talk to, or even look at

outside, the snow keeps falling. soft, steady, like the sky knows something you don’t. and for the first time in a long time, you let the thought drift in, uninvited but welcome– maybe this isn’t really the end.

*flashback* it’s nearly 2 a.m., and the campus is asleep, except for you and haechan. you’re both lying in the middle of the quad on a cheap picnic blanket he stole from his roommate. the sky is clear, a velvet canvas dusted with stars, and the cold grass presses through the blanket, prickling your back. but you don’t care. not when you’re laughing like this

“i’m serious,” he says between gasps, “if i ever become famous, i want my wikipedia page to say i invented ramen grilled cheese. that was a cultural reset” you snort. “you nearly set the kitchen on fire.” “greatness requires sacrifice”

you turn your head toward him, grinning in the dark. his eyes are already on you, soft and bright beneath the moonlight. this is what it used to be like– easy. effortless.

you’d tell him anything. he’d listen like it mattered. and he’d always, always find a way to make you laugh, even on your worst days.

“remember when we were fifteen,” you say, “and you swore we’d drop out of college to become youtubers?”

he groans. “okay, first of all, you said we’d be a duo. you were gonna do baking, and i’d handle commentary.” you nudge him with your elbow. “and you were going to get us cancelled in week one.” “that was part of the brand”

you both laugh again, the kind that starts small and builds into something uncontrollable. it fills the quiet night, echoing between empty buildings and forgotten dreams. and somewhere between the laughter and the silence that follows, you realize how much you love him

not in a dramatic, fall-to-your-knees kind of way. just in the way your heart settles when he’s beside you. in the way the world feels less sharp. in the way you want to pause this moment and keep it in your pocket forever.

but you don’t say it. you never do

instead, you breathe in the night and whisper, “let’s not grow up too fast.” and he, still watching the sky, replies, “not if we can help it” *end of flashback*

you don't even remember how you got roped into it. one second, your friend from the media club was rambling about their "senior spotlight series" something about legacy, friendship, full-circle moments, and the next, you're sitting on the cold steps of the old library waiting for him

because apparently, when people think of iconic friendships on campus, they still think of you and him. the best friends. the duo. they don’t know the story stopped a while ago. quietly. like a door that never fully closed

he arrives five minutes late, with that same careless swagger he’s always had, like nothing touches him, not even time. he meets your eyes for a second before looking away

“didn’t think you’d actually show,” he says, voice light, but not teasing. you shrug. “didn’t think you would either”

the media team gives you a quick rundown. photos first, then a short filmed interview. “just a few questions about your friendship,” the girl says cheerily. “how you met, favorite memories, what you’ve learned from each other. that kind of thing”

you want to laugh. or maybe scream.

instead, you sit beside him on the stone bench, pretending your skin isn’t on fire just from being near him again. the camera clicks. once. twice. and then the girl says, “okay, now look at each other”

you hesitate. he does too

but you turn. and for the first time in what feels like forever, your eyes meet– and stay.

and there it is. the weight of the silence. the things you never said. the laughter that used to be effortless. the memory of a night under the stars when you almost told him you loved him– and didn’t. “perfect,” the photographer says, completely unaware. you look away first

a few minutes later, you're sitting in front of a camera. someone asks, “what made your friendship so special?” you blink. haechan stays quiet

and all you can think is: do we even get to call it a friendship anymore?

the lights in the small studio hum quietly, the camera lens trained on you like it’s trying to see straight through your chest

the interviewer smiles, warm and expectant. “so, what made your friendship so special?”

you glance sideways at haechan. his jaw is tight, but his eyes hold a flicker of something, maybe nostalgia, maybe regret

you breathe out. “it was easy,” you say finally. “like… no matter how bad the day was, or how messy everything got, we somehow made each other feel like it was okay to just be ourselves”

the camera keeps rolling, the red recording light blinking like a heartbeat and haechan shifts in his seat, and when he speaks, his voice is softer than you remember. “we knew all the worst parts, and we didn’t run”

you want to say that’s what makes it different now, that you both ran, or maybe froze. but you swallow the words

“did you have a favorite memory together?” the interviewer asks. your mind flashes back, the quiet quad nights, the laughter spilling over like a tide

“the night we stayed up until two in the morning, just talking,” you say, voice catching a little. “we didn’t have a plan. we weren’t worried about anything except being there. it felt like time didn’t exist”

his eyes find yours, and for a moment, it’s like the space between you isn’t so vast

“yeah,” he says, “like the world was smaller with just us in it”

the interviewer smiles, clearly moved. the camera clicks off

you both sit in the sudden stillness, the kind that stretches between people who used to be so close it hurt

neither of you says it– but both of you know it’s true. maybe this is the first step to finding your way back

the interviewer steps away, giving you both space, but the air still feels tight, like a held breath neither of you knows how to release

you shift in your seat, fingers twitching. then, almost without thinking, you glance down at the stack of papers in your lap, the notes from the interview questions

one slips and flutters to the floor. before you can reach for it, haechan’s hand is already there, picking it up. his fingers brush yours for a second as he hands it back, and it feels electric. you both freeze.

then, without looking up, he murmurs, “can’t believe you still remember that night”

your heart twists, and you nod slowly. “how could i forget?” he laughs. soft, genuine, and unexpected “guess some memories don’t fade,” he says

you want to say something. anything. but the words catch in your throat. instead, you smile. just a little. and for the first time since this whole mess began, it feels like maybe, just maybe, you’re not so far apart after all

*flashback* you never imagined that something as small as a grade could break you

it was the week of midterms. you and haechan– both top of your class, the golden duo of the liberal arts department, had always pushed each other to be better. friendly rivalry, or so you told yourself

but that week, it wasn’t friendly

the final paper was due on a friday. you stayed up all night, pouring everything into it, hoping your research would outshine his. you saw it as a challenge, and maybe a way to prove who was better

when the grades came back monday, he had a perfect score. a hundred. you had ninety-seven

you felt the sting more than you expected.

later that day, you bumped into him in the library. you tried to joke it off, something like, “congrats on beating me.” he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “you almost had it. next time”

you nodded, but inside, the competitiveness twisted into something bitter. that evening, you found out he’d told your classmates you weren’t serious enough about your future, that you cared more about winning than learning.

you confronted him the next day, heart thudding in your chest. “why would you say that? you know it’s not true.” he looked away, frustration lining his face. “maybe you do care more about being the best than about us”

the words cut deeper than you expected. “you’re making this into something it’s not,” you snapped. he shook his head. “maybe it’s exactly what it is.”

the argument spiraled– voices raised, accusations flung, pride blocking every bridge back. by the end, you weren’t sure why you were fighting anymore– just that you couldn’t stop

that night, you didn’t text him. he didn’t text you.

and that was how it began. *end of flashback*

you meet ryumi and yuki at your favorite campus café, the cozy warmth a stark contrast to the cold tension you’re carrying

ryumi orders a chai latte; yuki grabs a black coffee. you’re just trying to focus on the steam curling up from your own cup

“so,” ryumi says, leaning forward with that gleam in her eyes, “what’s really going on with you and haechan? sitting next to him in class? that must’ve been... something”

you take a slow breath, staring down at your cup. “it was weird. like, we used to finish each other’s sentences, and now we barely talk. it’s like there’s this wall between us that neither of us knows how to climb”

yuki frowns, “do you want to fix it? i mean, you guys were inseparable. it’s hard to imagine it all just... ended” you shrug, voice soft. “i don’t know. i want to. i guess i just don’t know where to start. we both got hurt, and maybe we’re scared of getting hurt again”

ryumi reaches out and squeezes your hand. “sometimes the hardest part is just saying it out loud. maybe you need to talk to him. like, really talk” you glance up, meeting their encouraging eyes. “yeah. i think you’re right”

yuki grins. “we’re here for you.” you smile, feeling a flicker of hope light up inside. maybe this winter isn’t about endings after all

──── ☀︎

the camera’s red light blinks steadily as you and haechan sit side by side again, the earlier awkwardness softened into something quieter, something more real

the interviewer smiles gently. “you’ve already shared some memories about your friendship. but i’m curious, what’s something you’ve learned from each other that you didn’t expect?”

you glance at haechan, and this time, his eyes meet yours without hesitation.

“i learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness,” you say slowly. “haechan taught me that it’s okay to show the parts of yourself you think might scare others away. he’s not just this confident guy everyone sees, he’s brave enough to be himself, even when it’s hard”

haechan clears his throat and then nods. “and from y/n, i learned patience. she has always been steady, even when i was reckless or stubborn. she showed me that sometimes, the best way to handle things isn’t to charge ahead, but to wait and listen”

the interviewer leans forward, intrigued. “is there a moment that stands out, something that changed how you saw each other?”

you swallow the lump in your throat, “there was a time when everything between us was breaking apart,” you say. “but even then, he never stopped caring. he was the first one to reach out, even when i pushed him away. that made me realize how much he truly meant to me”

his smile is soft, almost shy. “yeah… i guess sometimes you have to lose something to understand how much it matters”

the room feels warm despite the chill outside, and for a fleeting moment, you both sit with the unspoken hope that maybe, just maybe, this story isn’t over

the interviewer finally shuts off the camera, and the sudden silence feels heavy, but not in a bad way. more like the kind of quiet that settles after something important has been said

you breathe out, feeling the tension in your chest loosen just a little. looking over at haechan, you catch the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips

“didn’t expect that to go so... deep,” you say, half-teasing but mostly amazed. he shrugs, eyes still fixed on the floor for a second before meeting yours

“yeah. feels weird, but good. like peeling back a layer you didn’t know was there,” he says, and you nod, cheeks warming. “i guess sometimes it takes a camera and a stupid interview to say what’s been stuck inside”

haechan’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer, his voice low. “maybe it’s not so stupid after all”

you want to say something, something that might change everything, but the words get caught in your throat. instead, you just sit there, side by side, the space between you feeling less like a canyon and more like a bridge

outside, the winter sun filters through the window, promising something new. and for once, you both believe it just might be true

──── ☀︎

haechan flopped onto his dorm bed, rubbing the back of his neck as yangyang tossed him a bottle of water

“man, you’ve been stuck in your room all day,” yangyang teased, plopping down on the floor. “you need to get out, clear your head”

him and his friends were scattered around the room, lounging in various states of exhaustion from midterms

jeno nudged renjun. “there’s a party tonight at dery’s place. might be good to blow off some steam”

jaemin grinned. “yeah, come on, haechan. you’ve been avoiding everyone since that interview with y/n”

haechan stiffened a little, the memory of the interview still fresh. “i’m not avoiding. just… thinking”

yangyang raised an eyebrow. “thinking or overthinking? you were practically glowing after you guys finished. that was new”

“yeah,” jeno chimed in, “it was like you finally said some of the stuff you never could before. been rough, huh?”

haechan sighed, glancing out the window. “yeah, it’s complicated. we haven’t been ‘us’ for a while. but maybe… maybe that interview was a start”

renjun nodded thoughtfully. “sounds like you two have some unfinished business. party might be good for a break, but don’t lose sight of that”

jaemin smirked. “or you could end up at the party, thinking about her the whole time.” haechan chuckled softly. “yeah, probably”

yangyang stood up and stretched. “well, party or no party, you gotta do what feels right. but a night out could be just the distraction you need.” haechan nodded slowly. “maybe you’re right. i could use some fresh air”

jeno tossed him a set of keys. “then what are you waiting for? let’s go.” as the group headed out, haechan took a deep breath, feeling the mix of nerves and something like hope swirling inside. tonight wasn’t about fixing everything–it was just the next step

the bass thumped through the crowded dorm common room, a chaotic swirl of laughter, music, and chatter filling every corner. haechan weaved through the crowd, a drink in hand, trying to focus on the easy conversations around him, but his mind kept drifting back to you, being lead to the point for him to convince himself that he’s hallucinating as he laid eyes on you. he hadn’t expected to see you. especially tonight

and yet, there you were, near the snack table, laughing with a group of friends. his breath hitched for a second as your eyes caught his across the room

for a heartbeat, everything froze– the noise, the people, the flashing lights– all faded into the background

you looked surprised, then smiled, a small, genuine curve of your lips that made something inside him unclench

haechan swallowed the lump in his throat and made his way over, each step feeling like a mile. “hey,” he said, voice quieter than he’d intended. you looked up, startled but pleased

“haechan. didn’t expect to see you here”

he shrugged, trying to keep it casual. “yangyang dragged me out. figured i needed to get some fresh air… or whatever this is.”

you laughed softly, the sound warm and familiar. “yeah, i needed the same”

there was a pause, neither of you quite sure what to say next. finally, you broke the silence. “so… how did the interview go? i saw some clips online” he smiled, a little sheepishly. “honestly? it was harder than I thought. talking about us, about what we lost”

you nodded, eyes searching his

“but maybe it’s a start.” he met your gaze steadily. “yeah. maybe it is.”

the music throbbed louder, but this moment, this unexpected meeting, felt like the quiet in the storm. and for the first time in a long time, haechan thought maybe things could really change

for a few minutes, the conversation flows easily, memories, jokes, small smiles. then, like a shadow slipping through the light, the topic shifts

“so,” you say, voice careful, “do you still think about… what happened? why we fell apart?”

haechan’s smile falters. his eyes darken just a little. “all the time”

you look away, heart tightening. “it was such a stupid fight. over grades, of all things.” he laughs, but it’s bitter. “yeah, who knew academic competition could wreck everything?”

the music pulses around you, but all you feel is the fragile thread between you– stretched, but not broken. and somewhere beneath the tension, hope flickers

the tension lingers, thick but no longer suffocating. instead, it feels like a wall just starting to crack. haechan exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake off the weight of months. “i don’t want to keep pretending none of this happened. or that it didn’t hurt.”

you meet his gaze, “me neither. maybe… we owe it to ourselves to try again. to actually talk, not just compete or hide behind silence.” he smiles, small but real, the kind that reaches his eyes. “yeah. maybe this time, we don’t let pride get in the way.”

the music shifts to a slower song, and the crowd moves around you both, but all you feel is the space shrinking between you.

“want to get out of here?” you ask quietly.

“definitely ,” he says, offering his hand.

as you take it, a surge of something hopeful blooms inside– a fragile, beautiful chance to rewrite your story. and maybe this time, you’ll finally get it right

──── ☀︎

you’re curled up on the worn-out couch in your favorite campus coffee shop, the smell of fresh espresso and cinnamon swirling around you

your friends are gathered close, their eyes warm and expectant. “so,” yuki says, grinning, “spill. how’s the whole ‘reconnecting with haechan’ thing going?” you bite your lip, fiddling with the sleeve of your sweater. “it’s… complicated”

they exchange knowing looks. “come on, you can tell us” you take a deep breath, heart pounding. “the truth is… i never really stopped liking him. not just as a friend. maybe it was there all along, but i was too scared to admit it”

ryumi reaches over and squeezes your hand. “girl, we’ve been waiting for you to say that forever. it’s so obvious to everyone but you.”

yuki chimes in, “you guys were perfect together. you owe it to yourself to fix this before we graduate. what if you never get the chance again?”

you glance down, feeling both hopeful and terrified. “yeah, but what if it’s too late? what if we’re too far gone?” they shake their heads firmly. “no way. you’re not giving up on something that means this much. not now”

their faith feels like a lifeline, and suddenly, you’re ready. “okay,” you say, voice steady, “i’m going to try. for real this time”

your friends cheer, clinking their coffee cups together. “to fixing what’s broken,” they toast.

and for the first time in a long time, you believe it just might be possible

later that night, your room is bathed in the soft glow of a desk lamp. outside, the campus is still, the world muted beneath a blanket of stars

you sit on your bed, your heart feels heavy, tangled with memories and “what ifs.”

what if you had been braver? what if you hadn’t let pride get in the way? what if you told him how you really felt back then?

a sigh escapes you. but somewhere beneath the regret, there’s a flicker of something new– a fragile hope that maybe this time, things can be different

you stare at your phone, thumb hovering over the message app. your heart is pounding like a drum in your chest, but you know this is the moment. no more hiding, no more silence.

seconds feel like hours. then, a reply: "yeah. i’d like that.”

taking a deep breath, you type: “hey, can we talk? i think there’s a lot we need to clear up.” you hit send before you can change your mind

relief floods you, warm and sudden. the night air is crisp and quiet when you arrive at the quad. the familiar stretch of grass, the faint glow of distant street lamps– everything feels the same, yet charged with possibility

moments later, haechan appears, his expression unreadable but softened by the low light. you both stand there for a beat, the weight of months hanging between you

“i’ve been thinking about that night a lot,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “about how easy it was... before everything went wrong.”

he nods slowly. “me too.”

you take a step closer, the cold grass crunching softly beneath your shoes. “maybe we can find that again.” haechan meets your eyes, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “yeah. maybe this time, we won’t let it slip away.”

and in that quiet moment, under the stars where it all began, you feel the first real hope of something new

after that night in the quad, things didn’t suddenly get perfect. but somehow, once you broke the silence, every day felt more at ease—little by little.

most afternoons, that’s where you ended up— the quad, the place where everything used to feel effortless. you’d bring some snacks, maybe a playlist on his phone, and just hang out

one day at the library, you studied side by side, textbooks open, but honestly, you barely focused. you’d throw playful jabs back and forth about who’d get the better grade on the next paper. when you got stuck on a tough question, he reached over to help, and your hands brushed for just a second. and that little touch felt like a spark

nights became your thing again. you’d walk the quiet campus paths under the stars, talking about things you’d never said out loud before. your hands bumped, lingered, and no one pulled away

the silence wasn’t awkward anymore. it felt like something waiting to happen. and for a second, it felt like you were just kids again, no past hurts, no tension, just the two of you

it wasn’t instant or perfect, but day by day, you were finding your way back. and honestly? it felt better than you could have ever imagined

──── ☀︎

“graduation’s coming fast.”

“too fast,” he agreed. there was a pause before he added, “i think about walking across that stage and not having you beside me. and i don’t want that. not again.”

your heart thudded, slow and loud in your chest. “i don’t either. we’ve come too far to go separate ways again.” he looked at you–really looked– and something in his gaze felt like an anchor, grounding you both to this moment. “what we have… it’s not just something we stumbled back into, is it?”

you shook your head. “no. we chose this. we’re choosing it every day.” he reached out then, his fingers brushing yours, and this time you didn’t hesitate. you tangled your hand in his, holding tight

“i want to walk with you,” he said softly. “not just at graduation, but after. wherever we’re going, wherever life takes us.”

and under that star-scattered sky, you squeezed his hand and smiled. “then don’t let go.”

──── ☀︎

graduation week arrives in a blur of last papers, goodbye hugs, and the kind of bittersweet laughter that seems to echo longer than usual. there’s a countdown hanging in the air, not just to walking the stage, but to the end of this chapter, of this version of your lives. you feel it in every corner of campus. but when you’re with haechan, somehow, it still feels like home

he waits for you after class with your favorite drink in hand, like clockwork. walks you back to your dorm. teases you about crying at rehearsal. everything you used to do, but different now. warmer. closer.

that night, the sky is clouded over, the quad quiet but not cold. you’re sitting on the blanket again, this time under a string of fairy lights your friends strung up for some end-of-semester picnic. most of the crowd has cleared out, leaving just you two. a little music hums from someone’s portable speaker a few feet away, distant and slow

he’s lying beside you, arms tucked behind his head, his voice low. “do you remember our first night out here? not the ramen-grilled-cheese night. before that.” you nod. “we had no idea what we were doing. you told me you wanted to be a novelist.”

“and you told me i’d probably write your acknowledgments because i talk too much.”

he laughs softly, eyes shifting toward you. “i think i just liked the idea of doing something worth remembering… if it meant you'd be there.” the quiet stretches between you, and this time it’s not soft, it’s full

he sits up slightly, propping himself on an elbow, face suddenly closer than it’s been in weeks. your breath catches

he doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you in the kind of silence that feels like something tipping. the kind that always comes before a first kiss

“i think I’ve been falling for you since the second time we sat here,” he says finally, voice barely audible. “but i didn’t say it, because i thought i already lost you once.”

you blink, heart pounding.

your hand finds his cheek, and he leans into it so naturally, like he’s done it a thousand times in dreams. and then, slowly, without any of the usual drama or panic, he kisses you

it’s soft at first, like a question. his lips move against yours carefully, like he’s still afraid you’ll vanish. but you kiss him like you never will again. like this is your answer to every quiet moment you never spoke through. every almost.

when you part, foreheads pressed together, he exhales against your skin. “we’re really doing this.” you smile. “yeah. we are.”

that night, he walks you home, fingers laced with yours the whole way. you don’t say goodbye at the door, not really. just a kiss goodnight, a promise, and the quiet comfort of knowing this time… neither of you is walking away

──── ☀︎

the ceremony is over, but your head’s still spinning. there are too many hugs, too many camera flashes, too many people crying while confetti falls from nowhere

someone’s blasting a graduation playlist from the speaker. a champagne cork flies past your shoulder. and yet, through it all, you only see him

haechan, laughing in a sea of caps and gowns, eyes scanning until they land on you. and then he’s moving toward you, weaving through friends and faculty like the only place he wants to be is next to you

and when he reaches you, neither of you says anything at first. you just smile, tired and teary-eyed and overwhelmed in the best way.

“hey,” he says, breathless. “you did it.”

“you too,” you reply, voice thick with emotion. “we did it.”

he lifts his hand slowly, hesitates, then brushes your tassel back from your cheek, his fingers lingering. “can i steal you?” he asks.

you nod. he takes your hand without asking this time, and the two of you slip away from the noise, around the back of the old library, and across the campus you’ve memorized together, to the quad

it’s quieter here. golden. the sunlight’s softer now, dappled through the trees. the grass is warm under your feet, and the stage feels far behind you. you sit down, still in your gown, heels kicked off, hearts thudding

“so…” he starts, playing with the corner of his sleeve, “we graduated.”

“we did.”

“and we kissed.”

you laugh. “yeah. that too.”

there’s a beat of silence, and then he looks at you– really looks at you– and you feel it in your chest, how serious this is. how long it’s been building

“y/n..” he finally breaks the silence,

“i’ve loved you for years,” and this time, there’s no hesitation. “even when we stopped talking. even when i hated myself for messing it up. i never stopped”

you don’t answer right away, not because you’re unsure, but because your throat is tight and your heart is full and you’ve waited so long to say this

“i loved you when we were fifteen and thought youtube fame was our calling,” you finally whisper. “i loved you when I didn’t know how to show it. and i love you now.”

he leans forward, forehead resting against yours, eyes closed like he’s soaking up the weight of your words. “so what does that make us now?” you smile, brushing your thumb across his cheek.

“whatever we want to be. we’ve got time now.”

he kisses you again– soft and certain, like there’s no turning back. and when he pulls away, he’s still smiling. “okay. then let’s start with this: i’m yours.” you take his hand again, lacing your fingers through his. “and i’m yours.”

around you, the sun keeps setting. the quad begins to empty. and as the last chapter closes behind you, a new one begins, quieter, sweeter, and filled with everything you never had the words for before

and as the world shifts around you, futures unfolding, time pulling you forward, his hand stays in yours, steady, warm, familiar.

no more pretending.

no more almosts.

just you and him, in the place where it all began, hearts speaking the truth your mouths had once been too afraid to say

because some love stories never needed to start with a kiss to be real. some love stories were written long before the first chapter

and this one? it was never a friendship gone wrong. it was always a love that took the long way home.

because the truth is— you were never just friends.

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navybrat817 · 2 months ago

Text

Diamonds and Steel - Intro

Pairing: Retired Hitman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky treats you to a getaway, but peace won't last for long.

Word Count: Over 3.3k

Warnings: Smut, unprotected v. sex (wrap it before you tap it), possessive behavior, established relationship, dirty talk, talk of violence and nightmares, world building, feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: So, I wrote this intro months ago. I feel like this Bucky would get along with our alpha. Thanks @targaryenvampireslayer for letting me (s)cream about this. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

The sun shining in from the balcony door woke you slowly. You weren't sure what time it was as you squinted against the brightness with a small stretch, the spacious bedroom becoming brighter with each passing second. You had only been in the villa for a day, but it was your new favorite place. Thanks in large part to the person who brought you here.

A smile touched your face when the hand on your hip gripped you tighter. Carefully turning to face the man beside you who still had his eyes closed, you took the opportunity to run your fingers through his long dark hair. Your smile widened when he leaned into your touch. Asleep or awake, he always sought it out. And this was a person who didn't let most people touch him.

But I can because he’s my man.

Bucky Barnes, a man who was intimidating even laying down. Tall with wide shoulders, built like a warrior with a few scars to prove it. You moved a finger through his nearly trimmed beard and almost wished he'd open his steely eyes so you could gaze into them. He unnerved many with his stare, but he always looked at you as if you were the reason he saw the light of day. Burying your face in his neck with a sigh, it gave you a sense of peace when he pulled you closer to him on instinct.

“Morning, my treasure.” The affectionate pet name was one you'd never grow tired of. It did make you giggle the first time he called you that. He had lots of money, more than you could ever fathom, and could buy all the treasures he could ever desire, yet he thought you were treasure. His most precious thing.

“Morning,” you whispered, shifting so your body could melt into his more.

He moaned appreciatively as your hips moved closer. “How did you sleep?” He tipped your chin up so he could look at you, the sleep fading quickly from his eyes. It didn't matter that he just woke up, he looked as handsome as ever and knocked the wind right out of you. It was highly doubtful you looked beautiful having just woken up, but he’d say looked perfect if you asked.

“I slept well,” you answered. You had good dreams, including one of the two of you sitting on soft white sand and watching the waves crash in the glittering ocean. You could go anywhere in the world you wanted now thanks to him. “Did you?”

Bucky warned you when you entered your relationship with him that he sometimes had trouble sleeping. Bouts of insomnia and occasional nightmares. You witnessed one first-hand near the beginning when he woke up in a cold sweat, his hand clenched like he was holding a weapon and empty eyes like he couldn't see what was right in front of him. He didn't like to talk about his past and could only tell you later on that all he saw were bullets and blood.

His haunted gaze broke your heart.

“Slept very well. I had very good dreams.” His nose brushed your forehead before his lips touched it. You were happy to hear that. “In fact, I can show you exactly what I dreamt about if you’d like.”

Need slammed into you at the implication, your palms itching to feel his hardened body as he held you closer. You wanted to trace the scars, the tattoos. Every inch of him. “Sure you don't want breakfast first?”

Bucky didn't ask for much. One of the only things he requested when you began your journey together was that you’d sit and have meals with him. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It was a time for the two of you to talk about anything and everything, though he preferred to focus on the present and the future instead of the past. You understood. You didn't like dwelling on the past either since your life was much happier now.

He arched an eyebrow, looking cool as ever. “What if I want you for breakfast?” He brought his lips to yours, not giving you a chance to argue that you hadn't brushed your teeth. He didn't care about things like that. “You wouldn't let me starve, would you?”

The low heat from his voice seared through your core, wrapping around you like the satin sheet that covered you both. It was the only thing covering you in fact, your clothes strewn across the floor the night before. He had you keep the diamond pendant on, a gift he had given you when you arrived at the villa. It was beautiful.

The diamond to his steel.

“As if you’d ever starve. Your appetite for me is borderline gluttonous,” you teased. Guilt flickered in his eyes before you put a hand to his cheek, his expression shifting back to normal. “Hey, I didn't mean that in a bad way. I love that you want me.”

Oh, did Bucky want you. His face buried between your thighs, his cock spearing you open. If he didn't have you in bed, he had you against a wall or bent over the nearest surface. Not a day went by that he didn't give you at least one orgasm, like he was making up for lost time apart before you even knew each other. It didn't make sense to you some days that a man as gorgeous and worldly as him could have anyone he wanted, but chose you.

“And I love you wanting me,” he said. You didn't just want him. You ached for him, inside and out. How could one man hold such power over you? To be fair, the balance of power was equal in some ways since you affected him the same way.

“How could I not want you? Even if I resisted, your skills of seduction are dangerous.”

You gasped when a massive thigh pushed between your legs. “Moya Sladkaya, you think I’m seductive?” he purred, making you shiver as the sound vibrated through your body.

“Yes and you know you are.” You bit your lip as his thigh shifted, gliding along your heat. It was tempting to ride it. “Your voice, your eyes, your mouth, your body. Partially why you became my sugar daddy.”

He growled as he suddenly rolled on top of you. “I'm your boyfriend,” he corrected you, holding your gaze. He looked hungry. “Who happened to wipe out your debt the way a sugar daddy would.”

“That’s still crazy to me,” you remarked.

“That I wiped out your debt or that I’m your boyfriend?”

You twirled a bit of his hair around your finger. “Both,” you whispered. Living a debt free life was something you hadn't thought possible until he showed up. Now you had a life without the stress of bills and work, and also one where you felt loved and cared for. He gave you that and more. “But it’s crazy in the best possible way.”

“So it’s a good thing I'm crazy about you,” he smirked.

“Crazy about me?” You put a hand to his forehead. “Hmm. I think you should have your head examined.”

Bucky took your hand and brought it to his mouth, his expression blank. “No one needs to look inside my head,” he said, his eyes warm again as he kissed your palm. It seemed to push out whatever memory undoubtedly crept into his mind. “Because if someone could, they’d see all the dirty things I've done to you and no one else needs to see that.”

You giggled as he nudged your legs apart. “Yes, you’ve done a lot of dirty things to me,” you teased, your eyes slipping shut as he peppered kisses along your jaw and neck. Just two days ago he had you naked in his lap with your arms tied behind your back while he fed you dessert. And then he had you for dessert. “You’re insatiable.”

The gentle scrape of his teeth over your neck set your blood on fire. “If I’m insatiable, it’s your fault. One look at you and I was a goner,” he whispered, a hand moving possessively between your bodies. His thumb brushed your nipple into a taut peak, your back arching to seek out more of him. “You brought beauty and joy back to my world. You saved me, you know that?”

Unexpected tears burned behind your lids. He lived in a world of gray for so long. The least you could do after everything was bring him some light. “You saved me, too,” you breathed. He got to be your hero. You got to be his treasure. A fair trade in his eyes.

You gasped when he nipped at your racing pulse. “Don’t do that. Don't compliment me. This isn’t about me.” Both of you had a tendency to deflect praise at times, but it was something you were working on. And while he didn’t view himself as a hero, he did save you in his own way.

“You’re a good man,” you said softly, fiercely. He didn't think he was because of some of the things he had done, because of the blood on his hands, but he wasn’t a bad person. “I mean it, Bucky.”

He sighed, scraping his beard against your skin affectionately. “I know you do.” He took his time sliding his hand down your torso, your breath leaving your lungs at the same slow speed. “But I want to compliment you, so take what I give you.”

You'd be sure to compliment him again later. “Not the only thing you’ll tell me to take, is it?” You giggled when he growled again. Getting under his skin was a lot of fun. “We both know I take you so well. Just like I take every drop you spill into me, no matter which hole you choose.”

He made a sound between a moan and a growl. You didn't think your dirty talk was the best by any means, but he loved it. “And you call me insatiable,” he said, his fingers exquisitely gentle as they found your wetness. “Always wet and ready for me, eager for me to fill all of your holes.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you groaned, feeling the evidence of his arousal press against you. Thick. Hard. You shuddered with the need for him to just take you. “Actually, you have every right to be cocky. You’ve ruined me.”

He brought his face up to yours, close enough that he breathed against your lips. “I haven't ruined you yet.” His promise had you trembling, wishing he’d tear you apart without a second thought.

You leaned up and pressed your lips to his, heat curling in your stomach as he slipped a calloused finger inside you. Your hands moved to his arms, his muscles rippling as he pumped it deep. Your sensitive walls clenched as he added another, a delicious tease of what was to come. How did your need for him continue to grow with each day that passed?

Bucky broke the kiss, your breathing heavy as he continued to toy with you. “After breakfast, I want your cunt pulsing on my tongue,” he whispered as he broke the kiss, a thrill shooting from your head to your toes. You’d be content to spend the rest of your life sitting on his face if you could get away with it.

“Bucky, please,” you begged, pleasure mounting as his fingers curled. You tried to hold back the familiar cresting waves, wanting his cock inside you when you let it wash over you. “Make love to me. Fuck me. Just get your cock in me.”

Slowly removing his fingers, your hole clenching around nothing, he smirked as he brought them to his mouth and licked them clean. The stark hunger in his gaze at the taste of you nearly made you orgasm. “Well, since you’re so desperate for me,” he teased, gripping the base of his cock and lining the head against your hole.

“I’m desperate?” Your voice cracked when he slid into you in one deep thrust. Your fingers dug into his biceps, adjusting to the size of him as he looked into your eyes. He was searching for any discomfort or pain. There was none there. Your body would always welcome him home.

“Yes. Desperate.” You couldn't deny that when Bucky moved his hips. Deep, long strokes, the drag of his cock making you feel almost mindless. No one before him made you desperate. No one else ever would. “Wet. Tight. Beautiful. Perfect.”

You gasped, rolling your hips up to meet his. “I’m not-” He cut you off with a kiss, silencing your protest that you weren't perfect. You were anything but. Like everyone, you had flaws. Imperfections. It was like he didn't see them or they didn't exist in his eyes.

“Yes, you fucking are,” he growled, making you cry out when he thrust hard. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders as he crushed your chests together, your heart matching the rhythm of his. You held onto him like you never wanted to let him go. “My perfect treasure.”

Heat engulfed you as he reached between you and slid his fingers along your clit. Your hips bucked, your arousal climbing and taking you higher. The handsome man above you canting his hips and groaning as you keened had your body begging for release.

“Bucky, please. I need to come,” you whined. You didn't need his permission, but you still begged for it.

He watched your blissful expression with dark eyes and a devilish smirk. “That’s what I dreamt about.” His rumbling words had your thighs trembling. “You underneath me, taking every inch of my cock, begging to come.”

A hand worked its way to his hair and gripped it, trying to ground yourself from the sensations rushing through you. The edges of your vision blurred as your body wound tighter, ready to give yourself over to the pleasure only he could provide. “Please, Bucky,” you said. At least you thought you said it. The waves were ready to sweep you away.

“Come for me.” His husky voice wasn't one to be denied. “Make my dream come true.”

Your head fell back, your walls fluttering around his cock as you went over the precipice. Blood roared in your ears, but you could still hear him moan your name as you spiraled out of control. His body followed your lead, pumping his hips a few more times before he came with a deep moan. Feeling him flood your insides and seeing ecstasy fill his gorgeous eyes made you grip him like a vice all over again.

Bucky pulled you close when he gently collapsed on the bed, staying inside you as long as he could. Your body fit against his like you were designed just for him and you couldn't help but smile as you caught your breath. He smiled, too. A gorgeous, carefree smile.

“Dream come true?” you asked, your heart skipping a beat when his smile widened and eyes crinkled.

“Even better,” he whispered, cupping your cheek and skimming his lips against yours in a soft kiss. “Can we just stay like this?

You rubbed your cheek against his hand as the hazy cloud lifted. “If that’s what you want.”

“I meant forever,” he half teased, his hand reaching for yours to trace your bare finger.

Butterflies filled your stomach. It wasn’t a proposal, but it still felt like he was asking in a way. “Do you mean in this bed? As long as we can have our meals here and do movie nights. Oh, and a way to clean the sheets because they’ll be filthy.”

His eyes crinkled again as he chuckled. How did a laugh sound both wholesome and seductive? That was the power of Bucky Barnes. “And sex to keep us in shape,” he said, pulling the sheet more over you. “Sounds perfect, even if I don’t deserve it.”

You tilted your head, gazing at the man who turned your world upside down as the happiness slowly slipped from his face. Like how your body ached for his, your heart ached for him, too. “You do deserve this. You're not a bad man, Bucky.” He needed to hear it again. You'd tell him as many times as it took until it sank in.

His jaw twitched, his eyes holding a hint of regret. “I’ve killed people,” he reminded you in an even tone.

“I know,” you whispered. You accepted that it was part of his past and who he was. You accepted him. “That doesn’t make you unworthy of me.”

His eyes closed, his hold on you firmer. “It would almost be easier if you condemned me, but I’m a selfish man who wouldn’t be able to let you go.”

Your heart swelled. He was so gone for you. “I’m not asking you to let me go,” you said, turning his head back to you until his eyes opened. “I’m your treasure, remember? Yours to keep.”

The hard edges to his face softened once again. “C’mere,” he breathed. You met him halfway when he leaned in, his lips only on yours for a second when the doorbell rang. You were about to ask if he was expecting company, but he didn’t have to with the way his body tensed. He turned away from you, his phone in hand to check the camera at the front door. Security was important to him. “What the hell?”

“Who is it?” You sat up, not bothering to cover yourself as he got up and threw something on. You couldn’t even appreciate the view since his entire demeanor changed. “And should I go with you?”

His jaw twitched again. “Delivery guy dropped something off and left. Hang back a little,” he answered before he grabbed you a robe. He’d preferred you close as opposed to being in the bedroom alone. “I don’t want anyone seeing you if they’re still nearby.”

“Lots of people see me,” you tried to joke. You stopped smiling when he swung his head your way. He took your safety very seriously. “I’ll hang back.”

Taking your hand, he headed to the front of the villa. Your legs shook a bit, but you blamed that on the orgasm he gave you and not fear. He stopped you before you could reach the door, giving you a quick, hard kiss. It left you breathless when he pulled away. “Stay right here,” he whispered, your heart pounding as he grabbed one of his many hidden guns.

Weapons everywhere, a habit he’d never break.

You couldn’t see his expression when he went out to retrieve whatever was dropped off, but you understood his paranoia since he lived a dangerous life before. Not a lot of people knew where you were going on this vacation and he clearly wasn't expecting a delivery. “What is it?” you asked once he put the gun away and went back to you. A smile touched your lips when you saw the arrangement of various red flowers. “Those are beautiful.”

“They’re addressed to you.” He plucked the card from the holder to show you, his mouth set in a grim line. “But I didn’t order these.”

Dread filled you as you took the card from him and turned it over. Your name was the only thing written on it, minus a small stamp in the corner you hadn’t seen before: a heart and dagger. “Well, if you didn’t get me these, who did?”

“Someone from my past,” he said so quietly he almost missed it.

Your eyes widened. “Why would someone from your past send me flowers?” As far as you knew he didn't keep in touch with most of his old associates. “And how do they know we’re here?”

You stopped breathing when you saw his eyes. Cold. Deadly. “That’s what I'm going to find out.”

So much for staying in bed today.

OOH. What do we think so far? I wonder who from Bucky's past is going to pop up and why. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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horny-marbles · 2 months ago

Note

eyeless jack medical kink smut ?! please please please 🙏🙏🙏

YESSIR 🗣️🗣️ rubbing my hands, plotting, scheming... i might be bullshitting a bit because i have close to 0 medical knowledge lmao. also writer's block actually made me rip my hair out w this one for some reason. i read and reread this shit like...... an embarrassing amount of times and i literally got writing dysmorphia or whatever you call it 💀 BUT ANYWAY HOPE YOU ENJOY ANON!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Loose Hinges (Eyeless Jack x F!Reader)

CW: med examination, a little sadism kinda maybe if you squint, biting and blood, oral (f giving), orgasm denial, squirt, creampie, overall clinical feel... most of it anyhow :P

word count 5.2k

It’s not like he ever applied for the job.

There was no moment where Jack stepped forward, cracked his knuckles, and offered his services as the mansion’s unofficial medic. No CV given to Slender. No stethoscope slung around his neck, no degrees on the wall.

It started when Jeff dislocated his shoulder during some feral knife tantrum, most definitely breaking out over nothing. No one else even looked twice at his slinging arm; it's not like a house full of maimed psychopaths possessed the medical knowledge or the fucks to give. Jack hadn’t even blinked. Just walked over, expression unreadable as always, and popped the joint back in with the ease of someone tying a shoelace. No warning. No hesitation. He simply... Fixed it, like it was only natural.

Since then, it just happened. One by one, the mansion’s walking disasters started coming to him. Concussions. Lacerations. Broken ribs. Nothing experimental. Nothing fancy. Just quiet, competent fixes. He didn’t like doing it. He didn’t complain either. It was just… efficient. Someone had to do it, and he had the hands.

He wouldn't do it for free, however. Hence the rules. Don't come in empty handed - whether it's organs that would save him the headache of procuring himself, or stolen medical supplies, bring something or don't even bother dragging yourself there. Most importantly, hands to yourself. God forbid you touch his sterile equipment - he won't give you reasons to get stitches, but you will bleed out on your own moving forward.

So now, the old storage room down the hall is a makeshift infirmary. Bright, sharp overhead lighting. Stainless steel trays. Gauze stacked halfway to the ceiling. It smells like antiseptic and cold metal. It’s quiet. No music, no decor, no pampering or sugarcoating. Just Jack, his gloves, and a collection of very sharp, very clean tools.

You’ve been avoiding it like the plague for two days.

Your jaw hasn’t stopped throbbbing since your last mission: one bad punch across the face, and you’d felt something shift, something click. Now you can’t eat, can’t yawn, can’t speak more than a few words without crunching down on pain. You’ve been living on ibuprofen and denial, but it’s not cutting it anymore.

No answer.

So you’re here. Standing in front of the door with your hand curled around your jaw like it’ll stop your skull from splitting in half, the other tight around a plastic bag that hung with the weight of viscera from your hand. You stare at the peeling label on the door: just a fading piece of masking tape with “MEDICAL” scrawled in some unfamiliar hand - and you knock once.

You try again. Still nothing. You knew he smelled the organs in the bag from two hallways away, so he was just ignoring you, you realized.

You grit your teeth - big mistake - and finally push the door open. You stepped inside with your hand still curled around the plastic grocery bag like it was radioactive. The contents shifted and sloshed wetly with each step, and despite your best efforts not to flinch, your lips curled slightly in subconcious disgust.

The infirmary is colder than the rest of the mansion. Jack probably kept it that way to discourage loitering. The white light overhead buzzes faintly, casting sterile shadows over the clean stainless steel counter and shelves. No chairs. Just one padded table in the center, a stool for his own aid, and a tray of gleaming metal tools so clean they almost glitter.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just finishes changing the nitrile gloves on his hands, already prepped, like he expected you to just let yourself in. The scent hit you a second later - alcohol, something minty and clean, but sharp enough to keep you from getting too comfortable.

“Someone knocked you off alignment,” he said without turning. His voice was low, smooth, the usual emotionless timbre that somehow still managed to sound like an accusation. “Jaw?”

You nodded even though you knew he couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” you said quietly, jaw tight and throbbing behind your ears, setting the bag down on the metal table beside the door. “Some dude clocked me good. It fucking hurts and pops.”

That got him to glance your way, head tilting slightly, two gaping pits of darkness that housed no sight meeting your gaze. Bottomless, still. You stood a little straighter under the weight of his stare, even if it was only symbolic.

A moment passes in which you assumed he assessed the payment you brought, and his voice, calm as ever, slices through the tension in your shoulders like a scalpel.

“Sit,” he says flatly. “Close the door.”

You do both.

The door shuts with a quiet click, and you cross the room stiffly, dropping onto the edge of the padded table. Jack approaches without another word. There’s no greeting. No question. Just him crouching into your space, gloved fingers reaching for your chin like you’re an object in need of assessment.

You stiffen.

His touch is firm, not cruel. Cold from the gloves. He tilts your head to the left, then the right, thumbing along your jawline, pressing beneath the bone with a practiced kind of pressure that sends a deep ache skittering through your temples. You wince.

“Open,” he says.

You part your lips slowly. It hurts. No shit.

He doesn’t acknowledge your reaction. Just tilts your head back further, inspecting the hinge of your jaw. His fingers move with mechanical efficiency, tracing muscle, bone, tendon, head tilting slightly to one side, like he’s calculating something.

“Left TMJ. Inflamed,” he murmurs. “Partial dislocation.”

His voice is low, expressionless, as if reading from a file you can’t see.

“Clench.”

You hesitate.

He repeats himself, this time slightly slower. Not louder. Not forceful. Just... lower. Less about patience and more about efficiency and the time he could spend not doing this instead.

“Clench.”

You obey, pressing your teeth together. The dull spike of pain nearly makes you gag. He feels your muscles shift beneath the skin, then finally releases your chin and steps back just enough to grab a tool you don't recognize right away from a nearby shelf.

“Inflammation’s aggravating the joint. I’ll reset it.”

Your stomach turns.

“You- what?”

His head tilts again, the black voids of his eyes unreadable.

“You’ll need to relax. The longer you wait, the worse it will get.” A pause. “I don’t offer sedation.”

Of course he doesn’t.

“Lie back.”

You hesitate for a second too long.

Jack waits, motionless, gloved hands poised in front of him like he’s prepping for surgery instead of resetting a jaw. His head tilts half a degree, just enough for you to feel the weight of his wordless stare pressing on your sternum.

"...Fine." You lie back.

The vinyl of the exam table is cold against your spine. You shift slightly, arms flat at your sides. Your eyes trail the overhead light until Jack steps into view again, eclipsing it. Towering, shadowed, cut like stone. The only sound is the soft creak of latex gloves as he flexes his fingers.

He moves with no wasted motion, tongue depressor in one hand and a small penlight in the other. Click.

“Open again. Wider.”

You try. Surprise! It hurts again.

He doesn’t comment on the way your jaw trmbles. Just braces your chin with one hand and shines the light into your mouth, scanning along your gums, the hinge, the roof. You expect it to end there, for him to snap your jaw into place like a lego - but then he trades the depressor for something worse.

His fingers. Gloved, cool, long.

He presses two between your lips, careful but firm, thumb anchoring your jaw from underneath while the others sweep along the inside of your cheek. Checking for torn tissue, maybe. Infection. Misalignment. Who knows. His knuckles brush your tongue. You swallow without meaning to.

The sound that leaves your throat is humiliating.

Jack doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even breathe different. His fingers curl slightly, pressing into the soft flesh near your molars. The texture of the glove drags over skin that dried of spit from how long you've been gaping. Slow. Thorough. Your jaw aches and your body lights up in response.

Not from pain.

He’s not doing anything wrong. That’s the problem.

He’s not being seductive. Not being coy. Not even looking at you, not really. Just working. Focused, professional, detached. Like a job.

And it’s that - exactly that - that makes heat pool between your legs. You squeeze your thighs, trying to quiet your own body’s treachery. His fingers glide across the base of your tongue again, tipping your chin just slightly with the pad of his thumb. Your breath snags. What the fuck is wrong with you.

He withdraws a little slower this time, still silent, still careful. You would've almost relaxed if it weren't for the impending intervention that would surely make you keel over in pain.

“I need to assess the displacement,” he mutters, already applying pressure to the hinge of your jaw. “Don’t talk.”

You weren’t planning to. Not anymore.

The pads of his thumbs press just under your ears, right where the mandible meets muscle. He rotates your jaw gently but firmly, thumbs pressing into the tension like he’s mapping your pain. He doesn’t wince at the faint click, or the flinch you fail to suppress. He just notes it.

“There’s swelling,” he murmurs. “One of the ligaments is likely strained.”

You nod a little, before realizing you weren’t supposed to move. But Jack doesn’t comment. He’s just quiet for a moment. Still.

...Too still.

Your heart is hammering, and it’s not subtle anymore. Not to him.

You realize, too late, what he’s actually doing, what’s got him so motionless, so tuned in.

He's fucking listening.

His head angles ever so slightly toward your chest, and you can feel the moment he registers your heartbeat spiking. Not just hears it, but tracks it. Listens to it as data.

Then he inhales, slow and silent.

Oh no.

He can smell it. You know he can. Arousal blooming like a warm, humid pulse between your legs, sweet and tentative and absolutely real. You can't help but panic, bracing to be humiliated right here on his table. This is precisely why you even put off coming in to begin with.

But instead of recoiling, or making some awful comment, or pretending it didn’t happen-

He keeps going. Calm. Unmoved.

He moves one hand to the back of your head, cradling it with unnerving gentleness. The other comes to your jaw again, fingers curled around it, his thumb bracing on one side of your jaw, beneath your warm, flushed ear, the other four cradling the opposite side.

“I’m going to adjust it,” he says. “You may feel pressure. And pain.”

You exhale slow. “Okay.”

You’re practicalky vibrating now, your breath catching as he shifts even closer. He doesn’t need to touch more than necessary - never does - but his size alone is overwhelming, broad shoulders blocking out the harsh overhead light, his stance boxing you in like a shadow falling over prey.

He doesn't even give you a countdown. Doesn't brace you, doesn't warn you.

He just does it.

The crack is sharp and sounds like a cracked tooth. Sickening to anyone else, but not to him. Your eyes blur for a second, and for a moment all you can register is the heat between your legs and the full-body jolt of pain-pleasure confusion ripping through your nerves.

His hands stay where they are. Steady. Silent.

Then his voice again, low and completely unbothered:

“Better?”

You nod absently, breath shallow. You can’t speak. Not yet. You can't yet rip yourself from the sharp flash of skull splitting pain, even as he leans in. Just barely.

He doesn't spedk right away. His head remains tilted in that eerie, artificial way - listening. Not to your words, but to your body. The air feels too heavy, too thick.

"You’re flushed. Pulse elevated. Pupils dilated." His voice is calm, unbothered. “You're aroused.”

You look down, heart pounding even harder, like it’s trying to prove his point. You're in a closed room with a predator. Of course no pulse stammer, no change in scent escape him. And you stupidly, naively told yourself he'd at least not bring it up.

You almost defend yourself - almost- but your jaw still aches and your pride’s already halfway out the door.

He doesn’t accuse you. Doesn’t leer. Just continues peering down at you, seemingly toward your jaw, like calling you out on being horny on his table was just an afterthought.

Then, finally:

"You're at risk of muscular dysfunction," he hums. “TMJ compression may recur if the surrounding joints aren’t conditioned.”

You blink.

“What?”

"Therapy for mandibular strength. Repetitive movement. Isometric pressure.”

"...That sounds fake," you say, eyes narrowing.

"It’s not. I can administer a routine exercise,” he says. “If you comply.”

Your heart skips. No fucking way.

You force yourself to scoff, weakly. “What, like... chewing gum?”

“No,” he says, utterly expressionless, voice dry as bleached bone. “Like sucking my cock.”

The room goes still. You stare at him, face slack, brain flatlining. He doesn’t even shift.

You’d almost feel like you were being punked, if it weren’t for the clinical detachment in his voice. No grin. No teasing. Just a prescription. Like this is really just for your condition.

He gestures downward with a hand, slow and clear.

“On your knees.”

You're about to argue, but then you watch that same hand start undoing his belt. And you forget what you were going to say. Your legs move before your brain catches up.

The tile is cold beneath you as you lower. He doesn’t touch you, doesnt help guide you down or force your head to his cock. Just lets you get into position, calm as ever, the way a doctor waits for a patient to position themselves on an exam table.

You stare up at him, at the harsh shadows where his eyes should be, into that void of unsettling silence. Your mouth is already falling open, your jaw aching but looser now, slightly. You're not sure if it's from the realignment or the anticipation.

He watches you. Not hungrily. Not cruelly. Just assessing, patient.

“Begin."

The thing is, Jack doesn't get involved. That’s what the others say. And it’s true.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t fuck. Doesn’t linger in the common rooms or hover near bedrooms or watch anyone with anything in between clinical focus or utter disinterest.

Because frankly, there’s no one worth the effort. Not even during his mating season, when the heat is so overbearing and insufferable that he has to claw at his own raging cock to calm it down.

The women here are loud, violent, erratic. Jack learned early that entanglement breeds chaos. Even if his body hungers, his mind doesn’t. Definitely not for them, and what else was there? So he keeps to himself. Detached. Controlled.

And then you showed up.

Not particularly warm. Not particularly broken. Just... quiet. Smart. Pretty in a way that didn't demand attention. Kept your distance, likw him. And yet, here you are - kneeling on the tile floor of his makeshift infirmary, lips parted around the head of his cock with your jaw aching and your scent ripe with want.

He watches your mouth stretch open, just slightly at first, gauging the tension at the hinge.

“You’ll feel pressure,” he says, voice low but even, steady as his heartbeat. “Don’t force it. Let the joint relax.”

He’s big. Too big to take all at once without locking up, especially with your already scuffed jaw. So you ease into it, inch by slow, careful inch. His cock is heavy on your tongue, smooth and hot and stiffening by the second. You fight your gag reflex - not disgusted, but overwhelmed. By the size, by his taste and smell, none bad, but strong and raw and, in a way, threatening. Breathe through your nose. Let your lips seal slowly around the shaft.

Your jaw protests, dull pain radiating down into your neck. He hears your breathing shift.

“Discomfort?”

You nod faintly, but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you.

Instead, one hand lifts, settling under your chin, thumb pressing just beneath your ear as he begins to gently palpate the muscle, fingers feeling the give of the joint.

“Keep going,” he murmurs. “I need to feel the range.”

You suck in a slow breath. Take more of him in. It almost starts to feel like standard procedure by the way he acts. Almost.

The ache doesn’t disappear, but it starts to change. Dulls. Warms. The longer your mouth stays stretched, the looser the hinge feels, the less resistance there is in your jaw. Your tongue shifts around him, trying to ease the burn, and in doing so, draws a low hum from Jack’s chest.

“Good,” he says.

Definitely not standard procedure. You nearly moan.

Your spit starts to coat him, slowly bubbling thick and milky around the base. You're getting messy - your tongue laps greedily, spit slicking his shaft in glistening ropes. Every soft choke earns you another steady hum of approval.

He doesn’t move his hips. Doesn’t thrust. Big palm still engulfing the underside of your jaw, claws twitching just barely into your skin every time you hollow your cheeks and suck back up to the tip.

You look up at him, half-dazed, spit slicking your chin, your jaw hanging looser than before. He looks down, impassive, but there's no hiding the pinch in his brows or the flare of his nostrils when the head of his cock kisses the back of your throat.

“That’s it,” he grunts, low and strained. “Take it. Just like that.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily, and your hand moves before you even register it,sliding under your waistband, fingers slipping past soaked underwear to your cunt.

You’re drenched. The cotton is soaked through, sticking to your knuckles, to your mound, molded soft into the shape of your folds. You rub slow circles around your clit, moaning softly around him, trying to time it with the slurp of your mouth to hide the sound. Your hips twitch.

But you forget who you’re with.

He stiffess above you - not in surprise, but stillness. His head tilts just barely to the side.

“...You’re touching yourself.”

You freeze for half a breath, almost even pull your hand out of your pants. But he doesn’t stop you. Instead, his chest rises subtly.

He smells it.

The scent of your weeping cunt is thicker in the air, heady and tempered with and unmistakable. It mixes with the saline bite of sweat, the copper tang of blood from your payment, the chemical sharpness of antiseptic - but it’s yours that cuts through. Potent. Raw. Smearing on your thighs as you keep sucking.

He wasn’t planning on fucking you.

He didn’t need to. Your mouth would’ve sufficed - tight, warm, obedient. That would’ve been more than enough. A rare indulgence, a contained one.

But the sound.

That squelch of your pussy under your fingers - the slick wetness of it as your hips jerk and your moan stutters muffled around his cock - that changes everything.

He looks down at you then, fingers tightening ever so slightly in your hair.

“You’re soaked,” he says, tone low but not judgmental - observational, but something less unaffected coils around it now. “From sucking my dick?”

You don’t respond. You can't, your tongue is strained flat on the bottom of your mouth by the throbbing weight of his cock.

He leans forward, shadow cast across your flushed, fucked-out face.

“Get up,” he says. Calm. Firm. Final.

You blink up at him, dazed, lips puffy pink and wet.

“Up,” he repeats, slipping free of your mouth with a wet pop. “You’re not doing this on the floor.”

He pulls you to your feet with one smooth motion, strong and sure and impersonal as ever.

But his cock is still hard, glistening with spit, and when he steps in close, you feel the head nudge against your abdomen like an omen.

You look up at him as he pushes you back against the edge of the padded table, fully expecting another string of well measured medical excuses for wanting to sink into your pussy... But you were met with silence - thick, heavy, hungry even if he didn't outwardly show it. You didn't know whether to feel relieved or warned.

He doesn’t undress with hunger or haste. His movements are smooth, methodical, devoid of showmanship, just as he handles everything else in this space. Just his fingers unfastening buttons, peeling away layers like they’re in the way - not like they’re what covers you, but what obstructs you. What obstructs him.

And then he’s looming between your spread legs, cock hanging heavy and thick between his thighs, shining like a sword from your drool. The room is so quiet, you swear you can hear the shift of his weight when he steps closer.

His hands wrap around your thigh, latex squeaking as it slips over sweat. Your breath chokes short. He folds you in half, entirely - calmly forcing your thighs back until you’re bent near double. The stretch burns deliciously through your hamstrings, your hips, your spine.

And then he’s holding you there, palming the backs of your thighs as if anchoring you in place, cock nudging your entrance with zero urgency.

You squirm.

It earns you a hard slap to the inside of your thigh - sharp enough to make you jolt, wet enough that it echoes. Quick enough to make you want to chase it again.

“Don’t move,” he says.

Then, slowly - almost cruelly - he presses in.

You gasp. It’s as much of a fill as it is a stretch. Thick, deep, unrelenting. Your cunt clenches around him instantly, fluttering as your walls fight to adjust. His cock drags inside you with obscene smoothness, and stops. He doesn’t thrust yet. Just holds. Buries himself to the hilt and lets your body adjust. Not a hint of frenzy - he splits you open like he’s measuring you.

He exhales sharp, almost a sigh.

Your mouth drops open, but not in moan. It hangs. Your jaw slackens.

His hand is suddenly at your face, fingers curling under your chin, thumb pressing lightly into your jaw’s hinge, closing your mouth back up.

“You'll get lockjaw if you keep doing that,” he says coolly. “Hold it steady.”

The pressure increases. Not painful, not tenderly, but correcting.

His hips roll forward.

Slow, strong, deep,like he’s testing your depth, like he’s counting the inches it takes to pull another stifled moan from your throat.

You squeeze around him, clenching uncontrollably - already wound tight from your fingers, every nerve raw, oversensitive, like you'd been edged for hours. It could've been almost humiliating how close you were already, if it weren't for the strokes of his cock restarting your train of thought, over and over.

“Shit,” he hisses, jaw tight, his impassivity fracturing just for a moment. “You’re-”

He cuts himself off.

His hand slides downward and finds your clit.

You barely have time to react before he pinches so hard that it makes your entire body arch and tense up. Sharp pressure blooms, pleasure laced with heat and pain and a stifled cry you can’t quite make with your mouth full of shallow panting.

Your hips jerk, and he slams them back down.

“Don’t cum yet,” he growls - his voice now tinged, barely, with something more animal than human or demonic. “You’re tighter when you’re close.”

He pinches again.

Your vision blurs.

“Control yourself,” he repeats as he slides in again, deeper. “You wanted this- then let it last.”

He starts fucking you, really fucking you, like your desperation and your body burstingat the seams with need was barely even an inconvenience to him.

But he's starting to crumble. Slowly, surely, a thrust every few rolls of his hips stuttering and pushing in too quickly. Slipping again and again, not immune to the warmth and wetness and tightness swallowing his cock whole like it was carved for this.

The table rocks under each thrust, his rhythm measured but no longer calculated, driving you into the vinyl with every pump of his hips. Your pussy makes obscene noises - slick, messy, greedy, sucking him back in every time he draws out.

He’s breathing harder now. No longer silent.

Low groans, thick and guttural, start slipping out,like they’re being torn from a throat that never lets itself make sound.

You swear you hear it: a cracked "fuck," deep in his chest, not quite meant to be spoken.

He grabs your jaw again, not with medical intent now, but need - fingers firm, his palm cupping your face to anchor you as he fucks in deeper, like he’s chasing the tightest part of you.

You’re shaking. You’re soaked. You’re held open, filled full, and denied again and again.

You don’t know when his hands started shaking.

Maybe the third or fourth time he smacked and pinched your clit to edge you, cunt suctioning wet around his cock and throbbing dull and unsatisfactory. Maybe it was when you clenched on him during a particularly hard thrust and moaned like you were crying.

You hear it before you feel it. A snap, the high pitched pop of nitrile tearing beneath too-sharp pressure. His claws rip clean through the gloves. You catch the gleam of black keratin as they flex in the light.

And then he’s grabbing at you, groping you.

No longer practical. No longer careful.

Claws rake up your ribs, scratch over your tits, dig into the soft skin of your hips and thighs, not deep enough to slice but enough to sting, to leave microscopic beads of crimson in their wake. It’s primal. Like he’s trying to ground himself in the tactile, in the way your body grips him back, in the way your skin gives under his nature.

His pace becomes erratic.

Thrusts slam in harder, faster, more ragged,driven not by logic, not by need, but by want. The sound of your slick, the wet, high-pitched slap of it echoing against the walls, drives him deeper into something bigger than him.

You barely catch your breath before he lunges forward, body folding over you, arms braced against the table, his face in the crook of your neck.

You can feel a rumble in his chest - barely a warning at all - before be clamps down on your skin.

He sinks sharp, inhuman teeth into your shoulder with a guttural growl, like he's tasting something sacred, savoring it. Your flesh parts around each fang with a wet, horrible rip, and blood surges from the wound.

He doesn’t apologize as you shriek and claw at his biceps, his hair, anything to try and pry him off. Not even budging.

He laps. Licks deep, filthy stripes into your bleeding shoulder, groaning low, like he’s drinking down ambrosia.

You’re shaking beneath him, jaw slack with disbelief, pain, arousal.

He fucks into you harder, punishing, like he’s trying to weld his hips to yours. One hand slides down between your legs again, making you sob a pathetic little sound, bracing yourself for the worst again,but this time, he doesn’t pinch.

He finally rubs. Firm and fast, two fingers circling your clit with relentless pressure, dragging wet, slippery circles that sync with the piston of his cock, so fucking delicious and relieving that you almost don't even register the sting that blooms where the tips of his claws snug on your lips.

“Cum,” he growls, against your neck, against your blood, breath hot and voice wrecked. "Cum on this cock. Fucking milk it."

You wail in relief, and your whole body shudders with built-up pressure finally released. It hits like a crash - blinding, consuming, full-body spazms wracking your frame, legs trembling, pussy squeezing in pulses so strong it drags a strangled groan from deep in his chest.

You squirt. Just little sharp, rhythmic gushes, splattering down his length and the table beneath, every spasm squeezing more out of you.

“Fuck,” Jack snarls, then bites you again, this time at the base of your neck.

The pain is searing. White-hot. It makes your cunt tighten like a fist, sight blurring at the edges. And somehow- somehow - it just makes your orgasm stronger.

You feel yourself convulsing, helpless against the wave, and all you can do is hang on while he fucks you through it, deep, brutal, unrelenting. One clawed hand grips your jaw to keep it steady, the other still working your clit until tears start rolling down your cheeks from stimulation you can't mold around.

You're too gone to feel much more than a blurred wave of too much. Too fucked out to feel him tense and stutter above you. You only feel it once he slams in to the hilt and stalls, slicing through your walls and punching your cervix with the force of it. You almost black out on the spot.

It’s guttural. Deep. A sound torn out of something that doesn’t make sounds like that. He pulses inside you,thick, hot, and neglected for too long, filling you to the brim as he drinks from your neck like you're bleeding syrup.

His claws curl into your hips. His cock twitches inside you, pumping every last drop. And then - for the first time - he moans.

Not quiet. Not deadpan. A raw, feral, wrecked sound that's almost too spent to have come from the throat of a demon.

It vibrates through your bones.

And when it’s over, when he finally slows, pulls back just enough to breathe, you’re shaking under him, your jaw sore, your pussy flooded and bullied raw, your blood still wet on his lips. He pulls out like a scalpel being sheathed, his cock dragging slick and heavy from your used cunt, no wince, no remark, no reaction to the cum leaking out of you like evidence of something intimate.

And Jack is just silent again. Panting slowly subsiding into inaudible, steady breaths.

There’s no tenderness to the way he moves - no shushing, no soft hands. Just the same methodical detachment as always. He steps away from your body like it’s just another mess to clean.

Your skin is slick with sweat, your neck sticky with blood, thighs trembling and dripping with both of you - and he doesn’t even pause to look.

He just peels off the shredded gloves, tosses them into the trash with a snap of latex, and reaches for a fresh pair.

You’re still folded over the table, chest heaving, mouth hanging slightly open, when you feel him back at your side - hands sterile, gloved, impersonal all over again.

“Don’t move.”

The command is soft, but it’s not kind. Just practical.

He starts with the neck.

The bite wound is deep, ugly and violent and born from nothing but a selfish need, but he doesn’t flinch at the sight. Doesn’t murmur an apology or ask if it hurts. He just cleans. Disinfects. Presses a thick pad of gauze to the bite, tapes it down with no lingering touches.

Your shoulder is next, swabbed, sealed and wrapped. Then your thighs, your ribs. You feel the sting of antiseptic where his claws broke skin. He doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t speak.

When he’s finished with the worst of it, he steps between your knees again, tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“You clenched through your orgasm,” he says, tone flat. “Let me check your jaw.”

Your lips part instinctively, even as your eyes roll, unimpressed - and he presses a thumb along the hinge, palpating, observing. There’s pressure. A little discomfort. No pain.

“Still aligned.” A pause. “Mobility improved.”

He wipes his hands on a cloth and turns away.

“You’re cleared.”

You blink.

That’s it?

No goodbye. No acknowledgment. Not even a fucking nod.

You half-expect him to say something - anything at all- about what just happened. About him fucking you raw, drinking from your neck, and cumming so deep inside you it’s still dripping out onto the floor. But no. Nothing. His back stays turned. Shoulders relaxed. Voice cool.

“Try to avoid impact to the jaw for the next 48 hours. If the pain persists or worsens, come back.”

...Predictable.

606 notes · View notes

monstera-modd · 4 months ago

Text

Mother

DPxDC #5

____________

There were stories and legends shared from one kid to another, saying that if you were ever lost, abandoned, or unloved there was someone out there. A being that would find you and take you in. A presence to pour endless amounts of love into your care and upbringing, claiming you as their own.

Everyone only knew them as Mother. With his bright, calming green eyes and cool hands that also felt warm when he cradled your face, you just knew that you were loved, that you were safe, and had someone to call your parent- call a Mother.

Tim had heard the rumors and read about them online during those lonely nights when his parents would be who knows where, but he never let himself believe in it, in them. Why get all worked up about some deity that only has whispers and stories?

There were no pictures or concrete descriptions- just green eyes and cold-warm hands.

And even if he did let himself believe, if he let himself hope… what then? What happens when they never come?

His parents sang promises all the time, but every time, he would be dismissed- treated as if he were merely part of the groundskeeping staff, not their only kid, their son.

And yet here he was.

Alone on his seventh birthday.

A card on his table, telling him his parents were in Guatemala for an exhibit. Or something.

Tears blurred his vision as he flicked the lighter on and off, the small flame dancing in the dark. With a shaky breath, he closed his eyes and wished—God, he wished—that the being from the stories would come. Would save him and hear a gentle voice say, It’s all right now. I’m here.

That they would cradle his face like those stories, press a kiss on his forehead with other words of affection, hold him tight, and take him away.

Anywhere but here.

Away from a cold, empty manor.

Away from distant, unloving staff.

Away from parents who were never here.

_________

When Tim dreams, it’s of dazzling stars streaking across the sky. Walking on belts of moons and planets, and a being with bright green eyes and flowing white hair.

They pulled him close, cupping his cheek with a kind, loving look.

“My poor boy,” they murmured, voice laced with sorrow. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner, baby. But I’m here now—Mother’s here.”

A gentle thumb wipes away tears, and Tim dives into that loving embrace, loud sobs seem to echo and not in the strange, star-lit space.

He doesn't know how long they stay there. But the warmth around him never faded, and those loving hands cooled his heated cheeks and puffy eyes. Arms wound closer around him as he's hoisted into the air and cradled close.

Mother rocks him gently back and forth, fingers carding through his hair.

“I can’t take you with me, baby,” they whispered. “It’s not safe right now. But I’ll always come visit—to tuck you in every night, to hold you close when nightmares cloud your starry sky.”

They pressed a kiss to his hair.

“I have someone that I trust to look after my sweet boy. Sleep, baby. You'll be safe when you wake up.”

_____

That night, Alfred got a call.

He made promises to look after his new baby brother. Mother was fighting so hard to keep them all safe, and he could see the exhaustion in his eyes as he left that night.

But just as he promised, every night, Tim’s Mother appeared through glowing green portals.

With kisses and soft words, he tucked him in and told him stories of ancient pharaohs and great green witches. And every time nightmares gripped him, he felt gentle fingers threading through his hair and heard the soothing hum of a familiar voice.

Because Mother was there.

Mother never left.

And Mother never broke a promise.

_______

I love my baby Tim ❤️🥹🫶🏼

ALSO!! Go check out this fabulous Fic @moonmeetsthestars wrote!!

An Answered Cry by: Moonmeetsthestars

#danny phantom #danny fenton #dpxdc #tim drake #Tim drake is just a little baby who needs love #trans danny?? perhaps #alfred pennyworth #Alfred is Dannys kid as well!#Danny loves all his kids and wants nothing bad to happen to them #Also I was zooming writing this out lol #writing prompt #really its more like a little one shot

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stellawish · 1 year ago

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bunnies and penguins

genre: fluff fluff fluff warnings: just satoru being good dad idk :o pairing: dad!gojo x mom!reader

As soon as you closed the door behind you, Satoru looked down at his son and cooed, "Looks like it's just the two of us, buddy," he pinched his plump cheek. "Haru, Mama went to have fun with Auntie Shoko. What are your plans for today, buddy?" Your three-month-old baby looked up at his father and blinked a couple of times.

Summer was in full swing. The July heat was intense. Satoru trudged towards the refrigerator. After stocking up on some cold soda and snacks, they headed to the living room. Sitting comfortably on the large sofa, he placed Haru on his left thigh and wrapped his arm around the little boy.

While he sipped his grape soda and flipped through the channels in search of something interesting, he paused for a moment when a bright advertisement appeared on the screen. Small animals, the characters from Sanrio, bounced up and down on the beach. Haruo squealed with delight.

Satoru noticed that his son's attention was focused on the screen, and he yelled again when the white character—Cinnamoroll—appeared on the TV. "You like him, Haru?” he kissed his chubby cheek. “Huh oh right, he looks like your favorite plushie."

Since day one, Haru has always slept with that one plushie. When you were still pregnant, Gojo won you it at a festival. As soon as you held it in your hands, you decided that this bunny was meant for your son. Since then, it has always accompanied him during his daytime naps and nighttime dreams.

Satoru stroked his son’s chubby belly and glanced at the time. "Snack time, baby." He put down the empty soda can and stood up with Haru, heading towards the refrigerator. With his left arm he held his son close while his right hand reached for the milk.

Satoru warmed the milk and checked its temperature by dropping a couple of drops on his wrist. After ensuring that it was fine, he returned to the living room. Turning off the TV, he cradled the baby in the crook of his arm and brought the bottle to his small lips. Haru immediately grabbed the bottle with both hands and began to take big sips. Satoru chuckled "Take your time, buddy. I know mommy’s milk is very yummy but we don’t want you to have a tummy ache" he said, stroking the baby's plump cheek with his thumb. The gentle sounds of feeding filled the silence of the living room

Satoru looked down at the fluttering white eyelashes and the thin eyebrows. His heart was filled with a such an overwhelming wave of tenderness. This is his baby. Yours and his. Although several months had passed since his birth, Satoru sometimes looked at the tiny bundle and couldn’t believe that he was really here.

The fruit of your love, the symbiosis of you and him, was here. Now, he gazed at his son and thanked the universe and God for such a precious gift. He gently took his son's tiny hand and began to examine his small fingers. "One, two, three, four, five." Five little fingers. He brought his tiny hand to his face and kissed it gently.

Then he softly ran his fingers over the baby’s plump leg, tickling his tiny foot. The little one smiled without looking up from the bottle. "One, two, three, four, five." He counted his tiny toes. This habit of his had started since Haruo was born. When they brought him—tiny, red, and screaming—to Gojo, he couldn't believe his son was here. Later, he lay in bed with you, and together you gazed at your baby. Satoru was struck by how tiny his fingers were.

Haru moved, pulling Satoru from the depths of his memories. He looked at his son and saw that the bottle had already been emptied. He set it down and carefully picked up the child, placing him on the shoulder. He began to stroke his back gently until he heard a distinctive grunt. "Good job, buddy"

beep-beep

He turned his head and saw that his phone was behind the pillow. He stretched out and took the phone in his right hand. A message from you appeared on the screen.

my goddess 💘😫

hi toru. shoko and I already met up. we're heading out for coffee.

You send a selfie with Shoko. Satoru opened it and smiled. "Baby, look! It’s mommy and auntie Sho!". He pointed the screen at the baby’s face, and the little one cooed.

what are u guys up to? 👀

Satoru opened the camera on his phone and called to his son, "Hey, baby, look here! We'll send this photo to Mom." Gojo grinned and made a peace sign while baby looked up at the camera.

we got bored so we decided to watch some tv

He send the picture and u replied,

aww my cute babies😘

A bit later, Gojo reheated the yakisoba you made, while baby lay in his rocking chair, making soft gurgling sounds. After finishing his meal, Satoru picked up the Haru and carried him to the nursery. "Time for a nap, baby," he said, kissing baby’s soft cheek.

After changing the diaper, he opened a drawer with onesies. Every time he looked at the tiny clothes, Satoru's heart fluttered with cuteness. "Haru, should we choose this one or this one?" In his left hand, he held a tiny white onesie with small yellow ducks, and in his right, a grey onesie with a penguin on it. The baby cooed. Satoru raised his eyebrows. "With a penguin? A wonderful choice, baby."

After that, he sat down in a rocking chair and began to rock gently, stroking his son's small back. The baby in his arms started to yawn.

Satoru ran his lips through his son’s thin hair sniffing his sweet baby smell. He softly touched his forehead with his lips, along with his tiny nose and plump cheeks. Satoru couldn't get enough of his adorable son.

A few minutes later, the baby's eyes began to close, and his breathing became steady.

Satoru continued to admire his sleeping son for a bit. As much as he loved holding him, he knew he needed to make a work call. For a few minutes, he remained seated, savoring these moments of closeness with his son. He carefully stood up and placed the sleeping baby in the crib. Gently, he ran his finger along the child's cheek and adjusted the bunny plush. After ensuring the baby monitor was set correctly, he quietly closed the door behind him.

more dad!gojo HERE

hey guys you liked previous post so here we are! if you want more dad!gojo and mom!reader let me know I will gladly do more! and as i said before english is not my first language soo yeah

reblogs and comments are highly appreciated guys<3

tags: @3lliesrifle @achbbys000 @happytreetale @mashtura

dividers by: 2. @enchanthings

#jjk fluff #gojo fluff #dad!gojo #gojou satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru #dad gojo #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #satorugojo

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saatorus · 4 months ago

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The first thing you register upon waking is the absence of your daughter's usual early-morning babbling.

Your eyes snap open, heart hammering against your ribs as the lingering haze of sleep dissipates in an instant. You sit up so fast the blankets pool around your waist, cold air rushing over your skin as you frantically turn to the other side of the bed—only to find it empty.

The sheets where Satoru sleeps are rumpled, but cool to the touch. He’s probably gone to work early, something he usually does. And, more importantly, your daughter is no where to be seen.

Panic claws up your throat. You had let her sleep with you last night—like always—because she insisted there was a monster under her bed. Satoru, ever the indulgent father, had only grinned and whispered conspiratorially that he sleeps better with her snuggled up beside him anyway. You had drifted off with their soft breaths keeping you warm, lulled by the comfort of their presence.

You throw off the blankets and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, your body still caught in the fight-or-flight response of a mother whose child has inexplicably vanished. Barefoot, you pad across the floor, pushing open the bedroom door with more force than necessary, only to be met with the distant sound of… clattering? A faint, rhythmic hum drifts through the hallway, accompanied by something softer—something sweet and familiar. Babbling.

Your breath catches, the knot of tension in your chest loosening slightly, though your body remains primed for action as you follow the sound. The scent of something warm and sugary fills the air as you descend the stairs, rounding the corner into the kitchen—and freezing in place.

There, standing by the counter, is Satoru.

Shirtless. Clad only in low-slung grey sweatpants that hang dangerously on his hips, revealing the deep V-lines cutting into his lower abdomen. His torso is all lean muscle and smooth, pale skin, marred only by faint scars from battles long past. His shoulders are broad, his chest well-defined, accompanied with a slim waist, and his muscular arms—one curled securely around your daughter, the other expertly flipping something on the stove—flex with effortless strength. His hair is a disheveled mess of white strands, falling boyishly over his forehead, but his expression is nothing short of pure, unabashed delight.

And then there’s your daughter. Perched on his hip like she belongs there, her tiny fingers gripping onto his shoulder for balance as she babbles away, utterly enraptured by whatever her father is saying. She has his snow-white hair and gleaming, cerulean eyes, the wispy strands of white hair sticking out in soft tufts, but her smile—it is all yours, bright and expressive. Her button nose, too, is unmistakably yours, scrunched up in concentration as she tries to mimic whatever absurd sounds Satoru is making at her.

You blink, trying to process the sight before you.

Your husband, half-naked, cooking breakfast with your daughter attached to him like a little koala.

“What the hell is going on?” The words leave you before you can stop them, still caught between confusion, awe, and the residual adrenaline of waking up to an empty bed.

Satoru turns at the sound of your voice, and the grin that spreads across his face is nothing short of devastating. “Good morning, birthday girl,” he coos, stepping toward you effortlessly, despite the toddler hanging off him. Before you can react, he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his lips lingers, chasing away the last vestiges of your panic.

You blink up at him, still trying to recalibrate. “You—what—where was she?”

“Shhh, no need to stress, sweetheart,” he says, rubbing a soothing hand down your arm. “I wanted to let you sleep in for once, so we decided to make you a surprise breakfast.” He gestures proudly to the stove, where a stack of pancakes sits on a plate, alongside fresh fruit and a mug of coffee that you just know he made exactly the way you like it.

Your daughter, seemingly remembering her important role in this grand surprise, suddenly claps her tiny hands and chirps, “Hap-buh!”

You blink, eyes widening.

Satoru practically beams, his entire face lighting up as he nuzzles his nose against hers. “That’s right, princess! Say it again for Mama.”

She grins, delighted by the attention, and tries again. “Hap-buh-day!”

Your hands fly to your mouth, the last of your sleepiness vanishing as your heart swells to the point of bursting. “Did she—?”

“She did,” Satoru confirms smugly, bouncing her slightly on his hip. “I’ve been working on it all morning. She’s a genius, obviously. Takes after me.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the way your lips curve into a smile, the warmth of your little family wrapping around you like a cocoon.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” Satoru murmurs, pressing another kiss—this time, to your lips. As your daughter babbles excitedly between you, white hair gleaming under the morning light, you think to yourself that maybe, just maybe, this is the best birthday gift you could ever ask for.

As you reach for your coffee, Satoru’s hand catches yours, tugging you closer with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You know,” he muses, voice dropping to a low murmur, “I was thinking we should make this a birthday tradition. I take care of breakfast, and you—” his lips graze the shell of your ear, “—take care of dessert. Get what I mean? It’s early in the morning but we can make time–”

You swat at his chest, but he only chuckles, thoroughly unrepentant. “Satoru—”

“I’m just saying,” he continues, grinning. “C’mon. It’ll be a really good birthday present. My head between your thighs, as usual, honestly it’d be a birthday treat for both of us–.”

“Keep talking, and you’ll be the one sleeping with the monster under the bed tonight.”

Satoru only laughs, bright and carefree, as your daughter babbles something incoherent, small hands trying to reach down from Satoru's hip to grab at the coloured assortment of fruit. And as you sip your coffee, shaking your head at your ridiculous husband, you can’t help but stop the warm feeling unfurling in your chest, that you love the family you two have both created.

#jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu satoru #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo fluff #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader smut #gojo smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut

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mysticalcrowntyrant · 3 months ago

Text

Yandere Bullied x Reader (Chapter Two)

You’ve only got one of the thumbtacks in when you hear the voice.

“I knew it. You little shits think you’re funny?”

Wyatt freezes mid-laugh, one hand still inside the teacher’s desk drawer. The string of paper clips he's been threading together dangles uselessly from his fingers. You don’t even have to look—you know it’s Oliver. His voice is like gravel ground into bruised skin, and it sticks to your spine like cold sweat.

You turn.

He’s framed in the door like something out of a nightmare, arms crossed over his broad chest, his lip curled in disgust. There’s a reddish smear on his jaw—old blood, maybe. Or ketchup. Or both. It doesn’t matter. It feels like a warning.

Wyatt swallows hard, eyes darting to you.

You’d picked this classroom because it was supposed to be empty—Ms. Drew was at a conference, the janitor was always late, and it had the best angle for rigging the water cup over the doorframe. It was a classic prank. Dumb. Harmless.

But now Oliver’s here.

He steps into the room slowly, like he’s savoring it.

“So this is what you two do when you’re not blowing each other behind the gym.”

Wyatt stiffens. His mouth opens like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

You feel it building—the silence stretching thin, the knot behind your ribs winding tighter. You step forward instinctively, like your body wants to shield Wyatt, like maybe if you say something quick enough, loud enough, funny enough, it’ll all dissolve.

But Oliver moves faster.

You don’t see the fist coming.

It’s not until your jaw explodes in white-hot fire and your legs give out under you that you realize he hit you.

Oliver hit you.

There’s a crack as your back slams against the desk, a dull thunk that echoes through the empty room, and then everything goes muffled—like your ears are full of cotton and the lights got too bright. You blink and see Wyatt’s face inches from yours, his hand on your arm, eyes wide and wet and wild.

“Hey,” he’s saying, his voice shaking, breaking. “Hey, hey, hey—look at me. Look at me, you're okay—right?”

You try to sit up, but your head is spinning. Your mouth tastes like blood and chalk dust.

And then you hear it.

Wyatt’s breathing shifts. Sharp. Hollow. The kind of sound you’ve only heard once before—when Oliver cornered him behind the gym last fall, and Wyatt didn’t fight back, just stood there trembling, hands balled into fists he never used.

But now—

Now he moves.

Wyatt stands. Slowly.

Oliver’s laughing. “Oh, what? You gonna cry about it?”

But Wyatt doesn’t say anything.

He picks up something from the teacher’s desk. You don’t see what it is until he’s already crossing the room.

It’s the heavy brass apple paperweight—the one Ms. Drew always complains about but never throws out because it was a gift from her dead husband.

Oliver doesn’t see it coming.

Wyatt hits him once. Then again. Then again.

And then everything goes red.

You scream his name.

Wyatt doesn’t stop.

The third hit lands with a wet sound that makes your stomach twist. Oliver’s body crumples like a dropped puppet, his limbs splayed, a smear of blood on the white tile. His eyes are open but unfocused. There's something wrong with the way his head is tilted, like his neck is loose, unhinged.

Wyatt stands over him, panting, black hair falling into his eyes. There’s blood on his hands. On his shirt. On his cheek. He looks like he’s waking up from a dream—or falling into one.

He turns to you.

And in that moment, something in his face fractures. Not fear. Not regret.

Something else.

He drops the paperweight.

The sound of it hitting the ground is deafening.

You push yourself up on shaking elbows, your cheek throbbing, your vision swimming. You stare at Oliver’s body, then at Wyatt. Your chest won’t stop heaving.

“Wyatt,” you whisper.

His voice is hoarse. “He hit you.”

You don’t know what to say.

“I saw him hit you.” He says it again, like he needs you to understand. Like maybe if he says it enough, it’ll make it okay. “He hit you.”

The silence that follows is unbearable.

-------

You taste copper and dust. Your lip’s split; every breath rattles. You don’t think—your body moves before your mind can catch up. You scramble to your knees, fingers numb as they close around the blood-slicked brass apple. You don’t know why. Maybe because it feels like an anchor. Maybe because it's better than looking at what Wyatt did.

What you let happen.

Wyatt doesn’t stop staring at Oliver, his hands dangling at his sides, fingertips trembling. He looks like he’s going to say something else, something terrible, but nothing comes out. You see the moment he realizes—really realizes—what he’s done. His face folds in on itself like wet paper. He staggers back a step. Then another. Then his back hits the wall, and he sinks to the floor with a choked sound like he’s trying not to cry or vomit or both.

You’re both in shock, but someone has to move.

Someone has to fix this.

Your fingers close around Wyatt’s wrist. “Come on.”

He doesn’t budge.

You grip tighter. “Wyatt, we have to go. Now.”

Something in your voice must reach him—he blinks, like surfacing, and lets you pull him up. He stumbles after you, wide-eyed and silent, leaving red fingerprints smeared across the doorframe as you drag him down the hall.

The school’s dead quiet. The late bell hasn’t rung yet. There’s still time. You move fast, backtracking toward the French classroom, to the staff bathroom right next to it—the one with the flickering light and always-locked supply cabinet. No one ever goes in there.

You shoulder the door open and yank him in after you, locking it behind you with fingers that barely work.

Wyatt’s still shaking. He hasn’t said a word.

You drop the paperweight into the sink and turn on the faucet. The sound of the water gurgling down the pipes fills the room, a thin, awful static.

He flinches when you grab his hand, but doesn’t stop you. You hold his wrist steady as you start scrubbing the blood away. His skin is warm. Too warm. His breaths come in tight, short gasps.

“He’s not dead,” Wyatt says, so quietly you almost miss it.

You glance at him. His eyes are glued to the mirror, but he’s not really looking. Just... watching himself fall apart.

“He’s not dead,” he says again, but this time it sounds like a question.

You don’t answer.

You scrub harder.

The blood doesn’t come off easy—it's already drying, dark at the edges. It’s under his nails, in the cracks of his knuckles. You use paper towels and hand soap and whatever you can find. Wyatt’s shoulders shake. You think he’s crying, but he’s silent.

“You didn’t mean to,” you say. “You were protecting me.”

His head jerks toward you, and for the first time, you see something raw in his expression—more than fear. More than guilt.

Devotion.

“You believe that?” he asks, voice cracking.

You pause. The air between you feels electric. Too heavy.

And the truth is, you don’t know what you believe.

But you nod.

Because maybe if you say it enough, you’ll believe it, too.

There’s a knock at the door.

Both of you freeze.

Then a voice: “Someone in there?”

It’s a teacher. Mr. Carson. He always takes the back stairwell from the teachers’ lounge around this time.

You mouth quiet and Wyatt holds his breath.

The door rattles.

You hold Wyatt’s hand so tight you feel your own pulse in his bones.

Then footsteps retreat. Fading. Gone.

You don’t breathe again until the silence returns.

Wyatt sinks down onto the grimy floor, knees drawn to his chest. You join him. Neither of you speak.

Minutes pass.

And then he says, “We can’t go back.”

You look at him. “What?”

“Back to before. To how it was.” His voice is flat now, all the emotion scrubbed out. “I saw him hit you. And I—I did what I had to do.”

You want to say it wasn’t his job. That it was a mistake. That you should’ve run. Called someone. Done anything else.

But the words don’t come.

Because deep down, some part of you isn’t sorry.

And maybe he sees that in your face.

Because Wyatt reaches for your hand again, and this time it’s not trembling.

It’s steady.

“Whatever happens next,” he says, “I won’t let them take you from me.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not really. Your throat’s raw and dry, your head still buzzing from the hit and the flood of adrenaline that came after. You should say something—something sane, something calming, something that separates you both from what just happened.

But all you do is nod again.

Because maybe it’s easier than thinking. Maybe it’s safer than feeling.

Wyatt shifts beside you, adjusting his back against the cool tile wall. His eyes are rimmed red, but his breathing is even now. Controlled. Like he’s already stepped into a new version of himself—one that doesn’t flinch at the sight of blood. One that doesn’t regret.

“I’ll tell them I did it,” he says suddenly. Quiet. “Just me. You weren’t part of it.”

You blink. “No.”

He looks at you. Confused. Hurt, even. “I don’t want you to get in trouble for—”

“We’re not doing that,” you cut in, louder than you mean to. It echoes in the small space. “We were in it together. And anyway…” You trail off.

Anyway, they won’t believe you. Anyway, we left prints. Anyway, it’s already too late.

There’s no good ending to that sentence.

Wyatt watches you a moment longer. Then nods.

The silence returns, thick and humming. The water in the sink is still running. The paperweight lies forgotten in the basin, blood diluted and swirling down the drain.

“Okay,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

And just like that, you both know: you’re not going to tell. Not yet. Not today. Maybe not ever.

----------

By the time the final bell rings, the two of you are long gone.

You cut across the back field, the one with the rusted goalposts and tall grass that no one maintains. Wyatt’s hoodie is pulled low over his face. You lend him your backpack—lighter than his, less noticeable. You keep your head down, hoodie up, heart hammering as the school shrinks behind you.

No sirens yet. No screaming. Just the wind and the birds and the too-normalness of it all.

It feels wrong, how normal it is.

“Where are we going?” Wyatt asks, when you reach the edge of the woods.

You don’t know. You should’ve planned better. But the world’s too loud and your thoughts too scattered.

You hesitate, staring into the dark tangle of trees ahead like they might give you an answer. The path is barely more than a deer trail, half-hidden beneath leaves and thorns, but you take it anyway. Because forward is the only direction that makes sense now.

“I know a place,” you lie.

Wyatt follows without question.

The woods swallow you both whole, cool and damp and full of shadows that stretch like fingers. Every snapped twig, every birdcall makes you flinch. You keep checking behind you like someone might be following, like sirens will tear through the quiet any second. But they don’t.

You keep walking.

Eventually, the ground slopes downward, the trees thin, and you come to the creek—the one you used to visit back in middle school, when skipping class meant freedom and not fear. There’s a patch of gravel near the water, mostly hidden from the trail. You collapse there, knees scraped, hands shaking.

Wyatt sinks down next to you. His clothes are still stained, and your lip is still bleeding. You're both a mess.

But you’re alone.

Together.

For a long time, neither of you says anything. Just the sound of the creek bubbling over rocks and the wind sighing through the leaves.

Then Wyatt breaks the silence.

“I saw the way he looked at you. The things he said.”

You stare at the water.

“I should’ve stopped him sooner,” he adds.

You glance over. He’s picking at the dried blood under his fingernails. His jaw clenches. “I’ve thought about it before. Hurting him. I didn’t mean to, not like that, but—” He cuts off. “It’s not just because of what he said. Or what he did today.”

Your breath catches. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t look at you. “I mean... I hate how he looks at you. Talks about you. Like you're nothing. Like he owns you.” His voice lowers, rough around the edges. “You don’t deserve that. You never did.”

You’re not sure what to say. The part of you that should be horrified—that should be running—is quiet. Numb. Instead, all you feel is the echo of what he said earlier:

I won’t let them take you from me.

He meant it. You believe that now.

“I didn’t ask you to do this,” you murmur, not looking at him.

“I know.” He finally turns to face you. “But I would do it again.”

His eyes are steady, unreadable. Not angry. Not sorry.

Just sure.

The worst part is… you believe that, too.

You hug your knees, chin pressed to your arms. “We can’t stay here forever.”

“No,” Wyatt agrees. “But we’ll figure it out.”

And somehow, you know he means it.

Not we’ll tell someone or we’ll turn ourselves in.

He means: We’ll run.

Disappear.

Start over.

“We don’t have anything,” you whisper. “No money. No clothes. Nothing.”

“We’ll get what we need,” he says, just as quiet. “We’ll wait till dark. Go back. Be careful.”

It’s so matter-of-fact, like this is just another school project. Something you can map out, bullet-point, survive.

You lean your head against his shoulder. It feels wrong, but it also feels like the only thing that still makes sense.

“You scared me,” you admit.

His breath hitches. “I know.”

“But... I’m still here.”

Wyatt doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s quiet. “I don’t deserve that.”

You close your eyes. The creek gurgles on. The sky darkens. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. A car door slams.

You don’t move.

And neither does he.

Because what you’ve done—what he’s done—can’t be undone.

And whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.

Whether that’s redemption.

Or ruin.

Masterlist

Tags:

@sirenetheblogger

@Osunnyside01

#yandere oc #x reader #oc x reader #male yandere #yandere #yandere x you #yandere x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere fanfiction #oc x you #yandere male #yandere oc x reader #x you #male oc x reader #obsessive love #yandere x darling

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