#and that made him question A LOT of things

[itzpookiepooh]

Let’s Get Married

Inspired by Let’s Get Married by Jagged Edge

Sylus adored everything about you. The way you brushed your teeth, the way you laughed, even the way you tripped over the same spot in the base that’s been there forever. He couldn’t not love you. You’ve given him every reason to love you. He loves how you love the boys, he loves how you are eventually able to get along with Mephisto.

He loves that you reassure him on his baddest days. He loves that you take care of him the same way he takes care of you. He could make an endless list of reasons he loved you but then he’d be writing even on his deathbed. You were both slow dancing to one of his many records. He was teaching you how to waltz which turned into you guys just feeling the music.

He stared down at you in admiration. You weren’t done up or in your hunters uniform but laid back and yourself. Your hair was tousled from the long day and you were in your loungewear. A soft smile makes its way onto Sylus’ lips. He was a man of extravagance that much was true but he was also for living in the moment. You take your head off his chest to look at him. You giggle at the fact he was already looking at you with those piercing red eyes.

“What?” You giggle softly, “Is there something on my face?” Sylus just chuckles before sighing.

“Marry me.” He mumbles making you both stop swaying. Did he really just ask you that? Right now?

“Are you serious?” You whisper as if the air was knocked out of you. He smiles making you clutch his hand tighter.

“I don’t joke about things like this.” He assures you, “I’ll do a grander gesture another time. This moment was too perfect to pass up.” He reassured you in case you thought he didn’t care enough to make the gesture.

“Yes.” You whimper as tears sprang to your eyes. He held you close letting the tears run down your face. This is what made life worth living.

Caleb has watched you grow into someone so brave it puts him to shame at times. He can’t help but admire everything you do. He’s always seen a future with you away from Linkon. A nice house, a dog or two, maybe even a kid. Whatever you wanted he would give you. He knew he wanted this, forever. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind.

You were both watching Gnomeo and Juliet, a movie you guys hadn’t watched since you were kids. Caleb wanted some nostalgia tonight like he does many other nights. You were curled into his side as you both watched the scene of Gnomeo and Juliet meeting. Caleb couldn’t help himself.

“Marry me.” He blurted out, “please.” He whispers but you just stare at him.

“Does Elton John get you in that mood or something?” You question him. What is he thinking? How does this movie make him think that?

“No I’ve been thinking about it for a while.” He sighs, his nerves setting in. “There’s nothing I want more in this world than to call you my wife.”

You were stunned, not shocked because you’ve seen a future with Caleb. You always have but you never knew when to bring it up to him. Your heart was pounding as you stared at him which didn’t help his nerves at all. What did you have to lose? You both wanted the same thing.

“Yes—yeah, of course.” You ramble making him laugh and pull you into a hug. He kissed your forehead twice and squeezed you tighter. You just made him the happiest man on earth.

You and Xavier were baking, well you were baking and he was passing you ingredients. His cooking got a lot better which was great for you but you didn’t trust him enough to cook alone. You guys were baking some desserts for the hunters association party on tomorrow. You both were having fun and covered in flour and batter. Xavier was making your job a bit harder because he kept ‘tasting’ the mix. You didn’t mind much though because you enjoyed spending time with him. You did tell him to slow down on the eating because you didn’t want him to get a stomachache.

After taking the cake out of the oven, you high five Xavier. He smiles at how happy you were about you guys’ accomplishment. He loved how positive you were about everything. You always found a bright side even if it seemed like there wasn’t one. He knew he loved you when he started staring at you longingly. You put him in a daze just by being you. You occupied his thoughts no matter what was going on.

“We should get married.” He spoke without thinking but he didn’t regret it. You stared at him with wide eyes not fully processing what he just said. Was he proposing? Was he crazy? So many questions and not enough answers.

“Have we been in the kitchen too long?” You ask genuinely. Maybe the fumes were getting to him and he needed to step onto the balcony.

“No.” He laughs before leaning on his elbows on the kitchen counter. His voice became softer as he spoke, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me.”

Your jaw was on the floor. You spend the rest of your life with him? This had to be some sort of fever dream. Xavier was straightforward but this was surprising even for him. You couldn’t gather words as he just watched you fumble. You settled with an enthusiastic nod, too tongue tied to give a verbal answer. He smiles at your answer before rounding the counter to kiss you. He was extremely happy that you said yes.

Rafayel can shout from the rooftops about how much he loves you. It would be pointless considering just about everyone in Linkon knows it. He can’t not bring you up whenever he’s having a conversation. He will find anyway to squeeze you in there. He would tattoo it on his chest if he were into it. There is no him without you.

On this particular day he was to unveil an art piece he had been working on for weeks. You knew it was special when he wouldn’t even show you. It intrigued you what was until that veil. Could it be another environmental piece? A new color perhaps? Only time will tell.

Rafayel unveiled the piece for you and immediately your jaw was on the floor. It was of you and him, he dipped you as you held a bouquet of flowers. His nose nuzzled in your neck as you laughed. Anyone would think this was a portrait of a distant memory but no he painted your future together. You felt your heart skip a beat at the sight. He was proving himself to you in the most beautiful way possible.

“I want nothing more than to wake up to you everyday. Go to sleep with you there everyday.” He starts making your lips tremble. He tilts your chin up to look at his watery eyes, “Marry me?” He asks his voice shaky as he spoke.

“Of course.” You smile wiping your eyes, he holds you close as you fall into his arms. This was a moment that would be engraved into his mind for the rest of his life.

Many thought of Zayne as boring, nonchalant and so forth and so on. Not to you, never to you. He was expressive you just had to get to know him first. He’s thoughtful, kind and caring, many of the reasons why you love him. He loved you for some of the same reasons and even smaller ones than that. He loved the way you’d curl into him unconsciously when you guys were in bed. He loved the way you’d make him lunch with a cute note inside. He loved how you loved him unconditionally. Even when his evol first went out of control in front of you, you didn’t run away or cower away from him, rather you helped him through it.

You guys were basking in the night sky as fireworks exploded in the sky. He could’ve been watching the sky and how it lit up beautifully yet he only saw you. The fireworks reflecting off your eyes as you sat in awe at the different colors and designs it spewed. He felt so content in your presence no matter what you did together. You quickly tap his hand and point to the huge explosion filled with orange, pinks and purples. How could he not want to spend the rest of his life with you? Music played in the background as he felt you lean into him.

“Where do you see yourself in the future, Zayne.” You murmured as the fireworks calmed down. He sighs as his lips tugged upwards.

“I see myself…still being a surgeon however, I’ll have something more.” He hints making you furrow your brows. You look at him curiously wondering what he meant.

“A promotion?” You questioned. He was at the top what else could he want? Did he want to own a hospital of his own?

“Yes, you can call it that.” He teased making you narrow your eyes as they dart around. You were thinking to yourself all the possibilities he could mean. He cupped your cheeks bringing you closer to him.

“I want the next stage in my life to be an important milestone…together.” He clasps you and his hands together. Your eyes search his before they widen in shock, “You don’t know how much you mean to me. I will spend the rest of my life showing you how much.” He softly spoke placing his forehead on yours.

You felt your water line fill as you thought about it. You didn’t think he wanted a life with you. You didn’t know why but it never crossed your mind. Living in the moment was all you wanted to do with him. Not push him for change or nag him about anything like that. Being here with him right now was enough for you. Always.

“We’re getting married?” You breathe making his eyes soften as he chuckles.

“Only if you want to.” He murmured kissing your hand. You felt the tears fall as you try and stop them. He stares at you fondly, his heart beating for you.

“Of course I want to. What kind of question is that?” You cry as he chuckles before hugging you and kissing the crown of your head a few times. The fireworks explode above you sealing the moment in your hearts forever.

I love cute/romantic moments they warm my heart 🥹

[mssishipi]

soft love — pjs

— in which you found purpose in jay's control that love was so soft to be touch and tight enough to never let go.

warnings: dark romance, emotional manipulation, psychological control, jay is older than reader, power imbalance, dependency, themes of submission and ownership. explicit content (smut): unprotected sex, implied breeding kink. MDNI

Dating older guys, they said, would be so good.

"They’re more mature," they told you. "Patient. Experienced. They know how to take care of you. They’ll spoil you, treat you like a queen."

Jay was all of those things and more.

He was sweet in that effortless, older-man way, never fumbling or awkward, always knowing the right thing to say, always knowing exactly what you wanted before you even said it. He'd buy you things without you having to ask. Something you liked, something you needed and the next day, it was waiting in your hands like magic. Clothes, jewelry, rides, trips... everything.

He gave you the kind of love that made it easy—too easy—to fall into him. And you did.

He made you feel safe, special. Protected. Like nothing in the world could hurt you as long as you were his. Like you didn’t need to worry about anything anymore.

And little by little, you stopped.

You stopped checking your own schedule because Jay always had plans for both of you. You stopped talking to certain friends—Jay didn’t like them anyway. You stopped doing a lot of little things because he took care of them for you... until you weren’t sure where you ended and he began.

He became your whole world. And at first, that was intoxicating.

But it started to shift. You didn’t notice it all at once. The control didn’t come like a storm. It came in whispers.

In little comments, like: "You don’t need to go out tonight, stay with me instead." Or: "Why do you even talk to him? You know I don’t like it." Then one day, it was: "Wear this instead, I don’t want other guys looking at you."

And when you pushed back, even gently—just asking questions, wanting to understand—he’d smile that same sweet smile he always had. But it didn’t feel sweet anymore. It felt like warning.

He was still patient. Still spoiled you. Still called you "baby" with that soft voice that once made your stomach flutter.

But, sometimes, it made your skin crawl.

Because when Jay got angry—really angry—it wasn’t loud. It was cold, still and heavy. He didn’t yell. His silence said enough. His glare made your heart skip beats for all the wrong reasons. You forgot how kind he could be in those moments. You only remembered the way your breath caught when you saw the shift in his eyes.

"Love, my friends are planning to visit Indonesia, can I go with them?" 

Your voice is barely above a whisper. You speak without looking up, your fingertips nervously playing with the edge of your sleeve, eyes fixed on Jay as he types away on his laptop across the room. You already know what he's going to say, but you ask anyway—half-hoping for something different this time.

Jay doesn’t stop typing, not at first. The rhythm of the keys continues for a beat too long, the silence between you stretching thin. Then, without looking up, his voice comes out flat. 

"I told you, I’m not comfortable with your friends." Click. Click. "Didn’t one of them have a scandal at some bar? They’re a bad influence."

You flinch, "love, it’s not a scandal," you murmur, careful not to let your tone rise. "She was... she was a victim."

That’s when the keys stop. Just like that, the room feels heavier. His fingers hover above the keyboard.

You dare to glance up and regret it. He’s staring at you now. Not angry. Not yet. But disappointed, which somehow always hurts more. You hate that about yourself, how fast you shrink under his gaze, how quick your heart races when you think you’ve said the wrong thing.

"You always defend them," he says quietly. There’s no yelling, no raised voice, but you feel like you’ve been slapped.

"I’m just saying—" you start, but the words catch. Because what are you saying, really? What are you trying to prove?

He sighs, turns his eyes back to the screen. "I just want what’s best for you. I thought you knew that."

And just like that, the conversation ends. Why did I even ask for permission? That was never your mindset before. You were independent, assertive, unafraid to make your own choices. But somewhere along the way, that changed.

They say it’s normal, even healthy—asking for your partner’s approval. That’s what being in a relationship is, right? Compromise. Communication.

But you feel like you're being held tightly. Not by arms, but by invisible strings that pull every time you try to step too far away. The worst part is you don’t even want to fight it.

You don’t know anymore what’s right, or what’s normal. You just don’t want Jay to look at you like that again. You don’t want to see that shift in his eyes. You don’t want to feel that pit in your stomach, or the shame curling hot in your chest like you’ve done something wrong.

It hurts. Not the kind of hurt that bruises skin but the kind that seeps into your bones, the kind you carry without scars, but never really heal from.

The bed shifts with the familiar creak of weight settling beside you. The mattress dips, and even before he says a word, your body responds on instinct.

You turn toward him immediately, almost reflexively, slipping your arms around his waist and pressing your head against his chest. It’s automatic now, seeking his warmth, his presence. As if holding him tight enough could make everything feel okay again.

Jay’s hand finds your back, slow and soothing, running a few gentle strokes over your spine before settling there. The steady thump of his heart under your ear should feel comforting, but instead it leaves your chest heavy. You breathe in the clean, cool scent of his cologne. Familiar. Inescapable.

“We can go to Indonesia,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “Just the two of us, hm? What do you think?”

He presses a kiss to your forehead like a peace offering. You nod against him, almost automatically, the motion small and quiet.

It’s not what you wanted. But it’s something. And it’s him. That’s enough. Isn’t it? 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, not sure if you’re apologizing for asking, or for pushing, or just for being difficult. You feel him pull you in tighter, his arms wrapping around you.

“It’s okay. I understand,” he says, his voice calm.

Your eyes sting, warmth welling up. You bite your lip, holding the tears back even though you know he can probably feel it—your breathing, just a little uneven now. You blink quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice the dampness gathering at the corners of your eyes.

You’re not sure what hurts more, that he does understand, or that he never really had to.

You nestle closer into his chest, burying yourself in him. You feel the steady rhythm of his heart, the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the weight of his hand pressing gently against your back.

This moment is love. You’re lucky, so lucky, to have someone like Jay. That’s what everyone says.

A man who takes care of you, who thinks ahead, who plans things for you because he knows what’s best. A man who holds you at night, whispers apologies even when you feel like you were the one who did something wrong. A man who spoils you without asking, who says “I understand” even when you don’t deserve it.

He always knows how to bring it back to this. Where guilt fades into gratitude. Where you start to believe that maybe you are overreacting, maybe you are too sensitive, too quick to doubt someone who’s only trying to love you the right way.

Jay never yells. Never hits. He doesn't need to. He just speaks softly, slowly. He makes you feel like the bad decisions you make are your own—even when they were never really yours to begin with.

He listens, and then he corrects, but always gently, always with a calmness that makes you feel childish for pushing back. And every time you hesitate, he meets you with patience… and just enough disappointment to make your stomach twist with shame.

He gives you so much, how could you question him?

You remember the way he brought you your favorite drink after you got upset. The time he booked that surprise weekend trip just because you were stressed. The necklace you wear every day—he noticed you admiring it once and had it delivered within a week. He always comes back with something better. Something to make you forget the argument. Something to remind you that he's still the one holding everything together.

So maybe you were wrong about Indonesia. Maybe it’s selfish to want something he doesn't feel good about. Maybe you’re asking for too much.

Jay is the best boyfriend you could ever ask for.  

That’s what you remind yourself, even when everything feels complicated. He’s perfect. Handsome in that effortless, masculine way, with a sharp jawline and steady eyes that seem to see right through you. Broad shoulders, strong arms, the kind of body that makes you feel small when he wraps around you. Safe.

He knows exactly how to touch you, how to take you apart and put you back together like you were made for his hands. There’s no awkward fumbling, no hesitations. He takes, and you give—because giving to Jay feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s expected. Like it’s right.

"J-Jay!" you gasp, your voice breaking as his pelvis slams into you from behind, every thrust hitting deep. Your breath catches as his grip tightens around your wrists, pulling your arms behind your back.

“You’re mine, baby,” he murmurs between thrusts, filled with that dangerous softness he always uses when he wants you to feel safe while giving in. “Only mine. Say it.”

“I—I’m yours,” you cry out, the words tumbling past your lips before you even think. Your hips instinctively roll back into him, body desperate to meet every stroke. Your own moans betray you, building with the wet slap of skin and the sound of his breath unraveling behind you.

“Wanna keep you to myself—fuck,” Jay growls, his grip flexing around your wrists as your walls tighten around him. “You’re too beautiful. Everybody wants my girl.”

You feel him shudder, throwing his head back, a moan tearing from his throat as he sinks deeper, harder, the pace growing erratic. His words come broken now, laced with raw possession.

“You’re mine… mine… mine… fuck—mine.”

Your whines rise with him, high and trembling, legs shaking beneath the weight of his rhythm. He’s hitting every spot  like he owns them—because in his mind, he does.

Jay always knows what you need before you do. He knows when to be soft, when to be rough. When to pull you close, and when to make you beg. 

He releases one of your wrists, only to slide his hand down your front, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes your legs nearly give out the moment he touches you. His fingers circle it with cruel expertise, pulling out helpless gasps as your body responds.

“See how good I treat you?” he breathes against your neck, lips brushing just beneath your ear. “No one else can fuck you like this. No one else gets to.”

You moan in response, pushing your hips back to meet the punishing rhythm of his thrusts. Your ass collides with him, each impact echoing in the room. He growls low in his chest, gripping your hips, dragging you back onto him with a force that leaves you breathless.

“I’m gonna fill you with my cum,” Jay hisses. “Gonna make you pregnant, baby. Everyone will know who you belong to.”

Your moans break into sharp cries as the pleasure burns through your veins, white-hot and endless. Every stroke of his cock drives deeper, rougher, shaking what little strength you have left. Your body can't hold itself up anymore—your arms collapse beneath you, face pressed into the sheets as he continues his assault from behind.

“I love you,” Jay groans, his voice fraying into a broken moan. “I love you, I love you, I fucking love you—”

Something inside you snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking loose after too long held back. It’s overwhelming, violent in its depth, unstoppable in its force. Your body tightens around him as pleasure detonates from your core, spreading outward in pulsing waves that steal your breath and leave you crying out his name.

Your hands claw at the sheets beneath you, your back arching as every nerve lights up, every muscle trembling beneath the pressure of his thrusts. It’s like falling and flying at the same time, the intensity of it burning behind your eyes, blinding everything else.

All you can hear is his voice—those words repeating, claiming you. I love you. I love you. I fucking love you.

You’re still trembling as he keeps going, chasing his own end, using your limp, pleasure-drunk body. “Yours,” you whisper, the word broken and breathless into the sheets. “I’m yours, Jay…”

He lets out a sound that’s almost a sob, thrusting harder, deeper, messier now. And you can feel it coming—his climax, the one he’s been holding off for you, the one he’s about to give with everything he has.

Even with your limbs trembling, your body still oversensitized and wrecked from your own release, you shift your hips to meet him, chasing his rhythm. Moaning, shakily, as the pleasure blooms again when you feel him release inside you.

A broken curse falls from his lips, and then he’s spilling into you, his entire body seizing with it.

Every pulse inside you is another claim, another mark, another reminder that you belong to him.

“I love you,” he whispers. His breath is hot against your skin, each word punctuated with a kiss pressed to the curve of your neck.

He stays inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back, skin slick with sweat and warmth. You feel the full weight of him, one of his hands slides up, fingers threading gently through your hair, tilting your head just enough for him to press a kiss to your nape. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

And when he finally presses his lips to yours, it’s a ghost of a touch. A silent apology.

He whisper, again, I love you, buried in your hair now. Oh, how it feels so good.

To be wanted like this. To be needed this much. To be held so tightly that you forget what it was like to ever stand on your own.

Because in Jay’s arms, even when everything else fades, even when you’re lost in the dark—It always feels like home.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Fifteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, rising tension (not between Amelia and Lando), a lot of Oscar!!!!!

Notes — Bit longer than usual! I wanted to cover 3 races per chapter, but it's not worked out that way. So we're covering Bahrain and pre-Imola. This is going to be a long 2021 season, so... yeah, get ready for a lot of chapters lmao.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2021 

Bahrain

Amelia perched at the edge of a padded hospitality seat overlooking the circuit, knees tucked up slightly, elbows resting on them. The sun cast sharp glints off the tarmac as the F2 grid wound their way through the formation lap, engines whining as they lined up. Her gaze didn’t waver, eyes narrowed into thoughtful slits, tracking each car with sharp precision.

She’d missed the first sprint race that morning, buried in set-up notes with Max, buried in everything Max in general, really, but she’d made sure to find time for this one. 

Her eyes followed car number 81 as it weaved through the final corner. Oscar. 

She wasn’t quite sure what it was that had snagged her interest after watching her first F3 race with Max, only that it had. And now she was here, legs bouncing with unconcealed energy, eyes fixed on one driver who rose above the sea of talent. 

A shadow cast itself across her legs.

She looked up.

Mark Webber. A polite smile, hands in his pockets like he’d been waiting for her to notice him.

“Do Red Bull usually start sniffing around this early?” He asked, one eyebrow raised. 

Amelia tilted her head slightly. “I don’t work for Red Bull anymore.”

Mark’s eyebrows rose a touch. “No?”

“No,” she said. “Just Max.”

He hummed, shifting his weight. “Alright… it’s a personal interest in my Oscar, then?”

She hesitated for a beat. “It’s… I don’t know. He’s very good. Talented.” 

Mark studied her for a long moment. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t playing politics. That was what made her so bloody difficult to read. “Well, whatever you’re seeing,” he said eventually, “he’s locked into Alpine. Long-term. Management contract’s done. They’ve promised him a seat in 2023.”

Amelia didn’t react at first. She simply nodded, eyes back on the track as the lights began to count down. But something flickered behind her expression, something uncertain.

She’d been to the Alpine garage. She knew how things felt there. Knew what Fernando had told her over coffee and biscuits. The uncertain politics. The disorganisation. The fractured attention span of a team trying to be four things at once and pulling in opposite directions. It didn’t sit right.

But she didn’t say any of that.

She just said, “Okay.”

Mark nodded. “Thought you’d want to know.”

She offered him a small nod in return, and then turned her eyes back to the track as the five lights went out. 

Oscar’s launch was perfect.

Of course it was.

— 

Lando was sitting on a low wall just outside the McLaren motorhome, nursing a smoothie and checking scrolling through Instagram when someone stepped into his peripheral vision.

He glanced up to see Mark Webber standing in front of him, arms folded, an unreadable expression on his face. “Uh. Hey,” Lando said slowly, slightly weary, wondering if he’d done something to accidentally pissed him off. 

Mark nodded at him once. “Got a question for you.”

Lando blinked. “Okay?”

“Why is your girlfriend obsessed with Oscar?”

Lando stared. “What?” he said eventually, like the words had taken a full second to download.

“Oscar Piastri,” Mark repeated, tilting his head toward the mini F2 paddock. “Your girlfriend. Amelia. She’s been watching him like a hawk all weekend. I thought she might be there on Red Bull’s behalf, but no.” 

Lando blinked again, processing. Then he laughed. “Oh! Oh, Oscar. Yeah.” He nodded, shaking his head with a fond grin. “She’s, like, imprinted on him or something.”

Mark stared. “She’s what.”

“You know. Like a duckling.” Lando made a vague motion with his hand. “It’s harmless. She gets like this sometimes. Sees someone drive well and suddenly she’s emotionally invested in their entire career trajectory.”

Mark looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“She was like that with Nyck for a bit,” Lando added helpfully. “And Latifi for exactly one afternoon, until he missed an easy breaking zone.”

“...Right.” Mark said. 

“Honestly, it’s kind of sweet,” Lando shrugged. “Means she cares. She’s not gonna steal him from you or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried,” Mark said, slowly and clearly. “I’m confused.”

“You’ve just gotta learn to roll with it,” Lando grinned, sipping his smoothie again like the conversation was over.

Mark just stood there for a moment longer, processing the oddity of it all, before muttering something under his breath and walking away.

—

iMessage — 1:40pm

Lando Norris Mark Webber is very concerned Am I supposed to be jealous of this Oscar bloke 

The reply came almost instantly.

Amelia He has perfect apex management Do you think if I go and talk to him he’ll let me critique him

Lando Norris PLEASE go and critique the baby driver. I’m sure he’ll love that

He shoved his phone back in his pocket, still grinning. 

Oscar Piastri, whether he knew it or not, had just gained the most intense silent sponsor in all of Formula 1.

— 

Oscar had just unclipped his helmet when he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

He turned, still half in his overalls, hair damp with sweat, and found himself face-to-face with a vaguely familiar woman who was wearing a white skirt, a T-Shirt with a lion and the number 33 on it, and sneakers that looked like they had a smudge of orange marker on the side. She also had a clipboard tucked under one arm, dark sunglasses pushed up into her hair, and an unreadable expression fixed on her face.

"Uh—hi?" he offered, polite and cautious.

"You're Oscar Piastri," she said, more like a statement than a question.

He blinked. “Yeah…?”

She nodded once, then added, "You braked too late into Turn 4. Could’ve gained three tenths if you’d taken a wider entry and stayed tighter on exit. But your apex work in Sector 3 was perfect."

Oscar stared at her. “I—thanks?”

Amelia tilted her head slightly. “You’re consistent. Calm under pressure. Don’t overcorrect. You keep your steering inputs clean, which is rare for a driver at this level.”

“…Okay.”

“And you’re doing that in a car that under-rotates on entry. That’s even more impressive.”

Oscar looked around as if someone might confirm whether this was real, if anyone else was seeing this happen. “Are you… scouting me or something? My manager—”

“No,” she said flatly. 

“Oh.” He said. There was a pause. “Right,” he said again, more awkward now. “Cool.”

Amelia squinted at him. “Have you spoken to your engineers about your differential settings? You’re losing too much on cold tyres, especially first lap out of the pits.”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck. “I—I guess I could mention that. I mean, I didn’t think—"

“You should.” She told him. 

Another pause. “…Who are you, exactly?” He asked on a wince. 

She smiled at him. “Amelia Brown. I work with Max Verstappen.”

Oscar’s eyes went comically wide. “Oh. Oh. I knew I recognised you.”

She nodded, glanced at her clipboard. “You’re fast.” 

Oscar opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She shrugged. And with that, she turned on her heel and walked off toward the Red Bull garages, clipboard swinging at her side.

Oscar stood there for another full thirty seconds before one of his engineers passed him and said, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just— yeah. Hey, can who should I talk to about my differential settings?” 

— 

Oscar was adjusting the straps of his shoes when someone nudged his elbow.

He looked up and nearly choked on his own spit.

“Hey,” Lando Norris said, all cheeky grin and casual posture. “You Oscar?”

Oscar scrambled to stand properly, knocking into the side of the pit wall in the process. “Yeah! Uh—yeah. I mean—yeah, I’m Oscar. Piastri. You’re—uh. Obviously.”

Lando chuckled. “Relax, mate. Just wanted to say good luck in the feature. Great win yesterday.”

“Thanks,” Oscar managed, ears already starting to go pink. “It’s… really cool to meet you.”

Lando grinned wider. “Appreciate it. My girlfriend’s actually the big fan.”

Oscar blinked. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Lando said, folding his arms. “She’s a bit obsessed with you.”

Oscar’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Uh… what?”

Lando held back a laugh. “Not like that. Jesus. No, look, Amelia. That’s my girlfriend.” 

Oscar’s brain stalled for a full second. “…Oh. I knew that, I think.”

“Yeah,” Lando nodded. “Look, she’s mostly with Max on race weekends, but if you spot her lingering around your garage, don’t freak out. She’s just… a bit fixated at the minute. It’ll pass.”

Oscar straightened a little, finally finding his footing. “I’m not freaked out. I mean—it’s kind of nice, actually. Having someone that smart in my corner.”

Lando’s smile softened. “Helpful, ain’t it?”

Oscar nodded.

“Shame she’s Max’s on race weekends,” Lando added dryly, nudging Oscar with his elbow. “But she’s mine the rest of the time, so I win.”

Oscar laughed, a little awkward but genuine. “Tell her thanks for the advice, by the way. Make some adjustments and I’ve already noticed a difference.”

“I will,” Lando said, already turning to leave. “Don’t let her scare you too much.”

“No promises,” Oscar muttered under his breath.

— 

Lando sat on the edge of the halo, half in his car, helmet perched on the shelf behind him. He was tapping one foot, not even aware he was doing it, gaze flicking back and forth between the screens in front of him.

Then he looked up; felt her before he saw her.

Amelia ducked in under the divider flap like she’d done a hundred times. One of the engineers gave her a small nod of hello, and no one moved to stop her. 

Lando stood up automatically.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up, smoothing a wrinkle in the sleeve of his fireproofs, adjusting the zip at his collar. The kind of quiet, grounding touch that could settle a world spinning too fast.

Then, softly, “I love you. Do well. Be safe.”

He leaned down, and she kissed him; gentle and steady and just long enough to make his knees threaten to go out from under him.

When they pulled apart, Lando’s grin was crooked and dazed. “Love you.”

“I know,” she said, brushing her thumb across his jaw.

—

The Red Bull garage was settling into that uniquely pre-race stillness; that suspended hum of controlled chaos. Final checks. Monitors flickering. Tyre blankets off. Nothing wasted, not a second nor a movement.

Max sat low in the cockpit of the RB16B, suit zipped, gloves halfway on, helmet resting beside him. His eyes were locked forward, watching but not really seeing the telemetry screen across from him.

GP crouched at his side, tablet balanced against his knee. “Steering feedback still alright after FP3?”

“Yeah,” Max said, barely blinking. “No pull on the straights anymore.”

“Rear end?”

“Still twitchy through ten,” Max replied. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. I’m having to correct.”

GP nodded, tapping the screen. “We can tweak the diff map slightly, smooth it out mid-corner.”

Max didn’t answer immediately, just flexed his fingers inside the glove.

Footsteps approached, steady and unhurried.

Amelia.

She didn’t need to say anything; Max’s head turned the second she appeared at the edge of the garage. She had a MV33 jacket thrown loosely over her shoulders, a data sheet in one hand, iPad in the other. Her hair was pulled back in a messy clip, sunglasses on her head despite the garage shadows, and ear defenders around her neck. 

“Steering sorted?” she asked, skipping hello.

Max nodded. “Almost. GP’s dialling it in.”

GP gave her a glance over his tablet. “You here to give me more setup notes?”

“No,” she said dryly, flipping her iPad around and showing Max a highlighted map of sector times. “You’re a tenth down in sector two. Get that under control.”

Max took the tablet from her, scanning. “Shit. I can sort that, yeah.”

“I know you can. You shouldn’t be struggling on that part of the track in the first place.”

GP snorted. Max handed it back with a smirk.

Amelia took a step closer, arms folded now, eyes flicking over Max’s face. She tilted her head. “You nervous?”

He looked at her for a moment, like he wanted to say no. Then he just nodded once. “A little.”

Amelia didn’t flinch. “Good. You should be. You’re about to start a season-long war with a seven-time world champion.”

GP side-eyed her. “Amelia.” He warned quietly. 

She ignored him, eyes firmly on Max. “Just remember, you have the car. You have the talent. Just put it all together.” 

He glanced up at her then. Her expression hadn’t shifted; calm, focused, familiar. Grounding.

GP looked between them and stood up, giving them space. “I’ll give you two a minute. Don’t let him spiral,” he added, aiming that at Amelia.

“I’m the one who built the spiral,” she muttered.

Max breathed out a quiet laugh.

Then Amelia broke the silence. “I’ll be at pit wall with GP during the race. Nothing else I can do with the car until afterwards anyway. Don’t fuck it up, trust the strategy.”

“I’ll try.”

As she turned to walk out, Max called after her. “Amelia?”

She glanced back.

“If I can’t—”

“You can,” she cut in, with the blunt certainty of someone who refused to consider any other possibility.

Max blinked once. Then nodded. 

GP returned with the headset. “You alright now?”

Max exhaled, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “Yeah.”

—

The lights went out, and the grid thundered into motion. 

Amelia flinched slightly at the roar. Twenty cars launched toward Turn 1, and already her eyes were scanning; Max on pole, Lando P9. A clean start. Good. Clean was all she could ever ask for.

Max’s start was near-perfect; no wheel-spin, held the lead into the first corner. But Lewis was there. Always there. Breathing down his neck like more of an inevitability than a challenge.

Her stomach flipped.

Lap 5. Max radioed about rear grip. She already knew. She could see it in his lines, a little hesitation through Turn 10, just a touch of overcorrection. She scribbled something on her iPad, handed it off to GP without a word, let him relay the information to Max.

On the screen, she watched Lando pick off Charles. Nice. Brave. She smiled softly.

Lap 13. Bottas boxed. Mercedes going aggressive. Amelia tapped her fingers against her thigh.

Lap 14. “Box, Max. Box now.”

The pit stop was clean. Not the fastest, but smooth. Max rejoined behind Hamilton. The chase began.

Lap 28. She was quiet now, arms crossed. Watching Lewis manage his tyres like some kind of magician, Max clawing back the delta. 

Lap 31. Lando passed Daniel. Amelia’s stomach swooped with pride. Forgotten, he’d worried. As if. 

Lap 38. GP’s voice came in sharp over the comms; “Purple Sector Two, Max. Good job.”

Amelia didn’t smile. Not yet. She was holding her breath now.

Lap 45. Hamilton dove in. The final phase began. Max had the advantage. But not for long.

Lap 53. Two laps to go.

Max took the lead with a stunning overtake around the outside of Turn 4. Amelia’s heart leapt. 

But he ran wide. Track limits. The order came like a whisper, a curse; “Give it back.” 

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Fuck,” she whispered.

Lap 56. Final lap. Hamilton led. Max was there, nearly pushing him through every corner, but it wasn’t enough.

The flag waved.

Hamilton won.

Max finished P2.

Lando P4 — a breath away from the podium. 

GP exhaled beside her, already offering reassurances. "It's only round one. We'll get them next time."

She nodded. She believed it. But still.

Still.

— 

Amelia found him on the balcony of their shared hotel room, one leg propped on the low wall, still in a McLaren team hoodie, curls damp from a rushed shower. He looked up when she slid the door open.

“Hey baby,” he said, soft and tired.

Amelia didn’t say anything at first. She just walked over, reached for his hand, and tugged him gently toward her.

He didn’t resist. Just leaned into her, let her wrap her arms around his waist and press her face into his chest.

“P4,” she mumbled.

He laughed quietly. “I know.”

“You were amazing.”

He let out a long breath, arms looping around her back. “Felt good. Car was sharp today. We had more in it, maybe, but... yeah. I’m happy.”

Amelia leaned back just enough to look up at him. “You should be. You outdrove your teammate, held your own against the Ferraris.”

Lando grinned at her. “You gonna make me a trophy?”

She frowned. “No. Why would I do that? You didn’t win.”

He snorted, kissed her forehead. “Yeah. Good thing I’m patient.”

“You are,” she agreed. “That’s why you’re doing so well.”

They stood like that for a moment, wrapped in the hush of midnight Bahrain, the warm breeze brushing past them. Her hand found the edge of his hoodie, fingers sliding underneath to touch warm skin.

“You looked good today,” he said softly. “On the pit wall, working hard.”

She nodded. “I really feel like I’ve found my place there.”

“And Max?” He asked. 

She paused. “He was… good. Disappointed. But he’s focused. It’ll come.”

Lando hummed, then pulled her closer, swaying them gently. “Chances of me winning before he does this year?”

Amelia looked up at him, amused. “Slim to none, unfortunately.”

“I know,” he grinned. “But it’d make you smile, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. And then I’d be crucified for sitting on Max’s pit wall and smiling at another drivers win.” She told him. 

He leaned in and kissed her, slow and warm and sweet. When they finally pulled apart, Amelia cupped his cheek.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said.

His eyes crinkled. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Completely.”

He brushed his nose against hers. “Cool. So… we celebrating with cake or sex?”

Amelia blinked. “Both?”

Lando laughed, pulling her back inside. “You’re perfect.”

— 

Following the first race of the season, Amelia got sick.

It started slowly, just a scratch in her throat, a little bit more fatigue than usual, but by the second day back in the UK, it hit her like a truck.

Fever. Shakes. Headache. Nausea. The works.

She tried to power through it, of course. She was Amelia. She didn’t do sick days. But when she nearly passed out standing in front of the mirror brushing her teeth, Lando had carried her back to bed, tucked the covers up around her chin, and handed her a glass of water with a stern but incredibly gentle, “You’re not moving for the rest of the day, okay?”

It was awful for her.

And somehow, somehow, it was worse for Lando.

He hovered. Kept her topped up with expensive coffee and water, made a heroic effort in the kitchen (which resulted in some aggressively average tinned soup, but it was warm and made with love), and sat with her on the sofa, leaning back against her, giving her the exact amount of deep pressure that she needed since she felt so out of sorts.

He ran cool cloths over her forehead, whispered soft reassurances when her fever spiked in the middle of the night, and called his mum every few hours for advice on what more he could do to help her feel better. 

Now, on day three, she was finally stable enough to sit upright without swaying. The lights were low, the flat was quiet, and she was curled into Lando’s side on the couch, her face smushed against his bare chest as Pretty Woman played softly on the TV in front of them.

He was scrolling on his phone with one hand and the other was moving up and down her thigh absently. She snuffled a little, still congested and gross, and pushed herself impossibly closer to his warmth. 

Safe. Comfortable. At peace. 

— 

Max showed up mid-afternoon on the Thursday. 

“Did you rob a pharmacy?” Amelia croaked from the couch, her voice still rough with congestion as she blinked blearily over the edge of her blanket.

He dropped the bag on the coffee table with a dramatic thud. “Maybe.”

Inside was everything she could possibly need; throat lozenges, vitamin C gummies, a fresh box of tissues, eucalyptus balm, electrolyte drinks, chocolate buttons (“for morale,” he’d muttered), and even a miniature hot water bottle shaped like a bear.

Amelia stared at it all. “Did the girlfriend that you’re still lying to help you with this?”

“No,” Max said quickly. “Okay yes. But I picked the bear.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re weird.”

“So are you,” he shot back, tugging off his jacket and flopping unceremoniously onto the living room floor. “Now come on. We’ve got work to do.”

That was how they ended up there, Max stretched out on Lando’s living room rug with his laptop open, Amelia curled up under a blanket beside him with tissues stuffed up her sleeve like someone’s grandma, hunched over notes and telemetry data.

They worked in a familiar rhythm; Amelia with her sharp, observant critiques and Max with his quiet nods, letting her voice guide the direction. She sounded like hell, sniffly and hoarse and congested, but her mind was still as razor-sharp as ever, and Max didn’t miss the way she caught every subtle shift in his sector times, every inconsistency in brake response.

“You’re annoyingly good at this,” he muttered, glancing sideways at her.

She shrugged, wiping her nose. “I know.”

They kept at it until the sun dipped low in the sky and the flat was soaked in golden light. Max had just asked about tyre degradation when Amelia stopped responding.

He turned to look, and there she was—head tipped against the arm of the couch, blanket pulled up to her chin, tissues still clutched in one hand. Out cold, mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed with fever.

Max sighed softly, closing the laptop with a quiet snap. “Stubborn zusje,” he muttered, a fond smile tugging at his mouth as he stood.

The front door clicked open a second later.

Lando stepped in, looking wrecked from a day of intense training, hoodie clinging damply to his shoulders. He paused when he saw Max still there, eyebrows drawing together. “What’s going on?”

Max jerked his chin toward Amelia. “She insisted on coming back to work. I told her she was still sick. She told me she wasn’t. So I drove here instead of dragging her to Milton Keynes.” He gave a small laugh. “She made it three hours. Then passed out mid-sentence.”

Lando dropped his gym bag with a quiet thud and crossed to the couch. He crouched beside Amelia, fingers gently brushing sweat-dampened hair away from her forehead. His voice softened. “Jesus. She really doesn’t know how to stop, does she?”

“Her only flaw,” Max said, grabbing his own bag. “Take care of her, yeah? I need her sharp again by Imola.”

Lando adjusted the blanket up around her shoulders, gaze never leaving her face. “Yeah. Of course. Thanks for watching out for her, man.”

Max gave a short, understanding nod and let himself out with a parting, “Later.”

Lando waited a beat, listening to the quiet, before slipping his arms under Amelia’s knees and shoulders. She stirred the moment she was lifted, letting out a tiny groan and curling instinctively into his chest.

“You’re home?” she murmured, voice rough and small.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “And now we’re going to bed. Proper bed.”

She hummed, already half-asleep, nuzzling into his neck. “Still feel like shit. But I love you.”

He chuckled, arms tightening around her. “Love you too. Can’t believe you actually wanted to drive to Milton fucking Keynes like this.”

“Would’ve been fine,” she mumbled, stubborn as ever.

And then, right on cue, she dissolved into a coughing fit that tore through her chest and effectively killed her argument.

Lando didn’t even try to hide the grin. “Yeah. Super convincing, babe.”

She sniffled, still curled against him. “Shut up.”

— 

It was sometime past midnight. The lights were low, the sheets tangled around their legs, and the soft hum of the street barely made it through the slightly open window.

Amelia lay on her side, head tucked into the crook of Lando’s shoulder, one arm draped lazily across his stomach. He was warm beneath her, skin soft and comforting, his voice a quiet murmur above her head.

“…and then Jon made me do this set of banded sprints that absolutely murdered my quads,” he was saying, his fingers absently tracing lazy circles along the bare skin of her arm. “Swear I almost fell flat on my face in the gym. And then we had the simulator session, but I kept getting distracted ‘cause the brakes were feeling off, like they were biting too soon.”

She didn’t say anything, just listened, eyelids heavy but not quite ready to let go of the moment. There was something in the way he spoke, like he didn’t even realise how animated his hands got when he was into something. Like he didn’t know his voice softened a little when he said her name, even in passing. Like he didn’t realise how easy it was to love him.

“Baby?” he asked quietly, glancing down when she didn’t answer.

She blinked up at him, smiling sleepily. “I’m listening, Lan. Promise.” 

— 

Imola 

Teams were setting up, media outlets milling around, and the familiar hum of power tools being tested echoed through the paddock. Amelia wandered a little ahead of Lando, distracted by the sight of a familiar dog trotting toward her through the crowd.

“Roscoe!” She grinned, crouching just in time to be enthusiastically tackled by the massive bulldog. His tail thumped against her legs as she scratched behind his ears.

“Hey, kid,” came a low, warm voice from above her.

She looked up, and there was Lewis, hands tucked into his Mercedes jacket, sunglasses perched atop his head, watching her with a soft but unmistakably distant look.

She rose slowly, brushing fur off her trousers. “Hi. I like his new collar. It’s so cute,” she said lightly.

Lewis glanced down at Roscoe, then nodded. “Yeah. He’s missed you.”

There was a moment of quiet, just slightly too long. The smile dropped from Amelia’s face.

She tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

Lewis blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re being weird,” she said flatly.

Lando caught up, hovering behind her. “Baby…” he said gently, tone a soft warning.

She looked back at him, frowning. “He is!”

Lando’s jaw jumped at the slight tremble in her tone, his gaze moving back to Lewis, a dark warning on his face. 

Lewis’ gaze was steady but guarded. “I can’t help it, Amelia. You’re working with Max now, yeah?” His eyes flicked to her, searching, almost like he was trying to measure her response. “And that… that does change things. You, working with my biggest rival.”

Amelia shook her head, the confusion and frustration beginning to bubble up inside her. “I’m just doing my job.” Her voice cracked a little, an undercurrent of hysteria creeping in. “I don’t want things to get weird between us. Please, don’t make it weird.”

Lando’s voice cut through softly from behind her. “Amelia…” he murmured, a note of concern threading through his tone. He knew how much Lewis meant to her, knew how much this was tearing her up, but it was only inevitable, wasn’t it?

Amelia didn’t turn to look at him, her focus solely on Lewis now, her pulse racing. “I’ve always looked up to you,” she continued, a little more frantic. “And you have always been so nice to me. I don't want to lose you in my life just because I'm working for Max. Nothing’s changed except that I’ve got a job to do now.”

Lewis sighed, his eyes flickering with uncertainty as he took in her words. He glanced away for a moment, processing everything before settling his gaze on her. “It’s just hard, kid,” he admitted, quieter now. “Seeing you with him, knowing what that means for me, for my team…”

“I’m not picking sides,” she snapped a little more forcefully than she intended, the frustration now bubbling over. “I’m not picking anyone. I’m picking myself. I always have. And that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Lewis.”

There was a long, heavy pause as the tension hung thick in the air, with only the soft panting of Roscoe breaking the silence. Lewis seemed to deflate, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, kid,” he said finally, his voice softer. “I get it. I’ll get over it. I just… selfishly wish you’d chosen Mercedes, that’s all.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice steadier now. 

As Amelia bent down to give Roscoe one last scratch behind the ears.

“Hey, zusje,” Max called, strolling to to them in his usual Red Bull jacket and skinny jeans. “I’ve been looking for you. GP’s waiting on us,” he told her. 

Amelia huffed softly, brushing down her skirt. “Alright, I’ll see you guys later,” she turned to Lando, leaned in to kiss him, feeling his hand squeeze hers lightly in response.

“See you soon, baby,” Lando murmured, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before his attention shifted to Max, who was already gesturing for her to follow him.

Amelia turned to Lewis, her expression softening just a touch as she gave him a small wave. “Take care, okay?”

Lewis looked back at her, his eyes still carrying a trace of the tension that had been there before, but his voice was more measured this time. “Yeah, you too, kid.”

But just as she was about to turn away, she caught the faintest flicker of something in Lewis’ expression; a mix of caution, hesitation, and maybe a hint of something else — she hated that she couldn’t tell.

Max, noticing the look from behind her, turned his head sharply. His gaze locked with Lewis’ for a moment, something unspoken passing between them, a brief and subtle challenge.

Lewis didn’t flinch but held Max’s gaze, the tension hanging in the air like a low hum before Max spoke up, his voice casual but his body language firm.

“Let’s go, Amelia,” Max said, his hand gently guiding her away from the pair of them.

As they started walking, Lando took a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched them leave. “Christ. Good luck with that, mate,” he muttered under his breath. 

Lewis, still standing in the same spot, let out a long sigh, the edge of his frustration softened but still there. “Yeah, thanks,” he replied, his voice low as he looked after the pair of them. 

— 

Lando and Amelia had found a quiet spot in the paddock, away from the bustling journalists and photographers. It was early afternoon, the Italian sun still high, but the relentless rush of the morning had started to wind down.

They sat together at one of the outdoor tables, with the faint sounds of conversations and laughter filling the air. Amelia took a bite of her sandwich, eyes scanning the surroundings lazily. The day had been full of interviews, photos, and the usual whirlwind of the F1 circus, but now she could finally give herself a moment to relax.

Lando sat across from her, munching on his lunch, eyes flickering between his phone and Amelia. After a moment, he looked up, a playful grin on his face.

“You know,” he started, a teasing edge in his voice, “you’ve got a rating on WAGFASH for today’s outfit.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “What’s the rating?”

“Nine,” he said, smugly.

She glanced down at her outfit; a white, low-waisted rara skirt paired with a baby tee emblazoned with an Italian flag and her little orange gem belly button piercing. “Huh. Not bad.” She said, slightly proud of herself. “I should comment and say thank you.”

But as she rifled through her handbag, her expression turned into one of mild panic. “Oh. Oh no.”

“What is it?” Lando asked, eyebrows raised.

“I’ve lost my iPad!” she exclaimed, voice rising slightly.

— 

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Lando N. Ok who has it?

Esteban O. Not me, mate.

Pierre G. Haven’t seen it!

George R. Yeah mate, not seen it today, sorry.

Mick S. You told me to just leave it if I saw it.

Lando N. You fucking what? Are you serious? Where did you see it?

Mick S. I gave it to the Alpine kid!

Lando N. What fucking Alpine kid?

Mick S. Pastry?

Lando N. Oh thank god. You’re lucky, Schumacher. She likes him.

George R. There’s an Alpine driver called Pastry? LMAO

Lando N. Piastri.

George R. Not as fun.

NEXT CHAPTER

[lavilavs]

୨୧ ── Stream with me!

› Pairings: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne x Streamer!Wife!Reader

› Scenario: What more could a wife who streams want other than streaming with her husband? Nothing! Maybe. It depends. But in this universe—best believe that it is all you've ever wanted! What does your husband think about it, though?

› Notes: English is not my first language + Reblogs and likes are very appreciated! + almost 6k words that's why it took me days to write TT + Cringe and unhinged alert + big poo and goobert stole the show

Bruce Wayne

Bruce lets out a deep sigh as he watches you set up before starting the stream. A warm smile adorns his face, but he's still reluctant to show up as a guest. Just why did someone suggest a wife and husband bonding time in your streams? You were overjoyed that you ended up calling him in the middle of your stream to ask him about it.

Bruce excused himself and let an executive continue the briefing. His gruff voice sounded soft when he called your name, asking why you suddenly called—not even the slightest bit of annoyance in his voice at the fact you called during a meeting.

"Honey, look at the picture I sent!" He questions what could possibly have his wife over the moon. With the monitor in his lens, the picture popped in front of him. It was a 5 dollar donation from UnkissedBrick that said—in all caps—

"MAKE A STREAM WITH YOUR HUSBAND AND MY LIFE IS YOURS !!!$%5@5@"

It started a spark within the community that they were BEGGING you to make it come true. 

A stream to make money, have fun, and be with your husband at the same time? Of course you'd agree. Best believe that Bruce had no way out of this, you barely asked anything from him—would he have the heart to decline a simple request such as this?

No! And that's why he's here sitting beside you, wearing your adorable, pink headphones. It was something entirely new in his life. Never, and I mean never, has Bruce imagined he'll be wearing this godforsaken headphone for millions to see. The only thing stopping him from taking it off was obviously you—his wife.

"Wow! Thank you all so much for coming to see this stream. There's a lot more of you today."

Bruce snaps his head in your direction, giving him a clear view of how you marveled at the screens in front of you. A thought slips into his mind, whispering thoughts that made him worry about you. 

A lot more today? 

How many more were there than usual?

He'll let anything happen, just not this. Stealing the light from you is a scenario he didn't want to occur in this very video. It's your stream, it's your channel—not his. His blood pressure spikes at the thoughts flooding his head. And yet, you didn't seem to mind, you're just thanking them.

Bruce looked at the rapid comments piling up on the screen, amazed by the speed of people commenting. Nothing's too quick for his eyes, though. Who do you take him for? He reads every single one. Despite his worries, it was drastically different from what he thought. Your fanbase was literally fighting the viewers who only came for him.

BigPoo: Coming here ONLY for the husband is soooo embarrassing

isayholAcomosta: Scram your asses outta here man

IAMBatman: LMAOO IMAGINE WATCHING FOR BRUCE WAYNE

InstantoPreggo: either support her (and him ig) or face the consequences of my 16-inch-thick, fat, JUICY HUMONGOUS D!LD0 UP YOUR ASS.

Bruce had to flinch himself away from the monitor after reading that last comment. 

He looks at you with disbelief. So this is what you were laughing at... To be fair, it is rather amusing, to say the least. The look on his face makes you laugh even more now that you've spared some time to actually look at your husband's worry corner beside you.

The chat stops when you scold them to support both of you, also instructing the mods to delete any negative comments about Bruce. Which is odd since you remember telling them to do so beforehand.

"Don't worry about them, honey. Let's just have fun."

The kiss you give on his cheek eases Bruce, his bigger hands take yours to caress it in a comforting way. But really, we know it was for him. A deep sigh escapes his lips, knowing he has nothing to worry about anymore aside from getting through this stream with you.

You've noticed him being quiet again. He should try focusing on the game you're playing so he could see how fun it is. You told him to have fun, and Bruce is trying, believe me. 

Bruce folds his arms and directs his attention to the monitor where you're playing some kind of simulator game about supermarkets. The store layout is nice, though it looks cramped, the prices are lower than the market price, the other products are understocked, and the bills were due in-game. 

"Honey, are you playing this right?" 

"Am I not?"

He's spent years managing businesses, come on. Bruce is shrewd. And seeing his dear wife fail at this supermarket simulator, no can do. He's just lucky this game is right up his alley. You let go of the keyboard and mouse unattended to listen to his suggestions. 

What was hotter than the fact that there's a hot man explaining business tactics to you? Correct, he's your husband! And a smart husband is a hot husband.

Bruce was so concerned with his strategies that he suddenly went on autopilot and grabbed the controls to show you instead of using words. You stifle a laugh behind your hand. When did he learn all those controls? He wasn't just moping around beside you, and he actually was paying attention? You might just want to request another wedding again.

His only intention was to show you how you were supposed to manage the shop. Bruce demonstrated that perfectly. So why is he still in control? His mind wants to let go. And letting go would mean he'll have to leave playing this game. The escaped chuckles from you reached his ears. With a tentative glance and muted rosy cheeks, it was like he was asking permission to keep playing.

"Go on, dear. I'll just watch you play." You mean it. Watching Bruce play a game was more enjoyable than playing, he understands it more anyways. You don't think your heart will ever feel cold when you look at him. Not ever while you're still breathing and alive to keep on loving him.

Your eyes narrow with every part of Bruce that your eyes land on. A subconscious gulp was made when you took notice of the few strands of hair that hung on top of his forehead, the way veins would pop in his forearms with a few movements when he used the keyboard and mouse, and the musky scent of his cologne that perked your senses up—you'd wonder to yourself why you didn't have at least one child with him already.

The overflowing amount of comments in the corner of your eye catches your attention. You scoot closer to read it.

Tin-a-pie: Miss ma'am is so DOWNBAD

Big Poo: "Eaaasy white chocolate"  AHH TYPE SHIIT

MMONEYY: Bruce Wayne's gonna melt 

Goobert: ON EVERYBODY'S SOUL WE ALL WANT TO BE IN BETWEEN THEM

You snort, hitting Bruce's shoulder repeatedly. The man loses focus on his game, amusement in his eyes as you stood up to sit on his lap. He catches you in his arms, holding your shaking body in amusement. Guess he didn't have to excessively worry, after all—spending time and making you happy is his priority today.

"Are you happy, my love?" Bruce pressed his forehead against yours. His forearms had a grip on your waist that felt so secure and warm that even if you melted, you'd still be in his arms.

"Very. Thank you, Bruce." Oh, how your laughter gets his heart kicking and running.

The chat floods once again with teaseful comments. Too many for you to read without getting blown by another. Not that it matters, your husband is too busy being pampered in your kisses.

Bruce's phone vibrates nonstop in his pocket. You fished it out for him and opened it to see Dick's face with an image attached to it.

I hope Mom doesn't mind the new sticker I added to the chat. Tell her I told the other mods about it. ;]

Bruce was in the middle of questioning what his first son said only to be caught off guard with you abruptly shifting your body weight against him, laughing uncontrollably. The chat was spamming a photo of Bruce from earlier when he was so focused on the supermarket simulator game.

"I didn't look like that, did I?" He stares at you deadpan, making you laugh harder.

Dick Grayson

Is this even your stream at all? How was he acting like close friends to your viewers after a few minutes? You stare at your husband dumbfounded. Although you know that Dick has a charming aura and personality, you didn't expect it to leak through the screen and into their hearts within minutes of knowing him!

When you asked Dick if he wanted to do a stream with you, he basically almost leaped with joy. Just almost—because he suddenly hugged you before he could jump up into space from the ecstasy of his dear, loving wife if he wanted to do a gaming video with you.

Actually, Dick has always wanted to. The thought of having millions see how loved you are in his arms—OH THE SEROTONIN—Dick can't wait to do so. He just waited and waited and waited—until you finally invited him.

You can't actually hide your jealousy well about the fact that he's paying more attention to the chat than you.

Goobert: I suddenly feel like a mistress caught in the act with how the missus is looking from behind you

Big Poo: NAH HE'S OUR HUSBAND NOW

TheAMAZINGpie: She's so jealous LMAOOO tease her more

Good thing Dick was staring intently at the chat, he couldn't see your secretive middle finger you're flashing at the viewers. He laughs and takes a quick glance at you over his shoulder, then back to the chat. A scoff of disbelief leaves your mouth. Those snitches!

"Yes, chat, these are the true colors of my wife. She's more barbaric when it's just us two here." The playful tone has you pinching his sides. Dick laughs and flinches away from your hand.

"See? She keeps on hurting me."

"Quit the baby voice, Dick, oh my God! Eww." 

You gag at your husband, earning yet another heartfelt laugh. It was hard to pretend you were annoyed when everything felt so warm and natural. Dick is lucky he's your husband, or else you would've strangled him out of annoyance by now.

"Horror games are overrated, let's play simple ones." He pouts at you.

"What do you suggest then?"

And that's how you found yourself playing dress-up games at the old girl games website, where you can find all of the low-quality yet nostalgic games for girls in the world. You both competed in a game where the game picks who made the better outfit.

Imagine the look of disbelief in your face when he keeps winning 5 times in a row—5 times! Dick has got to be cheating, because in no way Dick Grayson has more fashion sense than you, right? Fight him, girl!

"You are so cheating, babe! How are you the winner every round?"

Dick raised his arms in a smug way, shrugging you off to annoy you. "Ah, the loser is barking. Face it, babe. I'm better." He blows you a kiss that you playfully shooed away, pinching your nose after. Dick gasps at your action, fighting the urge to laugh and just play along.

"Still can't beat me, honey."

"Pick another game. You'll taste defeat, Grayson."

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Grayson."

That's a blow to your pride. Imagine getting flustered in the middle of your bickering. Now you let a smug grin slip on your husband's face. Girl, you better stand on business cause you are losing FACE to your viewers right now.

5 girl go games later and you're still somehow losing to Dick. It feels like your sex has been reversed because what the hell? Maybe you are a man... at heart. How are you losing to a full grown man who—mind you—suggested that you play these games! Dick might be playing these at night when you're asleep.

It was a cooking game this time. You both need to beat each other with higher scores and more satisfied customers, obviously. It was just a mystery how he still wins when you both clearly see the big, colorful letters in bold saying that the dish you prepared was perfect—and he still wins!?

"That's it! I'm convinced you are cheating." You point a finger at him.

"It's just a matter of skill, hun." He smirks at you.

The last resort—your faithful, loyal, loving chat will support you on your accusations, right? Oh no, that smile on your face was wiped when you saw an ongoing poll on the stream. Scratch what you used to describe your chat, they are being the total opposite right now.

Overthrow the queen and appoint Dickie as the new ruler!

It's worst enough that it was 99% over 1%. You look at the camera with a death stare, in disbelief that your dear fans would overthrow you like this. Is it because Dick was more charming and had a larger ass than you? Okay, maybe keep that last thought to yourself because they cannot see the down half of your bodies.

And an annoying donation comes in the heat of the moment...

Daywalk donated 5$  

I'm looking at the most breathtaking, marvelous, amazing, pretty, kind, majestic, beautiful, attractive, sexy, hot, and gorjus (idk how to spell) right now and oh—I didn't realize you were here, sweetheart

Dick was giggling uncontrollably beside you with his phone in his hands. You saw the stream on his screen split seconds before he hid it beside him where you can't reach it. Did he really think you wouldn't notice it was him with this shitty ass username?

"Really, Dick? Daywalk? That's the best you could come up with?" You bury your face in your hand, imitating a facepalm to hide your laughter. You hate how he can easily make you laugh with the stupidest things.

"I am a fan of Nightwing, Babe. He has such good hair, good facial features, and that goddamn juicy ass of his. Have you seen his—"

"Dick."

"Okay, okay, sheesh, God forbid a man uplift his fellow man." He raised his hands in mock defeat. Backing away from that look of yours.

Dick Grayson is audacious. Partly one of the reasons why you married this man. 

You gave up, rolled your eyes, and just gave him a kiss to shut him up.

Jason Todd

"Oh come on, baby, you know you're happy to be here." 

You snicker at the scowl on his face. Jason looked like he wanted to drop a smoke bomb to escape the stream, but of course he wouldn't! What you said is true—he is ecstatic to be here. He refused your offer several times before caving in... and just a little secret, he just wanted to see how bad you want him to be in one.

In fact, he had the stream planned out already. In the span of the 3 days where you begged him to stream with you, Jason used it as a time to search for games to play, imagine scenarios, and other cute stuff that he wants to make happen today.

First things first, seem tough enough to place boundaries through his stare and seem friendly enough to joke around with him. Check. The chat was respectful to Jason and some joked around that this looked like Doomguy and Isabelle looking relationship.

"Oh please, it's more switched. This guy's a baby." Jason's eyes widen when you pull his chair to ruffle on his hair like a little kid. He glares up at you. Okay—maybe, this is tolerable, it has a loving effect to the viewers. Yes, this is fine. 

"Jason, don't bob your head like that onto my boob." You snort and push his head away. Ah, he thought he was nodding inside his head.

Big Poo: He's kinda weird... I like him

Goobert: We accept weird big guy and queen dynamics

Ignoring that small weird display of his, it's time for phase 2—urge you to play horror games of his choice. He didn't binge watch couples playing horror games last night just for you to play other games. A mischievous grin is fighting it's way to make itself appear on his lips. Jason expects you to get scared, cling to him, and show off the muscles he spent the few days toning. 

And as if he wasn't toned enough, Jason plans to show that this muscles of his won't be just for show if they decided to mug you in the streets while he's around. Anyone who's watching this stream would be a warning for parasocial freaks who'll try something with you.

"How about we play this one, babe?" He points at the game he searched up.

With a look of disbelief, you could only sigh at your husband's antics. He couldn't have been more obvious than this. The longer reps of his biceps workouts? Yeah, he's definitely planning something to show it off.

You sigh, and start the game up. The chat snitches on him smiling widely behind you as the game starts. It quickly disappears when you turn around, then reappears when you don't look. He gives the chat a playful motion of slicing his neck then points at the camera with a finger placed on his lips.

With a discreet glance behind you, there, you saw your husband doing a face that could kill that's accompanied by creepy giggles. In all of the years you've been together, not once could a sight like this ever cross your mind. Why is he having internet beef with your viewers?

Does he also think you can't see him through your stream view at your other monitor? You also stare at the gummy smile on your face, still having no resistance in finding everything he does as cute.

Heck, even if he snapped someone's neck in front of you with a sassy remark after, you'll still find it cute. Fucked up, yes, but hey, it's not like you haven't had body counts of your own in your other line of work.

Jason lets out an amused scoff at your unwavering focus to navigate through the dark cellar. There hasn't been a single jumpscare since you started. But because of his horror game video marathon, he's got every single one memorized. 

It'll take some time before the first one. In the meanwhile, he knows what to do to get you to warm up for the big scare.

His hands snakes itself downward, right past his own chair. You were focused on getting out of the sealed room that the chat's warnings fell to deaf ears... or eyes. Jason inches his chair closer to yours, carefully, so that his chair won't bump into yours.

An annoying habit of his that once made his teeth bleed from your punch. He waits until you're about to turn around a corner to strike—Jason bolts your body with an abrupt push on your shoulder. "Boo!"

The most he got from you was a loud curse and your middle finger in the middle of his face.

"Jason—We agreed on never doing that again. Fuck you, honestly." You glare at him through the monitor, not wasting another second to look back at the game. Your ears perk at the loud laugh that seeps through your headphones. 

"Oh please, you're not too much of a pussy to get scared from that, aren't you?" 

"Is that a challenge?" 

Jason waits for suspense, waiting until he knows you're almost near the first jumpscare of the game to throw you off. His hands once again find the liberty to make you jolt, making you lose focus and lightly smack your husband beside you.

Once you get back to the game, a horrifying figure appears on the screen, taking almost all of the pixels it offers. You flinch back and shield your eyes away the moment Jason tries to cover you from the screen.

It all happened suddenly. But it was if time moved slower for Jason.

One minute he was about to hug you.

The next, your fist connects with his face.

Jason didn't budge but hell—your punch still hurts as when you first met!

"You promised to never punch me again!" Jason whines.

Another promise was broken. As if Jason didn't break his earlier? He's sure his jaw also is. With a grimace and a guilty heart, you caressed his face softly. It was your way of apologizing. Oh well, it's both of your faults so let's just get back to gaming.

Big Poo: Leave Doomguy and Isabelle, bro. They're Mr. and Mrs. Smith at this point

Goobert: They're both tryna survive from each other

So what if Jason's plans failed? His jaw is aching—that's fine! He still has other ways... A plan B if you will. As long as his biceps will have a spotlight. He asks you, sweetly, if he could play instead. Jason smirks triumphantly as he knows you can't resist his weirdly adorable, beaten-up face.

He was actually doing so well for someone who's allegedly never saw or played this game before. Jason passed through each trial with flying colors.

When another jumpscare had shown itself, you were suprised to see your husband inch his shoulder closer to the monitor.

"Not flexin! But look at these chills man." He's definitely flexing.

The chat goes crazy! Comments pile up regarding your 'done-with-the-bullshit-face' at the back and mostly about Jason's muscles. He yaps about the non existent chills on his biceps that the chat eats up.

Big Poo: HOLY MOTHER OF GOD—PLEASE HEADLOCK ME

Goobert: I was unfamiliar with your game, Jason. Forgive me (pls flex more)

TheCrowbar: The crowbar approves of this marriage.

"We already are married, bud. If you wanted to say no, you could've done so 4 years ago." Jason rolls his eyes at the comment.

Yeah, he's definitely not warning everyone with that sass.

Tim Drake

"How is everyone mistaking me as your brother?"

Tim glares the chat through the screen. Evidently pissed at the teasing comments towards him. They knew who he was. How could they not? You always mention him and even introduced him at the start of the stream.

He gently grabs your left hand, raising it to show your matching rings.

Big Poo: AWWW! Such a cute sibling promise rings

Goobert: He loves his sister so much. ackk its so cute!!1!!

You try your best not to laugh. It might set Tim off and make him leave without creating any content. Despite wanting to see him get teased and pissed, you had to stop the chat with a few words.

"That's enough teasing my husband, guys. He doesn't like it." But you do. Your viewers seem to caught on your interest from the way you smile and stare at him earlier. Thankfully, they play along at the moment.

"What game do you guys want to see us play?"

Ah, you shouldn't have asked them. Your husband is a geek for video games! He's better than you at every game you guys play. He was more a tower defense, strategic, and board games type of guy. Doesn't make him any less of a weak player when it comes to games like Nekket, Super Smash Sis, though.

You drag Tim along with you to read some comments. He's impressed at the rapid comment speed your viewers have. Can you read a lot from this on a daily basis? There's a lot of unhinged comments slipping through his eyes too.

"Horror games? That sounds good."

What!

Tim snaps his eyes beside you, wide with surprise.

Before you could even ask for his opinion, your husband was already shaking his head sideways. He even had his arms crossed to match with his disagreement towards the suggestion. Tim does not want horror games this late at night. Absolutely not. Not inside this household when he's around.

He knows you're questioning him. But Tim can't tell you he watched the new horror movie you've been getting him to watch with you—alone. In his defense, he didn't want you to waste money on another shitty movie like last time, so, he scavenged alone to determine if it is as good as they say.

This is the result of his little secret mission from you. It's not his fault he hasn't recovered! You didn't see how terrifying it was for yourself... and not that he plans on letting you know.

Your viewers feed on his terror, already laughing to themselves behind their screens. Tim is just unlucky that you have wealthy viewers ready to make an offer you both can't resist. Like what do you mean two people named Big Poo and Goobert paid $10,000 each just for Tim to play?

And that's how the unlucky Timothy Drake found himself hiding behind your frame, occasionally peeking behind your hair to see how his wife is doing.

Everytime you turn into a corner, flashes of that horrible face appear in front of him. God, why are the lights turned off in your room? He doesn't even want to stand up to turn it on. He's aware he's a grown man, but God forbid a man like him can't get scared.

He takes a peek at the comments at the side.

HoelessRomantic: You shouldn't go there if I were you...

Tin-a-pie: GIRL DON'T

Goobert: You're purposely going there to scare baby bro

Baby bro?! This Goobert did not just say that. It felt like all his fear went away. He pushed himself away from your back. You weren't kidding that saying anymore brother jokes will tick him off.

"You may have beaten me at suggestions, but you won't defeat me in terms of winning over my wife!" He scowls at the monitor, taking you and your viewers aback. "I'm looking at you, Goobert... This is a threat." He smiles maniacally.

Tim sweetly smiles at you. One of the things you can't resist.

"Okay... okay.. calm down, Baby. What game do you want?"

"Oh trust me, you'll love it, honey." Tim presses a kiss on your forehead as he takes control.

You love Tim.

You know him well enough considering he's your husband for 4 years now.

But you guess you didn't know him well enough to expect him to suddenly exit the game and pull out a whole ass board game between you guys. Was it sitting there unnoticed the whole time? No matter, you recognized it to be one of his favorite board games.

He excitedly sets it up on the desk for the chat to see. A smug grin on his face to show off his pre-ordered game with freebies. Tim's so excited to share a game he's mastered.

"I bet you kids don't know this. Back in my days, this was the bomb." He proudly boasts.

Big Poo: Bro pulled out his last resort

Goobert: He had to gain back some aura obv

MMONEYY: Are you sure he gained some?

Ignoring their comments, Tim starts on the basics on how to play the game. Here comes the hardest part in being his wife—listening to his long, heartfelt explanation of Dungeons and Reptiles for the second time.

Nonetheless, you were blessed to hear his voice chip at every detail of the game. To see how the love of your life's eyes gleam to share facts to the viewers you tell about Tim everyday. They knew he was a nerd from your stories—but to see and hear it real time is something else.

Tim looked like a grandparent telling stories of his youth. The stories that seemed boring, but you can't help but listen in to. Although the comments complained that it was boring, and he's like an old man, the viewer count didn't decrease. 

They all listened intently with you. Do they see the vision on why you fell in love with Tim? Definitely.

Big Poo: All in vote of Tim being promoted to Husband, say aye.

Goobert: AYEEE

HoelessRomantic: Aye.

Tin-a-pie: Aye!!!

and a million others more.

"Oh so now I'm officially seen as the husband?" Tim laughs, stopping his yap about the game. He gives you a warm look and pulls you towards him. "I guess it's better than being the little brother, babe." He kisses you passionately while covering your eyes to raise his ring finger alone to the chat.

Tim must have the last laugh after all that teasing.

Damian Wayne

Damian has never been this clingy before. Is it because he's finally out in the open with you for millions to watch behind the safety of their screens? He doesn't know—only that he needs to make sure you're his only.

You can see how red his ears are on the monitor, his body boiling at the simple, cute gesture of having you in his lap while you introduced yourself and him to your viewers. This isn't PDA, he knows you're both technically alone in your shared room. 

Still, he isn't used to it. He's been in the spotlight several times, sure—he's Damian Wayne, hello! Son of Bruce Wayne? You get my point, but, he hasn't really been out with you to the media except the time you got married. Damian's more of a private, but not secret type of guy, you know? 

It wasn't difficult to make him agree. With a simple kiss, doe eyes, and a sweet smile, Damian would say yes without a thought!

Oh, but your chat was the mischievous type. One look at Damian and they all knew he was a guy who'd go boom for his lady. And what type of Boom you may ask? Well...

Big Poo: She is NOT going anywhere blud, calm dowwwnnnnn

Goobert: Acting like a damn dog who doesn't want to share the tree he peed on in 2025 is crazy

HoelessRomantic: Let OUR wife go you madman

"Our wife?" He growls, glaring at the camera. Damian would've stood up from his seat if you weren't on his lap. 

He had ignored the first two comments above that, choosing to focus on a comment about his wife. Like—that's his wife! Not hard to understand. He had everything to prove it. Pictures of your wedding day, legal certificates, your wedding rings, and a lot more!

Instead, he snaps his head to the side, acting like he was looking at a physical body to scan up and down with a warning glare. Possessive and explosive... The chat likes that. They'll have the night of their lives dedicated to set Damian off.

"They're normally like that. Don't mind them, Honey." 

He would've let it pass, and listened to your coo. And yet you let him hear you use the word, normally. Normally—as in, you listen to these goofs call you their wife? He doesn't want that. He'll create online beef for you.

And so it began, the chat and Damian's cold war.

The purpose of gaming is gone. Only Damian's sassy remarks and the viewers saying flirty stuff to get on his nerves becomes the content and entertainment. So much for the games you thought you were gonna play today.

But this? You'd pay to watch the whole day. Judging by that smug smirk on your husband's lips, he's aware that they were just teasing him. What can you say... after being with a wife who ragebaits for fun can train you into tolerating bullshit.

And what's a good way to tolerate bullshit? Fight it with your own bullshit, of course. And laughs—to show that he and you are joking. We're trying not to get banned here. So much for the millions of followers if it all ended because of his unhinged comments.

Big Poo: Pull up on roblox right now old geezer or lose husband rights to the whole chat

Goobert: OOOOOH SHITS GOING DOWN

HoelessRomantic: Millions of games and you choose roblox

Tin-a-pie: Imagine losing husband rights to a roblox game...

As soon as you read the chat's algorithm, you shake your head no at Damian. He shouldn't pick a fight over a game he doesn't know. 

It was too late though.

"Challenge accepted." Damian points at the camera. 

Hold on—his smugness falters. You raise a brow over the abrupt change of mood.

"Babe, do you have a roblox account?" He was so adamant in that petty challenge, it was hard to say no at this point. "You better win, loser."

"Do I look like one?" If he has the energy to roll his eyes at you, he might have the energy to kick butt on a game.

You're still appalled that it's roblox of all games. How old was this Big Poo viewer of yours to pick this one specifically? You sure hope it's not a 15 year old... or worse, they could be in the single digits! Oh God, where are this kid's parents?

"In what game will we settle this, Big Poo?" 

Big Poo: Tower of hell :>

Goobert: I honestly thought you'd pick murder mystery 

Big Poo: Let the old man get a taste of the... OBBY MASTERRR

Hey, hey—is this even your stream anymore or Big Poo and Goobert's private chats?

Tower of hell isn't hard. You've played it before. It was just a matter of skill to climb the tower. Damian listens intently to your instructions while waiting for the game to load where Big Poo's avatar was waiting.

"Listen, Dami, just jump over the glowing blocks and shiftlock when needed, okay? You got this, dear!" 

Damian pats on his lips repeatedly until you figure out his motions. With a sigh and a chuckle, you move closer to give him a peck—just a peck! But your beloved had other plans. He pulls you by your hand and smashes his lips against yours. Your quick reflexes immediately covered the camera.

"I can't fathom how I'm in need of a kiss over a lego game."

"Me too. I feel so stupid."

You both laugh, parting away from each other when Big Poo starts to countdown in game.

It was going so well! Damian was in the lead. He's actually pretty good with obbies even if he's a noob. Mind you, he had no practice before the match. Did his training in life transfer to your roblox avatar right now? How is he moving and advancing so fast.

The chat goes crazy with a notable presence—Goobert. The poor guy was screaming their bestfriend's name so bad. They almost looked like a desperate wife wishing their soldier husband to come back home safely.

The whole chat was amazed to see Damian—a noob—winning. And he knows he is.

Goobert: USE THE SECRET WEAPON HERMANO

Damian arrives at the last platform. You marvel at the close gap between him and Big Poo. He's actually gonna win this stupid roblox bet? But what—why did Damian suddenly stop? Don't tell me he's about to—

He types fast in-game, a smug smirk on his face as he watches Big Poo's avatar inch closer to his. In just a few thumbs away, Damian sends his message.

Husband rights defended! ;p

And it was silent—the time went slow. The crowd was astounded when Big Poo suddenly had a stick with a hand at the end. It happened in slow motion. Especially for Damian who worked his way up to the top. 

No matter how fast his reflexes are... it wasn't the same with the wifi.

As your roblox character fell, Damian looked dead in the camera.

"Big Poo..." 

Uh oh

"I BETTER NOT SEE YOU HERE IN GOTHAM OR ELSE I WILL—"

The stream has ended.

extra scene!

In another universe...

In the timeline of Young Justice...

Jaime and Bart were laughing their asses off. Each had their own unique device that hasn't been seen by humankind other than them. It's a mystery how they even got it. Well, it was just on the table... so, it won't hurt to touch, right?

They've both been at it all day long. Lucky for them to have the day off, honestly. Or else they would've missed this multidimensional device that shows different universes. Never in their life would they see 5 of the batfamily like that.

Although 1 of them is unfamilliar, and the second Robin has changed so much.

In a span of 18 hours, all they did was watch the streams.

"How'd you even come up with Big Poo, Ese?"

"You don't wanna know what happened yesterday." Bart snickers. "Well, how about you, Goobert?"

"Don't ask me, it was Scarab's idea."

They both went silent—reminiscing the streams they just watched.

"Do you think M'gann will notice the missing $20,000 from the funds?"

"Don't worry about M'gann, worry about—"

"What $20,000?" Tim's voice springs behind them.

Great.

It just had to be the Robin who the $20,000 went to in another universe.

They better explain well or else they'll be in an interrogation room with the whole Bat Family listening in.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Gravity Part One

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Notes: Welcome back to another accidental two-parter. Not beta-read.

Rating: M

Length: 5.6K

Warnings: Yearning (a frickin lot); slow burn; coworkers to friends to lovers; angst; fluff; canon-typical medical chat; fluff; POV switches a couple of times; Reader is roommates with Ellis; Jack 'Prolonged Eye Contact' Abbot

Summary: Abbot didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.

It wasn't fair, of course. He was handsome, knowledgeable, charming when he wanted to be. He was an amazing physician, an excellent teacher. And it wasn't his fault you had a bit of competency kink. Abbot had never made you feel anything but valued—and nervous.

Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that you’d hardly looked in the eye for the last few years. 

It started when she was an intern. 

Jack was fully aware of his tendency toward strong eye contact. It helped him make sure he was fully getting a point across when he was guiding residents in the ER—so long as their focus wasn't meant to be elsewhere. 

He managed to meet her eye fully exactly twice—and maybe it was odd, but Jack could remember both times clear as day. 

The first one was her first day at the Pitt, when she’d shook his hand, introduced herself with a nervous tremor in her voice. Her palm had been a little sweaty, and cold, but her eyes had held his. 

The second had been a week or so later, the first time she’d lost a patient. He’d clapped her on the shoulder, reassured her that there was nothing more she could’ve done. He’d tacked on, “Don’t let it happen again,” and he’d been kidding—but she had balked, ducked her head, apologized, and hurried away. 

She had rarely met his eye since then.

At first, he’d figured that she was shy, and that she’d grow out of it. Then, he’d thought that maybe she was more reserved at work—some people simply kept their personal and professional lives separate.

But those notions had been disproven time and time and time again: when she palled around with her fellow residents; when she watched and communicated with Walsh attentively; when the senior resident that was clearly hitting on her leaned just a little too close for Jack’s liking in the staff room. 

She hadn’t backed down from a single one, hardly batted a damn eyelash.

But any time she spotted Jack, her eyes would lower or dart away—to the floor, to her hands, to a chart, to the sandwich cart, to a counter.

Now, Jack was not a man to take these things personally, but after all these years, it stuck in his craw. He didn’t think about it most days, had learned to take it in stride, found ways to work with it. It had never caused a hold up during a procedure, or in the event of an emergency. She was always active in communicating with him, she just…Never looked at him. 

“You’re going to burn a hole through her head.” 

Jack hadn’t realized he was staring until Lena said so. He glanced toward the nurse, eyed her knowing smile, and redirected his focus to the computer in front of him. 

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

Lena snorted, turning back to the desk as someone approached to ask her a question. 

Jack only half-listened, unable to help his eyes drifting toward her again. She was hunched over her own computer, and seemed to be fighting back a smile at something Shen was saying. Another comment or two from Shen, and then her chin was tipping up, a bright smile on her lips as she held Shen’s eye.

Jack huffed a soft laugh through his nose at the sound of Shen’s cackling laugh, and it was like watching ripples in a pond—her head tipped, her brow furrowed, and her eyes darted in Jack’s direction. The smile flattened when she caught him looking, her focus lowering to her keyboard as she hurriedly straightened. She seemed to point to the charge board, mutter something, and turned on her heel, striding away with purpose.

Jack couldn’t help a swell of petty disappointment. What the hell was that? There was no way she’d heard him laugh. It was like she’d sensed a disturbance in the force. Jack shook his head, trying to refocus on the chart. 

Did she panic because he had been smiling? Had he been staring at her as long as Lena implied? Did he look like some dirty old man? 

Jack pushed off of the desk, eyeing the charge board with purpose. Whatever it was that made her skitter away like that—well. He’d forget it by tomorrow. 

--  

“Hey. You headed in?” 

You glanced back, doing a double-take at the site of Ellis standing in the kitchen doorway. 

“Uh—Yeah, just packin’ a few snacks. You need anything?” 

“I got something to ask you.” 

“Sure, what’s up?” You turned to face her, folding your arms expectantly. In the entire time you and Ellis had been roommates, you’d never seen her look concerned like this—and she usually didn’t bother trying to be delicate when broaching a difficult subject. 

“Parker, what is it?” You pressed.

“Is something going on between you and Abbot?”

Your brow furrowed, mouth falling open as if to answer—but what the hell kind of question was that?

“Excuse me?” 

“You and Abbot, what’s going on?” 

“There’s nothing going on.” 

“You sure?” 

“I think I’d know if something was happening between us, El. Where the hell did this come from, anyway?” 

“Shen said the two of you were weird yesterday, that Abbot looked at you and you bolted. And—” She shrugged, “You kinda always seem like that. Did something happen?” 

“Nothing happened yesterday! I realized I needed to go check on a patient, I’d just gotten their results back.” 

“And all the other times?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Ellis gave you a long look before she relented, holding her hands up in surrender with a mutter of, “Alright.”

“Great.”

“If you insist—”

“I do insist.” 

“But you know what they say about people who protest too much.”

“Cap it, Hamlet. You on tonight?” 

“Yep,” Ellis nodded. 

“See you in there.” 

“If you wanna wait, I’ll drive you.” 

“Nah, it’s okay,” You shifted your bag onto your shoulder. “The walk is good for me.”

“We’re gonna be on our feet for the next twelve hours.” 

“I like a warm-up,” You insisted. “See you in there.” 

Slow and steady, that was how you left the apartment—even steps, a measured pocket-pat-down at the door to make sure you had your phone, keys, wallet, ID badge…And then you were out the door.

Out the door, and down the stairs, and cursing under your breath as you stepped out onto the street. Where the hell did Ellis get off, asking something like that? Implying that something could be going on between you and Abbot? You hardly spoke to the guy. Hell—you felt like you barely said more than two words to the man that didn’t have anything to do with work. The implication that the two of you had something going on was categorically insane—and it twisted your gut up in a knot. 

The closer you got to the Pitt, the worse the feeling got, until it was bordering on nausea. You stopped a block away, drawing in a deep breath and puffing it out between your lips, trying to shake yourself of the feeling. Damnit, why’d you let Ellis get in your head that way? 

You drew in another steadying breath as you started forward again, trying to shake the nerves out of your hands. This shift was going to be fine—as seamless as the ones before it.  

-- 

“You doin’ okay?” 

It was a fair question asked by the last person you wanted to hear it from. The shift had been hell. Patient after patient seemed to have some hitch. You were slower to respond when Abbot asked you questions, prompted you. It was only made worse by the feeling of Ellis and Shen watching every goddamn interaction. 

Now, the test results were back for the patient you were least looking forward to seeing. The patient herself was sweet, but you were getting nowhere with her overbearing husband answering nearly every question for her. 

You pushed yourself to straighten up. 

“Fine,” You insisted flatly. “Thanks.” You straightened fully, hesitating as you heard him take a step away. “Actually—” 

It was out of your mouth before you could stop it. You saw Abbot go still in your periphery, and your hands flexed around the iPad in your hands. 

“I’m having trouble getting answers from a patient—a woman with a head injury. She said she slipped and whacked it, but based on where the cut is...I don't think it's possible. And her husband’s an overbearing ass. I’ve got a bad feeling about him.”

“Abusive?” 

“I think so. Could you run interference?” 

“Sure. You have one of those pens, one of the—” 

“I always keep a couple in my pocket.” 

--

She steeled herself before she went into the examination bay. Jack had seen her do it time and time again when she could. He wondered how it steadied her, savored the way that she closed her eyes for a split-second, drew in a deep breath, and then slapped a smile on before pulling the curtain back.

"How are we doing in here?"

Her chipper tone did nothing to reveal the concern that she'd shared with him moments ago. Abbot followed close behind, taking in the young woman laying in a hospital gown on the bed, and the man standing just beside her at the head. Abbot took another step toward the bed, then stopped as the woman seemed seemed to shrink back, attempting to make herself smaller.

"She's fine." The man's voice was gruff in his insistence, his hand curled into a fist just by his wife's head. Abbot's eyes skated across the bruises and scrapes to the knuckles there, his own hands wringing behind his back as he took another step closer.

Jack saw her glance back toward him before she gestured, "Dr. Abbot, this is Nick and Amanda Alpers. Mr. and Mrs. Alpers, this is Dr. Abbot. He's the ER's foremost expert on head injuries." An easy fib, and it seemed to be a necessary one.

"Aren't you all trained on the same shit?" Nick grumbled. Abbot took a couple of steps closer, taking in the slight matting of hair on the wife's head, the dark clotting of blood.

"We all have our own experiences that inform how we practice," Abbot passed easily, taking one more step. "Mrs. Alpers, would it be alright if I examined the—"

"It's just a scrape, really!" The insistence was hurried, and left the poor woman in a squeak. Abbot forced a small smile, giving a conceding nod.

"May I examine the scrape?" He conceded.

Amanda's eyes seemed to dart to Nick for permission, and only after a hefty sigh did Nick wave Abbot closer.

He couldn't help but note the way his fellow doctor rounded the bed, caught on the slight flurry of her questions as he gloved up.

"Are you feeling any pressure?" He asked, gently parting the hair to get a better look at the bloody, raised bump on her head.

"N-no. No more than usual—I mean! No more than anyone ever usually feels," Amanda hurried to answer. Abbot's eyes lifted to the doctor on the opposite side of the bed just in time to see her fingers tightening around her iPad.

"Any sensitivity to light, sound...?" Abbot went on, drawing his penlight out of his pocket and shining it from one eye to the next.

"Nn-nn."

"Hm."

"If that's all, can we go?" Nick groused. "Already been a waste of a night."

Abbot straightened, sizing Nick up. He waited for his fellow physician to say something, but—Nothing. He looked at her, certain she was eyeing the chart, but realized immediately that it was a mistake. Her eyes were right on his, widening pointedly as they darted to the creep beside her. Abbot cleared his throat, doing his best to focus on the patient—though he knew he'd be tucking that look away for himself.

"Nick, can I have a word?" He asked, gesturing toward the nurse's station.

"What for?"

Abbot pushed a short breath out through his nose as he rounded the bed, taking even steps so as not to raise the brute's hackles.

"There are some things that I'd like to discuss with you. Things that, you know," He nodded, "Women shouldn't hear."

Watching understanding wash over Nick's face made his stomach turn. It was a wonder the man had brought his wife to the ER at all if that was the attitude he held.

"We won't go far?" Nick pressed, though he was already moving.

"No, no," Jack insisted, following him out, "Just a few feet." He gave her one last look, and a quick nod before tugging the observation curtain closed behind them.

--

The knot that had formed in your stomach only tightened, but it wasn’t for your own nerves or panic anymore. You didn't like letting her go, hated seeing her leave with him. Abbot came to a stop beside you, and for a moment, the two of you just watched Nick steer Amanda out of the ER.

"What'd you say to him?" You asked.

"Distracted him with football."

"I didn't know you watched."

“Sometimes. She take the pen?” He asked. 

“...Yeah.” 

“It’s a start.”

“Might be too little, too late.” 

“She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“You think so?” 

“Sure.”

“...I gave her my number, too.” 

You saw Abbot’s head turn toward you, and you froze, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” It should’ve been more of a scold, but you could’ve sworn his tone was tinged with admiration. 

“I know.”

“What were you thinking?” 

“I wasn’t.” You turned away from Abbot. “Thanks again for distracting him.” 

“...No problem. Will you tell me if she calls?” 

“Yeah,” You nodded, turning to look at the board. “Hope she does—and soon.” 

“Was that all that was bothering you?” 

“What?” 

“You seemed a little off earlier. Just making sure everything’s okay.” 

Well, Abbot always was the observant type. It was one of the things that made him such a good doctor. You shouldn’t have been offended by his question, but in that moment, his concern was as unwelcome as Ellis probing had been just a few hours before. 

“Just one of those days—nights,” You corrected, “You know.” 

“Take a couple minutes, get some air.” 

“I’m alright.” And before you could stop yourself, you gave him a grateful smile before turning away. In truth, you weren't entirely sure where you were headed to—you’re more distracted by the fact that you’d met the guy’s eye more in the last twenty minutes than you probably had in the last two years. 

-- 

“Here.” 

“Thanks,” You took your beer as Ellis set it down and settled into the seat across from you. “John on his way?” 

“Yeah,” She nodded, “And uh…Don’t kill me, but he’s bringing someone.” 

You frowned, shaking your head as you waited for her to explain. Ellis didn’t elaborate, merely tipped her brows up. It only took a second for you to put the pieces together, and you groaned, sliding down in your chair as nerves flooded your stomach. 

“Parker—” 

“It’s just a coincidence!” She took in your unimpressed glare, corrected, “Mostly a coincidence. We always ask, he almost never says yes. It’s as hard to talk him into coming out as it is to talk you into it. Besides, it’ll help!” 

“There’s nothing here that needs helping.” 

“It’s slowing things down—”

“When has it ever slowed anything down?”

“Last few shifts, he’s waited for you to look at him when you answer and nothing. It’s making shit weird. We leave that messy personal bull for the day shift.”

“I’m not—This isn’t messy, it’s just—”

“You barely look at the guy. We all notice it.” 

“He’s so big on frickin’ eye contact, like,” You glanced around the bar, “It’s intimidating.” 

“Intimidating?”

“Yeah.”

“Intimidating.” 

“Yes! I barely even like making eye contact with you, but I live with you, so it’s mostly unavoidable.” 

“You love it.”

“Sure. Who wouldn’t want to be adopted by the meanest lesbian in the ER?”

“I thought that was Garcia.”

“No, she’s the meanest lesbian in surgery.” 

Ellis’ smile widened before she perked up, waving at someone behind you before she leaned in just a touch. 

“Just be yourself, be cool.”

“Pick one.”

“You know, I bet he thinks you hate him.” 

“What?” You hissed, “Why would he think that? And—Why would he give a shit, plenty of people hate their boss. Not that I hate him, I don’t, just—”

“Hey!” Shen’s voice cut over your nervous chatter, and you couldn’t stop your knee-jerk reaction of turning to look at him—and spotting Abbot just a couple of steps behind. Shen patted you on the shoulder, settling down beside you as Abbot rounded the table. Your eyes glued to your beer instinctively as he shrugged out of his jacket, sitting down beside Ellis. And you thought you’d just managed to be subtle enough—until both Shen and Ellis kicked you lightly under the table. It took everything in you not to kick back, instead lifting your head to meet Abbot’s eye, plastering a small smile on your lips. 

“Hi.” 

“Hello.” There was a little lean to his lo, a friendly tease that you felt like you hadn’t earned. And there was eye contact—heavy, steady eye contact as he folded his arms on the table. You tried to ignore the traitorous little flip in your stomach as you hurriedly lowered your eyes to the table, picking your beer up and taking a swig to try and drown the flurrying butterflies.  

“We miss anything good?” Shen plied. Ellis shook her head. 

“We were just talking about renewing our lease.” 

“I forgot you two were roommates,” Abbot commented. Ellis must’ve told him, and you couldn’t fathom why he’d remember. 

“What’s the verdict?” Shen asked.

“We’re gonna stick,” You reported as you looked at him. “Rent is going up, but, like, barely…Barely.”

“And the location is too good,” Ellis tacked on. “Half an hour to the Pitt walking, fifteen minutes by car—utilities don’t suck, either.” 

“Decent space,” You added, “And allows dogs—if this one goes through with getting a dog.”

“I’m still in research and development.” 

“Aren’t you allergic?” Shen nudged your arm. 

“Yeah, but not deathly. And if she picks a breed that doesn’t shed much and has a low can f 1 gene—” 

“I want to adopt from a shelter—” 

“So I’ll probably be moving out as soon as that happens,” You teased, “Because god knows she’ll wind up with a mutt.” 

“And sublet?” 

“Sure, John. You can move into my room, I’ll move into your place. Even trade.” 

“I don’t know about that—” 

“Better rent, better location.” 

“You won’t mind being further from the Pitt?”

“Nah,” You shrugged, “I like a long walk.” 

“Sure does,” Ellis rolled her eyes, “I don’t know anyone that spends more time just wandering around on their days off.” 

“Is it a crime to enjoy being outside when the sun is up?” 

“You ever think of switching to day shift?”

Abbot’s question caught you off-guard—it was like you’d fallen into such an easy rhythm with Ellis and Shen that you'd almost managed to forget that he was there. Your fingers tightened around your beer as you forced yourself to meet Abbot’s eye again. 

“Not once.” 

It was the truth, and it made Abbot’s smile widen in a way that felt dangerously vindicating. Unnerving quiet wrapped around your shared gaze, and Ellis clearing her throat was what finally snapped you out of looking at him. 

“So, hey,” Shen jumped in, “Did I tell you guys about my latest acquisition?”

“Jesus fucking christ,” You muttered over Ellis’ low whistle. 

“Another ebay war?” She asked.

“Not a war, an easy buy,” Shen insisted, “You know, for—”

“Yeah, your shank bank, we remember,” You insisted, smile pulling wide as both Abbot and Ellis’ laughter catches from that side of the table. “That weird-ass collection of antique medical equipment—fucking medical history nerd.” 

“I keep them as a display!” 

“Must really get ‘em going on a date night. Nothing hotter to a woman than rusty scalpels,” You batted back, nudging Shen’s shoulder with yours. You didn’t mean to catch Abbot’s eye on your way back to looking at Ellis again. And this look didn’t hold for as long as the one before it—but it was just long enough to reawaken the butterflies, even as Shen insisted,

“This one isn’t even rusty!”

--  

As you turned in for the night, Ellis teased you, insisted, “See, it wasn’t that bad.” 

You didn’t argue, because she wasn't wrong—it wasn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon out. But it was…Different. 

Your aversion to Dr. Abbot’s attention had started your first week at the Pitt, when he’d stuck close during an intubation. He hadn’t been breathing down your neck, but his steady focus had made you so damn nervous. You were used to your attendings being just a little scattered, torn in six different directions. And other matters had vied for Abbot’s attention, sure, but he hadn’t heeded them until the patient was in the clear.

You’d started to avoid his gaze after that, and it had just become second nature. Avoiding eye contact turned into avoiding him during the quiet moments of your shifts, which turned into a patient-treatment-only conversational focus. Abbot consulted on your cases, made recommendations, listened to your rationalizations. 

When he did insist on meeting your eye, you gave him just a long enough look to show that you’d heard him, but never anything more. You’d avoided palling around with him, even though you palled around with your fellow residents, and with other attendings—but you were comfortable with them. 

And Abbot didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.

It wasn't fair, of course. He was handsome, knowledgeable, charming when he wanted to be. He was an amazing physician, an excellent teacher. And it wasn't his fault you had a bit of competency kink. Abbot had never made you feel anything but valued—and nervous.

Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that you’d hardly looked in the eye for the last few years. 

You could understand how Abbot may’ve thought you didn’t like him—if he really thought that. But he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who needed everyone to like him. It probably helped, sure, but you were positive that your countenance had never caused a slow-down or a hitch in the ER, no matter what Ellis said. You were just focused—and since when was that a bad thing? 

Either way, today had been kinda…okay. You’d made nice with Abbot, made eye contact multiple times without Ellis or Shen kicking you in the shins again. Whatever wound up happening, you’d tried, and they couldn’t take that away from you, right? 

You settled in bed, letting your eyes slip closed, drawing in a deep breath to relax yourself.

For all your initial irritation, Ellis was right—it wasn’t that bad. 

But it didn’t stop Abbot’s warm gaze from lingering behind your eyelids when you closed them, and it couldn’t keep the mirthful roll of his chuckle from playing through your mind as you tried to drift off. 

-- 

You decided to make it a little experiment, approach it as something that you could train yourself out of. Seeing him over drinks had laid the groundwork—and you had managed to look at him twice a few shifts ago, hadn’t you? 

You went into your next shift determined to look Abbot in the eye three times.

You only managed it once when you passed him by the board—a glance and a small wave.

The smile that he returned flustered you so much that you nearly walked into the sandwich cart, and it scared you out of looking at him for the rest of the night. As a matter of fact, it scared you out of it the next shift, and the one after that. 

You talked yourself out of the whole foolish endeavor. You’d managed to work with Abbot perfectly well before, why change things now? Especially when looking at him seemed to awaken something girlish and fluttering inside of you—and you couldn’t afford to be girlish and fluttering at work. 

-- 

She was doing it again. 

Jack had thought they had turned a corner after Shen and Ellis had invited them all out together, but things seemed to be moving in reverse. It had gone beyond sticking in his craw—it was almost nagging at him now, and worse now that he knew what the full force of her focus was like. It was easy to brush off before, but these days Jack was hard-pressed to admit that he felt something in him wilt whenever she avoided his eye. 

She was making a meal of it now, focused stalwartly as she instructed Javadi on setting a bone. He’d seen her head tip in his direction a couple of times, but she’d always given her head a little shake before refocusing. Was the shake for Javadi? For him? 

“...You didn’t hear me, did you,” Ellis asked, forcing him to refocus. He had heard her—and he could feign that his silence had been fueled by contemplation. He turned away from the treatment bay, arms folded across his chest. 

“See if the OR can take Mr. Tosches yet," He instructed. "I don’t want him down here too long. You follow up with the raccoon kid?” 

“That’s my next stop.” 

“Perfect, thanks.” 

“Sure—Hey, are you coming by this weekend?”

That weekend. He’d been dodging giving Ellis an answer for the last couple of weeks. She’d invited him to the last four get-togethers at the apartment, but he’d never made it to one, either because he was working, or because he just wasn’t in the mood to socialize. 

He wasn’t sure he was in the mood now, but…A fleeting smile flashed through his mind. They’d seemed to come easier to her when they were away from the hospital. And his therapist had been nagging him about leaving the house more…

“Yeah,” He nodded. “Yeah, I can make it.” 

Ellis didn’t cover her surprise well, but her, “kay, sweet. I’ll text you the address," Told him that she was just as surprised by his answer as he was.

Abbot nodded, casting another glance toward the treatment bay before turning away fully. It was just an experiment, he told himself. He would see if her smiles for him came easier outside of work, or not at all. 

If it was not at all, he’d let it go, once and for all.

--  

“Is there any coffee?” 

The question made you freeze in front of your cabinet. Your eyes darted through its contents, but you didn’t take in a damn thing. He was in your kitchen. He never came to these things, why the hell did he come to this one?

“Uh—” You turned, looking around your kitchen as though you’d never been there before. “It’s um—Yeah. Right there. It might not be hot, though. I can turn the pot back on.” 

“I’ve got it.” 

“You're on shift tonight?”

“Mhm.”

You nodded, turning back to the cabinet. Hell, what did you open it for? Goddamn, but you came in here looking for something—You huffed, shoving the cabinet door closed as you scrubbed your hand across your forehead. He wasn’t allowed to do this, he wasn’t allowed to make you feel this out of sorts in your own damn kitchen. 

“Everything alright?” 

“You know, I feel like half the time you talk to me, you’re asking if I’m okay.” It was out of your mouth before you could stop it, and embarrassment sprang up the second it did. “I should, um—You need a mug, don’t you,” You muttered, turning to the other cabinet, and glancing back toward the living room when you heard a swell of laughter. Damnit, but Ellis sent you into the kitchen for what? Napkins? Napkins would be in the cabinet.

“Well forgive me for being concerned when one of my best residents seems to spend half of her shifts avoiding me.” 

You whirled around, too stunned to do anything but meet Jack’s eye. The steady contact seemed to catch the both of you off-guard. Your mouth worked wordlessly for a moment as your mind reeled. What the hell could you say to that? Well—what would you say if you were talking to Ellis or Shen? 

“...Just one of your best residents?” 

Abbot’s brows lifted, his lips quirk with a smile, and your stomach filled with that girlish fluttering again. 

“You’re certainly not avoiding me now.”

You press your mouth together, gaze instinctively dropping to the floor. 

“I don’t avoid you at work, either. I’m just—” You turned back to the cabinet, reaching into it for a mug. “I’m focused when I'm at the Pitt.” 

“Seem to be focused right now, too.” 

“Do you want a mug for your coffee or not?” 

“Oh, that old excuse.” 

“Fine, drink it from the pot. That’s Parker’s machine, anyway. She’ll kill you.” 

“She wouldn’t. We’re short-staffed as it is.” 

“Well, that’s true.” You crossed the kitchen, holding the mug out. And, though you knew the answer, you asked, “Do you need milk or sugar?” 

“No.” 

“Alright.” You turned, reaching for the cabinet by the coffee machine. Maybe it was something in there.

“...You don’t really think I avoid you," You plied, unable to stop yourself.

“Certainly avoid looking at me.”

“Focused.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“You’re fine to look at.” 

“Oh?”

“Good—Good to—” No, nothing in that cabinet. Check the next one. At least, you needed to get a few feet away from Abbot before you said anything else stupid. “You’re fine.” 

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” 

“...Look at me.” 

It was so firm that you went still in front of your cabinet again, hands on the knobs, doors half-open as your heart leaps into your throat.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re not at work, you can’t need to be that focused. If I’m so fine to look at, look at me.” 

Your fingers flexed around the knobs, palms growing sweaty. 

“Ellis asked me to grab something for her and you’ve already distracted me enough.”

“Is that so.” 

“You can be very distracting sometimes.” For fucksake. What was it about being alone with this man that had your head so horribly scrambled?

“I suddenly feel like I oughta apologize,” He commented.

“I feel like you’re making fun of me.” 

“A little.” 

You scoffed out a laugh, your nerves only worsening when you heard Jack take a few steps closer, saw him lower his coffee onto the counter beside you. 

“It won’t take long,” He reassured, raising his hand to close one of the cabinet doors. “One quick look.” 

You drew in a deep breath, planting your hand on the counter and turning to face Jack with wide eyes. You were prepared to stare at him pointedly—but you faltered at the look on his face. His eyes were softer than they had any right being. They searched your expression, sweeping over your nose, across your cheeks, to your lips, and up again—as if he was seeing you for the first time. 

“...See?” He murmured. “This isn’t so bad.” 

You struggled to swallow, throat dry; your face was flooding with heat. If this was a cartoon, you were certain that your heart would be beating out of your chest. 

“No,” You finally managed, shaking your head a little, unable to tear your eyes from his, “No, it isn’t.” 

Jack’s smile widened as he leaned against the counter a touch, fingers skimming against yours. And you knew that you ought to look away, go ask Ellis what she sent you into the damn kitchen for in the first place, but you couldn't bring yourself to move.

“You just gonna keep staring at me, Jack?” You murmured. His brows jumped slightly at the use of his first name, lips quirking with a smirk.

“You’re staring, too.”

“Making up for apparently avoiding you.” 

“Very kind of you.”

“Do what I can.” 

Maybe it was better that he was looking at your face, anyway—if he looked down, he might see the goosebumps sweeping up your arm from the gentle sweep of his fingertips against yours. It felt pathetic to get so worked up from such a simple touch. Goddamn, did he look at everyone like this? Did everyone feel like this when he looked at them? There was no way—if it was, nothing would ever get done at the Pitt. 

“Hey, did you find the Triscuits?” 

Ellis bottle snapped you out of the trance-like stare, and you whirled away from Jack like he was trying to set you on fire. The Triscuits, son of a bitch, that was what you were sent to look for. 

“I just—I just saw them,” You fumbled, pulling the cabinet open again. 

“My fault,” Abbot spoke up. “I asked for some coffee.” 

“You’re on tonight?” Ellis frowned, and you were relieved to hear her come deeper into the kitchen. “I thought you were taking the day.” 

“We had two call outs. Matter of fact, I should get going.”

You glanced doggedly back toward Jack, watching him pick his mug up and take a deep swig. You busied yourself with poking through the drawer beneath the cupboard, vaguely catching Abbot saying his goodbyes to Ellis in the background. Jeez, did the Trisuits fucking evaporate? 

You glanced toward the mug as Jack set it down in the sink, and, against your better judgement, met Jack’s eye when he turned to look at you. 

“Thanks for the coffee.” 

“Sure,” You nodded. “Have a good shift.” 

“Good luck finding those, uh…” He glanced toward Ellis. “Triscuits?” 

“Uh-huh,” She nodded. “Thanks for coming, man.” 

“Have a good night.” 

You listened to his retreating footsteps, marked the opening and closing of the door…And tried not to die from complete mortification when Ellis tapped your shoulder, then pointed out the box of Triscuits where it was sitting on the counter. 

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@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[lovetommyactually]

this is a mess, written directly into the tumblr app lmao, but it wouldn’t leave my head so here... have it. post 8x15, cw: grief, canon mcd

It was past midnight. Maybe closer to two. That hollow hour where the city curled into itself—too late for night, too early for morning—and even the birds hadn’t begun to stir.

He sat slouched on the couch, shoulders caved in, like he could fold himself small enough to disappear. The beer in his hand—fourth? fifth?—had gone warm, but he held it anyway. The TV played something pointless, volume low, just enough to fill the room with something that wasn’t silence.

Not that it helped. The real noise was in his head.

Bobby’s voice hadn’t left him. “You’ll be okay, Buck. They’re gonna need you.” Said like it was simple. Like Buck’s world didn’t collapse on itself. He’d replayed that moment so many times it burned behind his eyes. all He could think was—how do you stay standing when the person who kept you grounded is the one who’s gone?

Maddie’s voice followed after, soft, pleading, “You don’t have to be okay right now, Buck. You just have to let yourself feel it.”

But he didn’t want to. Couldn’t. Because feeling it meant naming it. And naming it meant breaking apart.

Too much.

Everyone felt like they were slipping, like the world had tilted and no one knew how to catch their balance again. Buck didn’t either. So he didn’t try. He sat. He drank. He told himself he was fine. Numb was easier. Numb was safe.

But even that was starting to splinter at the edges.

So he stayed still. Let it all swirl inside—grief, guilt, confusion, anger—tangled so tightly he couldn’t tell one from the other. He didn’t cry. Didn’t scream—not again, not yet—He just sat there, breathing in static and beer fumes, whispering the same thing over and over in his mind,

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll try again.

Tomorrow he’d be better. He’d hold it together. He’d be who Bobby believed he could be. Tomorrow, he’d show up for everyone again.

But tonight—tonight he just needed to hold it together long enough to survive the quiet.

Too much. Too loud.

Until a knock shattered it.

Not loud—just enough to cut through the fog.

He blinked slowly toward the door. Didn’t move.

Another knock. This one didn’t ask. It forced him to get up.

“…Tommy?”

Tommy stood there, jacket zipped, windblown, eyes soft, worried.

“Hi,” he said, breathless. “Thank god… I tried calling you, Evan. A lot. You weren’t answering.”

Buck stared. Not surprised. Not upset. Just… tired. He looked at Tommy like one might look at a dream they’d almost forgotten.

All he could think was how badly he wanted to crawl inside Tommy’s ribs and stay there—where it was warm and safe and beating.

But he didn’t say that.

He didn’t say anything.

He just stepped back, left the door open, and leaned against the back of the couch.

Tommy lingered a moment before asking, careful, “Can I come in?”

Buck shrugged, eyes flicking away. Voice too thin to use.

Tommy stepped in, shut the door behind him, and slowly made his way to Buck’s side. His gaze fell to the cluster of beer bottles on the table. He didn’t comment.

Instead, he asked, “How are you doing?”

That made Buck laugh—a hollow, breathless thing. “How am I supposed to answer that?” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Tommy nodded, didn’t press, but stayed near.

Buck gave more shrugs. One for every question.

“Have you eaten anything?”

Shrug.

“Are you sleeping at all?”

Shrug.

“Did you even talk to anyone today?”

Another shrug. He didn’t even bother pretending to think about it.

Tommy exhaled slowly, like he was trying to hold something in—something fragile and fraying. “I gave you time,” he said softly. “Told myself maybe you needed space. But, Evan…” He stepped closer, just a little. “It’s been days. You weren’t answering anyone. I-I had to come.”

Buck didn’t look at him. Just let the words hang in the thick air between them, one hand tightening around the neck of his beer like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Tommy’s next breath was sharper. Pushed to the edge of fear. “Will you answer me instead of just shrugging everything away?”

Buck’s jaw twitched. He looked up at Tommy like the question was too sharp to forgive.

“Why?” His voice cracked, low and bitter. “What do you want me to say?”

He gestured vaguely—at the room, the bottles, maybe even himself.

“Of course I’m not okay. But I’ll get over it, right? That’s what people do. They move on.” He shook his head. “What do you expect from me, Tommy?”

Tommy’s hand half-lifted, like he was going to reach for him. Then dropped.

“I want you to talk to me. I’m trying, Evan. I’ve been trying to reach you, and you keep running.”

Buck scoffed. Bit down the anger rising under his skin. That sting blooming behind his eyes wasn’t anger—it was something worse.

“…Ironic, huh?”

Tommy didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile.

“Evan... I’m worried.”

That. That broke something.

“No…” Buck said, shaking his head, almost childlike.

Buck slid down the couch, spine curling, breath hitching—like the act of staying upright had finally become too much. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, like he could shove the feeling back in before it escaped.

Tommy followed him, kneeling, close but not touching.

Waiting.

“No…” he whispered, barely audible. “I have to be strong. They need me.”

Tommy moved closer, voice low and warm. “Sweetheart, you are strong. That doesn’t mean you don’t get to feel things.”

Buck shook his head, sharp and frantic. “No, Tommy. No. If I…” His breath hitched again. “If I let myself—i-if I feel this, I won’t be strong. I won’t be anything.”

He looked up at Tommy then, glassy-eyed and terrified. Not of what had happened. Of what was still inside him, waiting to be felt.

Tommy's expression broke. He reached out, just to offer.

“Oh, Evan,” he said, voice catching. “You will be. I swear to you, you will be. But right now? At this moment? I don’t need you to be strong. You don’t have to hold it all alone. You can let go if you need to. I’m here. I’m right here.”

There was a long silence. One that stretched between them, breathless and trembling. Like Buck had seen some kind of opening—like he wanted to step through it.

But instead, he squeezed his eyes shut again. Tighter. As if doing so might stop everything from spilling out.

“No…”

And then, finally, like it cost him everything

“I can’t,” Buck whispered. “If I lean on you… if I let myself break… and you leave—if you leave me—I won’t be able to pull myself back together.”

Tommy’s breath hitched.

Buck’s eyes were shining now, glassy and unfocused. “You show up, and I’m so thankful—so damn grateful… but Tommy—” His voice broke around the name. “I need someone to stay.”

His voice cracked then, thin and trembling, every syllable held together by the last thread of his strength.

Tommy reached out, hand resting gently on Buck’s arm.

“I won’t leave.”

Buck looked at him, disbelief painted in every line of his face.

“Yeah?” he asked, so quietly, like he barely dared to hope.

“I promise you, Evan,” Tommy said, firm, no hesitation. “If you let me, if you allow me to stay, I promise I will never leave.”

Buck wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to. He needed it.

But he shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut like the hope itself was too much.

Tommy’s hand stayed firm.

“Evan… I never made promises before. Not to you” He swallowed. “But I’m making one now.”

And maybe it was that—the honesty. The raw, trembling truth in Tommy’s voice. The fact of it.

Maybe Buck believed him.

Because he didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

His fingers loosened around the bottle without realizing it. The beer slipped from his hand, hit the floor with a soft thud, and tipped—its contents spilling, seeping slowly into the rug.

But Buck didn’t look down.

A tear slipped down his cheek. Just one. Quiet. Unnoticed, maybe even by him.

Tommy saw it.

He moved gently, carefully—like he was stepping into a space sacred and fragile—and slid closer. Then, without a word, he reached out and pulled Buck into him.

Buck didn’t resist.

Didn’t hesitate.

The second Tommy’s arms wrapped around him, Buck collapsed.

Head pressed against Tommy’s chest, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers clutching at his shirt like a lifeline. His breath caught—hitched—and then shuddered out of him in one long, broken exhale.

Tommy could feel Buck’s heartbeat—too fast, too loud—pressed against his chest. Like even Buck’s body wanted it out, didn’t know how to hold this much pain.

And then another breath.

And then he cried.

No sobs. No wails. Just quiet, shaking grief—like something finally cracked open and couldn’t be closed again.

Tommy held him tighter, one hand moving slowly up his back, the other cradling the nape of his neck.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice breaking with him. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

That’s what undid him.

Buck's fingers clenched tighter in Tommy’s shirt as the words tore out of him—small and cracked and soaked in pain.

“He told me I’ll be okay, Tommy…” His voice trembled, catching on each syllable. “I’m not. I’m not okay. I never will be.”

His body shook with the force of it, like admitting it made everything real.

Like the grief had finally found its voice—and it came out sounding like him.

Tommy didn’t speak right away. He just tightened his hold, one hand steady against the back of Buck’s head, the other splayed between his shoulder blades, grounding him.

“You will be,” he murmured, barely above a breath. “Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow… but you will be, Evan. I promise you.”

Buck shook his head, a broken, desperate motion, forehead still pressed against Tommy’s chest.

“I didn’t even say goodbye. I didn’t say anything.”

Tommy closed his eyes for a second, like the weight of it hit him too. But his arms never loosened.

“He knew, Evan,” he whispered. “I promise you—he knew.”

Tommy tightened his grip slightly, one hand smoothing up Buck’s back in slow, steady strokes.

“And you still can. Whenever you’re ready... he’ll still hear you.”

But Buck was past hearing reason.

His breath hitched hard, a sob catching mid-throat before it forced its way out—ugly and sharp. “I c-can’t—” he gasped, and then the words stopped working.

He tried again, but nothing came out except noise. Raw, aching noise. Grief in its purest, most helpless form.

And still, Tommy held him.

He pulled Buck tighter, cradling the back of his head, rocking him just slightly—not enough to soothe, just enough to stay.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered again, over and over now, like a mantra. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Eventually, Buck went quieter. The sobs thinned to uneven breathing, but his lips kept moving—mumbling something, soft and broken, over and over.

Tommy leaned in, trying to hear. Couldn’t. His brows drew together.

“Evan?” he whispered, pulling back just a little, just enough to see his face.

Buck’s face was wet, flushed, crumpled with the kind of pain that didn’t know how to hide itself anymore. His eyes barely opened.

“Stay,” he said, voice hoarse, barely there. “Stay tonight and tomorrow, and just… stay, Tommy. Please.”

Tommy didn’t answer with words.

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the birthmark above Buck’s eye, tender and reverent. Then he pulled him back into his arms.

Buck curled in closer, folding into the space between Tommy’s legs, cheek pressed against his chest, body trembling but held.

The floor beneath them was hard. Unforgiving. And Tommy didn’t move.

He kissed Buck’s hair. Then again. And again.

Soft. Reassuring. Steady.

“I’m not going anywhere, Evan.”

[misstycloud]

Yandere younger secretary x older married GN reader

He sat at his desk, computer up and awake but the document before him was blank. It’s been hours and he still hadn’t put a single word on it- besides your name which he’d quickly erased before writing again and repeated the process of deleting it. The room was silent apart from the clock ticking on the wall. Time passed slower than a snails pace.

He took the freedom of glancing in your direction. You sat at your own desk, a few meters away from his, actually doing your job.

He knew it was wrong of him to lust after you. You were married for heavens sake and at least two decades older! Still, he couldn’t deny the ever growing feelings he harboured for you. Your age suited you well and you were good at your job, otherwise you wouldn’t have gained such a high position within the company.

”Can you come over for a minute?”

”Yes, of course!” He stumbled over his own feet in a hurry to get to you. You chuckled warmly at his silly display. Who knew your secretary would be so clumsy?

”Do I have any more meetings this friday?” You asked.

He looked over the schedule. ”Ehm..no, nothing more than the four ones that day.”

”That’s great!”

He almost jumped back at your overwhelming positivity. You were always radiant but even more so this time around.

”Do you have any plans?” Your secretary raised a brow in question. Normally, he wouldn’t have dared to pry in his superior’s life but you were different, you never got angry with him for any mistake he made. No, you were warm and comfortable- he felt really bad for those stuck with horrible and indifferent bosses.

Your whole face glowed, ”Yes, it’s my partners birthday. We’re going to celebrate with a nice dinner. The kids wanted fast food but we said it’s not their day and they didn’t get to decide, luckily we managed to bribe them with the promise of good cake afterwards. They’ll just have to sit through an ’adult food’- dinner this time.”

His content smile faltered. A bitter taste entered his mouth and he licked his lips in response. Right. Your family. On good days he almost forgot they existed and on bad days he couldn’t stop glaring on the large family portrait permanently placed on your desk- angled so he could see the entire thing. He couldn't tell how many times he's contemplated throwing the picture frame into the trashcan or out the window so he wouldn't have to suffer through the displeasure of having to look at it.

Why did he have to be born in the wrong decade? If his age was closer to yours, perhaps he would be the one smiling beside you in that photo. Then he would be your one and only. He wasn't fond of kids but if they were yours and his then he would be more accepting of their presence in your lives.

For now, he would have to settle for being your secretary. The only comfort he had was(due to your long hours) that he spent more time close to you than your own family did, something he knew your partner didn't like. One late evening when he came back from the bathroom did he overhear a conversation between you and them- over the phone, of course. While he couldn't really make out what they were saying he did however hear what you said and it wasn't hard to fill in the gaps.

They wanted you home with them and the kids which wasn't an outrageous request. You told them that you couldn't just cut back on so many hours without losing the comfortable lifestyle you all engaged in. Besides, it had taken a lot of time and effort to reach your position and you didn't want to throw it away. If they wanted, you could apply for vacation leave during the summer and you'd go somewhere warm and tropical. Unfortunately that didn't seem to be enough for them and your secretary had to listen to you getting scolded by the angry noises coming from your phone. He didn't know exactly what was said but he knew it wasn't good based on the torn expression on your face when he 'finally came back'.

That night you confided in him and divulged enough but not all the details of your troubles. He simply nodded in understanding and showed great empathy. He was very happy you felt comfortable sharing private things with him, it meant you trusted him. Your secretary gave you (misleading) advice which you took into thorough consideration and thanked him for.

He smiled to himself at the thought. If he played his cards right, you might start to feel more at home with him at the office than your own house- the one your shared with your (disgusting) family. Your spouse had already began complaining about him always being so close to you, making him shiver in delight. You had brushed it off as a ridiculous claim. He was simply young and ambitious, besides, what could he possible want from someone of your age? It was a bit cute how much faith you put in him. Soon he'll have you over at his house where you spouse will catch you- doing nothing indecent of course but it won't matter what you say, nothing would save you from that situation.

Then he'll be your one and only secretary forever.

[bananawafers]

jjk men in the delivery room!

i’ve been rewatching good ol’ grey’s anatomy and i think the whole new parents thing is such a cute concept so here we go. all boys aged to mid/late twenties!

pt 2. nanami, geto, sukuna

pt 3. choso, toji

✧ itadori yuuji ✧

• the BEST cheerleader

• tells you little stories to distract you from the pain

• carefully made a little playlist for you with all of your favorite songs

• asks permission to touch you :(

• “can I hold your hand?”

• whispers little “thank you”s against your shoulder between apologetic kisses

• 100% holds your leg awkwardly because the nurse told him to

• literally just fascinated?? cutest watery smile the whole time

• “oh my god I see hair!” (immediately gets choked up)

• when he sees the baby, he’s totally overwhelmed with how fragile and tiny they are

• BOY DAD

• so so so nervous holding him

• “is he supposed to be this floppy? i think im doing it wrong.”

☆ gojo satoru ☆

• nervous jokes. and they all flop

• hits on you mid-contraction you threaten his life

• totally happy to be your punching bag

• “i know, i know. i’m a sick bastard. who let me reproduce?”

• nags the nurses with questions

• “should her hand be this cold? where is the epidural? can she have more than one?”

• def sneaks a selfie at some point

• promises you your favorite food afterwards

• when you really start to feel the pain, he locks IN

• uncharacteristically soft and focused. kissing your temple, giving you little reassurances and pep talks

• poor guy isn’t used to feeling this useless ! he’s supposed to be the strongest after all </3

• keeps a hand on you at all times— shoulder, back, hand, knee. he has to feel you to stay grounded

• not squeamish in the slightest. just looks so damn proud the whole time

• pampers you with kisses when you’re done

• GIRL DAD absolutely no arguments

• you want satoru to shut up? hand him the baby. he gets so quiet, simply in awe of the little girl in his arms

• totally brags about how his genes pulled through

✼ fushiguro megumi ✼　

• ain’t nothing funny

��� brooding. internally monologuing. (ˇ⊖ˇ)

• doesn’t talk a whole lot, but keeps a firm grip on your hand, thumb brushing your knuckles

• intense eye contact lowkey .

• little apologies

• “i know. i’m sorry it hurts.”

• you can see the way his jaw clenches, how his shoulders tighten, and how he has to look away for a second to regain his composure

• doesn’t look on purpose, but accidentally catches a glimpse of the action. totally stunned, it’s almost comedic

• might get the tiniest bit pale

• the moment the doctor holds up the baby, he gets a little glossy eyed

• might use the back of his hand to cover his eyes

• boy dad. boy dad. boy dad.

• hilariously serious when he holds the baby for the first time. but why is he a natural?

• the tiniest squeak and he freezes like a statue

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part nine)

warnings ; well.. oral (f recieving) light choking, he hits it from the back, front, idk i lost count, she feels him in her stomach? (realism has left the chat)

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; here it is. my baby. my pride and joy. my biggest accomplishment that i will be hanging on my fridge with my hello kitty magnet. not even kidding i rewrote this part four times. four full rewrites. not because the words weren’t working, but because i knew this part had to hit just right.

writing that was hard!! i love these characters so much it physically hurts sometimes. ive lived inside this world for months now, and bringing them to this point broke something in me in the best way (also healed me??? idk dealers choice) the process wasn’t pretty. there were pacing debates, deleted scenes, google docs full of one-sentence paragraphs. through all of it though, one woman held my hand: miss taylor swift.

required listening for this part is this is me trying by tswift. (it’s actually required, the lyrics are THEIRS)

to all of you who’s sent me theories, essays, questions, unhinged keysmashes, character analyses, or even just a quiet “i love this” — thank you. thank you for seeing these characters the way i see them and for lovingly watching on the sidelines when two people experience the ache of wanting something they’re afraid they’ll ruin. you’ve made this story so fun to write!!! i hope, when you reach that last line, that it all feels right to you too. enjoy!!

playlist here

series masterlist here

When you were seven, you ran away from a kitchen fire before anyone else smelled the smoke. You bolted — barefoot, wild-eyed, arms flailing — as the toaster sparked and your mother screamed your name. You learned two things that day: one, that survival is instinct and two, that no one follows a girl who flees first. Ever since then, you’ve made an art of it, of leaving before you’re left, of outrunning the collapse before it’s had time to announce itself.

Even now, you still run like the building is burning.

You book a one-way flight back to Los Angeles with a violence that surprises even you, fingers stabbing at your phone screen, credit card number punched in before the doubt can catch up to your impulse. No pause for breath. No moment to excavate what just splintered apart in Seoul. Just the brutal efficiency of escape.

When the plane finally lifts, Korea dissolving beneath a cotton shroud of clouds, you search yourself for something that might feel like catharsis. But there's only absence. A vacuum where emotion should live.

Not the sweet release you'd imagined.

Not the peace you'd convinced yourself would follow.

Not even regret, which might have offered its own strange comfort.

There's a stillness inside you, resonating like footsteps in an empty gallery after the crowds have gone. You've become a visitor in your own body, observing from the outside.

The campaign, with all its frantic choreography of stress and miracles has finally wound down. The endless parade has halted: no more lighting to approve, no more impossible deadlines to somehow bend to your will through sheer force of determination. No more 4 A.M. calls with production when everything threatened to fall apart.

(No more Jungkook. Almost. You can taste it on the tip of your tongue.)

Tomorrow, it all launches.

You should be electric with anticipation. You should be riding the intoxication of knowing that in storefronts across continents, space is being cleared for what everyone predicts will redefine the brand's trajectory. Success is waiting,, yours to claim.

Instead, you're suspended in a strange limbo. Present but not present. Moving through the the world like someone playing the role of you in a film about your life.

You've become the most convincing ghost in your own story.

You slip back into the LA office like that same ghost returning to familiar hauntings, moving with that quietness people develop when they've spent years trying to be noticed while simultaneously proving themselves indispensable. The ritual feels stolen from another life: coffee warming one palm, the other hand clutching your phone with determination, as if the device might try to escape.

You lose yourself in the launch preparation, drowning in press releases that need one more edit, retailer confirmations requiring verification, social media calendars demanding timing. You orchestrate influencer packages like a general deploying troops, analyze backend metrics with the intensity of someone decoding ancient hieroglyphics.

Because busy hands can't text people.

Because typing another email means not typing his name.

Because every spreadsheet you complete is another reason not to wonder what he's doing right now.

When Jungkook's name illuminates your phone screen for the fifth time that day, something in your chest contracts with such sudden pain that for a moment, you forget how to breathe. You've developed a new skill: the swiftness with which you decline his calls, a movement so practiced it's become second nature. Your finger swipes across his name each time.

Voicemail. Another notification. Voicemail. The red badge multiplying like evidence.

Everything bearing his digital fingerprint gets redirected to Daniel. Meeting conflicts that need resolution, approval requests for campaign deliverables. Some tedious back-and-forth about choosing the right cover image for the website that would have once made you call Jungkook directly.

"Can you handle it?" The question leaves your mouth without inflection, your eyes never lifting from your laptop screen, afraid of what Daniel might read in them.

Daniel stands in your doorway, silent long enough that curiosity finally forces you to look up. The expression on his face carries such naked concern that you almost flinch.

"Are you really going to ghost your own campaign's face?" His voice is soft, which somehow makes you feel worse.

"He's not my anything," you say, the words emerging with a coldness that surprises even you. "He's the brand's."

The look Daniel gives you could incinerate entire cities, reduce them to smoke and memory. There's judgment there, yes, but beneath it something more dangerous: understanding. He retreats without pushing further.

You drag yourself to your hotel in Los Angeles at the hour when even the most dedicated workaholics have surrendered to basic human needs like sleep and food that isn't delivered by Uber Eats. It greets you with the enthusiasm of an abandoned museum exhibit — pristine, untouched, vaguely disappointed.

You answer emails until your retinas protest and your fingers develop their own Stockholm syndrome relationship with your keyboard. The clock on your laptop blinks an accusatory 2:17 A.M while you craft responses.

The Calvin Klein countdown timer on your open browser tab pulses with all the subtlety of a doomsday clock, a digital reminder that your exit strategy is right on schedule. This was always your personal three-step program: Get in. Get it done. Get out.

Jeon Jungkook was supposed to be a line item in your professional portfolio, not the tenant currently occupying all the premium real estate inside your head.

The fact that your brain has apparently thrown him a housewarming party complete with intrusive thoughts as party favors is just your psyche's idea of a practical joke.

One that unfortunately, you do not find the least bit funny.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The launch doesn't just hit. It is literally a tidal wave. #jungkookcalvinklein is trending on Twitter at the ripe hour of 9am.

Before you've managed to convince the coffee maker that yes, today definitely requires the triple-shot setting, Times Square has transformed into a shrine to sculpted abs and Jungkook’s face. Stores unveil installations that somehow make minimalism feel maximalist.

He's everywhere.

Christ, that jawline probably has its own insurance policy, with Calvin Klein jeans on that defy the laws of physics by simultaneously hanging too low and fitting too well, silver chains adorning him.

The public response is teetering on obsession; less consumer enthusiasm and more mass religious conversion. You half-expect to see people speaking in tongues while clutching Calvin Klein shopping bags.

You don't even have time to perform your planned emotional collapse, which you'd scheduled right between "approve final press release" and "pretend to eat lunch." The universe, it seems, has no respect for your Google calendar.

There are calls to field, interviews to prep, press appearances to manage. But then, just to your luck, digital confetti in your inbox: the New York office is hosting a last-minute happy hour to celebrate the global rollout. The invitation lands with little subtlety in bold letters: SENIOR STAFF AND GLOBAL LEADS ONLY, with enough exclamation points to suggest someone's enthusiasm has escaped corporate blandness.

Your decision-making process rivals light speed. You book the flight with the impulsive confidence of someone fleeing a crime scene, pack your garment bag with a dress you haven’t worn in a while. It’s flowy, with an open back that lets you feel the breeze.

Daniel plops himself in the seat beside you on the plane, a one-man information hurricane disguised as your colleague.

You let his voice become white noise, because right now, even corporate jargon is preferable to the unauthorized commentary running through your head, the one narrating all the ways you're not thinking about Jungkook (which, ironically, is all you can think about.)

By the time you two land in Manhattan, it’s dusk, that magic hour when the city sheds its skin and slips into something more comfortable. The streets buzz with that New York electricity that called you even as a young girl in Busan, a current that used to light you up from the inside but now just makes you wonder if you ever really loved it at all.

The SoHo rooftop has undergone the standard office-to-party transformation: string lights creating the illusion that accounting departments can be romantic, glasses clinking.

For the first time since Seoul, you almost feel like a person again instead of a walking collection of unprocessed emotions wearing business casual. Not fixed, not whole, but at least functional, kind of like finding your favorite sweater that you thought was ruined in the wash.

You slip back into your social persona with ease. Your laugh doesn't even sound fake to your own ears, which feels like progress. The champagne bubbles tingle pleasantly, reminding you that sensations other than dread still exist.

It’s always been in your nature; telling stories, entertaining others. Your hands paint disaster scenarios in the air, voice dropping conspiratorially at just the right moments. When you describe finding the missing sample jacket locked in a janitor's closet, your audience erupts into that specific kind of corporate laughter. Even Daniel, standing beside you like your professional shadow, can't help but crack up.

It feels almost like... okay. Not perfect. Not Seoul-never-happened. But upright and breathing, like a houseplant that survived your vacation.

The moment shifts when Daniel's fingers tap your elbow gently. "Hey, walk with me for a second?" he murmurs.

"Sure," you respond, the word automatic as your brain runs rapid calculations on what this could possibly be about.

He leads you away from the celebration, past colleagues swapping war stories and marketing puns, until you reach the edge of the rooftop where the Manhattan skyline lights up the sky.

You exhale slowly, watching the city sparkle before you, thousands of windows lit up. The view is breathtaking in that uniquely New York way that somehow makes your problems feel both microscopic and monumentally important.

"Have you spoken to Jungkook?" Daniel asks carefully.

The question cuts through your momentary peace. Just like that, the city lights dim, the champagne goes flat in your veins, and you're back in Seoul, watching everything fall apart in high definition.

You don't answer immediately. Jaw clicks into lockdown mode. Your arms fold across your chest, the universal body language for "absolutely not having this conversation right now." If emotional armor could make sound, yours would be clanking into place.

Daniel watches you with that particular expression he reserves for when you're being self-destructive but he's too smart to say so directly. It's the look that has always made lying to him impossible, which is precisely why you've been avoiding direct eye contact.

You stare down at your drink where bubbles perform their slow surrender, fizzling into oblivion against the rim of your glass. There's probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but you're too tired to figure it out.

"No," you finally admit, "Not since Korea."

Daniel nods once, the motion small but definitive. "He asked if we were coming tonight."

Your heart performs an acrobatic routine that would qualify for the Olympics, some complicated tumble of hope, panic, and an unfortunate third thing. The champagne you've been nursing suddenly seems very fascinating.

"And?" The question emerges more breathless than you'd prefer.

"I didn't answer," Daniel replies with a shrug. "Wasn't my place."

You swallow hard enough that it feels like forcing down something solid.

"You don't have to tell me anything," he adds, tone dropping to that specific frequency of friendship where truth lives. "But I figured you'd want to know."

Somewhere in this universe, Jungkook might be wondering if you'd show up tonight. The thought lands like a stone in still water, ripples expanding outward.

What would he have done if he'd seen you here?

What would you have done if he flew from Seoul?

Worse: what might you still do?

You remain silent, lips pressed together in a thin line of indecision. Your voice might crack, words may betray you.

The truth is, you're standing at the crossroads of pride and longing, and you have absolutely no idea which direction to take.

You tilt your glass back, letting the alcohol wash across your lips before words form in your throat. “I don't know what you think you saw," you say, your gaze sliding sideways to catch Daniel's expression without fully committing to eye contact. "But I promise you, it's not some great love story."

Daniel makes a sound, a gentle hum that vibrates with something like understanding. “Never said it was," he offers,. "But something definitely happened. You've been walking around like someone left the door open and the wind knocked everything over inside you."

"Poetic," you say sarcastically and roll your eyes.

He shrugs. "I minored in creative writing."

A laugh escapes you, unexpected and genuine,"You minored in talking shit."

His grin unfolds slowly. "So? I'm right."

The silence that follows feels weighted, layered with everything you cannot bring yourself to say. Words gather in your chest, pressing against your ribs like birds against cage bars, but none find their way to your tongue.

Part of you — the part that still wakes at 3 A.M replaying conversations that cannot be undone — wants desperately to believe that your spiral has gone unnoticed. That you might still appear whole from certain angles, in certain lights.

When he speaks again, his voice has softened even more. “You know, you never really do things for yourself."

The observation catches you off-guard, slipping beneath your defensesd. Your brow furrows,"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean..." His hand lifts in a gesture that encompasses everything. His fingers trace the invisible architecture of the career you've built, brick by exhausting brick. "You do this. All of this. You're a fucking workaholic. But when was the last time you did something just because you wanted to? Just for you?"

"I wanted this campaign to succeed," you retort. Your posture straightens, shoulders squaring against accusation.

"For the company," he fires back, neither unkind nor relenting. "For the brand. For the headlines. For the part of you that refuses to lose. But not for you. Not really."

Your fingers curl more tightly around the stem of your glass. Because, like, yeah… you keep a tight ship and all, but it’s what your multimillion dollar contract calls for. In the distance, a helicopter cuts across the skyline, its searchlight briefly illuminating clouds from beneath, revealing their hidden dimensions.

Daniel turns to face you more fully, his expression shifting more dangerously sincere. "What's all this success worth if there's no one to share it with?"

You attempt a laugh that emerges more like a strangled hiccup. Your lips part for a comeback that refuses to come out while your traitorous brain launches into a highlight reel of Jungkook: his sleepy morning smile across hotel pillows, the weight of his shoulder underneath your head during that night on the beach in Busan, his laughter spilling into crevices of the hotel bar. The memories arrive uninvited, like party crashers bringing gifts you're afraid to open.

Daniel nudges your arm, pulling you back from the your thoughts. "Look, I'm not saying go get married in a garden or whatever. Although, now that I think about it, the photos would be incredible. Very Architectural Digest meets romance novel."

He grins before his expression softens. "But maybe... just maybe... it's okay to let someone in. You know, that thing humans have been doing since, like, forever."

You meet his gaze then. It's terrifying, like standing at the edge of a high dive you're not sure you remember how to use.

He's not pushing, not wielding your vulnerability. He's just reminding you, in the way only Daniel can after years of watching you build emotional fortresses, that beneath your exoskeleton of competence and control, you're still embarrassingly human. Still allowed to want something that doesn't come with metrics, target demographics, or quarterly reviews.

You exhale slowly, turning back toward the skyline,"I don't know how to do that," you admit.

"Then start small," he says with the gentle pragmatism of a man suggesting you try a new coffee shop rather than rewire your entire emotional circuitry. "Text the guy."

You shake your head, but the gesture lacks conviction. Your fingers twitch slightly against your glass, as if already rehearsing what they might type.

You squint slightly at the skyline like the answers could be written in neon across the Empire State Building: YES or NO in flashing lights, visible from miles away.

Daniel stands beside you, patient in his silence. He's always had this gift; knowing when to push and when to simply wait, creating space for you to stumble toward your own conclusions at your own stubborn pace. Somewhere beneath the layers of denial, a small, persistent voice wonders what would happen if, this one time, you stopped running long enough to find out what might catch up to you.

Finally, you exhale. "And say what?" you mutter, mouth twisting into what might be mistaken for a smile if not for the panic flickering in your eyes. "Text him: 'Hey, can't believe I ended things between us, how's your day going? Fantastic, thanks for asking!'"

Daniel chokes mid-sip, whiskey catching in his throat as laughter erupts. Amber liquid splashes dangerously close to his shirt cuff. "Jesus Christ," he wheezes, eyes watering. "Maybe workshop that a bit before hitting send."

You laugh too at that. The momentary lightness evaporates as quickly as it appeared, leaving something heavier in its wake. Your next breath feels weighted.

"He said something I can't forget," you add, voice dropping to that particular register where confessions live. You trace the condensation on your glass with one finger, drawing invisible patterns that might spell out what you're afraid to say directly. "During this fight we had... about my family."

Daniel's expression shifts, humor draining away. He watches you with that careful attention that always makes you feel seen. "What'd he say?" he asks.

You shake your head, gaze fixed on some indeterminate point beyond the rooftop's edge. The city lights blur and sharpen with each blink. "That I didn't even want to see them. That I was back in Busan for days and didn't bother. He used it like an insult. Like proof that I don't care about anything."

Daniel's silence stretches between you, allowing your words room to exist without immediate judgment. Long enough for you to lift your glass again, for the alcohol to slide down your throat and bloom warm in your chest, for you to wonder if maybe you've said too much or not enough.

Then he speaks tentatively, "Okay. Not great. But..."

You raise an eyebrow, the gesture sharp with defiance. "But?"

"But he's also not wrong." When your eyes narrow dangerously, he lifts his hands in theatrical surrender, "Not about using it against you.. that was a dick move, solid eight out of ten on the asshole scale."

His expression softens. "But about the rest of it. You kept pushing everyone away. I think you told me to forward all calls from your mom to ‘Satan’ one time. You were so scared of being known, it was easier to hide behind quarterly reports than have coffee with the people who gave you life."

Your mouth opens, a rebuttal forming on your tongue. But the words evaporate before they reach air, leaving you momentarily speechless. Some part of your brain, the part not currently occupied with denying everything, whispers that maybe, there's a sliver of truth worth examining here.

Daniel shrugs casually, with the demeanor of someone sliding the final piece into a puzzle. "Look, I don't think he meant it to hurt you. I think you hit a nerve, and he lashed out. Poorly."

He shifts on his heels, "But he also... I don't know. He kind of seems hopelessly in love with you."

You blink rapidly, as if your eyelids might somehow filter this information into something manageable. "He- what?"

A grin unfurls across Daniel's face. "Dude's clearly gone. I've watched him stare at you like you personally invented the concept of desire. Dont tell anyone this, but he’s also been blowing up the rest of the team’s phones asking if he should expect to hear from you."

You scoff, eyes rolling skyward, but a sensation you've been systematically ignoring since Seoul unfolds within you. Since before Korea, if you're being honest, which you rarely are with yourself. The memories surface unbidden: Jungkook hunting down honey butter cookies because you'd mentioned liking once. The way he'd placed the bag in front of you without comment. The thousands of other tiny gestures you'd filed away as "just being cordial" because "being in love with you" seemed too terrifying a folder to create.

"I didn't..." you begin, then falter. The words hover, “ I don't think I know how to let someone be in love with me."

The confession hangs between you, delicate and honest. Daniel doesn't look away, "Maybe," he says simply, "it's time to learn."

The words settle over you, not a weight but an opening, a door unlocked but not yet pushed ajar.

Daniel drains the last of his drink with finality, eyes fixed on the skyline. The casual observer might think he's admiring Manhattan's glittering architecture, but you recognize this particular silence — the loaded pause before he drops something he's been strategically holding back. It's the conversational equivalent of watching someone wind up for a pitch.

And sure enough, after a calculated beat, he says, "You do realize the contract is done, right?"

You glance sideways, eyebrows lifting in a gesture that attempts indifference but lands somewhere closer to alarm.

"All the promo's scheduled. Launch assets are live. My inbox is starting to go down," he continues, ticking items off an invisible check list. "You're technically free. No more approvals.”

His voice softens around the final blow: "No more excuses."

You lean against the railing, the metal cool against your forearms "What are you saying?”

"I'm saying..." He turns toward you fully now, "You don't have to pretend this is about work anymore."

A scoff escapes you. "Please. Me? And a k-pop idol?"

Daniel delivers a look so deadpan it could be preserved in a museum, the perfect distillation of "are you actually serious right now?" compressed into a single facial expression.

You clarify, hands animating the air between you like you're conducting an invisible orchestra of denial. "The biggest k-pop idol. Like globally famous. The same dude who gets murdered everytime there’s so much as one dating rumor." Each descriptor escalates in pitch, as if the accumulation of external obstacles might somehow outweigh the internal ones.

Daniel lifts his hands in surrender, though his expression suggests he's winning whatever battle is being waged. "Yes. All true. Also.. just so we're keeping track, he's the same guy you've spent the last few months hooking up with, traveling the world with, fighting with like some married couple, and if I'm not mistaken, spending all your time with."

Your eyes narrow to slits. "You make it sound so romantic," you mutter, each word dripping with sarcasm.

"It kind of was," he says with a shrug, "In a HR-nightmare kind of way."

You roll your eyes for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, but there's no real resistance behind the gesture. If anything, you're fighting back something dangerously close to a smile.

Daniel nudges your arm, “I'm not telling you to drop everything and chase some wild fantasy. I'm not suggesting you write his name in your planner with little hearts or anything. But… if it is something, if it's more, then maybe you owe it to yourself to find out."

You stare down at the streetlights below, watching headlights weave through intersections. The city continues its relentless dance, indifferent to your crisis of heart. Somewhere down there, people are making decisions far less complicated than yours; ordering takeout, hailing cabs, choosing which Netflix show to fall asleep to.

"You should take a few days off," he adds, less the colleague who's seen you demolish incompetent vendors and more the friend who once held your hair back after three too many tequila shots at the holiday party. "You can actually take them. The company will somehow survive without you micromanaging every press release for 72 whole hours."

You don't answer, silence a familiar shield.

"I'll cover anything that comes up," he says, the offer weighted with a kindness you're not sure you deserve. "But I think you need to go."

He doesn't say where. He doesn't have to. The destination hovers between you.

Still, you say nothing, your fingers tracing idle patterns in the condensation on your glass. But something shifts in the atmosphere around you, not a decision yet, nothing so concrete or brave. More like the subtle change in molecular rearrangement that animals sense before humans do.

Because maybe there's a version of this story where you don't end up alone with your accomplishments for company, where professional triumph isn't the only warmth in your bed. The thought bubbles up, ridiculous and terrifying and somehow not entirely unwelcome.

You've spent so much of your life building walls with the focus of someone who believes safety lies in being alone, you almost forgot what it feels like to stand before a door that's already open, waiting. The possibility stretches before you, an invitation to step through and see what might exist on the other side.

Daniel slips away, leaving behind only the lingering scent of overpriced whiskey and words that hang in the air. You remain at the railing, arms folded across your chest in what your therapist would probably call a "defensive posture" if you actually went to therapy instead of just reading psychology articles at 3 A.M.

For a while, you just breathe, an activity so basic it shouldn't feel revolutionary, and yet somehow does. One inhale. One exhale. One heartbeat after another.

Then, with the slowness of someone defusing a bomb, your hand migrates to your pocket. Your fingers close around your phone, that small, glowing rectangle.

The screen illuminates instantly, revealing a notification dot so aggressively red it might as well be screaming. You tap the voicemail icon with the hesitancy of someone poking at what might be a sleeping bear. The app lags for a moment, probably collapsing under the sheer weight of messages you've been studiously ignoring.

112 unheard messages.

You stare at the number, a monument to your impressive commitment to avoidance. Gold medal material.

You haven't listened to a single one. Haven't allowed yourself even the smallest peek behind the curtain you pulled.

Your fingers hovers above the most recent message, trembling slightly. You press play before the rational part of your brain can stage an intervention.

"Hey."

His voice arrives like an ambush, rough around the edges, frayed.

"I don't even know if you'll listen to this. You probably won't. But I just... I don't know what to do anymore."

Your grip on the railing tightens, as if holding onto something sturdy might somehow anchor you against what's coming.

"You're not answering. You won't text me back. Daniel says you're 'handling things.' Whatever the fuck that means."

“You always do this. You disappear when things get hard. But this isn't just some hookup anymore. You know that."

You press the phone against your ear with unnecessary force, as if the closer it gets the more sense everything might make.

"I said something I shouldn't have. About your family. I know I crossed a line and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

Your throat constricts, performing an impressive impersonation of a python with its prey. The apology lingers in the universe for a second too long.

"I wanted you to know me. But… I think I forgot that I'm only just starting to know you. And I want to. God, I want to know you so bad."

The voicemail ends with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than any dramatic declaration. You don't move. You don't blink. You barely breathe. Your brain, that overachieving organ that's kept you ten steps ahead in boardrooms and client meetings, suddenly finds itself speechless.

You press play on the next message with the reckless courage of someone who's already jumped from the plane and figures the parachute situation can be sorted out mid-fall.

"Please talk to me."

The sound travels from your phone directly to some unguarded part of your chest.

"I can't sleep. I keep thinking you're gonna call. And then you don't. I get it, I do. But I miss you."

"That's pathetic, right? Missing someone who keeps running from you?"

The question hangs in the air, unanswered and devastating. You find yourself shaking your head in automatic response, as if he could somehow see you through time and digital space.

Your thumb hangs over the screen, hesitating for the briefest moment before tapping to the next message like someone poking at a bruise to see if it still hurts. And the next. And the next.

Each message is a progressive study in yearning — Jungkook's voice traveling through octaves of exhaustion and vulnerability you didn't know existed. Each one reveals another layer of him spiraling, leaving behind a man who can't understand why someone disappeared.

"I think I'm in love with you.”

There it is. The message that finally breaks through the elaborate wall of denial you've been maintaining. Kind of like the sprinkler system activating after the fire's already spread to every room.

You bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, your body's desperate attempt to keep everything contained as your eyes begin to burn with the particular sting that follows with tears. You lock your phone with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.

The breath you draw in trembles, your chest expanding around a feeling you've been ignoring since Seoul.

You can feel it now rushing toward you with the unstoppable momentum of a train whose brakes have failed. The devastation you left behind, casually strewn across continents like discarded clothing. The truth you didn't want to admit, even in the privacy of your own thoughts. The stupid, impossible, terrifying fact that somewhere between contract negotiations and late night 1-on-1 strategy sessions, between stolen moments in hotel bars and shared laughter over take-out containers that he forced you to eat, between arguments that felt too personal and kisses that felt too intimate, Jeon Jungkook somehow slipped past every defense system you'd installed and became more than just another project to complete.

He became the person you think about when good things happen.

The voice you want to come home to on difficult days.

The laugh that somehow makes everything lighter.

Oh.

The realization lands with surprising gentleness.

Oh shit.

You wipe your cheek with the back of your hand for tears that somehow manifested on your face. For the first time since you left Korea, the weight that's been compressing your lungs begins to lift. Not because the ache has diminished or because the fear has subsided, but because you've finally granted it permission to exist.

The realization settles into your bones, that what you want has never resided in quarterly projections or campaign metrics or the professional detachment you've perfected over years of holding people at a distance.

What you want, what you've wanted while convincing yourself otherwise, exists in a hotel room in Korea where a boy with gentle hands and knowing eyes has been waiting for your voice. The thought arrives with clarity, cutting through layers of cynicism and self-protection: you've been running from the very thing you most desperately need.

Your fingers find your phone with newfound certainty, navigating to your travel app with none of the hesitation that's characterized every interaction with this device recently. The flight options materialize on the screen. You select the earliest departure, credit card information autofilling as if your technology recognized this decision before you made it. The laughter and chatter from your coworkers seems so far away despite how close they actually are.

It’s just you and the simple, terrifying recognition that some journeys can only be postponed, never avoided — and the surprising discovery that stepping toward what frightens you can feel remarkably like coming home.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Okay… so you’ve definitely done more degrading things before. Right?

You're sweating through your blouse with the enthusiasm of someone auditioning for a deodorant commercial (and failing. To your own detriment.)

This isn't the "post-workout glow" fitness influencers pretend is attractive. No, this is your body's formal declaration of mutiny, a rebellion against rational thought executed through every pore. Your armpits, palms, and the back of your neck have formed an alliance dedicated to transforming your clothes into soggy evidence of your composure.

What the fuck are you doing?

Outside Jeon Jungkook's front door, you've established a pacing perimeter worthy of a security detail, shoes padding against pavement. The neighborhood is all manicured hedges and tasteful architecture, houses standing witness to what is undoubtedly the most unhinged moment of your professional career.

You halt abruptly, pivot, and resume your trajectory in the opposite direction. Each step carries you further into the absurdity of your situation while bringing you no closer to resolution.

"What the fuck am I doing?" The question emerges as a desperate whisper, fingers wrapped around your purse strap "What the actual fuck am I doing?"

The universe, in its infinite wisdom, offers no response. Not even a convenient sign from the heavens, no fortuitous text message, not so much as a symbolic bird flying overhead. Silence, highlighting the void where your rational decision-making process should be.

The most devastating part of this is your complete lack of preparation — you, who once created a thirty-page document for a photoshoot involving a temperamental cat. You, who color-codes your calendar down to 15-minute increments and keeps emergency protein bars in every bag you own. You, who has never entered a meeting without 3 different strategic approaches and a mental flowchart of possible outcomes.

You flew across the Pacific Ocean on nothing but emotional autopilot, your normally meticulous planning abandoned. You landed, changed your shirt three times in the Incheon airport bathroom while arguing with your reflection, and then navigated to this address with single-minded determination.

His address was acquired through means that would make your company's legal department develop hives. Extracted from the Calvin Klein executive contact database with the moral flexibility of someone who has left all professional ethics back in Manhattan along with her common sense. The violation of privacy policies sits in your phone.

You are experiencing what can only be described as a crash landing; no runway in sight, no landing gear deployed. The metaphorical wreckage spreads across this quiet street, invisible to everyone but acutely, painfully apparent to you.

You excavate your phone from the abyss of your bag and open the Notes app for the third time in 10 minutes, staring with mounting horror at the single sentence you managed to compose somewhere over the ocean — the grand thesis statement that was supposed to carry you across this threshold:

"I'm sorry, and I think I like you."

You blink at it, the words swimming on the screen like poorly translated instructions for assembling complicated furniture. A scoff escapes you in part disbelief, part surrender to the cosmic joke your life has become.

Jesus Christ. That's the line?

That's the earth-shattering revelation that propelled you across international date lines and multiple time zones?

It has all the weight of a middle schooler passing a folded note in math class. "I think I like you" — the verbal equivalent of bringing a water pistol to a nuclear war. The confession carries all the emotional awareness of someone who just discovered feelings exist yesterday and hasn't figured out the instruction manual.

You are pathetic.

You shove the phone back into your bag with force, bearing witness to perhaps the most pitiful declaration of affection ever composed by an allegedly successful adult. Another shaky breath fills your lungs, doing absolutely nothing to calm you.

You haven't knocked yet. You're just standing here, marinating in your own anxiety sweat. Your current strategy appears to be hoping for divine intervention. Perhaps the earth might split open and swallow you whole, or a targeted meteorite might strike just this spot on this particular street in Korea. At this point, even a localized power grid failure would be welcome, anything to ensure that no one ever discovers the depths of your desperate, transcontinental travels for this man.

You feel that urge to run again.

But your feet remain rooted to the concrete, overriding any escape plans.

Underneath the panic, the dampening of your shirt, and the chorus of doubt performing a full operatic production in your head, you know exactly why you're here.

Because of that voice on the phone that carved something permanent into your memory.

Because of the way he looked at you across crowded rooms.

Because for once in your existence, this isn't about control or power or securing the optimal outcome.

This is about choosing someone, even if it makes your knees perform a dance of terror. Even if it required theft of confidential information from a database you definitely shouldn't have access to.

You take one more breath, and step forward with the confidence of someone who still has approximately 14 seconds before complete collapse.

Your knuckles connect with the door in what's meant to be a confident knock but comes as more like the hesitant tapping of someone who's not entirely sure they've got the right house and is already formulating an apology to potential strangers.

The door swings open. There's no cinematic pause, no buffer zone during which you might remember how to be a functioning human capable of speech and basic facial control.

And there he is.

Jungkook.

Standing in his doorway like some kind of domesticated Greek god, barefoot in sweatpants that hang from hipbones, wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his torso. His silver chain catches the light, hair artfully disheveled.

There are shadows beneath his eyes that speak volumes, the look of someone waiting too long for a response that never arrived, for a message that never delivered.

He looks frozen in a moment of suspended animation.

And you.. well, you look like someone who's just realized they've accidentally booked a one-way ticket to their own reckoning without packing appropriate attire. Your professional persona is dissolving faster than cheap mascara in a rainstorm.

Your mouth opens automatically, but your brain has apparently decided to go offline. Not a greeting emerges. Not a witty remark. Not the apology you composed and discarded a dozen times between your airplane seat and this moment.

How do you explain what it means to see him again?To see the evidence of what you did inscribed across his features? To stand there and have a million feelings rushing into you?

And worst of all, to realize that somewhere along the way, between "professional boundaries" and "conflict of interest," you've managed to accomplish something you never planned for: you've fallen catastrophically, inconveniently, undeniably for Jeon Jungkook.

His eyes sweep over you once, then return for a second pass. There's a flicker of disbelief in his expression, as if his brain is running diagnostics on whether you're actually standing on his doorstep or if he's finally cracked and started hallucinating ex-whatever-you-weres.

And then, with the simplicity of someone handling something that might shatter, he says your name.

No accusation coloring the syllables. It’s your name, floating between you like a verbal lifeline extended without judgment.

You swallow with enough force to be audible, fingers doing that twitchy dance at your sides. The emotional menu before you offers several options — spontaneous crying, inappropriate nervous laughter, or your personal favorite: the tactical retreat.

But you stay put. No running shoes required.

You look at him with all your barricades temporarily offline. You’re thinking of that beach, that night you tried to bury. Thinking of the way he looked at you then, like you were still salvageable. Thinking of when he told you, “Hi is a good place to start.” You didn’t say it at your mother’s house. Couldn’t. But maybe now, with the weight of everything lingering in the quiet, maybe now’s your second chance.

So you take it.

"Hi," you whisper, the syllable emerging with all the confidence of a first-time public speaker.

He stares at you. You stare back.

Finally, Jungkook breaks the silence, his voice scratchier than you remember. There's a rawness to it, an edge that suggests maybe he got tired of speaking into the void of your unanswered messages. “What the fuck are you doing here?"

And just like that, your mental hard drive crashes. The speeches you rehearsed somewhere over the terrain vanish like airplane meals — unmemorable and completely inadequate for the situation.

You stand there, watching his chest rise and fall with slightly uneven breaths, and realize that you're going to have to improvise without a safety net.

The only thing your brain can process is the sound of blood whooshing behind your ears and the embarrassing tremor in your fingers as they begin to battle the suddenly complex engineering marvel that is your purse zipper.

"I—" you stammer, voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old boy asking someone to dance. "Hold on—just—"

You excavate the dig site formerly known as your handbag, pushing past convenience store receipts, a lipstick, and a charging cable that's currently charging absolutely nothing. Your fingers finally close around what you've flown across the world to deliver.

It's not exactly presentation-ready; it’s crumpled like it's been stuffed in a blender, folded and smudged around the edges.

With the triumph of someone who just discovered treasure, you extract the contract. His contract. Holy grail of paperwork.

The very same contract for Calvin Klein that consumed months of your life, prompted 17 panic attacks, and served as the professional excuse for every personal boundary violation you've committed since meeting him.

You unfold it clumsily, then thrust it toward him like an artifact that could explain your entire emotional state without requiring actual human communication.

"Your contract is up," you announce. "It ended this week."

Jungkook blinks at you with confusion. His eyebrows pull together, creating that little crease you've definitely never memorized. "Okay...?" he questions.

You look at him with the desperate stare of someone whose entire communication strategy is telepathy while your throat constricts. The words scream inside your head with megaphone clarity: Don't you get it? Don't you see what I'm trying to say?!

But all that emerges is a breath.

He glances down at the paper, then back at your face "I know," he says slowly, "I was there when I signed it."

A sound escapes you. This is what your life has become — standing on a doorstep, physically shaking, brandishing legal paperwork like it's a love letter. You, who once negotiated a seven-figure deal without breaking a sweat, reduced to communicating your feelings through expired contractual obligations and hoping he somehow translates this into "I've made a terrible mistake and flown across the world to fix it."

He's still examining the contract, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing, as if proper legal documentation might suddenly reveal invisible ink.

It's really just paper and ink and legal jargon that somehow became the flimsiest of excuses to orbit each other's lives.

Your fingers tighten around the document before it goes limp in your hands, dangling between you. “You think I care about this contract? Do you really think I flew across the world to remind you about paperwork? What am I, the world's most dedicated courier service?"

His eyes lock onto yours now. He's silent, still, letting you speak.

"I don't give a shit about Calvin Klein," you continue. "Or the campaign. Or the storefronts. I mean... I do, I did, but not like that. Not more than this." You gesture vaguely between the two of you with the contract, which has now been demoted from legal document to impromptu prop.

You're fully in verbal freefall now, thoughts colliding in real-time, each one crashing into the next before either can reach a proper conclusion.

"Do you know what you did to me?" The question is more of a whisper. "You made me feel things I don't let myself feel. You made me lose control. You — God, you made me talk."

His jaw tightens eyes simultaneously sharp and soft. He's bracing himself, his body language shifting.

"For the first time in a year, I saw my mother," you continue, the confession tumbling out with the momentum of something that's been held back too long. "I held my sister. I went home."

You blink rapidly, your eyes performing emergency protocols to contain the tears. "Do you know what kind of man it takes to make me do that?"

Jungkook's lips part like he's about to speak, but nothing leaves, as if the dictionary of possible responses has been wiped from his memory. You step closer, closing the distance between you.

"You got me to sit on a beach and tell you things I've never said out loud. You got me to let you in. Without trying.. or asking." Your hands wave vaguely in the air, as if trying to physically grasp the concept. "You just... did. You're the first man who's ever made me feel something that wasn't transactional. You make me feel like a person, Jungkook.“

He's standing with the frozen stillness of someone who just discovered they're in a minefield, but his chest is rising and falling. You know he's hearing it all; every word, every crack in your voice, every truth you've been swallowing since you pushed him away.

"I didn't come here to fix anything," you murmur, "I just needed you to know that you mattered. That you weren't some mistake for me."

And then, quieter, “You were the only thing that ever felt real.“

Jungkook blinks once. And then again. If a human could display a buffering sign, it would be rotating above his head right now.

He's speechless, which considering he's a man who performs in front of stadium crowds and has entire teams dedicated to crafting his public statements, is quite the achievement to add to your professional resume.

You just let him look at you. There's no persona to hide behind, not anymore.

And the longer he stands there, wordless as a statue, watching you, jaw clenched tight, the more your stomach flip-flops inside you.

You've never been this exposed. Not even in the heat of his bed, when physical nakedness seemed like the most vulnerable state possible (how adorably naive that belief seems now.) This is an entirely different category of exposure.

Still, he says nothing. The audacity of this silence is almost impressive.

So you redirect, falling back on the one thing you understand: paperwork.

Your fingers tremble, but you manage to grip the contract and tear it straight down the middle with surprising dramatic flair.

Again. And again. And again.

Until it's nothing but corporate confetti. Thin little fragments of legally binding language and signature and structure, falling in what your brain identifies as a metaphor so on-the-nose it would be rejected from a first year creative writing workshop.

"I don't care about this," you whisper, gesturing to the paper carnage. "I mean, I do care about this. Just… not the way I care about you." You immediately recognize this as the kind of line that would make you roll your eyes if you heard it in a movie, yet here you are, delivering it with complete sincerity. The universe has a twisted sense of humor.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. His silence has evolved from awkward to actually embarrassing now.

You’re starting to think you may be too late. Maybe he got back together with his ex. Maybe him and Jennie are fucking again.

You blink back the burn in your eyes, throat closing around words. "Please," you breathe out, "Tell me I'm not too late. Tell me I didn't fuck up another thing in my life—"

You barely finish getting the words out before he moves.

One second you're standing there, and the next, his hands are on your waist, pulling you in, grounding you like gravity suddenly remembered your specific coordinates.

To your surprise — he’s kissing you.

The world narrows to this: his hands on your body, warm and solid and real. The faint scent of his musky cologne mixing with a body wash that is uniquely him. The pressure of his lips against yours, lip ring cool against your warm mouth.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice wonders if this counts as a successful business negotiation or a breach of ethics. The rest of your consciousness tells that voice, quite firmly, to shut the hell up.

You melt into him, shaking and breathless, fingers curling into his t-shirt as your lips part under his with enthusiasm.

This isn't some tentative, exploratory first kiss from a Hinge meetup. This isn't the calculated kiss of someone testing chemistry before deciding if a dinner date was worth the investment.

This is a kiss that announces "you're home" with little to no subtlety.

His mouth remains attached to yours as he backs into the doorway, pulling you along and tethering your body to his like you might run. His paranoia, you have to admit, isn't entirely unreasonable given your track record of vanishing acts.

The torn contract lies abandoned on the welcome mat. The wind shifts behind you as the door clicks shut with finality.

Inside, it's warm. Dim. Quiet. Smells like a mix of spices and some kind of candle. His soft lips move over yours, intoxicating enough that your educated brain has forgotten how to form coherent sentences in any known language.

He walks you backward through his home, the kiss breaking only in microsecond intervals.

"I waited for you," he whispers between kisses. You respond with a sound between a whimper and a sigh, palms pressing into his chest as he lightly pushes you against the nearest wall with surprising authority. His breath fans hot against your cheek, “I told myself to let it go. That maybe I'd imagined all of it, that you didn't feel the same."

You gasp as his teeth graze your skin with just enough pressure to short-circuit your higher reasoning capabilities. One of his hands slides up beneath your blouse, his touch somehow managing to be both needy and soft.

Your last coherent thought before surrendering entirely to this expected plot twist is that Daniel is never, ever going to let you live this down when you return to New York.

"I've never felt this way about anyone," he exhales against the base of your throat, words tumbling out. "Not once."

It’s real when he says it. All of it. Every emotional shard he left scattered across like breadcrumbs, still waiting for you to come back and attempt the world's most ill-advised puzzle reassembly.

You pull him closer with upper body strength you didn't know you possessed, kissing him like your respiratory system has been recently reconfigured to run exclusively on Jeon Jungkook. Your hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt, cataloging the warmth of him, the tension coiled in his muscles.

"Jungkook..." You begin, caught between a moan and a murmur.

But he shakes his head, kissing you harder, "Don't. Don't say anything yet. Just be here." The request comes with the desperation of someone who's still half-convinced they're hallucinating.

You have absolutely no idea of how you've navigated this far into his house. Your last clear memory involves standing on a doorstep watching shredded corporate paperwork fall to the gravel.

The walls blur, corners cease to exist. Every hallway becomes a perfect clone when your mouth remains fused to his. You maintain only peripheral awareness of your own movement, shoes occasionally slipping against the floor with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, his hands gripping your waist to steady you. You careen into one wall, then another, turning his home into an obstacle course neither of you seems particularly interested in navigating efficiently.

He's talking through it all, and you don't realize you're crying until his thumb brushes over your cheekbone in adoration.

"I thought I lost you," he mumbles, his mouth creating a cartography of your features; the edge of your lips, the angle of your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear. "You were gone. I thought that was it."

You shake your head, and he doesn't even wait for verbal confirmation before kissing you again. Deeper this time, with the kind of attention to your body that makes you wonder if perhaps your entire professional career has just been an elaborate prelude to this specific moment in this hallway with this person.

Your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, tugging the fabric upward in what's meant to be a smooth, seductive motion. He lifts his arms automatically anyway as if he is just as desperate to eliminate any non-skin barriers between you.

His shirt gets tossed somewhere, your hand firmly planted on the plane of his chest, the taut muscle underneath.

"Fuck," he mutters against your collarbone, as he presses you against yet another wall (his home apparently consisting of nothing but convenient vertical surfaces.) One hand slips beneath your blouse while the other slides up your clothed thigh with intent. "You can't do that to me again."

"I won't," you promise, hands trembling against his chest "I swear."

He kisses you again like he doesn't quite believe you but has decided the potential heartbreak is an acceptable risk if it means having this fragment of connection.

Clothes begin their gradual migration to the floor — not the choreographed disrobing of movie sex scenes where garments somehow land in artful arrangements, but the realistic, occasionally awkward shedding. Your blouse gets caught on one earring. He helps with buttons while simultaneously trying to maintain mouth-to-mouth contact, resulting in misaligned kisses that land at the corner of your lips.

There's a brief, silent negotiation about whether your shoes should come off before or after your pants. Jeans are discarded, fingers brushing against your lace underwear.

You don't even care about the logistics anymore, the who-goes-where and what-happens-when that your organizational brain would typically want to map out. You just know one essential truth.

You need him.

Not in the scratch-an-itch way of previous encounters.

You're letting him see you now, unfiltered and unedited.

You don't try to steady your hands as they trail down his sides. Don't stabilize your voice to hide the crack when you whisper his name like it's become a more honest version of your own. You don't armor yourself when he looks down at you, shirtless and flushed, and murmurs with wonder: "You came back."

And that's when he lifts you, hands sliding under your thighs, holding you firmly to him. You wrap your legs around him, arms circling his neck, surrendering to being transported like the world's most willing hostage.

You have only the vaguest awareness of your surroundings. Some room, presumably his bedroom, though frankly it could have been his kitchen or laundry room and you wouldn't have noticed or cared. Geography has become thoroughly irrelevant to your current priorities.

The only thing actually registering in your sensory catalog is him; breath warming your collarbone, skin pressed against skin, lips trailing slow, wet kisses along the slope of your shoulder. He lays you down on his bed, gaze taking inventory of every inch of you.

His expression carries the stunned disbelief of someone who can't quite convince himself he's allowed to have you after you pulled your disappearing act.

The room is quiet except for your combined breathing and the soft rustle of sheets. Jungkook's palms drag up the sides of your thighs with a confidence that makes your skin tingle in anticipation, thumbs grazing the curve of your hips. He lowers himself, dark hair falling across his forehead. He presses a kiss just above your knee that sends an electrical current straight to your core which has apparently been in hibernation.

"You always look like this for me?" he murmurs. His fingers toy with the delicate hem of your lace underwear — the good ones you'd packed with what you now recognize was blatant optimism disguised as practicality. His eyes flicker up to catch yours, and you recognize him on his knees in his own bedroom, and suddenly breathing seems like an advanced skill you never quite mastered. "Spread out, soft... waiting?"

You can only nod, lips parted and pulse fluttering beneath your skin. Because when he's like this, looking at you like you're some kind of miracle he's afraid to blink and miss, it's impossible to maintain the illusion that you were ever in control of this situation.

Your eyes flutter shut, hands curling into the sheets. He hasn't even properly touched you yet, but you're already unraveling faster than a cheap sweater in the dryer, undone by nothing more than his mouth hovering in your general vicinity.

You feel the delicate tug of lace between your thighs, the slow drag of your underwear as he bites at the waistband. He pulls them down with his teeth like he's personally offended by the concept of using hands for their intended purpose, savoring each millimeter of progress.

He drops the lace to the floor with casual disregard, like it’s unimportant — which, right now, it is — and without hesitation, he leans in, pressing the softest kiss to your soaked core.

You jolt visibly, audibly, a shaky sound catching in your throat as your legs try to twitch closed out of instinct. Not that he allows this sudden attack of modesty to proceed.

No, he’s already got his hands under your thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the bed, closer to his mouth, to the heat of his breath, to the place he plans to keep you until you forget your name.

And then he hooks your legs over his shoulders with practiced expertise, essentially wearing your thighs like the world's most inappropriate neck pillow.

“There we go,” he mutters, like he’s pleased with himself, like he’s settling in. His fingers dig into your thighs to maintain his access route, thumbs brushing over skin softly that somehow makes everything worse (or better, depending on your perspective.) He’s spreading you wide open for him, singing your praises, “Nice and close. Stay just like that, baby.”

And you do, despite your brain's distant, feeble protests about maintaining some semblance of dignity. Your hands scramble through the sheets, heart thundering in your chest.

A single coherent thought manages to penetrate the fog of sensation overtaking your higher reasoning capabilities: you are so, so screwed. Metaphorically, for now. Though given current trajectory, the literal interpretation seems imminent.

His grip on your thighs tightens just before his mouth finds your cunt. It’s one singular lick, tongue dividing between your folds. Your fingers dive into his hair with the desperate urgency of someone grabbing the last life preserver on a sinking ship, threading through the soft strands until you're practically clutching his head. “F-fuck!”

It’s consistent laps up and down your folds, your juices coating his lips, the coldness of his lip ring sending you into oblivion. He doesn’t ease up. He doesn’t tease. He devours you, tongue beginning to speed up.

You feel completely exposed, like you've accidentally sent your most private thoughts to a company-wide email thread, and somehow this vulnerability only intensifies everything, your body apparently interpreting danger signals as "please, sir, more of that."

Then his tongue flicks across your clit with the precise timing of someone who's memorized your particular user manual, and the noise that escapes you resembles something between a hiccup and the beginning of an embarrassing performance. Some pathetic little "uh" sound bubbles up from your throat.

You’re spread out beneath him, legs shaking, sheets twisted in your fists as he keeps going — his tongue relentless, lips slick, chin wet with you. His jaw glistens with evidence of your arousal, creating the kind of mess that would horrify you normally but currently registers as the hottest thing you've ever witnessed.

He groans against you, the vibration adding yet another layer of sensation to the overwhelming cascade, a sound so deep and raw it seems to originate from somewhere primal. Maybe he's just as far gone as you are, equally lost in this moment of reconnection. Or maybe… god, who cares, he just really can’t stop.

Your brain is syrupy now, thick and slow, synapses misfiring as your body spins somewhere between pleasure and delirium. Every drag of his tongue has you twitching, every suck of his lips on your clit sends another wave crashing through you, and your body doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

“Fuck—Jungkook, I—I can’t—” you gasp, practically ripping his hair out of his scalp. Your voice has adopted qualities you've never heard before — high, fractured, entirely unbefitting for someone who once made a junior copywriter cry with a single raised eyebrow.

“I love eating this pussy,” he mutters, muffled against your soaked cunt. Like he's experiencing a religious epiphany that happens to be centered between your thighs. “Swear to god, I’d live here. Every damn day.”

You respond with a choked sob that would mortify you in literally any other context but seems perfectly reasonable given that your central nervous system is currently experiencing the neurological equivalent of fireworks.

“You taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue in one long, devastating stripe. “So good for me. You feel that, baby? The way you’re dripping all over me? The way your little cunt’s beggin’ for it?”

Your hips buck upward, but he counters this rebellion, mouth locking around your clit with such pressure that your eyes roll back like they're trying to retreat into your skull for safety.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice containing equal parts possession and wonder, as if he's surprised by his own declaration. “You know that? I’m never letting you go.”

You’re gone. Dizzy, spinning, stars behind your eyes. There’s a scream climbing up your throat, and your entire body is about to break apart, lit from within by a chain reaction that has precisely one catalyst: him, him, him.

Just when you think you’re about to tip over the edge, when every muscle in your body is coiled and quaking, Jungkook pulls back slightly, enough to keep you hovering. His tongue slows to an excruciating crawl, tracing soft circles around your clit. Barely there. Absolutely criminal.

Your whole body jolts, hips twitching helplessly, chasing more, chasing anything. But he keeps you right there, locked in with the pads of his fingers bruising your thighs.

"N-no—don't stop," you whimper, voice hitting notes that would embarrass you in any other context. "Feels so good, I—fuck, since when— since when did you get this good?"

He hums against you, the vibration hitting exactly where you need it most, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. His tongue resumes its torturously slow rhythm, each deliberate stroke designed for maximum frustration. He's moving like he's got all day to keep you on this edge.

"I mean it," you babble, vocabulary reduced to the primitive language center of someone who's forgotten they once intimidated an entire marketing department. "God, it's—fuck, I swear, what the fuck, it feels so —ahh— good!”

You glance down, desperate for visual confirmation that this is actually happening, and discover he's already looking up at you. Eyes dark and hazed over like he's sampled something significantly stronger than the recommended dosage, half-lidded and wild.

And the moment your eyes lock, it hits you like a punch to the chest. Somehow, it feels too raw.

His tongue doesn’t stop, slow and cruel in its own way, but his eyes stay locked on yours. Completely unflinching, intense, like he wants you to see him, like he’s trying to tell you something with every flick of his tongue.

Your tone fractures like cheap glassware. "Jungkook... please, please don't stop, I can't—"

He doesn't (clearly a man who follows through on his commitments.)

Just when you think you’ve adjusted to the slow torture of his tongue, Jungkook shifts.

This time, there's no trace of the earlier restraint. No more teasing. No more measured patience. His tongue flattens and drags against your slit, before circling your clit rapidly, flicking in tight, rhythmic strokes that have your entire body seizing.

You cry out with sounds that would be mortifying if recorded, hands clutching his hair like stress balls. "J-Jungkook—oh my God—don't stop, don't—fuck, please—"

"Keep still," he whispers against you,"Take it just like this."

And then he’s back on you, tongue working you over, flicking fast, then flattening again, sucking your clit into his mouth and rolling the sensitive nub over in devastating circles.

You're spiraling into some delirious dimension where coherent speech is a distant memory. "God—fuck—Jungkook, what the fuck, you're—nnh, please keep going."

He chuckles into you, vibration shooting through your spine. “Want you to cum on my face.”

And then — just when your nerve endings have adjusted to his particular brand of torture — he pauses.

You whine at the sudden loss, body shaking, on the very edge of begging. But then you feel it: two fingers, thick and warm, sliding slowly into you. The stretch makes your back arch, mouth falling open on a broken moan as he sinks them deep and curls them just right.

Your walls clamp around him instantly, greedy and desperate, like they've been waiting for exactly this intrusion.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, eyes flying open. “Fuck!”

He pulls his mouth back a bit to speak, lips slick with you, fingers never leaving you. “Hmm, I’ve always known how to fuck you right.”

He leans in again, multitasking with impressive coordination; his tongue returning to your sopping wet core with determination while his fingers establish a rhythm inside you that can only be described as diabolically perfect. They curl against your sweet spot that makes your vision develop lens flares at the edges.

"Cum for me," he begs, "Cum on my fingers. Cum on my tongue. I want all of it."

And there's nothing left in your arsenal of resistance to fight this particular hostile takeover.

Not when he's looking at you with that expression. Especially not when his fingers are pumping inside you.

Your orgasm tears through you with a force that feels almost violent, body snapping taut beneath him as your back arches off the bed and a involuntary cry rips from your throat.

This is a full system meltdown. A white-hot supernova behind your eyelids, a full-body seismic event that has you gasping for oxygen. Your thighs clamp around Jungkook's head but he doesn't even flinch — he holds steady, fingers maintaining their rhythm, mouth still attending to your clit with dedication.

Everything in the known universe disappears except the overwhelming input of sensation; his mouth, his hands, his voice murmuring something against your trembling flesh that your pleasure-scrambled brain files under "process later" in a folder that may never actually be opened.

And then — oh God. There it is.

A gush of warmth, uncontrollable, spilling out of you before you can stop it,, and maybe you do squirt, maybe it’s just a near miss, but who’s to say? All you know with absolute certainty is that you're essentially baptizing his face, and the animalistic sound he produces in response is obscene, so proud, that it sends another aftershock ripping through your core.

Your whole body vibrates. Wrecked. Utterly demolished.

Jungkook finally pulls back, face glistening. He looks both flushed and triumphant, eyes dilated, staring at you like you've just performed some rare cosmic event he was lucky enough to witness.

"Holy shit," you exhale, "What the fuck was that."

He has a shit-eating grin on his face, wiping his chin with the back of his hand in a gesture that should be gross but somehow isn't, managing to look simultaneously cocky and awestruck. "Guess I don't have to wonder if you came."

You release a sound that exists somewhere between laughter and delirium, flinging an arm over your eyes. “I think I just blacked out," you murmur, the confession slipping out too easily.

Jungkook leans over you, starts to get off his knees, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another softer one. "Good," he says.

You blink at the ceiling with disoriented wonder. "Fuck, I missed this. Even if it wasn't that long of a break."

He chuckles. "I don't care how long it was, I still missed it."

You blink through the haze clouding your vision just in time to witness Jungkook fully rising to his feet at the edge of the bed, his gaze locked on you. His hands hook into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down his thighs. Then he's there, hard, thick, and flushed, cock cradled in his hand as he strokes himself.

His eyes trail over your body with the thorough documentation of someone creating a visual archive. You can feel yourself responding in eagerness, walls clenching around nothing like they're experiencing separation anxiety.

"I'm never letting you go again," he says, voice dropping the playful edge, becoming something serious. “You get that, right?"

You attempt to formulate a response, but discover your mouth has apparently decided to cosplay as the Sahara. All you can manage is a nod that barely qualifies as movement.

He’s slightly hovering over you, arms sliding under your thighs, clamping around them as he drags you down the bed in one swift movement. You gasp as your ass makes abrupt contact with the edge of the mattress, cool air hitting newly exposed skin while your legs fall open, and then — holy evolutionary biology —

His cock slides through your folds, the weight and heat of him dragging against your already hypersensitive clit like a match strike against sandpaper. You whimper, legs twitching, your body apparently unable to decide if it's too sensitive for more stimulation or desperately craving it.

He repeats the motion again. And again. The thick, velvety length of his cock glides through your slick evidence, teasing your entrance. He lets you feel every ridge and vein without giving you the satisfaction of actual penetration, slaps his length against your juices a few times.

"Feel that?" he speaks softly, "That's mine. This whole fucking pussy. All of you." The possessive declaration should trigger your feminist alarm bells, but your body apparently didn't get the memo, responding instead with an endorsement.

Your hips jerk upward instinctively. “Jungkook, please."

He looks down at you, pupils so dilated they've nearly consumed the black holes. His jaw clenches, sweat creating a subtle sheen at his temple that catches the dim light. His cock twitches against you, leaving another hot trail of precum across your folds like some kind of territorial marking. “Say it," he growls, "Say you're mine."

Your fingers claw at the sheets, completely useless against the solid weight of him positioned between your thighs. You're wet to a degree that should concern you, but it somehow doesn’t. “Jungkook," you moan, "Please. I—I need you."

He grits his teeth, cock jumping between your folds. His expression broadcasts a man barely maintaining his composure. “Say it," he repeats. "Tell me you're mine."

You gasp, legs shuddering in his iron grip. “I'm yours," you whisper, the words escaping before your pride can intercept them. "I'm yours, Jungkook. I'm fucking yours. Please.. just fuck me. I can't, I need it, need you—"

That's all it takes; your desperate declaration being the final passcode to unlock whatever restraint he's been maintaining.

He growls under his breath incoherently, pushing his full length devastatingly slow into you.

And the stretch..

Sweet merciful heaven, it's always been llike discovering a new dimension of sensation. Always been the best you’ve ever had.

He's thick, pressing deeper into you than before, walls struggling to accommodate him. Each inch creates a delicious burn that makes your mouth fall open silently.

Your back arches, hands flying to his forearms with a desperate grip. Your lungs attempt to remember their primary function.

"Fuck," Jungkook hisses through teeth clenched, the grip on your thighs now firmly in bruise-manufacturing territory as he watches himself disappear into you. "You're so tight. Shit, always so wet for me."

You attempt to form words, but they never come. You're too full, stretched beyond what you thought possible. All you manage is a whimper as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, the substantial weight of him seated so deep you feel claimed from the inside out.

He hovers over you, his forehead brushing yours with unexpected tenderness. "You feel that?" he says under his breath. "That stretch? That fullness? That's me, baby."

You nod frantically, nails creating temporary artwork on his toned arms, walls clenching around him with rhythmic pulses. “I can feel you everywhere," you whisper, "You're—fuck, you're so deep, I—"

Jungkook holds still inside you for one suspended moment, long enough for your body to adjust to the size. Your legs twitch where they remain trapped in his grasp, feet dangling in the air.

Then, without verbal warning or mercy, he withdraws completely.

All the way out.

The sudden emptiness hits you like sensory whiplash, your walls clutching at nothing, muscles fluttering with panic, and then he pushes back in unhurriedly, dragging every impressive inch into your slick cunt.

Head tilting back, you moan out something that sounds like a profanity. He follows your movement like he's tethered to you, leaning down with a groan.

That's when you feel it; the gentle tap of cold metal against your chin.

His silver chain. You never really did appreciate that jewelry piece.

It swings, providing cool metallic kisses against your overheated skin. The visual of it dangling above you, catching light with each oscillation, nearly sends you to heaven.

You will never get tired of this man again.

You grab him by the neck with the decisive urgency of someone who's finally stopped overthinking everything, dragging him down against you, crashing your mouth to his with absolutely zero concern for technique or dignity.

Fuck, the taste.

You taste yourself on his lips, a complex, slightly salty sweetness that you'd never admit to anyone you find strangely intoxicating. Mixed with the warmth of his tongue and the slick slide of his mouth, your brain temporarily suspends all higher functions. He maintains that unhurried rhythm below, deep thrusts that end with a grind.

Your teeth accidentally catch his bottom lip in your eagerness and his breath hitches against your mouth.

"God," you exhale into his mouth, "you feel so fucking good. I-I missed you so m-much.”

Jungkook moans wantonly, forehead pressing against yours in that surprisingly tender gesture that somehow makes everything more intimate than the actual sex itself. His hips maintain that tempo, drawing out pleasure.

"You drive me insane," he whines. "You're so fucking tight, so perfect. I could do this all night. Never get tired of being inside you."

You shudder, gasping into the half-kiss, legs tightening around his waist with newfound plans to eliminate any remaining space between your bodies.

When he thrusts again, harder this time, you swear the room performs a slow rotation around you. He breaks the kiss with a muttered profanity that somehow sounds like poetry, staring down at you. In this moment, in this bed, with this man… you’ve never felt more safe and loved.

Yet the careful, teasing rhythm he’s been making love to you with shatters like fine china dropped from a height.

Jungkook drives into you with a force that makes your breath catch, his hips connecting with yours. The soundtrack becomes deliciously obscene — skin meeting skin with wet smacking. The headboard begins its own contribution, banging against the wall with a volume that would concern you if you weren't well past caring about such mundane considerations.

You cry out incredibly loud, “Oh my God — fuck — Jungkook, don't stop," your nails drag across his back and shoulders, anywhere within reach, as your body jerks beneath him.

"Not fucking planning to," he responds with grim determination, thrusting harder, deeper.

Thank God he doesn't have neighbors.

High, broken sounds emerge from your throat that seem to bypass your vocal cords entirely. And Jungkook? He's producing a collection of grunts and groans, punctuating each thrust with your name.

"You hear that?" he pants, fucking into you with enough force to make the bedframe collapse at this rate. "That's how wet you are for me. That sound—fuuck—you hear how good it sounds?"

You can't formulate a coherent response but your body registers only the essential data points: the way his cock hits that sweet spot each time, the way your walls grip him, the feel of his muscles underneath your fingertips.

You're the visual definition of dishevelment — hair stuck to your face, eyes glazed mouth open and—oh god—actually drooling slightly as you beg for more.

Jungkook's hand comes up to grab your jaw with gentleness, tilting your face to meet his gaze. “You are so, so beautiful."

The sincerity punches through your pleasure-riddled brain. You suddenly recognize this look — the one he's been giving you for weeks while you've been busy pretending he wasn’t. The realization lands with the subtlety of a piano dropped from a third-story window: you're the oblivious protagonist in your own romantic story.

Without warning or consultation, Jungkook rearranges your legs, hooking them over his shoulders like he's claiming ownership… which, at this particular moment, feels like a completely reasonable arrangement.

He thrusts back in, so deep your mouth drops open in a silent scream. Your walls clamp down on them, juices leaking out onto the sheets below you.

"Holy shit," you gasp, "I can't, I can't, you're so deep, Jungkook, I—"

Somehow, in this moment of incoherence and surrender, you've never felt more genuinely yourself. There's something terrifying and liberating about being seen so completely, being known in this most primitive, honest way, and that you’ll let him have you like this.

He groans, abs flexing with roll of his hips. From this angle, escape from visual impact is impossible; he's looming above you, hair falling into eyes, jaw squared. His chest rises and falls in a quick, shallow rhythm but has decided breathing is less important than the task at hand.

"Fuck," he growls, gaze traveling downward to where your bodies connect, where every drag of his cock exhibits a ring of cream soaking his base. "Taking me so well. You're so fucking tight baby, squeezing me like you want me to cum."

You respond with some sound, legs twitching on his shoulders, toes curling behind his back with enough force to cause minor cramping.

"You were made for me," he rasps, "Made to take my cock."

His hand slides to your lower abdomen, pushing down with gentle pressure, and… wait, what is that? You can actually feel him inside you, a distinct bulge moving with each thrust, and your brain momentarily abandons pleasure to engage in scientific inquiry. How is that even possible? Isn't that one of those myths perpetuated by romance novels written by people with questionable understanding of female anatomy? Yet here you are, experiencing the impossible, your own body betraying your skepticism.

"Oh my God," you cry out, "I can feel your—I can't— Jungkook, I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he counters, leaning further forward. He pounds into you, driving his hips even faster. "You're doing so fucking good for me. You're perfect. So perfect."

The praise sends you down a delirious spiral. It's embarrassing how effective simple validation can be, how the right words at the right moment can dismantle any fears you had.

Jungkook's rhythm falters momentarily, before he suddenly stills, cock pulsing inside you with a distinct throb, your walls gripping him with contractions. “Get up," he rasps.

You blink up at him with the unfocused bewilderment of someone who's forgotten how limbs work, body vibrating.

But then his hands are under your thighs, guiding your legs down. He helps you upright, being as careful and soothing as possible. As soon as you’re vertical, back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed, he grabs your face with urgency and kisses you — not the polite, exploratory kiss of early dating, but the kind that has already memorized the topography of your mouth.

His tongue slides in with confidence, and you respond with some sound that gets muffled in his mouth, drunk on the cocktail of hormones, endorphins, and the intoxication of tasting yourself on someone else's lips. Jungkook grips your jaw, hand trailing down to play with one of your pebbled nipples.

Without warning or a proper transition period, his other hand executes a perfect southward journey to your ass and delivers a sharp smack that somehow hits the precise intersection of pleasure and startled indignation.

You gasp, body performing an involuntary jump, and he grins against your lips with the smug satisfaction of someone who's just confirmed a long-held hypothesis (which is that you’ve always liked it when he slapped you. Which he knew.)

"Atta girl," he murmurs, "Now turn around."

You comply eagerly, positioning yourself on wobbly knees on the bed and arching your back in what you hope resembles sexy feline grace rather than a person about to cum in under five seconds. Your hands clutch the sheets with a desperate grip.

Behind you, the mattress creaks with his movement, his hands beginning a leisurely expedition up your back, wandering against your spine. He leans in, his breath cool on your overheated skin, and begins planting kisses down your spine. Each contact of his lips sends tiny electrical currents branching outward, tongue occasionally making guest appearances.

"You're unreal," Jungkook whispers, his voice carrying the raspy quality of genuine awe. "Every inch of you."

And then his hands find your hips with purposeful intent, pulling you backward, and you already know.

You already know you're not ready; not in the sense of being unwilling, but in the way that your body is still recovering from the previous position and probably needs another moment. Normally, under other circumstances, you might’ve stopped whoever, but because it’s him and somehow it feels like it’s been too long, you whimper in excitement.

He taps his cock against your slit a few time, collecting the arousal, and that elicits another wanton moan from you. He slides back in easily, and the sensation of fullness is immediately overwhelming, spine curving in automatic response like you're trying to make space for him inside your body. Your forehead drops to the mattress as a cry escapes your throat, “O-oh fuck, Jungkook!”

"Fuuuck," he groans behind you. His hips connect with your backside forcefully, and repeatedly. "This pussy's fucking perfect. God, I’m going to fuck y-you everyday."

Your entire form jolts with each impact, hands clutching the sheets. Your sensory awareness has narrowed to a hyper-focused inventory of feeling: every inch of him, each purposeful grind of his hips, the smell of his leftover aftershave still on your body, the sound of skin slapping echoing throughout the room. “F-Fuck me like I’m yours.”

That pretty much sends him on a rampage.

His hands press flat between your shoulder blades, effectively pinning you as he speeds his tempo.

"You like this?" he pants against your ear, breath hot against your neck as he leans over you. "Being bent over, dripping all over my cock?"

Your moan comes out high-pitched, needy, and completely stripped of dignity.

"Yes," you whisper, "Yes, Jungkook — fuck, it's so good. You feel so good—"

"That's right," he groans, emphasizing his point with even more forceful thrusts. "Say my name. Let me hear who's fucking you like this."

You obligingly repeat it, volume increasing with each iteration, “Jungkook—Jungkook—"

With absolute certainty, you realize your impending orgasm has become less a question of "if" and more a matter of "how explosively.”

His hand leaves your back. And suddenly, he’s reaching around your front, fingers slick with his own saliva (you think) as they find your clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles that make your whole body seize up.

“J-Jungkook— oh my god —” you choke out.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he begs against your ear, his weight looming on you. “Gonna fall apart on my cock like the filthy little thing you are?”

And yes, of course you are — your body is already approaching the cliff edge — but your brain knew that while your whole being simultaneously sends a very clear memo: We are absolutely fine with this particular brand of objectification at this specific moment, thank you very much.

You attempt to formulate a verbal response, but your vernacular has apparently gone on strike, only a stuttering noise that emerges from you. “Y-yes. Please make me cum, oooh.”

His fingers speed up, merciless on your clit, and his other hand tangles in your hair and pulls. Spine arching, head yanked back until you’re forced to look up, eyes wide and glassy.

"Fuck, fuck," you practically sob, his fingers entangled so deep in your scalp as he gathers his own makeshift ponytail. "I can't—I oh my god—"

"Yeah?" Jungkook hisses, lips brushing your cheek with unexpected tenderness given what's happening elsewhere. "That cockdrunk already?"

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna fucking cum again, I—ahh, fuck," you babble with the coherence of someone experiencing a minor stroke, words slurring together, "Jungkook, please—"

"That's it," he bites his lip roughly, nearly drawing blood, his thrusts increasing in both frequency and force. Every circle of his fingers winds the tension tighter in your core. "Say my name while you lose your fucking mind on my cock."

Your mouth drops open in a perfect O, the pressure building in your stomach. Through it all, he remains the constant; grinding into you, fingers maintaining their devastating rhythm on your clit, hand still firmly grasping your hair.

God, you’re right there, so close you can almost…

Jungkook suddenly withdraws completely, creating a void so unexpected your body responds with a sob that comes from somewhere deeper than conscious thought, your entire body trembling and slick and utterly wrecked.

But before you can think again, he's gripping your waist, flipping you over onto your back, your body responding with the cooperative limpness of a rag doll. Thighs still unfortunately shaking from everything he’s done to you. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s back between your legs, spreading them wide, staring down at the soaked mess between you two.

“Need to see you,” he pants, pupils blown wide. “Need to watch you cum.”

He's kissing you again, less a romantic gesture and more like someone attempting to consume you through your mouth. Tongue hot and demanding, lips slick with everything you’ve given him. It’s messy, desperate, teeth clashing, breaths swallowed. Your hands claw at his back, his hair, needing something to hold onto as he thrusts back into you.

You cry out into his mouth, sound mangled, your head spinning as he fucks you hard from above. His chain swings again with every thrust, cold metal smacking into your bouncing breasts.

Jungkook’s tattooed hand comes up to your throat, wrapping his fingers around the skin, enough to remind you who’s in control.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, and what you find there makes your internal organs perform cartwheels. Possession, worship, and hunger, as if he's been starving for years and you're the first real thing he’s had.

"You're gonna cum for me like this," he whines. His hand maintains its position at your throat, his chain now swinging with abandon, occasionally delivering metallic kisses to your chest. Hands are firmly placed on your hips, your legs flailing with each thrust. "Right here, while I'm inside you."

Your clit throbs at his words with almost painful insistence while your walls contract around his cock, your body apparently making decisions without consulting your brain first.

"Jungkook, right there," you mewl, hand gripping his shoulder tightly, "I can't—I'm gonna—I'm—"

"That's it," he grunts, reclaiming your mouth in a kiss that effectively silences whatever embarrassing sounds were about to escape. “Cum for me, baby."

And you do.

Your orgasm doesn’t just hit — it erupts. It detonates from deep inside you, hot and electric, tearing through your entire body like a lightning strike. Your back arches off the mattress, thighs snapping around Jungkook’s waist as your cunt clamps down on him, squeezing so tight it rips a guttural noise from his throat.

You’re sobbing something that might be his name, might be a prayer, might just be air torn from your lungs.

The world performs an impressive disappearing act. Your vision whites out. You're gone, temporarily relocated to some dimension where only he exists. Every muscle in your body spasms and shakes. It's raw and messy and completely unhinged.

Jungkook feels every microsecond of your unraveling. Each pulse. Each ripple of your body's meltdown beneath him.

"Fuck—" he groans, hips stuttering as your walls flutter around him. His grip intensifies — at your throat, your hip, anywhere he can establish anchor points — his self-control visibly deteriorating with each passing second. "Jesus Christ, you're— fuck, you're squeezing me so hard — baby, I'm not gonna—"

He’s panting now, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple as he tries not to lose it. This whole time you've been running from him, pretending not to notice what's been right in front of you; his almost painful beauty, the devastating architecture of his features, the way his eyes contain entire universes. (Okay, fine, you noticed. Sometimes. Often. Constantly. But admitting it then would have meant admitting other things you weren't ready for.)

"Look at you," he manages, the words coming out with obvious effort as he watches you completely disintegrate beneath him. "You're so goddamn beautiful when you cum."

"Shit," he gasps, "you're gonna make me—fuck, baby, I'm gonna—"

And still, he doesn’t stop praising you, even as his self-control cracks beneath the weight of your body convulsing around his cock.

“So tight. So wet. You’re perfect,” he growls, each compliment landing like a physical touch. “Made for me. My perfect girl.”

Even as his composure fractures atop the weight of your body, he continues his litany of praise. He's trembling above you now, jaw tightly clenched, every muscle locked as he continues moving through your climax, pursuing his own with increasingly desperate determination.

"Jungkook, fuck, I can't—" you sob, the overstimulation too much for you to even breathe, let alone think.

With one final, decisive thrust, he finishes, harder than he ever has in his natural life.

A sound escapes him, raw and primal and startlingly vulnerable. His head drops to your shoulder, hips moving with an erratic rhythm. His body pulses inside yours, hot ropes of cum painting your walls, your toes curling.

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuck—" he whimpers, hips making two more valiant efforts as he empties himself completely. "So good my girl, so fucking good—I can't, shit—"

This moment of complete abandon is when you finally let yourself see him. Not Calvin Klein's global ambassador. Not South Korea's beloved idol. Not the carefully constructed public image or even the man who you cared less about in those first meetings. Just Jungkook, beautiful when his own walls are down.

You spent so long running from this, from him, pretending not to notice how the light catches his features at certain angles, how his eyes tell stories when he looks at you, how the slope of his nose looks like somewhere butterflies land.

Now, watching him come undone because of you, inside you, the realization lands with catastrophic clearness: he was always yours to have. Completely, irrevocably yours in a way that both terrifies and exhilarates you.

His whole body trembles with aftershocks, chest heaving as he presses impossibly deeper, seeking maximum contact. Jungkook’s hand migrates from your throat to your waist, fingers grasping the warm skin.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from sadness or even overwhelm, but from some emotion too big for your body to contain. Your legs try to remain wrapped around him, but your muscles give out entirely. Your whole body has gone pleasantly boneless, nerves humming, heart performing a drum solo against your ribs.

He pants against your collarbone, his chain now a cool, slightly sticky presence trapped between your overheated bodies, lips brushing your jaw with tenderness.

"I didn't mean — fuck — I didn't mean to cum that hard," he murmurs, voice sandpaper-rough.

You manage a sound that's adjacent to laughter, breathless and slightly broken, your lips struggling to form actual words through the haze of endorphins. "It’s okay."

He allows his weight to settle near you, forehead resting against your shoulder, still intimately connected.

Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you really want to.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You don't know how long it's been since the world stopped spinning on its axis, time having apparently become an optional concept rather than a reliable constant.

The sheets beneath you are warm, air carrying a complex bouquet — skin and breath and something that exists in the undefined territory between forgiveness and desire. Your legs remain stubbornly intertwined with his own, as if your body is staging its own rebellion against separation, operating on some fear that distance equals disappearance.

Jungkook has maintained silence. You've been equally restrained in your contributions to the non-conversation.

But his hand continues its cartography against your skin. Slow, featherlight circles mapped across your back. Periodically, his lips find your hairline, the gesture so natural it seems less of a conscious choice, but instead an involuntary reflex.

Your head occupies the territory of his shoulder, lips occasionally brushing his collarbone in what could be kisses or simply the accident of proximity. Beneath your ear, his chest rises and falls, his heartbeat a steady percussion under your palm.

You allow your gaze to travel upward.

You look at Jungkook in his unfiltered state — eyes heavy-lidded with satisfied exhaustion, torso bare of everything except his tattoo sleeve, the silver chain and a thin sheen of cooling sweat that catches what little light seeps in from the hallway. A faint crimson mark decorates his jaw where you clearly got too excited. He looks beautifully dismantled.

"I want to make this work."

He blinks. Then freezes in place like someone who's just spotted a rare and potentially skittish creature.

You register when he stops his movement against your back, feel the subtle hitch in his respiratory rhythm before it recalibrates to steadiness. But what matters more is what doesn't happen. He doesn't retreat. Doesn't deflect with humor. Doesn't repackage vulnerability into something more manageable.

Instead, he turns his head to look at you with an expression of wonder, gaze soft around the edges, mouth slightly parted as if he's afraid that acknowledging what you've said might cause you to take it back.

"I don't know how. I'm not... I don't want to be your girlfriend yet. I know I'm not ready for that," you admit, the confession emerging with all the tentative vulnerability of someone stepping onto ice they're not convinced will hold. "But I want to try to get there with you."

You don't explicitly mention fear, don't need to catalog the specific anxieties currently living in your chest. It's encoded in every accelerated heartbeat, every microexpression, every subtle tension in the muscles that have spent years building barriers around your emotions.

You're not hiding behind power dynamics or professional distance or the fortress of pride you've constructed brick by brick. You're just here. In his bed. Body curved around his like a physical manifestation of the promise your words have just placed in the air between you.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, a sound that is the audio equivalent of relief wearing joy's clothing, and presses his forehead to your scalp.

"Then let's try," he murmurs.

The silence expands between you, but it isn't awkward at all.

You adjust your position slightly, one leg claiming territory around his waist. His skin radiates warmth against yours, offering a security that feels foreign but essential. Yet your throat constricts anyway.

"Well," you sigh, "I don't know how to be with you, to be honest."

His eyes move to yours. As always, he doesn't attempt solutions. He listens with the rare patience of someone who understands that witnessing is sometimes more valuable than fixing.

You lick your lips and continue, "I don't know how to be someone who texts good morning. Or someone who talks about their feelings over dinner. Or someone who... who knows how to let another person in without feeling like I'm losing something in return."

The admission costs you something — you can feel it leaving your body, years of self-protection dismantling in real time. For a woman who's built her career on knowing exactly what to say and how to say it, this raw honesty feels like jumping off a bridge with no harness.

He remains silent. But his gaze holds yours with steady assurance, eyes dark and patient in the dim light like he's prepared to wait as long as necessary for whatever comes next.

You hesitate, but then add ,"Is that okay?"

The question hangs between you two. About whether someone like him, who seems to navigate genuine connection with the ease of breathing, could possibly want someone like you, for whom emotional transparency feels like a foreign language.

For what seems like ages, he doesn't answer.

Then he lifts a hand to your hair, brushing it back from your face with a sweetness that makes your chest ache in places you didn't know could feel.

"Yeah," he affirms, "That's okay."

Two words. Simple. Direct. And somehow containing the most profound acceptance you've ever been offered.

"I don't need you to be perfect," he continues, "I don't need you to turn into someone else just to be with me. Honestly, i would hate that.”

His thumb traces your jawline, eyes maintaining their focus on yours steadily. “I just need you to try."

You blink back the tears threatening to compromise your maintained image as someone who doesn't cry over boys or sad movies or particularly moving commercials featuring rescue animals.

"That's the problem," you confess, "I don't know how to try without trying to win or turning everything into something to conquer."

"I know," he says with the certainty of someone stating that water is wet. "You're the most guarded person I've ever met."

You narrow your eyes with mock indignation. "You're terrible at comforting people."

Which… is a lie so transparent it wouldn't fool a toddler. The man clearly possesses emotional intelligence bordering on supernatural — he somehow got you, corporate warrior queen and professional feelings-avoider, to actually visit your family after a year of strategic absence. If that's not evidence of psychological wizardry, nothing is.

He smiles genuinely, "You didn't come all the way here because I'm good at comforting people."

Your lips twitch traitorously, the beginnings of a smile staging a coup. Jungkook leans closer, "You don't have to know how to be with me right now. You just have to stay."

You press your face into the sanctuary of his skin, inhaling his scent. “You're not afraid?" you ask.

"Terrified," he replies without even a millisecond's hesitation. "But I'd rather be afraid with you than safe without you."

The line would sound rehearsed coming from anyone else, but his voice carries this authenticity of someone speaking their unfiltered truth. He looks at you like you're the answer to questions he didn't even know he was asking, like someone who's found their favorite person in a world of seven billion options and is amazed by his good fortune.

You don't respond verbally. You don't need to.

Because your arms remain wrapped around him, your body more honest than your words have ever managed to be. And you haven't let go or run away yet — a physical declaration more powerful than any verbal agreement.

The soft moment only lasts so long, however , because he's a man and therefore incapable of sustaining emotional vulnerability beyond the FDA-recommended dosage, his chest rumbles with that low frequency that signals a subject change is imminent.

"So," he says, "wanna hop in the shower with me?"

The question carries all the subtlety of a neon sign, but you find yourself smiling anyway — partly because it's such a perfectly timed relief for the emotional pressure that's been building, and partly because even this transparent attempt at distraction is infused with affection. His eyes still look at you like you've personally hung the moon and stars, even while proposing something as mundane as shared hygiene.

You blink for a moment. Then lift your head just enough to give him a look that questions both his sanity and possibly basic human biology. “You're joking."

He returns your gaze with an expression balanced perfectly between amusement and innocence. "Why would I be joking?"

"Because it's physically impossible that you still have anything left," you retort ,eyebrows climbing toward your forehead in a silent judgment of his audacity.

He just shrugs, "I hydrate. I stretch. I take care of myself."

You drop your head back onto his chest with a groan that contains multitudes; exhaustion, disbelief, and a reluctant hint of admiration. "Oh my god."

He grins, entirely unbothered by your exasperation, fingers tracing a path down your side. "You're the one who came crawling back to me, remember?"

You lift your head again, fixing him with a glare that would wither lesser men. "Crawling is a strong word."

He arches a single eyebrow. "You showed up at my house with a crumpled contract and a face that said please, take me back my lover."

You have the simultaneous desire to slap him, kiss him senseless, and then perhaps slap him once more for good measure. But you opt for your mouth opening, then closing again, resembling an indignant goldfish as your brain frantically searches for a comeback and finds the cupboard disappointingly bare.

"Yeah," he smirks, "that's what I thought."

You grab the nearest pillow and smack him squarely in the face with it — the universal last resort of those who have lost the argument but refuse to concede defeat.

He laughs as he effortlessly confiscates your improvised weapon and tosses it aside. With fluid coordination, he tugs you back toward him, arms locking around your waist.

"I'm serious," he murmurs,"Shower with me."

His expression might be teasing, but his eyes tell a different story, one where this request is about far more than shared hygiene. They look at you with the softness reserved for someone who still can't quite believe you're actually here, in his bed, in his arms, agreeing to try.

You pull back just enough to examine him properly, the way his smile goes slightly lopsided when genuine, how his eyes crinkle at the corners when they're not performing for a lens. And underneath all of that visible surface-level perfection: relief. Quiet, unmistakable relief that you're actually here, that this isn't another near miss in your shared history of almosts.

You trace a thumb along his jawline, "If I go in there with you, you're not allowed to make a single comment about your 'stamina.'"

He presses a kiss to your wrist. "Fine."

"Or your flexibility."

"Okay."

"Or how good your skin looks wet."

He snorts with amusement. "You do like it though."

You deliver one final shove to his shoulder, the gesture containing all the force of a gentle breeze as he begins to sit up. His arms are already reaching for you again, the blanket abandoning its post as he pulls you back into him. A laugh escapes your throat before you can intercept it, muffled against the skin that's become more familiar to you than anything.

This unexpected development is precisely what you never permitted yourself to envision. What your risk assessments classified as statistically improbable.

But here it is. Materializing in this moment. Occupying this bed with the certainty of something that's always been inevitable.

You look at him again, and he returns your gaze.

Perhaps love isn't orchestrated declarations or cinematic gestures performed with optimal lighting.

Perhaps it's this.

The quietly profound silence that says despite all logical arguments to the contrary, you stayed.

And the next few days unfold with that same magic of moments you weren't supposed to have; soft, unanticipated.

You extend your return flight as if you’re postponing a dentist appointment. Once. Then again and again. Until the concept of departure transforms from definitive plan to vague hypothetical.

Your hotel sends increasingly concerned emails about your room you haven't seen and don’t plan to. Your suitcase maintains its position in the corner of Jungkook's bedroom, untouched and increasingly irrelevant.

Now? You essentially live here.

At least, that's the only conclusion based on available evidence.

Your limbs are entangled with his at all times; on his comfortable couch, in his ridiculously large bed, half-conscious on the floor in front of his massive TV. Your hairbrush has made good friends with his bathroom drawer. There's a bottle of your overpriced moisturizer holding territory on his nightstand. His kitchen now carries the scent of your morning coffee, and he never allows you to prepare it without supervision.

"Let me do it," he insists, "You'll make it too strong."

"You're weak," you counter, "Own it."

But he just shrugs with nonchalance, delivers a kiss to your cheekbone, and activates the kettle anyway.

Daniel, from across the world, hasn't made contact. He doesn't need to. Your discretion levels are currently hovering around zero.

You sent him a single text, a masterpiece of vagueness claiming you're "taken care of." His response consisted of three laughing emojis and a GIF depicting a calendar engulfed in flames. You chose not to follow up on that particular conversation thread.

No other member of the team has demonstrated the courage needed to disturb your unauthorized sabbatical.

For perhaps the first time in your adult life, you experience zero guilt about any of it.

For once, your life isn't structured around the strategy decks at dawn and press releases at midnight. You're eating toast over Jungkook's kitchen sink, while behind you, he performs a lip sync routine using a wooden spoon as his microphone. You're curled up on his couch wearing one of his shirts (which naturally, fits you like a dress), your laptop exiled to the coffee table. His head rests in your lap while he tells you tales from his trainee days that simultaneously explain his discipline and make you wonder how anyone survives the k-pop industry with their sanity intact.

You find yourself watching him smile, the authentic ones that transforms his entire face and makes something in your chest bloom. Somewhere between months ago and this moment, your brain recategorized him, filing him under "person I might actually miss" rather than "professional chaos requiring PR aide."

Each night, you fall asleep in his bed with windows slightly ajar, Seoul's night air drifting in, his arm draped across your waist.

Some days you wake to find him already conscious, just... looking at you, blinking as if he’s conducting reality checks.

"You okay?" you whisper during one such morning surveillance, voice still rough with sleep.

He nods. Smiles that stupid bunny smile that makes you all fuzzy. “Just making sure you're real."

You don't try to respond. Kiss him instead.

You don't know what comes next in this unscripted thing you've stumbled into. Your professional life has always operated according to meticulous planning but there's no PowerPoint template for whatever this is. No key performance indicators to measure the success of accidentally falling for the person you were supposed to keep at a professional distance.

Finally though, when reality does come crashing down, when the email confirmation materializes in your inbox, it feels like some alternate version of yourself made these arrangements. Some corporate doppelgänger who still prioritizes quarterly projections over the way Jungkook's voice sounds when he's half-asleep.

Your return to New York.

A city that once represented the pinnacle of your ambitions, now reduced to a collection of skyscrapers and deadlines.

You stare at the itinerary, thumb hovering over the screen. The return remains theoretical until you forward it to your assistant.

Subject line: returning next week. please keep calendar clear until I land.

What your assistant doesn't know… is that this departure comes with a loophole.

Not so much an ending as a comma in a sentence still being written.

There's another ticket purchased with the stealth of a spy. Under Jungkook's legal name. Scheduled for precisely seventy-two hours after yours — a buffer zone necessary for him to navigate the bureaucracy that runs his existence. A whispered promise that he'll follow once HYBE's legal department, publicity team, and some other people sign off on the logistical nightmare that is "globally famous person attempts to ‘try things’ with c-suite member of said person’s latest marketing campaign.”

There will be tabloid landmines to sidestep. Calendar schedules to master. Seemingly trivial concerns that will eventually mean something, like calculating time differences before sending texts, ensuring you’ve made space for his skincare in your New York apartment, and perfecting the art of arriving at the same location via different entrances.

“Trying to make it work” with an international popstar, it turns out, requires the same level of strategic planning as a corporate merger.

Right now, though, you're standing in the doorway of Jungkook's apartment, performing the world's most reluctant exit. Your suitcase waits by your feet, coat draped over your arm, heart lodged so firmly in your throat. The car service downstairs is undoubtedly charging by the minute while the driver wonders what drama is delaying your descent.

Jungkook’s standing before you, barefoot and hoodie carelessly thrown on, eyes carrying sleepiness. Beneath that morning haze, he's unmistakably present. Awake in the way that silently pleads don't leave without saying what we both know is true.

You haven't told him yet. The words you've been rehearsing in your head.

The truth you've been aware of for days while pretending otherwise.

His voicemail still plays on repeat, the one you finally had the courage to hear on that Manhattan rooftop, glass abandoned as his voice crackled through your phone speaker.

"I think I'm in love with you."

He never demanded reciprocation. Never presented it as a transaction. And now you're stuck thinking about your mother's favorite lecture, delivered with the exasperation reserved for a child too smart for her own good. "Don't lie if you can't carry it."

As your fingers make contact with the cold metal of the door handle, you pause. Turn to him.

Your eyes connect with Jungkook’s — they’re always wide with anticipation, patiently waiting, hopeful in that quiet, unassuming way he hopes for things. Your mouth opens, words still stubbornly refusing to leave.

Finally, with the triumphant relief of someone who's been holding their breath underwater, you manage to speak.

"I.. I-I think I'm starting to fall in love with you too."

He blinks at you. Like perhaps his sleep-deprived brain has misinterpreted that. Like maybe this is some elaborate dream his subconscious has constructed to torture him.

But then there’s that slow, sunrise smile that spreads across his entire face. That small, stunned shake of his head. His eyes soften, and he steps forward, reaching for your hand like it's the only anchor in a storm.

He presses his lips to your knuckles — a gentleman's compromise, the only part of you he apparently trusts himself to touch without dragging you back to bed.

"I'll see you in New York," he mutters.

In some way, those words say exactly what you know they mean. You nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat, forming a smile that doesn't look like you're about to cry.

The distance between Seoul and New York has never seemed so vast and so insignificant.

And when you walk out the door, heart thundering, you slide into the backseat of the car. Not any less yourself, not someone’s girlfriend, but with the promise of something new. Hands are still buzzing, gaze lingering on the city you used to avoid calling home.

As the driver pulls away from the curb, you feel your phone buzz once in your lap.

Eomma.

You blink at your phone.

Without hesitation, without fear, without guilt, you answer the call.

“Hi, Eomma,” you say, smiling softly. “I’ve missed you! Sorry I didn’t call since last week, I was crazy busy. But I do have a story for you.”

Everything in your chest feels entirely new.

Because at this point in time, you’re not running from something.

You’re walking toward it.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

note ; if you’re reading this — welcome! you survived the end of the price of desire, and i love you for it. thank you for reading.

now to show my love and affection… i’ll be doing 3-4 epilogue drabbles/blurbs based off your guys’ requests (bc it’s no fun if im just doing whatever i please, duhh!!) send in some ideas (smut, fluff, even some angst) of what you would want to see as epilogue blurbs and i’ll choose the ones that inspire me :-)

click here to send them in!

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @uarmygguk @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97 @jksusawife @rkivesarchive @hyunjinswifetingzz @bjoriis @nan4rf @parkinglot-nights @travelgurrl @softhaes @bexxs @magicalnachocreator @wisebouquetbarbarian @futuristicenemychaos @jadestonedaeho7

[bloatedandalone04]

Bad Idea, Right?

Summary: You and Jake are broken up, so he has no business sending you dirty texts while you’re out with your friends, yet that doesn’t stop you from giving in every single time.

Word Count: 4.1k | THANK YOU FOR 5.8K FOLLOWERS

Warnings: smut, fluff, unprotected sex, rough sex, fingering, spanking, dirty talk, swearing, just overall filthiness, exes hooking up, exes to lovers if you want to know what happens in their future, possessive jake, mentions of a bad break up.

“You’re going? Seriously?” your best friend since high school, Steph, asked once she saw you trying to discreetly slide your credit card and keys into your purse a few minutes after you checked a text on your phone and scoffed. 

You looked over at her with a soft glare, because her question had made your other friend give you a look of disbelief as well, when all you wanted to do was make your great and quiet escape. “What? I’m…tired,”

Steph scoffed this time and leaned back in her chair at the small table you managed to score in the back corner of a rather rowdy bar. “Yeah right. You’re such a liar. We just got here, like, half an hour ago,” she muttered and crossed her arms. “You’re not tired. You’re fucking horny.”

You gasped, but you couldn’t deny the truth her words held. “I am not,”

“Then where are you going?” Kayce, your other friend, asked as she too clued in to what was really going on with you, and she didn’t look too happy either. 

Too bad for them, you were allowed to do whatever you wanted. “Why does it matter?”

“Y/n, if you’re even thinking about going over to his place, I swear, I’ll rip my hair out,” Steph groaned and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. 

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Jake fucking Seresin. Or, you know, fucking Jake Seresin,” she reiterated and you felt your face heat up a bit. 

Damn, you thought you were being a little more discreet than that, but clearly not. “So what if I am?” you sighed, giving up on the whole act entirely as you hadn’t been nearly as careful as you should’ve been. They both knew where you were going now, there’s no point in trying to hide it. 

“So what? He’s your ex, Y/n,” Kayce stated, but her tone was much softer than Steph’s was. 

“And he’s a fucking ass,” Steph added, “I don’t know what you saw in him before, and I still don’t know what you see in him now. He’s so full of himself, he’s cocky, arrogant and he fucking smirks at everything. Oh, and he treats you horribly.”

“Okay, that’s not true,” you defended your ex as you sat up straight. And it really wasn’t. Yeah, Jake was all those things she listed, she just missed him being overly confident, but he didn’t treat you badly at all. In fact, he was the best boyfriend you’d ever had, it was just the explosive fight you’d gotten in that ended it all. “He was good to me.”

“He’s trying to get you to come over so he can fuck you,” Steph said, a little too loudly for your liking since a few of the bars patrons had glanced over at the three of you. “He wants to fuck you then he’ll kick you out.”

“He won’t kick me out,” you scoffed, standing up and sliding your purse onto your shoulder. “Jake likes when I sleep in his arms.”

Steph looked like she was about to explode, but you didn’t care. You felt attacked by your friends, and you felt like they were trying to make you feel dumb and like a kid, when you are a grown woman who is capable of making your own decisions. 

You knew what you were getting yourself into. “And maybe we’re friends now. Have you ever thought of that? Exes can be friends,”

Steph raised a brow. “Not exes like you and Jake. You two can never be friends, not after they way you were together,”

She was right about that, but she also didn’t need to know that. 

Kayce looked up at you with a small frown on her lips, and you hated the pity in her eyes. You didn’t need it, and it wasn’t justified at all. “He texts you a lot, Y/n,” she said quietly, “Doesn’t it make you feel cheap?”

You looked down at her for a few seconds before shaking your head. “Cheap? With Jake?” you laughed, “Never.”

-

Jake was sipping on a beer and watching the highlights of the latest game when he heard a knock at his front door. He smirked, because he knew exactly who it was.

It was you, of course, and he knew exactly why you were here. 

Only a mere twenty minutes ago, Jake had sent you two texts, one reading, 

‘I wanna see you, baby. Come over,’

And the other, 

‘I miss your sweet pussy and your pretty mouth,’

Yeah, he was aware of what he was doing, because he knew you’d read them, and he knew you’d come over. Albeit, you’d take your time getting here, but still, you were definitely coming. 

And, you know, hopefully soon Jake would be too.

He set down his beer and abandoned the football game he’d been watching on the TV in the living room, and he wandered out to the front door wearing nothing but his grey sweatpants - the ones he knew drove you crazy, because they showed off the length of his cock through the fabric.

When he swung the door open and saw you in a tight skirt and a crop top, he knew he’d interrupted your girls’ night. That meant you ditched your friends in order to come to his place, and that made Jake’s smirk grow even more. 

“Hey, sweet girl,” he greeted, leaning against the door frame as he looked at your gorgeous face. “I think we’re way past the point of you needing to knock, don’t you?” he teased, and the eye roll you gave him had him grinning. You were so perfect and so fucking stunning, Jake felt like the luckiest fucker in San Diego, because you’re here. And you’re still his. 

A scoff left your lips as you crossed your arms, but the dramatic act wasn’t justified. You’d been out at the bar, attempting to have a decent night with your friends when you got his texts, and like always, any and all rational thoughts left your mind. 

“Not really,” you muttered, shifting on your feet as the cool evening air made chills run through your body. “Why do you insist on texting me filthy things in order to get me over here? Why can’t you just find another girl to fuck and forget about?”

Jake’s eyes were all over your body, the green a shade or two darker as he bit down on his lip. Your skirt was short and hugged your curves in all the right places, showcasing every inch he knew off by heart, and he wanted to pull you into his arms and warm you up properly. “Forget about you? Baby, you know that’s not possible. There isn’t another girl in the world who could ever compare to you,” he said, his voice low as he reached one hand out and rested it on your hip, pulling you closer. “And you’re here, aren’t you? Besides, I don’t want to fuck anyone who’s not you.”

You rolled your eyes again, making Jake grin. 

“Come on, you know I can’t help myself around you,” he mumbled, his deep voice right next to your ear as he brushed a kiss to your cheek. “I hate being away from you, and not knowing what you’re doing out there without me…”

You hummed, moving closer to him. “What do you think I’m doing?” you asked, raising a teasing brow as you slide your fingers up his bare chest before settling your hands on his shoulders. “Are you scared that I’m flirting with other guys? That I’m letting random strangers fuck me in the same bed you used to fuck me in? Are you scared I’ll finally move on from you?”

Your tone was teasing now as well as you leaned up and brushed your lips along his jaw. Jake felt a surge of possessiveness run through him, and a jolt of lust went straight to his cock, which he was sure you could feel against you right now. 

“I don’t scare easily, Y/n,” he muttered, grabbing your hips and pulling you closer as he leaned down to nip at your ear. “Though, the thought of another guy putting his fucking hands on you…touching what’s mine…makes me think I need to leave my mark on you so they don’t even bother trying.”

His big hands slid down to grab your ass, and he squeezed it through the fabric of your leather skirt, making you whine softly.

“You’re not going anywhere, baby. Not when I can feel you trembling for me…not when I know you’re already getting wet for me,” he added, and you moaned loudly at his words. 

“Relax, baby,” you cooed, “No guy has even come close, because I know I’ll just be disappointed. They’re not you. You’re the only one who can make me cum.”

A deep groan left Jake’s lips as you practically melted against him, your words laced with seduction and promise. He had you wrapped around his finger, and he was wrapped around yours as well. 

“That’s right, sweet girl,” he murmured, shamelessly letting his gaze trail up and down your body. “These pretty tits, that sweet pussy…your stunning fucking body. All mine. Always has been, and always will be.” 

His hands slid further down until he was gripping the backs of your thighs, then he was lifting you up into his arms and kicking the door shut behind him as he carried you towards his bedroom. 

He’d made this exact route countless times now, always with you, and only with you since the night you met. It felt familiar, normal, and natural, like he would always only be carrying you to his room so he could fuck the living shit out of you. 

“I think it’s about time I remind you of that fact, don’t you?” Jake asked, but it didn’t really sound like a genuine question. He tossed you onto his bed, the sight of you being nearly swallowed by the king-sized mattress one he fantasises about every time he goes to sleep. “You think you can tease me by talking about other guys, hm? When we both know that you’re never gonna let anyone else touch you like this.” 

Jake’s hands slid up and down your calves before tugging off your boots and letting them hit the floor with a soft thud. Next were your stockings, which he just flat out ripped off you instead of trying to pull them all the way down, and the glare you gave him had a smug smirk forming on his lips as he tossed the destroyed fabric aside. 

“Think I need to ruin you for everyone else. Fuck you so hard, you won’t bring up another guy ever again,” he hummed, crawling up your body. It wasn’t necessary, because Jake knew you hadn’t been with anyone else since him, like he hadn’t been with anyone else since you, but it was part of the game you and he had been playing recently. Riling each other up until the other breaks, then doing it all over again within a few days. 

Jake knew he still wanted you, he wanted to fucking marry you, for fucks sake, but your break up had been an explosive one, and if you still needed a little more time to yourself before getting back on track with him, that was fine. He could do that one hundred percent, as long as it meant he got you back in the end. 

You were leaning back on his pillow, your legs parting as he settled between them, and you already looked so fucked out and needy for him. It was such a pretty sight. Jake’s eyes were dark as he gazed down at your dishevelled form, his arms at either side of your head as he held himself up above you. 

“Jake,” you groaned, sliding your hands along his abs before you reached up and grabbed his shoulders, pulling his body down onto yours as you buried your face in his neck. You placed soft kisses along his skin, breathing him in as if you were as gone for him as he is for you. “God, you’re so fucking hot…I love getting you all riled up like this.” 

Jake was so hard for you, and your touches only made him harder, almost painfully so. “You love it, huh? You just love pushing me until I fuck you so hard, you can barely walk the next day,” he muttered, leaning in and kissing all along your neck and jaw as he ground his hips against yours over and over again until he couldn’t hold back any longer. He sat back on his knees, tugging your shirt over your head as he did so, and tossing it aside. His gaze immediately went to your chest, his cock twitching with need as he bit down on his lip. “Fuck, these tits…”

You laughed quietly, and Jake knew how he looked, drooling over you as if he hadn’t been with you for nearly three years before the break up. “You love them, don’t you?” you teased, reaching for his wrists and guiding his big hands to your chest. “Touch me, Jake…”

Jake groaned, squeezing your soft mounds as he looked down at you. “Oh, I more than love them, baby. I’m fucking obsessed with them,” he said as his thumbs circled your hardened nipples before he leaned down and took one between his lips, sucking greedily as he continued to tease your other one. “They’re mine. This whole fucking body is mine.”

“Mmm, for now,” you purred, giving him an innocent look as you writhed under him and he glared at you. But he didn’t let himself get too worked up at your words, since there was no for now with you, there was only forever. 

After he worshipped your chest with his mouth for a bit, Jake pulled back and admired the red peaks that were straining against the cool air of his bedroom. You were whimpering for him and looking up at him with needy eyes, Jake had never seen a hotter sight in his life. 

He gripped your hips and flipped you over, pulling your skirt down and off your body, leaving you in just your soaked panites. “Look at how perfect you are,” he murmured under his breath, his hand smoothing along the curve of your ass before he delivered a sharp smack to one side of it. “You’re such a good girl, presenting yourself so nicely for me.”

You whined as Jake hooked his fingers in the thin fabric of your panties and dragged them down your legs impossibly slow, exposing your wet core to the cool air. “Jake,” you mumbled as you propped yourself up on your knees and elbows, your fingers bunching up his sheets as you wiggled back against him and left a damp spot on the front of his sweats. 

Jake reached down and palmed himself through the fabric, his cock begging for attention as he looked down at the pink handprint that was forming on your skin. “Fuck, look at you. So desperate for my cock already. Bet this needy little pussy is clenching around nothing, isn’t it?” he mocked, gripping your hips as he ground his clothed erection against your slick folds, not caring at all about the mess he was making on the grey fabric. You were moaning loudly now, his dirty mouth never failing to turn you on, and he knew that. 

He rolled his hips a few more times before delivering another swift slap to your opposite cheek before he soothed the sting with his palm, his cock twitching more at the desperate sounds you were making for him. 

His fingers delved between your thighs and collected your arousal, the wetness making his head spin in the best way, before bringing it to your lips. “Taste yourself, baby,”

You obliged quickly, turning your head and capturing his fingers between your lips. “Mm,” you moaned, licking and sucking at his fingers until they were clean of you and left coated in your spit. “So good…” you hummed as you pushed yourself back against him again, the dark spot on his sweats only growing in size the longer he kept them on. 

“You’re so fucking dirty,” Jake grunted, pulling his fingers free from your mouth. “Getting off on your own taste.”

Then he licked his fingers, keeping eye contact with you as his free hand palmed your reddening ass. “You love it,” you mumbled, and Jake grinned as he pulled his fingers out of his mouth. 

“Yeah, I do,” he agreed, grabbing your thighs as he pulled you back onto his lap, your slickness dragging along his damn near painful erection. His sweatpants were messy now as he gently bounced you on his lap, leaning over you to place kisses all along your shoulders, and then he was guiding you to lay down on your back once more as he pushed down and kicked off his sweats. “Spread those legs for me, Y/n. Let me see that pretty pussy.”

When you did as you were told, Jake settled between your thighs once more, his cock rubbing along your soaked folds. “Jake,” you whined. “I need you. Fuck me already. Please?” 

“I will, sweet girl,” he laughed deeply, reaching down to circle your clit with his fingers. Then he was pushing forward and sinking inside your core, the wet warmth making him groan as he braced himself above you. “Fuck, you’re so tight. Missed this perfect pussy so much, baby.” he grunted, leaning down to kiss you as he began to fuck you with long, deep thrusts. 

You moaned loudly, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist as you kissed him back. Your hands ran up and down his arms before pushing against his lower back, encouraging him to absolutely wreck you as your mouths pressed messily together. “God, yes. Fuck me, Jake,” 

Jake groaned into the kiss, one hand tangling in your hair and pulling your head back a bit while his other gripped your hip tightly. “You were made for me, baby,” he murmured against your lips as picked up the pace a bit, breaking the kiss as he looked down at where you were connected. The sight of his glistening cock disappearing inside you had him thrusting a bit harder, his grip on you tightening even more. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”

He hooked his elbows under your knees, shifting your position on the bed and giving him a better angle to your sweet spot, and the way you practically squealed had him fucking into you a bit faster. “Jake, oh fuck,” you moaned as you ran your hands along his abs, feeling the way he flexed under your touch. “Harder…harder…” 

Jake grunted as he complied, hitting every spot deep inside you until he felt your tight walls start to flutter and clench around him. “Not yet, baby,” he rasped, not wanting this to end too soon. He was desperate for you now more than ever, because every second with you was next to precious at the moment. “Hold on just a little longer, sweet girl.”

But you were whining in protest, shaking your head as you buried your face in his neck. “Jake,” you whimpered, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist. Then you pulled back and looked up at him, and your gaze softened a bit as you nodded. “Okay…okay, just go slower then, okay?” you asked so sweetly, your bratty persona from earlier gone as you leaned up and pressed kisses along his jaw. 

Jake’s hands loosened their grip on you, and instead he wrapped his arms around you and cradled you against him, slowing his thrusts significantly. “Mm, there’s my good girl,” he praised, peppering gentle kisses along your neck and collarbone. “I wanna take my time with you…love you in the way you deserve.”

He knew his words were perhaps a little more intimate than they should be during a hookup, but Jake would never consider you that. Just a quick, easy fuck. He’d never think so low of you when he was so in love with you still. 

His big hands caressed your body, touching all the places he knew off by heart, and he reveled in the soft moans you let out when he gently pinched and rolled your nipples between his fingers. 

Jake leaned down and kissed you as you tangled your fingers in his hair, his hips slowly rolling against yours in unhurried thrusts. His own hands slid around you and down your body until they reached your ass, and he gripped you tightly as he lifted you up a bit to meet his deep strokes. “You feel so good, baby,” he mumbled against your mouth before fully breaking the kiss to look down at you. 

You tugged on his hair, hiking your legs up higher around his waist as you arched your back. “So do you,” you replied, tipping your head back on his pillow as he increased the pace again by just a little. “So fucking good, Jake.”

He groaned, burying his face in your neck as he fucked into you, his sounds muffled against your skin. “Fucking hell, Y/n,” he moaned, “You drive me crazy, sweet girl. I’ve missed this so much…missed you so much.” 

Jake leaned down and captured one of your nipples in his mouth, grazing it gently with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue. 

You tugged a little harder on his hair before pushing on his shoulders, and for a fleeting moment Jake thought he might have gone too far with his words (not that he had much control over them anyway), but then you settled on his lap when he sat back on his knees, and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. 

“Oh, my God,” you gasped, your breasts brushing against his chest as you began to ride him. “Fuck…fuck.”

Jake’s hands grabbed your hips, holding onto you tightly as he helped guide you into a steady rhythm. “That’s it, baby. Ride me just like that,” he praised, dipping his head down to press kisses along the tops of your breasts. 

Your moans were becoming a little more desperate now as you bounced on his lap, your knees digging into the mattress on either side of his hips, and the look in your eyes told Jake all he needed to know. 

Maybe you didn’t mean for it to be there, but he could see the love, adoration and longing in your gaze, but he didn’t say anything about it. Just seeing it was all he needed to know that he’d be with you again properly someday. 

“Jake,” you whispered, running your hands along his slightly sweaty shoulders as you moved on top of him, squeezing him so good, Jake had to bury his face against the side of your neck. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Me too. Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum so hard,” he groaned, thrusting up into you as he gripped your hip tightly and pulled your chest right up against his, using his free hand to apply pressure to your stomach. “C’mon, baby, give it to me.”

You whimpered and bucked your hips a few more times before you were shaking on his lap, your hands pulling at his hair as you came with a soft cry, and it was still the prettiest sound Jake had ever heard. 

He grunted, and a few seconds later, he came too, filling you up as you became limp in his arms. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears, his chest heaving as he pressed a kiss to your forehead and moved to lay down so you were cuddled against his chest. “I love you,” he mumbled, the words all too familiar as he usually said them every single time you and he had sex, as well as every day before the breakup. 

You groaned, shaking your head as you leaned up to press a firm kiss to his lips, then a few more after that. “Shh, don’t,” you murmured before rolling off him, making his cock slip free from your warmth as you rolled onto your stomach. “Just…come here. Come hold me.” you said, burying your face in his pillow as you closed your eyes. 

Jake laughed under his breath as he pulled the covers up over your body before wrapping his arms around you from behind, holding you like you were his entire world. “Okay,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head as he let himself relax against you.

This was where he belonged, he knew that, and he knew that you belonged here too, it would just take you a little longer to get back there. Which was fine, because Jake would always wait for you. And as he listened to your quiet breathing and inhaled your familiar scent, he let his mind wander to the image of you finally wearing the ring he’d bought for you that was safely tucked away in his closet.

[melangedeparfums]

AT THE SUPERMARKET

masterlist

toji fushiguro x pregnant!reader

tw: crack (attempts to), fluff, reader is pregnant with megumi, toji calling reader “ma, mama”, weird pregnancy cravings, not proofread.

“yellow or green?”

“hmm?”

“toji, are you listening to me?” you sighed in the middle of the alley of the supermarket, waving two baby pyjamas in each of your hands.

“i’m not buying my son a pyjama with fucking cows eating grass on it, ma’.”

“toji.”

running errands with toji was a nightmare. he was always behind you, his chest pressed against your back while he caged you before the cart, listening half the time to whatever you were saying. he also glared to anybody who dared stare at you for too long, ready to fight if needed while you offered apologetic smiles to whoever would come across your husband behaviour. that was always the same thing with him. having toji to lift the bags, push the cart, and pay was great - but his scary dog attitude was a lot to deal with.

“so, green or yellow?” you repeated, now that you had his full attention.

“green.”

“yellow it is.” you put the yellow pyjama - the one with the cows eating grass - in the cart, while he pushed it, his lips spreading into a half-smile. he knew you - you always got what you wanted, even if he found the pyjamas atrocious, and that it would make his son look like a fucking minion, he would bear it, for you.

toji couldn’t really understand why buying cute little stuff for your child - that wasn’t even born yet - seemed to always put you in a good mood. little socks, bobble hats, and everything that went with it. megumi - as he insisted on naming him - could wear nothing and he would love his son the same. but, he wouldn’t question it, not with you. the sigh of your swollen belly made his chest flutter with warmth, his dark blue eyes softening slightly. your were glowing with pregnancy, delicate skin flushed with heat, eyes gleaming with excitement - when you didn’t want to kill him half of the time - feeling his own heart stutter in his ribcage. he often couldn’t believe how someone so pure would want to do anything with him - but the universe worked in mysterious ways, not that he was really complaining.

“you know what i really crave right now?” your question seemed to pull him out of his thoughts, his eyes finding yours.

“cheesecake? fries and ice-cream?”

“no. i want strawberries with burrata, or avocado with chocolate….” your eyebrows knitted, a little pout on my lips, your eyes darting between both options, your hands on your belly. which one to get? it seemed like a whole dilemma, your mouth watering just thinking about it. your husband was used to it: it could take hours for you to choose, changing your opinion at least five times to be finally decided.

“which one does he want?” toji asked, my chin titling to your belly. he learnt how to be patient, his dearly wife deserved every once of the patience he could summon. so, if you took it seriously, he would too, even if you had to spend twenty minutes deciding. so, be it. your were the mother of his son after all.

“i don’t know.” toji took a package of strawberries and the peanut butter. he made you smell one after the other, his eyes narrowing to watch every detail of your reaction. since you were pregnant, indecision seemed to claw at you, your cravings changing every time.

both of you waited for the little blessing in your belly to manifest himself, to kick or even move.

nothing.

absolutely nothing.

“he’s sleeping i think.” you finally announced, a sigh leaving your lips.

“hey, megumi, wake up and tell your mother-“ yes, toji was patient with you, but if his soon-to-be-born child could help him, even a little bit, he would feel extremely grateful right now.

“toji.”

“i was dead ass serious.” the little pout on your lips softened him, as he leaned to kiss your forehead with gentleness. “it’s okay, we can take both.”

“really?” your eyes seemed to lighten, eyelashes fluttering with hope.

“yes, mama.” he put everything in the cart without thinking twice. he would indulge your weird pregnancy cravings if he got to look at your adorable smile every single day.

arriving at the checkout, toji didn’t think twice and skipped the line: one of the perks of having a pregnant wife after all. he would use all the advantages - for you, like for him, “my wife is pregnant” being his favourite line every time he went out - even without you. skipping the line, using the parking spot (even when you weren’t pregnant) or taking every discount coupons that crossed his line of sight. yes, toji was a freeloader.

“you take too much pleasure in skipping the line.”

“hey, we are pregnant.”

his huge frame hid your body from the sight of the rest of the line. he listened intently to every word coming out of your mouth, his palm under his chin.

“sir, you’re not allowed to skip the line.” said an old woman, her eyebrows knitted. toji didn’t answer - in fact, he didn’t give a fuck about respecting the elders. why was she even bothering him?

“where are your manners?” she continued, her hands clutching her cane with frail hands, her eyes narrowing on his back.

fighting with other customers to have priority was one of toji’s favourite hobbies but today, he didn’t have the patience. instead, he didn’t waste time and spin you to show the old lady your round belly, a small squeal leaving your lips, his huge hands turning you by the shoulders making you almost dizzy in the process.

“my priority card is here, old hag.”

“toji!”

────

first time writing here (instead of studying), i don’t usually like the pregnancy trope but i liked the idea, so there we go! english isn’t my first language btw ✌🏻

[waynes-multiverse]

FINALLY!!!! Diving right in 🤓

He shook himself off like a dog and pulled off his baseball cap.

That description made me snort because it’s so fucking fitting for this guy 😂👌

And seriously, this dude can’t take a fucking hint to literally save his life. Jesus… Bro, she ain’t that into you. Get the memo. The way he kept calling her baby and didn’t pick up how fucking weird that is, is soooo delusional. I actually think he needs mental help at this point 🙈

Anyways, can’t wait to see you go, Cujo!!

“How are you going to kill him?” you asked after a moment.

“Bag over the head. He’s passed out. He wouldn’t even feel it. Are you sure that’s what-”

Okay, I might need mental help too. This should not have turned me on 😂😂 (But I’m self-aware, so we’re good???)

On a serious note, her history with Cujo is horrifying. What a fucking creep. Slipping pills into drinks of underage girls? Yeah, he deserves to die, and I totally get why she’d wanna do it. I always thought the most fitting punishment for guys like that was what Ramsey Bolton did to Theon Greyjoy in GoT… ^^

“I won’t lose any sleep over him. You can do something for me though.” You sighed, nodding once. “Go back to the store and buy some extra large garbage bags and some duct tape, got it?”

“Um, yeah. Are you-”

“Y/N. We’re on the clock. We’ll talk later,” he said, kissing your temple. “Now go.”

And God, I’m melting here with Russell, the killing machine, taking charge and taking care of her. He’s soft for *us* 🫠❤️‍🔥

Michelle, you’re making me question my morals and they weren’t that high to begin with 😂

Colter rolling his eyes, an uncharacteristic move.

Is this you commenting on TV!Colter? Dead 😂💀

“Sweetie,” said Russell, closing his eyes. “Owen should not have made it out alive and the fact he did isn’t good.” 

Oh, don’t sweetie us, Russ... Loved how she wasn’t taking any of his crap and called him out on his shit!! 👏 This was sooo good and I was cheering her on all the way 👇👇👇

“I think I finally understand how you’re so perfect but alone. You live this life like you’re this happy go lucky guy but it’s a mask. All you actually see is the dark side of it. Of everything. You are more than happy to step into my dark side but you won’t let me see yours? You wouldn’t let me kill Owen. You won’t let me help clean it up. Even when it’s because of me. You have to always be the hero. Honestly, thinking about it, it’s been all my shit we’ve talked about. All you say is your got a dark past but you haven’t shared diddly squat. Is this how it’s going to be Russell? Because frankly, I want more than that. I told you I don’t need you to do things for me, I just need you to help me do them.”

The fact his reply was “Maybe this was a mistake” made me want to slap his goddamn head off! Whyyyyyy, you emotionally unavailable recluse?!?!

Gaaaaah, I think the most frustrating part is that he tried so hard to convince her he’s the one for her and he’ll be there, and at the first sign of trouble, he fucking walks it back. How exactly is she supposed to trust another word out of his mouth? Grrr

If that’s how Russell wanted to end things, fine.

I seriously wanna hit him so fucking hard for being such a big idiot!!! God, the self-worth issues with this man is almost another Deanism 🙈

He used your kitchen as a base of operations and you let him crash in the guest room.

Awww, he really does like her 🥰 The fact he’s willingly staying in a house with another person says a lot lol

No, instead stood Russell in a trim black suit, his hair slicked back and a bouquet of orange and red flowers in his hands.

*sighs* Alright, Fluffy, get in… 🫠 And points for being honest. He really took a long look in the mirror and opened up to her big time! And on the other hand, her point of wanting too much too soon is also true. They have known each other for only a short amount of time. They’ve already shared more with each other than people during the first ten dates lol

“Oh, who’s afraid of little old me?”

I have that song constantly in my head anyways!!! Can you not?! Russell’s Swifite is showing again 🤣

Those two basically during this scene lmao:

“Why’s he still alive?” you asked quietly. Owen’s eyes widened, Russell tsking him.

Oh her bluntness had me dead 🤣🤣🤣

And I absolutely love that you have Russell running with his own little underground crew here like in the books! 😍

You heard a muttered damn from someone behind you, your focus on Owen.

Not the peanut gallery chiming in 😂🫶

Russell smacked the back of his head. Hard. Owen grunted, shaking it out.

God, I’m fucking loving this dynamic so much!!! I’m a sucker for a brutal interrogation 😍😍😍 (Again, yes, I know the mental help. Will get on it soon… -ish)

And my fucking skin is crawling, btw!!! The sheer amount of effort Cujo put fucking into this and the bars on the windows and the padlock on the door??? Holy fucking shit!!! She really was lucky Russell came when he did. I don’t wanna imagine what would’ve happened to this poor girl otherwise 🙈😳

Again, is the Ramsey Bolton option off the table??? Force-feed him his sausage, girl!!!!

“I just wanted him to be as scared as I’ve been. I-I just…why’d it have to be my family?” You found his face, Russell smiling sadly.

Yeah… Really is a draw of luck 😔 (And honestly it’s why True Crime is so creepy and sad because it’s always “We never thought this could happen to our town/our family/me” etc. If you’re unlucky, all it takes is sitting next to the wrong person on the bus)

The world’s good and bad and that’s all there is to it.

Yes 💯 Camus has always been my favorite because I do agree that’s it all a little absurd if you think too hard about it…

“I can feel you watching, like a creeper.”

Cue the Radiohead 😂💚

You smiled to yourself when Russell closed the gap between them, giving Colter a strong embrace. “Let's leave that shit behind us. Thanks for coming, Colt.”

Aww, I’m so happy they made up too and are getting closer 🥰 The most frustrating part of the show is still how they brushed off Russell’s hurt over being accused of murder for twenty years by his own brother lol. I always loved that honest chat they had in the books about it 🤓

“Just an observation.”

Oh Colter 🫶

After she went to live with our aunt and uncle.

Aaah, loved this little tidbit about Dory!!! 👏👏 I can’t remember if they ever mentioned it on the show as well or if Dory actually lived on the compound till the end 🤔 (Still wild book!Dory has a wholeass husband and kids and goddamn escape plans set in place lol)

“No! No, I don’t mean like, officially yours. Like metaphorically. I’m not ready for anything official. Someday but so not right now.”

Bahaha loved how he backtracked so fast there was almost a Russell-shaped hole in the front door 😂

Awwww, this was such a perfect ending!! Both of them having a home and each other and a perfectly chosen family 🥹😭

This was an amazing series, Michelle! I loved all the book Easter eggs you weaved in so flawlessly and your characterization of both Russell and Colter! And aside from that, I was so hooked on the main storyline with the mafia and her being a fixer wanting to get out. You did such a great job with her background story and planning all those details perfectly and keeping the tension going, even with that last stretch when Owen showed up at the supermarket and then again during the interrogation. Seriously can’t wait what else you have in store for them with the other two one-shots! Well done, friend!!! 🩵🩵🩵

He's My Man (Part 5)

Summary: Russell's taken care of the reader's problem but things take a turn and the happy couple may not be so happy after all...

Masterlist

Pairing: Russell Shaw x reader

Word Count: 6,300ish

Warnings: language, gun shot injury/past drugging/brief mention of attempted assault (not shown) mention, angst, fluff, smut, stalker, murder, self-worth issues

A/N: Thank you all for taking this journey with me with writing this new character! I might return to this world someday but until then, please enjoy the finale!

__________

When you pulled up to the dark house, you noticed Russell’s car had been pulled into the garage and covered with a tarp. You swallowed as you pulled in beside it, biting back bile when Owen parked right behind you, preventing any escape if it came to that. You’d given Russell nearly thirty minutes notice to prepare. You really hoped whatever he had planned was going to be over with fast.

“Fuck,” said Owen, dashing from his car in the downpour to inside the garage. He shook himself off like a dog and pulled off his baseball cap. You’d seen the gash on his forehead before but from the overhead light, a skull fracture was very visible. The dried blood had matted into his thick hair and, along with the other injuries, made him look half-dead. 

“Why don’t you go relax inside, honey?” you forced out when you exited, slamming the door shut loudly, hoping Russell picked up on the fact you were here. “I’ll get the bags and then I’ll take a look at those cuts.”

“Thanks, baby. Don’t take too long.” You didn’t like how he kept saying that. He’d hung off of you at the store. Even if he wasn’t a raging psycho, personal space was still a thing.

You pretended to fuss about at the trunk as he went in the door from the garage to the house. It was quiet for a beat, your gaze locked on the open door in the corner.

Two quick shots rang out and you hit the cement floor hard. Nothing could be heard over the rain, your heart hammering away in your chest. Russell wouldn’t have shot Owen, would he? No, Russell would have snuck up on him, taken him out before he knew what hit him.

So had Owen been shooting? Was Russell hurt? You slowly sat up on your hands and knees, crawling along the side of the car until you reached the hood. You peaked your head around the corner and saw a pair of legs lying on the ground through the open door. It looked like Owen so you carefully rose, flinching when Russell came bounding in from behind you.

He held up his hands, your eyes widening at the blood staining his crisp white tee. 

“What-”

“My stitches tore,” he said, turning his bicep towards you, the blood staining underneath the bandage. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, glancing back inside to where the body lay motionless. “Did you kill him?”

“Not yet,” said Russell, inching past you towards a work bench. “Although he did shoot my fucking front door. Do you have any idea how much a custom mahogany door costs? I might kill him for that alone.”

Russell opened a drawer, taking out duct tape and zip ties. He slammed it shut, pausing with his back to you.

“He’s not going to leave you alone if I let him live.” 

“I know. He’s been following me for awhile I guess,” you said. 

“I can frame him for Elpine’s murder if you don’t want me to kill him.” You leaned back against your car, Russell setting the items on the bench and joining you. “I don’t have to…you know.”

“How are you going to kill him?” you asked after a moment.

“Bag over the head. He’s passed out. He wouldn’t even feel it. Are you sure that’s what-” You went to his workbench and ripped off a garbage bag from the roll, Russell closing his eyes. “Y/N, you should stay out here. Let me do this.”

“Owen started slipping roofies into my drinks when I was fifteen.” His head snapped up as you sighed. “He drugged me twice but nothing happened because my dad was around. I had to be more careful once dad started to lose it. Owen’s a good decade older than me I’m sure you noticed. I’ve been scared of this guy for too long. I’m not asking you to kill him. I’m asking you to show me how to do this myself.”

“I appreciate how strong you are but I’m doing it,” he said, taking the bag from you. You dropped your hand, frowning up at him. He sighed, stroking your cheek with his clean hand. “Your soul has enough scars for a lifetime. Don’t add more.”

“You don’t have to kill someone for me, Russell. You don’t need that on you either. Look what you’ve already done.”

“I won’t lose any sleep over him. You can do something for me though.” You sighed, nodding once. “Go back to the store and buy some extra large garbage bags and some duct tape, got it?”

“Um, yeah. Are you-”

“Y/N. We’re on the clock. We’ll talk later,” he said, kissing your temple. “Now go.”

Three Hours Later

“To be perfectly clear, I’m doing this for Y/N, not you,” said Colter with a coldness you didn’t love. You knew Russell’s relationship with his little brother was strained but you’d thought it had gotten better over the past few days.

“Yeah, well it don’t take a genius to see you like her better,” said Russell, Colter rolling his eyes, an uncharacteristic move. “I’ll never ask you for a thing again. You never even have to speak to me. Think what you want about me. Just please do this for Y/N’s sake.”

“I already…” huffed Colter when you side eyed him with narrowed eyes. He let out a slow exhale. “Fine. You owe me, Russell. Big.”

“Colter,” you said, nodding towards his truck. You left Russell as he went back to taping the large cooler in the garage shut. You assumed he’d put Owen inside and cleaned up while you were gone at the store. The rain had paused momentarily but there was another batch of storms coming through soon. You sighed as you stopped next to the younger Shaw, Colter crossing his arms. “I’m not letting you do this. I know Russell asked but I can’t let you move a body for me.”

He narrowed his eyes, face turning into a scowl. 

“I’m not moving…Russell!” Russ’ head popped up, Colter becoming increasingly annoyed. “Tell me what is going on right now or I swear you and me are done. Forever.”

Russell sighed, throwing his head back. “I may have lied about the Y/N wanting to tag along with you so she can tidy up her place in Virginia.”

“You what?” you asked, storming over to him. “You were trying to pawn me off on Colter again? For what! Owen’s dead, there’s no one left to bother me.”

“Sweetie,” said Russell, closing his eyes. “Owen should not have made it out alive and the fact he did isn’t good.” 

Slowly Russell met your gaze, ignoring Colter behind you. “So is this how it’s going to be? Any time everything’s not perfect you’re going to drop me on your brothers doorstep at the drop of a hat? News flash, Colter isn’t my babysitter. I’m a grown woman who has seen and handled more crap than you know. I thought you didn’t think of me as a damsel.”

“I don’t but-”

“But you don’t want me around for the hard stuff. I got the message.” 

“Y/N, someone else could still be left. They could kill you-” You held up your hand, Colter heading back to his truck to give you some space.

“I think I finally understand how you’re so perfect but alone. You live this life like you’re this happy go lucky guy but it’s a mask. All you actually see is the dark side of it. Of everything. You are more than happy to step into my dark side but you won’t let me see yours? You wouldn’t let me kill Owen. You won’t let me help clean it up. Even when it’s because of me. You have to always be the hero. Honestly, thinking about it, it’s been all my shit we’ve talked about. All you say is your got a dark past but you haven’t shared diddly squat. Is this how it’s going to be Russell? Because frankly, I want more than that. I told you I don’t need you to do things for me, I just need you to help me do them.”

Russell swallowed, face going stoic. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

Your heart dropped like a rock into the pit of your stomach, Russell’s jaw clenching. “You should pack up your stuff here and go with Colter. Go back to Virginia. You’re probably right. This was just attraction, plain and simple.”

“Russell, that’s not what I was saying-” 

“Yeah, it was. Just go. Please. I’ll deal with Owen. Just go back to Virginia and start your life over away from people like us.” With that he brushed past you for Colter, ignoring his repeated calls. 

“Asshole,” you mumbled as you went inside and shoved the few belongings that weren’t in the trunk of your car into a bag. You very purposefully left every pair of underwear, bra and pajamas he’d bought you behind. The cheap sports bra and cotton underwear you’d bought earlier would get you through until you were home.

If that’s how Russell wanted to end things, fine. You were free of the mafia. Free of guys with fucked up pasts. Your options were limitless.

And thank god Colter was smart enough to not ask about your red rimmed eyes by the time you were on the road.

Five Days Later

You gave Colter a wave from your front step as he drove off down the street. It’d taken only two days to drive cross country this time. Apparently you drove faster when you were upset. Or you didn’t sleep as much. Either way, Colter didn’t ask and was happy to get to Virginia where he had a missing accountant to find.

He used your kitchen as a base of operations and you let him crash in the guest room. In exchange, Colter got you hooked up with the basics of reward work. There were some extra perils to the job being a woman but also advantages that Colter didn’t have. He went over finding jobs, finding a team, learning how to get access to tools and databases. You didn’t have a lot of confidence in going after a full fledged disappearance yet but Colter mentioned it wasn’t always people that were what was missing.

By the end of his short stay, you had information overload but were grateful for the chance to start doing something good for once in your life.

Meanwhile, Russell hadn’t reached out once. You had to assume he’d disposed of Owen. You weren’t sure why you were still waiting for a text or a call. It was pretty clear things were over. Russell was too protective and you weren’t going to let another man tell you what to do again. 

Yet, you knew you were at fault too. Russell had just killed a guy in his house for you and he knew a hell lot more about getting away with a murder than you did. Russell had points for not wanting to involve you. And you had to be an asshole and pressure him for more when there was literally a dead body at your feet.

“I’m an idiot,” you groaned, leaning against the kitchen island with your head lowered. “Why did I do that?”

The doorbell rang, your head slowly rising. You sighed as you went to it, pulling it open quickly. 

“Did you forget-” You cut yourself off when you didn’t see Colter standing there. No, instead stood Russell in a trim black suit, his hair slicked back and a bouquet of orange and red flowers in his hands. “Russ? What-”

“Let me get this out and then I’ll get out of your life forever if that’s what you want,” he said. You leaned against the door jam, Russell taking a deep breath. “Y/N, I like you. A lot. Too much probably for how long we’ve known each other. Everything you said was right. I avoid my problems because it’s a hell of a lot easier to fix someone else’s in my experience.”

He swallowed, glancing at his feet. “Owen could have hurt you at that store. He could have taken you, shown up at the house and killed you. I fucked up and you don’t seem to understand that Owen’s obsession and how fucking smart you are is the only reason we’re still here and he’s not. I told you I took care of it and I didn’t. I was angry at myself and wanted you somewhere safer than with me so I pushed your buttons on purpose. I lied on purpose so you’d get mad and leave with Colter. You deserve a good man and I’m not him. I kill people. I use sex as a way to be close to women but then never let myself be in a relationship because I don’t want them to see beneath the surface and see the shit that’s in there. I want better for you than me.”

Russell looked up, a tiny smile forming on his face. “Can we try being friends again and maybe I can become that man that deserves you along the way?”

“Russell,” you sighed. You stepped forward, cupping his cheeks, green eyes full of caution. “We can be friends. I’d like it if we were more than that, though.” 

He slowly smiled, his lip ticking up when you stroked his cheek. 

“I’m sorry for jumping down your throat. You do not have to share your deepest darkest secrets with me, never mind the first day we’re actually together. That was unfair of me. I just want you to know you can share them with me if you want to.” 

“I’ve killed a lot of people, Y/N,” he said softly. “Dozens. Some of them, most of them, I never gave two shits about. No nightmares. No trauma. That’s not normal. It’s been years since I’ve felt all that bad about killing.”

“You don’t need to feel bad about killing monsters,” you said. He closed his eyes and you leaned in, kissing his forehead. “S’that why you didn’t want me to kill Owen?”

“Moral and practical reasons,” he whispered. “I don’t kill out of revenge. I don’t think I ever have. It always has another purpose. Protect someone, protect a group or the general public from a threat. Some psych told me once that’s why I don’t struggle as much with what I’ve done as some other folks. The way I grew up helped me with that. But I do struggle with it still and you’ve struggled enough. You don’t need that on you.”

“I understand. I’m so used to being controlled and told what to do…I can never go back to that.”

“You never will,” he said, opening his eyes. You tilted your head, Russell turned into your touch to match. “I’m sure I’ll fuck things up again. We can be friends if that’s all you ever want.”

“I don’t want to be just friends. So what if we fight? That’s what couples do.” You took his hand in yours and the flowers in the other, leading him inside behind you. 

“I quit my job a few days ago.” You froze, spinning around on your heels. He shrugged, still holding your hand. “I can’t change my life without making some changes.”

“You still want to do that home brew for a career?” 

“Yeah. I’d like to give it a shot.” He spotted the stacks of papers on your kitchen table and open computer. “Colter offer you a spot on his team?”

“He did at first but I want to try doing it my way, stop patching up the bad guys and doing something good. He warned me it can be dangerous work though, especially as a woman flying solo.”

“He makes very good points,” said Russell, thumbing at your lip when you smiled. “What’s that look for?”

“Maybe you could be on my team sometimes, show me a few moves from the expert.” You started to walk backwards towards your bedroom, Russell’s eyebrows raising. “If you want to.”

“I’ll show you any kind of moves you’d like, qark.” He held his ground though, stopping you in place. You waited for the but to come, for him to push back on getting back together. Instead, he took the flowers from your hand and went into your kitchen, finding a tall glass and filling it with water. He set the flowers on the island before rejoining you, resting his hands on your hips. “I like the idea of working together as partners.”

“But…” you said, Russell kissing the top of your head.

“But you are far too kind, my queen of darkness. I was expecting to get told to get lost tonight and I have plans I can’t get out of with my friends very shortly.”

“Oh,” you said, Russell’s finger tips finding the ends of your hair and playing with a few strands. “If you have plans, we can meet up another-”

“You want to know my dark side?” Your eyes flicked to meet his, your head nodding once. “You can’t unknow what kind of man I am once you do. I don’t blame you if you change your mind about me.”

“I want to know you. All of you.” He closed his eyes and nodded.

“Go change into something discreet. Dark clothes. Leave your phone home. If at any point you want to leave, say so and I bring you right back here, understand?” You nodded, Russell backing away. “Mind if I change in your bathroom?”

“You can change in the bedroom with me.” He smirked but backed away.

“Another time. We have an appointment to keep.”

“Where are we going?” you asked, Russell glancing away.

“Don’t be mad but we need to pay Owen a visit.”

Twenty minutes later you quietly followed Russell into what looked like a decommission warehouse that should have been torn down a decade ago. The building was pitch black apart from the single light coming from the end of a hallway. You stuck behind Russell as you entered the room, stopping when you found six different men and a woman inside, most carrying a weapon on their hip or tucked into their jeans from what you could tell.

And smack in the center of the room tied to a chair was Owen very much still alive. Although…alive was being generous. He didn’t look more injured than when you’d last seen him but his color was off and his eyes were red and puffy. He wasn’t even angry when he saw you, just…scared.

“He behave while I was gone?” asked Russell to a man and woman nearby.

“Tried bribing Doug and then all of us to let him go,” said the woman. She gave Owen a nasty look before turning gentle as she looked towards Russell. “I think you scared the poor boy, Shaw.”

“Oh, who’s afraid of little old me?” said Russell, giving Owen a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “So. Owen, my friends. Friends, Owen. You’re already acquainted with Y/N.”

Owen’s gaze flickered to you when Russell grabbed a chair from the wall and sat it a few feet away from Owen, facing him. Russell sat down slowly, nodding when you moved closer so you could see both their faces.

“Why’s he still alive?” you asked quietly. Owen’s eyes widened, Russell tsking him.

“On me, big guy,” said Russell, snapping his fingers, Owen reluctantly looking at him. “You got some options. Prison. You die very quickly. Or…me and my friends can make sure you die very slowly. Your choice.”

“Why didn’t you kill him yet?” you asked again. Russell sighed, glancing down. “Russell.”

“There were some things that never sat right with me that I wanted answers to. The stuff with your family’s accident and your dad’s paranoia, him attacking you. I had a paranoid father too. I know the signs, know that they want to protect us in their own way. The coincidence of meeting someone just like me was too high so I started to dig. You mentioned Owen’s drugged you a few times in the past and tried to hurt you.”

“Yeah…I’m not following,” you said. Russell stood slowly, staring down Owen like a predator with it’s prey firmly caught in a trap.

“I figured if he drugged you, who else had he slipped something to? What good man, good doctor, could a prescription drug running family slip into his drinks? The more I researched, the more my friends helped, the more we found.” Russell clenched his fists by his side, knuckles turning white. “Should I tell her Owen? Or do you have the balls to tell her yourself?”

Russell ripped off the tape over his mouth, Owen wincing as he breathed deeply. Russell was on him like that, grabbing his throat, not squeezing but adding enough pressure that it was going to be uncomfortable. “I told you to talk, you sack of shit.”

“Y/N, this guys is lying. I never did anything to you!” Russell’s jaw clenched and you watched him squeeze, only backing off when you laid a gentle hand on Russell’s shoulder. 

“He’s psycho!” said Owen, Russell backing up a step. You looked up to him, Russell’s face unreadable. “Y/N, baby-”

“Shut the fuck up before I stab you in your spine,” you said. Owen’s jaw snapped shut, a flicker of something in Russell’s eyes. Pride? Amusement? It quickly flittered away, replaced with worry when you held out a hand. “Can I have your knife?”

Russell slowly took it out of his pocket, handing the engraved handle out to you. You flicked it open and took a seat in the chair, holding it pointed down at the concrete floor.

“Owen. Tell me the truth and I won’t kill you. I swear. But I can get the answers from you if you don’t cooperate. Don’t make me get my boyfriend’s knife bloody.”

You heard a muttered damn from someone behind you, your focus on Owen. He sagged in his seat and closed his eyes.

“Our old fixer wanted out, wanted to go to the feds so my dad had him killed. I was eighteen and he told me to start earning my place as successor. He told me to find a new fixer. Your dad was one of the best doctors in the city. Things were…arranged. Two weeks later we-” 

Russell smacked the back of his head. Hard. Owen grunted, shaking it out.

“Two weeks later I…put a hit on your family. Your mom and brother specifically. We only needed one kid to survive and I thought a girl would be easier to control. I started drugging your father that night with antipsychotics to create paranoia,” said Owen, his head hanging low. “I orchestrated the whole thing. We fed him the drugs for years, it made him stay close if not a little extreme. It kept taking more though.”

“Do. Not. Skip. Ahead,” growled Russell, grabbing a fistful of Owen’s shirt.

“O-okay. I-I…I started thinking about how to get your dad to stick around once you grew up and you were pretty and smart and I thought you’d be happy with me.”

“How old was she when you decided this?” barked Russell. Owen whimpered, trying to curl in on himself. “Fifteen you disgusting waste of space.”

“You started drugging me then,” you said. Owen shook his head.

“Not with that stuff. Just roofies. But not enough for you to be completely out of it. Your dad started keeping a closer eye on you and I tried waiting for you to come around on your own but it was so hard when you went away to college. I knew I couldn’t let you run off like that again so…” Owen’s shoulders shook, mouth snapping shut.

“So you roofied her, attacked her and she fought back. Her father protected her and you fucking killed him for it. Your dear old daddy found what you’d done and wasn’t happy, was he? He covered up your murder and blamed her father knowing Y/N wouldn’t remember a thing. Y/N was forced to go to med school and learn crap she didn’t want to all while daddy had you banished away from her. You tried to keep tabs on her but it wasn’t until dad died that you could finally take Y/N like you wanted. It’s pure fucking luck I showed up when I did to make sure that didn’t happen. Would you like to tell Y/N about the fucking padded door locks and bars on the window in her old room back at the house? About your plans for her?”

Russell grabbed Owen’s hair, forcing his head up. Owen was trembling, whispering apologies and saying how he didn’t mean it, over and over.

“So…you killed my family…and tried to assault me more than once over the years…and were planning on keeping me as a…pet in the house until I magically fell in love with you. I think that sums it up,” you said. You stood up, handing Russell his knife. “I’m not going to kill him.”

“Thank you,” sighed Owen in relief. “Thank you. I-I knew you’d be able to forgive me-”

“Oh, I don’t forgive you and I wouldn’t be thanking me,” you said, smiling up at Russell. ““Papa Elpine and a few guys made it out I heard. Bobby was his favorite son, right?”

“Y/N! I killed Bobby! They’ll-” Russell shoved some tape over his mouth and hummed.

You crossed your arms, Russell tilting his head at you. “You know they’re going to torture Owen to death.”

“I said I wouldn’t hurt him and I’m keeping my word,” you said, Owen shouting under the tape. “I’d tell you to confess but Elpine’s connected. He’d just have you killed in prison. So. Elpine it is.”

“You sure?” asked Russell. You pursed your lips, Owen pleading with his eyes. Everything in you wanted to say yes, let him get what he had coming. 

So why couldn’t you say it? 

You looked to Russell, nodding. “Get rid of him, please,” you mouthed.

“Look away,” said Russell. You turned around, Owen panting hard before there was a loud crack and the room was still. Russell’s hand found your shoulder, rubbing it softly. “We took care of Elpine’s guys. You know that.”

“I just wanted him to be as scared as I’ve been. I-I just…why’d it have to be my family?” You found his face, Russell smiling sadly.

“I’ve asked myself that question a lot over the years. Best I came up with is you got to try and let it go. The world’s good and bad and that’s all there is to it.” He wrapped his arm over your shoulder, walking you towards the door. You nearly looked back but he blocked you with his body. “No. He’s gone for good, you don’t need to give him anything more. I’m sorry for not killing him back in Washington. I just thought you deserved the truth. Your dad was a good man.”

“Thank you,” you said, closing your eyes. “I wish I realized that sooner.”

“Come on,” he said, walking you out to the hallway. “Let’s get you home.”

One Month Later

You smiled from your chair when Russell let out a single tiny snore from the couch across from you. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the past few days and honestly, it was kind of adorable the way this incredibly dangerous man made the cutest cooing noises while he slept.

“You’re staring at me,” he mumbled without opening his eyes a few minutes later. You looked around, holding up a finger. “I can feel you watching, like a creeper.”

“Well, you make these cute sounds when you sleep,” you said. He smirked, slowly flicking his lazy eyes open.

“And who’s fault is it that I haven’t been sleeping, hm?” You shrugged and slid down in your chair with your book, grinning behind the pages. “I can see that smile, you know that?”

“Don’t blame me for the amazing orgasms you give,” you said, flicking your eyes over the top of the book, Russell propping himself up on his elbows with a predatory gaze. “Down boy. Later.”

“You better,” he said, plopping back with a huff. “Remind me to never help Frank with a favor ever again.”

“Frank helped you with Owen,” you reminded him. Russell scoffed.

“All he did with Owen was stand there and look scary. I didn’t make him build a fucking deck in the pacific northwest in forty degree weather.”

“Aw, is baby boy cranky?” you teased. He growled, playfully tossing his pillow at you. “You guys should wrap up tomorrow, right?”

“That’s the plan. Then I’m going back to waking up at a humane hour,” he said, forcing himself to sit up and stretch out with a few grunts. “How long was I out?”

“About an hour and a half. You needed it,” you said, flipping a page. Russell glanced over to the dining table, taking in the decorated spread. 

“You set a place for Colter?” he asked. 

“Yes…right next to Dory’s,” you said, closing your book and setting it aside. “You still think he won’t come?”

“He’s not the kind of guy to come to a housewarming party. Especially his brother’s housewarming party. We still haven’t talked since…” 

“I know,” you said, standing and pulling him to his feet. He was still sleepy as you ruffled his hair, Russell turning into the touch. “I’m excited to meet your friends and family properly.”

“They want to know all about you, that’s for sure,” he chuckled. “You can’t imagine the amount of shit they’ve given me after I said I’d never settle down.”

“I moved in a week ago. We’re a ways from settling down,” you said. He titled his head, smiling at you. “Don’t give me that face.”

“What face?” he teased, leaning in close, dipping his head, kissing under your jaw.

“Shaw! Do not give me a hickey! I do not want them seeing-” You sucked in a breath, brain going fuzzy when he nipped at the soft flesh. 

“Too bad, qark. If I have to have hickeys all over my neck then so do you,” he said, suckling the skin. A buzzer went off in the kitchen and he groaned when you slipped away so the rolls wouldn’t burn. “Y/N…”

“Saved by the bell,” you said, taking out the pan and leaving them to cool off. Russell was by your side quickly, hands on your hips so you couldn’t escape. “Okay. How about you can give me as many hickeys as you want later if you’re a good boy this afternoon?”

“Hm, I do like being your good boy,” he said, squeezing your hips. “Deal.”

“Good. Where do you keep-“

The doorbell trilled, your heads turning towards the front windows. A familiar pickup truck was out front, Russell raising his eyebrows. You nodded for the door, Russell cautious as he answered. Colter stood on the front porch with an awkward forced smile and a pink box.

“I uh, picked up some dessert for dinner later,” he said offering the box. Russell took it, setting it aside on the front table. “You going to invite me in?”

“I thought you…” Russell shook his head and opened the door wider, letting his younger brother inside. Colter gave you a brief smile before clearing his throat.

“I uh, can help you get ready or cook. I just…last time we talked Russell…”

You smiled to yourself when Russell closed the gap between them, giving Colter a strong embrace. “Let's leave that shit behind us. Thanks for coming, Colt.”

“Yeah,” said Colter, returning it for a moment before the boys broke apart. “How’s the girlfriend situation working out for you?”

“I’m telling you man, find the right girl, you’ll never want to go back to being a loner,” said Russell, giving you a smirk. “They do come with a lot of rules though, fair warning.”

“I asked you to put the toilet seat down, Shaw,” you chided. 

“Like I said, rules,” teased Russell. You picked up a knife by your cutting board, narrowing your eyes. “We should help before she starts using that on us.”

“Yes you should,” you said, Colter shrugging out of his jacket and boots, joining your side after washing up. “Can you cut up the veggies into strips?”

“Can do,” he said, swapping places with you. You smiled when Russell took the dessert box and started to arrange the treats on a platter over on the dinning table. “I’d like to apologize for my behavior the last time we were all here.”

You frowned as you peeled a bag of potatoes into a bowl. “You mean when I lost my cool on Russell? You have nothing to apologize for Colter. We were asking you for a favor. Again. I’m honestly surprised you don’t hate me. I know you value your alone time.”

Colter was quiet, chopping neatly and pushing the scraps into a discard bowl. “Did Russell ever tell you how he got that gunshot he went to you for in the first place?”

“Someone kidnapped Doug. He went to save him.”

“Did you know I helped him with that?” You shook your head, setting the peeler down. Colter had stopped dicing, a barely there smile crossing his face. “If it weren’t for my brother asking for my help with his friends, I’m not sure we ever would have spoke again.”

“I know there’s a complicated history there.” He hummed, watching Russell across the room. “It means a lot to him that you’re trying too.”

“S’all we can do is try, right?” he said, going back to his cutting. “So. My brother is clearly head over heels. What about you? Should I expect a wedding invitation soon?”

“Uh, no,” you said, laughing to yourself. “We’re certainly not traditional but we’re nowhere near ready for that. We’ll see how living together goes for awhile before we talk about anything like long term plans.”

“Yet you moved in already.” You rolled your eyes. “Just an observation.”

“For convenience sake. Russ is looking into land for the brewery around here since he left his job and apartments in town are limited.”

“Right. I’m sure that’s it. Silly me,” he said. You held up your peeler to him, Colter raising his hands. “Russ, I think I broke one of your girlfriend’s rules.”

“It was nice knowing ya,” said Russell with a chuckle. “Give him a swift death for me, qark.”

“Qark?” asked Colter as you turned your attention to the potatoes. 

“Queen of darkness. Now hurry up with those so you and Russ can have some alone time before dinner.”

Six Hours Later

“This is going well,” said Russell to you in the kitchen as laughed and a smoky scent filtered in from the back porch. “Everyone really likes you.”

“I suppose I have met them all before, except for Dory. She’s such a sweetheart. I don’t know what I was expecting but-”

“She was much younger than us when our dad died. After she went to live with our aunt and uncle. She’s tough but normal in a way Colter and I won’t ever…” You rubbed his back, his strong arm wrapping around your waist to keep you close. “Did you like, drug him? Or bribe him? I seriously can’t believe he’s still here let alone came.”

“Of course he came. No matter what’s happened in the past, he loves his big brother.” Russell tucked you into his side, smiling when you rested your head on his shoulder. “I found a job in Wyoming. Missing prized show dog. I was going to head out in the morning, see if I’m any good at this.”

“You’ll be wonderful,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “Be safe though.”

“I will be.” You turned in his hold to face him, wrapping your arms around his back in a hug. “It’s been a long time since anyone cared if I was safe. It’s nice. This weird little family you have is…I’m jealous to be honest.”

“You shouldn’t be. It’s yours too.” You raised your eyebrows, Russell raising his own, eyes going wide. “No! No, I don’t mean like, officially yours. Like metaphorically. I’m not ready for anything official. Someday but so not right now.”

“Me either,” you said, the tension running out of his face. “I want to know who we are without our old jobs, how to be a happy queen of darkness.”

“We’ll figure it out together,” he said. “Speaking of which, I got you a present for helping organize all of this and cooking for ten people after literally just moving cross country. I know it was stressful so I wanted to make it up to you.”

“I don’t need a present, Russ,” you said, a sneaky smile forming on his face. “Oh. This is a present for the both of us.”

“I got you a new pair of jammies, the lilac set this time,” he said. Russell’s smile grew as yours did, his arms lifting you off the ground, bringing you to eye level. “You deserve all the good things in life, qark.”

“I think we got something pretty good starting right here,” you said, kissing him once, Russell humming.

“I couldn’t agree more, baby. Couldn’t agree more.”

__________

[deadpanjisung]

❦ in life ❦

pairing: idol!i.n x afab!reader x idol!lee know MDNI!!!!!  genre: angst, smut, kinda fluffy too wc: 13.5k cw: use of y/n, swearing, unconventional relationship dynamics, insecurities,tension , etc etc smut cw: breast play, fingering, oral sex (fem!receiving), unprotected sex, missionary sex, doggystyle, cre4mpie, cumplay, voyerism, multiple partners(reader x minho; reader x jeongin), voyerism, kinda pervy!i.n, minho likes sharing, talks about poly!relationships feedback is encouraged ◡̈ i hope you enjoy♡ -˚₊‧꒰ა ginny ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

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Copyright Ⓒ 2025 by deadpanjisung

All rights reserved.

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Everything was okay in Jeongin’s life. He was dating someone new, had satisfactory career, time-off to see his friends and family (even with his idol schedule), amongst other things. Jeongin was perfectly content with it. That is, until the incident. Or so he called it that. The particular incident that changed how he viewed relationships. The incident that fragmented his love life. The incident that made him see you in an entirely different light.

The life of an idol was chaotic, complicated and controversial. Jeongin had learned to manage it at a very young age, which added to the controversy of it all. He didn’t struggle with his work-life balance anymore, unless it was a special occasion, usually for comebacks or fan-meets. He even thought about getting a dog at some point, but Minho wouldn’t like it. You and your cat spent a lot of time at the dorm and she “strongly dislikes” dogs; he got used to your cat soon enough, anyways. He enjoyed spending his time with her and it made him closer to you; in a platonic way, his intentions weren’t always questionable. He believed that the incident changed him. 

Jeongin arrived home later than usual that night. He spent all day recording and took the girl he was seeing (he still hadn’t asked her to be his girlfriend officially. Formalities were something that he valued a lot in relationships, and he didn’t quite feel they were ready to take that step yet) out to the movies. He was exhausted that night, but he would be free the next day and he wanted to spend his day off lazing around the dorm. He placed his things down on the couch, not caring about annoying his hyungs. 

The dorm was dark, too dark for a normal night. He walked over to his room and noticed that all the doors leading up to it were open. Everyone made a habit of keeping their doors open while they slept, unless you slept over. He, then, found your cat sleeping peacefully in his bed. But Minho’s door was open? He swore that it was. You must have had something early the next day and left Minho to care for her, you rarely did that, but it wouldn’t be the first time.

Jeongin figured that he should go to Minho’s room and get her food and water bowls if she was staying there for the night. His feet took him past Felix’s room, and then Seungmin’s and he stopped at Minho’s door. Eyes widened and jaw dropped almost to the floor. He couldn’t look away, not when it concerned you. 

The room’s lights were dim and a deep blue color. You were there. On the bed. On top of Minho. You were riding Minho in reverse cowgirl position. Jeongin had a perfect view of your body. Minho was sitting against his bed’s headboard; your head was back against Minho’s chest and your and Minho’s eyes were closed shut. Jeongin noticed your face next, one of Minho’s hands was covering your mouth to suppress the noises you were making. Yet he could still faintly hear your muffled moans. 

You were topless, Minho’s other hand grabbed at one of your breasts whilst yours handled the other, you rolled your pebbled nipple between your fingers. Your movements were rough, and Minho was out of breath. He looked further down, your dark skirt covered Minho’s crotch, your other hand was grabbing at his thigh for support. Jeongin almost gasped. He felt blood rushing to his crotch, making his jeans tighten and looked down at himself. Am I really that sick? He pondered for a second, until he heard a gasp.

“M-min, I think someone’s there!” You announced with a moan. Jeongin had never ran so fast in his life. He knew Minho would go after him as soon as you got off him. He reached his room just in time to go unnoticed. He leaped unto the bed, not even noticing that your cat wasn’t there anymore and pretended to be asleep. Minho’s footsteps outside were evident. Jeongin was sure that he was checking the other rooms first as his was the furthest from Minho’s. He felt Minho’s eyes burning through him and he prayed to anyone who would listen that Minho didn’t notice that he wasn’t actually sleeping, that he was still fully dressed.

“Min, I think it might’ve just been Meadow. I found her next to your bathroom.” You whispered. Meadow squirmed in your arms and landed on the floor, entering his room again. “The boys are clearly sleeping. Let’s give it a rest. They probably haven’t even noticed that I’m here, their doors are still open.” He felt someone slowly close the door as if to not wake him up. 

Jeongin barely slept that night for many reasons. Visions of you plagued his mind like nothing else ever had. He couldn’t get over your face, your hands, the way your hair fell over your shoulders, your breasts. He knew you were pretty; he had always thought so. He also knew that your friendship with Minho was a little strange.

You were always over at the dorm. At first, they asked Minho if you were dating, and he always denied it. So, they just assumed that you were anyways, and that Minho didn’t want to admit that he was vulnerable enough to be in a relationship. It became an unspoken rule amongst them, nobody had developed any compromising feelings for you because you were with Minho. You stayed over a lot, too and always slept in Minho’s room. Initially, he pretended to sleep on the couch and leave his room to you but after a while, he just didn’t bother anymore. If Minho’s door was closed, they knew that you were there.

None of them minded having you over. On the contrary, they missed your presence when Minho decided to spend the weekend at yours instead or on particularly busy schedules when you couldn’t visit. You won them over quickly, being effortlessly funny and charming. You would tell them jokes and ask them about their interests. You had deep conversations about parallel universes and aliens with him. You asked him about his other friends and video games and fashion. You gave him dating advice, and always ended it with “but what do I know anyways? I haven’t been on a real date in ages”. He always laughed at that because for him, you had been on dates with Minho for two years. Unquestioned. 

Nonetheless, now that he confirmed that you and Minho were, at least, somewhat together, something more than friends; his mind kept going back to you. You, talking to him late at night, you cuddled up to Felix and/or Jisung when they hosted movie nights, you crying whilst watching sad videos on YouTube or TikTok, you that day when you rescued Meadow as a kitten, you laughing at his jokes, you…riding… Minho.

Jeongin thought about touching himself that night but decided against it despite his cock throbbing painfully in his pants. He wouldn’t want anyone to jerk off thinking about the girl he was seeing. He felt guilty about the fact that he had recently started dating her, too. Why was he thinking about another person, about you like this? Would this affect his relationship with her? Would this affect his relationship with Minho? Would this affect his relationship with you? Howwould this affect his relationship with you? 

Maybe it’ll die down by tomorrow, was how he convinced himself to fall asleep just before sunrise. He slept for more than half of the afternoon. But at one point, he couldn’t ignore the laughs coming from the living room. His door had been opened, the things he dropped off in the living room were sitting on his floor and Meadow was standing atop his dresser.

“Good morning, Meadow.” He yawned. He didn’t even think about the night before at first. But as he left his room, you were standing just outside, and his eyes widened. 

“Oh- Hi Innie,” you said with a smile, scrunching up your nose. “How are you feeling?” But you didn’t even wait until he answered, “sorry, I just came to get Meadow. Y’know, she gets fussy when she hasn’t had her lunch.” 

As soon as Meadow saw you, she jumped down to the floor. Jeongin knew you were still talking but he couldn’t comprehend what you were saying. Not when his eyes were fixated on you, bending down to pick Meadow up from the floor, inside his room.

“So, Innie, are you okay? You look flushed. Do you feel sick?” You asked again and you held your hand up to his forehead, he dodged you. 

“Um, no. I mean, yeah. I-I’m good, noona. T-thanks.” He avoided your eyes as he spoke, mostly because he felt his cock starting to harden at having you close like that, almost touching him. He was ever so thankful for wearing an oversized shirt that covered his crotch. You nodded and made your way back to Minho’s room. You walked with elegant strides and swaying of hips, not matching the fact that you were deep in conversation with Meadow as she squirmed in your arms as usual.

Jeongin spent an hour in the bath, because he felt dirty but also because he was trying to get you out of his head. He refused to touch himself at the thought of you and Minho. He just couldn’t do it. If you were to find out, you’d feel so disrespected, and he could never to that to you. Not when you had been nothing but nice to him. 

Besides, he didn’t feel particularly attracted to Minho either. He always thought you’d be a better match for Hyunjin than Minho. Once he guilted himself into suppressing his erection, he dried off and joined Felix and Seungmin in the kitchen. Minho had cooked chicken breast and rice, Jeongin felt like that was everything they ate now but he didn’t complain because it was your favorite. The loud thud of a door made them turn their heads towards Minho’s room.

“This can’t be fucking happening.” You muttered. “See you later, guys.” You grabbed your coat, Minho walked close behind you, without another word, you both left the dorm. They looked at each other refrained from saying anything.

Jeongin returned to his room after eating. He didn’t quite feel like socializing that afternoon. Instead, he spent hours playing video games in silence with Beomgyu and Heesung and cuddling Meadow, who was still there. That was the second indicator that something complicated had happened. Night fell and neither you or Minho had returned or texted. Were you two fighting? Did you figure out that it was him watching you the night before? All kinds of thoughts rushed through his head. He closed his door; in case you returned.

The next day, Minho sent a text to their dorm group chat asking someone to feed Meadow for him. Felix had already fed her. They had dance practice that day, so Jeongin knew that he’d see Minho eventually because nobody could pry Minho away from dancing.

“What do you think happened?” Felix was the first to bring it up on their ride over to work. Jeongin just shrugged to mask his nervousness.

“At first, I assumed she was pissed at him, you know how Minho gets when he’s in one of his moods. But he didn’t come home, so I don’t know.” Seungmin answered. 

“Should I ask him? Or her? If she comes in for work today.” Felix asked. Jeongin almost forgot that you worked at the company. With you being a producer and songwriter, mainly for Xdinary Heroes and Day6, he didn’t see you much at work; unless you were hunting down Jooyeon who often sought hiding with Chan or when you helped Jisung with lyrics or with recording demos. 

You were never around, Jeongin sometimes caught glimpses of you getting coffee and fruity pastries at the cafeteria. On an average day, Minho or Changbin grabbed them for you. On the rare occasion, Minho would ask Jeongin to get yours too. 

“Minho won’t say anything if it’s personal anyways.” Seungmin added. “She probably won’t either.” Jeongin just shrugged again. What if something happened to you? You would never leave Meadow alone without notice if it wasn’t serious.

When they arrived at the building, Jeongin and Seungmin ordered their morning iced americano at the cafeteria and made their way to the practice room. Jeongin’s gaze instantly fell on Minho, who was dancing. His moves were heavy, and anyone could feel the emotion he was conveying. Minho didn’t talk much, he preferred to show, and dancing was his favorite form of expression. Whatever happened must’ve been hard for you and him, too.

Jeongin looked around the room to notice that Hyunjin, Jisung and Changbin were there already. He took a seat on the couch and took out his phone, he saw that Jiah, the girl he was dating, had texted him. She wasn’t an idol; he tried to date an idol before, but getting around scheduling conflicts was too hard to maintain a relationship. And he didn’t believe in dating without an endgame.

 He wanted to have a relationship with genuine feelings and a real connection; something that hadn’t happen often in his life. He met Jiah through Heesung; she was beautiful, intelligent, hardworking, sweet. When he described his “type”, if that even existed, she had a lot of attributes that fit that idealized imagery. Nonetheless, even if she was almost perfect for him, he didn’t feel such a strong connection with her. They had only been dating for a short few months and he really wanted to give the relationship time to blossom. He was aware that he wasn’t the easiest person to bond with or to get to open up or be vulnerable with, but he was willing to try.

“Minho hyung,” Felix interrupted his thoughts as he entered the room, “What happened to Y/N? Is she okay?” Jeongin face-palmed himself at Felix’s lack of discretion.

“Wait, something happened to Y/N?” Jisung asked, gathering up next to Minho.

“Leave it.” Minho answered as he kept dancing. Felix and Jisung just stared at him, Hyunjin and Changbin joining them. Jeongin and Seungmin remained on the couch, now looking over at the group. They stared blankly at him. Minho sighed. “Fine. But if you annoy her, I’ll kill all of you. So, Y/N’s apartment flooded because her stupid upstairs neighbor left his stupid water running for the whole weekend. And it ruined some wires or something. Now she has no electricity and probably won’t have for about a week or two because people are inept, and they have to work on some renovations.”

“Fuck, how is that even possible?” Felix said. “Does she have somewhere to stay?” Minho shrugged. They were aware that your family lived far away from you, and you didn’t have many friends outside of work either. 

“We stayed there cleaning everything that got wet. She said that she’d ask JYP if he had an extra room or apartment or something somewhere.”

“She already almost lives at the dorm, why doesn’t she stay with us?” Seungmin deadpanned. Everyone looked back at him. Minho glared.

“She said she didn’t want to bother you and I respect her.” Minho sighed again.

“I don’t mind her staying there.” Jeongin spoke up before thinking.

“Yeah, of course, we love her.” Felix agreed. “And, Seungmin even suggested it so, we’re good.”

“I kind of told her last night. But she wouldn’t have it.” Minho sighed once more.

“If she feels uncomfortable at yours, Y/N-nnie could stay at ours. But she can’t bring the cat.” Changbin added. Minho glared at him. Aside from Minho, you were closest to Changbin; but you rarely visited his dorm because you didn’t like leaving Meadow alone for too long.

“Okay, so she’ll stay at ours. We’ll negotiate with her at lunch time.” Felix concluded, happily clapping his hands while looking at Seungmin and Jeongin. They nodded while standing up. Jeongin knew that this wasn’t the best way to work with the situation, but he didn’t have a better idea, so he agreed. Minho rolled his eyes, but didn’t stop them. A very sleep deprived Chan arrived at that moment.

“Why is everyone so tense?” Chan asked. And as synchronized as possible, they rolled their eyes. “Okay, let’s start.”

Dance practice felt eternal to Jeongin, he assumed Minho was just as irritated. He took every opportunity to judge everyone’s performance as harshly as he could. While, Jeongin was having a hard time concentrating and kept making mistakes. He was worried about your well-being above all. He, of course, had no opposition about you staying at the dorm. He’d do that for any of his friends. But he was also scared about what that would bring out in him. When you were over, Minho was always there. You staying over full-time was different even if it’s for a week, meant that Minho wouldn’t always be there too, leaving an opening for Jeongin to be alone with you. What if something happens? He wished something would, but he’d never admit to it. You have a partner, and she has a partner, get a grip, he kept thinking. 

“Enough!” Changbin spat. “We’ll call it a day and work double tomorrow, okay?” Everyone nodded, exhausted at the intensity of Minho and the practice alike. Minho scoffed and kept dancing. Jeongin knew Minho well. Therefore, he also knew that Minho was just afraid of how you’d react. You didn’t like people seeing you in vulnerable positions such as this one.

“Okay, we’ll go find her and then what?” Jisung asked, whilst drying his sweat off with a towel. They walked towards the hallway, leaving Chan with Minho back at the practice room. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” Changbin answered. Jeongin questioned whether that was a good idea or not. He knew you were close to Changbin, probably closer to him than anyone there. But Changbin wasn’t exactly the most tactful person in the group.

“I think she’d like it better if I asked her.” Hyunjin argued. Yeah, that would probably be better. You and Hyunjin were close too as you shared art, film, and photography as interests, your music tastes were similar too. Jeongin shuddered as he came to the realization that you, in personality, resembled Hyunjin most out of all of them.

“I think it should be one of us,” Seungmin pointed to himself and Jeongin and Felix, “you know, considering she’ll be staying at our dorm.”

“Okay. You three go. And then, we’ll meet at our studio when you finish.” Changbin said. “You got this! Hwaiting!” He raised a fist and jogged off to the stairs. Jisung and Hyunjin followed suit, in defiance. 

They didn’t seem to find you at first. Jeongin knew you had a habit of working yourself too hard, especially when stressed. 

“She’s probably at the studio.” Seungmin suggested. “We could go over there…”

“Minho hyung was busy so I’ll think I’ll get noona her coffee, then.” Jeongin volunteered. “And a donut or something, I don't know.”

“Okay. Meet us there?” Felix asked. Jeongin nodded. He didn’t know your order by heart yet but he did have it written down on his notes app. He waited in line at the small coffee shop at the cafeteria. He felt a light touch to his shoulder.

“Hi, Innie.” you greeted. “I hope Meadow didn’t give you too much trouble last night.” He waited a second to turn around. He didn’t feel ready to see your face again. But he did, and you looked as stunning as ever to him. Your face was carefully made up. You were wearing eyeliner and mascara but underneath he could tell that your eyes were still just a little swollen from crying. You had your glasses on, something you didn’t usually wear. You wore a casual outfit, nothing too fancy, a white button-down, blue trousers and loafers. Your tattoos were slightly visible as you had your sleeves rolled up. As soon as you noticed, you rolled them down. He knew that you were still conscious about showing your tattoos in the workplace.

“H-hi, noona.” He smiled at you. “She doesn’t really care to be nice, does she?” 

“I guess not, huh?” You chuckled. Jeongin’s heart fluttered at that. “Are you okay? You seemed kinda flushed yesterday. And today, too. Is JYP working you too hard? I’ll talk to him.” You raised your fists as if you were punching someone. He snickered at that.

“I’m good, noona. I promise.” He answered, evading the comment about him being flushed. “We were actually looking for you.” You rolled your eyes at that.

“Oh no. Minho freaking told you, didn’t he?” You started, “I swear, he just doesn’t let me suffer in peace. I don’t want you to worry. Plus, I spoke to Jeongyeon and she told me she’d get me a room at hers since Nayeon is visiting her family this week.” 

“Noona, respectfully, I don’t think Felix will take no for an answer. He was very adamant.” 

“What about you? Can’t you be my advocate, then?” You batted your lashes at him jokingly. He looked everywhere except your eyes. 

“Sorry. I won’t take no for an answer either.” He shrugged. “So, which pastry?” You looked over at the display and pointed to a strawberry donut as you turned around to grab a table. Jeongin didn’t catch the way you smiled at that. He texted Felix and Seungmin. 

When his order was ready, he joined you at the table. You were frowning at them jokingly.

“Okay, so everything is settled already.” Felix updated Jeongin. “Changbin hyung is taking Y/N-nnie to her apartment tonight and then, dropping her off at ours.”

“Is Minho really okay with this?” You asked as you took your coffee from Jeongin’s hands, your fingers brushed against his and he froze but quickly gained his composure and pulled his chair out.

“C’mon, the old man jr. would rather die than let you stay anywhere else.” Seungmin answered. “If Minho hyung gets tired of you, we can throw him out.” 

“And you’re okay with throwing Min out for me?” You asked while looking at Jeongin and Felix. Min, that’s how you referred to him that night. You had never used nicknames when talking about Minho before, at least not with them.

“Yeah, of course, noona. It’d be a relief.” Jeongin joked. You chuckled.

“Okay. Color me convinced. I’d love to see you guys ganging up on Minho for me.” 

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“I’m guessing they’ll give you a key or, like, the passcode or something?” Changbin said. “Y/N, you have to ask for a way in!” You shushed him. He was carrying three suitcases full of your clothing and other important items. 

“Okay okay, I’m sure we’ll work something out.” You chuckled. “Thanks, Bin. I owe you one.”

“Please. You owe me more than one.” He scoffed. “I introduced you to Minho, remember?” You did; of course you did. Was it possible to forget seeing Minho’s stupid smirk for the first time? Being absolutely breath-taken by him? His sultry eyes following you as you sat down next to Changbin. Changbin’s arm around your shoulders, your face blushing as you felt Minho’s stare. “The fact that he had the audacity to flirt with you while thinking that we were dating.”

“Hey! He openly asked if you were willing to share me. I think that’s pretty noble of him.” Changbin scoffed at that. You and Changbin met while taking a production class in university. He only admitted this to you once, but he thought you were one of the most genuinely talented people he’d ever met; comparable only to Jisung. That was what he told JYP when he was looking to hire a new producer. 

“Please. I would never date you. You’re too lazy and too morally ambiguous. My jutdwae could never.” Minho opened the door.

“Okay, then. Enough slandering our new guest.” Minho said, as he took your bag off your shoulder. 

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You and Minho met at a company party. Well, the afterparty at the 3RACHA/Hyunjin dorm. Changbin dragged you there, as you had been working at their company for some odd months but still hadn’t met any of his members. Changbin knew you were shy, so he did all the talking for you at first. He held you close to himself, made you drinks and included you in conversations, until Jisung asked him for help. Then, Minho swept you off your feet. You weren’t sure what initially made you attracted to Minho: his face? His body? His confidence? The sheer arrogance which he carried himself with? Minho’s first impression hadn’t exactly been a reflection of the Minho that you had learned to love. He had been cocky and flirty and annoying in your eyes. Your Minho is sweet and funny, caring and a little hot-headed and smart but silly, the same arrogant Minho with so many other layers. He never left your side after that party. 

You remembered exactly when you and Minho crossed the friendship threshold. Once he had cleared up that you and Changbin weren’t dating, he got to know you first. Physically, you were everything that he loved: tall, chubby cheeks, soft curves, and boba eyes. He couldn’t believe that someone as mesmerizing as you existed outside of his imagination, that’s what he told Changbin; and Changbin told you later. He always said that your sense of humor and undeniable charm sealed it for him. 

You were drinking wine at your apartment. Minho had been anticipating this for a while. He looked at you. Then your lips were on his and he woke up in your bed in the morning. And then, you woke up in his the next day. Soon after, Minho asked you to be his girlfriend, but you felt unworthy of it. Minho was such a beautiful human being, and you felt that you weren’t comparable. Your insecurity wouldn’t let you fathom another answer than “I’m sorry”. As a result, you agreed to not see each other for a while. You arrived at his room, sobbing, two days later. You agreed to keep what you had, no labels. You don’t know why you had agreed to that instead. Why had that been easier than saying yes? Was it really less hurtful to him as you thought it would? None of you saw other people without agreeing to first, either. You never actually talked about your relationship status; falling into conformity in each other’s arms most night was enough. 

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Jeongin visibly shuddered when he heard you and Changbin outside the front door. He had been on call with Jiah, listening to her talk about her day. 

“Um, Jiah. I’m sorry to cut you off but I must go. One of my housemates needs my help.”

“Okay, yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow, then, right?” Jiah’s voice rang through the phone, but Jeongin was preoccupied with your figure walking down the hall already.

“Yeah. I’ll be there after work.” He answered. “Good night.” And hung up. Meadow was sleeping on his bed, so he knew that you’d be there in no time.

“How is my daughter doing?” He froze upon hearing your voice from his door. Meadow perked up. “I’m sorry for this, Innie.” You sat on the bed. His bed. Meadow jumped on your lap. You laid down. On his bed. Meadow laid down on top of you, cuddling to your face. Jeongin couldn’t get the outline of your breasts out of his head.

“Y/N-ah!” Changbin’s voice rang, followed by a sneeze. “I can’t hang here, or I’ll sneeze my life away. You’re welcome. BYE.”

“Bye, Binnie. Thank you! I love you!” You shouted back. I love you? Jeongin had never heard you tell anyone that, not even Minho or Felix or Hyunjin and especially not him or Seungmin.

“Oh, Fuck you!” Changbin answered with a laugh. “I love you Y/N-ah, I love you too, I.N-ah.” Jeongin scoffed as he heard his name. They heard the front door close.

“She missed you.” Jeongin barely mustered the courage to say that, especially when you were on his bed.

“I missed her too. More, probably.” You answered. “It’s crazy how one day you don’t have a care in the world and the next you have a little interdependent feline friend.” You sat up and Jeongin was staring at you. “Sorry, Innie. I know you don’t like having people in your room.”

“I think Meadow kind of changed that in me.” He said. “I don’t mind having you here, noona. Just as long as you’re not annoying, please. I need my peace.”

“Noted.” You said whilst getting up. “I’ll go unpack now. Goodnight, I.N-ah.” You took Meadow and left the room, and his door remained open that night.

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You kept thinking about that night too; even as you laid down in Minho’s bed, something you were used to by then. You swore that you saw someone at the door, watching you and Minho. So far none of the members were acting differently towards you. It could’ve just been your overly active imagination or Meadow lurking. Minho entered the room with a glass of water for you.

“Here jagi,” he placed the glass in your hand, “for your vitamins and the birth control.”

“Thanks, Min.” You said and searched for your pill organizer on the nightstand. You weren’t too fond of taking birth control, but it was easier than being perpetually anxious about pregnancy scares. 

“Thank you for staying here.” He said as he laid down next to you. “I want you to feel comfortable with us. I’m sorry if I was too intense last night.”

“Nah, don’t worry. I thought about it all day today.” You reassured. “If our roles were reversed, I would’ve annoyed you until you agreed to stay with me. I just didn’t want to bother the kids. But they said they would gang up on you if you said you wanted me out.” Minho chuckled at that.

“Hah! They know they can’t take me.” There was a pause. “Okay, maybe Changbin or Chan hyung, but they don’t live here, do they?” He smirked and pulled you closer to him. “It’s been a tough few days for you. Let’s try to sleep.” You cuddled up to him, and the night fell calmly.

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Jeongin couldn’t sleep again. He couldn’t stop thinking about you in his bed. How you would feel pressed up to him. How sex would feel like with you. You, who were equally as passionate as you were talented. Would you be gentle with him? Would you be rough like you were with Minho? Jeongin wasn’t very experienced. He’d only had sex a handful of times before, but when he did, it was never a one-night stand or just a fling. He liked having a deeper connection with someone before getting to that stage, he felt like he had one with you. Maybe that’s what was wrong with his brain; he saw you naked and thought back at your relationship, established that you had a connection and then he wanted to fuck you. He hadn’t even had sex with Jiah yet. Maybe he needed to get that off his chest and he’d stop thinking about you. 

Jeongin sighed and got up, walking to the kitchen. He saw the light on and supposed it was Felix and the repercussions of his habit of playing League of Legends at 3am. He almost jumped when he saw you.

“Hi noona.” He said and yawned, trying to seem as unbothered as possible. He took a glass from the cabinet but dropped it due to his shaking hands. It didn’t break, as it fell unto the carpet. Jeongin thanked God for that. You rushed over to him anyways.

“Are you actually okay, Innie?” You asked. He was always a little nervous around you, he was aware of that, and you were aware of that too. “Sit down. I’m making tea. Maybe that’ll help with whatever you’re going through.” He nodded and did as you told him. He didn’t talk much; you usually broke the ice with him. “So, Minho’s sleep schedule doesn’t align with mine. I think I’ll crash on the couch for the rest of the night. He goes to sleep too early, you know? And wakes up even earlier.”

“Yeah, he tends to do that.” Was all Jeongin could say. 

“I have a terrible sleep schedule, though. So, I guess I’m the problem here.” You kept speaking as you served the two cups of tea. “You want some ice cream or something?” He shook his head. 

“I’m on a diet right now.” He replied.

“I respect that.” You placed his cup on the table before him. He caught a glimpse of your cleavage as you leaned down and he felt his cock twitch. “But this doesn’t really happen every day. Like, what are the odds of you and me, drinking tea at the witching hour on a random Tuesday.” 

“Fine.” He said in defeat. He really was craving something to eat. He knew about your sweet tooth and wished he could be less restrictive to be able to actually enjoy it with you. 

“It’s frozen yogurt anyways… so it’s kind of healthy?” You added, doubtfully. You placed a tub of mango flavored frozen yogurt and two spoons next to his cup of tea. You took the seat beside him instead of your usual seat. “I hope you don’t mind sharing what’s left.”

“It’s fine.” He took a few sips of his tea whilst you checked your phone. You always tried to fill in the gaps of silence with him and he felt the need to do it now. He scanned your face, you looked tired. Your eyes weren’t swollen like earlier; you didn’t have makeup on so he could study your expression lines and the dark circles beneath your eyes. “Are you okay, noona?” 

“Hm?” You look up to him. “Oh, yeah. Don’t worry about me, Innie. I’m, like, so old and I’ve been through everything.” You were just a little younger than Minho so that made him laugh. He called Minho old, but he never saw you as “old”. “What? You can’t make fun of an auntie! C’mon!” He laughed a bit more. You smiled at that. “In all seriousness, I’m fine. Jeongyeon offered me a place to stay but I’d rather be here with you.” His heart fluttered at that, and he was sure that he blushed, too. You grabbed a spoon and started eating the not-so-frozen yogurt. “Eat too, please. It’ll be normal yogurt by the time you finish your tea.”

“I’m glad you’re okay, noona.”

 And your heart fluttered too.

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Jeongin was able to finish his schedule for the day quicker than anticipated. He was running on caffeine and no sleep, after all. When he returned to his room after his conversation with you the night before, he couldn’t prevent his nonstop blushing or his ultimate feelings of guilt and embarrassment. He still couldn’t comprehend how he went from being nothing but courteous and careful about you to this whole mess of a person he had become. He hadn’t seen Minho or you that day, he was thankful for that. 

Nonetheless, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. Were you recording in the room next to theirs? Were you working in your office? He decided to get a coffee for himself and before he consciously consulted his thought process, he had ordered one for you too. He knew that it was unusual for him to buy things for someone if they weren’t specifically asked for. He even considered giving your highly complex coffee order to someone else. His feet carried him to you. He passed by the studio first, but you weren’t there. Then, he walked to your office. He breathed in, trying to decipher an incomprehensible conversation inside, and knocked on your door.

“Yes? Come in!” You half-shouted from the inside. He opened the door and saw you sitting at your desk, with a pen and notebook in hand. Despite having multiple computers or digital instruments to work with, you always leaned to using the rawest form of creation. Hyunjin and Jisung were sitting on the chairs next to you. You didn’t even look up to him. “You see? Once you add this phrase, that whole verse doesn’t make sense. I think it’ll be better to leave it for the bridge and have cohesion overall. But it’s your call.” Then, you looked up to him and immediately smiled. “Oh! Hi, Jeongin. What’s up?” You looked down at his hands next.

“Ah! Um, I know you had trouble sleeping last night and, uh, I got this for you. As a gratitude, for the tea, you know…” He said and mentally face-palmed himself. He walked closer to you and placed the coffee on your desk.

“Ah, Innie. I really appreciate it, but you didn’t have to. Thank you, really.” You smiled as you lifted the cup to your lips. Jeongin gulped as your lips parted. “Oh, actually, are you busy tonight?” He looked at Hyunjin and Jisung’s eyes for the first time then. He couldn’t bear to look at yours; not when he was imagining how your darling lips would look around his cock.

“Oh? Yeah. I’m hanging out with Jiah, you know, the girl I told you about.” He nervously answered.

“AH! That’s even better than what we were going to ask you!” Jisung said as he stood up. He wiggled his eyebrows at Jeongin as he wrapped his arm around him. “So, are you going to ask her to be your giiiiirrrrllllfriend?” Jisung sang the last word. You and Hyunjin were staring at him curiously now.

“Ah, hyung, why would you-,” he cut himself off, “it’s not like that yet. We’re just getting to know each other…” You stood up and placed a hand on Jisung’s shoulder.

“C’mon, Jisung, concentrate. I have other things to do than just give you advice that you won’t take! Let’s just keep going.” You said, lifting your hand off his shoulder. “Thank you so much, Innie. I’d love to have you here any time except for now because Jisung can’t concentrate if there’s more than two people here.” You glared at Jisung as Hyunjin chuckled.

“HEY! I’m more than capable of being serious when...” Jisung started but Jeongin cut him off.

“Oh, yeah. I, sadly, do know Jisung can be like that.” He said and smiled. “Bye, noona. Good luck!”

“HEY! Why are you talking to your hyung like that! Yan-” Jisung started but Jeongin made his exit before he could continue, a satisfied grin on his face due to his annoyance of Jisung. You walked out of the office.

“Hey, Innie! Are you leaving just right now?” You asked as he walked away.

“Yeah. Do you need a lift?” He predicted, you nodded.

“Yeah, I just need 5 minutes with Jisung and Hyune and I’ll be out. I can ask Binnie if you’re in a rush. It’s just that Minho isn’t here today and I-” You replied, he held up one hand to stop you.

“Don’t worry, I can wait.”

“Thank you so much, Innie. You’re really saving me these days.”

Jeongin texted Jiah that he’d arrive a few minutes later than expected. He planned on stopping at the dorm to freshen up, anyways. He pondered how he would handle the situation with Jiah, not being sure that his feelings for her were actually blossoming or not. 

“Jeongin-ah!” Jisung said as he walked out of your office. “Have fun at your date tonight!” He winked at Jeongin, he rolled his eyes at Jisung. You walked out with Hyunjin after Jisung left.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” He asked you in his soft voice. Jeongin perked up when he heard that, suddenly interested in the conversation.

“Yeah, count me in. That sounds exciting.” You answered and smiled widely at Hyunjin. 

“Sounds great. I’ll pick you up early, then. We’ll get breakfast if you want.”

“Sure, that sounds nice.” You said, he leaned forward and hugged you tightly. Jeongin stared at you as you hugged him back. Hyunjin tucked your hair behind your ear and kissed your head as he pulled away. Jeongin deadpanned. What did Hyunjin think he was doing? You’re Minho’s girlfriend? Minho would surely lash out on him if he saw that. 

“See you, Y/N-nie. Bye bye, Jeonginnie!” Hyunjin said and you waved as he walked away. 

You walked to his car in silence, while texting someone an apparently long message. When you got in, his stomach flipped. You looked so pretty in the passenger seat of his car. He would gladly take you to and from work every day if he could admire the simplicity of your beauty like that: the face-framing pieces of your hair were tucked in, you had taken off your blazer, your makeup had oxidized a bit due to wear. And your smell, you smelled like rosemary, your strawberry mocha and a sweetness he couldn’t decipher.

“Sorry for the wait.” You spoke up as he started the car.

“Aish, don’t worry about that. I agreed to wait, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but it was like 15 minutes instead of 5. I kind of felt guilty for not taking Hyune’s offer tonight.”

“Right, busy day tomorrow?”

“Yeah, we were going to go today, to a photography exhibit not too far from here. But I’m so exhausted. Plus, since Minho’s out all weekend camping and, y’know he invited everyone to catch up with him tomorrow. Camping isn’t really for me, though. I’m more of a homebody. Plus, don’t tell the boys, but I’m also in dire need of some peace and quiet.” You chuckled. He couldn’t help but smile at that.

“You don’t like camping?” 

“I don’t, particularly. I can go, but if someone else volunteers, that’d be better. Do you like it? Are you going to meet up with Minho too?” You chuckled again. He shook his head. It was then that Jeongin tensed up and realized this is the first time that he’s been entirely alone with you in an inescapable place. The drive wasn’t long, approximately 5 minutes left, but he underestimated the effect you were having on him. “Is your day busy tomorrow?” 

“Huh?” he was deep in thought. “Oh, no. I’m going to work out and then rest.”

“Do you want to watch a movie?” You asked. “I asked Minho if I could invite Hyune and he said he’d think about it, but I didn’t know if you’d be okay with it? Felix and Seungmin already bailed on us to go camping.”

“Ah, yeah, I don’t mind. I actually have this horror film that I really want to watch, and you know Yongbok doesn’t like them.” He replied. Why had he been the last person you asked, though? He knew that you were probably closer to Felix than him, but you definitely weren’t closer to Seungmin, from his perspective.

“Great! It’s settled then.” 

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Jeongin met Jiah at a restaurant near her apartment. He had gotten there a few minutes later than anticipated.

“Hi, sorry I’m late.” He said as he sat down. “You look great.” She really did; Jiah always looked great. 

“Thank you so much, Jeongin. You do too.” She replied with a smile.

“Were you able to order ahead?”

“Yes… Food’s supposed to be here soon enough.”

“Thank you so much. I’m kind of starving.” She smiled sympathetically at him which alerted him. 

“Jeongin?” She asked, after a long pause.

“Yeah?”

“I actually invited you here to talk to you about something…” The waiter arrived with the food. When he left, she continued with a sigh. “I wanted to talk about us…” Jeongin swore he felt his heart stop for a moment then. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what we have and myself, too. I-I was recently offered a job opportunity in the United States. It’ll be a great work opportunity for me, but I’d have to be there for at least a year…” She took a breath. “I thought about long distance, we’ve sort of been there before, right? But a year is such a long time. I don’t want to tie you down by forcing you to be with me and not even being in the picture…”

“Hey.” He said gently, “I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m so happy you have this opportunity. Please don’t feel sorry for me. You’ve worked so hard for this opportunity. You love your job so much. So, if you want to take it, please take it… Don’t think about me or anyone else when it comes to this.”

“No, don’t say things like that, I’m going to cry.” She sniffled. Jeongin chuckled at that.

“Oh no. You can’t cry here. They’ll charge us extra if you do.” She chuckled at that. “In all seriousness, though, I’m not getting in the way of your career goals, just like you haven’t gotten in the way with mine. I support you entirely. Plus, you don’t know where we’ll be in a year or two. Perhaps you’ll be in the US, having fun at a local bar with your new work friends because they gave you a promotion. Or maybe we’re back here, catching up about our recent endeavors.”

“Oh, Jeongin-ah.” She said melancholically. “You’re so sweet. Thank you for understanding.”

“Of course.” 

Jeongin dropped Jiah off at her door, looked back and drove away. It was then that it hit him that he, now, didn’t have anyone to go on dates with or to rely on when he was sad or frustrated. Funnily enough, this had been the first night that he felt a more genuine connection with her. His eyes filled with tears for the first time that night. The drive to the dorm was quiet, and he was so deep in thought that not even you crossed his mind.

When he arrived, every door was closed so he sat down on the sofa and pondered about where his feelings have been during the past week, shedding a tear or two in the meantime. He cried for Jiah, and Minho, and you. But as if you were calling to him, he overheard you. At first, it was an accident. 

“Min- I’m sorry to call you all of a sudden while you’re having fun... No, it’s not that, everything’s okay here…” You softly started. “But I’ve been having this question in my brain all day.” There was a pause. “We’re together, right? Am I your girlfriend?” Jeongin knew he shouldn’t be listening to that, but his feet carried him closer to Minho’s door. “It’s just that… I’ve been having these weird feelings lately, um, well, it’s been a while now and… I-I’m not a good girlfriend, Min…” 

Jeongin felt terrible as he heard you sniffle, he wanted to hug you tightly, to kiss your tears away. He also wanted to continue listening but decided that your privacy was more important. So, he walked over to his shared bathroom and ran a bath for himself. And he contemplated the absurdity of it all, how both you and him were having such complicated feelings about your relationships at the same time. Him, having been broken up with, and yours, for whatever reason. He dozed off for a second, for the first time in days, he felt too tired to lie awake. 

He, then, dried himself off and exited the bathroom. He wanted to walk back to Minho’s door, to you, but he decided against it. He didn’t hear any crying either, so he returned to his room. That was the first night since the incident where Jeongin had a decent sleep.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・

You were gone when Jeongin woke up. He couldn’t sleep in often due to his frequent morning schedules and he took the opportunity every time he could to do so. It was already past eleven and he still needed to go to the gym. He pondered if he should bother eating breakfast until he walked into the kitchen. 

A yellow sticky note was stuck to the fridge door and in your writing, it read, “Hi Innie. I guess it’s tomorrow by the time you read this. I ordered tteokbokki for two out of habit. There’s one for you inside. -Y/N”. Jeongin furiously blushed at that. He was well aware that when you made a double order you were just thinking about Minho. Still, you gave it to him. You could’ve eaten it later that day, but you decided to give it to him. He scanned the fridge for the bowl and heated it up. He hadn’t craved tteokbokki in a while, but he would never deny it when it came from you.

He ate the mildly spicy beef tteokbokki and kept the sticky note in his pocket. He played Animal Crossing in his room for an hour. He wasn’t used to playing games that weren’t violent, but Felix convinced him to try it out. It did help him relax these days where he’s been on edge. He didn’t feel like going out anymore, the comfort of his bed lured him but had to force himself to do so. He spent an hour working out at the gym, an activity he usually did with Minho. He couldn’t stop thinking about Minho or Jiah, or you and Hyunjin and whatever you were doing. 

After working out, he went to the grocery store and picked up different food options, in hopes of changing their menu for the following week. When he arrived at the dorm, he saw Hyunjin’s car parked in Minho’s spot. He sighed and walked up the stairs to their floor. He opened the door to see you and Hyunjin sitting on the sofa. Hyunjin’s arm was sitting on top of the sofa behind you. Jeongin’s heart beat faster when your and Hyunjin’s eyes shifted to him. He scanned both of you for a second, if you were a couple, you’d be the prettiest couple he’d seen in real life. He knew that Hyunjin was a very explicit romantic and very attentive to detail which paired well with your giving nature. Jeongin noticed some new cat-friendly flowers on a vase in a bookshelf that Meadow never jumped on. He also noticed that you had a new Versace scarf wrapped around one of the handles of your purse. He felt a cold sweat. Could Hyunjin be any sleazier? Taking you on a date while Minho was away, buying you gifts, putting his arm around you. Who does he think he is? 

“Jeongin-ah!” Hyunjin exclaimed as he stood up to wrap an arm around him. But, Jeongin couldn’t play along, not when he was so explicitly flirting with you, something none of them dared to do, or did they? Hyunjin dragged him to sit on the sofa between you two, his clothed thigh brushing against your bare one. “How did your date go yesterday?” Jeongin wasn’t expecting that question.

“Uh, yeah, not great.” He answered while slightly blushing.

“Wait, what happened?” You asked with a concerned expression, putting your hand on his thigh. He automatically jumped and you immediately removed your hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“Uh, she dumped me. I guess, she’s moving in like a month... to the US.” You gasped.

“Oh no. I’m so sorry, Innie. I know that you liked her a lot.”

“Yeah, me too, Jeongin-ah. How are you?” Hyunjin asked, a question that had plagued him for a while. 

“Thanks, and, um, I’m okay. It’s weird but we weren’t together for long so… I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.” You both nodded at his response.

“So, Hyunjin is bailing on me too.” You changed the conversation topic. 

“Ah, no! You don’t get it, STAY asked me for that live. I forgot it was tonight, but I can’t let them down. I’ve been really busy lately and haven’t interacted with them, you know that.” He leaned over Jeongin’s lap to take your hand. “I’ll make it up to you.” Jeongin couldn’t help but make a disgusted expression. 

“I’m kidding, Hyunnie. I don’t mind. STAY is more important than watching a movie.” You chuckled, shaking your hand off his. “You’re traumatizing Innie.”

“Sorry, Jeonginnie. This is how our dynamic works.” He fluttered his eyelashes at Jeongin. Jeongin rolled his eyes at Hyunjin. Being around Hyunjin and him making flirty remarks at Jeongin always made him nervous, even if he played it off. You made him nervous too, he was on the shier side with women in general. 

He avoided eye contact with you and his other hyungs’ girlfriends at first. He worked a lot on being comfortable with you during these past years, just to not be able to look at you in the eyes anymore. Jeongin remembered the forgotten grocery bags next to him and walked over to unload them in the kitchen. He heard Hyunjin’s voice and stood in the kitchen doorway.

“I have to get going. I need to get some makeup on me before the live.”

“You look good just like this, though. I’m sure that STAY will like you this way, maybe even a little more.” You smiled at him as you stood up to walk him out. He blushed. Jeongin imagined you telling him that. “Thank you for everything, Jinnie. I had so much fun.” Jeongin’s heart fell at your use of a nickname when referring to Hyunjin.

“I’ll gladly take you out again whenever you want. Ask and you shall receive.” Hyunjin smiled sheepishly at you. His hand squeezed your waist as he leaned in and kissed your cheek, his lips lingered on you more than a friend’s would, in Jeongin’s opinion. “Bye, beautiful.” He looked at Jeongin. “Bye, Jeonginnie, stop being a pervert. We’re all friends here.” He gave you a quick hug and walked out the door. You turned to Jeongin’s direction, and your face was a deep red color, just like his.

“Sorry about that. You know Hyunjin, he’s just teasing.” You justified while awkwardly smiling. You walked over to Minho’s room and opened to door to open his door, revealing a sleeping Meadow. Hyunjin was less allergic to cats than Changbin, he had no problem taking his allergy pills beforehand, but you didn’t want to inconvenience him if it was a shorter stay. Meadow didn’t mind being in Minho’s room, she didn’t even wake up when you opened it. 

“Um, I’m going to shower.” Jeongin announced. “We can watch the movie after, if you want.”

“Yeah, only if you still want to…” You looked up at him.

“Of course, noona.” He grinned. Jeongin was quick to say yes to anything you asked him to do. 

Jeongin had questioned his abilities to self-regulate before the incident, but he never felt that he could become so out of touch with them. He felt like a schoolboy around you; he blushed when your eyes met his, his heart beat faster whenever he heard your voice, he replayed scenarios of you fucking him before going to sleep.

He couldn’t help but pray every time these came to mind. His guilt was eating him up, and he felt it served him right for being so reserved all of the time. He had nobody to seriously talk to about this. Anyone he told, would probably tell Minho in a heartbeat. He tried to sigh everything out during his cold shower before having to face you. 

When he left the bathroom, you had the living room set up. You had pushed both sofas against each other, into a makeshift bed of sorts. Jeongin gulped. There were snacks and blankets on the sofa, two tables next to the sofas, on top of those tables were your water bottles and some diet soda. Jeongin gulped once more. Did you expect him to lay down next to you? If it were any other member, he’d understand, but him? Jeongin was practically allergic to skinship and everyone knew it. He had avoided any close proximity to you since he met you, not having hugged you even once in those two years. 

“Ugh, Innie?” You snapped him out of his thoughts. “Are the couches good like this? This is how we always do it at the 3racha dorm, but I know you don’t like being close to anyone.” You chuckled. He smiled nervously, thinking: would it be weird to say no when everyone else is okay with it?

“Anything’s good with me, noona.” You stepped closer to him, squinting, as if you were inspecting his expression. 

“C’mon, Innie. You can drop the formalities, you know? No one else calls me noona. And I really won’t be offended if you don’t like the arrangement just because I’m older than you. Plus, it’s not even that much of an age gap anyways.”

“Okay, Y/N, better?” You nodded. “I’m fine with it, really. You’re being, like, Jisung annoying right now.” You clutched your heart in your chest.

“Ouch, okay. That hurt. I didn’t need the full hyung experience either.” You pouted. 

“I’m sorry noona. I-”

“Innie, I’m totally kidding. My best friends are Bin, Minho and Jisung so I’m used to it. You don’t need to be so nervous, okay? I won’t tease you anymore, sorry about that.” He chuckled nervously. “C’mon.” You tugged at his arm. 

Your makeshift bed wasn’t the best way to watch the movie, but it was more comfortable than he expected. The couches weren’t big, he knew that, but they were big enough to accommodate you two without having to touch each other whilst laying down. The movie was playing but he couldn’t stop staring at you every minute or so until you blankly stared at him. 

“Are you still mad at me?” You asked, pausing the movie.

“W-what? I’ve never been mad at you.”

“Innie, you’ve been staring at me nonstop with this ultra concerned expression. What’s on your mind?” His heart started racing.

“Um, nothing really. I’m just not all there, you know, I just broke up with Ji-ah…and…”

“You want to talk about it?” He shook his head. 

“Okay. I just feel like there’s something here that you don’t want to talk about. Like, um… maybe you… watching me and Minho in a compromising position that night?” FUCK.

“Fuck, noona, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I wanted to get Meadow her food and…and…” Jeongin felt tears welling up, his mind rushing with every self-deprecating thought he could muster up.

“No, no, baby, no. I’m not mad at you.” You reached up to him and gently took his face in your hands. “Innie, I’m sorry about you having to see that. At first, I really doubted that anyone had seen us but you’re kinda being more jittery than usual. I’m really sorry, Innie. I feel so bad.” His face felt warm in your hands, his expression was guilt-ridden, and it absolutely broke your heart. You let go of his face once he looked at you.

“No, noona. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. And then, I just was so shocked. T-then Minho hyung came out and I thought he’d kill me.”

“No, Innie, of course not. It was our fault for leaving the door open…” You started. “I’m so embarrassed.” You nervously took a sip of your water, covering the crimson blush that formed in your face. “I’m sorry if I made things weird. I just couldn’t handle not knowing.”

“You’re really not mad, noona?” You shook your head.

“Are you sure that you’re not traumatized?”

“Maybe, but not in the way you’d think…” He impulsively declared, both of your eyes widening. 

“So, in what way then?” You interrogated, your voice expressed both curiosity and intrigue. Jeongin swallowed.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it… You and Minho hyung… you know… Ugh…”

“So, you really didn’t know that me and Minho slept together?” Your voice was sardonic.

“No, I did, but seeing it was weird.”

“Did you like it kind of weird?” You asked, more directly this time, maintaining eye contact with him. He scanned your expression for a moment. He sighed. 

“Fuck… yeah.” Was all you needed to hear before smashing your lips onto his. His eyes closed at the second he felt you; your hands were wrapped around his neck; your eyes were closed, and his heart was beating out of his chest when reality hit him. What were you doing? Wouldn’t this piss Minho off? You separated yourself from him.

“Innie? Are you going to kiss me back or did I royally misread into this?” You asked, blushing.

He grinned. His hands found the small of your back and pushed you towards him again, meeting you into the kiss. You deepened the kiss, your tongue asked for entrance, and he gladly allowed it. He had never felt whatever this was. You were now in his lap, his arms were wrapped around you, his cock had been hard since you slipped into the couch, and you could feel it. His boxers were now soaked with pre-cum, but he was entirely unbothered by that. You ground yourself in his lap and Jeongin couldn’t help but let out a thirsty moan from deep within him. He separated himself from you then. As much as he wanted to enjoy this, Minho’s image kept playing in his head.

“Noona. What about Minho hyung?” You chuckled. 

“Minho is my boyfriend…but we do this from time to time, if we especially like the person.” You started, catching your breath. “And I really really like you, Innie.” That was enough for him, he stood up and held one hand for you and led you to his room. Jeongin’s self-consciousness came out at that moment. His room wasn’t too messy, but it wasn’t tidy either, a typical boy room with his game remotes and consoles laying out. 

“Honey, stop overthinking…just enjoy this. I’ve been wanting this for a while now” you confessed. Jeongin blinked a few times, in absolute shock. “What?”

“You’ve been wanting this?”

“Of course, Innie. We can talk about it later if you want.” You suggested, he nodded and returned to your lips as you straddled him once again. He pulled away and sheepishly smiled at you, tugging his shirt off. His chest was broader than you anticipated, his muscles were well defined. You dragged a hand through his torso, stopping at the patch of hair below his belly button before you followed him suit, taking off your shirt as well. He stared at your breasts that sat comfortably in your black lace bra. Jeongin’s imagination ran wild during the past week, not expecting to actually perceive them in real time.

“Ah, so you like boobs after all.” You chuckled as your hands reached to open your bra clasp. Jeongin’s hands helped you finish removing it.

“Can I?” He asked and looked down at your breasts, in awe as you lifted them up from sagging. You nodded. His hands replaced yours, long fingers grabbing at your pebbled nipple. His mouth latched on to your other nipple and harshly tugged at it, you moaned at that and felt Jeongin smirk beneath you. He couldn’t get enough of you. This is the connection he had always been yearning for when he slept with someone. Jeongin felt your hand wander down between you and stroke his forgotten erection. He moaned at your movements around his clothed length.

“Innie, I’m so wet for you.” You confessed, making him moan again. 

“Noona, you can’t say that. I’m going to bust, and I haven’t even felt you.”

“We can’t have that, then.” You said as you tilted his face upwards with your free hand, to look at you. “I kind of need you inside me now.” You moaned whilst grinding your hips into his. Jeongin swore that he could see stars. He slightly lifted you off him and leaned over to his bedside table. He neatly grabbed a condom out of a box. 

“Don’t you want to feel me raw?” You asked as you tilted your head. Jeongin could feel chills down his spine.

“B-but noona. I don’t want to get you, uh, pregnant or anything…” Nonetheless, his cock twitched at the thought.

“Oh, trust, that won’t happen. I take my birth control almost religiously.”

“And what about STIs?”

“I’m clean.” He cringed at your obscene mention of Minho. “The company gets us tested regularly, too. I’m clean. But if you want to use the condom, feel free to do so.” The condom was discarded on the floor as soon as you confirmed that you were clean.

“I’m sorry to ask this but can we skip foreplay?” He asked as he lowered his sweats. You nodded. He lowered his underwear to reveal his leaking cock. You stared at it, making him feel self-conscious. His dick was beautiful, the perfect size and girth, not too long or too thick. You didn’t fail to notice the many beads of pre-cum leaking over his angry, pink head, onto the curly patch of hair at its base. 

“Wow, Innie. You’re so beautiful.” You said, your eyes twinkling. He smiled shyly. 

“Can I see you?” He asked, with a hand working on his cock, the other reached to your pajama pants. You helped him lower them doing, revealing your soaked, black lace underwear. He took his hand off his cock to lower those himself. 

He was in awe of your beauty, a goddess in his eyes. Your plush body, your soft curves and your gorgeous cunt. Jeongin didn’t know vaginas could be that beautiful but as soon as he caught sight of yours, he knew he wanted to worship it forever. To worship you. “You’re incredible, noona.” He expressed as you laid down on his bed. He could see your wet folds and he felt the need to taste you. Jeongin lowered his head to your cunt, the soft hair adorning it tickled his face as he experimentally licked it. You moaned at that, surprised at him going down on you, having asked earlier to skip foreplay. He kept making out with your cunt, while you shuddered at the feeling of him going down on you. He moaned at you, your sounds, your taste, the visions of you.

“Can I fuck you now, noona? Please?”

“Yes, Innie. I’m yours.” You replied, your head was thrown back. He dragged the head of his cock between your folds and gathered your juices. His cock’s head bumped your entrance making both of you moan. He slowly pushed in, moaning with every drag inside you. 

“You’re too tight, noona. Is Minho not fucking you good enough?” He smirked. 

“Oh, he is and even if he wasn’t, Hyunjin’s good too. I’m pretty satisfied.” You replied, he thrusted in harshly, filling you up completely.

“So, I’m not that special, huh? You’ve just been fucking everyone here?” He panted as he kept erratically thrusting inside you. You moaned ever so sweetly at his movements and Jeongin swore that he would come right then. The sounds of your bodies meeting would take him over the edge at any minute. The warmth of your cunt was incomparable to anything that he had ever experienced until that moment. He knew not to worship the mundane, but how could he not, when you exist.

“Hmmm. Maybe. But nobody except Minho has gotten me raw before.” You said in between pants. “So, I guess you are that special after all.” He moaned. He could feel your pelvis against his as he thrusted, his head was hidden in your neck. He sucked hickeys onto it, making sure Minho knew who fucked you as he left his marks. 

“Noona, you’re so fucking good. You’re so … fucking…perfect.” He said in between trusts. He could feel you clenching against his cock, moaning in perfect harmony. “I want to be inside you all day.”

“You might have a bit of competition there.” You said, catching his gaze. He smirked at you.

“I don’t care.” He pulled out, making you whine at the feeling of emptiness. You caught onto him and bent over. He slid in quickly, your wetness welcoming him warmly. “You have me now. You don’t need anyone else.”

“Innie, you feel so great. I can feel you throbbing. Are you close?” He moaned at that. “You want to cum?” His thrusts became frantic and sloppy, nearly slipping out of your soaked cunt multiple times. “Honey, do you want to cum?” He moaned once again as he buried his face in the back of your neck. His legs were almost giving up, his hands grabbed your hips so harshly that you knew bruises would form on your sensitive skin.

“Yes, noona. I’ve been holding it for so long.” He moaned deliciously. “I want to cum so badly. You feel so…” He paused when you clenched around him, making him feel every warm and wet crevice of your cunt.

“You want to cum inside, Innie?” You asked and clenched around him again. He moaned once again, speeding up his thrusts.

“N-noona, I can’t… N-…” He couldn’t even finish his sentence before the feeling of your warm walls made him unload. He came in ropes and ropes of warm, thick seed inside of you. Your sweet sounds further pushing him over. His orgasm felt like a lifetime. He took a second to catch his breath. “Are you insane?” You chuckled at that. He had never felt closer to anyone before, feeling his overstimulated cock inside your cum-flooded cunt. His cum inside you; that was a fantasy in itself. 

“Hey! You’re the one who couldn’t even hold on for a second after me asking that.” You replied. “It feels good. You were really saving it up, huh?” He blushed furiously, avoiding eye contact with you. 

“I didn’t even get you to finish. Let me.” He slowly pulled out with a hiss, and you shifted to lay on your back. Then, he lowered himself down to your pussy, basking in the sight of his cum oozing out of you. The door swiftly opened to reveal a very intense-looking Minho. Jeongin froze for a second, quickly pulling himself back from your body.

“Okay! Honeymoon’s over.” Minho smirked. “Hi jagi. You look deliciously fucked out.” He scoffed at Jeongin’s shocked expression. “What? Weren’t you just raving about how we don’t fuck her well enough? Don’t tell me you’re all scared now?” He smirked again and sat on the bed next to to you. “You let him cum inside, really?” Minho whined and pouted. “You didn’t let me hit raw until, like, the fifth time.” Jeongin grinned at that, Minho glared at him.

“Sorry, Min. He was just too good to me. I was so desperate.” You chuckled and extended your arm to Jeongin. He, hesitantly, laid down next to your form, you cuddled up to him.

“Well, since you like him that much, I think I’ll eat him out of you.” Minho teased.

He lowered his head to your core to lick at it. You stared at up Jeongin, not missing the way he licked his lips at the sight of Minho between your legs. You moaned into Jeongin’s chest as Minho worked his expert tongue on you. You pulled him into a sloppy kiss, and he couldn’t help but feel envious at how well Minho knows your body. He had you cumming in mere minutes. Your kisses intensified as you came to your high. Your sweet moans and the way your skin felt hot against him had Jeongin leaking precum again. Minho chuckled as he gave one last kiss to your folds. 

He raised his head to look at you both. Jeongin had pulled his boxers on, but his bulge was visibly hard beneath them. 

“I expect you to make her cum next time.” He announced. Jeongin rolled his eyes. 

“I was about to when you interrupted us, hyung.” He argued. Minho chuckled as he, visibly hard too, kissed your lips. “Plus, I didn’t give you permission to satisfy your sexual needs in my room.” You giggled at that.

“I didn’t give you permission to fuck my girlfriend, did I?” Minho snickered. Jeongin blushed. 

“Stop bickering, please. This was supposed to be an enlightening experience for both of you too.” You stated as Minho stood up. 

“I’ll get around to liking the dynamic soon enough.” Minho teased. “Jeonginnie just has to accept me as part of it.” Jeongin scoffed once more. “See you soon, jagi?” You nodded. He walked over to the door and winked at Jeongin before exiting, closing the door behind him.

“He’s not going to be a part of any of my dynamics.” Jeongin stated as he folded his arms. You rolled your eyes.

“Minho can be, well, Minho. But I did see you get hard when he ate me out.”

“Noona, that wasn’t because of him, it’s you.” He whined. 

“Sure. What about the way you looked at Hyunjin today?” You chuckled; he blushed. “We’ll talk about that later. More importantly, are you okay, Innie?” He sheepishly grinned.

“Yeah. I think I’ve wanted this for longer than I admitted to.” He confessed, you smiled.

“Yeah, me too. And I would love to do this again,” You sighed. “But you do know that Minho will always be part of the dynamic, right?”

“Yes, noona. I know, but I’m not giving him that satisfaction over me yet.” He replied. You giggled. 

“That does make things more interesting.” 

There was a short pause after that, Jeongin fumbled with his church ring, and you took his hand in yours. His slender fingers caressed yours, sending shivers to your skin. 

“Thank you, noona.”

“Thank you, Innie. I do mean what I said, I really really like you… a lot. I know you prefer more traditional relationships but… I’m always here if you want to try something different.” You blushed. He leaned in and pressed his lips against yours. “As long as you can accept the Minho of it all.”

“I still have a lot to think about. This is really new to me so bear with me. Still, I know that I like you a bit too much right now.” He admitted. “So, not even Minho hyung can throw me off.” You giggled.

“Of course, think it over for as long as you want. We can work with you and Minho afterwards.” you chuckled. The door slowly opened to reveal Minho holding two glasses of water. He walked over to you and handed one to each of you. You sat up, separating from Jeongin for the first time since you came into the room. 

“So, when I fuck Y/N later, do you want to eat her creampied cunt?” He wiggled his eyebrows at Jeongin, who had a deadpan expression.

“Depends on who creampied her.” He answered. “If it was me, I’ll gladly do so.”

“Sheesh. The maknae gives his first creampie and he thinks he’s all that.” Minho teased Jeongin. “You have to work on your aftercare too.”

“Hyung!” Jeongin complained, making Minho snicker.

“Okay, okay! I won’t interrupt again.” Minho held his arms up in surrender. He winked at you and walked out, closing the door behind him again.

“When did he even get here?” Jeongin questioned as he buried his blushing face on your shoulder.  

“Actually, I have no idea.” You giggled. Your hand reached upwards to stroke his hair.

“Noona?”

“Yeah?"

“Do you actually have sex with all the other members?” He asked with a hushed voice. 

“No.” You replied. “I’ve only had sex with Hyunjin and Minho’s been involved both times.” 

“Involved? You mean like a threesome?” He looked up at you with widened eyes.

“Yeah… I told you it was different with you.” He tried to hide his smile, but his dimples gave it away. 

“Then why’d you say that you fucked everyone?” He pouted.

“You seemed to like that.”

“Noona… No!”

Jeongin blushed. He sat up and scanned your expression. You looked flushed but content, like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. Maybe he was just projecting onto you, but you looked almost peaceful. You were absolutely breathtaking like this, with your bare, glowy skin, your messy hair, your glossy eyes, your cocky smirk, the freckles that adorned your shoulders; entirely yourself. You felt like home, a comforting presence that he couldn’t feel in a physical place. Or explain in words. Incomprehensibly purposeful, was the only fathomable way to express what he felt. Like he was meant to be there with you.

“So, you’ll think it through?” You asked as your eyes met his. His hand met yours, your fingers were cool to the touch. He nodded. 

“Do I have to fuck Minho though?” He whined.

“Not unless you want to.” You laughed. “He’ll probably want to watch us from time to time though, if you’re okay with that.” 

“I can do that… I think?”

“Slowly but surely.”

“And… he’s really okay with this?” He asked.

“He is.” You replied as you stroked his hand with your thumb. Jeongin reached out to grab your face in his hands and placed a kiss on your lips. You melted into his touch. “We can all talk about it later, if you want?” He nodded.

“Yeah, that’ll be good. But I think I’ll keep you here for just a while longer. Just in case Minho takes it back.” He said as he placed a kiss on your bare shoulder. You smiled at him as he pulled you down on the bed with him. “Just for your information, I don’t mind skinship if it’s with you.” He nuzzled his face on the back of your neck, his arms were laid on your waist and his heart beat fast in his chest. 

You fell asleep in his arms not long after and he couldn’t believe that the image of you in his arms wasn’t a figment of his imagination. Even with the complex nature of your not-so-newfound appreciation for each other. Jeongin felt like everything was peaceful.

And, as the night fell, he couldn’t help but create scenarios of you in his bed. Or, to his surprise, in Minho’s.

[rebelssvy]

idol pt. 2!! ✧.*

idol reader x pro hero bakugo

ੈ✩‧₊˚

part one link here.

summary: fluff !!! you and him bump into eachother on a late night snack run.

alr have an idea for pt. 3… lmk if i should continue

after the ceremony, bakugou hadn’t really left your mind at all. it was safe to say you were a constant thought in his head too.

though you hadn’t seen or talked to him since, you kept looking forward to him maybe reaching out to you.

it had been about 2 weeks since, you didn’t blame his lack of communication. you were both busy. but you started becoming a little obsessed. watching videos of him saving people, interviews. anything you could find you watched.

it was now around midnight and you had grown hungry in your hotel bed. it was a unspoken forbidden rule to go out without a body guard so late at night. but after checking your pantry you couldn’t resist. grabbing layers and layers of all your dark clothes you pulled them onto your frame. finishing your look with the usual mask and baseball cap.

you didn’t mind getting recognized, but you knew if you saw someone that has bad intentions… you didn’t even want to imagine what could happen.

pushing your fears aside you walked out the hotel lobby and onto the cold pavement. the street lights were dim, but you kept your head down. maps said you had about a five minute walk to the closest 7/11. though it was so late there was still a lot of people out on the town.

after a good five minute walk you had made it to the glorious glowing lights filled with your favorite snacks. still keeping an of-putting demeanor, you entered the store. within seconds you had an armfull.

“hey babe. what’s with all the clothes hiding that pretty body?” a new voice startled you. blanking you looked up to see who was saying such a thing. you of course didn’t recognize him. but he looked… weird. like the people your mom told you to avoid when you were younger.

ignoring him you walked to the cashier, putting your stuff on the counter top.

he followed you, “hey don’t ignore me..” he laughed. closing in on you. you knew you had to get him off your back but you didn’t know how.

turning around about to let yourself have a moment of weakness. the sight you saw shocked you. a man dressed far to similar to you, had grabbed your stalker and had him held down.

“say that shit again and i swear to fucking god i’ll kill you here and now. be a real man and kick rocks” though he was covered in a costume, you could make out that voice anywhere.

it wasn’t long at all before the other man ran of the store scared for his life.

“i could’ve handled it…” you grumbled before adding, “but thank you..king dynamight murder.” laughing at the end of your sentence he looked at you startled.

blankly his eyes stared into yours. he was confused.

pulling your mask down you smiled and said “don’t worry. it’s y/n, but don’t tell anyone.” in a hushed voice.

more shocked then he was before he let out a sigh of relief and shook his head. “god..” was all he said before stepping infront of you. putting his food on the table and putting his card forward. “i’m paying for all of this.”

wow.. what a gentleman.

walking out of the store he carried all of your stuff together in his hands. breaking the ice you joked with him,

“i would’ve thought you would have asked me out by now.. with how interested you seemed that night.”

it was silent for a second.

“i didn’t know if idols dated…” he was hushed. calm.

“i would date you. i started to think hero’s don’t date.” you laughed before taking a step to the way of your hotel. he followed without question.

you walked one minute in silence. though you were scared of what he was going to say, you were also comfortable.

“y/n…” for being so loud he sure seemed quiet around you. “i would like to take you out sometime. you can’t say no.” firm he said to you. it was a promise.

“okay. seems like i can say no.” you joked and laughed. then tugging on his arm to grab some of your chips out of the bag.

you two walked to your hotel, every word that came out of your mouth was followed with a giggle. you felt giddy.

once you got to the entrance you leaned up and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“thank you for keeping me safe, bakugou.”

“katsuki.” he corrected you.

“have a good night, kats.” turning you walked to the doors of the building.

“6pm, tomorrow i’ll be here to pick you up. it’s a date.” he shouted out to you.

“okay!! i’ll be ready. goodnight!!” you hollered back at him, while entering the building.

god what was this feeling.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

[sapphicdalliances]

So I agree with this up to a point – I've seen a lot of people in the tags say "the miscommunication was on both sides", and I do feel that in the specific case of the golden core transfer and the ways in which that affected their relationship, that was definitely not a mutual miscommunication, but very simply a lie, a deliberate deception on WWX's part.

It's completely true that JC is very honest and forthcoming when it comes to information, his thoughts, his circumstances, etc, and all of that is usually in hopes of helping someone close to him (be that his siblings or the rest of Yunmeng Jiang). He's also able to navigate the "Yanli's feelings toward Zixuan" minefield with reasonable efficacy, taking the time to hear Yanli's thoughts and such. It's a very stark contrast to WWX who has buried every negative feeling he's ever had 6 feet in the ground, deflects most questions he doesn't want to answer and just fully ignores the rest, bulldozes through a bunch of his loved ones' opinions and boundaries in his attempts to protect them, and even deceives himself on a number of LWJ-related issues.

But I think there is still something JC isn't very successful at communicating to WWX, and that's his affection. This is, predictably, the same with Mme Yu as others in the comments have brought up, though her situation is much more exaggerated: she communicates her thoughts and opinions quite clearly, but declines to do the same with her sentiments. She actually loved her children and her husband, but refused to express this until her dying breath – I think many can probably relate who has a parent like this: of course she loves her children, so why should she waste breath on something everyone knows when she could be loudly explaining how they can better themselves in society for the 2,408th time. (Chinese culture itself is quite actions-forward; some will say that providing for her children and educating them is in itself a clear sign of love! But like girl come on.)

Similarly, JC doesn't like to speak his love aloud, but shows it in his actions. (This is why in the books, where his actions can be easily missed in the narration, it's easy to interpret him as being cold and loveless.) Instead of "I love you Jin Ling", it's "tell me who made you cry!" and "don't get hurt or I'll break your legs!" and getting hostaged to protect him. Instead of "WWX you're my brother and I love you (but you are a great big bag of dicks)" it's running for a week straight through enemy territory, throwing himself between his brother and Zidian, throwing himself to the Wens to spare WWX, asking WWX to help name the baby, keeping Chenqing in perfect playing condition in a pocket next to his heart for 13 years. He doesn't hide his affection or go full "it's not because I care about you or anything, sh-shagua!" mode, but verbally, he always approaches WWX business-end first. Even at the Guanyin temple, he wasn't quite able to properly express that he missed WWX and wanted him to come home as his brother; he had to couch it in the language of fealty.

Would showing his affections more clearly have changed anything? Hard to say. WWX was in just about the worst mental state you can imagine a guy being in for several years consecutively, and there were many things he could not or would not hear. He had spoken JC's particular love language fluently for years, but I would hazard a guess that the unavoidable bitterness and resentment from that missing core may have turned his eyes away from the gestures that came in during the Burial Mounds era. So maybe it wouldn't have really made any difference.

But in my opinion, even by the time of the siege, JC still loved him. And I think WWX probably died the first time not believing that at all.

Lotta takes that are like "Jiang Cheng didn't change his behaviour at all in 13 years, that proves that he doesn't want to grow as a person" and it's like, sorry but why would he change his behaviour when the information that would recontextualise Wei Wuxian's actions and thus lead him to rethink his own reactions was deliberately kept hidden from him? From his perspective, his brother broke all his promises for no goddamn reason, picked a different family over him, lost control of the evil energy he swore he could control, and in doing so caused such a catastrophe that both of Jin Ling's parents were killed. We know that there's more to that story, but he doesn't, and it would be impossible for him to find out on his own because again, everyone involved was lying to him and hiding the relevant information on purpose.

He's told about the golden core transfer like three hours before the book ends, and frankly processes it faster than most people could reasonably be expected to after 13 years of grief and loneliness! "He had chances to improve his behaviour and didn't" HE LITERALLY DIDN'T HAVE ANY CHANCES BECAUSE WWX LIED TO HIM!! His behaviour was completely justified from his perspective and when his perspective is changed, and he realises that what he did was wrong, he's like, SUPER upset about it!

[selfindulgenceisthekey]

part 3 NEOWWWWW

If You Thought It Was Real Pt. III

Pt. I Pt. II Thank you @hannahbarberra162 for being my beta reader for this chapter! <3

Waking up was slow. You were accustomed to being thrust into consciousness, sleep elusive and nothing more than a dream most nights. So the groggy feeling, the heaviness of your head and your eyelids was foreign.

Trying to open your eyes was a struggle, and you were tempted to give in and fall back into the comfort of unconsciousness, but the nagging emptiness in your head kept you struggling to stay awake.

Finally you peeled them open, staring blankly at the ceiling above you. Dark wood surrounded you, the sterile scent of cleaning supplies invaded your nose. Where—?

“Oh, you’re awake,” The voice was familiar, and it took you far too long to process it, turning your head to the owner of the voice.

Chopper was reading from a clipboard, little nose scrunched up as he chewed on the end of the pen he held. You blinked, not processing the image before you.

“You have a lot of injuries,” He began explaining to you, his voice soft as he set the clipboard down, moving his chair to be closer to where you were laying down, “You’ve got bruises around your throat, I applied some ointment so they shouldn’t sting as much. Luckily none of your ribs were broken, but they sustained some damage and you’ll be sore for a bit while the muscles heal and those bruises fade. I wrapped you with some compression bandages, they should help whenever you move around. You had some cuts on your arms, I sterilized those to avoid any infections.” 

He kept talking, and you continued to blankly stare at him, everything coming out of his mouth sounding far away.

You shifted a bit, wincing at the sting emanating from your sides. Right, bruised ribs. You lifted a hand to brush against your injuries, feeling some slimy ointment on your neck, cool to the touch. Higher you felt some bandages on your face, namely on your cheekbone. You distantly remembered the hit you had received to make such an injury there.

“What—” You winced, lips parting to ask him a question but the pain in your throat stopped you.

He paused, looking up sadly, “Your throat’s gonna be sore for a while. You were choked hard enough that you sustained damage both on the outside and inside. You’ll probably struggle to talk for a bit, and eating and swallowing may be hard too.”

He lit up after a moment, “Oh! But Sanji’s made a meal plan for you while you heal, soft foods you’ll be able to swallow without much issue.”

Sanji had—?

You sat up, struggling to do so as the pain knocked the wind out of you. Your movements startled Chopper, who started waving his arms around frantically.

“No, you should lay back down! If you need anything I’ll get it for you!”

“Where am I?” Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper as you forced the question out, ignoring the pain it caused. 

“In our sick bay! Please, lay back down!” His little hooves pressed against you gently, trying to get you to lay back how you had been.

You were lucky he was staying in this form, any other and he would easily overpower you. It was terrifying how such a cute little creature could turn into something so big. 

You managed to throw the blanket off of you, something light and soft that distantly registered as the blanket Sanji often brought you whenever you stayed up late on the deck. Standing up you were able to feel the full sting of injuries on your body.

The ribs felt like the worst of it, and you could feel the bandages shift under your clothes as you stood. Looking down you realized you had been changed out of your dress, clad in a t-shirt and shorts that looked like something Nami would have worn. 

Stumbling forward, you winced as your ankle spasmed under your weight. What had Chopper said? Sprained ankle? That much was apparent.

“Please, sit down at least!”

Why were you on the Sunny? The last thing you had remembered was—

Was—

The fight, if you could even call it that, was over faster than it started. The build up felt like it had lasted an eternity, everyone had stood once Hel was down, ready to fight the man who had thrown their boss into the bar.

Luffy hadn’t so much as broke a sweat as he stood facing them, his back towards you. The men at the table had rushed to stand, leaving you sitting alone. Luffy standing there felt almost like a wall in front of you. A part of you felt somewhat safe, but more of you felt terrified.

“What the hell’s your problem?”

His head tilted, as if pondering the question. “No problem, just came to get something that belongs to us.”

Jeers and scoffs echoed around the bar, and the condescending tones had you feeling smaller than you did before.

“If you wanted a night with her, all you had to do was ask,” Brannick stepped forward, a cruel smile on his face as he stood heads above Luffy, “We’re not unreasonable with our prices.”

You weren’t privy to seeing his face or his reaction, but judging by the way Brannick had taken a step back you were somewhat grateful you didn’t see it.

He tried backpedaling, “But for a pirate such as yourself, of course, we can discuss a fair price, one that—”

“I’m not paying for her,” Luffy stated plainly, “I’m taking her back with me.”

“You can’t just—”

He was down before you could process what had happened, blood gushing from his nose as he staggered back and tripped, landing on the legs of Hel. Luffy’s arms lowered, his fists not even bruised. 

Everyone moved at once, people shouting as they all descended on him. You jumped back, trying to avoid the rushing crowd, falling to the ground from your stool hard. Your already hurt body screamed out in pain when you hit the ground, but you did your best to ignore it as you shifted to be under the table.

The noise and chaos was over within seconds, bodies of your higher ups and bar patrons unconscious, in various states of consciousness, bloody and bruised. It would be satisfying to see if Luffy hadn’t crouched down to look at you.

“Did they do that to you?”

He brought a hand up, moving slowly as if to not spook you as he pointed at your neck.

“I— yeah?”

“Why?”

“I- I took too long.”

He raised an eyebrow, and you swallowed the pit of shame you felt growing in your stomach. “To return with the map.”

He just nodded, gaze unwavering as he continued to stare at you, study you. You felt goosebumps rise on your arms.

“If you want the map it’s- it’s upstairs in Brannick’s office. Along with other stuff they stole.”

He looked away for a moment, looking towards the stairs, before turning his attention back to you.

“I’m not here for the map,” He shrugged, “I came to get you.”

“What? Why?” 

“You hurt Sanji,” He repeated that bit again, and the simple three words made something in your chest wilt.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Yes, you did.”

He was right, truth be told. Your original plan you knew you’d risk hurting him when you left, but at that time you hadn’t cared. What was another broken heart strung behind you? The issue came when you got to know him, when you spent time with him. It hurt you to hurt him, but you had to.

“I had to,” You tried, shaking your head to try and clear away the leftover haze, “I had to.”

“You could have asked for help.”

That sentence had your eyes narrowing, but your glare died down once you looked at his face, unable to continue the stare down, “How was I to know you all would help me?”

“Because you were one of us.” Were one of us. 

The anger in you continued to wilt, dripping slowly out of you as you sagged where you sat, “I had a job. People’s lives were at stake if I didn’t.”

“You could have told us,” He repeated, voice firm, “And we would have helped you. But instead you betrayed Sanji, betrayed us, and left him sad. You hurt my nakama.” 

“He should have just moved on!” It exploded out of you, frustration and hurt all wrapped into one as you began to word vomit at Luffy, “You all should have! You should have left, if you’re all such a great crew you’d make a new map, you’d be able to get your berri back! Why did you come back here, huh?”

There was silence after your outburst, your breath heavy, the taste of booze and bile thick in your mouth. He wasn’t moving, and the way he stood made him look as still as a statue. 

“Because you made Sanji cry.”

The sentence made you wince, and you held your breath for a moment, the moment bleeding for a bit too long and your head began to pound as you let it out. 

“Because you ate with us. You laughed with us. You inserted yourself into our crew, you worked to make sure we trusted you. And when we did, when Sanji gave you his heart you ran away.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” You sounded so quiet in comparison to how you had been mere moments ago, “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“But you did have a choice,” The finality in his voice had your jaw slamming shut, your teeth hitting each other with an audible click, “And you chose to keep quiet, you chose to hurt Sanji, you chose to steal from Nami, you chose to betray us.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” His voice was lighter as he said that, so matter of factly, “And everything here happened because of that.”

Without so much as a moment's notice he reached for you, grabbing you around the wrist and dragging you from under the table, pulling you to stand in front of him.

“Now come on, let’s go.”

Your heels dug into the ground as he began to tug you along, and at the resistance he met he paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

“No!”

His grip around your wrist tightened, and you winced as the pressure dug into the fresh cuts along your skin, “You already tried this your way, now look at you. As your captain, you have me and my help. But firstly when we get back, you’ll make things right with Sanji.”

He didn’t leave room for you to respond, a simple movement of his hand, of his arm and you were falling forward, eyes rolling shut. 

Subconsciously, your hand rubbed the back of your neck, a phantom stinging pain resigning from there. Luffy had taken you from the tavern, fire in his eyes and malice in his tone.

“Please, sit down.”

You looked towards Chopper, glaring. He winced at the look on your face, but you couldn’t find yourself to care at this moment.

“Where is,” You winced, fighting down a cough, frustrated with the trembling you felt throughout your body, “Where is Luffy?”

“He’s—”

“Oh,” The door cracked open, the captain stepping in, peering at you curiously, “You’re awake.”

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