#and when she saw him in person she realized that this was the same man with whom fate had brought her together in childhood | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sadnightforus · 3 days ago

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PARTY 4 U (HVC)

party-goer!vernon x party-thrower-gn!reader

SYNOPSIS: What's a better way to catch the attention of the man that you’ve been silently (or not so silently) pining for since your first year of college? Throw a party of course, or go to the same party that he attends. You chose the former, throwing the party, as you only have a semester left until you both graduate. Your prayer was answered when he showed up, but will he return your feelings too?

WORD COUNT: 4.3K

WARNINGS: alcohol, marijuana and drugs usage, yearning, implied suggestive content, a little misunderstandings, a few cuss words, insecurities. The reader is sort of implied to be AFAB with outfits and such but I’m writing mc to be as neutrally gendered as I can. mentioned of yves from loona (ha sooyoung the goat). I try to keep the hair color out of the picture so it’ll only mention the hairstyle!

A/N: Nobody knew but I'm Charli's biggest fan (the Jaehyun’s fic next life was based on her demo). Also wrote this cause Vernon is a huge Charli’s fan. In honor of the mv to this song finally dropping, I dedicate this song to him <3 (also why is this au so long???)

reblogs, comments and likes are appreciated!

“Are you sure that he’s coming?” Your friend asks, her arms crossing as she looks at you with skepticism.

“I’m sure. The news is all over the campus.” You say, masking your own fear behind the confident and nonchalant persona that you think you have mastered over the years.

“Well…” She trails off, before slowly stepping out of the kitchen and she picks up one of the lighters to do god knows what.

As the neon lights that are installed from every corner of the room flashes across everybody’s faces, making them look alluring like stars under the spotlight and the sounds of people talking pass by your ears, you are reminded of how you got here.

Let’s start at the very beginning.

You recalled, the second semester in your first year of university, where you thought that your regular life would proceed with the usual boring, mundane and predictable routines, becomes much spicier.

As you sat in your seat for your first lecture of the day, and only had 7 minutes left until the professor entered the classroom, you saw a man who walked into the lecture hall with confidence and his head held high, headphones covering both of his ears, as his washed denim jacket and the white plain shirt tucked loosely and ragged against his skin in a way that suggests that he knows a thing or two about dressing up. You were face to face with the most beautiful man you’ve seen, who will be your classmate. Your first impression of him was that he must’ve been a confident person, maybe even someone who socializes and interacts with others quite often, a friendly person.

You hoped to get to know him better.

By the second year, as you continued to share classes with him, and being in the same class as him for many months made you realize that your first impression was the opposite of him. Sure, he was kind, but he keeps to himself a lot, and he hangs with a circle of people, who are all popular. This made you distressed, actually. You might’ve had some excuses to get close to him if he was more outgoing, but he wasn’t.

So you spent the next two years silently admiring him from afar, even actually went as far to change your ways. Although you are quiet, also remain in the background at first and never quite fond of parties, as you prefer to do real night outs like at abstract places or places buzzing with extreme energy, you slowly find yourself going to parties that his friends throw.

Then, there was an incident in the 3rd year of college, where you recalled that it was your second party of the school year, where you also smoked weed for the first time. Lame. You know. But you typically don’t ever indulge in them, mainly only alcohol and cigarettes on the side. But he tasted like marijuana and the love that you’ve harbored for him all this time as your tongue slipped down his throat in the dingling bathroom that shone of bright blue neon lights, inside Chan’s house.

It never went further than that.

You both kissed. And kissed. You both did this when the opportunities arose, which is whenever the conversation took a different direction, and occasionally hung out where he was the one to call first. It’s quite impressive that you both go this long without getting physical.

It’s a routine that you never get used to, but always looking forward to. You both hardly made out, but you both talked to each other quite a lot, for people who had no affiliations and thread on the lines of strangers, friendship and romantic relationship. You’d notice— sometimes, he showed up at the parties, sometimes, he didn’t. Admittedly, you were disappointed, as you put on the prettiest dress and so much effort was wasted just for it to not be seen by him.

You felt like you were being played, and even your friend tried to knock some sense into you.

“I told you a million times. He’s playing with your feelings.” Your friend, Sooyoung, reminded you again as you did your makeup for a party that you heard that he’d attend.

“I know.” You muttered in annoyance, even though your friend was right about it. In your head, you’d

“And you do the same thing, every time.” She complained as she watched you repeat the process of dolling up, it wasn’t surprising to her at all, but like normal human’s nature, she herself got exhausted as she watched you stuck in a cycle of unreciprocated love.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” You questioned, rolling your eyes as the brushes stroked against your skin. Sooyoung looked at you with her judgmental stare, her tongue spelled it out, loud and clear.

“Sort of.”

That was the conversation that you had with her. It’s a mantra at this point.

And every time that she was right, each time after the party ended, you went home and wallowed in self pity and inferiority. And Sooyoung watched you being pathetic and hopeless like that, but you just wouldn’t listen.

You’re determined to change it today.

That’s why you managed to convince Sooyoung to help you with the party preparations. And she swore up and down that this is the only time she’d ever help you if you did something for Vernon to notice you.

Your parents’ house, now left empty for days now, has transformed from a living space into a place for entertainment, void of treasures and valuables that could be stolen or broken, as you locked them away.

How… pathetic you are, throwing a party for a guy who you’re in this weird talking stage with.

You put on the shortest dress, one that makes even the less-than-holier you feel uncomfortable. But really, for the sake of him, you’re willing to endure the discomfort. And your lipstick was carefully applied and curated in a way that makes your lips kissable, in hope that he would find it hard to not be kissing you until nothing around you both mattered.

The sound of kisses, laughter and music fill your ear, but you tune it out as you stand in the kitchen, directly facing the front door, even from the very back away. With this place, you can effectively monitor the event and also see the newcomers of the party firsthand, as quickly as you can. You have nothing on you, not even the drink, because you wanted to be sober enough to see his face. You can’t afford to be so drunk that you’ll be throwing yourself at a guy because he looks just like Vernon, or you made it all up.

Time passes by quick, as quick as the time that it took for you to realize that you harbored more than a feeling of admiration for that boy you saw in your first year of college, as quick as your impulsivity to throw this party, just to have him come to your house. 10, 20, 30, 40, and 57 minutes passed by since it started, yet you can hardly spot even his friends walking through that door first.

60, 70, 80 passed and there’s anybody but him passing through that door. You start to get impatient and anxious. You try so hard to not bite on your now manicured nails, you want Vernon to notice all those pretty little charms on your nails, in hope to be appealing to him.

There’s a nagging in at the back of your head that goes;

What if he doesn’t show up?

Then it would mean nothing, would it?

What do you even call him? He’s not your friend with benefits. And certainly not your boyfriend, far from an acquaintance or just merely a classmate. But are you friends with him?

99 Minutes has passed, you let out a sigh as the night grows older.

You remember today that it was a full moon, and even if you don’t believe in anything like manifesting, you make a prayer. You close your eyes and make a wish for every second that counts.

May he show up. May he return your feelings.

If only he shows up exactly on the 100th minute.

You open your eyes, and you’re met with the striking figure that has stolen your breath 4 years ago. At the same time, it has been 100 minutes since you’ve waited for him. Just as you wish.

He came through that door like a star, shining bright in the sky, out of your reach, only letting you admire his beauty before he walked out again.

His hair has been dyed back to brown, after a period of him bleaching it in a dark blonde. This hair color makes him look even more unattainable, to you. It highlights his beauty and his deep set eyes so beautifully that you’re left to stare at the universe's creation, who knows your name, and exists in the same time as you, but not your heart.

That’s what love does. It breaks your heart but you can’t stop wanting him.

He comes with a few friends, you think you see Wonwoo, the most introverted person ever, comes out of his hibernation. There is probably something in the stars, but you don’t want to overthink things. You also spot Soonyoung, the most introverted person, tags along. It’s like they’re there to balance Vernon tonight, seeing the polar opposites of them both.

The metal necklace around his neck, which you instantly recognize that it’s from a brand that he has been wanting to get for quite awhile, as you remember this fact from one of the talks with him, the washed, rough looking denim jacket and jeans, and a tank top that has texts written all over, which you couldn’t be bothered to read, as you are distracted by the man that you’re at least 20 feet away from. Vernon greets the people who greet back to him, but keeps the interaction short and almost professional, as if it wasn’t his intention to get to know new people.

“So, are you going to talk to him?”

“Jesus, you can’t warn me beforehand?” You lose your balance and stumble backward as Sooyoung’s voice snaps you out of your daze when looking at the man who is in your vision. You feel like an invisible wall has been built just for you both to act like nothing has happened. You don’t know when she will even come back.

“You throw a party for him but you won't even talk to him? Really?” She looks at you like a disappointed mother, and honestly, she probably is. “You know this is your last chance.”

Right, it’s so goddamn close to the graduation period. And nobody, including him, will attend parties by then. They’ll be too busy studying.

You roll your eyes, fed up by her, but you just lack the courage, as you fear rejection more than silence. But it also kills you to not know what he is thinking about, or his opinion on you. He’s too calm and stoic, while you're an open book of an emotional mess.

“Give me a blunt or alcohol first, maybe I’ll find it in me to go and finally say it.” You say it as a joke, but Sooyooung doesn’t take it so lightly. She just silently opens the cabinet and reaches for a plastic cup, then fills it with some soju, while her face shows that she reaches her breaking point.

You can only stare at her in horror. She means business.

“You can’t complain that you’re nervous now, here.” You got handed a drink and like a grateful friend you are, you just sadly thank her, and then gulp down, finishing the first cup after a while.

After 3 cups of it, as served by your friend, you finally find it in you to go and walk around to Vernon, who is seemingly standing in the corner, on his phone and keeping an eye out for Hoshi and apparently, also Seokmin, who you have no idea when did he get here. Nonetheless, you pick a place, standing not too close to him, leaning against the wall, trying to not show the significance of his presence in your brain.

“Hi.” You smile awkwardly as Vernon seems to finally snap out of his daydream or train of thoughts. “Sorry I’m late to greet you. As a host, that’s impolite.”

You try to insinuate subtly that this party is not just any party, it’s yours, one that you threw it in hope for him to come.

Surprisingly, Vernon smiles back, he didn't seem disappointed, and he seems to be in quite a friendly mood.

“I know, that’s why I came.”

You swear that you’re delusional but that’s… crazy to hear it. It makes it sound like he came to this party because you throw it.

“Really? I guess the rumors go around as intended.” You chuckle, trying to extend the time you have with him. “Is the party to your liking? I throw it for the first time, so I’m quite nervous.”

You're lying, you’re more nervous about your crush right here, you’re not worried that the party isn't good, but you want the party to be good for him,

“No. The party is really fun.” He reassures you and you can tell that it comes from his heart, so the tension from your body slowly eases out little by little. “But I don’t feel like doing anything, so I’ll sit and watch.”

Your smile subtly drops. Should you celebrate the fact that he isn’t so drunk by now that he most likely will kiss someone or upset that he doesn’t think it’s cool enough to let loose? You put on that plastered, perfect subtle smile to hide that growing ugly feeling of disappointment that attempts to eat you.

You almost ask him why he even bothered to come to your party then.

“I guess I’ll do the same then.” You shrug it off, biting the inside of your tongue lightly, preventing yourself from utter more words that would ruin the mood.

“Hmm.” He nods, then he looks at you, like he always has been. You just never notice it, but he sneaks glances at you. “Did you do something to your hair?”

You can’t hide your expression that goes from stunned to one filled with happiness. So he notices that your hair has been dyed as you needed a new change in appearance and even completed with slight curls.

“Oh yeah I did. The color fades away so I dyed it.”

The last time he saw you properly (and last time you both kissed) was at least a month ago. Since then, Vernon appeared less and less in your line of sight and you thought that you lost him for good, but he still shows up to his classes, just that he barely goes to parties for unknown reasons.

You both fall into a comfortable silence, from outsiders’ perspective. From your perspective, it’s as awkward as it comes, but you have to pretend that you don’t enjoy being near him, even if the atmosphere was nothing short of platonic. If only they know the history that you both share together.

You inch yourself closer to him, doing ever so subtly, by pretending that it’s all accidental, but you might've been too eager, and he can probably tell that you faked your nonchalance around him.

Something about him tonight seems different– he talks less, and he lingers his stares to spaces that you can only imagine, or hope it involves you. You missed the taste of cannabis, the liquor whether it’s cheap or highly sought after because it’s the finest drink on earth, nicotine, or soda; anything really, as long as it sits on his lips, and his tongue allows yours to intertwine like he’ll never let this go. But with the way the silence seems to be stilling everything around you both, even if your own party turns obnoxious and chaotic, you still yearn for the excitement that he can give you.

The pink balloons start float around, and you don’t remember setting it up at all, in fact, you don’t remember seeing this many balloons in your life in a single space, but when you see Sooyoung just keeps bringing them more and more, and the sound of music and music goes from a mild to extreme joy and recklessly wild, you know that it’s getting out of control. You do nothing to stop it.

Vernon suddenly nudges you, then you only by then notices that he took sips of champagne, and you have no idea who provided him that. But as his lips are pressed to the glass, you are reminded of how his kisses usually taste like, and it has you wondering, wanting to know what it feels like if you kiss him right now. You wonder, would it taste sweet, or would the champagne taste like a sour heartbreak that you only can swallow it down with every will that you have?

“Can we talk somewhere private for a bit?”

Is he finally addressing the tension and the weird relationship that you have going on?

You feel like you need another drink, but the alcohol finally hits a little after a long while, so it washes some of your doubts away. It really boosts that confidence, while you’re less than completely sober.

“Oh sure.”

You follow his lead, and it was really somewhere, so goddamn quiet and secluded, in fact, nobody would’ve come to check the available spot here at all. The fact that it was upstairs made your mind run with wild thoughts but you calmed yourself down, not wanting to get your hopes up, just to be let down.

“You look like you’ll be cold.” He says, inspecting you as he takes off his jacket, and it drapes all over your figure, providing an additional warmth to your body– and maybe even heart.

You don’t understand why he’s so nice all of the sudden. You both barely talk, what was the last meaningful conversation you had with him again?

“Why-”

“I-”

You both speak at the same time, interrupting each other. Vernon, the man that he is, speaks up, his voice is deep, husky and brings this weird emotional feeling to you.

“You go first.”

You sigh, searching for the look in his eyes that he somehow feels the same as you do. You’re met with the familiar warmth, which makes it hard to read. Why does he look at you like this? You hate that he isn’t an open book, unlike you.

“Why are you so nice to me?” You question him, voice wavers from the underlying vulnerability that threatens to surface and spills over any time soon, if you don’t have a hold of it. “You’re so confusing, I don’t understand you.” You bite your lips, trying to hold back from becoming an unpleasant memory to him.

For the first time ever, his eyes flicker with an emotion– there’s confusion and almost… affection, but also hurt. You both have been walking on this weird line that blurs between a normal and intimate relationship, one that doesn’t hold any value or title but so much substance yet with no filling. It’s like chasing a high that never stops. And you hate chasing it, you want a definite answer now.

“Because…” He looks at your face, observing how there is an expression of melancholy, regret and shame. “You have always been there, you have always been someone to me.”

Your face drops, again, but he is quick to clarify.

“I came to this party because you threw it.” He gulps, and you see the facade that he works so hard to build starts to crack, little by little. “Because it is you, it has always been.”

He inches closer to you, and the tears now are filling your visions as you finally hear the confirmation, which he cups your face gently and wipes it away.

You cry as you feel his gentle touch, this is what you were dying to hear, but the ‘I love you’ hangs in the air like a ghost, even as the pink balloons and the DJ mixes fly around to accompany this newly changed atmosphere between the two of you. You close your eyes, and then re-open, confessing it to him. No more games, no more pretense.

“I threw this party, just for you. I was hoping that you would come and see me.”

He looks at you like you just hung him the moon, and his hands gently fall to caress your soft lips now. You know what he wants, you both want it, but there is too much to talk about.

“I have always loved you. You helped me out in Mr. Song’s class once. I knew it was silly, but it was the first time we properly talked, and my crush for you snowballed since then.”

You remember that it was the first semester, that one time he got sick and he ended up reaching out to you through a friend of a friend to send over the class’ materials that he greatly missed. The interaction was short lived and so insignificant to you that you blocked it from your memory. You feel like shit for not remembering it.

“You probably don’t remember…” Vernon mutters, looking disappointed and you just pout in his hold. All his moodiness disappears, he can’t ever be mad at you.

“I make excuses to see you, and kiss you every time. I feel sorry that I took advantage of our friendship… like that.”

“Friends don’t kiss.” You state, your eyelashes batting so prettily as your heart beats wildly, syncing with his. “And I’d like to kiss you again.”

This time, he pulls you closer, and then you feel it– the kiss you have been waiting for. Your eyes are closed in contentment, feeling like jello. You finally know what is the taste and flavor that sits on his tongue– the finest champagne there is out there, and it tastes like addiction and the future with him that you hope will become a reality as you wake up next to him onward.

As the neon lights cast a shadow, changing colors constantly from blue, pink, purple, and everything in between, so are your swirling thoughts, but they only involve him, and the same goes to the man who can’t get enough of the taste on your tongue, which mirrors his, despite you drinking a pretty cheap alcohol that slowly fades away as his tongue acts as a cleanser, attempting to vacuum it away.

Once the oxygen runs out and the unbearable urge to breathe consumes you both again, you pull away, your body trembles slightly in exhaustion due to prolonged makeout session. The intense high you try to chase through kissing seems too far out of reach now, but at least you have your answer now.

“I love you, Y/N.”

You don’t have to say it back, you never have to, as you reach over to kiss him on the lips, now incoherent and too drunk on the taste of his tongue.

And the neon lights switch to pink, celebrating the new relationship changes and a now clear definition between you both.

BONUS

“Hey, where did Vernon go?” Soonyoung asks Wonwoo, who’s lost in his own reality of god knows what. He didn’t even want to come, but Vernon bribes them with favors to pay for their lunch and that’s how the man himself got Wonwoo to come to this place.

“How would I know?” Wonwoo groans, and then a presence of an unfamiliar girl walks to them, she looks like she is looking for them both personally.

“Are you Soonyoung and Wonwoo?”

“Yeah. But who are you?” Soonyoung is quick, and Wonwoo’s soul already leaves his body, his exhaustion catches up to him.

“I’m Y/N’s friend, Sooyoung. Does that ring any bells?”

Soonyoung sits up, yes. Now he remembers why Vernon begs them to come to this fucking party. Sooyoung smiles at the flicker of the recognition in his eyes. He knows how you look, and you, but not the girl in front of him.

“Look over there.” She points to their right, which is the direction of the staircase, and Wonwoo, who wasn’t interested at first, follows her command, and then sees something unbelievable.

Vernon, his arm slings around you, and even the jacket wraps around you. He knows, they know instantly that it has to be Vernon’s– nobody wears that DIY-stitched up jacket and the denim that got abused to the point it almost becomes white.

“Is that what I think it is?” Wonwoo questions, he looks like he couldn’t believe his eyes. He thinks to himself that Vernon would definitely get more annoying now that you both make it official. He definitely didn’t sign up for that.

“Yep.” Sooyoung’s voice confirms their suspicion– and the cherry on top? Vernon kisses your hand and cheeks, you both laugh as the purple light shines on you both, making you both look like the romantic leads in a play. The act that is too intimate for two people who sometimes hang out with each other.

“I’m going to kill him if they both start kissing now.” Is the last thing Soonyoung said before he turns away, ignoring the sight of you both. But they’re all happy for the both of you, even if it comes in the form of annoyance.

Now both men just need to make sure that Vernon can pay their lunch fees now. After all, Vernon dug his own grave for suggesting the deal that he’ll totally get them expensive takeouts if you do happen to like him back.

COPYRIGHTED BY SADNIGHTFORUS, 2025

#kpop au #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop fanfic #kpop fluff #svt fic #svt x reader #svt angst #vernon x reader #vernon svt #vernon au #kpop angst #ha sooyoung #loona #svt x y/n #svt x you #vernon chwe #vernon angst #vernon fluff

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nechto221b · 29 days ago

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#i think i finally figured out how to draw them #i am ok about both introprations of Luthes both as siblings and as a couple however both opinions are not close to me #their love is more than just about siblings but i can't call them a couple either (and they probably wouldn't call themselves that)#to me they are soulmates. two parts that cannot be separated.#i like to think Rosalind saw Robert in her childhood “nightmare” and since then she has been storing his image in her memory #without even realizing it #and when she saw him in person she realized that this was the same man with whom fate had brought her together in childhood #and to put it very briefly for me their relationships are platonic and generally i perceive the Lutece as asexuals #and this drawing of them kissing does not represent my opinion of them by even a tenth. it is just a fan service from me for me #i think about them a lot actually #yes one picture with their kiss deserved so many tags #bioshock #bioshock infinite #lutece twins #rosalind lutece #robert lutece #lutecest #thanks to the game for the high-quality selfcest

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happy74827 · 10 months ago

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Say Yes to Heaven

[Logan Howlett x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Sometimes all it takes is one look. One gesture. One word. One action. To remind them that not everyone sees them the same, and It's enough to send a person over the edge.

WC: 3690

Category: Fluff, First Kiss, Logan’s POV

Another Grumpy!Logan x Sunshine!Reader because it’s my comfort trope ✨🫶

『••✎••』

He never realized how much he wanted someone to care for.

It was something he didn't know he desired. A year ago, he didn't care for a single thing. He felt nothing. He was so numb. So empty.

He was an angry man. The kind of man people kept their distance from. Wade ruined that; he aggravated him so much that Logan started actually caring about his life. And for as much as he despised his fugly ass, he was internally grateful for him. He started to open up more and more.

Wade had a part in taking him out of rock bottom, as they say, but you… you aggravated him in the most endearing way possible. You were so bright, so happy, and full of life. Logan couldn't understand how someone could be like that, and he hated you for it. He thought it was so ignorant of you.

"I mean, come on, how could she be that happy all the time? It's fucking dumb. She doesn't even know me!"

That's what he said to Wade, but his roommate only laughed. He found his frustration hilarious and made fun of him constantly.

And don’t even get started on the way you spoke. Never once have you raised your voice at anyone. You always talked softly, and even if you were pissed off, you still found a way to make your words sound gentle.

The man couldn’t wrap his mind around the way you acted, you weren’t a mutant, but you damn well could have been with that forever customer service smile you wore every day.

The level of patience and understanding you held for people was insane to him, especially the amount of patience you held with him.

He was constantly telling you to fuck off, and you took no offense; you just returned that stupidly kind smile and told him that if he needed anything, you were there for him.

You had no clue what he’s done, what he's capable of, and yet you treat him with the utmost respect. And being a mutant, respect, and kindness were two things he hadn’t received in a very long time.

It made him realize things—about himself and others. He started noticing you a little more—the way you looked and the way you acted. It started out as simple confusion and disgust… the typical reactions one would have when one sees an overly happy person.

But it evolved slowly into intrigue and curiosity.

Then something else. Something he couldn't describe.

His first instinct was to push it away. To try and convince himself, he was disgusted. He did this with everything he felt, but he couldn’t keep lying to himself.

It wasn't disgust.

He couldn't name it; he wasn't ready to, but he knew it wasn’t that.

Wade had noticed the change in him, the way he looked at you, the way he started being a little less rough with the words he chose to say. He didn’t bring it up, but the shit-eating grin he gave each time Logan walked in and saw you was more than enough proof that he had picked up on it.

Of course, it only resorted to grins because the one time he opened his mouth, Logan didn’t restrain himself. He popped his claws and had to go couch shopping the next day.

Whoops.

So, with Wade keeping his mouth shut after being chewed out by Blind Al and Logan trying his best to push away the foreign feelings, it finally reached a point where he could no longer ignore them.

He didn’t understand why, of all nights, it had to be this one, but it was.

It was 3 am, and his old nightmares had come back to haunt him. He was restless, sweaty, and couldn't take another second of sleep.

It took a rinsing of the bathroom sink and a pitiful glare at his reflection for you to return his gaze.

He froze for a second.

You were wearing a large T-shirt, with a pair of shorts underneath. Your hair was messy, but it looked so soft, and your face was clear of makeup, leaving the imperfections of your skin that made you all the more beautiful.

Always wearing a smile. Always greeting him with a soft voice, sometimes a little raspy if just waking up, butnonetheless soft.

But once he rubbed his eyes and let out a tired yawn, you weren’t there anymore.

Because you were never there, you lived across the street. You were in your apartment, sleeping, with no idea that, at that moment, the man who constantly told you to fuck off realized he couldn't stop thinking about you.

The same man who would grunt, scoff, and throw away every kind gesture now realized he secretly cherished them.

He stood there for a moment, just pondering his thoughts. His eyes were still on the spot he saw you in.

His head turned to the right, seeing the digital clock that rested on the nightstand.

3:02 am.

You were asleep…. most likely asleep. You would be unhappy if he came over and woke you up, wouldn't you?

He looked back at the sink.

You could be upset, but you could also be happy. You could give him that smile. That sweet, warm smile.

It would be worth it, right? Just for that?

3:04 am

He didn’t think about it. Not even for a second. Ironically, it started raining as if to test him, but the man was determined.

He put on a jacket to cover his bare chest, threw on some random shoes, and was out the door before his mind could stop him.

3:13 am

He knocked on your apartment door. He was completely drenched from the rain. His hair was messy, his jacket sticking to his body, and his shoes were so wet that the squelching sound they made was the only thing audible.

He heard shuffling. Soft steps coming closer. He could smell your scent. It shocked him how easy it was for him to recognize it.

You unlocked the door. Your brows furrowed in confusion.

His mental image of you being in sleepwear, messy hair, no makeup, had been confirmed. You were beautiful.

You had a tired look, one of the many looks he wasn’t used to. But it was still a good look, and it still held your signature kindness.

He had a feeling it would.

You didn't look too shocked, just tired and confused.

You spoke. "Logan, is…? Are you okay?"

Your voice was even softer than usual, the raspiness it held only making it more comforting.

You were genuinely worried about him, and it hit him then that he was being an asshole. Making you wake up in the middle of the night, and for what? Just because he wanted to see you?

Just because of that, he should’ve given you a reason. An explanation.

He should've asked. He should have done so many things differently, but he didn’t.

His head was in the clouds, and all he could think about was you.

You. That was all.

But his expression gave away that he was in a daze, and your worry only grew.

"Logan? What's wrong?"

You stepped out into the hallway and reached a hand to him.

His heart jumped a bit when you did so. It was just a gesture—one simple act of compassion.

He wasn't worthy of that, but he couldn't resist. He didn't want to.

Your fingers barely brushed against his upper arm before he moved. He grabbed your wrist.

His grip wasn't hard. His hold was gentle, as he had no intentions of hurting you. You could’ve easily pulled your arm away if you wanted to, but you didn't.

His eyes locked with yours. He wasn't sure what possessed him, but it felt so right, so he followed his instincts.

He tugged at your wrist, causing your body to fall into him. Your chest pressed against his. His arms wrapped around you, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other resting on the small of your back.

The embrace was so sudden, and he knew the situation was far from ideal, but his senses were overflowed by your presence, your scent, your softness.

His chin rested atop your head, and his eyes fluttered closed.

It wasn’t the first time he ever hugged someone, but it was the first time he hugged someone in such a way. He held onto you tightly, his grip possessive but not painful.

He was afraid to let go.

He felt your hands press against his chest. You were probably going to push him away, he thought, and he tried to prepare himself. He told himself he would let you go because it was the right thing to do, yet he didn’t need to.

You hugged him back, and he almost lost his footing.

How long had it been since he last received a hug? Since the last time, someone held him and showed him affection?

Too long.

Your hands went inside his opened jacket and held onto him. Your fingers pressed against his skin, and your soft, warm breaths caressed his neck.

He could stay like this for eternity, and he would never grow tired of it.

Your voice reached his ears.

"Logan, did something happen?"

He had been standing there for quite a while. He wasn’t aware of how long. Time seemed to freeze around you, but he didn’t mind. He wasn't one to believe in such nonsense, but when it came to you, he was ready to accept it.

Your hand rested on his arm, and he knew you were subtly prompting him to move, and so he did.

He pulled away from the hug just enough to look at you.

Your lips were turned upwards. The corners of your eyes creased.

"Logan?"

It was then that his actions registered—how utterly close the two of you were, how intimately you were holding each other. He was already warm just from genetics alone, but now he felt everything around him heat up.

"I-"

He didn't know what to say. It was like he was back in that bar, drinking away every thought. He couldn't think. There was nothing. Nothing but the feel of your body against his.

But what truly sealed the deal was when he felt your thumb gently caress his knuckles. It was a small movement, barely noticeable, but it was centered exactly on the scars his claws made.

That little movement made his brain short-circuit. His hands twitched. His grip tightened. He held onto you with his entire body as if scared to let you go.

"What happened?"

You were patient with him. The fact that he hadn’t even answered any of your concerns said enough.

But, eventually, he did find some words to respond with. It wasn’t the answer you were searching for, but it was a response.

"Why are you always being so fucking kind?"

It was such a simple question, and yet the amount of pain it carried was overwhelming. He knew you could hear every word behind it. Every word he couldn't bring himself to say.

He didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t a good man. He did horrible things, and sure… he made an attempt to make up for it. To be better, but it couldn’t have been enough, could it?

You were still here, looking at him with those soft eyes.

Why couldn't you look at him the way he deserved to be looked at? Like he was a monster.

Why did you have to look at him with those goddamn beautiful eyes?

"You deserve kindness, Logan. We all do."

And then, your voice became even softer and a little shaky. Your hands went back to massaging his knuckles. His scars.

"Just because you see yourself a certain way doesn’t mean the rest of us do. I see the good in you. Always have since we first met."

You spoke so softly, yet your words were heavy with emotion.

"I know it's not easy, but try to have a little more faith in yourself."

You didn’t deserve the harsh words he always threw at you. You didn’t deserve any of his anger. You didn't deserve him.

"Why?" He repeated his question, his voice strained, and you didn't miss the way his jaw clenched. "Why should I?"

His arms loosened their hold around you; his hands moved down your sides, and his touch feathered light. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he couldn’t quite let go just yet.

You paid it no mind. Only staring back into his eyes with the same kindness he was so used to, the one he had grown to treasure.

"You have a right to feel the way you do, Logan. And I can't claim to understand what you've been through. I can't begin to imagine. But you are a good man. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but you’ve shown me time and time again that you're trying."

A smile crept its way onto your face, and a soft giggle escaped past your lips.

Now, to be fair, he was used to hearing your laughter. With your… odd sense of humor, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. But, this would be one of the firsts to add to his collection.

The one reserved for him and him only.

Your laughter wasn’t loud, or annoying, or anything like Wade's. It was soft, sweet, and oh-so pleasant.

You were looking at him. Staring up at him with such love and warmth. You didn't even realize it, but he did.

"Besides, who wouldn't be a little grouchy waking up to that handsome face every morning?"

And, now, he was repulsed by the unwelcome vision of a certain masked man making his way into his head. He was so disgusted by the thought he didn’t bother responding. He didn't want to.

So, instead, he moved.

He had a habit of moving on his own and not thinking about it. It went from his hands going to your sides, and now, his hands reaching out to press against the door behind you.

You were pinned against the door, and the way you looked at him didn’t change. Of course, it didn't. Your eyes were always kind. They always were.

You were leaning against the door. Looking at him, waiting.

And he stared back.

He was so close, and he was tempted to pull away. To take a step back and leave. It would be the best for both of you; at least, he thinks so.

He couldn't give you anything.

He had nothing.

There was only himself. His body. His mind. His past.

His claws, too, if that counted for anything.

But, besides those, there was nothing.

He wasn’t a bad man, but he wasn't good either. Not like you were. He couldn’t possibly begin to match you, not even if he tried.

Which is why he had no intention of trying.

Yet, even as he thought that, his body moved even closer. The dog tags he had never taken off since he was given them hung loosely, dangling in front of your face.

One of your hands was on his chest, the other gripping onto the material of his shirt.

"Logan."

You spoke his name so softly. Almost a whisper, and yet, the sound of it was all his senses were focused on.

Your gaze shifted between his eyes and lips, and the hand that had been holding onto his shirt moved, reaching up to his shoulder.

The touch was light, as if hesitant, and it caused him to lean even closer.

It was so close. You were so close. You had been before, but never like this. Never in the way he wanted.

He wanted you so badly.

And you were right there. Looking at him with those eyes, with a soft, tender smile, and with an expression he didn't recognize.

He knew that was an invitation. You were always an open book, and your body language was no different.

And it wasn't the first time you did so.

There were many times when you looked at him. Your eyes trailing over his face. Your gaze went downwards, lingering before you snapped out of it and looked away.

He always saw it, always knew it was there, but he just chose to ignore it. He wasn’t in the right mind, then. He was just another broken man, struggling to get by, trying his best.

Trying to find some meaning in his life.

But, even now, he was still hesitant. Even after coming all the way here and making his intentions clear, he struggled with it.

"Are you sure?"

Because you were so much better than him.

Because he could still remember the day the two of you met. How much of an asshole he was, how rude, how angry.

It wasn’t until the seventh time you approached him that he realized that he had met someone who genuinely, wholeheartedly cared.

It wasn't until the twentieth time you approached him that he finally accepted it.

He could never forget the way you smiled and spoke to him, even though he had given you no reason to.

"Hi, Logan!"

You would say.

"Good morning!"

You would wave.

"Have a nice day, Logan."

You would nod, even though the man himself chose to ignore you. Goddamn it. You were so much better than him.

Much purer. Much more innocent.

You had a heart of gold, and a soul as white as snow. You were so good, so kind, and the thought of soiling you, of ruining your light with his darkness, it scared him.

It was the sole reason he didn't give in, even now, with you offering yourself to him.

He didn't want to ruin you.

"Yes."

No hesitation. No second thoughts.

Your eyes were so kind. So full of love, and the same emotion reflected back in his own.

But, even with the clear sign of assurance, he still felt the need to create one last line of defense.

With the hand against the door, he peeled it back enough to have your eyes catch sight of the fist it made.

In a millisecond, he unleashed his claws and slammed his fist against the door, the sharp adamantium easily slicing through the wood, causing the door to crack.

And, yet, no reaction. Not a single flinch, not a wince, not even a hitch of breath.

You weren't afraid. Not at all. Even as the claws were mere inches from your face, you weren't scared.

The corners of your mouth twitched. Upwards, and it soon bloomed into a bright smile.

He retracted his claws, and gave you another once-over, just to be sure, and you responded by lifting your hand, grasping the metal chain hanging from his neck.

Your fingers grazed against the cool metal, and your smile softened before turning into a small grin.

"For a man who states he isn’t scared of anything, you sure have a lot of defense mechanisms, Logan."

Teasing. That was a new one for you.

He liked it.

"Say it again." Now, finally, you showed a different expression. Confusion mixed with curiosity. You were wondering what he meant. "My name."

"Logan."

For you, his actions were mere seconds. You had no time to process the feeling of his breath against your lips. The feeling of his stubble tickling your skin. The feeling of his warm, dry lips pressed against yours.

But, for him, it was a slow, steady motion. He took his time. He pulled you closer, his hands moving from the door and cupping the back of your head and your waist.

The kiss was soft. Gentle. Nothing rushed.

He held you like you were fragile. Like you were made of porcelain and could break at any moment. He could, theoretically, but he would rather go through Cassandra’s entire repertoire of torture than hurt you.

He lifted you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and your arms around his neck, his own pulling you closer, his fingers digging into your skin.

You tasted exactly how you were. Pure. Sweet.

Like heaven.

He was sure he was leaving that of the bitter alcohol he had downed on your lips, but you didn't seem fussy about it.

Not that he could focus on anything else, anyway.

He was too distracted by the way his tongue danced with yours.

Too focused on the taste of your mouth.

Too distracted by the way your hands made themselves a home in his wet hair. They would tug every once in a while, releasing a groan he hadn’t known was there.

He was too distracted to care.

He was too lost in your scent. Wade always called him that character from that shity vampire movie due to his nose.

He always disagreed until you happened to mention the resemblance. Then, and only then, did he see the logic.

And you saw the logic here, too—the logic of how good you melted together. Experiencing it now made him question his decision to stay away.

If it was always going to be this good, this intoxicating, he should’ve done it a long time ago.

He should've taken the chance.

It would've saved the two of you a lot of frustration, and a lot of headaches.

But it didn't matter. He was here now.

And, as his foot broke into the door, mouth still latched onto yours, with him figuring his way about your apartment, he thought:

It doesn't matter.

As long as I’m here.

As long as you’re in my arms.

It doesn't matter.

Fortunately, that meant he didn’t have to wake up to that toupee-stapled face every morning, as he had so dreadfully imagined.

Unfortunately, it also meant that the next time he saw Wade, he would have to deal with him talking his ears off about what had transpired.

But, for now, he could live with that.

He was more focused on the fact on making sure you weren’t regretting your choice.

Because he sure as fuck didn’t.

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sadagios · 2 months ago

Text

GIGGS Immortal Company AU

"Nothing in the world is more precious than one’s life, and sometimes, we have to deal with forces that threaten to cut it short. Ghosts, monsters, and sometimes, even people. This fear prevents us from enjoying our short time in this world.

"But what if I tell you that you don’t have to worry about your life falling into danger? What if I tell you that there are people willing to let go of their lives so you don’t have to?

"Ghost busting? Monster journalism? Creature Handling? Cryptid hunting? Property retrieval in ominous places and planets? There is no job we can’t handle!

"Throw your worries away and let GIGGS handle your dangerous affairs. Give a grand to GIGGS and your life will be nothing but grand."

aka A GIGGS AU where the five of them are broke immortals trying to capitalize on their inability to die by taking on life-threatening jobs.

more under the cut!

Impulse and Skizz founded the company. Skizz had the idea and persuaded Impulse to pursue it. Impulse has extensive experience in ghost hunting and prioritizes on-site jobs, while Skizz’s expertise is in handling clients and paperwork. They started as a duo and received mostly ghost-busting jobs. Years into their business, the jobs became more demanding and dangerous, and despite their immortality, it was still a bit much for two people to handle.

Their first recruit was Scar. They never talked to the man, but they often saw him in the city; each time they saw him, he always sat near the lake with a journal and pen in his hands, and a cane rested on his chair. They have been working as IMP n’ SKIZZ for a few decades at this point, and Skizz pointed out to Impulse that the man doesn’t seem to age despite seeing him every week or month. When they talked to him, they found out that Scar was an immortal as well. He agreed to join the company, and although he was clumsy most times and he died so often, it helped out the duo’s workload a ton. Especially with clients. It felt like they accidentally hired themselves a top salesman and a PR guy.

Their next recruit was Grian… well, more like their first applicant. He suddenly showed up one day in their company building asking they need one more employee. Impulse thought it was a good idea as they started to receive jobs that required them to go off-country, or even off-planet. Grian served as a great addition to their team with the way he strategizes and how quick he get things done. Though he’s a very unsettling person. They’re not even sure if he’s human. Each time he died, his corpse stayed on the ground, and he suddenly pops up somewhere.

Their last official member is Gem, who was neither a recruit nor an applicant. She was a hitman paid to kill Scar. She sabotaged a lot of their jobs just to get a swing at Scar, who never seemed to die even when she ripped his heart out. When Grian tried to kill her to get rid of her, her wounds instantly healed. After a while, she realized that her attempts at killing the old conman were futile. Skizz and Impulse tried to recruit her, seeing that her abilities can help the company, but she refused. They didn’t see her for a few years, and she showed up one day saying she’s sick of killing people for money and wants to go on (creepy) adventures.

The five of them made a perfect team, and thus IMP n’ SKIZZ was renamed to GIGGS after a few years.

ADDITIONAL NOTES

IMPULSE

When he dies, his body tries to repair itself back together, and if his important organs are still intact, he goes back into consciousness.

The cause of his immortality is unknown.

Before falling into an existential crisis and state of depression and hopelessness thanks to his immortality, he was a ghost hunter.

SKIZZLEMAN “SKIZZ”

His immortality is the same as Impulse’s, but his consciousness never leaves his body.

The cause of his immortality is unknown.

A few hundred years ago, he was a radio host who was known for his ghost stories segment. The station eventually fell into obscurity before it completely stopped its operation.

He joined a ghost hunter services company a year later, and that’s where he met impulse.

MR. GOODTIMES "SCAR"

He gets scars and can bleed, but doesn’t feel pain. He can also get his heart ripped off and still be able to live. No part of his body can die, and even though he can’t regenerate a whole new organ, his organs can live apart from him.

However, once his body parts or organs reattach to him, it connects with gooey gold which harden after a while, making it harder to remove the next time. Though, this also causes problems sometimes and makes it harder for Scar to move. This is why he uses a cane for his leg.

He gained immortality from a golden cat statue after he repaired it. Some of its shards are missing, so he’s unsure whether this immortality was a blessing or a curse.

He used to be a con artist. He once tricked a billionaire into investing in his fake business. After he got some hundred million, he booked it and lived comfortably in hiding.

GRIAN

His corpses stay dead, but he pops back into existence randomly.

Beneath his glasses, his eyes are hollow and hold a deep abyss inside them.

Sometimes, his new body doesn't express emotions well, so the team rely on his voice and actions to tell how he’s feeling.

The cause of his immortality is unknown. It’s also unknown what kind of creature he is.

AGENT GEMINI "GEM"

She can die, but only if every single one of the cells explodes. She can grow old, but her regeneration is so fast that her aging is incredibly slowed down. She calls herself a “Pseudo Immortal”. Her skin is difficult to slice apart with how fast it connects back together.

Her immortality’s cause is a secret.

Her life before being a hitman is also a secret.

#blood tw #team giggs #giggs #hermitcraft #goodtimeswithscar #grian #skizzleman #impulsesv #geminitay #my art #mcyt #AU - Immortal GIGGS Company #this wont leave my brain so. heres this post #i dont know if this idea has been done before but heres my brainrot

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chuluoyi · 1 year ago

Text

✎ throughout heaven and earth

- gojo satoru x reader

a sudden mission. a curse beyond your grade. all hell breaks loose when gojo realizes that there are hidden machinations behind the incident that befalls you

genre: feral!gojo, injured!reader, hurt/comfort, exponential fluff !

note: we need a gojo who will go ballistic against the higher-ups for dragging you in their mess :) refer to this for the reader's CT, and this loosely takes place after the events in heaven's fury, and the epilogue is based on this very brilliant idea :))

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

Something isn’t right.

You should’ve known it was strange when they assigned you with a sudden mission with little to no briefing. You should’ve gone through with your gut feeling and informed Satoru about it.

Because if you did... now you wouldn’t be running for your life like this, frantically dodging the hacks and slashes of this chainsaw-like cursed spirit that was evidently not a Grade 2 as what you were told.

“Ah!” you yelped as the sharp ends of its body struck your shoulder, leaving you bleeding openly. This was no small wound—it was deep enough to make you stagger.

You had to do something about this because merely avoiding wouldn’t save your life. You had to come back in one piece. You have to— for your baby and Satoru.

What if I can’t? The sheer thought made you tremble. Your baby boy was still so little and he needed you more than anyone, and Satoru...

God, you couldn’t bear to leave him alone. Not again. He couldn't handle losing someone again, not after all he had already lost.

You gripped your whip—your cursed weapon—tightly amidst your bleeding hand. You had barely enough cursed energy for a domain expansion that guaranteed a sure-hit effect. You have one shot. This was all or nothing.

But you weren’t sure if it would work, because you were on the verge of exhaustion, and this was a special grade curse. Your domain expansion was definitely not as refined as the Satoru’s, and this monster was an enemy of his class.

“Satoru...” your voice came out in a sob. You were terribly scared, and honestly you were entitled to. You weren’t even sure you would survive this at all, and all you could think now was your husband’s silly grin and how much you loved him.

And right afterwards, you saw the cursed spirit lunging at you, and with everything left that you had, you screamed—

“Domain Expansion: Transcendent Veil!”

“Gojo-sensei, p-please come back... Nee-san is...!”

Satoru was in Kyoto when he received that call from Megumi— and that moment shattered his world as he knew it.

“Megumi, what is it?”

“She w-was sent on a mission... but then it's a special grade— a-and... she... she e-exorcised it b-but—!”

He teleported without second thought to Tokyo. His mind was blank, the only sound he could hear was his own violent heartbeats, and his fists were clenched so tightly.

“The cursed spirit got her too… It made a cut on her neck.”

His most precious wife... the one person he must protect at all cost, was now possibly—

“Megumi.” He saw him sitting on the hallway of the headquarters’ hospital the with his son on his lap—you had asked him to look after your baby—and the boy looked up to him.

“Gojo-sensei...” Megumi appeared shaken, and seeing that, Satoru immediately took his child from his hands, pulling the little kid into his embrace.

“Go back home, I’ll stay here.”

In all his life, Megumi had never seen Gojo Satoru as calm as he was now. He looked fearsome, as if he was in the battlefield.

“Ichiji.” Satoru turned to the other man rigidly standing next to Megumi, causing him to stiffen up even more. He didn’t say anything further as he pat his little son’s back, and yet Ichiji knew all the same what he wanted from him.

“It’s from… the higher ups, Gojo-san.” Ichiji gulped as he said it. “Y/N-san was suddenly called in yesterday night, and she was told it was an urgent mission.”

“Who called her?”

“It was…”

When Ichiji told him the name, suddenly Satoru barked a snort, and his lips curled into a manic grin. It was a menacing sight for both Ichiji and Megumi, as he looked almost unhinged if not for his secure grip on his son.

But contrary to what they were thinking, what filled Satoru at that moment was pure, unadulterated fury. A righteous sense of being crossed—because, how fucking dare they?

Those higher ups first pressed him to execute Yuji, and when he paid them no mind… now they staged this atrocity against you, most definitely to serve as a warning to him.

“Ichiji, tell them that I’ll pay a visit tomorrow. And drive Megumi home tonight.”

He would make his point loud and clear. He would show them how wrong it was to ever test him. But…

The plan barely satisfied him. They hurt you. His heart finally lurched as he processed the fact… when he heard his baby’s soft whimper against his shoulder.

. . .

You sustained serious injuries, but finally, you were out of critical condition.

When Satoru was allowed to see you, you were still connected to many monitors and breathing machine. He brought your baby too inside, and upon clearly seeing both of them, suddenly your eyes welled up with tears.

“Hey…” his hand gripped yours reassuringly. You sniffled when the strain of your broken ribs made you almost cry out in pain, and Satoru immediately calmed you down.

“Sweets— hey, don’t cry, yeah? You did good.” He pressed a soft kiss on the back of your hand. “You did freaking good. You’re okay now. You’re going to recover, yeah?”

You gave him a tearful little nod, feeling so grateful that you could see him again. And unbeknownst to you, seeing you like this broke his heart too.

“Mwa...” your baby, cradled in your husband’s arms, suddenly stretched his tiny hands towards you, and Satoru handed him over for you to hold.

With the little strength you possessed, you reached out to stroke his soft cheeks. Your son... the thought of how close you came to death brought another tear rolling down your cheek.

All sort of thoughts went through Satoru’s head at the sight. His wife, the mother of his son, who is proud of him for everything he does—

—and their sorry asses dared to hurt you.

Suddenly all he saw was red.

And he swore he would make it right to you. Soon.

“Ah, Satoru-kun… to what I owe the pleasure?”

“…I’ve heard that it was you who assigned that special grade mission to my wife, correct?”

“Oh, that. First of all, I must apologize for my... oversight. We were misinformed... Our scouts made a mistake while filling the files.”

Satoru was trying not to lose his composure first thing after coming here. Really.

But the knowing tone of the elderly Jujutsu Commander only fueled his rage, growing stronger the longer he stood behind this stupid paper divider.

“So it’s a mistake, huh?” he repeated in a satire manner. “Then do you know that my wife has just gotten out of her maternity leave this week?”

The man behind the divider chuckled quietly. “Satoru-kun… I know the sentiment. Of course you’ll be worried, and it did end in a rather… unfortunate incident. However, jujutsu sorcerers are bound to their duty, and your wife cannot rely too heavily on her status as a member of the Gojo clan to be excluded from—”

Fuck it. He had no patience any longer.

“Seems like I need to be a lot rougher, after all.”

Suddenly the room crackled with electricity and the Jujutsu Commander gasped at the sense of foreboding he felt. “Gojo, you can’t—!”

“Heh, but I can.” He let out the most satisfied laugh before opening his palm and chanting in a lower voice: “Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.”

In a matter of seconds, the audience chamber of jujutsu headquarters turned into a pile of destruction. The commander barely made it out the deadly vacuum vortex with a shriek.

“Ah! N-no! Get a-away from me!” Satoru stared down at him coldly through his unobstructed heavenly eyes, as he pitifully tried to crawl away. He took one step towards him, stomped on his hand ruthlessly—causing the man to scream, before he got down to his level.

“N-no! Please, s-spare me...!”

“This is my first and last warning to you.” It was beyond terrifying, to see those six eyes in this close proximity. But even more dreadful was the tight chokehold on his throat—

“If you ever try to pull this idiotic stunt again on my wife, know that I can and I will snap your neck.” Satoru’s face split into a sinister grin as he tapped the man’s nape, before he crushed the bones of his hand with a crack and made him howl. “Remember that, yeah?”

. . . that day, none in jujutsu headquarters dared to spread any word about Gojo Satoru’s outrageous conduct, even when it was an attack against their own highest ranking leader.

“Satoru, you don’t have to, really—”

“Nuh, uh! I’ve promised you I’ll nurse you back to health!”

Unaware of anything and everything, you thought that your loving husband was a silly jester trying to make you feel better. On the fifth day of your stay in hospital, you were well enough to eat solid food, and Satoru insisted on spoon feeding you the fruits he cut himself.

“Good girl,” he praised with a wholly playful smile as you chewed on the watermelon. You looked at him with a mock frown, pursing your lips.

“You’re making me look like a kid.”

“You are, in fact, my second kid, so I have all rights to baby you.”

You let out a giggle, but then suddenly your throat felt like it was closing in and you coughed. Instinctively, you reached for your neck— your fingers tracing the scar there.

You still could remember the sense of paralyzing fear you felt as soon as your neck was cut. The heavy bleeding that followed, the way the world blacking out around you…

“Sweets…?” Satoru put down the plate and got a grip on your trembling figure. He gently pushed your chin up to meet his eyes. “Hey, look at me. Look at me, hmm?”

Your frantic eyes locked onto his, and your rapid breathing steadied. Your clammy hand reached out to touch his face... before you lunged forward, throwing your arms around him.

“Sweetheart…” Satoru hugged you back in return, sighing against the nape on your neck, as he planted a soft kiss there.

You tried your best not to cry but it was hard not to while remembering everything.

“I-I was so scared…”

“Mhm.”

“I-I kept thinking… w-what if I c-can’t see you… or baby again…? I… I s-still want to do a lot of… things… w-with you…”

The way you shook in his arms like a fragile leaf made something inside him burn. He was supposed to provide you with security, give you a life far removed from curses—

Having left that warning against the higher-ups wasn’t enough, he should’ve made him beg for his life more—

“Listen to me,” Satoru said as he broke the hug, the deep frown in his grave expression made you almost sob. He gently wiped your overflowing tears with the pads of his thumbs.

“Stop thinking that. You’re alright. You’re going to get better. You and me—we are going to raise our son together.”

You took in each of his words fully, even as your lips quivered.

“And mark my words…” Right in this moment, you thought that your husband was most dashing as he gave you his promises—as his blue eyes glimmered under the light. “They won’t ever lay their hands on you ever again. Not while I’m here. Not ever. I already made sure of that.”

You were curious about what he did, but you chose not to press further when Satoru leaned in suddenly and brushed his lips against yours in a soft kiss, melting your heart into mush.

When he pulled away, it was his usual teasing grin on his handsome face. “Now, I only have one duty left— that is to get my cute wife back on her feet. So, be a good little wifey and have lots of fruits and sleep, okay?”

You giggled freely this time, feeling tremendously safe and loved, and instead of answering, you chose to peck his lips instead— hoping that he’d know that you trusted him with your whole life.

. . .

“By the way… Satoru, where’s our baby?” you missed your pumpkin, and while being with your funny husband lifted your spirits, you wanted to cuddle him too.

He chuckled in response. “Ah! Since Megumi is on an assignment, I left him with Ichiji earlier! Don’t worry, I’ll come pick him up soon, ‘kay?”

Epilogue

“I’m going out for a bit, and if you ever make him upset or cry… I can and I will sense it! So Ichiji—do your best!”

“Bwa…”

“Eeek!”

Ichiji stared at Baby Gojo with literal sweat on his forehead, as the little being curiously looked up at him.

By all means, this baby was adorable. Even more so when his father dressed him in a shark onesie. It was a peculiar choice—just like any of Gojo’s choices were—but it sure made the baby look even more endearing.

But the thing is… he didn’t feel secure enough to hold him! Especially when he didn’t know if Gojo’s claim of telepathic connection with his son was true or not!

Amidst his thoughts, suddenly Ichiji felt a soft touch on his arm and immediately turned to find the little munchkin putting his little hand on him and staring at him with such pureness unbefitting of Gojo Satoru’s son.

How can this baby be a stark contrast to his father? Ichiji was almost tempted to snuggle him, but he knew better.

“O-oh… d-don’t touch me…”

And as he retracted his hand back, the baby suddenly widened his eyes, feeling betrayed apparently, as his little lips wobbled and face scrunched up, so ready to burst into tears—

“Hic…”

“—!! Nooo! Don’t cry! Your father will fry me! Eeek!!”

6K notes · View notes

science-hoes · 2 months ago

Text

Maroon

Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: 18+, SMUT, age gap, unprotected sex

Description: Robby makes sure the reader knows her worth after being stood up on a date.

Michael Robinavitch Masterlist

—

You knew you looked good. Fuck, you had spent three hours getting ready. Exfoliating your entire body to be smoother than marble. Shaving your legs and pelvic area. Massaging lotion deep into your skin. Blow-dried hair and flawless makeup. And your outfit. A long, red, satin dress that hung off your shoulders, snatched around your waist, and a slit that showcased your left upper thigh.

You walked into the Pitt, the clicking of your black heels announcing your presence. Every head, single and taken, craned to watch you pass by. The path up to the nurses' station might as well have been a catwalk. When Dana turned around, she let out a surprised laugh.

“Wow! I didn’t know you owned any clothes besides scrubs.” She teased.

You smiled and leaned against the counter. “To be fair, this is probably the only nice outfit I have.” You admitted.

Dana glanced around the room, and just about every person, staff and patients alike, were trying to sneak glances at you. “Well, you’ve certainly got everyone’s attention. Why are you all dressed up?” She asked.

You rubbed your hands together, trying to soothe yourself, swallowing hard before you spoke to mask any insecurities in your voice. “I had a date. Got stood up.” You replied.

Dana furrowed her brow when she saw your nose scrunch at the early sting of tears. “Stood up? Does he know you look like this?” She waved her hands down your body as if she were presenting you to an audience.

You felt a smile reach your lips again and giggled slightly. “I mean, he had only seen me in scrubs.” You answered.

Dana leaned in, suspicion in her eyes. “Was it someone from the Pitt?” She whispered.

You looked around to make sure nobody was close enough to hear, but you still shielded your lips when you mouthed the name “Matteo.”

She pulled her lips into a thin line and nodded. “Not surprised. Good nurse, but still a kid.” She said.

You shrugged, shoulders pulling closer to your frame to minimize yourself. “We’re the same age. I just thought he was a little more serious than that.” You confessed.

Your work mom pointed her index finger at you. “What you need is a man. Not some kid. Someone older.” She advised.

A huff of air passed your lips, and you stood up straight again. “Trust me, I’ve been trying.” You glanced around before leaning in again. “A certain stick-in-the-mud won’t hold a conversation longer than thirty seconds if it’s not about a patient.”

Dana chuckled. “Too bad he’s already gone home for the night. Otherwise, I think you’d have him wrapped around your finger if he saw how you looked right now.” She mused.

You smiled at the thought and compliment. “I’ve kinda given up on that. It’s out of my reach. Hence, my date tonight.”

“Well, never say never. Now why are you here instead of at a bar picking up hot men?” She asked.

You looked towards the doctor’s lounge. “I left my purse here. Has my driver’s license and everything. Just glad I didn’t get pulled over.” You replied.

She smiled and gave you a ‘get outta here’ nod of her head. “Get your stuff and go have some fun. Don’t let a stupid boy ruin your night. But not too much fun because I don’t want to see your body search on the evening news.”

You giggled and rolled your eyes. “Okay, fine. I’ll probably just go to Fenian’s across the street.” You agreed before heading toward the doctor’s lounge.

As you opened the door, you bumped into someone exiting the lounge. “Oh, I’m sorry.” The familiar voice said. Dr. Robby towered over you, still not looking down, distracted by the last few minutes of his shift. “This is a doctor's lounge. We ask that patients and families-“

“Doctor Robby.” You said, trying to get him to actually look down at you.

And boy, when he finally did. Robby’s breath hitched once he realized it was you. He had already pinned you as a patient’s girlfriend, probably in the ER after your boyfriend had an allergic reaction at a fancy restaurant.

“Oh.” Was all he could say.

His eyes scanned your body, lingering a little too long at your exposed cleavage. You fiddled with the delicate bracelet around your wrist out of nervousness and let out a breathy laugh. “Sorry, I just left my purse here.” You said.

Without a word, Robby held the door open for you, and you went inside. You grabbed your purse, slung it over your shoulder, and exited the room again. “Thank you.” You added before heading towards the entrance of the Pitt.

Robby’s eyes were locked on your calves as you strutted away in those black heels. He felt winded like he had fallen flat on his back and had the air knocked out of his lungs. Slowly, he walked up to the nurses’ station, not taking his eyes off you until you exited the building.

Meanwhile, Dana had been watching the entire interaction. Amused, she leaned back in her chair. “I thought you went home.” She said.

Robby rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous tic. “Uh, no. Not yet.” He answered.

“You look like you’ve seen an angel.” She teased.

He leaned against the high counter and shook his head. “No, I just didn’t recognize her.” He replied.

Dana rolled her eyes. “Come on, Robby. Productivity dropped fifty percent the moment she walked in the door. You can admit that she looked good.” She said.

He looked to Dana like admitting it out loud would be an unforgivable sin. It would verify that he had entertained the idea of dragging you to an on-call room with him or bringing you coffee at the beginning of your shift. “She’s half my age. I could be her father.” He replied.

Dana shrugged. “A young father.” She amended.

Robby rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t shake the image of you walking away. Hair bouncing on your back with every step, the sway of your hips. “Why was she all dressed up?” He asked.

“She had a date and got stood up. Can you believe that?” She answered.

No. He really couldn’t believe that. How does someone as intelligent as you, looking like a modern-day goddess, get stood up? But he said nothing to show his hand.

“I’m about to head out. Anything you need before I leave?” He asked instead, drumming his hands on the high counter.

Dana gave him a skeptical look. “No. Go on, get out of here before night shift drags you into a room.” She replied. And as Robby began to walk away, he heard Dana add, “She’s at Fenian’s.”

Fenian’s. The bar across from the hospital. Robby began to consider it. Showing up after his shift in scrubs that had probably come in contact with every possible bodily fluid that day. His eyes were sunken in from dehydration and sleep deprivation. All while you looked like a pin-up poster girl. And you probably had men on either side of you now, each trying to best the other to win your affections.

His mind ran on like that until he found himself standing at the entrance of the bar, the neon blue ‘OPEN’ sign shining bright in his eyes. He turned to leave, shaking his head in disbelief that he had even walked to the bar. Until he saw you through the window. Sitting alone at the counter. Legs delicately crossed, posture impeccable. You sipped on what looked like vodka and club soda, eyes peering up at the Steelers game on the TV. You looked like an angel in the low light of the bar.

Robby didn’t realize he had walked in through the door until a bell signaled that he entered. The bartender looked up and smiled. “Hey, Robby. What can I get ya?” She asked.

You didn’t turn around, eyes focused on the game. You hadn’t even considered that it was your Robby who walked in. “Shot of Lalo, please.” He answered.

His voice made your heart jump to your throat. You turned your head, hair tossing naturally over your shoulder. Robby smiled, but it was a small one. Slowly, he moved to sit at the barstool next to you, back leaning against the bar to watch a different game on the TV behind you.

“Can’t stay away from the hospital for too long, huh?” He said, trying to begin a lighthearted conversation.

You studied the way he sat next to you, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted up to watch the game. You smiled slightly. “I was supposed to have a date.” You answered, almost embarrassed.

“Didn’t show up?”

“No. He even had the day off, too.”

Robby finally glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. Your posture regressed to a slouch, and you stared blankly at your fizzing cup on the bar. A strange twist in his chest arose at the pitiful sight. He turned slightly to face you, leaning an elbow on the counter.

“You deserve better than that.” He affirmed.

You huffed at his words and took a sip of your drink. “I guess he really is more interested in Javadi.” You said.

Robby raised an eyebrow. “Javadi? You mean you were supposed to go on a date with Matteo?”

Your silent nod sent a vile jolt of jealousy through his body. One that he hadn’t expected. He downed his shot of tequila that he had let sit on the bar. The burn in his throat distracted him from the nausea pooling in his stomach at the thought of you and Matteo. Someone much younger than him. Better looking than him.

“Maybe it’s a good thing. I’m looking to settle down, and he doesn’t seem like he’s in that headspace.” You finally added.

Robby raised a finger to the bartender, who poured another shot for him. “Yeah, I don’t think he is.” He confirmed.

You glanced up at him as he threw back the second shot. It hurt to hear the truth confirmed, even if you already knew. But then Dana’s words seemed to creep into your mind.

“Dana said I need someone older.” You found yourself admitting.

Robby met your gaze again, feeling a whisper of warmth in his cheeks, unsure if it was the tequila or your words. “Older.” He repeated, though not as a question.

You nodded and turned to face him on your barstool. The slit in your shimmering red dress widened to reveal even more of your thigh, dangerously close to your hip. Robby couldn’t help himself from looking, and you noticed the way his eyes politely flicked back up to yours with a swiftness.

“Someone who knows what he wants. Knows how to take care of me.” You tested the waters, seeing if Robby would take the bait.

He remained guarded, but his eyes were riveted on your thickly glossed lips. “Take care of you.” He mumbled to himself like an oath.

You shrugged. “Or at least let me take care of him.” You added, voice laced with sultry.

Robby’s dark chocolate eyes snapped up, a twinkle of understanding within them. Your lips curved into a small smile, and you leaned in closer, your cleavage deepening from the change in position. “Do you know of anyone like that?” You asked softly, feigning innocence.

You were close enough now to smell the strong aroma of Lalo on his breath, and he was intoxicated by the sweet scent of your perfume. “I-“ He began to stutter, the pitch of his voice faltering. “You’ve been drinking. I’m not going to take advantage of you.” He said as firmly as he was able to.

You raised an eyebrow and tilted your head to your drink. “That’s Sprite.” You deadpanned. “I’m sober. Are you?”

Robby chuckled at the idea that two shots of tequila would make him feel anything. “Absolutely.” He answered.

Your bare knee brushed against his, leaning in impossibly close now. “Then take me home.” You whispered.

Robby’s hands trembled as he ran one through his thinning dark hair. “I don’t do hookups. I can’t do casual. I can only handle something real.” He warned. “I know you’re upset about Matteo not showing-”

“Robby.” You cut him off. “I never wanted him. I’ve always wanted you.”

The air hung heavy between the two of you. Your doe eyes were making him crumble. “You want me?” He questioned. Now he was concerned that two shots of tequila did affect him.

You rose to your feet, standing in between his spread legs now, still craning your neck up at him. The distance between your lips was minuscule, and for the first time, you placed your hands on his body, resting them on his chest. “I want you. Take me home.” You reaffirmed.

—-

The door to Robby’s house slammed shut after he pulled you through the threshold. He pinned you against it, hands resting on the wood on either side of your head. His head lowered so that your noses brushed, but he wouldn’t go any farther than that.

Your hands found rest on his chest again, flush against the fabric of his navy hoodie. “Are you gonna kiss me, Robby?” You asked.

Robby’s smile pulled to one side of his face as he studied the beautiful features of your face. “My name is Michael.” He whispered and placed a sweet kiss on your forehead. “Only here.” A kiss on your cheek. “Only for you.” A kiss on your jaw.

Your breath staggered at the sensation of his beard dragging across your soft skin. “Michael.” You tested the name on your lips. It felt intimate. It felt natural.

Robby grinned, and his teeth dragged across your skin as he finally made his way to your lips. Your mouth opened immediately to welcome his, slipping your tongue across his bottom lip. He answered with a quiet moan and deepened the kiss by grabbing the back of your head and pulling you closer. Your arms draped around his neck, pushing your entire body against his. You both savored the simplicity of kissing, learning each other’s mouths, familiarizing yourselves with the closeness of your souls for the first time. His hand that wasn’t rooted in your hair explored the curves of your waist and back, leaving a tingling sensation wherever it wandered.

After what felt like hours, he pulled away first but stayed close with his nose nuzzling against yours. “I’m gonna take care of you tonight. The way you deserve.” He whispered, lips ghosting over yours as he spoke. “But I have some ground rules, okay?”

You nodded, gently scratching his beard with your fingertips. “Okay.” You agreed.

“Number one. We can’t tell anyone at work. I don’t want anyone knowing what happens between us at home. And more importantly, I don’t want anyone questioning your judgement as a doctor because I’ve got a soft spot for you. Okay?” He pressed a kiss to your cheek when he finished.

You closed your eyes and nodded again. “Okay.”

“Number two. You’ll always communicate what you’re feeling. What you need, what you aren’t ready for. I’ll do the same.” Another kiss on your temple.

Another nod. “Okay.”

“And number three. Look at me, baby girl.” He tilted your chin up with a hooked finger. “Please don’t run when you see the skeletons in the closet.”

Your eyes locked with his deep brown ones that glimmered in the low light of his living room. For the first time since he brought you home, he looked timid. Like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. Like he was terrified of fracturing the fresh connection you both made tonight.

A final nod, and you cradled his face in your hands. “I promise I won’t run.”

And with one more kiss on the lips, smiles pressed against each other, Robby led you to his bedroom. You never let yourself imagine what his home looked like, let alone his bedroom. But it was neat and simple. No decoration aside from medical journal papers stacked high on every flat surface.

He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled you into his lap. His lips trailed across your bare shoulder, leaving gentle kisses as his fingers delicately slid the straps of your dress down. You shivered at the light touches and pulled at his hoodie. Instead of taking it off, your silent wish, he stopped kissing your body and tilted his head up at you.

“If you want something, you have to use your words.” He demanded in a sickeningly sweet tone.

Your cheeks flushed at the commandment, and suddenly you felt powerless. “I want to feel your skin.” You begged pathetically.

Robby held your gaze as he shrugged off his hoodie, then pulled his scrub top and undershirt over his head, jostling his hair a bit. Your eyes studied his upper body. Freckles dusted his broad shoulders. His abdominal muscles were toned, but not excessively so. A couple of scars were cemented near his ribcage from hostile patient encounters. A glitter of gold lured your eyes to his sternum.

A smile melted on your face. “The Star of David.” You mumbled.

Robby tilted his head slightly. “Yeah?” He affirmed, unsure of why his pendant captivated you.

You brushed your fingertips across the metal, cool from the air. Your hands lifted the Star from his chest, inspecting it gingerly. Robby wouldn’t admit it, but in that moment, he felt like a dog on a leash from the gentle tug of his chain in your hands. And he loved it.

“I’ve always wondered what it was.” You mused to yourself. “You wear it every day.”

Robby nodded, an unconscious smile gracing his lips. “My savta gave it to me. I never take it off.” He confirmed.

“Softa?” You were unsure of the word.

“Savta.” He repeated with the utmost patience. “It means ‘grandmother’ in Hebrew.”

You smiled and nodded as the first branch into his past formed between you. “Savta.” You repeated correctly this time. “When did she give it to you?”

Robby brushed a strand of hair out of your eyes, thinking for a moment. “When I was about six or seven.” He answered. “It’s older than you.” He added with a wink, but couldn’t hold back his grin.

You giggled and threw your arms around his shoulders. And he laughed. Not like the sarcastic ones you heard at work when he was exasperated, but one full of heartfelt joy. The sound was so beautiful that it nearly brought tears to your eyes. His mouth found yours again, and you fell back into the waltz of lips.

His fingers grasped the zipper of your dress and lazily pulled it down, unsheathing your upper body from the silky fabric. Your chest became exposed to the frigid air of his home, and your skin tightened at the temperature.

Robby pulled away to analyze your newly exposed skin. Your breasts hung perfectly from your chest, and his absent-minded hand cupped one of them, massaging gently.

“So beautiful.” He murmured as his lips returned to your upper body, slowly moving his way down.

His mouth latched onto one of your nipples, pulling back with suction until a loud smack from his lips filled the air as your breast recoiled into place. You moaned at the sensation, digging your fingers into his scalp. He continued to the other breast, giving it the same treatment. Suck and smack. Then, he dragged his tongue across your nipple, rough tastebuds scraping smoothly against it. While he worked on one with his mouth, he used his fingers to tweak and tug at the other. You let out a squeal of delight, and Robby couldn’t help but chuckle.

“That feel good?” He asked before latching onto your breast again.

You shivered at intense pressure on your breasts. “Feels so good.” You mumbled.

Just when you thought the sensation had maxed out, the unmistakable hardness of teeth grazed across your nipples, and an involuntary scream left your vocal cords. The mix of pain and pleasure wasn’t new to you, but it had never felt this good. Robby looked up to you with those innocent brown eyes, teeth still clenched around your sensitive bud. With his gaze locked on yours, he relieved the pressure of his teeth, your skin snapping back to its configuration.

“Michael!” You shrieked, and your shrillness only encouraged him to follow suit for the other nipple.

Surely, by now, your fingernails had dug their graves within his scalp. But Robby relished the feeling of your oversensitivity inflicting pain of his own. With confidence, he trailed his hand down your waist, your hip, and to the slit in your dress. The very opening that taunted him at the bar, daring him to brush against your thigh in public. But when his fingers reached up, up, up to your hip line, he froze.

You furrowed your brow at the halt in momentum, and you looked to his face. He stared back at you, face suddenly unreadable.

“You don’t-” He began, but he paused to take in a deep breath. “You don’t have anything on under the dress?”

You studied his face, trying to understand what his angle was. Of course, you weren’t wearing panties. It was a silk dress, and any kind of…oh.

Oh.

You finally felt like you had the high ground again. An involuntary smirk found its way to your lips. “No.” You answered innocently.

Robby’s chest puffed out, and a primal, vicious jealousy coarsed through his veins for the second time tonight. The very notion that you went garmentless for your date with Matteo reinforced his mission to treat you better than that boyish nurse would have.

“You only do that for me from now on. You understand?” He growled in your ear.

The dominance made your spine feel weak, and you nodded. “Yeah.” You breathed.

Robby fisted your hair, forcing your face to meet his eyes. The same ones you often saw at work when he was reaching his maximum level of fury. “You can answer better than that.” He said.

Fuck, he was sexy when he was pissed. “Yes, sir.” You corrected yourself.

“That’s what I thought.” He relented, finally letting his fingers move under your dress again.

Rough, calloused pads brushed against your pelvis, moving down until they slipped against your weeping pussy. The sound that fell from Robby’s lips was unholy but heavenly as he collected your wetness on his fingertips, and your hips ground against them subconsciously.

You felt tears sting your eyes as the burning desire to be filled with some part of his body grew stronger. “Michael, please.” You begged.

Once again, Robby’s eyes locked on yours, and the desperation in his face gave you some hope. His index finger swirled around your external anatomy, collecting lubrication, before plunging into your pussy. And just that one, long finger was enough to draw a scream from you. A smug smile slithered across his face as he curled his finger inside you, pressing his fingerprint against your gummy walls.

“Think you can handle another one?” He cooed, pressing a kiss to your collarbone.

Your hand clenched around his bicep, feeling the muscles ripple underneath his skin as he fingered you. “Yes, please.” You begged.

Robby deftly inserted his middle finger, curling it in tandem with his index. The stretch was pleasant, and the added finger reached even farther inside you. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, letting out a string of shredded moans. “That’s my good girl.” He whispered in praise as he continued to pump his wrist.

Finally, once you adjusted to the width of his fingers, you formed a coherent statement. “Can you please fuck me?” You pleaded.

Robby’s smile wasn’t one of agreement but one that mirrored a parent admiring a child’s innocence. “Oh, sweetheart, we’ll get there.” He assured you.

His hand movements stopped, and he withdrew his fingers from your pussy, leaving you uncomfortably empty. He raised his fingers to his line of vision. Your wetness formed slick webs between his two fingers, and he studied it like a new scientific discovery. Then his tongue tore apart the webs, devouring every drop.

Watching him consume your juices with such fervor sent an involuntary pulse to your pussy, foreshadowing his next steps.

“You taste so fucking good.” He growled, pulling his large fingers from his mouth once he sucked them clean. “Stand up for me.” He ordered.

Knees trembling, you rose to your feet, trying to balance yourself in your heels. Robby held you by your ribcage, letting your dress fall to the floor and pool at your ankles, revealing your fully naked body to him. After sitting you back down on the bed, he knelt on the hardwood floor of his bedroom and delicately removed your heels like you were a reverse Cinderella. This level of care overwhelmed you, but you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Robby positioned himself between your legs, initiating a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses beginning at your ankle, moving up to your knee, then your inner thigh. He could feel the furnace heat of your pussy on his nose as he inched closer to your opening. Your knees hung over his shoulders, his hands finding purchase on the outside of your thighs. Then, without a warning, he engulfed your entire womanhood in his mouth, pulling back dangerously slow to create suction. The scream from your throat rivaled that of a psychiatric patient waiting for a room in the Pitt.

The overwhelmed tears from your eyes finally streaked down your temples as your back arched and head tilted back at his magical tongue. You repeated his name over and over and over, and his only answer came in deep grunts, the vibrations adding an unfamiliar sensation to your building orgasm.

His tongue expertly manuevered inside your pussy like a ship on treacherous waters. Every lick, suck, and nibble drove you farther from sanity. And when his thumb reached up to spiral around your delicate clit? Then you only had seconds until you spilled juices inside his mouth.

“Michael, I’m-” Your voice staggered, trying to focus on circling your release. “I’m gonna-”

Your first orgasm came in a tsunami, splashing juices into Robby’s mouth, which he gratefully lapped up like it was an oasis in a desert. Your thighs had clenched around his neck like a boa constrictor, but he had anticipated your release based on the pulsing of your walls around his tongue.

As you came down from your high, Robby kissed back up your body, whispering praises like “that’s my girl” and “so fucking good for me.” When he reached your face and your eyes could focus again, you saw his beard glistening with your cum.

You grasped the back of his neck and pulled him close in a kiss, tasting your own salty flavor. “You’re really good at that.” You mumbled, breath still faltering from your high.

Robby chuckled, dragging his nose against yours. “It’s easy when you taste like fucking candy.” He confessed.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, and for the first time in a long time, you realized he still had his scrub cargo pants on. Suddenly, you felt a surge of energy.

“Take off your pants.” You demanded.

Robby pulled away from your shared intimacy with a raised eyebrow. “Excuse me?” He asked in the same tone he used in a patient’s room when a junior resident defied him.

Your eyes narrowed, darker than they had been before. “Take off. Your pants.” You broke it down for him.

Robby didn’t know how to handle the change in dynamics. He had been in control in every sexual encounter he ever had since his virginity was lost in college. While he didn’t want to yield, something about the tone in your voice was compelling him to reach for his belt. He stood up straight, leisurely reached for the buckle, and tugged, letting the leather slither from around his waist. You sat up on the bed, watching him undress for you in the lamp-glow of the room with a similar view of power that he had once given you a few minutes ago.

Robby unfastened his cargo scrub bottoms and shucked them off, leaving only his grey boxer-briefs, stained with a pool of precum. You marveled at the man in front of you for the first time. His body was exactly what you imagined in your late-night fantasies. Six foot one, muscled appropriately, and…

Actually, you hadn’t imagined that. His cock bulging from his boxer-briefs, threatening to shred through the fabric. Much larger than you had pictured based on his height and weight, which was already pretty large.

His hand unconsciously massaged his aching dick, and that brought you back to reality. You tilted your head, crossing your ankles over the edge of the bed. “Why are you touching yourself?” You asked, sitting closer to the edge of the bed. “My mouth is right here.”

Robby’s eyes widened slightly, even though he had plenty of blowjobs in his lifetime. But something about your tone excited him. That you were eager to suck him off. You reached a hand out and snatched the waistband of his boxer-briefs, reeling him closer. Then, in one swift motion, you pulled them down, and his cock sprang out, nearly smacking your jaw.

Fucking glorious. Cut, veined, thick, and tilting down from the sheer weight. Your mouth watered at the sight, and your pussy clenched in preparation for later. You wrapped your hand around his cock, barely fitting your grasp, and brushed the tip of your tongue across the head. Robby grasped the back of his neck with both hands, groaning at the lightest touch. You licked up the pearls of his precum, indulging in the salty appetizer. Your moans of delight and its resonance sent a shiver up his spine. He grasped a fistful of your hair to ground himself.

“Listen, kid, I’m not gonna be able to last very long if you keep-” He began.

But you cut him off by plunging down his length with your mouth until your nose was snug against his pelvis. The yell he let out was visceral and animalistic. You half expected him to yank at your hair, but instead he pushed you deeper. Your throat stretched with his length, surely bruising your soft palette. You pulled away, mouth watering even more from the gag reflex.

Robby whispered your name, but you sunk down on him again, drawing another carnal scream from his vocal cords. This time, you remained in place, letting him feel with his free hand the stretch in your esophagus from his cock. He pulled away this time, refusing to let himself come in your mouth.

With impressive ease, Robby man-handled your body and tossed you up further on the bed, crawling over you until his face hovered above yours. “You can take care of me another time.” He whispered, pressing a chaste kiss on your lips. “Tonight is about you.”

Your eyes were lost in his again, and for a moment, neither of you moved. But in that moment of peace, you felt a dangerous vulnerability. Your brows furrowed, holding back unexpected tears. “This isn’t a one-night stand, right?” You whispered.

Robb’s face softened, almost to sadness that he hadn’t already convinced you otherwise. With one elbow propping him above your body, he used his free hand to brush some disheveled strands of hair from your face. “Listen to me.” He ordered with the same authority he used in the hospital. “I told you I can’t do casual hookups. I meant that. This is something that I’ve wanted for an embarrassingly long time. I’m right here, right now. And I will be right here tomorrow.” He continued. “And the next day.” He pressed a kiss to your collarbone. “And the next day.” A kiss to your neck. “And the ne-”

You cut him off with a cheerful kiss, smiling against his lips. Robby let his body press heavier against yours in the moment of innocent love, although you wouldn’t say that out loud for another couple of months. “Michael.” You breathed against his mouth.

He hummed in response, moving his lips down your jaw, tempted to leave territorial marks on your neck for the rest of the Pitt staff to see. You grabbed his face so his eyes met yours again, forcing the connection. “I am begging you. Please fuck me.” You whispered.

Robby finally gave in, deciding he had worshipped you long enough for tonight. With a nod, he reached down and lined his cock up to your entrance, The tip nudged against your threshold, and you gave him a nod of confirmation. Slowly, every inch of him buried deeper, deeper inside you. The stretch of your pussy was paralyzing, and you couldn’t make a sound despite your open mouth.

Once he sank all the way, maxing out at the hilt, he gave a pathetic grunt. “Oh, fucking hell.” He breathed, unable to move from the overpowering tightness of your walls.

For a minute, you both remained still to adjust to each other. Tears welled in your eyes again at the overexpansion of your pussy. Then he began to move. In and out. In and out. A slow, molasses pace to start out. Your breaths were heavy to adjust to his unprecedented size, and his breaths staggered to hold his orgasm back from your tightness. But as he continued to move, you eventually began to meet him in the middle.

Vulgar squelching sounds of your sopping wet pussy meeting the wall of his firm pelvis filled the bedroom. His hips pistoned into yours, the pace becoming steadier and controlled. His eyes never left your face, which scrunched in ecstasy and bliss. He wished he could save that image forever.

There were other positions he wanted to fuck you in. On your knees in his bed, ass in the air. Against the wall of an on-call room. In the backseat of his truck on a hiking trip. Riding him reverse cowgirl on his living room couch. But right now was for both of you. For the months of stolen glances at each other in the Pitt, lingering hands while trading CPR positions, hopeful wishes that the other showed up on a random night shift assignment.

Robby dropped his head to capture your lips as he railed into you. Gratefully, you returned the kiss, grasping the short strands of hair on the back of his head. His Star of David pendant slapped against your chin over and over and over. “Michael.” You whispered in the same cadence that alerted your first orgasm.

He nodded, reaching down to your clit again to work you through the next release. “That’s right. I can feel you getting ready.” He guided, circling your sensitive spot again and again. “Come for me one more time.” He pleaded.

It didn’t take much for your high to snap again. Your walls clenched around his cock, soaking it further. Robby grunted at each squeeze of your pussy, hips becoming weaker as he neared his own climax.

“I’m almost there.” He breathed. “Where do you want me?”

Your eyes snapped open through your dazed bliss, and your legs wrapped around his waist. “Inside me. Please, Michael. I want to feel you.” You pleaded.

That was all Robby needed to hear. A few more vulnerable grunts, and he erupted inside you. Each hot rope of cum was an unusual sensation. He was the first person you allowed to come inside you, let alone beg. He collapsed on top of you, chest heaving. Your hand lazily ran through his sweat-soaked hair.

“I’ve wanted that for a long time.” You admitted, rubbing circles with your other hand on his slippery back.

Robby pressed a gentle kiss to your dewy chest. “Me too.” He agreed.

For a few minutes longer, while your vitals returned to normal, there was peace and quiet for the first time that night. Just exhausted bodies clinging together, enjoying the silence in each other’s presence.

Finally, Robby sat up. “Wait here.” He instructed before heading to his bathroom. You heard the shower start, and he emerged with a dampened wash cloth.

He sat on the edge of his bed, dark hair slack against his forehead from sweat. He cleaned you up with the cloth, making sure nothing was left behind. Then, he placed a hand to the side of your face, cradling it. “Let’s shower and go to bed, okay?” He whispered,

You agreed and followed him to the bathroom. You both reveled in the warmth of the shower, washing each other and kissing until the water turned icy cold. Robby supplied you with a fluffy towel to dry off with, a New Orleans t-shirt, and a pair of his boxer briefs as pajama pants. Once you both settled into his bed again, he pulled you close. Closer than any man had ever held you at night.

“Gotta work tomorrow?” He mumbled against your wet hair.

You shook your head. “No. Seven on, seven off.” You whispered. “What about you?”

“Nope. Seven on, seven off.” He replied.

And with the next week off, you both had plenty of opportunity to make up for lost time.

A/N: This ended up being a 6.2k word fic that I wrote after having some wine. This was definitely NOT proofread, but I did my best! I enjoyed writing this so much. I love Michael Robinavitch with my whole heart.

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #michael robinavitch #dr michael robinavitch x reader #dr. michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby #doctor robby #noah wyle #the pitt fanfiction #dana evans

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kitananami · 3 months ago

Text

MDNI.

ExBf!Gojo, who would still pathetically send you your favorite flowers on your birthday. The card on this one read:

Happy birthday babyyy, I love youuu <3

On the front. You scoffed, turning it over.

Can you please talk to me?

On the back.

The same flowers that would be added into a glass stained antique vase normally holding every single bouquet Gojo gifted.

But these flowers were sent right back to him.

ExBf!Gojo, who reached for his phone after looking down at the mat outside of his apartment, seeing the same flowers he sent to you the day before.

"Aww did I choose the wrong flowers baby? /: "

ExBf!Gojo texted. Staring at his screen waiting for you to reply. Until the waiting turned into 3 days.

After 3 days you finally replied, but instead of on text, it was a box full of his shit, sent by a delivery truck. So he swallowed the prideful lump in his throat and grabbed his phone, realization settling in— he did fuck up bad this time.

"Y/n I'm sorry... Can we please talk?"

The last attempted text he sent before realizing he was blocked.

ExBf!Gojo, who already knew you rarely gave second chances to people. The woman of his dreams he spent three years with, the happiest three years of his lonely life, yet the same woman he could never get back. The one who he knew despised him and meant it when the second to last words she denounced was,

"It's over."

ExBf!Gojo, who stood at the hotel room door he booked two days before your birthday. The same man whose heart felt limp, seeing you cry for the first time in the three years you shared together, watching you pack your suitcase in pure anger. Because he knew it'd be the last time he saw you.

So he reached for you, grabbing your wrist gently, "Baby, i swear, it really isn't what it looked like—"

The last words he said to you in person before you cut him off, pulling your wrist away to swipe an angry tear falling down your cheek. The very last words of yours that hurt him because you called him Gojo instead of Satoru. And you didn't even look at him in his stupid blue eyes,

"Don't touch me. I never wanna see your fucking face again Gojo."

ExBf!Gojo, who was way too friendly. Who would flirt with any pretty girl in sight without even realizing it. It pissed you off at first, until he had you convinced he would never actually cheat on you. Not to mention the time you scolded him,

"Funny you think it's cute flirting with other girls. You're lucky Geto turned into an asshole. Otherwise I would've chose him over you. He's more loyal."

ExBf!Gojo was put in his place after that. And only flirted with his male colleagues moving forward

ExBf!Gojo still couldn't handle his alcohol like a childish teenager. Who finally pushed your limits after seeing him at the pool, pouring a shot of cheap tequila into a blond girl's mouth. Followed with her grabbing his face and kissing him on the lips. Then him pushing her off drunkly before he saw you storm away into the distance.

ExBf!Gojo, who started to go crazy after 6 months had passed. 6 months of convincing himself he would get you back. He was left with nothing else than the box you sent him back with his shit. Nanami even began forming a slight concern, because for the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru was quiet and didn't have an ego anymore.

"Why aren't you being annoying anymore?" He asked.

He responded in an emotionless shoulder shrug.

ExBf!Gojo, who started to hate himself even more for how he made you feel that day, for being the reason why he saw you cry for the first time. Because it was the same day today, but a year later. A year later since he saw you in person. A year since he heard the voice that made him so fucking happy every time he heard it. But the lack of presence had him chasing any last bit of hope, hope of feeling that happiness again. If he could hear you simply cussing him out again, just to hear your voice, he'd pay. He deserved it anyways. But even you didn't give him that energy or time. You were too mature. Something Gojo Satoru couldn't be.

ExBf!Gojo, hated the thought of you being with another man. Not because he was insecure, but because it was him you chose, nobody else. Even though every single man whose path you've crossed wanted you, you never made him feel like he was an option. He was your man, and you were obsessed with him. It was a healthy obsession because he knew you would drop him the moment you felt disrespected by him. And you did. You proved it.

ExBf!Gojo stood at your door, this time with your favorite flowers in his hands. But they were different this year, because it wasn't store bought, he picked it in a flower field he had to trespass. He knocked on your door and took a step back, gripping the stems of the flower he made you. In the midst of convincing himself he needed to stop being so emotional to calm down, attempting to grasp back his ego and snarky remarks, 2 minutes had passed. He knocked again.

ExBf!Gojo stood for another 10 minutes. Then started to feel too desperate. Like the weight of everything he regretted and lost spiraled into a deeper avalanche. He curved his neck back and sighed, looking at the roof of your porch as tears started to peek in the corner of his eyes.

"Y/n, please. Just let me talk to you. Even if it's one last time."

ExBf!Gojo Heard the echo of his sorrowful voice bounce off into the night of your birthday. He looked back down at the bouquet of flowers he held, taking note of the smallest details. And he began to talk to himself again.

"God no wonder why these were your favorite flowers. You always had good taste. Always knew what you wanted, except for picking the places for us to eat," he chuckled, the tears threatening to fall down his face.

"So beautiful.... you're so beautiful y/n.... I wish I could call you baby again, but I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable," he croaked out, tears streaming down his face this time.

"I don't care how stupid I look right now, I just realized you might not even be home," he scoffed, a smile forming on his face in delirium, he sniffed up his cries as the tears kept flowing, "I wish I had the opportunity to make you as happy as you made me... I didn't deserve you, but you deserved to be as happy as I was," He sobbed, starting to sound incoherent, jumbling his words.

"Fuck I miss you so much baby. I'm so sorry," he grit through his teeth, nodding his head in defeat, "I'm so sorry baby...I just don't know how to stop loving you."

ExBf!Gojo looked up to see the door slowly creak open. And he was right, you are beautiful. Too beautiful for his own good. Your eyes were tearing up regardless of how much you wanted to fight it. And you sighed.

"I hate you Satoru." You whispered.

ExBf!Gojo who didn't care that you hated him. Because at least you opened the door and said something to him. He held out the flowers,

"Happy birthday!!!" He said cheerfully with red eyes and tears still rolling down his cheeks.

You looked down at the flowers. Disorganized and messy. Like a boy made them. Because a boy did make them. A boy who every girl wanted in high school, and it disgusted you because how can you like someone like him. Until you guys reconnected during your college years. A boy who turned into a man somehow... who made sure to get you flowers every year of your birthday. A man you swore you would never fall in love with.

ExBf!Gojo who's ex girlfriend pulled him into her home after accepting the flowers and setting it by the door.

ExBf!Gojo who was sat down on the couch by his ex girlfriend as she connected her lips passionately with his, followed by aggression.

Gojo sighed into the kiss, snaking his hands all over your body to ensure this was real, that this was actually happening. That the bulge forming in his pants wasn't another pathetic wet dream he had of you.

ExBf!Gojo had his shirt lifted off of his chest, quickly assisting with your removal next. You gripped behind his hair, pulling his head backwards to the side before you began sucking his neck hungrily.

ExBf!Gojo exhaled, muscle memory kicking in, grabbing your tits and swirling the nubs of his thumb over your nipples, earning your moans that he missed so much. You sucked and kissed all the sensitive spots on his neck, marking him dark red till he exhaled,

"Mmmm baby...."

ExBf!Gojo switched places, plopping your back onto the couch as he ripped off your pants, reconnecting his lips with yours, then to your breasts, sucking feverishly. Your moans teased him, gripping his hair again. He traveled down to your core,

"I've been so fucking hungry..."

ExBf!Gojo licked the tip of his tongue down your slit, then scooped up every bit of wetness oozing down your core before ramming his tongue inside, working inside your cunt like he was getting paid overtime for it. You arched your back against the couch. His hand that wasn't wrapped around your thigh held your hand gently as you gripped hard every swipe and suck he made on your clit.

"Sa-toru... Baby- uahh," you said falling in and out of consciousness at how fucking good he ate you out.

ExBf!Gojo was going insane right now. But finally, in a good way. The best way possible. He ate you like the last supper, but he would make sure this isn't his last.

"Baby please fuck me..." you sighed, rolling your cunt desperately on his face as he reminded you of how pathetic every toy you purchased felt against your pussy, every one of your attempts to imagine times he ate you out so good, this good.

ExBf!Gojo who almost came at your breathless, desperate request, if it wasn't for him almost cumming in his pants from tasting your pussy again. The only pussy he's felt since you broke up with him. Because he knew after you, nobody could ever taste and feel as good as you.

ExBf!Gojo's arms had to be pulled up by y/n because he couldn't stop eating her pussy.

ExBf!Gojo had to hold in every urge to cum at the slightest touch of you. You sat up on the couch as he stood in front of your face, pulling down his Calvin Klein underwear, licking a strip of the precum oozing down his dick before sucking the sweetness out of him, stroking his shaft.

ExBf!Gojo who had to grab your hair and stop you before he came too quick.

"Wait Baby stoppp.... I'm gonna cum if you do that"

He didn't deserve to mess up that beautiful face of yours for his pleasure. He also really needed to be inside your pussy.

ExBf!Gojo who picked you up and carried you into your room. Laying you down aggressively yet gently, on your back. You both exchanged eye contact, yours looking into his in anticipation, and his looking into yours in pure love and euphoria. You fucking hated him, but somehow loved him too.

ExBf!Gojo lined himself up, not even needing to collect any wetness as he slid right into you slowly. He watched as your eyes closed and your mouth opened slowly into a soft moan. And he watched your beautiful face—every stroke, savoring every single one as the tightness and warmth of your pussy had him biting down hard on his lip, trying not to cum in under 20 seconds.

"Baby you're so fucking beautiful," he said before picking up his pace. You couldn't respond with any literate words.

"God I could never lose you again...." he groaned, pulling up your legs over his shoulder, he remembered every detail, every stroke, every position that drove you crazy and closer towards your climax.

You squealed out, tears forming at the brim of your eyes as he picked up his pace. You felt every inch and circumference of him, wondering how you could've ever left someone who always laid it down on you this good. Regardless of how much of a shitface he was. Your bedroom echoed with the sound of your wet pussy and his balls slapping against your cunt.

ExBf!Gojo who kissed your lips and looked at you once again, caressing your face and stroking the side of your face gently with his thumb as he kept a steady rhythm of his hips snapping against yours– slowly, pushing the back of your knees closer to the side of your body, inching into you deeper and deeper.

"The only time I could ever make you cry again is if I'm fucking you like this my love," he exhaled, "Taking me soo good..." he grinned menacingly, picking up his rhythm again, making a tear slide down your face as he felt your wetness building up, walls clenching dangerously tight around his cock,

"My good girl...."

"Please please.... yes Baby...." You managed to say. Both of your hands gripped his shoulders in an attempt to catch consciousness before you felt your peak, "I fucking love you Satoru...."

He rolled his eyes and head back, not being able to fully look at you at how hard your words hit. He kept the same rhythm, gliding into you, "I love you too baby... Fuck I can't hold it in are you gonna—"

He was interrupted by your screams and tears sliding down your cheek. You came down on him, milking his dick with your pussy. He felt so fucking good. And every bit of regret letting him in your house dissolved with your moans and cries.

"BabywherecanIcum?" He said uncontrollably fast, wiping your tears, nearly about to burst inside you.

And even after you came, every sensitive stroke felt like after shocks of more orgasms.

"Mmmm Satoru... cum insid—" you attempted to say, now this time interrupted by him stuffing his face in the crook of your neck. Beating every ounce of his cum into your pussy, his groans synchronized with your moaning and crying, filling you up with beads and lines of his warm cum.

"God I am never..." he popped his head back up, still slowly and lazily rolling his cock into you. He slid his hands slowly up against the blanket under you, intertwining his hands with yours, "losing you again."

_______

a/n- hi guys :P

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jinwoosbabyboo · 3 months ago

Text

Life in SkyHaven w/ Self-Aware!Caleb

Who would've thought your first three days in SkyHaven would be like this? Actually you never even thought being in SkyHaven was possible yet here you are. Self-aware!Caleb x Emotionally-torn!Player A/N: Well part 3 is here. I thought Sylus would be first buuuuut you know it is what it is.

↢ previous

Three days have passed since Caleb left you in this fully furnished prison. His place was comfortable, but the atmosphere was cold. You found yourself counting the minutes which only made time tick by slower. He didn’t tell you exactly when he would be back, but you could estimate.

Should only be a few more hours before you get to see that handsome face of his. Also only a few more hours before you shove your foot so far up his ass he’ll be tasting nail polish for the next three months. You’re passed angry with this man — absolutely livid! Not only does he kidnap you and drug you, but he has the audacity to leave for three fucking days right after?

I’ll kill him.

He thought he was slick by setting up his guest room to perfectly resemble yours back home. Even down to the exact same books you had on your shelves. It’s almost like he’d perfectly planned this so you would be grateful that he took the time to get everything that you liked so you wouldn’t be upset about being stuck here.

What do I mean ‘almost’ that’s definitely what he did.

After the first night of sleeping in that imposter room you were so happy to wake up and see ‘your room’ that you actually believed the entire debacle was just a dream. Your joy was fleeting when you turned and saw those damn floor to ceiling windows. You could practically feel your soul shatter at the realization. That’s when you decided to sleep in Calebs room.

You woke up this morning in his bed as expected and sat up turning to stare out the window taking in the vast city of SkyHaven. A small ember of hope gnawed at you, but it was quickly pushed down. “Prepare for the worst and you won’t be disappointed….” You sighed, falling back into the plush pillows of Calebs bed. “I should get up” You’d hate to admit it, but damn was his bed comfortable if your stomach wasn’t growling you’d probably spend another few hours rotting in bed.

You wrapped the plush blanket around yourself and detoured to sit by the window for a little while. You sighed as you watched the everyday civilians below go about their day unbeknownst to them they had a foreigner watching their every move; trapped just a few stories above them wishing she could walk around freely like they do. In just three days you noticed a few patterns among them.

The sophisticated dark haired man who stops in the corner bakery every morning and sits alone.

The two teens running to catch the bus. How are they always late?

The old man who pushes his wheelchair bound — you assume wife — slowly through the park as he makes her giggle.

You kissed your teeth and slammed your fist against the window willing it to break, but your efforts were in vain. You glance over your shoulder to examine the mess you've left in Calebs room. Clothes strewn about making the room look like a tornado came through here. You hate that you find comfort by sleeping in his bed and since you can’t take it out on him the next best option was his room. You've left your mark everywhere disturbing the inhuman cleanliness he had. Could that be because he’s usually barely here? Possibly, but you don’t care it gives you a sense of power ruining his personal space.

However, his scent clings to his pillows and sheets lulling you to sleep. It feels like you’re being held in a loving embrace as you drift off into a lonely slumber. “I hate him so much, but I can’t deny that I do have feelings for that man” You mumble to no one, but yourself because who else is there to talk to? You stand throwing the blanket on the floor and head out of the room. “Doesn’t negate the fact that he’s fucked up for leaving me here”

Although you've kept yourself entertained while being here you can’t help, but miss home. You miss your friends, you miss your bed and you miss your fucking kitchen where you knew where shit was. Calebs kitchen is like a spaceship — three days and you still struggle to find anything in this bitch.

You went about your day as usual.

Eat breakfast….

Shower…..

Watch TV….

Read a book…..

Stare out the window…..

You find yourself jumping at any noise that passes by the front door. ‘Is he back early?’ ‘Is that him?’ then the sound fades and you’re left alone once again.

You curl up into your usual spot on the couch and crack open a book. The sun is starting to set now and you can’t help, but wonder if you'll have to spend another day here in this foreign place alone. SkyHaven truly is a sight to behold — you probably would have loved to explore and see what this place has to offer, but now you just want to go home. You can feel tears stinging the back of your eyes as you watch the sun dip below the horizon. Is he punishing me because I was mean to him? Should I have been nicer? At least the sunset is pretty.

You let your tears flow freely down your face — crying silently.

You turned on the lamp by the couch and tried to immerse back into your book, but you were interrupted by the sound of the front door unlocking. You quickly wiped your tears and tried to stifle your sniffling.

“Are you cryin'?” You had little time to react before you were smothered by Caleb in a tight, but gentle hug. “What happened?” He pulled back — wiping a stray tear from your already soaked cheek. You’re sure you look a mess in your current state and yet here he is looking at you like you're the most precious thing to ever exist. You reached a hand up slowly dragging your fingertips across his face just to make sure he was real. “I told you I'd be back in three days” He smiled as he nuzzled into the palm of your hand — giving it a chaste kiss.

“Caleb….” You felt some sense of relief having him in front of you again after three days of forced solitude. You graciously raised your hand and swung with everything in you — connecting with his cheek so hard it made your hand sting. For a lack of better words — you slapped the shit out of him.

Caleb who was previously sitting next to you on the couch was now sprawled on the floor rubbing his face. You stood over him — anger practically burning you alive “Why am I crying!?” The gall. The audacity. “I was kidnapped, drugged and then left to rot here while you were off with the Farspace Fleet finger poppin' each others assholes!”

Caleb looked up at you before dropping his head and chuckling silently to himself. “What’s so funny about that?” You pushed him onto his back with your foot trying to get a good look at his face. “You’re just very cute when you’re angry pipsqueak” Cute? He finds this all cute right now? Unbelievable. You turned on your heels and stormed out of the living room. You could hear his footsteps rapidly following behind you. Out of habit you stormed into his room and tried to slam the door behind you, but failed when Caleb was already there to catch the door with his foot. “Okay okay I’m sorry I'll explain myself”

You plopped down on the edge of the bed, crossing one leg over the other while gesturing for him to hurry up and start talking “It’s not like I can really go anywhere so go ahead” Caleb approached slowly — sinking to his knees and sitting back on his heels in front of you. Seeing him like this made your heart race and you did your best to remain composed. He stared up at you with those big amethyst eyes — they’re not helping your erratic heartbeat. “Did you trash my room because you’re mad at me?” His fingertips gently brushed your calf, giving you goosebumps, before settling on your knee. You swatted his hand away “Don’t touch me and stay focused”

Caleb chuckled as he ignored your demand and grabbed your foot proceeding to give you a foot massage. “For starters I didn’t drug you”

“Yes you di- ah!”

Caleb tickled your foot making your voice hitch “Your body didn’t respond well to the amount of g-force it took to get here which is why you slept for almost a full day when I got you here” A day? He uncrossed your leg so he could easily get to your other foot. “I imagine the shock you got from waking up here caused your adrenaline levels to spike and once you calmed down that adrenaline dump caused you to faint” The look in his eye seemed sincere, but you’d have to be naïve to believe him off rip. “I would never hurt you” He rested his chin on your thighs — those big amethyst eyes pleading with your angry ones. He actually looks like a puppy right now.

“You look like a kicked puppy” You deadpanned.

“You look gorgeous from this angle” He switched from a sad puppy to a lovesick puppy so fast it almost had your head spinning. “You’re always gorgeous though”

“You can’t sway me that easily Caleb” You shoved him by his forehead off your thigh and stood to your feet. “Even if you are telling the truth you still left me here for three days” You seethed “That’s fucked up and I didn’t appreciate it”

Caleb shifted so he was leaning with his back against the bed frame. “I had a routine patrol” His tone was even and relaxed like you were just supposed to be okay with that answer.

“So why not wait until after your patrol?” A familiar knot formed in your throat as you anger built up — no way you’re about to start crying right now. You swallowed hard and regained your composure. Caleb noticed the shaky breath you let out and it made something heavy settle in the pit of his stomach. He slowly got to his feet moving towards you. You stepped back wanting trying to keep him at arms length. “You deliberately brought me here and then left like it was nothing”

“Once I figured out how to bring you here why would I wait?” Calebs words were cold, but his voice was soft and his touch was even softer as he gripped your waist willing you to come closer. “I’m real now so we can be together according to your rules” You fought against his hold and repeatedly punched him in the chest. “I hate you so fucking much you lizard built bitch if you ever have no haters then I'm fucking dead” Part of you is hoping these hits are caving his chest in and the other part just wants to fall into him, but you’re so torn and it’s his fault.

By the time you calm down you realize your face is pressed into his chest. His arms are wrapped tightly around you and a gentle hand rubs your back. You hate to admit it, but being in this moment is the most comfort you've had in days. Nothing could stop the way you’re melting in his arms — fuck. “You can punch me a few more times if it will make you feel better” You want to, you really want to, but damn does being in his arms feel like a safe haven.

How can someone so unnerving be so comforting at the same time?

You sniffled and purposely rubbed your nose onto his uniform. Your last little bit of revenge on him. “I’m done I tired myself out”

The two of you stood there in an oddly comfortable silence. Caleb only held you tighter when you tried to slip away. He was the first to break the silence “Are you hungry? I can cook you something special” without looking at him you quietly nodded your head. Having a meal specially prepared for you sounded nice and you figured it’s a good way to have an actual conversation. “Since you so graciously got snot all over my uniform i’m going to shower and then get started on your dinner”

He turned on his heels, but not before placing the softest kiss on your forehead. It took everything in you not to recoil or tense up — you want him to think you trust him completely if you plan on getting any actual information out of him.

“I hate that your cooking is so good” You didn’t anticipate the fact that you’d end up scarfing down his food like a heathen when you agreed to have dinner with him. You didn’t even get to ask any of your questions. You wiped your mouth with a napkin and dropped it onto the plate, signaling to Caleb that you were full.

“You hate it, but you cleaned the plate” He snickered as he grabbed your plate and replaced it with a slice of warm apple pie topped with ice cream. Your mouth practically watered when the intoxicating aroma hit your nose. “Still have room for dessert?” You looked at him for the first time since you two sat down for dinner and the sudden movement shocked Caleb. You keep falling into this never ending loop of falling under this alluring spell of his whenever he’s close. The way his eyes sparkle when your gaze meets his shouldn’t have your heart racing, but here you are.

Memories of the kiss you two shared three days ago replay in your head and you find yourself hoping he closes the distance. “Well?”

“What?” You blinked rapidly.

“Do you still have room for dessert?”

You looked back down at the dish in front of you; you could tell it was going to be immaculate. “Of course there’s always room for dessert” You slid the bowl closer as Caleb moved around the table taking his seat next to you again. “I do have questions Caleb and I'm still mad at you”

“Then let’s go over each grievance one at a time pipsqueak” He pinched your nose making you swat his hand away. “You’re so cute”

You start dramatically scooting your chair away which probably is not helping your case, but who cares. “You need to take me seriously” You stabbed your spoon into the pie making sure to get a good apples to crust to ice cream ratio when suddenly Caleb drags your chair back to him — even closer than before.

Caleb: I’m listenin' You: How did you make a carbon copy of my room? Caleb: I could see it durin' our video chats You: Ok creepy … Did you put something in those flowers? Caleb: No you had a panic attack You: Do my friends and family know where I am? Caleb: I pulled some string with them don't worry You: That was incredibly vague what about my job? Caleb: Your job thinks you're on vacation which by the way thanks for lettin' your vacation time stack up you have enough time to be here for a month You: Im not staying for a month and don’t I need clearance to be here? Caleb: Of course that’s why you’re my Adjutant

You drew back in shock, choking on your food in the process “I’m what!?”

“My adjutant” Caleb so graciously repeated as if you actually didn’t hear him the first time. “No one will even dare to think about questioning you” He beamed at you while he spoke “See? I took care of everything”

“What if I don’t want to do that? I can walk out that door right now!”

“And go where?” His beaming smile shrunk into a cocky smirk. “How exactly do you plan on getting home?” His words were said with a smile, but the look in his eyes was cold. His demeanor sent shivers down your spine causing you to instinctively lean away. He must’ve seen the fear in your eyes because his gaze melted and nothing, but yearning pooled in those captivating eyes of his. “Let me make up for those three days”

“Caleb let me go” You whispered.

He cupped your face and caressed your cheeks with his thumbs “I’ll do anything, but that”

↢ previous

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #l&ds #caleb lnds #l&ds caleb #love and deep space caleb #lnds caleb #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x you #caleb x reader #caleb #caleb salads #divider by: the cutestgrotto #nikaaaaimagine

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mggslover · 5 months ago

Text

No Strings Attached

In which reader is on a mission to get her boss to relieve some stress, not realizing he'd end up doing the same for her.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: smut (18+) x fluff Content warnings: porn with plot, jessica and jack make an appearance, no mention of haley, hotch smiling (lol), reader being sad and a bit insecure bc she hasn't got laid in a while, mentions of drinking wine, no strings attached (but not really bc they're obsessed with each other), soft!dom hotch, praise, breast play, ass worship, oral (f receiving), p in v sex Word count: 4,7k A/n: first time writing a fic dedicated to Hotch and i fear i'm obsessed... also i had to do some acrobatics to make sure these positions work (they do) so give me a heart for the effort your feedback and support are highly appreciated!

Aaron Hotchner is a busy man. And these days, even more so. The responsibilities of being Unit Chief were always demanding, but they seemed to multiply now that he was balancing the weight of single parenthood as well.

As a profiler it was obvious to you how much he struggled with juggling between these professions, even though he always tried to hide it from the team. You noticed his slightly furrowed brow when he thought no one was watching, and the slow drag of his steps as he moved between meetings and paperwork.

Since you’d joined the team, you'd developed a deep respect for Aaron. Where others saw a hard-nosed, no-nonsense boss—a “drill sergeant” in Morgan’s words—you saw a man who held himself and his team to incredibly high standards because he believed in their potential. You saw a man who cared deeply, even when his personal life was slowly suffocating beneath the pressure of it all.

Even if he would never admit it, no human being can go through the difficulties he goes through without ever catching a break, without getting any help. So tonight, as you passed his office, a light still flickering inside, you decided to do something about it.

Your knuckle made contact with the door, knocking three times as you waited. When there was no immediate response, you quietly creaked the door open.

The sight of him behind the desk was familiar. His shoulders were hunched and his brows furrowed in concentration, as he scanned the endless stacks of paperwork that seemed to breed faster than he could handle them.

"Hey," you greeted softly, offering a small smile as you stepped into the room.

Hotch looked up from the pile in front of him, his gaze flicking from the documents to you. There was a slight exhaustion behind his eyes that he didn’t try to mask.

"Hey.” His eyes dropped to his wristwatch for just a moment, his lips curling into a subtle frown. "It’s late. Why haven’t you gone home yet?"

You waved off his concern. "I’m about to. Had to send a few more emails for the lab reports."

He nodded, but didn’t immediately return to his work. Instead, he watched you with that signature intensity of his, silently observing you.

"I- uh, I wanted to ask you something.” You hesitated for a moment as you moved further into the room, the door gently clicking shut behind you.

His brows rose slightly, an almost imperceptible shift of interest in his posture. "Go on."

You cleared your throat, your hands instinctively clasping behind your back. "You’ve been working a lot of late nights."

“That’s not a question.” He stated in an amused tone.

A small smile played on your lips. "I know, but it’s a… concern," you said. "And I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help you out."

He looked at you, his expression unreadable. His hands folded neatly in his lap, and he leaned back in his chair. It was hard to tell whether he was considering your offer or mentally debating the logistics of it.

"You want to help me out?" he asked, his voice tinged with confusion.

“Yes.”

Aaron grabbed a stack of papers, knocking them into a neat pile on his desk, then looked back at you. "So, this is something you’re interested in?" His tone was laced with amusement as he nodded down at the amount of paperwork in his hands.

You winced at the sight of it. "Uh... not exactly," you said, trying to keep your tone light. "I was thinking more along the lines of taking care of Jack," you added, raising your voice slightly on the last part, unsure of how he’d react to your suggestion.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Taking care of Jack?"

"Yeah.” You met his gaze, trying to sound confident despite the uncertainty creeping in. "Just on the days we don’t have a case. I could go to your place and stay with him until you get home."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "You know Jessica’s there," he said, referring to his ex-sister-in-law who had taken on the role of taking care of Jack when he had to work.

“Don’t you think she deserves a break every once in a while?”

His expression shifted, becoming slightly defensive. "She offered to take care of him.”

"I know," you responded quickly, knowing he’d never force her into it. "But I’m offering too. I babysat all through university, I know what I’m doing."

He gave you a tight-lipped smile, his eyes flicking back to the papers in front of him. "That’s not necessary, but thank you," he said, his tone closing the conversation.

You weren’t ready to let it go yet. You stepped closer to his desk, hoping to draw his attention back. "Please? I want to help you."

He didn’t look up. "I don’t need any help," he stubbornly replied, his eyes still glued to the paperwork.

“Then let me put it this way,” you pressed on. "I want to help the team, because no offense, your stress is affecting all of us. And on top of that, I want to help Jack."

He glanced up at you, the wheels in his mind turning, and you showed him your best puppy eyes.

"Did you learn that from Reid?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Is it working?" you grinned back.

He chuckled breathlessly. "Alright, fine. One night. Let’s see how it goes."

You fought back a victorious grin. “Good. Just you wait, Hotchner. Once you see how great I am with kids, you’ll never let me go."

—

A week later, Hotch took you up on your offer. Jessica had a wedding to attend, and you’d agreed to look after Jack for the evening.

Though you’d spent plenty of time with Jack when he visited his dad at the office or at events outside of work, Hotch insisted on driving you to his place for a proper handoff.

He held the door open for you as you entered his apartment. You were immediately greeted by Jessica, dressed in a stunning outfit with a purse ready in hand.

"I’m late, I’m late!" she panicked, almost running as she headed for the door. But when she saw you, her demeanor softened.

“There’s my saving grace,” she said with a relieved smile. “Thank you so much for doing this.”

You waved her off with a grin. “It’s my pleasure. You look amazing, go have fun.”

She offered a final smile, then said her goodbyes to Hotch before quickly heading out.

“Hi, Dad!” Jack’s voice rang out as he bounced into the living room, his excitement palpable. You smiled, watching the little boy as he ran toward his father.

“Hey, buddy.” Hotch lifted him into his arms with a small groan. “You’re getting bigger every day.”

Your heart warmed at the exchange. Hotch was a completely different man when he was at home—more relaxed, more playful, the kind of father who carefully kept work and family separate.

He put Jack down, introducing you to him.

“I know who she is, Dad. We colored together. She’s really good at drawing Spider-Man.”

Hotch raised an intrigued eyebrow at you.

"I have more hidden talents than you know,” you playfully shrugged.

You turned to Jack, crouching down to his level. "Want to grab the crayons? We can make some more drawings."

Jack’s eyes lit up, and without hesitation, he scampered off in search of his favorite colors, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll find the red one!”

You chuckled at his enthusiasm and straightened up, turning back to Hotch. “You’ve got a sweet kid,”

Hotch’s eyes followed Jack as he rummaged through the drawer. There was pride in the way he looked at his son, but you could see the hint of anxiety that always seemed to lurk beneath the surface when it came to Jack.

You placed a reassuring hand on his arm, giving him a small, comforting squeeze. “He’s in good hands, Hotch. You don’t have to worry.”

He met your eyes, and for a brief moment, the weight of his responsibilities seemed to lift. His gaze softened with unspoken gratitude. “I trust you,” he spoke sincerely.

“Good.” You gave him a small smile and gave his bicep a final, reassuring pat. “Now get some work done. You might be able to make it in time for dinner.”

With a final glance at Jack, he turned to leave. The door clicked softly behind him, and you were left on your own with the mini version of him, who was already showing off his new crayons.

—

That evening marked the first of many. When you weren’t out on a case, you found yourself naturally heading to Hotch's after work—sometimes taking over from Jessica for the day or picking up Jack from school yourself. You often stayed well into the evening, even after Hotch came home, enjoying dinner together, playing games, or simply talking. There were even times where you stayed the night, sharing a quiet drink after putting Jack to bed. He’d insist you sleep in his bed while he took the couch. In the mornings, the three of you would share breakfast, with Hotch always ensuring the fridge was stocked with your favorite foods and knowing exactly how you liked your eggs.

You knew your colleagues would lose their minds if they’d ever find out, but for you, it never felt strange. It felt right. Comfortable. And whenever you were back on the field, you’d slip back into your professional roles—the accidental first-name slips the only sign of the bond you shared.

Being at their place made you realize how much your work had tangled itself into every aspect of your life. You’d moved away from family, struggled to maintain a personal life, and watched every attempt at dating falter because of your job. Despite how fulfilling your work at the BAU was, you’d forgotten just how deeply you craved a sense of belonging—a place where you were appreciated for more than just your professional skills or your ability to handle a weapon. Around Aaron and Jack, you could simply let go and be yourself.

Today was another day at the Hotchner house. You had spent the entire afternoon with Jack playing soccer in a nearby park until he was utterly exhausted, you practically had to drag him home. This time you didn’t mind though. Today has been a painful reminder of how single you were. The park had been filled with happy couples—some picnicking, some feeding the ducks, and others nervously sharing their first kiss.

You were grateful for how Aaron had allowed you to wiggle your way into his little family on days like these, but still it wasn’t yours. You still longed for one to call your own one day.

So, here you were—alone on the couch, watching a rom-com wishing you were starring in it, and finding comfort in the warmth of his house and the glass of wine in your hand.

You were so absorbed in the movie that you didn’t notice the door unlocking until Hotch stepped inside.

“Hey,” you greeted, reaching for the remote to pause the film.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said, putting down his bag and hanging up his jacket. He loosened his tie and walked over to the couch, settling on the opposite end.

“Sorry, I opened a new bottle of wine”

He waved it off. “I’m glad that you did. It would’ve just collected dust on the shelf.”

You take another sip. “It’s a good one. Rossi’s?”

“You know it,” he replied with a soft smile, getting comfortable in the cushions as you put the movie back on.

The screen flickered with a romantic scene: a couple dancing in the rain, the male lead spinning the woman around in circles as they laughed.

“I miss that,” you murmured, a wistful smile tugging at your lips as you watched them.

Hotch glanced at you, a smirk forming. “It’s raining outside. Be my guest.”

You rolled your eyes, playfully dismissing the comment. “That’s not what I meant. Just look, Aaron,” you pointed at the TV, where the couple gazed at each other lovingly, before he pulled her in for a passionate kiss. “I don’t remember the last time someone looked at me like that.”

“Sometimes, I feel so desperate that I think about saying yes to the first guy who comes along, just to feel wanted again.”

Hotch straightened, concern flickering in his eyes. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“I know, Dad,” you teased, trying to ease the tension. “I’m unfortunately fully aware of the creeps out there.”

“On top of that, I’m not even sure anyone would take me up on it,” you added with a breathless laugh, your voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. “I haven’t exactly gotten much attention since joining the team. Maybe I’m not considered attractive anymore.”

“People can tell you know how to handle yourself,” he profiled. “Some find that intimidating. But you’re just as attractive—if not more so—than before you joined the team.”

You almost spilled your wine at his confession, the sudden heat in your cheeks betraying the flutter in your stomach.

“You don’t have to say that,” you mumbled, not wanting him to feel pity for you.

“Am I lying?” he asked, his voice steady. You met his gaze—his posture was open, his shoulders relaxed, and his eye contact was unwavering. It was textbook honesty.

“No,” you admitted quietly, feeling the truth of his words sink in.

“I don’t think you need some stranger or a serious relationship to get what you’re after.”

You blinked, not sure if you’d heard him right. “No?”

Hotch leaned in just a little, his voice lower now. “I think we could give each other what we need... without it being complicated.”

Your heart skipped, and you tried to process what he was suggesting. Your mind raced, the words hanging in the air between you.

“Are you suggesting a no-strings-attached relationship with me?”

He gave a small, wry smile. “I’m trying to be subtle about it, but it’s not going so well.”

You laughed, caught off guard, trying to mask your surprise as you saw the seriousness in his expression.

“How will this work?”

The corners of his lips lifted as you acknowledged thinking this through. “We would just… enjoy ourselves. Just when we’re here. Just when it’s the two of us.”

Enjoying yourself with Aaron Hotchner definitely wasn’t how you’d imagined this night going.

You stayed quiet, thinking it over. After a moment you slowly nodded your head. “Okay.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, waiting for confirmation.

“Yes. I am,” you responded, the words coming easier now.

You licked your lips nervously as he moved closer to you. His cologne enveloped you, making your pulse quicken.

As he continued gazing into your eyes, you decided it was your turn to make the next move. Carefully, you reached up to cup his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of his stubble against the palm of your hand. A small prayer passed through your mind, hoping you wouldn’t regret your next decision.

Then you kissed him.

The moment his lips met yours, the cliché of “fireworks” suddenly made sense—the feeling was intense, electric, a rush that left you breathless. His hands moved to the sides of your waist, pulling you closer. Before you could think, you were settled on his lap, the world around you narrowing to the heat of his touch.

A small, desperate whimper escaped you as his tongue brushed against yours. It had been so long since someone touched you this way—especially someone as strong and attractive as Aaron. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your fingertips as your hand slid over his chest, the other wrapping around his neck. He deepened the kiss, and the feeling was so overwhelming that it almost made you cry in relief.

He brushed his hands over the smooth curve of your waist and down the swell of your thighs, digging his fingers into the clothed skin.

Your soft moans were swallowed by your kisses, and you couldn’t help yourself as you moved your hips against his, feeling yourself get more aroused with each movement against the thin fabric of his slacks.

He let out a low grunt as you repeatedly rolled your hips against the hardening bulge in his pants. His large hands roamed up beneath your shirt, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You placed your hands over his, ready to take your shirt off, but just as quickly his hands closed around your wrists, stopping you gently.

“Not here,” he warned. “Let’s move to the bedroom.”

His words sent a rush of desire to your core, and though your legs trembled, you stood from his lap and followed him across the room. As he moved, Hotch unbuckled his belt with one swift, effortless motion. You paused mid-step, breath catching at the sight of the leather coiled in his hand, hypnotised by how seductive the image looked. You blinked a couple of times to get out of your trance, before hurrying after him, your legs trying to catch up to his confident pace.

You stepped into the bedroom, moving until you stood at the foot of the bed as he locked the door behind you. A flutter of nerves stirred in your stomach at the reality of what was about to happen.

Hotch walked toward you, slowly closing the distance. His eyes were dark as they took you in with a look of pure lust—one you’d previously never seen on him.

“Turn around for me.”

Maybe it was because you were so accustomed to his authority in the field, or perhaps it was the undeniable fact that you'd let him do anything to you at this point, but without a second thought, you obeyed, turning your back toward him.

His hands reached out to rub over your shoulders in slow circles. You instinctively leaned into him, your eyes closing as you let yourself melt into the comfort of his touch. He presses in closer, his chin resting against your shoulder.

“What is it that you’ve been longing for?” His voice is a soft, sensual whisper, his breath warm against your skin.

A shaky breath escapes your lips as his hands delicately trail over your collarbones, carefully moving lower, inching toward your breasts. The moment his palms cup them, your nipples harden.

He hummed, still awaiting a response.

“You,” you whispered back, your voice barely audible through the thick need.

You feel the faint curve of a teasing smile against your skin. “You already have me,” he murmured. “Tell me how I can make you feel good.”

His thumbs flick over your nipples, and you arch your back into him, feeling the solid press of his body against yours, the hardness in his pants meeting you once again.

“It’s been a while since-” your words dissolve into a moan as his fingers pinch your nipples.

“Since what?” he teased, his lips tracing the curve of your neck, each kiss setting your skin alight.

You swallowed. “Since… since someone’s gone down on me.”

“Is that so?” he hummed, the sound rich with interest. His tongue slides up your neck, before turning it into a kiss.

“Aaron, please,” you begged, grinding your hips into him.

“How can someone like you have been deprived of pleasure for so long?” he thought out loud, and he finally grabbed the material of your shirt, pulling it over your head.

His hands glide softly over your back, before he unclasps your bra with one smooth motion. Your breasts spill free, and he immediately cups them in his hands, holding them as if he wants to keep you warm and covered. The pleasure is even more delicious now that the contact is skin-to-skin.

His hands roam over your stomach, until he reaches the button of your pants, undoing it. He sinks to his knees behind you, his fingers curling around the waistband of your pants and panties, easing them down. A low curse escapes him as the fabric slides over your ass and down your thighs, revealing more of you inch by inch.

You held onto his shoulder for support, as he steadied your leg, guiding you to step out of your pants. The second he tossed the fabric to the side, he placed his hands steadily on your thighs, leaning in to press a heated kiss to your ass. You let out a moan, bucking forward, but he holds you firmly in place as his lips trail wet, lingering kisses over your cheeks.

“Place your knee on the bed for me,” he tenderly instructs.

You followed his order, lifting one knee onto the bed, your upper body arching slightly as it hovers just above the mattress. The cool air brushes over your exposed pussy as you’re displayed in front of him.

A loud moan leaves your mouth, as his tongue makes contact with your folds. The pressure is just right, each flick of his tongue drawing a sharp gasp from you as he licks up and down in a deliberate rhythm.

“You taste like heaven,” he groans, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating through you as he speaks, “dripping down your thighs already.” His lips trail lower, and he laps up the wetness that has gathered on your inner thighs, his stubble tickling against your sensitive skin. You grip the sheets, desperate for something to hold on to.

Aaron’s tongue returns to your pussy, the tip of it firmly pushing inside, curling upward as he slides in and out, hitting all the right spots, sending waves of pleasure through you. Each thrust makes you cry out.

You let out a small whine as his tongue retreats, pressing a delicate kiss to the tender skin. “Don’t get me wrong,” he starts, licking his lips clean, “I love hearing you, but you can’t be too loud.”

You silently nodded, your breath hitching as his finger unhurriedly traced your sensitive folds. Just as he was about to enter you, you stopped him.

“I- I need your cock,” you whined, your hips pushing back toward him, desperate for more.

“Yeah? You need it that bad?” he teased, as he rose to his feet behind you.

You crawled onto the bed, glancing back at him. His lips still glistened with the trace of you, and his eyes were locked onto yours, filled with predatory focus.

“I need it, Aaron,” you repeated, biting your bottom lip as your gaze lingered on the hard outline of his length pressed against his thigh.

He groaned, his hands quickly pulling at his tie, tossing it aside before he began unbuttoning his shirt. His movements were confident—like a private performance just for you. You leaned back on your arms, your feet planted on the bed, allowing him to see just how much he was making you ache for him.

As he removed his shirt, the muscles in his broad shoulder flexed, and the trail of dark hair down his stomach led your eyes straight to what you craved.

He wasn’t shy as he pulled his pants down, eager to show you just how worked up you’d made him. His length stood hard, the tip flushed red and glistening with precum. You instinctively pressed your thighs together, giving you a soft release of tension.

He joined you on the bed, lying on his side and pulling you flush against his chest, spooning you. His lips crashed into yours in a deep, hungry kiss, his groans vibrating against your mouth. His hand explored your front, squeezing your breasts, while his arousal pressed insistently against your ass.

You moaned, your leg draping over his as you shifted, opening yourself up to him. He reached down, gripping his length, positioning it against you before slowly pushing inside, stretching you inch by inch.

You took a sharp breath, adjusting to the feel of him inside you. His cock throbbed, as if begging for you to move. Slowly, you rolled your hips, taking more of him in, and Hotch’s low growl rumbled in your ear.

“That’s it,” he praised, his voice rough with pleasure. “Taking me so well.”

He was fully inside you now, filling you completely, and his hand slid down to your exposed clit, his fingers moving in slow, rhythmic circles. His thrusts matched the pace, deep and deliberate.

Every movement sent shockwaves through your body, your breath quickening as the familiar knot of pleasure tightened in your stomach.

“I’m close, Aaron,” you whimpered, and he moaned in response, placing soft kisses along your jaw before sucking at your neck, marking you.

His fingers moved faster, pushing you closer to the edge, and your body twitched as your orgasm crashed over you. His arms held you tight, anchoring you as the sensations slowly subsided.

When he withdrew his hand from your clit, it slid down to your knee, bending your leg to spread you even wider. Without warning, he began pounding into you, the sudden change in speed making you cry out, a high-pitched moan escaping your lips.

“Be quiet for me. Don’t make me tell you again,” he warned. You involuntarily moaned at the way he commanded you, and he grunted in response.

With a swift motion, he flipped you onto your stomach, your body pressed flat against the bed. A sharp gasp escaped you as he grabbed your thighs, lifting them to raise your ass in the air, before entering you again.

One hand pressed firmly into your shoulder, holding you down, while the other gripped your hips, forcing you to meet each of his thrusts. The new position did its job—your moans were muffled into the pillow, leaving only the wet slap of skin and the sound of Hotch’s deep, guttural grunts with each push of his hips.

“They're so stupid for not wanting you,” he groaned. “You have me now. I’ll give you everything you want.”

Your heart fluttered at his words. After feeling this, you knew you wouldn’t ever be satisfied by anyone else. You would want no one but him.

“I’m going to come inside of you,” he breathed, bending over so his chest pressed against your back, his warmth enveloping you.

“Oh-“ Your breath caught as the sensation in your core tightened again. “Yes, please. Inside of me, please.” You couldn’t form a full sentence as the heat inside of your core builds up again.

He reaches under you to touch your clit, and the instant his fingers make contact, you come undone. Your legs tremble, giving way beneath you as the rush of pleasure takes over. Hotch pushes into you two more times before you feel him spill inside, the sensation sending you into another, deeper orgasm.

He presses soft, tender kisses to your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he whispers in your ear, “I’m sorry I got a little carried away.”

You hum in satisfaction, a pleased smile tugging at your lips. “I’m glad you did.”

—

You weren’t sure what time it was, but you had a quick shower together—Hotch giving you one more orgasm—and were now laying in bed, your clean bodies tangled under his sheets.

“Will you stay the night?” he asked softly, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand as he held you close.

It was endearing how gentle and shy he sounded, a stark contrast to what the two of you had just shared.

“Only if you promise to not move to the couch,” you mumbled sleepily, your voice heavy with exhaustion.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

You turned your head to him, noticing the quiet that had settled between you both.

“What is it?” you asked, tracing absent patterns to his skin.

He hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I was thinking… maybe we can attach those strings a bit more.”

You chuckled. “Maybe,” you playfully teased, pressing a final kiss to his lips.

2K notes · View notes

leriexoxo · 1 month ago

Text

WET ‘n’ WILD

Pairing: Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

Tags: Smut, feelings realization, accidental voyeurism, subtle seduction, bathroom sex, unprotected sex, breeding (idk what’s wrong with me), oral

Word Count: 4k

Summary: Chan and you have always been best friends, sharing everything from inside jokes to travel plans. But when you take a trip together and end up in the same hotel room, things start to shift. After an accidental reveal in the bathroom—where Chan sees you in a way he never expected—he can’t seem to shake the image of you.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He didn’t knock.

Of course he didn’t knock.

You should’ve locked it—you knew that. But you were in a rush, hair wet and clinging to your back, steam curling around your shoulders as you stood beneath the spray, eyes closed, miles away from reality.

Until the door opened.

And in walked Chan.

Shirt half off. AirPods in. Whistling.

He didn’t even notice you at first.

You turned, shampoo dripping down your forehead, blinking water out of your eyes as his figure passed the mirror—and froze.

A beat.

Then another.

His head tilted.

And then you watched his jaw drop.

Because the shower was glass.

Clear. So fucking clear.

And you were completely naked.

“Oh—shit—” He yanked an AirPod out, eyes going wide like he was staring down a demon.

“Chan—!” you yelped, covering yourself too late, spinning toward the wall with a slap of skin on tile. “Get out!”

He stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet.

“I—I didn’t know you were in here—I couldn’t hear—fuck, I’m sorry!”

He slapped a hand over his eyes.

But not before you caught the way his gaze had dropped. Lingering.

“Chan!”

“I’m leaving—I’m leaving!”

The door slammed shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Your heart pounded in your throat.

His face when he saw you—not just shocked… stunned. Like he hadn’t even considered the possibility that you were anything other than his best friend. Like he’d never imagined you had curves, softness, skin like that.

Like he’d just discovered a whole new you.

And suddenly, sharing a bed tonight didn’t feel so harmless anymore.

You wrapped a towel around yourself with shaking hands, your skin still flushed—not just from the heat of the water, but from the look on his face.

That stunned, wrecked, “holy shit she’s hot” look.

You’d never seen him look at you like that.

You cracked the bathroom door open a sliver, peeking out.

He was across the room, pacing like a man on the verge of an existential crisis, hands on his head, shirt still bunched halfway up his chest, and his AirPods now clutched in a death grip.

When he saw the door move, he flinched like you were holding a gun.

“I swear I didn’t mean to!” he blurted. “I—I wasn’t looking!”

You stepped out, towel hitched high on your chest, dripping onto the carpet.

“Chan.”

His eyes did a quick flick—towel, legs, towel again—then snapped to the ceiling like it offended him personally.

“I didn’t know the shower was—was like that. I thought the glass was—was frosted or something!”

You crossed your arms. “You literally built like a Greek god but you’ve never seen a naked body before?”

He let out a strangled laugh. “Not yours, I haven’t!”

Silence.

Your heart thudded.

Not yours.

You watched the realization hit him in real time—how loud that sounded, how different it felt saying that out loud.

He looked at you then.

Actually looked.

And his gaze did something… weird. Like it didn’t know whether to apologize or worship.

You swallowed.

“Do you… need the bathroom now or?”

He blinked. “Uh—no. Nope. I’m good. I can hold it. Forever, probably.”

You turned, heading toward your suitcase, pretending your heart wasn’t jackhammering against your ribs.

Behind you, you heard him mutter to himself:

“Why is her ass like that…”

You froze. “What was that?”

“Nothing!”

Yeah. Nothing.

Except everything had changed.

You’d dried your hair in silence.

He’d scrolled his phone on the edge of the bed like it was going to save his life.

Neither of you spoke about the glass. Or your body. Or the way he stared like he’d seen a forbidden fruit and accidentally took a bite.

By the time you slipped into your sleep shirt—long, soft, just barely enough—he’d already tucked himself under the covers and pretended to scroll through TikTok, screen dimmed, thumb unmoving.

You climbed in beside him, careful not to touch.

The air was thick.

He was stiff.

In more ways than one.

Chan lay on his back, arms above his head like he was physically restraining himself. You could feel the heat rolling off him, the tension coiled in every inch of his body.

He hadn’t said a word since you turned off the light.

But he hadn’t stopped looking.

You were facing the wall, pretending to sleep, when you felt it. The tiniest brush of fabric—his shirt sleeve barely grazing your arm.

A jolt lit up your spine.

You didn’t move.

He did.

Another shuffle. His leg shifted. The bed dipped just slightly closer. His breathing hitched.

You rolled over.

He flinched like you caught him red-handed.

Your faces were close now. Just inches apart in the dark, your features soft in the moonlight through the window.

“Chan,” you whispered.

He stared at you like he was watching a horror movie and a porno at the same time.

“I’m fine,” he said too fast. “Everything’s fine. This is fine.”

Your eyes flicked down.

Oh.

There was no mistaking it now.

The very obvious, very hard outline straining against his sweats.

You raised a brow.

“Is it… uncomfortable?”

He let out the weakest, most pathetic laugh you’d ever heard.

“Uncomfortable isn’t the word,” he muttered, slapping an arm over his face. “I’m dying.”

“Because of me?”

Silence.

Then a groan.

“You can’t just look like that,” he hissed. “Like—you’ve always been hot, okay? I just didn’t realize you were built to ruin me until today.”

Your breath caught.

And you felt it—his restraint crumbling, the tension snapping like a rubber band stretched too far.

You shifted.

A little too close.

Your thigh brushed his.

His jaw locked.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” he asked hoarsely.

You leaned in, your voice a whisper in the dark. “Doing what?”

He let out a low curse.

And then—your knee nudged his thigh. Just a little. Accidental. Maybe.

But the noise he made?

Absolutely not accidental.

Low.

Guttural.

“Don’t—don’t move like that,” he begged, voice strained. “I’m seriously one shift away from embarrassing myself.”

You bit back a smile.

Then shifted again.

This time, deliberately dragging your leg across his thigh, grazing right over the problem area.

His hand shot out and gripped your hip.

Hard.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Unless you want me to lose every last bit of control I’ve got left.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t move away either.

And neither did he.

—

Chan had always thought of you as his best friend.

No complications. No weird tension. Just you.

But that was before he saw you in the shower.

Now? Every single second felt like psychological warfare.

He first noticed it in the elevator.

The way your sundress clung to your hips, the curve of your ass shifting when you leaned over to press the button. The little dip of cleavage just peeking out when you turned your head.

He swore he didn’t look.

But he did.

And once he started, he couldn’t stop.

He noticed it at brunch.

You laughed at something one of your friends said, leaning forward on your elbows. And he swore to god—the way your breasts pressed against your top? Unholy.

He had to excuse himself and splash cold water on his face.

He noticed it again at the museum.

When you bent to tie your shoe and your shirt lifted just enough to show your lower back. That tiny flash of skin was enough to send a pulse straight to his groin.

He kept trying to think of math. Taxes. His childhood trauma.

Nothing worked.

And then, of course, came nightfall.

He stood in front of the bed like it was a trap.

You crawled under the covers in that same oversized sleep shirt, brushing your hair out of your face, oblivious to the way his soul was crumbling.

“Night, Channie,” you said sweetly.

“Night,” he choked, voice cracking like a boy going through puberty again.

He lay stiffly on his side of the bed, hands folded over his chest like he was at a funeral.

Because it was a funeral.

Of his sanity.

Of his ability to think of you like a normal friend ever again.

He tried not to breathe when you shifted in your sleep.

Tried not to feel when your leg brushed his.

Tried not to imagine sliding that shirt up your thighs and finding nothing underneath.

He failed. Every time.

And still—he didn’t touch you.

But god, did he want to.

⸻

You were in a tank top now. No bra. Chan could see the outline when the air conditioning kicked in. He nearly spilled his drink trying to look away.

He avoided eye contact the entire morning.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

He nodded too fast. “Yep. Great. Fine.”

He was not fine.

He was edging. Emotionally.

You came back to the room early while he was changing.

He had just dropped his towel when you walked in with a bag of takeout and froze in the doorway.

Your eyes widened.

Chan nearly dislocated a hip trying to cover himself.

You blinked, then said, “Oh.”

Just—oh.

You turned around like it was nothing.

He, on the other hand, had to sit down for five minutes and reevaluate his existence.

Now she’s seen me too.

And the worst part?

He wanted you to look again.

⸻

The afternoon sun was unforgiving, golden and heavy as it beat down on your shoulders.

You adjusted your sunglasses, sipped your drink, and stretched out on your lounger—legs bare, back glistening, swimsuit snug in all the right places.

Chan sat nearby in board shorts and regret, pretending to scroll his phone while sneaking glances like a pervert in training.

You caught him once.

He looked away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

You smiled.

“Hey,” you said, flipping onto your stomach. “Can you help me with sunscreen?”

His head snapped up.

“Wh—what?”

You held out the bottle. “My back. And, like… everywhere else I can’t reach.”

You were facing away from him now, bikini riding low on your hips, legs spread just enough to make him forget his own name.

Chan swallowed.

“Y-Yeah. Sure. Of course. Yeah.”

He knelt beside you, squeezed some sunscreen into his hand, and tried not to hyperventilate.

The first touch was careful.

Gentle.

His palms gliding across your shoulder blades, working the lotion in with slow, cautious movements. You were warm beneath his hands—soft and smooth and dangerous.

He moved lower.

To the small of your back.

Then down.

To your waist.

Your hips.

He hesitated at the top of your thighs, fingers twitching.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t stop him.

So he continued.

Hands sliding down the back of your thighs—kneading, pressing, lingering.

You let out the tiniest exhale when his fingers grazed too close to the edge of your bikini bottom.

His hands paused.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

But your thighs clenched.

And his cock twitched.

He cleared his throat, voice tight. “You, uh… you want me to do your legs too?”

You hummed. “If you don’t mind.”

Oh, he minded.

He minded so desperately.

Because now he was smoothing lotion down your calves, back up your inner thighs, fingertips dangerously close to a line he shouldn’t cross—and his dick was practically fighting for freedom in his shorts.

You shifted slightly.

Just enough to press back into his hands.

His breath hitched.

“You’re playing with fire,” he muttered.

You turned your head, eyes hidden behind your sunglasses, but your smirk unmistakable.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have come near the flame.”

He sat back like you burned him.

But the damage was done.

And that night? That bed?

There was no pretending anymore.

Not when his hands had already memorized your skin.

⸻

You were only meant to rinse off.

Quick shower. No big deal.

But of course, the universe had other plans—and the tiny metal clasp of your bikini top had declared war.

It was stuck.

Tangled in the curls at the nape of your neck, pulling and snagging no matter how gently you tried to free it. You twisted, yanked, whined under your breath—but the more you fought it, the worse it got.

You were officially topless, wet, and trapped.

Awesome.

You sighed and stared at yourself in the mirror, arms folded over your chest.

There was only one option.

“Chan?” you called, wincing.

A pause.

Then his muffled voice from the other side of the door: “Yeah?”

You exhaled. “I, um… I need your help.”

“Everything okay?”

“No,” you groaned. “The clasp’s caught in my hair and I can’t get it out.”

A beat of silence.

“…Are you naked?”

You huffed. “I’m trying not to be.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Okay. Yeah. Coming in. I’m not looking—I swear I’m not—”

The door cracked open and he stepped in, eyes averted, one hand shielding his vision like a Victorian maiden scandalized by ankles.

You couldn’t help laughing. “Chan.”

He peeked.

And then he froze.

Because there you were.

Hair dripping. Skin flushed. Bikini bottoms still clinging to your hips—but your top was hanging awkwardly from your neck, one arm twisted back, hands barely covering your breasts.

“Don’t stare,” you said, cheeks hot.

He blinked rapidly. “I’m not. I’m—fuck, I’m trying.”

You turned, exposing the tangled mess. “Just get the clasp, okay?”

His hands trembled as he stepped closer, fingers brushing the wet strands of your hair.

He was so careful.

So quiet.

But the moment his knuckles grazed the slope of your spine—your breath hitched.

And he felt it.

All of it.

The tension. The heat. The barely-covered body standing inches away.

His fingers paused.

You whispered, “What’s wrong?”

“I…” His voice cracked. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Your heart pounded.

“Chan…”

He turned you around, slowly, still holding the strap—his eyes dark, jaw clenched.

Your hands instinctively covered your chest again, but he caught your wrists gently, easing them away.

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispered.

Your lips parted.

And then—

His gaze dropped.

To your breasts.

To your waist.

To the water trickling down your skin, beading between curves he’d only touched through fabric—imagined, fantasized about.

He was completely fucked.

And he knew it.

You reached for him first.

And when your hand met his chest, he shuddered.

The next second was a blur—he grabbed your face, kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for years, like he was starving and you were the feast.

Your back hit the bathroom counter.

His hands were everywhere—cupping, kneading, memorizing what he’d only dreamed of. Tongue licking into your mouth, hips pressed firm between your legs, his cock thick and hard and grinding against your soaked bikini bottoms.

He pulled back, breath ragged.

“I’ve wanted you every night since that shower,” he rasped.

You smirked, lips swollen. “Which one?”

He growled.

“Get in bed,” he said, lifting you like you weighed nothing. “I’ll show you.”

He didn’t make it to the bed.

Didn’t even try.

Because the second you reached between your bodies—fingers bold, cupping the heavy length straining against his swim shorts—Chan snapped.

His breath hitched, hips jerking forward like you’d electrocuted him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice low and wrecked. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You bit your lip, hand squeezing gently.

“Maybe I do.”

That did it.

He hauled you onto the counter in one fluid, desperate motion—bikini bottoms dragged down in a flurry of wet fabric, discarded somewhere on the tile. You gasped at the chill of the marble under your bare ass—but Chan was hot, burning between your thighs, and he stepped in close, slotting his hips to yours.

His mouth was everywhere.

Kisses rough and endless, biting down your throat, teeth scraping your collarbone, hands gripping your thighs like he could mold you to him.

And then—he paused.

Looked at you.

His gaze dropped to your chest.

And he groaned—deep and guttural—like the sight of your tits was something he’d dreamed of too many times and was now seeing in high-def reality.

“Fuck, baby…” he whispered, reverent. “These… god—”

He dipped his head.

And feasted.

Tongue flicking over your nipple, lips wrapping around it, sucking so fucking deep you arched with a cry.

Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging as he kissed and licked and moaned into your skin, worshipping you with his mouth like your tits were salvation and he was begging for forgiveness.

Every flick of his tongue sent a pulse straight to your core.

You were already soaked.

Already panting.

And then he slid two fingers inside you without warning—curling, pressing, thrusting slow as he suckled your other nipple—and you saw stars.

“Chan—fuck, oh my god—”

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “Let me hear you.”

You were shaking.

Legs trembling as he fucked you with his fingers, mouth never leaving your chest, his cock hard and leaking against your thigh through his shorts.

“You’ve been teasing me for days,” he growled, biting gently. “Walking around like you don’t know what you do to me.”

“I didn’t,” you gasped, “not really.”

He looked up at you.

And then—he kissed you.

Deep. Tongue and teeth and claiming.

“I’ll show you.”

With one hard thrust of his hips, he pressed against your center—bare, swollen, aching—and you whimpered at the pressure.

“Please,” you breathed. “I want you.”

“I’ve wanted you since that first night,” he confessed. “I can’t hold back anymore.”

He grabbed your ass, tugged you to the edge, lined himself up—and slid in.

All the way.

In one deep, hungry thrust.

You cried out—head falling back, nails digging into his shoulders—because nothing had ever felt like that. Like him. Stretching you full, stuffing you so deep your body didn’t know where he ended and you began.

“Jesus fuck,” he gasped. “You feel… you feel so fucking good.”

He stayed there a second—buried inside you, panting, trembling—then started to move.

Hard.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Every snap of his hips sent a jolt through your body, every grind of his pelvis against your clit had you whimpering his name.

“Say it,” he growled into your neck. “Say whose you are.”

“You,” you choked. “Yours.”

He fucked you harder.

“Again.”

“Yours, Chan—please—don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

Not until the counter was soaked, your thighs were trembling, and he spilled inside you with a moan so guttural it left you breathless.

And still—he kissed you like he was starving.

Over and over.

Like it was never just sex.

Like it never could be.

⸻

The silence after was thick.

Heavy.

His breathing was still uneven, chest rising and falling against yours as he held you there—pressed to his body, still buried inside you.

You could feel the tremble in his arms. In his thighs. In the way he kissed your temple like he didn’t know how to come down.

And then, softly:

“Let me take care of you.”

He lifted you gently, careful even though you were wrecked, and carried you the few feet to the bathtub.

Turned the faucet on.

Checked the temperature.

He was quiet—almost reverent—as he set you down on a stool and adjusted the water.

Then he knelt behind you.

“Hold still,” he whispered.

You felt his fingers in your hair—delicate and slow, undoing the mess of tangles caused by your bikini clasp. He took his time, gently easing the metal free, brushing through the curls like they were something precious.

“I got it,” he said, voice warm.

You turned your head.

He smiled at you, soft and small, like you were a secret he didn’t know how to share.

“Come here.”

The tub was full now, steam curling around you, and he helped you in first—settling you between his legs, your back to his chest, water lapping around you both.

It was peaceful.

Safe.

His hands slid over your arms, your stomach, cradling you under the water like you were fragile glass.

You let your head rest against his shoulder.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” you murmured.

“Like what?”

“Soft.”

He chuckled. “You made me soft.”

He was hard again.

You felt it—pressed against your ass, twitching under the water, completely unavoidable.

You smirked. Shifted just enough to make him twitch again.

“Baby…” he warned, breath hitching.

You turned in his lap, water rippling, and straddled him slow.

His eyes widened. “Are you—?”

“Still want you,” you whispered. “Need you again.”

Chan didn’t stand a chance.

Not when you lined him up and sank down with a moan, not when the hot water made everything slippery and sinful, not when your tits were right in his face and you were riding him so fucking slow he thought he was gonna pass out.

“Fuck, baby—fuck, you feel—” he grabbed your hips, guiding you, panting against your collarbone— “you’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned in, kissed his jaw. “You love it.”

He nodded frantically. “I fucking love it.”

You moved faster, grinding down, letting your nails scrape his scalp as he groaned and pressed kisses to your chest like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

Water sloshed.

Steam clung to your skin.

He looked up at you, breathless and undone, and whispered like a prayer:

“Let me come with you this time.”

You nodded, hands on his shoulders.

And when you clenched around him, gasping his name—he followed, head thrown back, arms wrapped around you, cursing against your skin like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And when it was over?

He held you there.

Still inside you, water cooling, hearts pounding together.

He kissed your forehead.

And for the first time all trip—maybe ever—you felt like more than his best friend.

⸻

The soft, golden light of morning crept through the curtains as you stirred awake, still tangled in the warmth of the sheets—and Chan’s arms, which were wrapped around you like he couldn’t bear to let go.

You blinked sleepily, then smiled, feeling the gentle pressure of his body against yours. His lips were pressed lightly to your neck, breath warm and slow.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice still thick from sleep.

You stretched, turning in his arms, and kissed him gently on the lips. “Good morning.”

Chan smirked, his hands sliding down your back and pulling you closer. There was something different in the air now—a tension that wasn’t there before, but it was sweet. His touch wasn’t just comforting—it was possessive, but in a playful way.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand gently brushing your side, his fingertips lingering a little longer than necessary.

“You’re my girl, you know that?” he said, his voice low, lips still pressed against yours.

You pulled back a little, eyes wide. “I’m your girl?”

He nodded, the teasing glint in his eyes making it clear he was serious, but also having fun with the whole idea.

“Yeah,” he smirked, running his hand down your side, his fingers grazing your hip. “You’ve always been my girl, haven’t you?”

You raised an eyebrow and leaned back, giving him a cheeky smile. “I’ve always been your girl, huh? Is that so?”

Chan’s face softened as he grinned at you, his hand brushing your hair back from your face. “Mm-hmm, but you’re really my girl now,” he teased, his tone turning almost mischievous. “And no one else gets to have you.”

You laughed, shaking your head at him. “Always so possessive.”

He leaned forward, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Nah, I’m just saying what’s true. You’re mine now.”

You tilted your head and raised a playful eyebrow. “I’ve always been yours, Chan.”

His smile faded just a little, his gaze turning more intense, and there was a flicker of something deeper behind his eyes.

“No,” he said softly, looking right at you. “Now you’re mine.”

And then, as if to prove it, he kissed you deeply, his hands pulling you closer, his lips sliding over yours with an urgency that made your stomach flip.

For a moment, it was as if the whole world stopped, just you and him, tangled up in the sheets.

You pulled back, catching your breath, and smirked at him. “Well, I guess you got what you wanted.”

He chuckled, his hand resting on your cheek. “I always get what I want when it comes to you.”

You smiled back, that little spark in your chest igniting again, something more than just playful affection building between you two.

And when his lips found your neck again, soft and tender, but possessive in its own way, you realized this wasn’t just some morning after kiss.

This was his kiss.

And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what you wanted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Awwww! I loved this one so muchhh 😭😭❤️❤️ Chan was so cute in this fic! I’m gonna be writing a lot more chan fics from now on.

If you know you loved it more than i did, drop a like for encouragement and REBLOG! Its important

Masterlist

#skz imagines #bang chan #bang chan smut #bang chan angst #bang chan skz #chan smut #stray kids smau #han jisung #leeknow smut #bang chan x reader #best friends #straykids smut #chan skz #skz bang chan #bangchan smut #christopher bang #friends to lovers

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heliosunny · 2 months ago

Note

Hi! I love your depictions of Phainon, especially when he toes the line between charming and threatening. I’m a sucker for a good unrequited love trope, so could you write a scenario where reader was in love with Phainon in the past but he treated her the same as he did everyone else so she eventually loses hope and gives up, so now he’s the one that has to chase after her? Thank you so much!

Yandere!Phainon x Fem!Reader

The first time you saw Phainon, you thought the stars had fallen from the sky and taken the shape of a man. He was brilliant, untouchable, a light too blinding for anyone to hold. And yet, you tried.

You were seven when you first told Phainon you wanted to marry him.

It had been one of those golden afternoons, the sun slanting through the trees, painting his silver hair with a soft glow. He sat on a patch of grass beside you, staring up at the clouds like they held all the answers in the world.

“Phai!” you had said, kicking your legs idly. “When we grow up, let’s get married.”

“Married?”

“Yes! Like grown-ups do! You’ll protect me, and I’ll make you happy.”

Phainon tilted his head, considering. Then, with a soft laugh, he shrugged. “Alright.”

And that was it. A simple agreement, like you had just decided to play a new game. He didn’t think about it beyond that moment, and maybe, at the time, you didn’t either. But as you grew, the weight of those words stayed with you.

Years passed. You stayed by his side, always reaching, always hoping. Phainon was kind—always had been. But as you both grew older, you noticed something.

He was kind to everyone.

He smiled at others the way he smiled at you. He listened to them, helped them, comforted them—just as he did with you. Maybe a little softer, a little gentler when it came to you, but never in the way you wanted. Never in a way that meant something more.

And so, the quiet realization settled in your heart like a stone sinking into a river.

You weren’t special.

Not to him.

And then there was that day. The day you knew, without a doubt, that you were just another name in his life.

It had been at the annual festival, a celebration where lights hung from every corner, where laughter echoed in the streets, and where lovers exchanged tokens of devotion.

You had spent all morning crafting a gift for him—something small but meaningful. A charm, woven with threads of silver and blue, the colors that reminded you of him. A silent confession, the last desperate hope that maybe, maybe he would see you.

When you found him, he was standing beneath the lantern-lit trees. But he wasn’t alone. A girl stood before him, cheeks dusted pink, hands nervously clasping a carefully wrapped box.

You had seen it before—people gravitating toward Phainon, drawn in by his quiet kindness, by the way he made everyone feel special. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That he would just smile, politely decline, and move on.

“Oh, for me?” Phainon had taken the box gently, his voice carrying that familiar warmth, the kind that once made your heart race. “That’s really kind of you.”

You stood there, gift clutched in your hands, heart pounding as he opened it. Inside was a scarf, delicately embroidered, clearly made with effort and care. He held it up, smiling, before effortlessly wrapping it around his neck.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” he said. And then, without hesitation, he lifted a hand and gently patted the girl’s head.

It was the same gesture he had given you countless times. The same words. The same smile.

Something inside you shattered.

You had spent years thinking you were different, that maybe, maybe the way he treated you was special. But here he was, accepting another person’s affection with the same grace, the same warmth.

You weren’t special.

Not to him.

Your hands trembled around the charm you had made. And then, slowly, you let it fall to the ground.

Phainon never even noticed.

----

“Y/N”

His voice cut through the air, quiet but firm. You stiffened for half a second before turning to face him.

“What is it, Phainon?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy”

“I never meant to make you feel like—”

You stopped him before he could finish.

Eventually, you stopped seeking him out, stopped waiting for his attention. And as days turned to weeks, you started avoiding him entirely.

But you never got the chance to truly leave him behind.

Because then the war came.

It happened suddenly—one evening, the village bells rang in alarm. Riders arrived from the capital, shouting of an approaching army, of an impending invasion. Chaos followed, families scrambling to gather their belongings, the town elders deciding who would flee and who would stay to defend.

Phainon, of course, chose to fight.

You still remember the look in his eyes that night. Determined. Steady. As if the boy who once watched clouds beside you had already faded into something sharper.

“You’re leaving, right?” His voice was firm, but there was something uneasy beneath it. “You should go to the capital—it’s safer there.”

You had hesitated, watching the way his hand gripped the hilt of a borrowed sword.

He was afraid.

You had known him long enough to see it, even if no one else could.

“I—” Your throat tightened. What were you supposed to say? Be safe? Don’t fight? You had spent so long pulling away, trying to make peace with the idea that you were just another person to him. And yet, standing there, watching him prepare for battle, you couldn’t help but remember the Phainon you once loved.

In the end, you only nodded. “Goodbye, Phai.”

The way his breath caught at your words—it almost made you stay.

But you didn’t.

You left with the others, escaping toward the capital as the village prepared for war.

You never thought you’d see him again.

Years Later – The Capital

The war changed everything.

Your village, though damaged, had survived—but life could never return to what it was. The battle had taken many, scattered others, and those who returned were never quite the same.

You, like so many others, had built a new life in the capital.

With your skill in design, you carved out a name for yourself among the noble elite. What had once been a simple love for embroidery and fabric turned into something much greater—a business, a reputation, a sense of independence you never had before.

You ran a high-end clothing shop near the palace, known for its elegant craftsmanship and modern designs. Nobles sought you out, eager for your work, for the quiet dignity and beauty woven into each piece you created.

And here, in the bustling streets of the capital, you finally found yourself.

----

The soft chime of the shop bell barely drew your attention as you worked, fingers carefully adjusting the pearl buttons on an elegant gown. You were used to high-ranking visitors—nobles, courtiers, even foreign envoys—so the presence of yet another escort was nothing unusual.

“Sir Luvain, if you’d follow me, the tailor should be expecting you.”

Slowly, you lifted your gaze.

Phainon stood at the entrance, clad in the silver-trimmed armor of the royal knights, the sigil of his rank gleaming against his shoulder. He had grown taller, stronger—the soft edges of youth sharpened into something disciplined, something restrained.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, as if nothing had happened, you turned your attention to his companion, the nobleman he was escorting. With practiced ease, you greeted him, all professionalism and grace.

“Lord Luvain, I trust you received my message regarding the final adjustments?”

The noble smiled, stepping forward to allow you to take his measurements. He spoke lightly about the upcoming banquet, about how eager he was to debut his attire. You listened, responded when necessary, all while acutely aware of Phainon standing silently at the edge of the room.

“Your measurements are set, my lord.” you finally said, stepping back with a slight bow. “This will be delivered two days later. If there are any final alterations needed, send word.”

Luvain gave a pleased nod before turning back to Phainon.

Phainon hesitated for just a second—his lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something—but you were already turning away, reaching for your next task.

----

The bell chimed again the next morning.

You didn’t expect to see him. Not so soon.

But there he stood, alone this time.

You frowned as you saw his handsome face.. ruined. His lip was cut, a faint bruise darkening his cheekbone. He wasn’t injured enough for it to be from battle. No, this was different. A personal kind of fight.

Still, you didn’t ask.

Instead, you simply set down your tools and gestured toward the small seating area. “Sit.”

“…I didn’t come for treatment.”

“I didn’t ask why you came.”

Perhaps it was the casual, almost dismissive way you spoke. Perhaps it was the fact that, for the first time, you weren’t treating him as something untouchable.

But he obeyed.

As he settled into the chair, you retrieved a small cloth and a jar of medicinal balm, kneeling beside him to gently dab at the cut on his lip.

He winced slightly. “I could do this myself.”

“You’re terrible at it”

Up close, you noticed the slight exhaustion in his expression. You had heard stories—whispers of how politics in the palace were ruthless, how those who rose too quickly often became the target of others.

Perhaps he was learning that now.

It had been years since he left the village, years spent surrounded by flattery, empty smiles, and noble courtiers who praised him not for who he was, but for what he had become.

Yet here you were. Treating him with the same quiet care as always.

You hadn’t changed at all.

And maybe—maybe that was what unsettled him most.

“There.” You finally pulled away, capping the jar and setting it aside. “Try not to get hit next time.”

“You’re not going to ask what happened?”

You glanced at him, then gave a light shrug. “Does it matter?”

Then, with a soft sigh, you stood. “Well, if that’s all, Sir Phainon, I have other clients to attend to.”

You had never called him that before.

Not Phai. Not Phainon. Just Sir Phainon, like he was any other knight, any other customer.

Something about it unsettled him.

But before he could dwell on it, you had already turned away.

“Take care” you said over your shoulder, already moving on.

As he stepped out of the shop, Phainon barely noticed the bustling streets around him. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the way you had looked at him—or rather, the way you didn’t.

He had spent so long being adored, sought after, respected. And yet, none of it compared to the simple, quiet way you had once looked at him.

The way you didn’t anymore.

---

Days turned into weeks, and Phainon didn’t disappear like before.

If anything, he only climbed higher.

You heard the murmurs in the capital—of his growing reputation, his skill on the battlefield, his unwavering determination. His name was spoken with admiration, his presence sought after by nobles eager to have a knight of his caliber within their inner circles.

But no matter how high he reached, no matter how many doors opened for him, he always seemed to find his way back to you.

At first, it was subtle. A chance meeting in the marketplace, an escort duty that just so happened to lead him near your shop. Then it became deliberate. He would stop by under the guise of checking on his previous order, lingering too long, watching you in that unreadable way.

You had long stopped being a girl waiting for his affection. You had built your own life, your own success. But somehow, he refused to let you slip away.

----

“You may take the next few days off for your wedding. Enjoy yourself.”

Your worker’s eyes lit up, bowing in gratitude before hurrying off. You watched her go, your fingers idly tracing over the fabric on your desk.

Marriage.

You hadn’t thought about it much.

But now, with your employee stepping away for her own wedding, it dawned on you—it was that time in life where people settled down, where friends and acquaintances from your village were likely married with families of their own.

Once upon a time, you had naïvely dreamed of it, too.

A childhood promise, whispered in the golden glow of late afternoons—"Marry me when we grow up!"—and the careless laughter that followed, as if it was nothing more than a game.

But it hadn’t been a game. Not for you.

And in the years that followed, when you had loved him in silence, when you had watched him treat others with the same kindness he gave you, when you had finally learned that you were never special to him—

You had given up.

You weren’t that foolish girl anymore.

The shop bell chimed.

Phainon.

But this time, he wasn’t in armor. No weapons, no duties. Just simple, well-made clothing that suited him far too well—his presence somehow heavier despite his unassuming attire.

And in his hands—

A small, wrapped gift.

“For you.”

You hesitated before reaching out, carefully undoing the ribbon.

A hairpin. Carved in the shape of a flower that once bloomed in your village, back when you were children.

“…Why?”

Phainon inhaled slowly, as if steadying himself.

“I’ve been a fool. I didn’t see it back then.” He said “How much you meant to me. How much I took for granted.”

No, he wasn’t doing this.

Not now. Not after all these years.

“I thought of you often, even when I was away” he admitted. “But I only understood it after returning. When I saw you again, when you treated me as if I was just another face in the crowd.”

Your fingers curled around the hairpin.

“Because that’s what you are now” you whispered, barely able to find your voice.

“It’s not what I want to be.”

“I don’t want to be ‘just another knight’ to you.” His gaze locked onto yours, “I want—” He exhaled, softer this time. “I want you.”

And yet, all you could do was stare at him—at this man who was once your world, at this man who had only now realized his own feelings, at this man who had already taken too much from you.

You had already suffered once. Already let yourself burn for him.

You wouldn’t do it again.

Carefully, you placed the hairpin back into the box and closed the lid.

“…Thank you for the gift, Sir Phainon.” Your voice was steady, polite. “But I have no use for it.”

“Y/N—”

“I gave up on you long ago.” The words cut through the air, “And I have no intention of reliving that pain.”

“Goodbye, Phainon.”

And with that, you turned away.

You didn’t look back.

But as you walked away, you couldn’t hear the sound of him leaving.

Because this time—

This time, he wasn’t willing to let you go.

His heartbeat thundered.

He had always been admired, always been wanted. There was not a single noblewoman who wouldn’t welcome his favor, not a single courtier who wouldn’t seek his company.

But you?

You, who had once loved him so openly, had turned him away.

And it hurt.

More than it should have. More than anything ever had.

Phainon’s grip tightened around the small box still in his hands.

No.

This wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Not when the only person who had ever been truly kind to him was slipping through his fingers.

----

No matter what you said, no matter how much distance you tried to place between you—

Phainon kept coming back.

Whenever he had a break from duty, he would stop by the shop under the pretense of ordering something, checking on an old commission, or simply greeting you.

It didn’t matter if the sun was blazing or if the streets were slick with rain—Phainon would still appear, standing just outside, waiting for the smallest chance to speak to you.

And you?

You refused to give him anything.

And yet, it never stopped him.

Until one day—

You closed your shop.

It was the first time in weeks that Phainon hadn’t seen you.

He had arrived as usual, fully expecting you to be there, only to find the doors locked. A simple note hung at the entrance, inked in your delicate handwriting:

"Closed for the week. No appointments will be taken."

The words should have meant nothing.

And yet—

Something in his chest twisted.

Because you weren’t someone who closed your shop without reason. You weren’t someone who let anything—anyone—get in the way of your work.

“You didn’t hear? She’s fallen ill” one of the merchants gossiped. “Not too severe, but bad enough to keep her indoors.”

You were ill.

And no one had told him.

By the time he arrived at your house, you were already recovering.

You were still pale, still weaker than usual, but you were up, moving about, focused on tidying the mess that had gathered during your bedridden days.

When the knock came, you hesitated.

Then, with a tired sigh, you opened the door.

And there he was.

Phainon, standing on your doorstep.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I heard you were unwell.”

“I’m fine now.”

“I’ll stay”

“…What?”

“I’ll stay here” Phainon repeated, stepping forward slightly. “Until you’re fully recovered.”

You had spent weeks pushing him away.

And still, still, he refused to listen.

“Phainon.” You swallowed back the frustration. “Go home. You have better things to do than waste time here.”

“I don’t consider this a waste.”

You inhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temples. “Stop this. You’re—” A sigh. “You’re an important figure now. You have responsibilities.”

“…You really think that?”

You exhaled, suddenly too tired to argue. “I think you should leave.”

And with that, you turned away, stepping back inside.

You closed the door.

You locked it.

After that day, something changed.

Phainon stopped coming to your shop. Stopped appearing in front of you. Stopped waiting by the doors, stopped lingering in the streets.

And for a while, you thought you had finally won.

---

The streets were quiet.

You stood at the entrance of your shop, the weight of exhaustion pressing on your shoulders as you locked the door for the night.

The metal clicked into place.

A shadow moved.

Your fingers froze over the lock. What was that? A ghost?

Slowly, cautiously, you turned.

And there he was.

Standing at the edge of the dimly lit street, half-shrouded in darkness, his blue eyes watching you.

You had known Phainon for years. You had grown up with him, watched him rise from a mere village boy to a knight of the palace. You had seen him change—seen him become colder, more refined, more distant.

But this was unnerving.

Still, you swallowed down the discomfort, "Phainon…?"

"You've been ignoring me. Did you meet someone else?"

"What?"

"Is that why? You found someone else, didn’t you?"

You frowned, unease curling at the base of your spine. "That’s ridiculous. I just have my own life, Phainon. You should focus on yours."

Then, with an exhale that sounded almost amused—

"You don’t understand how exhausting things are in the palace."

He took another step forward.

You instinctively took one back.

"Everything is fake" he continued, "Every smile. Every kind word. They all lie. They all pretend to care. But you—"

"You were always real."

Your fingers twitched, itching to reach for the key still in the lock.

"But now you avoid me," he murmured. "Now you won’t even look at me."

"Phainon—"

He cut you off.

"If I got you pregnant," he said suddenly, "no one would bat an eye."

Your mind barely had time to process the words—what he had just said—before your body reacted on instinct.

You slapped him.

Phainon’s head snapped slightly to the side, his cheek flushed red from the strike, his lips slightly parted from shock.

But that moment of surprise didn’t last.

Slowly—so, so slowly—he turned his head back to you.

The last remnants of the boy you once knew were gone.

There was only him.

Only the man who had finally decided to take what was his.

You moved to run.

His hand grabbed your wrist and yanked you forward, crashing into his chest.

"That," he murmured, "was a mistake."

By the time the townspeople saw the smoke, it was already too late.

The shop was engulfed in flames. The fire devoured the wooden walls, the carefully crafted gowns and fabrics, reducing everything to ash.

And inside—

A body. Unrecognizable. Burnt beyond recognition.

A robbery gone wrong, they said.

A tragic death.

You were gone.

Far beyond the burning remains of your old life, in a place far from the city’s reach, a single candle flickered inside a dimly lit room.

The scent of smoke still clung to Phainon’s clothes as he sat beside the bed—the bed where you lay, unconscious.

Your wrists were bound. Just enough to make sure you wouldn’t do anything stupid when you woke.

He exhaled softly, reaching out, fingers brushing against your cheek.

Even now—even now, you were still his.

Now, you had nowhere to run.

The ropes around your wrists chafed against your skin, but the pain barely registered over the sheer rage bubbling in your chest.

The moment you had woken up—realized what he had done—you fought.

You screamed. You kicked. You thrashed so violently that Phainon had to pin you down.

"Let me go!" you spat, your voice hoarse from screaming.

Phainon only sighed, looking down at you with something almost close to pity.

"You’re being difficult."

"Do you think I’ll just sit here and accept this?" Your breath was ragged, fury shaking through your limbs. "I will never be yours."

"You always say that" he murmured, "But you’ve never really tried being mine, have you?"

"I have time" he whispered.

And that terrified you more than anything.

Because he truly believed you would break.

Your wrists throbbed where the restraints had dug into your skin. Your breath came ragged, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

Phainon knelt before you, "You’re exhausting yourself"

You flinched. He hesitated. But only for a second before he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"You always did push yourself too hard"

You gritted your teeth. "Don't act like you know me."

That made him laugh—quiet, humorless.

"I do know you." His eyes burned as he held your gaze. "Better than anyone. Better than all those nobles who use your talent, who smile and bow and then forget you the moment they leave."

"I remember you, even when no one else did." His fingers brushed against your knuckles, "I never stopped thinking about you. Even when you left me behind. Even when you convinced yourself you didn’t care anymore."

You yanked your hands away.

"You don’t get to say that"

"Why?" he challenged. "Because it’s the truth?"

"Because you’re insane."

"Maybe I am. But does it matter?"

"You’ve already lost everything, haven’t you?" he continued, voice deceptively soft. "They think you’re dead. Your shop, your name, your life—it’s all gone. No one’s coming for you. No one even remembers you exist."

Phainon cupped your face then, forcing you to look at him.

"But I do," he whispered. "I always will. I would burn the world if it meant keeping you by my side."

For the first time, you truly understood.

There was no line he wouldn’t cross.

No limit to how far he would go to make sure you never left him again.

Phainon leaned in, forehead pressing against yours.

"Stop fighting," he whispered. "Just let go. You’ll be happier if you do."

"…I don’t know how to let go"

"You don’t have to know" he murmured. "Just trust me."

You nodded.

And that was it.

That was all he needed to believe he had finally won.

Days passed.

Phainon gave you more freedom—not complete, but enough. Enough for you to move without chains. Enough for you to pretend.

You let him think you were adjusting, that his patience had worn you down. You let him dress you in fine silks, let him touch you, let him believe that you were his.

Because the closer he let you get to the edge of the cage—

The easier it would be to escape.

The day of the wedding arrived in whispers and candlelight.

The halls of the estate were decorated in muted elegance—nothing extravagant, nothing too public. He didn’t need an audience.

This wasn’t about power.

This was about you.

And Phainon already had what he wanted.

Or so he thought.

You stood before the mirror in your gown, hands trembling—not with nerves, but with anticipation.

Outside, the horses were ready.

Inside, the door was left unlocked—a careless mistake born from his growing trust.

You took a breath.

One step.

Another.

The halls were silent as you slipped through the shadows, heart pounding with every second.

The exit was so close.

"Going somewhere?"

The voice froze you in place.

You turned—and Phainon stood at the end of the hall.

His wedding attire was pristine, but the grip he had on the hilt of his sword? Tight.

Your mouth went dry.

"Phainon.."

"Was it all a lie?"

You clenched your fists.

And then—

You ran.

Bolted down the hall, legs burning, lungs aching—but Phainon was faster.

You twisted, struggling, but he slammed you back against the stone wall, his body caging you in.

"You almost had me," he murmured, "Almost."

"Let me go."

"You were going to leave me," he said, "Again."

"Then ...I'll just have to make sure you never try again."

The room was suffocatingly quiet.

The iron shackle around your ankle was too tight, cold against your skin.

Phainon stood at the door, silent, watching.

Then—

He left.

For a moment, you almost believed that was it. That he had locked you away, that this was the extent of your punishment.

Then he came back.

With a knife.

Your body tensed when he knelt beside you, when his calloused fingers traced along your wrist too gently before pinning it against the bedpost.

You sucked in a sharp breath as he pressed the knife flat against your palm—just resting there.

"You tried to leave me."

He tilted his head, as if waiting. Daring you to lie to him.

"Say it."

"I—" You swallowed hard. "I tried to leave."

The blade pressed harder. Not enough to break skin. Just enough to make you feel the cold bite of the metal.

"Did it feel good?" he murmured. "Running away? Thinking you could escape me?"

"Phainon, please—"

A sharp swipe.

You flinched, expecting pain—but he didn’t cut you.

The blade had only sliced through the sleeve of your gown, the fabric slipping down your arm in ribbons.

"You’re scared" he observed.

You clenched your fists, refusing to give him an answer.

"Good."

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled away.

He set the knife down.

The bed dipped as he leaned in one last time, lips brushing against your ear.

"Next time," he murmured, "I won’t be so merciful."

Then he left, locking the door behind him.

Leaving you with the shackle around your ankle, the torn fabric on your arm—

And the overwhelming realization that you were truly trapped.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #phainon hsr #phainon honkai star rail #hsr phainon #phainon x reader #phainon

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lvrclerc · 2 months ago

Text

✶ 15 YEARS IN THE MAKING

summary: oscar's home race is a big deal. however, what's even bigger is the realization that he has been in love with the childhood friend waiting for him at the finish line since the day he met her. it only took him 15 years, a thousand missed opportunities and a so-called mistake to realize it.

F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST

pairing: oscar piastri x childhood bff!f!reader

wc: 11.3k

cw: aus gp 2025, unaccurate aus gp 2024 for plot purpose, use of y/n, slightly inaccurate timeline, kinda bittersweet/angsty at some point, otherwise fluff + hea

note: need to cradle that man in my arms and kiss him on the forehead, special mention to @cntappen who wanted yearning oscar, hope ur satisfied 🙏 i lowkey hate this but we carry on

soundtrack: ♫ something, somehow, someday - role model

OSCAR ALMOST DROPS his mug when Hattie tells him the news. “She’s coming to the race?”

His sister nodded, shifting from one foot to the other like she didn’t quite know where to put herself ─ which was uncharacteristic of her ─ and the first things going through Oscar’s mind were Did she know? How would she know? Did she tell her? “I texted her about it ‘cause she always comes to Melbourne. I was just curious. She said she’d be coming if she was welcome with us.”

His head was spinning. Gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, Oscar chose his next words with calculated precision. “And you said…?”

“I mean, Mom said yes, obviously,” Hattie shrugged. “She loves Y/N. And she said it’s been a while since you two saw each other, might do you some good with stress and all that.”

Of course, his mom would say that. You had always been a second daughter for her, welcoming you in her home as if your place had always been next to Oscar on the living room couch. Hattie had been as enthusiastic as her, if a little confused at first, about who had developed such an attachment to her quiet, nonchalant brother. Ever since you and Oscar were children, as soon as he told his mother about the new girl next door who cut short his remote-controlled truck training on the playground, you had been included in every Piastri family dinner.

Because you were Oscar's whole world, his personal sun, the second you stepped into view ─ it would have taken someone mute, blind, and deaf not to notice it. He was just a planet, a satellite, orbiting around you in search of meaning.

Had been. Until almost a year ago.

And nobody knew except for him.

So Oscar swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Okay, sure, that's cool,” he let out a breath. “I missed her.” The words pained him, as veracious as they were. He didn’t simply miss you like you’d miss someone you hadn’t seen in a while ─ Oscar missed you like an amputee would miss a ghost limb. The kind of pull that tears someone from the inside out, and he only had himself to blame for the ache.

If Hattie suspected something was off, she didn't say it. She chose to scrutinize him instead, eyebrows scrunched in a silent question he answered with a vague smile, as always. She spoke about how you hadn’t come to visit in quite some time, how he rarely updated them on how you were anymore, how you blossomed in your life, but the words went in one ear and out through the other.

Because you were going to the Melbourne Grand Prix, the start of the 2025 season. He didn’t know if he could handle seeing you again, not after the fiasco of the same Grand Prix, a year ago.

Guess he didn’t have much choice.

Oscar Piastri is eight when he meets you for the first time.

He was given his first remote-controlled truck for Christmas and ever since then, rare were the times he spent his full days at home. The playground, with a lot more ground than playthings for children, was a five-minute walk from his house ─ perfect for practicing, he thought. His newfound gadget made him develop a fervency he hadn’t known before, an obsession for speed. He knew Australia had championships for remote-controlled racing, his dad told him so. He wanted a part in it like he never wanted anything in the world before. Except maybe the truck.

But before he could hope of entering, he needed to get to a certain level and that meant practice. So to the playground (or park, park was a cooler word) he went.

Today wasn’t an exception. Vacations had started not so long ago, the sun was high in the sky and Oscar’s knees were raw from being dug in the gravel for so long. His thumbs were branded by the print of the remote in his hand, sweat beaded on his forehead, hair sticking to it, and maybe his vision was blurring a little. But Oscar was nothing if not determined, so he kept going as his truck narrowly avoided obstacles he put in place.

Until a water bottle replaced the self-made circuit in his visual field.

Oscar's eyes slowly trailed up in exasperation, expecting one of his younger sisters or his mother dotting on him, telling him to come back home. Instead, his breath caught a little.

You stood there, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow around you, turning the loose strands of your hair into something almost otherworldly. Oscar had never believed in angels ─ never really thought about them at all, actually ─ but at that moment he wondered if maybe, just maybe they existed. Your sundress, once pristine, was rusted with dirt, the hem brushing against your scraped knees, blood dried in uneven patches. But you didn’t seem to mind. Instead, you smiled ─ as if scuffed knees and torn dresses were just a natural part of being you.

His wide, brown eyes glided from the lukewarm bottle to you, in wonder and shock alike. Your palm was smudged in playground dust, but Oscar barely noticed ─ his gaze caught instead on the way light tangled in your hair, your eyes sparkling with something bright, untamed, unstoppable. You spoke up. “You look like you’re gonna faint. Take it. Drivers need water, right?”

Your voice, soft, shook him out of his trance: he hesitantly took the bottle from your hand, and your fingers brushed against his. Red colored the tip of his ears. He swallowed, hard, bringing the bottle to his chest. You offered him another smile in return, and Oscar felt his heart flutter.

“My name is Y/N.” Before he could even think about protesting ─ about telling you that, actually, he hadn’t asked ─ you plopped down beside him, legs folding underneath you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your shoulder bumped against his, a casual, thoughtless kind of closeness that sent a foreign heat to the back of his neck.

Then just as he was processing that, you turned to face him- too close. Way too close.

Noses. Your noses nearly touched.

Oscar went rigid. Did you know nothing about personal space?!

You pointed behind him, at the house right next to his, visible from the park. “I live right here!”

“...No, you can’t.” Oscar finally said, frowning. He was trying to be as polite as he could muster to be in those conditions. His mom would kill him if he wasn't.

“Why?”

“Nobody lives here.”

The aggressive neutrality of his voice, a timbre unique to him, didn’t deter you in the slightest. On the contrary, it seemed like his reticence to your presence made you beam brighter at him. “That’s because we just moved here, duh. See that car? It’s my mom’s.”

The indifference in Oscar slowly turned to confusion, or as close as it could get to curiosity. There was indeed a baby blue car parked in the driveway he never saw before. For as long as he could remember, which was not a lot, it was always vacant. Until today, apparently. “Oh. We’re neighbors, then.”

Your smile widened, eyes practically shining in excitement. “That’s so cool! I was scared I was gonna be the only kid here.”

Oscar barely heard you, too busy staring at where your arm pressed against his. Was it normal? Were other kids just… this close of each other? Because he wasn’t used to it, not at all. “... How old are you?”

“Eight!” You practically bounced as you said it.

“Me too.”

Your face lit up. Oh no.

“That’s even better! We can be friends! Best friends, even!”

Wait, what.

Oscar blinked, his mind screeching to a halt. That escalated fast. Weren’t there supposed to be multiple steps before deciding to be lifelong friends? Had he missed something? “Uh─”

“What’s your name?” You asked with renewed enthusiasm if it was even possible to add to that.

“... Oscar. Oscar Piastri.”

“Nice to meet you Oscar Piastri from next door!” You held out your hand and, much to his surprise, Oscar took it. Hesitantly, awkwardly, yes, but he still did. The strange, unfamiliar feeling tugging at his stomach wouldn’t let him do otherwise. “I like your truck,” you continued, fingers still wrapped around his like you didn’t even notice. “Can I try it?”

Oscar was way too focused on your palm still sitting in his to process your words. Was he supposed to pull away first? “I… I don’t─”

“Or I could watch you! I don’t mind. I was watching you in the tree back there anyways.”

Oscar blinked. It explained the stains and the scratches, he thought. He still couldn’t believe that there was a whole girl like her in a tree, spying on him, and he had been so caught up by his remote-controlled truck to even notice it. Just as if you could read his thoughts, a sheepish look made its way to your face, lips pursuing as you finally ─ finally ─ let go of his hand. “Mom doesn’t like when I do that,” you admitted as if it were a secret. “But it’s fine. I can wash the dress.”

He stared. There was… something about you, Something about the way you sparkled even when you sat still, the way your presence felt bigger than your little body. He swallowed, nudging the controller toward you before he could regret his decision. “Try.” His voice came out weird. “It’s boring to watch.”

The twinkling in your eyes was worth every crash that came after this. You were struggling, and hitting every obstacle he skillfully steered away from. Each and every hit was accompanied by a giggle or an exaggerated groan but even though you were terrible, as Oscar tactfully noticed, it still looked like you were having the most fun you had in years.

When he had to go home, you walked him to the door with a spring in your step, occupying the conversational space with random facts about the world. Something about how octopuses had three hearts, how clouds weren’t actually as soft as they looked, and how the color yellow made people happy. Oscar didn’t say much, he never really did, but he contentedly listened.

And then, just as the door swung open, before he could even process the way he wanted to stay a little bit longer, you turned to his mom with all the confidence of someone who had already decided the outcome. “Can Oscar come back tomorrow?” His mom barely had time to blink, but Oscar already knew─ it was over.

Because the moment she said yes, the second the fierce little girl beside him claimed more time with him like it was hers to take, it was sealed. After that, it came as naturally as breathing. Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Never one without the other. You led, he followed. And, somewhere along the way, the rest of the world stopped mattering.

You were a constant in Oscar’s life, a lifeline he clung to without realizing he had reached for it in the first place. He got into karting at ten and nothing─ not his dad's last-minute pep talks, not the hours of practice ─ could calm the way his hands trembled on the steering wheel before his first race. His fingers curled on it, hands trembling and grip tight, knuckles aching from the pressure. What if he wasn’t actually good? What if he messed it all up? What if─?

And then, there you were. Signature grin, messy ponytail, a tiny hand sign scribbled in clashy, colorful letters: GO, OSCAR GO!! The words were surrounded by questionable doodles ─ stick-figure cars with lopsided wheels, a few stray hearts in the margins like an afterthought. “I came to watch you win,” you said, like there was no other possibility. After that, the race was just a race.

The moment you dropped a chaste kiss on his helmet, all nerves settled. When he passed by you, you brandished your sign high in the air, a beacon, the only thing he really needed to see. He won that race with his head held high and in the middle of celebration ─ his mom hugging him tight, cheers echoing all around ─ he silently dedicated his victory to you.

Because when he scanned the crowd, your eyes were the easiest to find. Because nothing ever felt better than the feeling of you running in his arms right after.

And just like that─ childhood blurred into early adolescence in a flurry of incandescent polaroids: late afternoon on track, whooping as Oscar made his laps, stolen moments on the swings at the playground between school and training, a thousand shared snacks, juice boxes, whispers, a million inside jokes and secrets. Summers spent side by side, laughter tangled in the air like something meant to last forever.

Years of Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. No space between. No questions about what you were to each other. Not yet.

But Oscar Piastri is fifteen when he leaves you behind.

He had been offered a seat in Formula 4. The words came in a rush, tumbling from an ecstatic Chris Piastri and an equally thrilled Nicole Piastri, their voices nearly overlapping in excitement. Oscar heard them, he knew what they were saying and yet his mind refused to catch up. He sat there, cereal spoon dangling in the air, milk dripping back in his bowl.

The world around him blurred─ static in his ears, something like disbelief flooding his veins. He had wanted this. Trained for this. But now that it was real, it was as if his body had forgotten how to move. So you did it first.

Your arms wrapped around his neck without a second thought, squeezing tight. A hug that made it impossible to do anything but exist in the moment. He unfroze: the weight of your warmth, how you clung to him without any reservation, it yanked him back. His hands had found your back, gripping instinctively. It hit him all at once: Formula 4. His dream was real. And you were here, like always.

Until you wouldn’t be anymore.

Everything slipped past Oscar in a blur: he applied to a boarding school and got accepted in the same week, his parents were already looking for a house nearby, and his mom searching for job opportunities ─ in Brighton, England, closer to where he would be practicing. A thousand kilometers away from Australia, a thousand memories away from you.

One thing you learned in your years of friendship with Oscar was that he wasn’t much of a talker. He wasn’t big on the expression of feelings either ─ he showed affection softly, when he thought people wouldn’t notice. But you did, and you never planned on doing anything about it because that was just how Oscar was: reserved, hesitant in his tenderness. So the conversation about his departure never came ─ it was just a weight, hanging in the air of your every interaction, untouched. He didn’t want to venture there, to face how he wouldn’t wake up next to you anymore after another sleepover, how he would have to learn how to exist without you at arm’s reach. The lack of you was already digging a hole in his chest, and it was one of the main reasons he said no to your proposition of a send-off party.

But Oscar knew you too, too well, so he was only half-surprised when he turned on the light of his house after training and discovered the crowd of your shared friends amidst colorful balloons and cakes. You stood out in all of them when you offered him the smile that was uniquely his, and Oscar’s chest almost collapsed.

The party was fun. He got goodbye gifts ─ trinkets, plushies and books he knew he’ll lose sleep over. He didn’t dance to the music, but enjoyed watching people lose themselves in the soft light of his kitchen from the sidelines. Some friends cried and some friends didn’t ─ he side-hugged them all, never letting them too close except for a select few, and he accepted the heartfelt speeches with reassurances that he will come back during the summer, without a doubt.

The night slowed, party leftovers forgotten on the counters, and the house was quieter now that most of the guests had filtered out. Only a few stragglers remained inside, their voices dimmed to an unobtrusive murmur. But Oscar, the supposed star of the show, was hesitating in the threshold of his front door ─ because you were outside. And wherever you went, he followed.

You were sitting on the front door steps, arms wrapped around your knees, bathed in the dim glow of the porch light. The soft hum of cicadas filled the space as Oscar sat beside you. He knew he should say something, anything. Thank you for the party, even though he swore he didn’t want one. You were right, because of course, you were. Or finally address what was begging to be talked about ─ he just didn’t know how. Because sitting right here, with you just a few inches away, he realizes this is it.

This is the last night before everything changes, and he can’t do anything about it. So he stays silent.

“You’re freaking out,” you say. Not a question. Your observant eyes flickered to his face, gaze soft in the way that makes his breath catch.

Oscar exhales sharply, tipping his head back against the wooden railing. “Am not.”

You give him a look. The look that always calls his bullshit. “Alright, I am.” He swallows, voice quieter. “A little.”

A pause. And then─ a nudge. Your knee bumping into his. A small, familiar thing, but somehow it unravels him. His eyes are burning, and he can’t pinpoint why. “You’ll be fine, Osc’’,” you affirmed, as certain as the sun rising tomorrow. “As long as you don’t forget about me.” A quiet laugh escaped you.

And Oscar could feel it, the thick air between you, pressing against his throat and sitting on his tongue. How could he ever forget about you? You were sitting so close, staring at him as if tucking him in some secret place inside of you. Oscar hated it, so much that it finally slipped─ “I don’t want to go.”

It came out quieter than he expected. Your lips parted slightly, brows furrowed, and Oscar felt like he said too much and not enough at the same time. Because he did want to go, but what he meant was, I don’t want to go if it means leaving you, I don’t know how to exist without you in my orbit. What he really meant, he couldn’t understand what it was no matter how hard he tried.

He forced out a chuckle, shaking his head. “I mean─” Oscar cleared his throat. “I do. Obviously. It’s just─ It’s gonna be weird.”

“Yeah, it is,” you murmured, flushing against his shoulder. “But we’ll make it work.”

Oscar looked at you, really did. The way the light caught the edges of your face, the night breeze playing with your hair, how you existed so beautifully and effortlessly, as you belonged in all the places he had ever loved. The words almost slipped out: You could come with me.

It was right there, clawing its way up his throat.

Yet, something stopped him. Because it wasn’t fair. Because he didn’t know what it meant. Because he didn’t know if he was asking like a best friend or something else, and he didn’t know what to do with the way you were constricting his chest, how you pressed against his ribcage, demanding more. You looked at Oscar and he looked at you ─ he swallowed it down, staring at the playground far in front of you.

And the moment passed.

Oscar left the day after, and the empty house was now the one next to yours.

Your hotel room was eerily quiet.

You were never known for silence ─ all your life, people had repeatedly told you about the overwhelming space you occupied, how loud your laugh echoed, how you never quite knew how to fold and pocket yourself to be less. Growing up, adults meant it in an endearing way. Now, you realized just how much the words stung, even if you never took them as insults. But here, in the uncomfortable coldness of the room you rented for the week-end, everything was quiet: no music, no you talking to yourself. Nothing.

It felt unnatural ─ like something was missing. The one thing that always reassured you about the room you took up.

It left you restless, and your hands trembled a little as you finished applying the last layer of mascara on your lashes. Maybe it was just nerves ─ after all, it’s been a while since you’ve been on a race and hung out with Hattie, Edie, Mae, Nicole, and Chris. Ever since you moved out for university, the city of Melbourne and all of the memories it held always managed to make you a bit anxious.

However, deep down, you knew. It’s the fact that for the first time in over a year, you were going to see Oscar.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror as you dropped your makeup next to the sink. You couldn’t decipher your own expression.

Hattie texted you out of nowhere, and even though it wasn’t unusual for you two to talk from time to time, it surprised you a bit when she asked you if you were going to the Grand Prix. It shouldn’t have, she didn’t know ─ or maybe she suspected something, but you still said you’d be coming. So Nicole was on her way to pick you up and take you to the same spot you’ve been occupying since 2023, and you’ll have to sit and act as if everything was alright, as if her son was the best friend you grew up with and didn’t become an acquaintance overnight that you occasionally exchanged “good morning”, “good night”, “happy birthday” and “how are you doing?” texts with.

Because ever since that fateful night after the Melbourne Grand Prix of 2024, something shifted between you and Oscar. Something that had been weighing on you both for years, waiting, waiting, waiting- until it finally cracked, only to narrowly miss you. And now? You didn’t know his weekly schedule, and you couldn’t remember the last time you complained about your teachers to him. You and Oscar weren’t quite strangers, but you weren’t you anymore either.

Because whatever had been waiting that night never had a chance to be resolved. And maybe it never would.

You shut your eyes, your breathing quickening dangerously. No. You weren’t going to think about that right now. It’s fine ─ you’re just here to watch a race like you always did. Just another race. It didn't have to mean anything more than that, did it? You’ll cheer, you’ll congratulate him, and you’ll leave. Even if it was his home race. Even if it was in the same city you laughed in his backyard, held hands running in the streets, stayed awake at ungodly hours of the night tangled together, the city you had both known and lost each other.

Frankly, you weren’t sure what you were expecting─ what you even wanted this weekend to be. All you knew was that you desperately wanted to grasp at the last semblance of normalcy that used to be between Oscar and you, and if that meant showing up at the Melbourne race and praying for his car to see the checkered flag in pole position like the deepest parts of your heart weren’t screaming for him, so be it.

When Nicole called you to tell you she parked her car, you took a deep breath and walked to the elevator, carefully ignoring the sickening feeling of your stomach reminding you that, in Melbourne, there was no simply ignoring the past anymore.

Oscar Piastri is twenty when he tells you the news.

Five years have passed ever since he moved out of Australia, but no matter how the years stretched between then and now, racetracks and podium dreams, Oscar always made sure of one thing: that he’d come back. Back to his neighborhood, these streets, the quiet buzz of familiarity.

And back to you.

Time had tried its best to pull you apart with different schedules, different time zones, and places, but you two were still an unstoppable force. Y/N and Oscar. Oscar and Y/N. No matter how late the flights, how long the race weekends, how exhausting the training, he always called ─ even if it was past midnight, or he had to wake up in three hours, or he could barely keep his eyes open. Because your voice, distant and barely audible through the crackling of a bad signal, was home. And you always picked up.

Oscar missed it. He made friends in boarding school, a group of laid-back guys who filled the late hours with video games and terrible jokes, making his new world a little less foreign. He enjoyed their company, sure, but none of them were you. None of them could look at him and already know what he was thinking, like the syllables were etched in your bones, and they didn’t tilt their head up at the sky on a rusty swing set, taking him with them, and spun the world into something bigger. God, he missed that. He missed you.

Even though, sometimes, he wondered if you missed him just as much.

Obviously, since Oscar left, you had to build something for yourself in the space he left behind, and it only became more concrete when you enrolled in a university away from Melbourne. He tried to be happy for you when you did. But then you would tell him about a friend group he didn’t know the faces of, threading into the places he used to be and the places he’d never been, the ones he couldn’t visit with you like the café near your 10 a.m. lecture on Fridays.

Sometimes, only sometimes, when he allowed himself to feel a bit more than he should, the scraps of emotions he usually denied himself ─ he was scared he didn’t belong in the new sphere you’ve constructed for yourself. That he was a dusty polaroid in a wooden box, waiting for the day you’d tuck him away.

But that had to be wrong. It had to be. Because the second your eyes found his as he stepped out of the airport, it was like nothing had changed. Like the months apart, the missed calls, the milestones he couldn’t be there for ─ none of it mattered.

The way you looked at him, like he was still your Oscar, the boy you always had known and always will, it made up for everything.

You had been there when Oscar graduated from Formula 4 to Formula 3. You had been right by his side when Formula 3 turned to Formula 2 the following year. Whether it be by phone or in person when the good news coincided with both of your trips to your childhood neighborhood. Your excited screech, your lips on his cheek twisting his stomach and painting his cheeks red, he figured it was just common sense for you to learn he’s been promoted a third time in person. He wanted to see your reaction.

Whenever you and Oscar came back, your mom would welcome you with open arms in your old home. There were only two bedrooms, one that was your mom’s, which used to be awkward for him before it became a common occurrence for you two to share a bed. Both your parents had forbidden it, but quickly gave up when you used to find a way to sneak into Oscar’s bedroom and keep him awake. Their resolve vanished entirely when they noticed quiet, untroubled Oscar started getting on it as well.

So there you were, twenty years old in your childhood bedroom, sharing a bed too small for your height. The window was half-opened, the air thick and unmoving, letting in the last shreds of sunset that danced across your skin in soft, golden streaks. You were facing each other, which allowed him to see your eyes flutter, heavy with exhaustion, your breathing slow and even as if the mere act of being near him was enough to let you rest.

Oscar flushed at that thought. You had spent hours driving just to come and get him, to fall in bed beside him, limbs tangled, words fading into the quiet comfort of home. Just to be here, with him.

He wanted to wait. Until your eyes were wide open and you were awake enough to react like you always did: in screams and hugs and plans of the future. But the warmth curling in his chest wasn’t allowing him to keep it from you any longer.

“I got a seat in Formula One,” Oscar announced in the silence of the room.

“What?” Your voice was hoarse from tiredness, but it didn’t stop your sharp gaze from snapping to his. Your lips parted, just barely, an inhale caught in your throat, and Oscar gets distracted.

He shouldn’t, not now, but─ he can’t help it.

How many times had he seen you like this? Sleep-heavy, warm with exhaustion, curled up beside him. Too many to count. Not once had it felt like this, like something heavier rested on his shoulders.

He repeats with a little difficulty, forcing himself back to the moment. “I got a seat in Formula One.” He swallows before precising, “Not Alpine. McLaren.”

You blinked. Once, twice, your brain catching up with the weight of his words. Then, before Oscar could brace himself, you were moving.

You crashed into him, as much as you could in the position you were, tucking yourself against his chest in the semblance of a hug. The pressure was nothing, still, the air was knocked out of his lungs. “You did it!” You whispered-yelled against his shoulder, voice trembling with emotion. “Oh my god, Osc’. You did it. I fucking knew you would.”

Of course, you knew. You always knew before Oscar did, before he even started believing in it himself. A scoff, wet with feelings, escaped him as his shaky fingers hovered over your ribs, processing the situation. You pulled back, just enough to look at him, pupils blown wide. The palm that wasn’t resting on his chest slipped up, featherlight, to cup his cheek. Oscar almost flinched. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but─”

“Don’t even start,” you interrupted him. “You’re going to be in Formula One! In McLaren! That’s huge, and─”

Realization hits you like a truck. “Oh my god, Daniel Ricciardo.”

Out of all the things that could have ruined the moment, Oscar wouldn’t have expected it to be Daniel Ricciardo. “Yeah,” he deadpanned. “Everyone loves Daniel. We get it. My mom said the same thing.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you, and you shoved him a little. “Come on, it’s a shock for me!”

“It’s also pressure, but thank you so much for your consideration.”

“I congratulated you two seconds ago!”

“I’m sure Daniel would love your condolences even more.”

By that point, you were a giggling mess beneath Oscar’s hands, so much that the sound successfully got a few huffs out of him as well. The pressure of the news evaporated at each new chuckle out of your mouth, and the room was finally big enough to breathe.

Laughter died down, reduced to heavy intakes of air between half-sentences, and that’s when Oscar realized.

Your fingers, gently brushing over his cheekbones, nails grazing his skin. His palms capturing your sides as your thigh rested between his legs. He wasn’t pulling you in, clinging to you like he always did ─ instead, he froze. His heart was stuttering too fast, too loud, in a way that had nothing to do with the news he’d just shared and you simply stared at him, eyes sparkling, as if he handed you the World Driver’s Championship trophy right here and there. Waiting for something.

The heat of your body, your usual proximity, the soft cotton of the sheets did nothing to help the blood boiling in Oscar’s veins and thoughts spiraled in a blink, of what it would be like if he just let his hand roam a little lower, if your breath swept over his lips.

Words lodged themselves in his throat, just like they did when he was fifteen, sitting on his porch. But this time, he knew. No pretense, no excuse. He was twenty years old, not a child anymore. He knew what these words were and what they wanted to be.

You could come with me. You could come to my races. You could stay. Stay with me.

His chest squeezed. His fingers twisted. His mouth stayed shut.

Because you had a life here. A life that, lately, felt like it had more and more spaces he didn’t fit into. What was he supposed to say? Drop everything? Follow me? Give up everything you built and choose me?

Oscar Piastri wasn’t a wishful thinker, he didn’t ask for things he wasn’t sure he could have ─ and he wasn’t sure he could have you. Not because he didn’t want to, he desperately wanted to, but because he still didn’t understand it. He didn’t get why you put that ache in his chest, the weight in his ribs. Why it was more painful to be away from you, to see you live without him, than his old friend group ─ he put the fault on nostalgia, but it wasn’t it. He had spent years trying to figure it out and still ─ still ─ didn’t have the answer.

So he did what he’d usually do when meaning escaped him.

He buried it. He’ll take a look at it. He’ll figure it out later.

“Being in F1,” he cleared his throat. “It’s going to be harder, with the schedule and all that. But I promise─”

“You don’t need to,” you cut him off and Oscar noticed the light slightly dim in your eyes, then coming back like nothing happened. “We’ll make it work, we always do.”

You pulled back again, taking your hand with you and letting the cold air replace your touch. Somehow, Oscar knew he did something, but once more he didn’t know what. Instead, he let himself believe the moment was nothing more than what it had always been. Nothing more than you, his best friend, happy for him.

But as you fell asleep, the distance put by you larger than it ever was before, even by just a few millimeters, something inside of him whispered─ liar.

Oscar got in his car, and yet his mind was as far away from it as it could be. Walking out the garage, he had seen his entire family cheering for him, his mom dropping a good-luck kiss on his cheek, and he should be grounded in the moment. He should be basking in the cheers of his home crowd and the familiarity of Australian air opening his season, but he couldn't. Because there was no sign of you.

He had thrown a glance at Hattie, a silent question, and she simply shrugged. Oscar didn't know what that meant: if you excused yourself for a moment or didn't come at all. Which one he was hoping for, that was the question.

And so the formation lap started. The car was feeling good, great even ─ Oscar had done well during the testing rounds and free practices, even landing second place in qualifications right behind Lando. His chest had swelled with hope that maybe, just maybe, he could take on his home race. He brushed the podium last year, how far could he be from taking it with both hands this time?

He could hear his race engineer checking last minute details, the impatient buzzing of the crowd, the motor of his car warming up and flaring to life. It was a sound, a rhythm he could recognize eyes closed.

As the lap concluded, cars finally ready to live through 58 rounds, a streak of hair caught his eye.

If he could decipher the metre of a Grand Prix with his eyes closed, Oscar knew he could recognize the pattern of you before you even came into view. It was brief─ almost a blur, but it was more than enough.

Through the haze of rain-slicked asphalt and the relentless roar of the engine, he caught you. Standing with his family against the edge of the garage like you belonged there, which you did, hands clasped tight against your chest like you were the one in the car, navigating the turns for him. Your hair, wild from the wind, dampened by the drizzle, framing your face. God.

You came.

After everything, you were really there.

For him.

Oscar pulled his car in P2, but the flickering red lights above him did nothing to calm his racing mind. You always watched his races like this: lived through them like they were your own. Somehow, that made it easier. The loneliness of battling against your own, the relentless push forward. You made it lighter, less suffocating. You always have been. And you were ready to watch him race again, after everything. His chest twisted, his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

And even in the current circumstances, Oscar wasn’t thinking about the race. Not at all.

For what he wished could have been the first time, but wasn’t, the car was filled with the thought of you.

Because it hits him. Like a crash, full speed, sparks flying. Why missing you hurt so much. Why, after a year of unnatural distance of swallowing down whatever had possessed him that night in Melbourne a year ago, he still felt like something lacked.

Oh.

And before he could process it all, it was lights out.

Oscar Piastri is twenty-two when he fucks it up.

The Melbourne Grand Prix didn’t go so badly, but it didn’t go well either. Oscar had been so close to getting a podium on his home race, and watching his colleague, his friend, receiving the applause of his home crowd left a bitter feeling in the back of his throat. He cheered and congratulated, because he was a good sport and genuinely happy for Lando, but the uneasiness didn’t leave him when the cameras turned off.

It was a sticky heaviness in his ribcage, glued to it like molten plastic, tightening with every half-smile and “good jobs” aimed at him. He should’ve been happy, ecstatic. But he just wasn’t.

So he forced himself to go out to celebrate anyway, even half-heartedly. He didn’t want to look like the asshole he really felt like, so he nodded at conversations he wasn’t listening to, let the bass drum against his skin in a club he didn’t even want to be into.

Oscar lasted maybe an hour.

The flashing lights felt too bright, the press of bodies too wrong for his current state of mind. The scent of alcohol curled in his nose, sharp and sour, and something in him was teetering to break the last agreeable bone in his body. As he got out of the club, he thought about how he wanted to be anywhere else but here, suffocating in his own unjustified frustration.

The only place he wanted to be was with you.

He barely had time to see you before he got whisked away by his team and interviewers. He wanted to tell you about the race, about what he thought, because you were the only one he enjoyed being listened to by, the only one it didn’t feel awkward. No matter how much he tried to shove things down, to ignore whatever it was that had been thrumming under his skin- you were still the first person he reached for. So before he could really think about it, he’d already dialed your number. “Hey, I’m sorry, I know─ Can you hear me? Yeah? Alright. I know it’s late but… can you pick me up?”

And of course you did. Because you were Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Because no matter where or when─ when Oscar called, you always came.

Your car was in front of the building not even ten minutes later, and he got in. His favorite music on the aux, he smiled at the attention, easy conversation started flowing between the two of you as you drove to the driveway of your house. You didn’t ask why he left. You knew he’d talk about it when he wanted to, if you pressed on the issue he would only close up more ─ get sarcastic, avoidant.

So you both sat on your front porch, the night silent around you, still warm from the heat of the day. “... don’t think he'll be able to walk home tomorrow,” Oscar commented.

“He got third and he's still getting shitfaced like that?” You asked with a disbelieving laugh. “Wonder what will happen for his first pole position.”

“I don't even want to think about it,” he sighed. “His PR team is gonna have a field day.”

“Wonder what will happen during yours, to be honest.” You bumped your shoulder with his, something so casual that still sent the familiar shivers down his spine. “What kind of celebration are you going to pull in Australia, huh?”

The simple sentence was cold rain on Oscar’s newfound relaxation. He knew you didn’t mean it like that, you never would, but his shoulders tensed up and his gaze drifted away from yours. “Yeah, well, at the rhythm it’s going, maybe we’ll have a party when I retire.”

You threw him a glance, the kind that knew what was lying behind all of his barriers, behind the sudden phone call. Oscar let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the material of his jeans.

“Is that why you asked me to pick you up?” You ended up asking, voice soft. You weren’t trying to pry too much, and he silently thanked you for it. For everything, really.

“I didn’t want to be there,” he answered.

There was nothing more to say: Oscar was bitter and that was the end of it ─ or maybe not, but he didn’t want to get into it tonight when the feelings were still raw, painfully open to see. Yet, your hand found his, stilling the restless motion of his hand against his thigh. Slowly, deliberately, you wove them together. Your palms, warm and steady, rested above his knee. “Then why’d you go? We could have done something. Just the both of us, y’know.”

This time, Oscar looked at you.

And it was all too much. Worry laced in the edges of your expression, the subtle scrunch of your eyebrows he would have missed if he didn’t know you as well as he did, your hand in his ─ steady, grounding. It belonged there, he thought, it always did. You cared about him, that’s what scared him at first ─ because you were sunlight, not the kind that burned but the kind that warmed. The constant, unwavering glow of a beacon that guided him, never pulled him under.

And yet, there he was. Drowning in the mess he tried to push away for so long and was coming back full force, with a simple touch of the hand.

Oscar had two drinks earlier, and it made everything too sharp, his emotions too messy. His tongue a little too loose.

“I thought if I pretended hard enough, it would go away.” He didn’t know if he was talking about the race anymore.

You scooted closer, as if sharing a secret, but the closeness was too intimate for the situation. “What would?” You asked in a whisper.

Oscar’s breath hitched at the way the streetlamps caught in your hair, how your eyes searched his. There was a shift in the air, in the barely-there space between the two of you, in the way your fingers refused to let go of the grip it had on the other.

He should let go.

But your lips parted, ever so slightly, and Oscar allowed his gaze to dip to them. He kissed girls before, he even had a few short-lived relationships, but none of them ever felt right, like they belonged in a lasting manner in his life. They always felt like placeholders for something else, something more, less of a daunting feeling in his guts. He never really told you about it ─ it had always been an unspoken rule in your friendship, without knowing why. Now, he had a sneaky, unnerving suspicion.

Oscar kissed girls before, but he never kissed you.

He didn’t know if it was a mistake. He didn’t know if he should cross that line, but God he wanted to ─ he only knew that he wasn’t sure of what was waiting for him on the other side of it. His heart hammered in his chest, so hard he was afraid you’d hear it. You leaned in, imperceptibly, and your warm breath brushed against his lips. If he let himself, just for a second─ one tiny, irreversible second─ he would kiss you.

He was close. Too close. Feelings were too many. He needed to tell you before something could happen.

“Come with me,” Oscar blurted out, in a murmur along the shape of your lips, a plea in the leftover space.

And just like that, he felt the moment slip away from him. Your eyes, now sharp, snapped to him in a swift movement. And that’s when he knew. That wasn’t the right thing to say or do.

“What?” Your voice was quiet, laced with disbelief. Confusion swirled in your pupils, wondering if you misheard or if he misspoke.

Maybe he had. Maybe this wasn’t how it was supposed to come out- not here, not now, not like this.

“I- Uh…,” Oscar stammered. “Come with me. Stay. For the next races.” Please.

You pulled away, and the lack of you in his space caused his head to spin, his heart still beating violently against his chest, this time in panic. What did he do?

“What are you asking me exactly, Osc’?”

The question of the day. Because what was he asking, really? To be there for the few days in between flights and training and traveling and pretending his world wasn’t moving too fast for him to catch his breath? Sit in the stands, waiting for him to make up his mind about something he had been wondering about for the past fourteen years? Because what did he mean, and why couldn’t he understand?

It wasn’t fair. Not to you.

He swallowed, throat tight with something he couldn’t name and suddenly the night was too cold to stay outside anymore. Oscar forced out a weak chuckle, like it was just some stupid joke as if the word hadn’t crawled out of his chest on their own. “I meant─” He ran a quick hand through his hair. “Ha. Never mind. Forget it.”

And this time, when the light dimmed in your eyes, it didn’t come back. You won’t forget it. Because you saw right through him. Still, you didn’t push ─ every time you did, disappointment crawled over you like insects. After a beat of silence, one that felt like a lifetime, you exhaled, something fragile flashing across your features before you masked it with a tight-lipped smile. He hated it.

You nodded. “Sure.” Just that. Oscar didn’t know what he was expecting. No questions, accusations.

But that was almost worse, you let him get away with it, with the almost, with all of it.

When you both went to sleep that night, it was the first time in forever you didn’t sleep in the same bed. You pretended to have a headache, said you’d join him once it settled down. Oscar fell into slumber alone.

For some reason, it felt like losing.

Saying to have known love at eight years old would have to be a lie, but Oscar knew you jump-started his heart the minute your laugh echoed in his ear at that playground, fifteen years ago.

He had been pathetically doomed from the start.

From the first glance, to the first laugh, to when your fingers grazed his when you took the controller to his truck ─ a touch so small that had burned itself into his memory like a brand. He was too young to understand what it meant at fifteen when he sat beside you on his porch. Too blind to recognize it at twenty, lying in your childhood bedroom and hands fisting the sheets to stop them from reaching for you. Too scared to act on it last year, close enough to touch and closer than you had been in years and he still let the moment pass him.

The truth was simply this: no matter what, Oscar had always known. Maybe not at eight, maybe not at fifteen. But deep inside, he had always, always known. And he had spent every year since then trying to ignore it.

Not anymore. He couldn’t ─ not when he messed it up last time. Not when he was on the verge of losing you for good.

Oscar Piastri loves you, like a madman, and he needed to tell you like someone drowning needed air.

But to do that, he’d have to get out of the patch of grass he got himself into first.

The track was slippery due to the rain, and a simple mistake could lead to tragic circumstances: this was one of them. Oscar was stuck in the grass of the circuit after a turn he took too narrowly. He lost his P2, the one of his home race he had been searching for since last year. The scream of frustration he let out had earned a pained groan from his race engineer, and to make it worse, he was apparently already written as Out.

But that wouldn’t happen. Because Oscar didn’t go after things he knew he couldn’t have ─but he knew he could have this race. He could finish it. He wouldn’t DNF.

And after he’d be done with it, he’d go after you.

So he dragged himself out under the cheers of his home crowd, an ecstatic buzz in his ears. The last of the laps passed in an angry blur: Oscar was driven by sheer determination, rage even, he could barely remember overtaking Hamilton, fighting his way to P9, and grabbing as many points as he could have in his situation. He could do it.

The race ended in a flurry of applause, some of them surprisingly directed at him. Oscar tried to get out of his car as fast as he could but under the special circumstances of his race, he knew getting past the journalists and commentators was going to be almost impossible. And it was, because as soon as he put a foot on paddock ground, he was swarmed by microphones, cameras, and flashing lights, waiting for every tear to turn into a headline that people would twist and shape.

A few hours passed by the time he was finally able to reach his family. After the regular hugs and reassurances, one of the first things his mom said was: “That’s too bad you just missed Y/N, she had to go back. I wish she could have stayed, she always knows what to say to you,” with motherly little taps on the cheek.

Oscar felt a hole opening in his chest. “She left?” He asked, trying to muster as much nonchalance as he could.

It wasn’t very efficient, as Nicole gave him the kind of look you’d give to a kicked puppy. “Yeah, she did.” Quickly, she added, “She didn’t go back to her hotel, though. I asked to drop her off and she refused, saying she had somewhere to be.”

It was as vague as it could possibly get, maybe because you didn’t want Oscar to seek you out. But he needed to, he had to get it off his chest before your relationship could worsen ─ and he couldn’t do that by text or calls, for the little you exchanged over the past year. He had to know if the little gap you almost crossed on that front porch meant something and could have been something if he hadn’t fucked it up. If it was too late for it to become something now. And knowing you, you’d be gone by tomorrow morning.

Oscar dashed.

He got into his car, drove too fast under the intensifying rain. There was no time to waste for him. What he was thinking about was a long shot, an extremely long one for a non-wishful thinker, but if today put you in the same state as him ─ there was a chance, a small one, that you’d be there.

When he pulled into your childhood neighborhood, his drenched windshield made the road and its surroundings almost indiscernible. But right before the little street leading to both of your houses, he passed by that old, worn-down playground that somehow stood against the test of time, with its rusted swing set and old dirt roads. But his breath didn’t catch on that, no.

It caught on you, sitting on the lower branches of the tree you spied him on at eight.

Oscar had never parked so hastily. He never ran so fast, soaking the McLaren hoodie he put on in a rush before going out. His hair stuck to his forehead and when he reached the dry soil underneath the tree you were hiding on. Arms around yourself, staring in the empty, like you were holding yourself together.

He hesitated momentarily, and all the fears plaguing his mind the past years came rushing back. What if it was too late? What if all he’d get was a final goodbye?

Then you turned, and your gaze found his in the settling dark. All doubts vanished at the same moment ─ he’d rather regret saying too much and grasp at the chance of something than live the rest of his life in silence, drowning in the regrets of saying nothing at all.

“Y/N,” he called, a little strangled, arms dangling at his side.

“Oscar?” You frowned, jumping the small distance separating you from the ground. “What-? How’d you know─?”

“I… guessed.”

“Oh.”

Silence. The incessant rhythm of the rain filled the space as you both stared each other down. Waiting. What was he supposed to say now? “So… uh. How are you?”

Your eyes widened, and a scoff escaped you. “How am─?” You crossed your arms on your chest, staring at Oscar like he had grown a second head ─ and maybe he had, because he couldn’t even try to think straight. “I’m good, Oscar. Great. How was the race?”

“It was─” He stopped, swallowed. It felt plastic, strange ─ the distance, the iciness. Both of you knew you weren’t really inquiring about the race, you knew him better than anyone and probably guessed how it felt already, and he wasn’t really inquiring about you.

It was the first time you saw each other after last year, and everything felt more real. Heavy.

“Did you forget how to talk, Osc’?”

Osc’. You haven't called him that in a long time.

A nervous chuckle escaped him. You were so far and so close at the same time, hair frizzy from the dampness, knees scratched from your recent climb ─ he missed you, you were right there and he still missed you, because you were slowly slipping through his fingers. The last bit of his resolve crumbled.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Oscar never showed too much emotion. But here he was, drenched by the rainfall, eyes open and raw. And you didn't know what to do with that. You shifted on your feet. “For what?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair, frustration bleeding into the gesture. “You know what for.”

“That’s not enough. Not anymore.” Your voice was laced with barely contained emotions, strangling you.

He knew. Oscar stepped forward tentatively, just once. Enough to make you look up at him, and he held your gaze even as it twisted with the kind of hurt he never wanted to be responsible for, but had to be faced with. Because he had. And he had to own up to it ─ so everything spilled out.

“I fucked up, last year. Big time.” His voice cracked. He couldn’t care less. “And I know- shit, I know I’m probably too late. I should’ve said something back then, but I didn’t know how or what or why.”

“I was scared. Not just of ruining things, even though it was a part of it, but of─ of what it meant. I didn’t understand, Y/N. I didn’t get why you were the first person I looked for in a room, why I felt so goddamn lost when I moved out and you weren’t there anymore, why seeing you living your own life without me was─ I don’t know, I guess I’m selfish or something.” His throat burned. “And that night─ here, last year─ I should’ve known. Fuck, I think I knew long before then but I was just so blind. When I asked you to come with me, and we─ I should’ve known why. I did. I just─ I didn’t want to mess it up. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Oscar let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “But I did anyway. I messed it all up because I couldn’t make up my mind, and I don’t blame you if you don’t─ if you can’t─”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

The rain pattered against the dirt and the surrounding pavement, unrelenting, like both of your heartbeats. Oscar’s fingers twitched, aching to reach for you ─ but he wouldn’t do it. Not unless you let him.

Finally, you spoke. “You’re the biggest idiot I met in my entire life, Osc’. You’re so stupid.”

Your voice was teary, but you didn’t cry. You weren’t angry. You weren’t turning away. You simply stared at him, lips parted ─ barely smiling, but it was there.

Oscar blinked rapidly, taken aback. “I know,” he admitted, his voice a whisper, “but I love you.”

There it was. After fifteen years, there it was: the plain truth, out in the open for you to see. What he spent his time running from, what he should have told you so long ago.

You didn’t react. Your eyes widened, a sharp inhale went through your mouth and you stared, frozen in place. Oscar panicked. “I understand if you don’t─ I mean, after everything, I get it if─ Or, or maybe I misread, but─”

“Say it again.”

Your voice was authoritative. Hopeful. And this time, a tear slid down your cheek. His heart skipped a bit. “I love you.”

And Oscar Piastri is twenty-three when he kisses you for the first time.

Your hands grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt, pulling him to you. The crash of your lips against his was sudden, but it didn’t take Oscar long to find a rhythm ─ not when it made so much sense, not when it felt so right. Finally.

A shudder rippled through him, something snapping back into place. It was messy, desperate ─ years of missed chances spilling out at once. You exhaled against his mouth and Oscar felt it everywhere, in the way his fingers trembled when he cupped your cheeks, how his knees almost buckled when you got closer, in the way his world narrowed down to just you. His mouth against yours. Fuck.

You pulled away, just for a second. “Osc─”

“Not yet,” he rasped. And he captured your lips a second time, choking out any other words.

How had he gone so long without this? Without knowing what it was like to have you like this?

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips. Desire, want, love, all of it blurred in the way his fingers wove into your hair, when he slowly brought them down to your waist, pulling you against him, hungry, greedy.

If he wanted you to come with him so badly the past few years wasn’t because he needed you at his side ─ he still did, but that wasn’t the gist of it. Now that you were falling apart against his lips, hands making a mess of his rain-drenched hair, he knew he had wanted you next to him because he wasn’t allowing himself to have you. He had wanted you in his chest, curled beneath his ribs, a part of him so irrevocably that no miles, no years, no silence could ever pull you away.

And now, he had you. Shit, if that wasn’t like ascending to heaven felt like, he didn’t know what would.

You put a hand on his chest, slowly, and when you separated Oscar found himself longing for more, for every instance he passed on. Yet, the wide smile on your face stopped him ─ because you looked perfect like this, bright and open, taking up space. That’s why he fell in love with you.

“I love you too. So much,” you said, and the words softly blossomed in Oscar’s chest like spring. He dropped his forehead against yours.

“Me too. I love you. You don’t even know,” he breathed out, his lips slowly dropping a kiss on your forehead. “It feels so good to say it. To know.”

You grabbed the string of his hoodies, toying with them as you’d usually do, but every single one of your actions sent another wave of heat in Oscar’s neck when he remembered what you tasted like. “You could’ve felt good about it earlier, y’know.”

He arched a teasing eyebrow at you and you giggled. “I’m sorry, but the realizing-i’m-in-love-with-my-childhood-best-friend didn’t really come with an instruction material. The confession either.”

“You were pretty dramatic, true, with the rain and the running,” you laughed. “It was gonna be pretty easy for me last year, honestly. Until you bailed.”

Oscar groaned, and his head dropped on your shoulder. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”

“Oh yeah, you’re in for a long ride, Piastri.” A long ride. That sounded amazing.

Realization hit him at full force, harder than a crash. “Wait, what do you mean last year?”

Your hand went up, wiping a raindrop dripping down his cheek, and the look you gave him was overflowing with fondness. “I mean that before you tried to kiss me, that night, I would’ve told you I’ve been in love with you ever since I started spying on you at the playground.”

“You…?” Oscar’s mouth dropped open. Had he really been that blind? How many signs had he missed, exactly? “How─”

You kissed him. A quick, hard peck on the lips, but that was enough to shut him up and get him to melt against you once more. “Let’s not talk about it here. I’m cold, and I think it’s the type of discussion that’s too long to have outside,” you said, slipping your hand in his. “My mom would love to make us coffee, if you want.”

Oscar sighed at the familiar feeling, fingers tangling with yours in a well-known pattern. He missed the both of you, and now he got to have it in a better way. “You’re sure? I’d love to, but is your mom─”

“Don’t even worry. She’s been calling me Mrs. Piastri for years now, I think the news will move her to tears.”

So you runned back to the porch of your house where you’d sat years ago, drenched in the deluge but happier than you’ve ever been. Oscar loved you, he knew now. And you loved him back, it was worth the rain, the missed opportunities, the hesitation and the heart wrenching confessions that will follow as you sit down.

You were worth the vulnerability, Oscar thought when you crossed the threshold. You were worth everything.

A year later, Oscar is standing in pole position for the Australian Grand Prix of 2026.

Qualifications went great, keeping the fastest lap position for all rounds. He was confident in his capacity ─ last year had tested his patience and goodwill, but he only came out stronger, more resilient.

The home race curse was a popular saying in Formula One, and sadly he fell victim to it ever since he put his feet in a McLaren in 2023. He had hoped to win the Melbourne race, to bring back the trophy under the cheers of his home crowd and the screams of his family ─ but this year wasn’t for hoping: if there was one thing you taught him, it is that hoping never achieved anything. Actions did. And he was going to win the Australian Grand Prix.

You were standing in your usual spot, orange headphones on, all in smiles and shouts. Hattie next to you playfully shoved an elbow in your ribs to get you to quiet down, which only made you louder. Oscar was persuaded he could hear you above the sound of his race engineer. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe the thought of you swirled around every mechanism of his car like it always did.

Today marked one year since you and Oscar got together. Since the kiss, the realization, the heartfelt confessions above a steaming cup of gingerbread coffee in the middle of summer because your mom affirmed it was a big occasion before leaving the two of you alone. And the fifteen years it took for you to finally get to that point were a painful obstacle of unsaid and what ifs, taking a few months to finally get out of the way, and plenty of awkward conversations ─ but how beautiful was the other side of it.

Devotion and love, gentle and kind. The impulsive dates, the good morning kisses when Oscar had enough time to come and visit, his hand resting comfortably on your lower back, “Oscar Piastri’s partner” on the screen when the camera was pointing at you during races, the weekend getaways.

Oscar noticed the large, varsity top hung on you, a bright orange with the large number 81 written in white. Just underneath, the words Mrs. Piastri were written in a similar font. You had it custom-made a few months into the relationship, simply because the comment about your mother the day he kissed you became a regular inside joke between the two of you.

It made Oscar’s heart flutter every time you wore it.

He observed the red lights above him, flickering out one by one. He thought about it: how the fifteen years of being apart made every day spent with you seem like too little, how he couldn’t get enough of you and how he didn’t want to.

Suddenly, Oscar couldn’t wait for the race to end. Because he was going to keep his P1 with his skills and the speed of his car, and brandish the trophy high on the podium for the country who raised him. Because after, he will rush out in your arms and kiss you until the air in his body runs out. Because he had a girl to get, and plans to make.

Because even though it was only a year spent together, Oscar Piastri is twenty-four when he decides he wants to marry you, and he was not about to wait fifteen more years to make it happen.

#ᯓ my writing.ᐟ #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #op81 x reader #op81 #mclaren #oscar piastri imagine #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri fic #op81 fluff #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #op81 x you

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kxsagi · 1 month ago

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HI GIRLL I WANTED TO MAKE A REQUEST IF THATS ALRIGHT 😍🙏

So could you do a Rin Itoshi x Reader where Rin is basically at a dinner to introduce himself to reader's family as the bf. But the twist is that reader is isagi's sister 😋

Cue Rin and Isagi trying not to have the biggest crashout of the century and Reader awkwardly hoping it goes well.

THANK YOU IF YOU READ THIS LOVE ❤❤

“𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐲”

a/n: LOVE THIS IDEA! cue slursagi and emo boy rin

(dk art credits, might be a rinsagi fanart... but we ball)

it’s almost impressive how quiet the table is.

the smell of hamburger steak and steamed vegetables wafts gently in the air. forks clink against plates. a chair creaks. your mom offers rin more rice. and no one has died yet. that’s good.

but you can practically hear the tension crackling between your brother and your boyfriend like electricity waiting to explode.

"so, rin," isagi starts, voice a little too calm, a little too casual. “how’s football?”

rin doesn’t look up from his plate. “fine.”

you smile nervously. “he’s being modest. he just scored twice last week. that match against paris –”

“yeah, i watched,” isagi cuts in. “saw him miss an open goal too.”

you kick him under the table.

“ow –”

“yoichi,” you say sweetly. “stop.”

he smiles at you like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. you know better. this man invented the passive-aggressive sibling glare. he's practically vibrating with the urge to deck rin in the bowl of rice.

"i'm just making conversation," he says innocently, stabbing a carrot like it personally insulted him.

rin finally lifts his eyes. cool, expressionless. his default setting. "not everyone’s obsessed with egoist football,” he mutters.

you grip your fork a little tighter. here we go.

your mom laughs awkwardly. “you boys must really push each other, huh? rivals on the field, but friends off it?”

rin and isagi speak at the same time.

“not friends.”

“definitely not friends.”

you cough. your dad blinks like he just realized there’s a war happening across the dinner table. he leans over, pointing at rin and whispering, “that’s the scary one from PXG, right?”

rin hears it. his eye twitches. you give his thigh a little squeeze under the table and shoot him a look: please don’t murder my entire bloodline.

he exhales through his nose like a bull about to charge.

“he’s not scary,” you say quickly. “he’s actually very sweet. he makes me ochazuke when i don’t feel well.”

your mom softens. “awww.”

isagi scoffs. “so scary and bland. what a combo.”

“yoichi!”

rin’s eyes narrow. “at least i don’t make bets every time i miss a goal.”

“oh, you know about that?”

“you do it on blue lock TV. how could i not.”

“okay, first of all –”

“guys,” you hiss, grabbing both their wrists before someone hurls a fork. “we are not doing this at a dinner my mother cooked.”

they freeze. both look at you. and then look away from each other like you’ve just caught them about to throw down on a playground.

a tense silence follows. rin mutters something under his breath that sounds like “he started it.” isagi looks like he’s about to flip the table just to prove a point.

your dad, bless him, clears his throat. “so… how did you two meet?”

“through football,” you say quickly.

“at a charity match,” rin adds.

“you mean the one i invited her to?” isagi says dryly. “the one i was playing in?”

“and yet you were the least interesting person there,” rin replies, tone flat as ever.

you close your eyes.

you can already imagine the headlines:

“itoshi rin hospitalized after chopstick-to-neck incident at isagi family dinner.”

“local woman flees country after boyfriend and brother ruin japanese thanksgiving.”

but then your mom starts laughing. like, genuinely laughing.

“oh, you two are hilarious,” she says, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “you really do act like brothers already!”

isagi looks mildly horrified. rin looks like he’s having an out-of-body experience.

you force a laugh, like ha ha, yeah, siblings, what a delightfully cursed image, and take a huge sip of water to drown your scream.

rin leans toward you, voice low. “i can’t do this.”

you lean in too. “you can do this. please. i swear if you survive this, i’ll let you pick the movie for a month.”

he eyes you. “even the depressing ones?”

you sigh. “yes. even the ones where everyone dies and the soundtrack is just wind noises.” “… fine.”

you turn back just in time to see isagi watching the two of you like he’s trying to solve a murder mystery, fork mid-air.

"you two whisper a lot," he says slowly. "anything you wanna share with the class?"

“just relationship things,” rin replies, bland as ever. “not that you could relate.”

you choke.

isagi glares. “i swear to –”

“yoichi,” your mom says again, this time with the full mom voice. “be nice.”

“he dunked on me in front of the vegetables!”

you sigh, finally collapsing back into your chair. your plate’s gone cold. your water is empty. your soul has left your body.

but somehow, when the dishes are cleared and the dessert’s been eaten (only slightly poisoned by sarcasm), you find yourself walking rin out to the door as your family settles back into the living room.

he exhales. “that was…”

“a war crime,” you offer.

“i was gonna say ‘tense,’ but sure.”

you give him a look. “you two are going to kill each other someday.”

rin shrugs. “worth it.”

“worth it???”

he reaches down and laces his fingers with yours. his hand is warm despite the cold look he wore the entire evening.

“i’d fight him a hundred times if it means i get to keep you.”

you blink. heart skipping. “… that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said.”

“don’t get used to it.”

you smile, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “thanks for surviving my family.”

rin grunts. “barely.”

behind you, the front door opens a crack. isagi peeks out. “hey, rin?”

rin turns his head, cool and calm like always.

“next time you come over, i’m arm-wrestling you for her.”

rin raises an eyebrow. “… next time, i’m bringing a ring.”

you nearly trip on your own doorstep.

isagi stares, blinking. “a what?”

“goodnight,” rin says, not even looking back as he walks away.

you’re frozen on the steps, ears burning.

inside, isagi screams, “MOM HE’S PROPOSING –”

door slammed. silence.

you turn to rin with wide eyes. “a ring?!”

he shrugs. “wasn’t planning on losing, anyway.”

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #isagi yoichi x reader #yoichi isagi x reader #rin itoshi x reader #itoshi rin x reader #crashout of the century

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rcmclachlan · 1 month ago

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The Least Vulnerable Spot 8x16 spec fic

In which I ask the ultimate questions: under what circumstances would Tommy not attend the memorial procession for Bobby? Also, how silly can I make this?

Buck has never considered himself to be that guy, but when a man hands you the viral antidote he stole for you, kisses you on a rooftop backlit by the sunset while a couple of Sikorsky UH-60s hover threateningly, and whispers "Here's looking at you, kid" before ushering you through the rooftop door so you can save your family while a bunch of stone-faced Army guys advance, you tend to have an expectation or two. Like, that he'll pick up his fucking phone when you call.

He's left so many voicemails and sent so many texts to Tommy's phone over the last four days that he's pretty sure Verizon has his account flagged, but he thinks Petrea, his account rep, would understand if he explained that his ex-but-maybe-not-ex-boyfriend flew in like a superhero and then ghosted him when Buck needed him the most. She might even dig up a Jilted Before Your Father Figure's Funeral discount for his troubles.

It's been a week since they held the procession for Bobby, and not even Buck showing up at Tommy's house the night before and pounding on the door for an hour while shouting that he was yellow-bellied (partly true), a traitor to the 118 name (mostly true), and a lousy lay (bold-faced lie) could make the little coward show his face.

So he's done. He is finished with Tommy Kinard and his massive amounts of baggage that would make even Briggs & Riley close up shop, and he's proving it by leaving one final voicemail that isn't influenced by his sadness over Bobby's death, the stress of the last couple of weeks, or by how much Tommy's abandonment has hurt him. He's going to be a rational adult about this. He's going to be the bigger person.

".... This is all to say that I hope you have an amazing life, Tommy," he says into his phone speaker. "I hope it's filled with love and support, and it's meaningful and fulfills your soul. And I hope you fall in love with a beautiful, kind man who treats you right, and I hope you get married and stay together for fifty blissful years, and then I hope you wake up from the coma to realize it was all a dream and you're all alone, because apparently that's what you really want! And I know you were quoting a movie on the rooftop, and you know what? I'm not going to even look up which movie it was! Look at me, kid, or whatever it was you said!"

Buck misses the days when he could snap his phone shut to hang up, because stabbing end call twenty times until his finger actually taps the button just doesn't give him the same kind of satisfaction.

Panting for a moment, he pushes all his anger and pain into a little lockbox in the back of his mind, shuts the lid, and takes a breath. Then he pockets his phone and looks up to find everyone in the station frozen, staring at him like he just performed a magic trick or saw a bug on the wall and didn't identify it out loud.

"What?!" he snaps at all of their slack-jawed faces. "Never seen a rational adult before?"

Out of nowhere, a hand lands on his shoulder like a jump scare, and he startles back so hard he almost throws an elbow into Acting Captain Henrietta Wilson's wrinkled nose.

"Hey, Buckaroo," Hen coos. The expression on her face would be more at home on someone who's been tasked with single handedly cleaning up a nuclear meltdown. "Maybe we should put our phones in our lockers so we're not distracted by our very confusing situationships. At least until lunch time when I can escape to Rosetti's to get a break from it."

Buck doesn't whine and he definitely doesn't stamp his feet. "Yeah, but what if he calls?"

"You know, he probably would just to tell you the quote is actually Here's looking at you, kid," Hen admits.

"I don't get it. Who's looking at me?" Buck mutters, giving his phone the stink eye before looking up. "What are you doing out here? I thought you were doing paperwork."

Hen shrugs with her entire face. "Well, I was, but when you started wailing I thought another raccoon got caught in the vent fan again, so."

For someone who got the job under the worst set of circumstances imaginable, she looks completely at home in the role, the way she always does. Buck's trying like hell to be happy for her, and he is, deep deep deep down, but he'll be the first to admit he hasn't been handling it well. Yesterday she'd brought in a tiny potted succulent and put it in the upper left corner of what was now her desk where a framed photo of Athena, May, and Harry once sat, and Buck accidentally knocked it onto the floor. And accidentally stepped on it. Twice. Accidentally.

She'd stared at him until he started to sweat, then said flatly, "You're buying me two more."

"Yep," he'd agreed. There's now a bigger succulent on the desk and a bushy lemon lime maranta on the windowsill.

Whatever she sees on his face makes her roll her eyes, but she puts her hand on his shoulder again and says, "Okay. You get thirty seconds. Lay it on me."

Buck blinks. "Really?"

"Twenty-nine now," Hen says.

Damn, that's generous. Eddie only gave him ten before he tapped out.

Squaring his shoulders, Buck lets it all come tumbling out: "I thought this meant something! He threw in with us again and kissed me on the roof and said whatever he said and it was supposed to mean something! You don't just bail after that! He was supposed to be here! He was supposed to support me at the funeral! He was supposed to be there for me at the procession and then fuck the sadness out of me afterward! I had a plug in and everything!"

"Time's up," Hen breaks in, a look of abject horror on her face.

Buck throws his hands up. "That had to only be twenty seconds at most."

Hen's eyes dart down to his hips, then back up to his face. Her glasses magnify them, so they look bigger and wider than usual. She looks like one of those Precious Moments figurines his mom used to collect. "You had a—Buck, that procession went for a full mile."

"Believe me," Buck grumbles, shifting to try and escape the chafed ache that refuses to go away. "I'm well aware. Serves me right for going with the biggest one I own, but, like, I thought Tommy was gonna—"

"Aaaand we're done." Hen executes a perfect about-face and marches in the direction of the admin offices.

Buck calls after her, "Bobby would've heard me out!"

"Bobby would've jammed pencils in his ears!" Hen shouts over her shoulder. "Which is exactly what I'm about to do!"

This is exactly what he means when he tells Dr. Copeland that no one ever listens to him.

He's about to go see if he can corner Chimney somewhere with limited escape routes when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. His heart gets caught up in a dizzying storm of excitement, dread, and grim satisfaction, because he knew Tommy wouldn't be able to deal with the idea of Buck not looking the quote up.

But when he takes his phone out of his pocket, the incoming call isn't from Jaw of Gibraltar ❤️, but Lucy Donato.

Sighing, he takes the call. "Uh, h-hey Lucy—"

She cuts him off immediately with a curt, "Look, don't think I'm not grateful or anything. We all are. Not being forced to listen to sad James Ingram songs day in and day out has been wonderful, but it's been two weeks already and we need our lead pilot back."

"I—what? Lucy, I hate to tell you, but—"

"Tell me precisely zero details about how dick drunk you are, Buckley," Lucy says flatly. "Just tell me when you're letting him go. Cap's getting antsy and Baxter's been on call for so long that his wife is ready to kill him and turn his body into mulch."

Buck stares at Engine 2 until it blurs. "You... are talking about Tommy, right?"

"No, I'm talking about the other dipshit I work with who committed domestic terrorism because your asshole is a Disneyland attraction." Buck makes a face but doesn't correct her. Tommy once likened sex with Buck to riding Big Thunder Mountain for the first time. "He's missed like four shifts. Any more and Cap is gonna have to, like, make some calls. Where the fuck's our pilot, Buckley?"

"He hasn't been in at all?" He echoes faintly, a sinkhole opening in his gut.

Lucy makes a sound of disgust. "Frankly, I can't believe they dropped your charges. You're way too dangerous to be allowed among the general populace."

The Army colonel who swanned into Chim's hospital room like he expected them to scatter like roaches had taken one look at all of them and scoffed. "Every fiber of my being hates what I'm about to say, but I can't handle another phone call from Sergeant Grant, so: on behalf of the United States government, we're dropping all federal charges for everyone in this room. If I see any of you ever again, I will throw you into a hole so deep it'll make the Kola Borehole look like something a kid dug at the beach."

Except not everyone was in the hospital room that day.

Buck squeezes his eyes shut. "Hey, so I need to call you back."

"Wait, Dana wants to talk to you."

With a yelp of pure terror, Buck stabs his phone until the call ends, then immediately calls Jaw of Gibraltar ❤️. It goes right to voicemail, like it's been doing, and now Buck is pretty sure he knows why.

"Heeeeeeeey," he says through a grimace. "So, uh, I need you to ignore all the other voicemails and texts I sent you. Um, it's entirely possible the reason you haven't been picking up my calls might be, uh, sort of my fault, but just think: someday when we've been married for fifty years, we'll probably still be laughing about this whole thing."

Inbox full, the automated voice cheerfully tells him.

Cringing, he calls Athena.

Buck has never actually seen a federal prison—Jamestown was a regular prison, and he didn't have enough time to stop and take it all in—so he's not sure what to expect, but when they fly over Victorville Medium-Security Federal Correctional Institute, he's surprised to see it looks more like an army base than anything.

The pilot who picked him, Athena, and LAFD union lawyer Bernadette Kaine up from Harbor One—and that had sucked, because the entire Harbor crew was standing on the tarmac giving him the evil eye as he boarded, and while Dana didn't physically drag her thumb across her throat he could see the same sentiment in her blank expression—didn't actually introduce himself, but his name was embroidered on the arm of his flight suit.

"Your last name is 'Goodenough'?" Buck had asked, grinning. "'Pilot Goodenough'? Hopefully your flying is a lot better than your name suggests!"

Pilot Goodenough stared stone-faced out the windshield and said, "We might hit turbulence during the flight."

And they did, but oddly only whenever Buck unbuckled his belt. The last time Buck went to get up, Athena threatened to shoot him.

When they land, Colonel Whatshisname is there to greet them, and he looks both exhausted and furious to see him and Athena again.

"Sergeant Grant," the colonel acknowledges through gritted teeth, ignoring Buck entirely. "It's such a pleasure to see you again."

Athena simply crosses her arms and stares him down, which is impressive to watch, considering the guy's like 6'7". He's shriveling under her scrutiny before Buck's very eyes.

"Colonel, it appears you forgot something," Athena says, lightly and terrifyingly.

"Someone," Buck interjects, with nowhere near the same impact.

Colonel Whatshisname sighs, looks heavenward at the departing helicopter as though he'd like nothing more than to flag Pilot Goodenough back down to take him away, then beckons them all inside.

When they get to whoever's office the colonel commandeered, Buck is almost completely distracted from why they're there by the sheer amount of rubber ducks that clutter up every flat surface in the room. No two are the same. There's even a little viking duck, complete with a mace.

"Can I—" Buck starts slowly, inching his hand toward a duck that looks like a firefighter.

Colonel Whatshisname sits down at the desk, hard. "No."

"That's fair."

"Colonel Spade," Bernadette begins, opening her worryingly bulging briefcase. "I'd like to begin by thanking you for your ti—"

"Colonel, you know why we're here," Athena cuts in, taking the seat on the other side of the colonel's desk. She has to clear a path through all the ducks lined up at the edge so she can rest her clasped hands there. "When the charges were dropped for the members of the 118 involved in the incident, LAFD pilot Thomas Kinard's charges should have been included."

At that, Buck moves to stand menacingly at her shoulder like an attack dog, although the colonel doesn't look all that impressed at the display. If anything, he gets a look on his face like he'd just swallowed an assassin bug. Specifically a North American wheel bug.

"Normally, I would agree with you, but Thomas Kinard abused his military rank and previous clearance to gain access to a secure government building, steal proprietary assets from a lab that could have caused great harm to the population of Los Angeles, and physically assaulted personnel on his way out," Colonel Spade snaps at her. "There was no way we were letting any of that go."

"Assaulted?" Athena lifts a brow.

"That's awful," Buck rasps, pressing his thighs together. "Like, how many people and what did he do to them? Like, were there concussions? Broken bones? You can go into detail, I'm not squeamish."

The thought of Tommy fighting his way to get to Buck is so disgustingly hot that he might pop a woody in front of Athena, their lawyer lady, a visibly upset military man, and three thousand ducks. Still not the worst place he's ever been turned on.

"Without Kinard, we never would've gotten the antidote in time to save all those people," Athena says, and yanks her chair forward a little, away from Buck. "The people you deemed collateral damage in the fallout of the release of the CCHF virus."

"No one could have predicted Dr. Blake would go rogue," Colonel Spade says easily, with hate in his eyes. "This is hardly the fault of the—"

Suddenly, Bernadette sits up, and it feels like someone's put a spotlight on her. Buck kind of expects her to break into song or something, but what happens is actually so much better.

"The day Dr. Blake stole the virus, her employment was terminated, effective immediately, and yet security didn't walk her out of the building, which goes against all federal mandated safety protocols," Bernadette says, all smiles, practically glowing. "The lab—property of the U.S. government, if I remember correctly—was entirely unsupervised, which gave Dr. Blake the unfettered opportunity to tamper with the virus, speeding up its incubation period without authorization. Or, perhaps she did have authorization and the government failed to disclose this. Tell me, what else is going on under our noses that the government isn't telling us?"

"Try to disappear the brave people who risk their lives to do the right thing, apparently," Athena answers pointedly.

"I thought you were a union lawyer," Colonel Spade says through a visibly clenched jaw. "What do you know about federal pharmaceutical law?"

Bernadette's smile goes sharp. "I dabble."

Colonel Spade looks, for lack of a better word, murderous. He's probably one smarmy comment from grabbing the nearest rubber duck and bludgeoning Bernadette to death with it.

But Buck has never been able to help himself. "Is this a bad time to mention my ex-girlfriend is an investigative reporter?"

Athena drops her head into her hand. "Buck."

"I'm just saying!" He crosses his arms, trying to puff himself up the way some animals do when they're faced with a predator. "It sure would be a shame if an anonymous tip about all this landed in her lap."

Colonel Spade squints at him. "Are you threatening me, Firefighter Buckley?"

"You're trying to bury Tommy to save your own ass," Buck growls. "Yes, I'm threatening you."

Wordlessly, Bernadette reaches into her briefcase, which looks like it's seriously ready to bust open at the seams, and slides over a packet of paper to Colonel Spade. The colonel snatches it up and starts reading, and the longer he does, the paler he gets.

Finally, he lowers the packet and stabs Bernadette with his eyes. "Where did you get this?"

"I play mahjong with your ex-wife every Sunday," Bernadette says, like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "She sends her regards. Well, she actually sent the tip of her blackmail iceberg. How is your new wife, by the way? She graduate from college yet?"

Eyes wide, Buck looks at the colonel, who's got the swallowing wheel bugs look on his face again.

After the most awkward ten seconds that Buck's had to endure since Eddie crashed his and Tommy's pizza date, the colonel folds like a bad row of mahjong tiles.

"Fine," he says with a sigh, then glares at Bernadette. "And no, she's a junior."

Buck picks up a rubber duck with sharp teeth like a vampire. "Gross."

The colonel washes his hands of them by pushing them onto two enormous guards named Weekes and Kluger, who are basically human trees.

When Kluger gets his orders to take them to cell 58, he droops like a wilting plant. "Hey, you're not here to, like, take Kinard to Gitmo, right? It's just—he's really cool. He's got the wildest stories."

"Dude figured out what was wrong with my car just from listening to a video on my phone." Weekes grins, then leans in to whisper conspiratorially to Buck, "it was the alternator."

"I offered to introduce him to my sister," Kluger says as they board the elevator, and he's either oblivious to Buck's glare searing a hole in his head or is just flat-out ignoring it, because he continues blithely, "but he said he doesn't like girls. Which is cool. I'm down with the rainbow, you know? So I told him about my cousin, Martin."

Buck makes a politely interested noise, but it mostly sounds like he's biting straight through his tongue. Athena elbows him hard enough to bruise his spleen.

"And what did he have to say about Martin?" Buck asks. Meanwhile, every bone in his body is vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear.

Kluger doesn't seem to be aware that the head is going to burst into flames any second now. "He said he was flattered and that Martin was hot, but he's already got his heart pinned on someone on the outside."

Buck relaxes with a pleased smile.

"Yeah, except whoever it is left him in here to rot," Weekes adds.

"T-That's unnecessary and completely untrue," Buck lies, trying to sink into the floor so he won't drown in shame right in front of them.

Thankfully, the elevator comes to a stop at the 5th floor, and Buck pushes his way out to gulp some fresh air.

He's not sure if being on the 5th floor is a good or bad thing. Tommy was charged with domestic terrorism; what if this is the domestic terrorism floor? What if he's neighbors with neo-nazis? What if he'd been jumped by a faction in the shower and took a beating and has spent the last few days pissing blood and breathing through broken ribs and cursing the day he ever picked up Chimney's call about needing a pilot for an unauthorized rescue?

What if he regrets ever meeting Buck?

But before Buck can ask Kluger for a bucket to throw up in, they come to a stop in front of a cell marked with the number 58, and Buck forces himself to look inside.

Apparently the question Buck should've been asking was what if Tommy's lying on his bed playing paddle ball while he mouths along to whatever 80s hip-hop song is playing on a little radio? Because that's exactly what Tommy's doing.

"I gave him the radio," Weekes says proudly, reaching out to knock on the glass door. Tommy looks up without pausing his game. The ball keeps thwacking against the wood.

"He's so good at that," Kluger says, starry-eyed. "He beat Officer Amino last week and that guy's won tournaments."

"Is it Girl Scout cookie season already?" Tommy asks cheerfully, then effortlessly twists the paddle so the cord wraps around it. He tucks the ball in. "Sorry, I don't have my wallet on me."

Buck shoves Kluger aside to practically press his nose to the glass. "We take IOUs."

As soon as he sees Buck, Tommy brightens, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stands, stretching with a groan, and then walks over to the door. Even in the bland blue jumpsuit, he's stupid hot. Helplessly, Buck puts his palm against the glass.

"Nice of you to stop by," Tommy says with a teasing lilt, pressing his own palm to Buck's, and Buck swears he can feel the heat of it through the pane.

"I was in the neighborhood," Buck teases back. "Figured I'd pop in."

"I won't lie, I've been dreaming about you showing up for a conjugal visit." Tommy looks away from Buck's face to squint at everyone else. "Although you guys weren't there."

At that, Athena cracks a smile and says in an odd voice, almost twangy, "You stupid mullet head, he beat you with nothin'."

Tommy perks up and doesn't miss a bit, drawling, "Yeah, well, sometimes nothin' can be a real cool hand."

Before Buck can ask what the hell they're talking about, someone shoves him aside with surprising strength. He's a little surprised to see it's Bernadette, who he kind of forgot about, but she's clearly the only one who remembers why they're here because she raps on the glass and says, "Mr. Kinard, my name is Bernadette Kaine and I'm here to take you home."

"We're here to take you home," Buck amends.

Tommy looks at Bernadette for a long moment, head tilting like a puppy hearing a noise for the first time and gaze narrowed, and then snaps his fingers. "Hey, I know you! I sent my paperwork to you the last time I stole a helicopter."

Sighing, Bernadette nods. "If you do it a third time, I get a free sundae."

"What do I get?" Tommy asks.

"Permanent incarceration and possibly the death penalty."

Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Tommy mulls that one over, then gives a decisive nod. "Sounds about right."

The helicopter ride home is spent mostly with Buck plastered to Tommy's side while he fills him in on everything he missed. Tommy's devastated to hear about Bobby. He offers Athena his condolences over the open mic, then curls his hand around his headset speaker to murmur apologies into Buck's ear.

"I wish I'd been there for you," Tommy says, and the words ease some kinked cable inside Buck he hadn't known was there. "I'm sorry I wasn't."

"I'm sorry I forgot there were consequences to your actions and left you to the mercy of the Army," Buck says, pressing his forehead to the jut of Tommy's jaw. "I just assumed everything was taken care of, and I… kind of thought you were ghosting me."

At that, Tommy snorts, wrapping an arm around Buck to hold him impossibly closer. "Evan, come on. You don't kiss a man like that and quote Humphrey Bogart and then ghost him. I'm an asshole and a coward, but I'm not a monster."

Buck winces. "Uh, yeah, when you have a second, can I see your phone?"

"What for?"

"It's better if you don't know," Buck says. "Completely unrelated, but you don't have a code for your voicemail, do you, and if so, can I have it?"

Tommy snickers and presses a kiss to Buck's temple. "How bad did it get?"

"Well, I taught Chim the word 'motherfuckface', so you tell me," Buck admits, cracking a grin when Tommy laughs out loud, but he has a hell of a time trying to keep it up. Finally, he gives up the ghost and tucks his face against Tommy's, eyes prickling hot with guilt. "I'm so sorry. I should've known. I should've known. Never in a million years would you have bailed on the funeral. It should've been my first clue that something was wrong."

Tommy snugs him in close and says quietly, barely audible over the rotors, "To quote an incredible man who drives me up the wall: 'it seems there's a lot we don't know about each other.' I'm glad you know I wouldn't have left you in the lurch like that, but there's a lot more… there's a lot more about me that you should know. That I… well, not exactly want you to know, but that I will tell you. Willingly. Well, not exactly willingly, but—"

"Y-Yeah?" Sniffling a little, Buck pulls away just enough to be able to look up at him. "What are you doing Saturday?"

It wins him a smile. "Vivisecting myself for you, apparently. And maybe burgers afterwards?"

Grinning, Buck snuggles shamelessly back in. "Actually, I wanted to make Bobby's famous lasagna for you. I think I've finally nailed it down. Then you can nail me down."

But before Tommy can respond, Athena breaks in over the line and takes a baseball bat to the moment. "Change the subject. Now."

Swallowing hard, Buck nods and pastes on a smile that doesn't scream 'I'm chubbed up a little in my jeans and I'm trying not to make it everyone's problem.' He coughs a little. "So, uh, who's Humphrey Bogart? Does he have a podcast or something?"

Tommy turns to Athena. "Actually, thanks, but no thanks. Take me back to prison."

#bucktommy #911 spec fic #911 8x16 #911 spoilers #4400 words of unseriousness #once again written entirely in the tumblr text editor #if you read this and think it's completely unedited and makes little sense.... you're right

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