#anyone else ever have this kind of panic?

[suunani]

orgasm.exe [ choi soobin ]

who knew that soobin had a big brain and an even bigger surprise?

❛ content 3.8k words, 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, power bottom! male reader, big dick virgin! soobin, nerdy dirty talk, pathetic nerd! soobin, unprotected sex (p in a), praise kink, size kink, soobin talks a looot during it, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, riding, creampie, aftercare, requested here!

you didn’t expect the campus library’s most reclusive, awkward math genius to have a voice that soft.

“i brought the notes,” he mumbled, holding up a neat binder like a peace offering. his long fingers gripped it too tightly, knuckles pale. “sorry i’m late. i—i was recalculating the sample sizes in the… ah, anyway. hi.”

choi soobin.

the guy who never made eye contact with anyone unless forced. always sitting in the back row, muttering answers under his breath that were always annoyingly right. you’d caught him staring at you in lectures a few times — like full on, wide eyed, glasses slipping down his nose, inhaling your soul kind of staring — but he always looked away like he’d been caught watching porn in public.

and now, here he was. standing in the doorway of your dorm room, two textbooks under one arm, a thick bulge in his jeans he clearly didn’t know how to hide, and that same look on his face.

like his body couldn’t decide if it was devotion or panic making his stomach flip.

you stepped aside to let him in.

“make yourself comfortable.”

soobin hesitated.

his eyes did a full scan of your room — bookshelf, unmade bed, pair of briefs on the floor — and his ears immediately flushed pink. still, he nodded, set his things on your desk, and sat in the desk chair like it was a job interview. posture rigid. shoulders hunched to make himself smaller. legs spread too wide because… well. because he was too tall to sit normally in anything.

you couldn’t help it — you smiled.

“you ever been in someone else’s dorm before?” you teased lightly.

he blinked behind his glasses. “no.”

“no?”

he shook his head. “never got invited.”

you leaned against the edge of the desk, close enough that your thigh nearly brushed his knee.

“so i’m your first?”

soobin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“in… in a way, yes.”

that look was back again — staring up at you like you were made of fire. like he couldn’t decide whether to run or reach out and touch.

god, he was so awkward. and sweet. and kind of unbelievably hot in that tall, twitchy, no social skills kind of way. you let the silence stretch for a moment. watched how his eyes kept flicking to your mouth, then down, then back up like he was doing mental calculations.

you decided to cut the tension. “you really been staring at me all semester just to help me pass stats?”

soobin looked mortified.

“i—what?! i wasn’t—i mean, i was, but not like—it’s not just that, i just—”

you raised a brow, smirking. “relax, genius. i’m flattered.”

“…you are?”

“mmh,” you leaned in, voice dropping just a little. “you’re cute when you’re nervous.”

his breath hitched. visibly. like his brain short-circuited.

“i—you’re extremely—i mean statistically—wait no, i meant subjectively—” he stopped himself, cheeks going pink. “sorry. i talk too much when i’m… you know.”

“turned on?”

soobin looked like his bones had given up and the chair was the only thing keeping him upright.

“i think i like when you talk too much.”

he didn’t move. just watched, pupils dilated, chest rising and falling shallowly beneath his sweater vest. he had no idea what to do with his hands, which made you grin as you stepped between his knees.

he froze when your hand touched his thigh.

“wait—” he breathed.

“you okay?” you asked, instantly softening. “i can stop. i want you to tell me if anything feels off.”

“no! i mean—no, don’t stop,” soobin said quickly, voice high and cracking. “i’ve just… i’ve never… i haven’t—ever done anything.”

you nodded. “i figured.”

“is that—bad?”

you tilted your head, brushing your fingers along the edge of his jaw. “why would that be bad?”

“i don’t know,” he said quietly. “you’re… you seem like you know what you’re doing. and i—i don’t. not even a little bit. i’m probably gonna be terrible and come in like thirty seconds and say something stupid about newton’s laws of motion and ruin the whole thing.”

you huffed a laugh. “well, now i kind of want you to say something about newton’s laws of motion while you’re inside me.”

soobin’s whole soul left his body.

you stepped closer, gently guiding his hand to your waist. “you’re not going to ruin anything. you’re adorable. you’re hot. and i want you.”

he blinked up at you like he couldn’t believe this was real. like any moment, he was going to wake up alone in his bed with a hard-on and the smell of his own hand lotion.

but it was real. you were straddling his lap now, and you could feel it — so thick, so hot, so big under his jeans, pressing between your legs like a damn secret weapon. you gasped a little as it shifted under you.

“…god,” you whispered.

“i’m—sorry?”

you leaned in close, lips just at his ear. “why didn’t you tell me you were big?”

“i—what?” he squeaked.

you rolled your hips slowly against it. “that’s not normal big. that’s fuck-me-up big.”

soobin whimpered. whimpered.

“i read online that size doesn’t correlate with pleasure,” he blurted, voice desperate. “but i—i can do angles! i’ve read about—about pressure points! i know about the anterior wall, and—and—”

you kissed him.

not just to shut him up. though that was part of it.

you kissed him because his lips were full and trembling and begging for it. because he deserved to feel something other than nerves buzzing through him. because no one had ever kissed him like he was worth losing control over, and fuck, he was.

soobin gasped against your mouth like it shorted his circuits. like he’d only ever imagined this behind closed doors, in the quiet dark, with his hand on his cock and your name on his tongue.

his hands finally settled on your hips. gentle. awkward. like he was afraid of squeezing too hard, like you’d shatter. you deepened the kiss, rocking into him a little more, grinding deliberately on that massive bulge straining against his jeans.

he groaned into your mouth.

“i—” soobin gasped, breaking the kiss, his lips already flushed and wet. “i need to—oh my god—i think i’m gonna come—”

you smiled, panting softly against his mouth. “not yet. you’re gonna come inside me.”

his head dropped back against the chair like he’d been electrocuted. just that. just the promise of being inside you. his hips twitched involuntarily and the moan that left him was so guttural it made your stomach clench.

you leaned in close, whispering right against his throat.

“i’m gonna ride you until your brain falls out of your ears, soobin.”

he whimpered again. actually whimpered. arms limp at his sides like he couldn’t figure out how to move his own body. you kissed his jaw, then the corner of his mouth, slow and sweet.

“but you need to give me a second. gotta get myself ready for this.”

“r-ready?”

you moved off his lap, grabbing your lube from the drawer like it was just another night. but it wasn’t.

soobin was still panting, hard as fuck in his jeans, eyes locked to you like you were pulling the sun out of the sky. you climbed up onto your bed, knees spread as you pushed down your sweats and underwear in one single movement, letting your bare skin meet the cold sheets.

you met his gaze as you slicked your fingers.

he made a broken sound in his chest.

you smirked. “watch.”

and fuck, he did.

he watched like he’d never seen anything before. wide eyes, mouth open, fists clenched on his thighs.

you brought your fingers to your entrance, slow, teasing the rim with gentle pressure. a soft sigh slipped from you as you eased in the first knuckle. the burn was familiar, the stretch routine — but the way soobin was staring like you’d just parted the gates of heaven?

that was new.

“s-should i be helping?” he whispered, breathless.

“just sit there,” you breathed, adding more lube. “and think about how lucky you are.”

soobin made a sound like a gasped prayer. “i’m the luckiest man alive.”

you snorted, pressing the second finger in.

“holy—fuck, that’s so—beautiful,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “you’re stretching yourself open for me—me—”

you moaned, rolling your hips just slightly against your fingers, and his breath hitched like he’d been punched.

“i don’t—i don’t think i can—” soobin choked, grabbing at himself over his jeans with an urgency that was almost painful. “i’m gonna—oh god, fuck, i’m gonna come—”

you looked over just in time to see him jerk violently in the chair, hips snapping once, jaw going slack as he came untouched in his pants — loud, like something sacred had been ripped out of him. he moaned your name like he needed it to stay alive, biting down on his fist to muffle it, his thighs trembling under him.

you couldn’t stop the slow smirk that curled on your lips.

“wow.”

“i—” he gasped, face flushed, hair a mess, glasses skewed on his nose. “i’m—i’m so sorry—i didn’t mean to, i just—”

“you came just from watching me prep?” you tilted your head, biting your lip. “that’s hot.”

he looked like he was suffering. “but i—i wanted to—inside—i didn’t mean to—”

“relax, baby,” you murmured, reaching for him again. “you’ve got more in you. right?”

soobin moaned just from the nickname. moaned. and when you knelt between his knees again and started undoing his jeans, he looked like he was about to cry from gratitude.

you tugged them down, and your breath caught.

“…holy shit.”

soobin’s cock flopped free, half-soft and already twitching to get hard again.

it was big. way too big. heavy and flushed and thick even while soft. thick enough that you weren’t sure how the hell you were going to take all of it, even after prepping.

“no way you were walking around campus with this monster between your legs,” you muttered, almost reverently. “no wonder you’re so awkward. you’ve been hiding a weapon.”

soobin flushed all the way down to his collarbones. “i—it’s not— is it bad?”

“bad? soobin, it’s a miracle i’m not on my knees worshipping it right now.”

“i—i wouldn’t mind— i mean—”

you shot him a look, and he let out a tiny squeak, abruptly silencing himself.

“lay down,” you said, voice low, eyes never leaving his cock. “on the bed. i need to ride this thing before i lose my mind.”

he moved like his limbs didn’t belong to him, clambering up onto your bed with shaky hands and eyes wide, like he didn’t believe any of this was real.

his cock bobbed up fully hard again, heavy against his stomach. your mouth actually watered.

you climbed over him, settling with your knees on either side of his hips, and reached between you to guide the tip to your entrance. just resting it there was enough to make you gasp. soobin was shaking.

“w-wait,” he stammered. “what if i hurt you?”

you leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to his lips. “you won’t. i want this. i want you.”

he moaned into the kiss, hands already grasping your hips like he couldn’t stop himself. you braced yourself, breathed deep, and started to sink down.

the stretch was unreal.

your mouth fell open, a strangled sound coming out as the blunt head of his cock pushed past your rim. the burn was immediate, intense. your body strained, trembling, trying to take him.

soobin was already gasping under you. “oh—fuck—you’re—you’re so—tight—are you okay?”

you nodded through gritted teeth. “y-yeah—just give me—fuck, soobin, you’re huge—”

“i’m sorry!”

“no—don’t you dare apologize.”

you forced yourself to breathe through it, relaxing bit by bit as you slid down inch by inch. his cock felt like it was punching up into your guts, thick and hot and impossible. you swore you could feel every vein, every twitch of his nerves through your walls.

soobin was losing his mind.

“y-you’re—taking me so well—how are you—god, you’re so perfect—you’re squeezing me so tight—i can’t—i can’t think—”

“you’re in so deep already—fuck, you’re ruining me—” you gasped, dropping lower with each word. “no one’s ever filled me like this—”

that set something off in him.

his grip on your hips tightened as he moaned, desperate and overwhelmed. “no one? no one’s ever—been this deep? you—you’re mine—mine—i’m the first to touch you like this?”

you were fully seated now, chest heaving, your walls fluttering around him, clenching hard as your body adjusted to the pressure. you leaned forward, palms flat on his chest, eyes fluttering.

“you’re fucking perfect,” you whispered. “so big, soobin, you’re stretching me open, you’re in my stomach—”

soobin let out a raw, high-pitched sound.

“i’m gonna die,” he whimpered. “i’m gonna die, and this is how i want to go—inside you—buried in you—”

you laughed breathlessly, rolling your hips experimentally. he arched off the bed, cock hitting something inside you that made your whole body spasm.

“oh—fuck—do that again,” you gasped.

“i—what did i do?—i need to do it again—i want to make you feel good—so good—”

you started to move, grinding slow and deep, dragging yourself up his length and then dropping down again, watching his jaw fall open, watching his whole face twist in pleasure.

“f-fuck—you’re so sensitive,” you moaned, bouncing slowly. “every little squeeze makes you whimper like a fucking virgin—”

“i am—” he gasped. “you’re my first—only— i never wanted anyone else—only you—”

god. his voice. the way he talked during sex — fast and nerdy and desperate, like he was rattling off theorems while losing his mind.

“i’m gonna make you feel so good,” he panted. “i know the angles—oh my god— i studied. watched videos—i read so many—so many forums. i wanted to be good for you—just for you—”

you moaned out loud, hips snapping faster, your cock bobbing untouched between you. the rhythm was too perfect. every time you came down, he bottomed out inside you, hitting so deep it felt like you were going to see stars.

“soobin,” you gasped. “you’re—fucking me so good—this is insane—you’re a goddamn natural—”

soobin whimpered so loud, like he’d just been told he won a nobel prize.

“i—i am?” he breathed.

“you’re splitting me open with this monster cock—fucking me so deep—you’re so good, soobin, fuck, you’re so good at this—”

“i love you,” he blurted.

you froze, breath caught in your throat, your thighs trembling around his hips, still so full of his cock you could feel it in your chest.

soobin’s face went pale like he’d just told a calculus joke in the wrong room. “i—i’m sorry! i didn’t mean to say it—i mean i did—but i wasn’t trying to pressure you or ruin this or make it weird, it just—came out—”

you grabbed his jaw with both hands, kissed him hard, and whispered against his lips :

“say it again while i come on your cock.”

he gasped like he couldn’t breathe. “i love you.”

you started to ride him again — so hard, so fast, now reckless — and the noise he made was somewhere between a sob and a scream.

“i love you,” he choked. “i love you, you’re so perfect, you’re—god, you feel so good—i wanna live in you—”

you moaned, grinding deep, his cock hitting your prostate so perfectly that your vision blurred.

“i’ve never—fuck—never felt this before,” you whimpered, bracing your hands on his chest. “you’re fucking ruining me, soobin—your cock is splitting me open—i can’t—”

soobin looked like he was about to cry. “y-you’re gonna make me cum again—please—please let me cum inside, i need to, i need to—”

you slammed down hard, clenching tight around him.

“do it—fill me up, soobin—wanna feel you spill inside me—wanna feel your cum drip out while you keep me full—”

he lost it.

with a sound like his entire soul ripped free of his body, soobin thrust up into you — so hard — hands locking around your waist, finally taking the rhythm for himself. and just like that, he was fucking you.

messy. desperate. and so, so deep.

“oh my god—” you cried out, body jolting with every sharp thrust. “soobin—fuck—what are you—”

“i’m sorry—i have to—i have to—” he gasped, voice breaking. “you feel so good—i can’t hold back—you’re letting me inside—i can’t stop—”

the dorm room filled with the sound of your bodies meeting — slick, obscene, overwhelming — the wet slap of skin on skin as he drove into you with trembling strength. he wasn’t graceful, wasn’t practiced either, but somehow it didn’t matter. he hit every spot. every time. like he’d mapped your body in his dreams.

his eyes were locked on your face, glasses still somehow halfway on, slipping down his nose with every thrust. you couldn’t look away. he looked like something primal had taken over — lips parted, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide with need.

and the things he was saying—

“you’re so tight, i can feel you everywhere, every inch—i want to memorize this—i want to study you—i want to write theses about how perfect your body feels—”

you were shaking. open and gone.

your legs were jelly around him now, your arms shaking too much to hold you up. soobin noticed, and with a sudden strength you didn’t expect, he grabbed you around the waist and flipped you, pressing you down to the mattress and staying buried inside you with one deep, dizzying thrust.

you gasped, arching under him.

“soobin—!”

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, hovering above you, looking destroyed. “i—i need to stay inside. just for a little—just a little longer—i can’t let go yet—”

“then don’t,” you begged. “stay inside. fuck me, soobin—fuck me harder—”

and damn, he did.

he snapped his hips into you, relentless now, cock stretching you to the limit, his voice unraveling right in your ear as he chased the edge.

“i love you—i love you so much—i’ve loved you since the first lecture—i used to touch myself thinking about this—you—i didn’t even know what to do with my hands, i just knew i wanted you—”

your hand slid between your legs, desperate, stroking your own cock as he pounded you, your body singing from the inside out.

“don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—soobin, i’m gonna—fuck, i’m gonna—”

“come,” he gasped. “please, please come—want you to cum on my cock, want you to milk it—make me fill you—make me stay inside forever—”

and you did.

your whole body convulsed, cock pulsing in your hand, white-hot release spilling across your stomach and chest as your walls clenched down tight around him. you sobbed his name, legs shaking violently as you came harder than you had in years.

that was all it took.

soobin’s hands gripped your hips so tight you knew you’d bruise later. he slammed in once, twice, and then he was spilling inside you with a loud scream, cock throbbing so deep, filling you with so much cum you could feel it leaking already.

“i’m cumming—i’m cumming—i’m inside you—fuck, i love you—i love you i love you—”

soobin didn’t pull out.

he didn’t even move. he collapsed on top of you, trembling, still buried to the hilt, still moaning under his breath like he didn’t want it to end.

you lay there together — shaking, sweaty, breathless — and felt him press one soft, desperate kiss to your throat.

“can we…” he mumbled, voice small. “can we stay like this? just for a little while?”

you smiled, completely fucked out, one hand sliding into his damp hair.

“baby,” you whispered. “you can stay inside me as long as you want.”

soobin made a small, crushed noise against your throat. something between a whimper and a sigh of absolute, stupid bliss.

you could feel his cock twitch one last time inside you, still half-hard, still locked so deep it made your legs twitch again just from the memory. he didn’t move — he wouldn’t move. you’d melted into the mattress beneath him, boneless, body sticky with sweat and cum and love.

“…you okay?” you asked softly, fingers brushing through the damp hair at the back of his neck.

he nodded against your skin, barely moving. then a soft, muffled : “i can’t believe that happened.”

you laughed, shaky and hoarse. “you mean the part where you absolutely destroyed me?”

soobin groaned in embarrassment, shifting just slightly. his cock moved inside you and both of you gasped at the hypersensitivity. he stopped immediately, whimpering.

“i’m sorry—i don’t want to hurt you, i just— i don’t know what to do now. i—uh—do we need to clean up? should i get you water? or—wait, should i get a towel? are you cramping? oh my god, i think i’m still hard—”

“soobin,” you whispered, smile tugging at your lips until it almost hurt. “breathe.”

he paused, blinking down at you like a deer caught in your bedroom lamp.

you cupped his flushed cheek. “you did so good. i’m not dying. i’m just… full. of you. in every way.”

soobin’s eyes got glassy again.

“i made you feel good?”

“baby,” you whispered, pulling him down so your foreheads touched. “that was the best fuck of my life.”

he made a broken, overwhelmed sound and kissed you. messy, still desperate, but sweet. the kind of kiss that tasted like someone who couldn’t believe they were allowed to love you like this.

eventually, he softened inside you with a small whine and pulled out carefully. you hissed from the sensitivity, but he was so gentle — like you were glass.

he tried to get up to clean you, but you yanked him back by the wrist.

“later. just lie down with me.”

he slid in beside you, glasses crooked and slipping down his nose, wrapping those long arms around you like he didn’t ever want to let go. you curled against his chest, still sticky and sweaty, and neither of you cared.

soobin was quiet for a while. then :

“i didn’t even know it could feel like that,” he whispered. “i thought—i was scared i wouldn’t be good at it. that i’d mess it up. but you just…”

you kissed the center of his chest.

“i felt safe. and wanted. and i wanted you,” he said, voice cracking at the edges. “i’ve wanted you since forever. i just never thought i’d get to have this. to have you.”

you pressed your face into his collarbone, eyes fluttering closed.

“you have me now,” you murmured. “all of me, soobin.”

he held you tighter.

“…are you okay? like, physically?” he added in a panicked whisper after a beat. “i came a lot. like, a lot—”

you laughed so hard you wheezed. “soobin.”

“sorry! i just—i don’t want to give you, like, some weird cum-induced stomach cramp—”

“i am gloriously ruined,” you said, shifting closer. “and if you apologize for doing too good of a job one more time, i’m gonna make you fuck me again.”

soobin blushed deep red.

“…noted.”

[mugsywrites]

Randomly posting part of the "Eddie Goes to Therapy" fic I started after 8.17 but will probably never finish. It's technically a crossover with Apple's Shrinking, because I think the only way to help this man is to put him on a different network in a different genre, but you don't need to be familiar with the show, just watch this to familiarize yourself with Eddie's new therapist.

The drive to Pasadena is long. Eddie almost turns around twice on the way there, and again when he pulls into the shady parking lot of the Cognitive Behavior Therapy Center. Sunk cost is the only keeping him from turning around when he walks into the living Anthropologie catalog the is the interior. Eddie can too easily imagine the sort of people who usually walk into this place—older, whiter, and wealthier than he is, who sit down and pay some shrink north of three hundred bucks an hour to whine about how they’re just not happy.

Eddie, of course, is not paying that much. Even if he had that kind of money to spend on this he wouldn’t; but Frank was apparently able to call in a favor and work out some kind of deal. Which is what he says when Dr. Rhoades (“Call me Paul”) asks what brings him in today. “I guess I’m too messed up for my former therapist. Or anyone else within reasonable driving distance, so he referred me to you.”

“Yeah, that was my fault,” Dr Rhoades—Paul-says, “Should have been more specific. What brings you back to therapy in general?” He has sharp eyes that peer out from his rugged, craggy face, and a low, gravelly voice. He sounds like if Salvador Sanchez, the boxer mix Helena Diaz used to keep for protection while Ramon was away, could speak human words.

“Same shit. Different day,” Eddie says. He may be sitting down but he’s holding himself-mentally and physically—at attention. Face blank, so that the drill sergeant can’t pick out any weakness to grip onto and exploit.

“And by ‘same shit’, what exactly are you referring to?”

“I thought Frank sent you my file,” Eddie says, staring at the space just behind Paul’s left shoulder.

“Yeah, I have Frank’s notes. But I’d like to hear it from you.”

God, this is why he hates therapy. The shrink just never comes out and says what he thinks, just tries to make you say it in your own words. It reminds him of when he was a kid and his mother would ask if he lost his sense of smell or something, rather than just say flat out he forgot to take out the garbage. “PTSD. Survivor’s guilt,” he pauses, “Anger issues.”

“Uh huh,” Paul says. He has a little black notebook that he pages through, takes a moment to write something, then looks back at Eddie, “You were seeing Frank for about a year, right?” Eddie nods, “Did you find it helpful?”

Eddie has to admit that he did, “Yeah. I was having panic attacks, and Frank was able to teach me how to get them under control.” 

“Uh huh,” Paul grumbles again, sounding more like Sancho than ever, “Why did you stop going?”

“Like I said, I was able to get my panic attacks under control. Didn’t seem like the most effective use of my time.”

“But you’re back now. What changed your mind? Was it a specific incident, or just general feeling?”

Eddie feels the control of his Staff Sergeant Diaz at Attention mask slip for just a second. He wonders if Paul Rhoades catches it. Probably. The guy is old as fuck, white-haired and needs to whip out reading glasses to write in his little notebook, but those eyes were sharp when he first took in Eddie Diaz. “I got into a fight with someone. It got pretty ugly.” Then, because he knows Paul will ask, “With my uh. With my best friend’s boyfriend. Or maybe former best friend, I don’t know. Buck, my…he’s taking Tommy’s—he’s taking his boyfriend’s side on this, so.”

“When you say fight,” Paul says, “Do you mean an argument, or did it get physical?”

“Both,” Eddie admits, losing control of Staff Sergeant Diaz again.

“How’d this fight start?”

“Well, he started the verbal portion of it. But I am the one who threw the first punch, so I guess I get why Buck is taking his side.” Not just Buck, he reminds himself bitterly. Everyone his taking Tommy’s side on this one, from his Captain to his coworkers to his own son. Christopher doesn’t even know the details, but he’s still team Buck and Tommy. Or maybe just team “My Dad is an Asshole”, the team he’s been on since they moved back to LA, the team he’s about to be voted MVP- 

Paul interrupts his increasingly frustrated train of thoughts, “I didn’t ask who started it. I asked how it started.”

“Man, I don’t even know!” bursts past Staff Sergeant Diaz’s tight control, “The whole thing, it just came out of nowhere. Tommy just started unloading on me, saying this fucked up shit to me…”

You think Evan’s just fucking great when you need free therapy or childcare or a free fucking punching bag—

Fuck you, Kinard. What are you implying, that I’m some kind of abusive monster, or-

Oh! Gosh no, Diaz! Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything. I meant to unambiguously state you’re a shitty friend and selfish user. Not just when it comes to Evan. You use anyone who tries to be your friend, you use your own family, including—

You need to be very fucking careful what you say to me next, Kinard.

Or what? Because if you put a hand in my face I will mail it back to you. As I was saying, you use your own fucking son as carrot and a stick when you fuck up with Evan-

“Tommy said some pretty unforgivable shit, including bringing my kid into it. I think I’m entitled to take a swing at anyone who throws Christopher in my face. Besides, he practically dared me to.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth he winces, knowing how they sound. He doesn’t even need to look directly at Paul’s one judgmental eyebrow. “Tommy is a firefighter too. Former military, plus has three inches and thirty pounds on me, knows Muay Thai, and I may have started the physical part of the fight but he definitely finished it.” Weeks later and there’s still a lingering tenderness in Eddie’s shoulders from Tommy practically twisting his arms out of the sockets in the process of pinning him to the ground. 

But what Buck had said to Eddie when he tried to explain himself was, You don’t get it, Eddie. I…I’m not…I am never going to forgive you for this. We’re done, we’re not. W-we, I can work with you, and I s-still. Chris can always come to me, but I don’t want to talk to you, or see you for a minute more outside of that. We’re not friends, not anymore.

We’re not friends anymore. Like they were in fucking middle school. 

We’re done, like Eddie was the one who was Buck’s fucking boyfriend, and he was breaking up with him. 

I am never going to forgive you for this. Like Eddie was a fucking monster. Like this one (admittedly fucked up) incident was enough to erase almost a decade of friendship. 

Although really, should Eddie really be surprised by that? Buck had been distant for months before the confrontation with Tommy. Eddie hadn’t noticed it at first, chalking it up first to lingering grief over Bobby, then to his confused situationship with Tommy rotating to “on again”. Eddie was in El Paso for a long time, maybe Buck just got used to being without him. Maybe it was easier to be friends with someone like Ravi, someone younger and easier to impress. 

Jesus, now I’m the one who sounds like we were fucking boyfriends.

“We’ll go back to that,” Paul says, “But I still don’t have a clear idea how this fight started. Where were you? Was it just you and Tommy, or was anyone else there?”

“It was just me and Tommy,” Eddie says, “We were at Tommy’s house.”

“What were you doing?”

“I was looking for Buck. I needed to talk to him about something, and Buck’s…well, it’s not official, but. That’s where he lives now,” Eddie’s mouth twists, “Buck practically moved in with the guy like, a week after they got back together.” Eddie’s hit with a fresh wave of anger and betrayal. Tommy dumped Buck out of nowhere, broke his fucking heart, Buck spent months baking away his feelings while Eddie did his best to stop him from spiraling. Even after all of that, Eddie was nothing but supportive when they decided to give it another try. And the guy had the balls to say Eddie was a shitty friend. “You know, up until that night, I thought…I thought Tommy and I were cool. We were friends before he and Buck started dating the first time. I thought we were still friends. So when he said Buck was out with Ravi—another friend of ours, I asked if he wanted to hang out for a bit while I waited for Buck to come back. Have a few beers, shoot the shit. He said no, that he bad shift and he quote unquote ‘literally can’t deal with Diaz Drama on top of it.’” 

“That’s kinda harsh,” Paul says.

Eddie snorts, “I actually thought he was joking, at first? His sense of humor is like that, deadpan, kinda dark. I even laughed. But he told me he wasn’t kidding, and wanted me to fuck off. Stuff escalated from there.” 

“I see,” Paul says, with a thoughtful grumble, “What did you need to talk to Buck about?”

“Nothing. Just some stuff,” Eddie says, back in Staff Sergeant Diaz mode.

“‘Just some stuff’? That’s why you went to his house instead of calling or texting, and why you decided to wait until he got back?”

“Nothing that’s important to the fight I had with Tommy,” Eddie replies. Nothing that warranted being accused of using his son.

“Humor me,” Paul says.

“It’s really not why I’m here,” Eddie says, jaw tightening. He is here because Tommy fucking Kinard picked a fight with him and Eddie went too far in response. He apologized, to Buck and to Tommy, and he won’t do it again. But then Buck said they were done, not friends any more. Then everyone else found out and had to throw in their two cents, draw lines and take sides. Now Eddie is the one who has to take at least three hours—probably closer to four, he’d being going in the wrong direction when he went home—out of his day to drive to fucking Pasadena and sit in this bougie office spilling his guts to a guy who looks old enough to have been around when lobotomies were cutting edge psychiatric treatment. 

“When I asked what brought you back to therapy,” Paul says when it becomes clear Eddie isn’t going to say anything else, “You said ‘same shit, different day’ in regards to you PTSD and anger issues. Have you ever gotten violent with anyone in the past?”

“I fought in Afghanistan. What do you think?”

“How long did it take you to get here?”

“Sorry?” Eddie asks with a jolt, as though Paul had read his mind.

“You implied earlier that my office wasn’t within reasonable driving distance. So. How long did it take you to get here?”

“An hour and fifteen minutes,” Eddie says.

“Probably be worse on your way back into LA,” Paul says.

“Definitely,” Eddie says. Traffic will be bad enough, if there’s a fender bender or something worse…

“So why are wasting even more of your time dancing around why you’re really here? Because this whole thing will go a lot faster and be a lot more productive if you answer my questions.”

[tmpestuous]

moth to a flame - eleven

summary: asking for help isn’t easy. thankfully, your system offers a hand anyway. 

pairing: college!bucky x reader

chapter warnings: reader is lowkey in a depressive episode, revenge porn, talks of abusive relationships, panic attacks, awkward parent relationships, friend arguments, self-doubt, self-deprecation, literally everybody is going through it at this point

word count: 6.8k

a/n: i really do not know how this ended up being nearly 7k words, but here we are. i am also fancasting colman domingo as norman osborn here because, well, yes! there will be more bucky in chapter 12. i do indeed miss him. as always, thank you for reading <3

series masterlist

TUESDAY, 11:30 AM

The digital clock on your nightstand was glaring at you, the white numbers standing out in contrast to the darkness of your room. The blinds were closed, and the gloomy weather only made it darker. 

You’d been awake for hours—three to be exact, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. You didn’t want to, either. Staring at the clock as time went by, cuddled under your comforter, seemed a lot easier than facing the day. 

Your friends were all worried, especially Natasha. She’d organized for someone to be in your apartment at all times, still keeping her promise of not leaving you to fend your demons off alone. It was a kind gesture, one you wouldn’t fight even if you had the energy to. She was more than concerned, afraid that one moment without you would leave you to slip under the water. 

Nobody talked about your breakdown after seeing Bucky in that hospital bed, especially when Sam and Natasha had to solicit the help of a nurse to calm you down. It was the worst panic attack Natasha had seen you have, the first one she couldn’t help you out of herself. You were screaming and crying hysterically, and she suddenly knew bringing you into that room was a bad idea. Everyone silently agreed not to mention it, knowing you needed a break from the chaos. 

Your friends wouldn’t ever describe you as the most bubbly person. They knew you had your struggles, whether it be family issues or personal insecurities. You had your fair share of episodes, but you were always strong at the end of it. They never got to a point where everyone had to keep an eye on you. This was the first time.

On that night, Natasha slept in your room, head to toe position like you were friends at your first sleepover together. Sleep found neither of you as you both stayed wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Though words weren’t spoken, you were glad she was there. She knew as much, equally glad that she could be there for you.

She’d stayed home with you all of Sunday, though you hadn’t made an effort to get out of bed besides going to the bathroom. She ordered food and brought it to you in your room. She watched TV with you to clear your head and even started a hot bath for you. 

As much as she wanted you to open up, she knew better than to ask. You’d open up when you felt comfortable, even if it took a while. Not to mention, you’d repeated to her a few times that you had to let Bucky go, that everything was your fault, that you’d put him in an impossible situation. She never blamed you, never silenced you, never tried to convince you otherwise, even when she wanted to. She let you speak, knowing you needed someone to hear you out and understand things from your perspective.

Natasha listened to you ramble while you sat in the bathtub, your head the only thing visible above the bubbles and water. Judging from the expression on her face, she comprehended and internalized every word. If anyone would, it’d be Nat. 

She didn’t respond with much, a soft ‘it’ll be okay’ as some kind of reassurance. You nodded, eyes red and heavy from all the crying. It was impossible not to miss how tired she also looked, especially as the friend who always drove herself crazy taking care of everyone else.

You could hear her talking to Steve in your bedroom from your position in the tub after she left you to have some space, the bathroom door shut. She sounded defeated, troubled over both you and Bucky, talking about the relief she’d felt at your rekindling falling down the drain. 

Again, she didn’t blame you, nor would she ever. But Natasha felt pulled in both directions. Scared for your sanity, just as worried for Bucky’s. How it was eating her alive to see the both of you suffering, both as a result of your own experiences and the lack of each other. Steve agreed.

They didn’t know you’d heard the whole thing — you surely wouldn’t mention it. But the conversation sat with you as if you were part of it.

On Monday, your friends rotated in shifts. First Natasha, then Pietro and Wanda. Sam came in at noon, and Thor came in a few hours later. Natasha returned with Steve in the early evening. 

They didn’t bother you, just checked in to make sure you were physically okay. Pietro hugged you, and Sam ruffled your head. Everyone asked if you ate, and you gave them a stiff nod. 

Most of your day was spent in your room, and today, your fate seemed similar. Your body felt frozen, tethered to its position in bed. There were no efforts to move—if your eyes weren’t open, someone would probably have to pay close attention to make sure you were breathing.

Sam had stayed the whole morning this time, and Natasha had come back right before noon. Once Sam left the apartment, she opened your bedroom door, sighing at the sight of you. 

“Are you awake?” Natasha asked softly, crossing to your side of the bed and seeing your eyes open. “How about we try getting out of the room today?”

She sat next to you, but your gaze didn’t move from the clock. It was now 11:47. You didn’t say a word, just sighed. You moved your arm to rub your eye.

“How is he?” You asked softly, your arm now shielding your eyes from Natasha’s gaze.

Natasha rubbed a hand down her face. 

“If I tell you this time, will you at least get out of bed today?”

The thought of Bucky was both mentally and physically painful — you couldn’t remove his face from your memory, how he stared at you in distress before you walked away from him. You could only imagine what was running through his head if his thoughts were anywhere as terrifying as yours. He might’ve felt you were abandoning him when he needed you most, or that you hated him, though that couldn’t be any further from the truth. 

You knew in the back of your mind that it was better to stay away from him for now. The thoughts that persisted in your head were trying to suffocate you, and ignoring them was not the answer. Bucky needs to heal, and you can’t ruin that with your own wounds still unhealed. 

Your friends had all made an effort to not speak about Bucky to you, seeing as every time you asked, you’d take it back right away. They could tell you were trying not to consume yourself with the thought of him, feeling it was better not to know anything than go back on your decision. Natasha noticed you didn’t pull back this time, hence her offer.

You nodded at her proposition, your eyes still covered by your forearm. 

Natasha swallowed, fixing her gaze on your closed blinds. 

“He’s okay—physically,” she emphasized. You figured she wanted you to know that Bucky was anything but okay without you. “He finally got fitted for a prosthetic. Funny enough, it’s from T’Challa and his family.”

You uncovered your eyes to look at her, a curious look on your face.

“Turns out he’s Prince of Wakanda, and their technology is extremely advanced with this metal called vibranium. But as soon as he heard what happened, he said he ‘called in a favor’ back home. They anticipate it could even get here before he’s discharged.”

“Is that better for him?” You questioned, shoving your comforter off your shoulders.

Natasha nodded. “It’s so advanced, he’ll be able to feel pressure and stuff. It was a long explanation, but it’s much better than anything he could get here.”

“That’s good,” you said softly, not offering much opinion while sitting up in bed. 

“He always asks about you,” Natasha tested the waters. “He still cares about you, still loves you. Wanted me to tell you that.”

You didn’t respond, a singular nod. Kicking your comforter off your legs, you stood up and stretched. 

Natasha didn’t miss the dark circles around your eyes or the way your posture stood a bit differently. You carried yourself with more of a guarded approach, something she’d never seen from you before. It made her want to kill Atlas with her bare hands.

“I’m gonna go shower,” you said to Natasha, pulling her from her thoughts. 

“Honestly,” she started before you could walk away, “I’m surprised you got up so fast.”

You shrugged. “I promised,” you said with a half-smile that dropped quickly, then proceeded to walk to the bathroom before Natasha could respond.

12:50 PM

Once you were dressed and ate the quick breakfast sandwich Natasha pulled together, you grabbed your phone off of your nightstand. A few texts, missed calls, and emails crowded your notifications — a result of your total disconnect from the world for the past few days. Though the amount of notifications was more than overwhelming, you knew you had to go through them then or you’d put it off for another few days.

Sitting on your bed, you started to scroll.

Detective Lawson: Hey, the arraignment is today at 1:00 PM at the courthouse near the precinct if you’d like to be there. No worries if not. Hope you’re doing well.

The idea of seeing Atlas while he’s most likely pleading not guilty for the shit he’s very much guilty of was not one you considered smart. You hadn’t seen him since that Friday night, and part of you knew he wouldn’t be too thrilled to see you either. You didn’t want to see him, but you desired the possibility of him seeing you even less. You counted your graces that it was far too late to even go anyway.

thank you for letting me know. unfortunately, i think i’ll sit this one out. please keep me posted though.

She responded almost immediately.

Detective Lawson: Once again, no worries. Take care of yourself. I’ll reach out after with news.

thank you

You went back to scrolling through the rest of your notifications.

Mom: 17 Missed Calls

Dad: 14 Missed Calls

Shit. Opening your group chat with your parents, you were surprised that there were only three messages.

Mom: Can you please talk to us?

Dad: We saw the news. We’re worried about you.  Dad: Talk to us when you can.

The last time you’d spoken to your parents was early last week, right before your world turned further to shit. They never pried about your personal life when you were younger—not that you felt like they cared much about school drama and boys, anyway—but they still looked out for you. Once you were 18 and off to college on your own, they let you loose. 

Growing up, they weren’t the most perfect parents, but they were good enough. Lenient, but cautious was how they described it. It was a blessing and a curse — your friends wished their parents trusted them as much as yours did, but you somewhat wished they were a bit harder on you. It felt stupid to complain about good parents who weren’t overbearing, who trusted you to be safe and make good decisions. It was what they taught you to do, after all, but your independence became a habit of isolating yourself. You eventually learned to deal with a lot of things on your own, not wanting to burden them with their busy lives and careers, and they simply assumed they had a happy daughter. You believed it was better that way.

They only got more worried while you were in college, your actions placing a wedge between you and them. When you told them you needed to move out of your dorm as soon as possible, they begged you to tell them what happened. You chalked it up to affordability, saying their money was better spent on your apartment than an overpriced room in a residence hall. You also argued that it was closer to work and not far from campus, allowing you to have your own space and not worry about finding one after graduation in May. It wasn’t insanely convincing, but it was enough to get their approval. 

Your mom tried to get it out of you as best as she could while helping you settle in, not wanting to seem like she was attempting to force it out of you. She never did, but you couldn’t tell her one thing without having to spill everything. It was better left unsaid. She and your dad eventually stopped asking, but contacted you more often to check in, asking about life, friends, your job, and most importantly, how you were doing. It was everything you’d wished they did when you were a kid, but far too late to remove your die-hard habits of facing the waters alone.

You decided not to reply, not knowing what to say but also aware that this conversation wasn’t best to have through text message or over the phone. Shaking your head, you moved through everything else.

A few texts in the group with your friends—nothing important to draw attention to, updates in your email inbox about Thanksgiving break and the finals schedule from the Dean’s Office and professors, and some more data from other colleges in the state.

But then you saw it.

An email from Oscorp, specifically from Norman Osborn’s office. Your boss.

The man who you quite literally have never met in person was now sitting in your fucking email inbox with an ‘Urgent’ subject line that made your heart drop to your ass.

From: The Office of Dr. Norman Obsorn Subject: Urgent Hello, Y/N,  Mr. Osborn is urgently requesting your presence in his office at your earliest availability. He is free all week until Thursday and Friday.  He would like to discuss a file that was sent to him personally over email recently. I was specifically instructed to inform you of said file. Thank you. Best, Felicia Hardy

A file. You knew it could only be the file, and suddenly there was a burning sensation in your chest and a ringing in your ear that made you double over. A pained whimper escaped your mouth, the pricked feeling at the back of your eyes as they filled with tears. 

You didn’t notice when Natasha came in, or when your breathing became erratic and you started crying, or when your phone slipped out of your right hand as you palmed your chest with your left. 

Natasha was kneeling in front of you as you sobbed, still leaning forward, gripping onto one of your knees in a failed attempt to ground yourself. She cupped your face, rubbing your tears away with her thumbs while she begged you to look at her. You didn’t remember shutting your eyes. 

Natasha called out for Steve to bring in a glass of water. You managed to hear the front door as she did so, assuming he’d just walked in. A few moments later, she was taking the glass from him and pressing it to your lips, urging you to drink. You didn’t fight it.

Once you calmed down, you opened your eyes. Your cheeks felt warm, only meaning your face was probably flushed.

“What the fuck happened?” Natasha said. Her tone wasn’t accusatory, but rather insanely concerned.

“He sent it.”

She furrowed her eyebrows, shaking her head as her eyes scanned your face.

“Who sent what?”

“Atlas,” you choked out, your eyes blurring again. “He sent the tape. To Osborn.”

“What?” She spat. 

“His assistant emailed me about it yesterday morning and I didn’t see it because I wasn’t on my phone and now he wants to meet with me and–”

“How the fuck did he do that while sleeping in a jail cell?” Steve butted in. 

You shrugged, Natasha moving to sit next to you and wrap you in a hug. 

“It’s okay, everything is gonna be fine,” she assured you as she rubbed your arm in her embrace. “We should tell the Detective, maybe?”

You nodded, moving to pick up your phone from the floor to send Detective Lawson a message.

hi, i know you’re most likely at the arraignment but i have to tell you something. it might be important.

You sighed after sending the message, rubbing your eyes. 

“I should’ve stayed in bed,” you said in defeat, picking a piece of lint off your jeans.

Natasha and Steve shared a pained look, one you missed from your willful lack of attention. 

“I’m sorry,” Natasha said, moving a piece of your hair out of your face. “We’re gonna fix this, okay? In any way that we can.”

“There’s nothing to fix, Nat,” you exclaimed as you shook your head, still not meeting her gaze. “What’s done is done.”

Before she could reply, your phone buzzed. 

Detective Lawson: The arraignment just concluded. Bail set for $250,000. His family is expected to pay for it. I’m so sorry.  Detective Lawson: What did you want to tell me? Is everything alright?

“He’s gonna get out on bail,” you said softly, earning a scoff from Natasha and a facepalm from Steve while you replied.

my boss’s assistant reached out to me saying he wants to talk to me about a file he was sent. i think it might be the tape, and i don’t really know what to do

Detective Lawson: We should make sure that it is the tape before doing anything. When was it sent?

i’m not sure. i was emailed about it yesterday morning.

Detective Lawson: If it was sent, that’s a charge that the prosecution can add to his case. Meet with your boss and let me know. I will move to request a warrant anyway.

okay. thank you.

You didn’t say anything after sending the message, only sniffling as you locked your phone. Natasha and Steve didn’t speak either. You closed your eyes to take a few deep breaths, clearly needing a moment of silence to keep your mind from spiraling further. 

After a few minutes and breaths, you opened your eyes. 

“I have to talk to Osborn,” you spoke, your voice more firm than expected. 

“Do you want us to come with you?” Natasha asked. 

Once again, you didn’t fight it. You knew she was just worried. 

“Just to sit in the car and wait for me outside, if that’s okay?” You offered, not wanting to shut them out after they made the effort to take care of you. 

Steve and Natasha both nodded in response.

Norman Osborn seemed more like a myth than a real person. You’d never spoken to him directly, always through his assistant — she intimidated you a bit too, very much someone who tolerated zero bullshit and did things her own way. At least she was nice. 

When you were reached out with a grant opportunity from Oscorp, you were definitely shocked. Their company was more science-based, with chemistry labs, biological studies, and more. Some people could argue that psychology is a science, but definitely more social than biological. 

The main stipulations of the grant included ways of expanding your study — it started as an analysis of different factors that affect mental stability in college students. The factors varied from the students’ families to their majors, whether they lived on or off campus, how they were paying for their studies, and more. It was beyond extensive, your presentation earlier in the semester showed it. After all, it was 3 years in the making, and probably the biggest research conducted by any psychology student in your university’s history. Your professors all loved it, throwing in their connections to help you gather the data necessary and speaking wonderful things about you to the Institutional Review Board.

Oscorp had been painted in a less-than-favorable light at the time, with rumors circulating about his mental state and its impact on the company after the passing of his wife, Emily. Other suitors told you it was social suicide getting involved with them, let alone adding things to your research for them. But they were offering you a $400,000 grant, substantially larger than any other company — a grant usually apportioned to direct science studies being offered to you, a psychology student. Unheard of and quite frankly the quickest yes you’ve ever said. 

The expansion of your research wasn’t overbearing either: they requested that your research be expanded into the biology field to include physical illnesses or ailments (as your current data only included mental ones) and genetic makeups. It was more for show, really — a good reason for the company to convince their donors the investment was worthwhile.

Throughout the process of finalizing the grant and starting to work, you’d never met Mr. Osborn. You saw pictures of him throughout the building, heard a few stories from some colleagues who worked in the labs, and even caught a glimpse of his teen son once or twice. Other than that, he was a mystery.

Which only made sense of why you had to stop yourself from trembling in anxiety in the only elevator that led to his office. 

Norman Osborn had an entire floor to himself, an unsurprising fact to you as he was CEO of the company and worth billions of dollars. You would want some privacy too. 

Walking out of the elevator, you saw Felicia. Her platinum hair was as voluminous as you’d ever seen, and her eyes were laser-focused on her computer before she noticed your presence. She gave you a smirk.

“You showed,” she stated, surprise dripping from her tone and the smirk still on her face. “You can go right in, he’s not expecting anyone else.”

Way to soften the blow.

You ignored the twist of your stomach after she spoke, simply pushing the office door to walk inside. Norman was staring out the windows at the New York City skyline, ceiling-to-floor ones like those in your own office. He turned to look over his shoulder when the door shut, staring right at you.

His expression was unreadable, and you were sure he’d trained himself to do so over the years. He was in a dark grey suit, emerald green button-up underneath, with a black tie. He gave you a small grin and nod.

“You showed,” he said, the same words Felicia had said to you just a few minutes before. 

“I didn’t think there was a choice,” you said, your voice smaller than you intended. 

He raised his eyebrows. “There wasn’t. Most people do quit on the spot, however.”

Your eyes widened before you blinked the shocked expression off your face. He chuckled.

“Nothing to be scared of,” he moved from his position near the window, walking in front of his desk and towards you, an outstretched hand for you to shake. You did. “It’s nice to finally meet you, our star scientist.”

You gave him a half-smile after he pulled his hand, one that didn’t reach your eyes.

“I don’t really consider myself a scientist.”

“Nonsense,” he waved his hand in playful disapproval. “Everyone here’s a scientist. Some are just better than others.”

You didn’t respond, just took up space.

“Sorry,” you quickly mended your silence. “I just didn’t know what to expect from— well, this meeting.”

Norman crossed the room to sit at his desk, gesturing for you to take a seat as well. Once you did, he leaned back in his chair, a pensive look now adorning his face.

“Are you aware that someone is trying to ruin the career that you are currently building?” 

If your heart wasn’t in your ass already, it was now. You started to bob your knee up and down instinctively, subconsciously. He noticed.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Mr. Osborn, sir, I’m really sorry–”

He silenced you by putting his hand up. You were suddenly very aware of your heart pulsing through your chest. He didn’t speak, the thoughtful expression still there as he stared off into space. 

The silence was killing you as your own, sabotaging thoughts raced through your mind, blaring through your head.

Maybe he brought you here as a test. He mentioned that most people just quit instead of meeting with him. You hadn’t. Maybe that saved your ass from losing three years’ worth of work that you’d have to give up to the company only six months before facing the real world. 

But maybe he also didn’t want another scandal. Couldn’t handle his company being the face of rumors and turmoil again after staying clear of it for months. Couldn’t handle the backlash that would come with a sex tape of the student they decided to take a gamble on. 

You tried to slow your breathing, not wanting to have a panic attack in front of maybe the world’s least emotional man. 

After a few moments, Norman sighed. Then he looked at you.

“I don’t like reckless people,” he said firmly. Your anxiety couldn’t register the difference between him talking and someone stabbing you in the stomach. “That… tape— it was reckless. I didn’t watch it, I knew what it was, but I think you’re aware of its recklessness. I can see by the look on your face that you regret it.”

You didn’t say anything.

“Despite that,” he continued, “I don’t see you as a reckless person. Your work is flawless and calculated with the finest precision despite the number of variables involved. It became only more flawless with the variables we added. You’re always prompt with your arrival, early most of the time. You stay late every day. Your research is about to reach a lot more people.”

You couldn’t tell where he was going with his speech. It wasn’t negative by any means, but it wasn’t exactly soothing.

“So tell me,” he said after a pause. “How exactly did you allow someone to coerce you into a reckless decision, and then piss them off so much that they decided to try to ruin your career by sending it to me?”

You sighed. 

“I’m sorry—”

“No apologies,” he cut you off. “You’re not in trouble. Your job isn’t in jeopardy. I just want details.”

Well, that’s a relief. 

You took a deep breath before explaining. The collection of your thoughts only started as a ramble, a rant you’d been holding onto for weeks, and one you had to stop yourself from performing before speaking. He didn’t need all the information, just what was relevant.

“I had a lapse in judgment,” you started. “I let my emotions and feelings for a person overtake my sense of agency and what I wish I would’ve done. It was reckless and I should’ve known better, but I can’t take it back now.”

Norman looked surprised after the last bit. 

Once he didn’t comment, you continued. 

“I was being blackmailed with that tape for weeks on end. I didn’t know what to do, so much so that I didn’t confide in anyone. Not family, not friends, and surely not the authorities. What pissed him off was when I finally did. I guess this was his form of retaliation.”

“Wouldn’t you be the one retaliating?”

“I’m sorry?”

He sat up straight.

“You are the one who was threatened, not this individual. You retaliated. You stood up for yourself.”

If you were being honest, nothing you did over the course of last weekend was for yourself. If Bucky weren’t in danger, you’d probably still be a puppet on Atlas’s string. Bucky’s life was worth preserving. You had already made all the wrong choices — he hadn’t. But you didn’t tell Norman that. It wasn’t relevant. 

So you nodded once.

“Right,” you said, though you didn’t exactly agree. “You’re right.”

“I’m going to take the tape to the authorities,” he added. “I’m sure you have a number I can contact?”

“Yes,” you said while pulling out your phone. “I already told the Detective overseeing the case about it. I can give her your contact info.”

“Okay,” he stood. “I have one more question.”

You looked up at him after sending the message to Detective Lawson.

“Bucky Barnes, how is he holding up?”

Your mouth opened but nothing came out, prompting you to shut it again. You shrugged.

“I don’t know really,” you admitted. “I hear he’s okay.”

Norman didn’t question it, just bowed his head once.

“Thank you,” he acknowledged, before gesturing to the door as you stood. “You’re free to go. But if you need any legal assistance for any of this, please let me know.”

“Thanks,” you looked back while walking towards the door to leave. “Sir.”

“No need,” he shook his head. “Have a good holiday.”

After thanking him again, you exited his office. Felicia was no longer at her desk, and you were kind of relieved. Taking the elevator back downstairs, you thought about passing by your office and collecting some things to get work done at home.

But then you remembered the last time you were in there. With Bucky. Your last night of peace, of feeling normal. Every thought of him was all too consuming, and you couldn’t bear to be reminded of him further.

Sighing to yourself, you pressed the ‘L’ button in the elevator, taking a moment to appreciate the silent buzz of the machine distracting you. You closed your eyes until the doors opened again, walking out into the lobby and heading towards the exit.

Steve and Natasha were parked outside, having come back just in time after heading to see Bucky momentarily, the hospital being 5 minutes away.

You climbed into the backseat, shutting the car door and putting your seatbelt on. Leaning your head on the headrest, you exhaled deeply. 

“How is he?” You asked before they could question you themselves.

“He’s alright,” Steve answered softly. “How about you? How’d it go?”

“Yeah, did you get fired?” Natasha joked, turning to glare at you playfully.

“No,” you answered. “He just wanted to know why it happened. Everything’s all good.”

“That’s good,” Steve said with a small smile. He seemed more relieved than you at that moment. 

“I wasn’t in there for long, but did I miss anything?” 

Natasha and Steve shared a look, shrugging at each other while they communicated with their eyes. You always told them that they looked like a married couple, but this solidified it.

“Well—” Steve started.

“Your parents were at the hospital,” Natasha blurted out.

“What?” You asked incredulously.

“Your mom called me while we were walking to Bucky’s room and then they both saw us, asking if you were with us,” Natasha explained. “We said no, told them you were in a work meeting.”

“They said you never told them about what happened,” Steve cut in. “Is that true?”

You shrugged hesitantly. 

“I didn’t know what to say to them.”

“They’re your parents,” Natasha emphasized. “They said you’ve been icing them out since—”

“Since I lost all of my friends?” You interrupted, your tone harsher than you wanted it to be. “I was tired, I was lonely, and I didn’t know how to ask for help, let alone ask them. They didn’t need to deal with all of that, or me losing you guys, or what happened to Bucky.”

“They wanted to hear it from you,” Natasha pushed.

“But I’m assuming they heard it from you guys, didn’t they?”

“Bucky told them,” Steve interjected. “He’d already told them everything by the time we got there.” 

“Of course,” you said, less than amused and your ear ringing again.

“You didn’t even tell them why you moved out.”

“What was I supposed to tell them, Nat?” You spat harshly. “God forbid if I didn’t want to keep drowning for one moment in my life.”

“They’re your parents—”

“And I needed them away from it all,” you cut her off. “I didn’t want them worrying about me, I was handling it on my own.”

“How’s that working out for you?” Natasha said, causing you to pull your brows together. “Don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true. You’re still drowning in it. It doesn’t hurt to have extra hands to help you.”

“It does,” you said curtly, turning to look out of the window. “Can we go home now?”

Natasha scoffed, turning back in her seat. Steve didn’t say a word, just put the car into drive and took off. 

You’d hoped to move on from the thought of your parents until your phone buzzed.

Mom: We hope we’ll see you for Thanksgiving at our place. We’re not mad. Just worried Mom: We hope we can talk. Love you

i’m sorry. i’ll be there. love you too.

Dad: Nothing to apologize for. We love you. We’ll see you Thursday kiddo

You locked your phone and closed your eyes until you were home.

Once you’d made it back to your apartment, Natasha started looking through the takeout menus from one of your kitchen drawers. Steve headed back to the hospital where the rest of your friends were, not wanting them to take the train in the dark. 

She was clearly occupying herself with anything other than talking to you, your regret creeping up your neck as you walked into the kitchen to face her from the opposite side of the island.

“I’m sorry,” you said, her eyes moving from the counter to meet yours. “You’re beating yourself up to make sure I’m okay, and I’m grateful for it. I’m just—”

“Tired,” she finished your sentence. “Mentally. Physically. I get it. It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” you pushed back. “Yes, I’m tired. But that doesn’t mean I have to be nasty towards you when you’re just trying to help.”

“You’re not yourself anymore,” Natasha pressed. “You walk with caution now, on eggshells around all of us when we’re not going to harm you. And it pains me when I see it because he did that to you.”

Rocking on your heels, you scratched the back of your head.

“I feel like I don’t know what to do with myself anymore,” you admitted softly. 

Natasha knew you were blaming yourself over Bucky, but you hadn’t talked about Atlas. To anyone. The only person you somewhat spoke about him to was Detective Lawson, but even then, you weren’t venting. You were giving her mostly facts. Everything else was bottled up. 

“It’s like I’m scared he’s gonna come back,” you continued your thought. “I’m scared he’s gonna walk free and find a way back in my life again. I don’t know how to… live normally anymore. My only sense of normal again was—”

You cut yourself off. 

“Bucky,” Natasha finished for you once more. “Your only sense of normal was Bucky. And he took that from you, too, so you’re scared to do it again.”

You nodded, looking around the room to avoid her stare. 

“I forgive you,” she changed the subject. “I wasn’t mad, just frustrated. Annoyed. But I also cut you a lot of slack because I can’t imagine dealing with what you’ve dealt with for the past several weeks.” 

“I won’t snap at you again, I promise.”

“I know,” she said, her mouth momentarily twitching upwards. “Now give me a hug.”

Half-smiling at her, you walked around the kitchen island to her embrace. She squeezed you like she always did, but this time it felt like she was trying her best to ground you. 

“Can I be honest with you?” She asked right before pulling away from the hug, her hands on your shoulders.

“Mhm.”

“I think you should talk to him,” she said hesitantly, your eyes widening in response. “No, no, not him. Bucky.”

“Oh,” you exhaled. 

“He asked about you again, when you were with Osborn,” she revealed. “We didn’t tell him what happened, but he was worried. He is worried, and he’s driving himself crazy in that hospital room thinking that you hate him. We all tell him that you don’t, but he doesn’t believe it.”

With a rough exhale, you tilted your head, staring up at the ceiling. 

“I don’t know what to say to him,” you confessed, looking back at Natasha. “I can’t lie to him. I can’t look him in the face and not tell him that I feel like I did this to him.”

“But you didn’t. He’s going to tell you the same.”

“I wish that would change how I feel, but he wouldn’t have thrown himself to the wolves if it weren’t for me.”

Natasha sighed. “Watching the both of you hate yourselves on each other’s behalf is grueling.”

You stared at her in confusion.

“You blame yourself for what happened to him and he’s blaming himself for what happened to you,” she elaborated. “That’s no way to live. This situation is fucking insane yet you two don’t blame that blonde-haired demon sitting comfortably in his house after his parents paid all the money in the world for him to not sleep in a prison cell.”

Natasha moved to cup your cheeks before continuing.

“You need each other,” she said as a matter of factly, “even if it isn’t romantically. Nobody is telling you guys to get back together or pretend like all of this didn’t happen, but talking to each other is how you figure things out and heal. You experienced all of this together, so get through it together. Talk to him. Even if it’s just over the phone.”

There were no words you wanted to say, just a mindless nod.

“I’m gonna order dinner now since everyone’s probably on their way back,” she said, removing her hands from your face and moving back to the takeout menus. “Chinese okay?”

“Yeah,” you agreed. 

“Okay.”

While Natasha called the Chinese place from down the block to place an order, you walked back to your room, grabbing your laptop. You had some data to put into your spreadsheet for Oscorp, needing to busy yourself with something you knew would take time. 

After working diligently for about 15 minutes, Natasha stood in the doorway.

“I’m gonna go pick up the food and wait for everyone downstairs,” she said. “You working?”

“Yeah, might as well.”

“Alright, I’ll let you stay this time,” she shrugged her coat back on. “Call Steve if anything happens.”

“Don’t think anything’s gonna happen in less than 20 minutes,” you retorted, earning you a serious Romanoff glare that had you putting your hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay.”

“See you in a few,” she smiled after you yielded, leaving the apartment right after.

Alone in your apartment for the first time in almost a week, you rubbed your face with your hands. Your work was distracting, but not enough as Natasha’s words from earlier replayed in your head.

“Talk to him. Even if it’s just over the phone.”

Once the data on your screen started to stare back at you, you sighed and picked up your phone. Opening your message thread with Bucky, the messages you’d sent on Friday night made you even sadder. Especially the last one.

I’m so sorry.

The sentiment still rang true, like you knew what was to come while sitting on that bench, staring as the city lights reflected off the lake water. 

You clicked on the bubble, staring as the caret blinked at you, waiting for you to type something. 

There was no need to write anything extensive, you knew the words wouldn’t come. They’d be a mess, nonsensical. You decided to be simple.

hi. i hope you’re doing okay. i’m thinking of you. 

You stared at it for about half a minute before pressing the blue arrow. He’d read it almost instantly. 

The three dots to indicate he was typing stayed for about a minute. Then they disappeared. About 3 minutes passed without a word, the read receipt mocking your attempt. 

You were about to give up and lock your phone when it started ringing, Bucky’s contact photo filling the screen. It was a photo from the year before, on Bucky’s birthday. He had cake on his nose, his cheeks red from blushing, and the biggest shit-eating grin on his face while he was kissing your cheek. It was your favorite picture of him.

While staring at the picture, you almost forgot to answer. Truth be told, you weren’t sure if you wanted to, but you did it anyway.

Neither of you spoke right away. You could only assume Bucky wasn’t expecting you to reach out, calling you in an attempt to make sure it was really you. That he wasn’t making it up.

You cracked first.

“Hello?”

No response. 

From the read receipt to this, you also weren’t sure if you were making this up. 

“Hello…?” You repeated, your voice more uncertain. “Bucky? Are you there?”

A pause. Then you heard him exhale through the speaker. 

“Hi, prinţesă.”

[manicali]

Because twisted daydreams and lrsk can’t come out for another decade and who knows if I’ll be alive or if animation will still exist or if we’ll be controlled by robots and be crushed under the boots of the rich for making art Im gonna probably make mini comics for them. As a treat.

[clovesnz]

There is something about having the power to make someone feel okay, and someone having the power to make you feel okay.

Cupping someone’s face and kissing their forehead and watching the tension in them dissipate and the simple relief of being touched, and held, and cared for.

Crawling into someone’s arms and just feeling yourself melt. A caress of your face so tender it’s as if it smoothed all the sharp and painful feelings in you.

I’ve had someone drive across town to me at one in the morning just to sit with me while I cried.

And even though it was a night that I felt horrible, the memory of it is kept in the same place as my happy memories, because I remember feeling so warm, and so taken care of, it was like the rest could just melt away after that.

I’ve tended to someone while they were bedridden, cheered them up when they felt so shitty physically, spent every day with them, cooked all their meals, all so that they would be okay, and feel okay, and I would do it a hundred times over.

[ant---tenna]

does anyone else ever feel like they need to do everything at once becuase theyre running out of time???

[confines]

one of my major goals socially is to never make someone feel like they're an inconvenience or like their preferences or needs cause me trouble. i really enjoy making people feel welcome especially if they normally have been made to feel unwelcome by our shitty society. and for the most part, other people's preferences/needs not only have no negative impact on my life but are also easy to accomodate. my loved ones, however, all seem to either pick fun at me and be rude to me when i need accommodations OR in an effort to be kind to me, make lots of decisions for me in ways that do not help me and then get frustrated with me when these accommodations don't work. so what's that about.

[coridallasmultipass]

.

[geneviveleocardius]

crying over movies

and pregnant with simon riley’s baby

the sound of your sobs cuts through the quiet of the house, sharp and raw. simon drops the knife he’s been using to chop vegetables, his heart lurching in his chest. it’s not unusual for you to cry these days—pregnancy hormones have been working overtime—but this… this is different. this is gut-wrenching, the kind of crying that makes his pulse race with worry.

he rushes into the living room, where he left you curled up on the couch watching after sun. the sight that greets him stops him in his tracks. you’re a mess, your face red and blotchy, tears streaming down your cheeks, big eyes wide and glassy as you clutch a pillow like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

“love?” his voice is low, calm despite the panic clawing at his chest. he crouches in front of you, his hands reaching out to cradle your face. “what’s wrong? is it the baby? are you in pain?”

you shake your head frantically, your sobs hitching as you try to speak. “n-no, it’s not—” a deep breath, and then another sob escapes. “it’s not the baby. it’s—oh my god, simon, it’s just—”

he watches you, his brows furrowed, utterly baffled. “just what?”

“the movie!” you wail, throwing your arms up dramatically. “it was so sad, simon! and—and then i started thinking about us and the baby and—and—oh my god, you’re never gonna be a single parent, okay? i’m never leaving you!”

his eyes widen at the declaration, and he blinks, stunned. “what tha—?”

“and you have to promise me, simon,” you cut him off, your voice shaky but insistent. “if something’s ever bothering you, you’re gonna tell me, right? we’re a team, and i love you so damn much, okay? you can’t ever leave me, because i’d just—” a hiccup. “i’d die without you!”

he stares at you, his lips parted slightly, trying to process the flood of emotions pouring out of you. he’s used to your mood swings by now—the tears over burnt toast, the laughter that turned into crying because of a stupid dog video—but this? this is a whole new level.

you’re still sobbing, your breaths coming in hiccupping gasps, and his heart aches in a way he doesn’t quite understand. “love, you’re gonna hyperventilate,” he mutters, sitting beside you and pulling you into his arms. you melt into him instantly, your hands clutching at his shirt as you bury your face against his chest.

“i mean it, simon,” you mumble, your voice muffled by his shirt. “i’ll never leave you. you’re stuck with me forever.”

he lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest. “bloody hell, i should hope so. wouldn’t have married you otherwise, yeah?”

“and the baby,” you continue, ignoring his attempt to lighten the mood. “we’re gonna be the best parents, and—and if you ever think i’m not doing enough, you have to tell me, okay? i’ll do better. i swear.”

“sweetheart,” he says softly, leaning back so he can tilt your face up to look at him. your tear-streaked cheeks and swollen eyes might look like a disaster to anyone else, but to him, you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “you’re more than enough. you’re everything. and you’re not going anywhere, yeah? we’re fine. we’re better than fine.”

your lower lip trembles, and more tears spill over. “i just—i love you so damn much, simon. you can’t ever leave me. promise me.”

he exhales, a soft huff of disbelief, before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “you’re unbelievable, you know that?” he mutters against your skin. “but alright. i promise. i’m not going anywhere, and neither are you. happy?”

you nod, sniffling, and wrap your arms tighter around him. “so happy.”

he holds you close, his large hands rubbing slow circles on your back as your sobs gradually quiet into soft hiccups. he’s still not entirely sure how you got from a movie to this existential meltdown, but one thing’s for sure: he wouldn’t trade this chaotic, hormonal, beautiful mess for anything.

[cameronsbabydoll]

can u do smth where ditzy reader tries to break up with drew bc she thinks that’s what he wants. and she’s like crying and stuff during jt and drew is like confused and then she explains and he’s just like sooo sweet and babying to her? (i have daddy issues so yes i wanna be comforted by a man)

SUGARGLASS ❀

drew starkey x younger!ditzy!reader

warnings: emotional vulnerability, insecurity/self-esteem issues, crying, implied age gap (older!drew x younger!reader), hints of public judgment/paparazzi drama, comfort after a self-initiated breakup attempt, daddy issues undertone, possessive/comforting male partner, affectionate pet names

you don’t even look him in the eye when you say it.

you’re standing in the kitchen—his kitchen, technically—wearing one of his hoodies and socks with little bows on the back, and your lip gloss is smeared from crying and wiping your nose on your sleeve. and you’ve got your stupid pink suitcase by the door like some kind of dramatic goodbye scene.

“i think we should break up,” you whisper.

it comes out so tiny. so shaky.

and drew just… blinks.

he’s still leaning against the counter with a half-empty glass of water, staring at you like you just told him the sky was purple. “what?”

you sniff. “i just think—i mean, i know you’re really busy, and you’re, like… older. and smart. and serious. and i’m just—” your voice cracks, and you shake your head hard. “—i’m just a distraction. and you don’t want someone like me forever.”

he sets the glass down. slowly. like he’s trying not to spook you.

“sweetheart,” he says gently. “come here.”

you shake your head again. “no, because i get it. i do. i know people laugh at us. i know your friends think i’m dumb. and i can’t even answer interview questions right and i forget things and i’m always asking stupid stuff and—and sometimes i don’t even know why you like me.”

his jaw clenches at that, but he keeps his voice soft. “baby.”

you finally look at him. tears spilling out of your big, glassy eyes, lashes clumped. you look like a heartbroken doll.

“you don’t have to explain,” you say, breath hitching. “i’ll just go. i’ll—i’ll pack up the rest of my stuff later. i left the pink toothbrush but it’s okay i can get another one—”

“baby.”

his voice is firmer this time, cutting through the panic spiral in your chest.

before you can start rambling again, he walks over and cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he’s trying to soothe the crying right out of you.

“i don’t want you to leave.”

you sniff again. “you don’t?”

“no. god, no.” his eyes are so gentle. “you think i care what anyone else thinks? you think i want someone who’s cold and serious and boring?” he tilts your chin up. “i like your sparkles. i like that you ask silly questions. i like when you call your lip liner your ‘little brown crayon.’”

you hiccup a laugh, even though your mascara’s a mess and your heart’s still aching. “you… do?”

he kisses the tip of your nose. “yes, angel. and i love that you’re soft and sweet and real. so stop trying to talk yourself out of being loved, okay? because i’m not going anywhere.”

your bottom lip wobbles. “but i thought maybe i was annoying—”

“you are.” he grins. “you’re the most adorable, clingy, loud little thing i’ve ever met. and you’re mine.”

then he picks you up—literally just lifts you off the floor and cradles you like a baby while you cling to him and sniffle against his neck.

“we’re not breaking up,” he murmurs into your hair. “you hear me?”

you nod, soft and melty in his arms. “m’kay.”

“good girl.”

[dailymanners]

I've gotten a few notes on a few different posts where someone in the tags brags about intentionally "body checking" someone else when they're in their way.

For example on a post I made about leaving the way clear for people exiting elevators or public transportation instead of standing right in front of the door blocking it I got a few notes from people saying "haha yeah I always give someone a good body check if they do this and I love seeing the shocked and offended look on their face"

or on a post about leaving room for the flow of traffic I had people in the notes bragging about giving "body checks" to people in their way on a sidewalk or in a hallway.

Do. Not. Ever. Ever. EVER intentionally bump into people aka give them a "body check". Anyone who brags about this kind of behavior in my notes is getting blocked. You are literally physically assaulting someone and then bragging about it. Physically assaulting another person is actually a lot worse than accidentally being in someone's way, and I have no tolerance for it.

The times in my life where someone has intentionally "body checked" me have been when I was disassociating and/or about to pass out from low blood sugar, or quite literally was as far off to the side as possible (literally up against a wall or packed up against other people in a crowded area) and every time this has happened it has ended in me having a full blown panic attack that I need to take emergency meds to come down from due to my PTSD.

You never know why someone could be in your way. They could be visually impaired. They could be disassociating. They could be about to pass out from low blood sugar. They maybe just experienced a disturbing or traumatic event that's shut down their pre-frontal cortext. All sorts of things. So congrats I guess on physically assaulting someone who might be disabled or disassociating or about to faint from low blood sugar. You sure are showing them.

Not only that, but it's unsafe for you too. There are violent and unstable people in this world, and you might "body check" the wrong person one day. I had a friend in secondary school who would brag about this kind of behavior, and when I was talking to my aunt about it one day she said to me "one day your friend is going to do that to the wrong person and find herself cleaning herself up off the floor."

And if you're only "body checking" people you think it's "safe" to, people who you're pretty sure won't be able to fight back? People smaller and weaker looking than you? Congrats, not only are you definitely a bully then, but you're also perpetuating systems of social injustices in this world like ageism and ableism by only going after "the weak".

[marylxvrr]

" BOUND TO THE THRONE "

𐙚 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐑 — an all-powerful sovereign who bends entire empires to his will but becomes dangerously unhinged when it comes to you, stopping at nothing—manipulation, imprisonment, or war—to ensure you never leave his grasp . . .

𐙚Trigger Warnings: Obsession, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, implied captivity, threats of violence, and possessiveness.

The grandeur of the imperial palace was breathtaking, with its golden halls and ceilings that stretched so high you could swear they touched the heavens. But you weren’t here to admire its beauty. You were a lowly palace worker, tasked with cleaning and maintaining this vast kingdom’s heart.

Your role was simple, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Or so you thought.

It started innocently enough. A glance here, a word there. The emperor, revered as a god among men, seemed to have a habit of lingering near you. His piercing gaze, sharper than any blade, often found you in the crowd of workers, no matter how much you tried to blend in.

At first, you convinced yourself it was paranoia. Why would someone as powerful as Emperor Kael, ruler of the largest empire in the world, take an interest in someone like you?

But then came the gifts.

An expensive bracelet placed neatly on your work desk, a necklace far too extravagant for a mere servant, and silken robes fit for royalty—all delivered anonymously. You didn’t need a note to know who they were from.

It was unnerving. You tried to refuse, even leaving the gifts in your quarters untouched, but it didn’t stop. If anything, the emperor seemed to grow bolder.

One day, while polishing the marble floors of the grand throne room, you felt it—that familiar, suffocating presence.

“You work harder than anyone else here,” his deep voice echoed, making your hands freeze mid-scrub.

You slowly turned to see him standing there, his imposing figure framed by the grand throne behind him. His regal robes flowed as if the very air bowed to his presence, and his golden eyes locked onto yours with a mixture of amusement and something... darker.

“Your Majesty,” you stammered, quickly lowering your head. “I’m simply doing my duty.”

“Is that all you think you are to me?” he asked, his tone calm but carrying an undercurrent of something dangerous.

You dared to glance up, confusion etched on your face. “I’m not sure what you mean, Your Majesty.”

He stepped closer, each stride deliberate, until he was towering over you. His gloved hand reached out, tilting your chin up so your eyes met his.

“You’re more than just a worker,” he murmured, his gaze intense. “You’ve captivated me in a way no one else ever has.”

Your breath caught in your throat, panic bubbling up. “Your Majesty, I—”

“Do you know how many nobles have tried to win my favor?” he interrupted, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “How many have offered their lives, their wealth, their everything to stand where you are now? Yet none of them matter to me. Only you.”

His words sent a chill down your spine. This wasn’t admiration—it was possession.

“Your Majesty, I am unworthy of such attention,” you said, trying to step back, but his grip on your chin tightened ever so slightly.

“You don’t get to decide what you’re worthy of,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “That’s for me to decide.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but his other hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Don’t you see, Y/n?” he said, his tone softening, though his eyes remained as intense as ever. “You’re mine. You always have been. I’ve watched you, admired your dedication, your kindness. And now that I have you, I won’t let anyone take you away from me.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you realized the full extent of his obsession. This wasn’t love—it was control, a twisted desire to claim you as his own.

“You can’t force me to stay,” you whispered, though your voice trembled with fear.

He chuckled softly, his hand moving to cradle your face. “Can’t I? I am the emperor, Y/n. No one disobeys me. No one touches what is mine.”

Tears welled in your eyes as his words sank in. You were trapped, bound to him not by choice, but by the sheer weight of his power.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your forehead. “I’ll take care of you. Protect you. You’ll never have to lift a finger again. Just stay by my side, and I’ll give you the world.”

But all you wanted was freedom.

As he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you like a cage, you realized there was no escaping him. He was your emperor, your captor, and in his eyes, your savior.

And he would never let you go.

[jihyoruri]

❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ UNTITLED kim chaewon x reader

❀ ͘ ⴰ previous chapters | richgirl ⭢ that girl (she’s delicious) ⭢ idon’t smoke ⭢ pretty when you cry ⭢ homesick ⭢ super rich kids ⭢ girl, so confusing ⭢ consume (bonus) ⭢ take your mask off ⭢ carmen

↳ warnings richgirl!yn, eunchae and yn (…) , angst, guilt, a lot of confusion, over working, mentions of fainting, mentions of not eating, more guilt , alcohol, panic attacks

the beat of the music filled the practice room, accompanied by the steady sound of yn’s footsteps of her soft breathing.

slumped against the wall, eunchae took a slow sip of her water, her gaze fixed on yn’s fluid movements. each step was sharp yet effortless, every transition seamless. was it envy that stirred in her chest? or admiration? maybe both.

eunchae struggled to make sense of her feelings toward yn. for the longest time, she never really questioned them, they weren’t truly hers to begin with. they had been shaped by the group, molded by offhand comments, especially from chaewon.

but lately, as she got older, she started to realize that maybe just maybe she didn’t actually feel the way she thought she did.

if she was being honest, she thought yn was pretty cool. her confidence on stage was something eunchae found herself watching closely, analyzing every movement, every expression. there were times she wanted to ask for advice, to learn how yn carried herself with such ease. but she never did. she wasn’t sure how the others would react.

yn’s work ethic wasn’t something the girls ever praised. in fact, it was barely acknowledged at all.

which kind of sucked. eunchae would never admit it, but she paid a lot of attention to yn.

she noticed things the other girls probably didn’t the way yn’s shoulders tensed ever so slightly when someone brought up her family, the look in her eyes, like stars that were about burst and not in a good way, but it was very hypnotizing it was even more obvious when she looked at chaewon.

she noticed the hospital bracelets that would sometimes appear on yn’s wrist, the way she never mentioned them, how no one ever asked. she noticed how yn never cried, not once.

there were times when she wanted to ask yn what was wrong why she wore that hospital bracelet, why her whole body seemed to tense at the mere mention of her family. but she never did. she was always too scared, like she had no right to ask, not after spending so long blindly following the other girls.

but right now, it was just them. alone.

no one was here to watch. no one was here to judge. for once, she could say or do whatever she wanted toward yn without worrying about anyone else’s opinion.

and that’s when it hit her she had never actually spoken to yn one on one before. there was always someone else.

eunchae took a deep breath, steadying herself.

"unnie?"

yn turned around abruptly, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "me?" she pointed to herself, as if unsure she had heard correctly.

eunchae nodded.

there was a brief pause before yn sighed, adjusting the waistband of her baggy sweatpants before finally reaching for the speaker, pressing pause on the music. with another deep breath, she made her way toward eunchae, the confusion still evident on her face.

"yes..." yn dragged out, glancing down at eunchae, who was still sitting cross legged on the floor.

"how do you get these moves down so quickly?" eunchae asked, her voice curious but soft. "you’re always so ahead of us."

yn furrowed her brows at the question, then slowly lowered herself to sit across from the younger girl.

she stared at eunchae for a moment, thoughtful, almost hesitant. then she shook her head. "I can’t tell you that."

eunchae’s face fell slightly. "why not?"

"because it’s not healthy," yn replied with a small shrug. 

“and I don’t want to be the reason you pick up bad habits... gives everyone more reason to look at me the way they already do."

eunchae frowned. she didn’t like that word—unhealthy.

“is that why you always have those bracelets on?” she asked quietly.

yn’s eyes widened like she hadn’t expected that question at all. “what are you talking about?”

“you know,” eunchae said simply, her gaze steady.

yn paused, caught off guard, then scoffed softly. “how do you know about that? did sakura tell you?”

eunchae blinked. she noticed it right away, yn didn’t call her sakura unnie.

sakura had always had her opinions about yn, sure, but lately, she’d been more... involved. 

always asking where yn was, questioning her when she came back late, showing concern in her own awkward way.

eunchae had honestly thought maybe they were getting closer.

but the way yn said her name flat, distant, made it clear she didn’t see it that way. not even close.

“no, she didn’t,” eunchae said quickly. “I’ve always noticed.”

yn kept her gaze locked on the younger girl before sighing, her eyes dropping to the floor. 

“if she did, you can just tell me. she’s been watching me like a hawk lately, like I’m about to break or something. and now you’re here, asking questions too.” she looked up again, expression unreadable. “I don’t get why she’s suddenly acting like she cares. and  I really don’t get why you’resuddenly interested in me.”

eunchae flinched. the way yn said it, like she was catching onto something, like she’d figured her out but she had it all wrong.

“I’ve always been interested in you,” eunchae said, voice quieter now, more vulnerable. yn let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh.

“it’s true,” eunchae insisted, eyes wide. “I just... there were so many opinions. and I didn’t know what was real.”

“eunchae...” yn said her name like she didn’t believe a word of it.

“I’m not lying!” eunchae’s voice suddenly rose, surprising even herself and definitely surprising yn, who flinched just slightly, eyes blinking fast.

“I was confused,” she continued, breath shaking. “these past few months have been hard for all of us in different ways. and I’ve been watching you... run off to find comfort in another group, and—” she swallowed, “—and it makes my chest feel weird. you’re supposed to be like a sister to me, but you don’t even look at me like that. and it’s my fault, because of the way I acted. I made it that way.”

eunchae let out a deep sigh, like she’d just sprinted a mile, before glancing at yn who was still just sitting there, quietly watching her.

“what part of the choreo do you need help with?” yn asked suddenly.

“what?” eunchae blinked, confused, watching as yn stood and made her way toward the speaker.

“what part do you need help on?” yn repeated, more softly this time as she crouched to pause the music and rewind it a few counts.

eunchae stood up, trailing behind her with a puzzled expression. she’d just spilled her heart out laid it all bare and this was yn’s response?

yn turned to face her again, eyes calm, a faint smile pulling at the corner of her lips. “I might not be able to show you my work ethic,” she said with a small shrug, “but I can help you polish some moves.”

oh.

it clicked then.

yn was a closed off person. always had been. eunchae couldn’t even blame her, just from the stories her own parents told about the moon family, it was easy to understand why yn kept her walls high and voice low when it came to herself.

so if this offer to rehearse, this quiet gesture was yn’s way of trying to connect with her, trying to understand, trying to forgive.

then yeah.

she’d take it.

chaewon was on edge.

she’d been trying to act normal, keyword trying but it wasn’t working. not when her mind kept circling back to yn.

granted, yn was always somewhere in her thoughts. but this time, it was different. sharper. heavier.

she couldn’t stop replaying the way yn had spoken to her brother how cold and commanding her voice had sounded, like she wasn’t asking him to make them leave, she was ordering it. 

how her hand had wrapped around chaewon’s wrist, not too tight but just enough to make her skin burn hours later. and her words low, quiet, like a secret meant only for chaewon to hear. almost threatening. almost dangerous.

and yet, all chaewon could think about was how her heart had raced like yn was daring her to cross a line and how badly she wanted to.

did she even want to? because while chaewon had been spiraling, turning that night over and over in her head like a loop she couldn’t pause, yn had been acting like it never even happened.

like she hadn’t grabbed her, hadn’t said those words, hadn’t left her standing there with a pulse that wouldn’t slow down.

and it wasn’t just her. everyone had been spiraling lately, weeks, maybe months of silent tension. chaewon had started to notice the way the other girls looked at yn now not with annoyance or judgment like before, but with something closer to pity. concern. even fear, sometimes.

except for kazuha. kazuha’s eyes had always been soft when they landed on yn, but now it was different. more constant. like she knew something the rest of them didn’t.

chaewon didn’t get it. when had the switch up happened?  if anything, yn should be the last person anyone was worried about. she was the one with a safety net, a massive one family name, family money, a house bigger than their dorm stacked with backup plans. when things got hard, she could just go home to her mansion. easy.

yeah, yn doesn’t need her concern.

the sound of the door opening broke through the quiet of the dorm, making chaewon glance up from her phone. she didn’t need to look to know who it was who else would be coming in this late, giggling?

“how do you get drunk off soju?” kazuha laughed, her arm looped casually around yn’s waist as she guided her inside.

“i’m not drunk,” yn mumbled, brushing her off with a lazy wave of her hand. “I just don’t drink much.”

“so... people who don’t drink get drunk easily?” kazuha teased.

“you literally just admitted you’re drunk,” kazuha said, laughing as she looked at her.

“can I sleep in your room tonight?” yn asked, her voice soft, almost slurred as she leaned in closer.

kazuha smiled and nodded without hesitation, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

chaewon cleared her throat, loud, pointed. both of them turned at the sound.

her eyes narrowed immediately at the sight of kazuha’s arm still around yn’s waist.

“have fun?” she asked flatly, voice clipped.

“yeah,” yn giggled, leaning further into kazuha, her cheek brushing the girl’s shoulder as she grinned up at her. kazuha just shook her head fondly, like she was used to it.

kazuha guided yn toward the couch and gently plopped her down beside chaewon, flashing the older girl a tight smile. “I’ll be back. gonna set up my room and grab some stuff from hers,” she said before disappearing down the hall.

chaewon opened her mouth to say to protest but kazuha was already gone.

she looked down at yn, whose head was tilted back against the couch cushion, eyes glazed, but still somehow focused on her.

yn mumbled something.

“what?” chaewon leaned in, her tone harsh but curious.

“my mom said some stuff to me earlier today…” yn murmured, voice dragging like she was sleep talking. “I wonder if she even knows what she does to me... probably. you’re lucky.”

chaewon scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I’m lucky? your family is probably one of the most privileged in the country.”

“i hate it when you do that,” yn muttered, looking at her own nails like they were more interesting than this conversation. “you don’t know anything.”

“I know enough.”

“you don’t,” yn snapped, a little louder, a little more slurred. “for someone with such strong opinions on me, maybe you should actually type my family’s name into google.”

chaewon blinked. the words felt like a challenge and a warning.

“maybe I will.”

“okay!” kazuha’s voice chimed suddenly, making chaewon look up. she was now dressed in comfortable sweats, hair loosely tied back, and already reaching down to grab yn by the arm. “we’re off to bed.”

yn let herself be pulled up with a lazy grin, mumbling something incoherent as kazuha wrapped an arm around her waist again.

chaewon watched in silence as the two disappeared down the hall, the door to kazuha’s room clicking shut a few seconds later.

she glanced back down at her phone, her fingers hovering for a moment before she finally started typing

moon family

it’s 3 am.

chaewon’s eyes burned, but she couldn’t stop scrolling.

the soft glow of her phone screen lit the dark room, casting sharp shadows across her face, now pale and tense. article after article… her thumb moved on autopilot. 

she had searched moon family scandals at first, expecting typical rich family drama  inheritance battles, corporate cover ups. but what she found made her stomach twist, nothing she hadn’t heard of before but it felt different actually reading about it.

“young heiress moon yn collapses during charity gala.” “lesserafim's moon yn appears exhausted in recent schedule, fans express concern.” “rumors of frequent hospital visits continue to follow the moon family.”

she had known, everyone had known, in that vague, offhand way the moon family has their issues,they’re all a little unstable, yn’s kind of... different.

but not like this.

not like article after article detailing yn’s episodes.

not like video clips embedded in the text, a much younger yn, dressed in a pale blue designer dress, barely fourteen, suddenly stumbling mid-speech, staff rushing forward as the crowd gasped. the camera caught her face before she went down, eyes wide, glassy, almost confused , like she hadn’t even realized something was wrong.

chaewon’s heart slammed in her chest.

her breath came faster now,  she could feel it. panic.

but she couldn’t look away.

another article

“moon yn escorted out of award ceremony after looking visibly unwell.” “moon yn seen wearing a hospital bracelet while out with ningning of aespa fans voice concern.”

chaewon’s hands were trembling.

a memory came uninvited , yn walking past her one evening, hoodie sleeves pulled down, but chaewon had seen it. the edge of a plastic band peeking out before yn quickly adjusted her sleeve.

at the time, chaewon had just brushed it off.

sakura said something about a hospital bracelet recently… 

she squeezed her eyes shut, god.

her thoughts spiraled.

yn , always sitting out when the food arrived. always claiming she wasn’t hungry, yn swaying slightly during rehearsal, brushing it off like it was nothing, yn brushing past her with that same cold look, one chaewon had assumed was arrogance.

chaewon’s chest ached. her throat tightened.

what have i done?

she couldn’t breathe.

her mind wouldn’t stop replaying the last few months, all the cruel words, the passive digs, the tension she always justified as something yn deserved.

she’s spoiled. she doesn’t try hard enough. she thinks she’s better than us.

but now it all felt hollow.

the cruel, dismissive way she treated her. the things she said. the things she ignored.

what would her iz*one members think? is this the same fun and caring chaewon they once knew? 

snap out of it , she thought bitterly what’s happening to me 

chaewon was shaking now, full body tremors as she tried to take in air. her legs kicked the blanket off the couch in a panic, as if the fabric was strangling her.

she pressed her palm against her forehead, fingers digging into her scalp.

and then  yn’s voice echoed in her mind.

“you’re lucky.”

chaewon had rolled her eyes. you’re the rich one, you’re set for life, she’d thought.

but yn’s voice it had cracked when she said it.

suddenly, chaewon couldn’t stay still. her body moved before her mind could process.

she got up, legs weak, jelly like. her knees almost buckled on the way down the hallway. everything felt distant, her body vibrating with adrenaline and shame. she stopped in front of kazuha’s door, hand hovering.

and then she opened it.

the moonlight filtering through the window made the room glow faintly. there, tangled in soft blankets, was yn  passed out, her mouth slightly parted, hair messily falling across the pillow.

kazuha lay beside her, fast asleep, one hand draped protectively across yn’s waist.

chaewon stared.

she didn’t know what she had expected. tears? peace? answers?

but instead, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding a breath that shook through her chest and slipped out as a quiet, strangled sound.

she closed the door gently, barely able to make it two steps before her back hit the wall.

and then she slid down, all the way to the floor.

knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them, her breathing finally slowing but the weight in her chest heavier than ever.

she had just needed to see her.

she didn’t know why.

but she had to.

her mind was spiraling, only with yn, everything just of yn.

yn.

yn.

[serinic]

GRADES DO MATTER | JJK

ONESHOT

Summary: You were always the grade-conscious type—where others would brush off a single mistake, you couldn't. One wrong answer was enough to haunt you, let alone a low mark on something you poured your heart into, like your essay. You mustered the courage to raise your concern, but your approach to Professor Jeon wasn’t exactly the best. And unfortunately for you, he wasn’t the kind of teacher to let things slide either.

pairing: professor jungkook x college student reader

warnings: unprotected sex, professor jk slapping y/n with reality, y/n thinks highly of herself, cold and strict jk

word count: 3.8k+

When you were a child, people would often tell your parents that you were destined to become a bright young woman—all because of your endless curiosity.

You asked questions so relentlessly, it could wear out even the most patient adult. And they were right. By the time you were barely in your teens, you had already collected a string of academic awards.

The most unforgettable one? The math quiz bee you joined when you were just ten. Two boys had bumped your shoulder before the contest, sneering and telling you to get lost.

You remembered clenching your fists, resisting the urge to retaliate—because you knew your mind was sharper than your fists would ever need to be.

The memory of their faces twisting into disbelief still lingered, especially when your name was announced as the winner. Just two mistakes—while the rest of them struggled.

You made sure to lock eyes with them as you walked up to the stage, proudly receiving your certificate and holding your trophy high. And, of course, you flipped your hair with just enough flair to make sure they never forgot who beat them.

Back in high school, you were practically at war with everyone—for the top spot. If it meant studying eight hours a day just to ace every exam, quiz, assignment, and seatwork, you didn’t hesitate.

You graduated as valedictorian, but even that didn’t satisfy you. It wasn’t enough—you craved more. You wanted recognition, not just from your classmates or teachers, but from the whole world.

You see, you didn’t study just because your parents expected it. You studied because you were obsessed. It consumed you. Your life revolved around grades, rankings, perfection. You didn’t care if people called you a nerd—honestly, you wore the label like a badge of honor.

There are two types of people in college: the brainy and the beauty. But thanks to your parents' blessed genes—and your relentless discipline—you had both. That’s what made you stand out.

They called you the Campus Queen and the Book Queen all at once. Boys (and even a few girls) tried to ask you out, but you always declined with a polite smile. You didn’t want distractions. Your mind was reserved solely for studying.

College was hell, and you couldn’t even argue with that. It was hell—especially when professors seemed to have a pact to assign every paper, project, and quiz all at once, sending every student into panic mode. But while others struggled to breathe, you thrived in the pressure.

No boyfriend? No problem. Your trusty dildo kept you company during those rare moments of need. That’s how far you were willing to go—grades came first, always. You would sacrifice anything, everything, just to chase those golden numbers.

You walked into the room with unwavering confidence, wearing a proud smile meant for no one in particular. As usual, you were the first to arrive. Punctuality was one of your many strengths—just like in academics, you were disciplined with time.

Every second, every minute, every hour mattered to you. You slid into your usual seat and pulled out a book from your bag. Without wasting a moment, you flipped to the page of today’s lesson and began reading ahead.

Advanced reading was one of your favorite habits. There was something deeply satisfying about answering every question before anyone else had the chance.

And on days when a classmate stumbled—palms sweaty, eyes darting in panic—you were more than happy to take the spotlight and answer in their place. It wasn’t arrogance; it was what you called ‘helping’.

Some admired you, but others despised you—and you were well aware of both. You assumed it was envy. After all, why wouldn’t they be?

You were intelligent and beautiful, the rare combination most could only dream of. But the truth was, your attitude was far from admirable.

You were the type of student who only cared about herself and her grades. If a classmate struggled to answer, you didn’t hesitate to snatch the opportunity—and the attention—for yourself.

When you did, disapproving stares followed you, and your instructors could only offer awkward scoffs, unsure whether to be impressed or uncomfortable. It wasn’t just your classmates who noticed your self-centered drive—your professors did too. Especially Mr. Jeon.

Your mind drifted into dreamland, lost in the fantasy of what was about to happen. You pictured Professor Jeon standing at the front of the class, calling your name to praise your outstanding essay.

Your classmates would erupt into applause as you stood and walked confidently toward him. You’d take your paper from his hand and beam with pride, eyes sparkling at the sight of a perfect mark scrawled in red ink.

But reality snapped back the moment students started to file into the room. Within minutes, the classroom was full—tense and silent, all awaiting the arrival of the cold, strict instructor.

The atmosphere shifted the second he stepped in. Even from across the room, you could feel the weight of his presence—sharp, disciplined, and commanding.

Every pair of eyes locked onto him, tracking his movements with caution. He strode to the desk, placed his leather bag down, and began pulling out his laptop and a thick stack of papers. Your heart skipped a beat when you spotted the red ink marking the pages.

This was it.

Professor Jeon grabbed the stack of papers and began flipping through them, eyes scanning each one with purpose—until he found that paper. With the rest in hand, he returned to the table and placed them down neatly.

He stepped into the center of the room, his gaze sweeping across every corner, surveying the students one by one. Then, his eyes locked with yours.

Your breath hitched. Was he looking at you? You glanced behind you to check if his focus might be on someone else—but your seat was the last in that row. No one was behind you.

You turned your attention back to the front—only to find that his eyes were no longer on you.

"Out of all the works submitted," he began, voice calm but firm, "one stood out the most. The choice of words was exceptional. The way the writer conveyed their imagination—they captured not just the mind, but the heart of the reader. This essay was astonishing.”

Each word sank deeper into your thoughts. Your heart pounded in anticipation, every beat louder than the last.

He was talking about yours. He had to be.

“Ms. Jang Arin, please come up to the front.”

Everyone, including you, turned toward the young woman whose mouth hung open in shock—and so did yours. You couldn’t believe what you just heard. That was supposed to be you.

Arin hesitantly made her way to the front, and to your surprise, Mr. Jeon offered her a slight smile—one of the rare times anyone had seen the strict professor display anything close to warmth.

You furrowed your brows. ‘No… that should’ve been me.’ That was one of the best essays you’d ever written. There was no way some random girl could’ve stolen the recognition that belonged to you.

You could feel the weight of the stares directed at you—your classmates waiting for your usual outburst, expecting the predictable moment when you would storm up and demand an explanation. But you didn’t give them that satisfaction.

Instead, you forced a smile and glanced back down at the book in front of you. Still, you could feel Mr. Jeon’s eyes lingering on you. You gulped and tightened your grip on the pages.

You weren’t going to make a scene—not yet. You’ll speak to him in his office later.

He began the lesson, but you couldn’t focus—not after what just happened. A mixture of humiliation and anger simmered inside you.

Your grip on the pen tightened, and your thoughts spiraled even further when you caught sight of Arin grinning to herself.

What the hell? Something’s not right.

Before you knew it, class was over in a snap. The room emptied out, but you remained in your seat, stunned. You slapped your forehead in frustration.

You hadn’t absorbed a single word of today’s lecture—your thoughts were too clouded by what had just been taken from you. Your recognition. Your moment.

No, you weren’t going to let this slide—especially if you were rigged.

You hastily grabbed your things and rushed out into the hallway. It had been buzzing with students earlier, but now it was nearly deserted—eerily quiet. That was until you heard soft giggles echoing from near the stairwell.

You stopped. Slowly and silently, you crept forward and peeked around the corner.

Your breath hitched.

There, just a few steps down, was Arin—giggling at something Professor Jeon had said. And him? He was smiling. Softly. Genuinely.

Your stomach twisted.

Your palm instantly flew to your mouth. ‘Aha! My gut was right—something is definitely off… or rather, something’s definitely going on between those two!’

Anger surged through your veins, quickly followed by the sting of betrayal.

Your moment—your dream—was stolen, all because someone decided to be a slut.

A sharp clatter made your heart stop. You looked down—your pen had slipped from your hand and hit the floor.

Your eyes widened. Shit. They must not see you!

“Who’s there?”

Mr. Jeon’s deep, commanding voice echoed through the corridor, sending chills down your spine. You heard footsteps approaching. Panic surged. Without thinking, you squeezed your eyes shut… and meowed.

Yes, meowed—like one of the college cats that roamed the campus.

A pause. Then—

“Oh, Professor. It’s just a cat!” Arin's voice chimed in, light and airy, before fading along with the footsteps. They were probably heading downstairs together.

Once you were sure the coast was clear, you stepped out of hiding and walked toward the spot where they had just been. You peered down the stairwell, jaw tight and fists clenched.

‘So the game’s on.’

They could play their little flirtations all they wanted—but you weren’t about to let either of them mess with your grades. Not now. Not ever.

After discovering what could be something more than just a student-teacher relationship between your shy classmate and the ever-strict Professor Jeon, you couldn't let it go.

Instead, you turned your attention toward them—observing from afar, collecting what evidence you could.

A week went by, and now, your study table was covered with printed photos you’d taken in secret. You sat in silence, eyes scanning each one, piecing together the story like a puzzle.

Photo 1: The two sat at a quiet café—Arin appeared to be reading something, while Professor Jeon casually sipped his coffee across from her.

Photo 2: In an empty corridor, just the two of them—laughing. Laughing. A rare expression from a man known for being cold and unreadable.

Photo 3: Arin, entering his office alone.

You only added the third photo because your so-called evidence was lacking—you needed something to fill the gaps, even if it wasn’t damning enough on its own. Still, you couldn’t help but smile proudly at the photos spread before you.

You weren’t planning to use them—at least, not unless things took a turn. You were only going to Professor Jeon’s office to raise your concern about the mark he gave you on the essay you poured your soul into.

But if he dared to brush you off or humiliate you again… well, you’d have no choice.

Now, you sat in your seat, silently counting the seconds for this period to end. These past few days, your mind was never where it should be.

It wandered aimlessly during lessons, tuning out every voice that tried to teach you. Even your classmates noticed—how your usual spark had dulled, how you weren't as relentless, as sharp, as insufferably perfect as before.

And you hated it. You hated how this situation affected you. You hated Arin’s quiet smile. You hated Professor Jeon’s unreadable face. Most of all, you hated that they were the reason you felt so... off.

If it weren’t for them, you wouldn’t be distracted. You’d still be at the top—undeniable, untouchable.

Class was over, and before you knew it, you were already walking toward his office. Each step felt heavier than the last, the confidence you had earlier slowly unraveling with every inch closer to the door.

After all, you were about to face the Mr. Jeon Jungkook—the cold, strict, respected, and damn near perfect professor.

You raised your fist and knocked.

"Come in."

His voice, low and commanding, sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside. There he was—sitting at his desk, eyes fixed on his laptop, fingers dancing effortlessly across the keys.

You hesitated for a moment, the door clicking shut behind you a little louder than you'd intended. Still, he didn’t look up.

The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard and the steady ticking of the clock above his shelf.

It felt like the silence was a test.

And you weren’t sure if you were passing or failing.

“I assume this isn’t about attendance,” he finally said, voice flat and devoid of emotion.

You cleared your throat. “It’s… about my essay grade.”

He stopped typing. His eyes slowly lifted to meet yours—sharp, unreadable. “Your essay,” he repeated, leaning back against his chair. “Right. The one that barely tapped into the prompt and read like a recycled daydream with no real depth.”

You flinched. “I worked hard on it. I just thought—”

“Thinking and writing are two different things,” he cut you off. “Effort doesn’t equal quality, Miss Y/N. You’re in college. Not kindergarten.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, the heat in your face rising. You tried to keep calm. “I know the grade is final, but I just wanted to understand why—”

“I’ve already told you why,” Jungkook said. “If you're looking for sympathy, try your classmates. I deal in facts. And the fact is, your work was mediocre.”

You paused, debating whether to say the next line.

“I just find it odd,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing, “how my classmate—who barely participates—somehow got a higher mark. A classmate I happened to see laughing with you in the hallway... quite comfortably.”

That finally got a reaction.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened as he stood up, walking around his desk. “Are you implying something, Miss Y/N?”

You held his gaze, fingers brushing the edge of your bag—where your phone, and the photos, waited.

“No, Professor. I’m just… asking questions.” He stopped in front of you, the space between you chilling. “Be very careful with the kind of questions you ask. Because once they’re out, there’s no taking them back.”

You swallowed hard but didn’t back down. The weight of the photos in your bag gave you a false sense of power—but even then, standing this close to Jungkook felt like walking a thin line over fire.

“I just think it’s… unfair,” you said, voice trembling slightly, “how someone who barely talks in class ends up with a near-perfect score. You may not realize how that looks to others.”

Jungkook's eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking. “Arin,” he said coldly. “You’re talking about Arin.”

You didn’t answer.

He exhaled through his nose. “Her essay stood out the most, which is why I chose it and she’s on academic probation. That ‘laughing in the hallway’ was me explaining her midterm options before she fails the course entirely. But I suppose when you’re obsessed with perfection, everything looks like a conspiracy, doesn’t it?”

His words hit harder than you expected. Still, you didn’t look away.

“I just want fairness,” you whispered.

“No,” Jungkook replied, stepping even closer, voice low and sharp. “You want control. That’s why you’re standing here instead of revising your work like a real student. Because deep down, you don’t care about learning. You care about appearances. Grades. Pride.” He walked back to his desk.

You felt your pride twist into something sharper—resentment.

“And what if I showed you something?” you said, slowly reaching into your bag. “Something that might make you reconsider.”

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change. “Are you really about to blackmail a professor?”

The air in the room dropped. You paused—his tone wasn’t angry, or surprised. It was calm. Calculated. Dangerous.

“I wouldn’t call it that…” you said carefully. “Just… offering context. For your judgment.”

Jungkook crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the desk. “Then show me. Let’s see what you think is enough to challenge my integrity.”

You hesitated.

“I don’t tolerate threats,” he added coldly.

Your hand hovered inside your bag. This was it.

Jungkook didn’t say a word right away. He simply stood there, eyes unreadable as they bore into yours. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, he slowly walked toward you, each step unhurried, measured—predatory.

You didn’t know what shifted. Maybe it was the heavy silence in the room. Maybe it was the way his gaze dragged across your face, lingering a little too long on your parted lips.

Or maybe it was the unresolved tension crackling in the air—anger, defiance, and something else neither of you wanted to name.

“You came here thinking you could play with fire,” Jungkook finally said, voice low. “Now you're in it.”

He stopped just in front of you. Too close. His eyes dropped to the envelope in your hand—the one holding the pictures—and then back to yours.

“You’re bold. I’ll give you that.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words died on your tongue. Your breath hitched as his hand slowly reached out—not to grab the envelope, but to brush a strand of hair away from your face. A touch too soft. Too deliberate.

“You wanted my attention,” he murmured, tone now quieter… darker. “Now you have it.”

He took one step closer. The envelope slipped from your fingers and hit the floor.

Jungkook crashed his lips onto yours as he pushed you against the nearest wall. You groaned when your back collided with the hard surface.

He slid your bag off your shoulder and immediately lifted your shirt, tugging down your bra before cupping your breast.

“Mhm,” you moaned as he gently massaged it, his tongue exploring your mouth. You started kissing him back—the kiss wasn’t slow; it was rough and desperate.

Jungkook broke the kiss and moved his lips to your neck, gently biting and leaving hickeys. His hand found the hem of your shirt, and he pulled it off, along with your bra.

He sucked your two nipples, switching back and forth. Your moans started to get loud, “Be quiet,” he said before placing his mouth back onto your breasts. You immediately clamped your lips shut.

You gasped when he cupped your clothed cunt, his eyes staring directly into yours. He slipped your pants and underwear down and carelessly tossed them onto the floor.

His gaze now fixed on your bare cunt, and every hair on your body stood on end at the realization—your professor was seeing you completely naked. The cold blast from the AC wasn’t helping either.

Mr. Jeon stared at your pussy for a full minute before kneeling down to its level, his fingers parting your folds. His tongue extended from his mouth to taste your cunt.

You moaned not only from the sensation of his warm tongue but also from the view. He began to pleasure you orally, his tongue moving in and out of your tight pussy.

Your sounds became more loud as he began to slide his fingers in, curling and twisting them within you.

You climaxed twice, and you were eager for more. You want Professor Jeon inside you at this moment. "Please, I want you inside me."

You pleaded with him, and he removed his pants and boxers, tossing them to the ground.

Jungkook wanted you to suck him, but he was equally eager to be inside your wet cunt. You nearly lost the ability to breathe when you noticed just how thick, how long and how furious his cock was. Pre-cum seeping from his tip.

He grasped your waist and urged you to jump. You quickly encircled his neck with your arms as your legs rested on his hips. You expected him to take you against the wall, but that wasn’t the case.

He moved to his desk while you clung to him like a koala. Jungkook pushed his chair aside, “Sit on my cock.” You freed your one arm and held his dick—applying his pre-cum along his shaft for lubrication.

You positioned his hard dick at your entrance and gradually lower yourself—taking him in inch by inch. You breathed sharply at the penetration; he was so deep inside you.

He held the edge of the table as you encircled his neck with your one arm again. Once confirming that both of you were well-positioned and supported by his hold on the table, he gradually pulled his hip back—half of his cock slipping out your eager cunt, before thrusting his hip back in forcefully.

Both of you moaned at his movements. Mr. Jeon started to thrust in and out while you gripped his body tighter. Lewd sounds filled his whole office.

“You always thought you were the smartest in the room. A little top-grade prodigy who couldn’t take a hit to her ego.” Jungkook glanced at you, expecting rage in your eyes, but all he saw was desire as you moaned in response.

“You couldn’t just accept a mark and move on like everyone else, could you?” He continued.

“No. You had to come in here with your little evidence, your little plan. Thought you were clever.”

“Let’s see how far your intelligence takes you now.” Professor Jeon was right here, slapping your face with reality while slamming his cock inside your cunt.

If you weren't in this position—him fucking you so good—you would probably slap him in the face, even if he was your professor.

Jungkook enjoys feeling your wet and tight pussy envelop his hard cock, and you can't help but moan—his dick feels way better than your dildo.

He plunged into you with a primal rhythm, you glanced at his expression—he was biting his bottom lip, his face was intensely concentrated on making you climax.

Your stomach tightens; you are close. Your hold on him tightens as his thrusts quicken when he realizes you’re about to orgasm.

You glimpsed stars upon cumming, only for your breath to be taken away when his thrusts intensified, aiming for his climax.

Professor Jeon collided his lips with yours as he cummed, both of you moaning intensely. A warm fluid filled your whole cunt as he thrust deeper inside you.

‘Was he trying to impregnate you?’

Your thought disappeared when you heard a knock on the door. Jungkook glanced at you and asked, “Did you lock the door?”

You swallowed hard and stared at him in fear—afraid of being caught fucking your cold and strict professor.

“No.”

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Five

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — I listened to Never Be (5sos) exclusively while writing this chapter. Make of that what you will.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

They sat in one of the smaller meeting rooms off the admin hallway. Too clean. Too bright. Harper sat stiffly on one side of the table, Oscar next to her, foot bouncing under the chair. Chris sat across from them with his hands folded in front of him.

Harper thought Chris looked like Oscar — or, she supposed, Oscar looked Chris.

Chris was just older. Somehow calmer than her stony faced, rarely phased boyfriend.

Although that wasn't hard right now — she wasn't sure Oscar had been calm since she barged into the boys dorms four days ago, all wide-eyed and panicked.

Chris cleared his throat gently. "Okay. First things first—you're both fine. No one's angry at you. We're not going to panic. We're just going to figure this out."

Harper nodded once. Her hands were fisted around her skirt and her shoes tapped against the floor with every nervous motion.

Chris looked between them. "That said, I'm going to ask you both some questions that might feel a little uncomfortable, but they're important. Okay?"

Oscar groaned softly. "Dad..."

Chris gave him a dry look. "You don't get to be squeamish now, mate."

Harper actually let out a breath of a laugh, but it sounded more like a cough.

Chris turned to her gently. "Harper. Have you seen a doctor, or just taken the pregnancy tests?"

"Just the tests," she told him. "I—uh, I don't have a GP here. My mum takes me to doctors all over the country. Private clinics. Some in London, some in Geneva. It just... depends where she is."

Chris nodded slowly, absorbing that. "Okay. That's fine. We can sort that out. But you do need to be seen by someone soon — someone consistent. I'll speak to your mum, just to make sure you're healthy and everything's progressing safely—"

Harper's head snapped up.

"You'll speak to my mum?" Her voice was sharp, incredulous. Her eyes were wide now, panic blooming behind them. "No. No, no, no. You can't speak to my mum. She'll lose it. She'll be even angrier if I let someone else tell her."

Oscar shifted beside her, already on edge. "Dad—"

Chris held up a hand, not unkindly. "Alright. I hear you, Harper. I do. I'm not going to call her out of the blue."

"She'll think I'm doing it to humiliate her," Harper went on, fast now, tripping over her own words. "Like I'm trying to ruin her reputation or something. She'll go nuclear. She always does when she doesn't feel in control. And this—" she gestured vaguely to her stomach, her voice cracking, "this is like her worst nightmare."

Chris watched her for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table.

"Okay," he said gently. "Then we make a plan. You'll be the one to tell her. In your own words. On your terms. But we can't avoid this, Harper. She's your mother. She's part of this, even if it's hard."

Harper nodded, small and quick, but her hands were shaking now.

Oscar slid his hand over hers under the table, gave it a quick squeeze. She didn't look at him, but she didn't pull away either.

Chris remained calm, his tone steady. "I also need to ask—are either of you, um, involved with anyone else? Right now or before? I don't need names or details. It's just about making sure you're both medically okay."

Harper flushed red, heat creeping from her collar to her cheeks. "No," she mumbled. "Only ever Oscar."

"Only ever Harper," Oscar echoed, a beat late and way too loud.

Chris gave a small nod. "Okay. That's good to know. But we'll still need to get you both checked out. Full screenings, just to be safe."

"My mum's going to want us to see someone on her books," Harper said under her breath, eyes flicking away. "For... confidentiality reasons."

Chris blinked. "Confidentiality?"

"She—she's kind of a big deal," Harper admitted. "She founded La Ruche. It's a fashion label."

Chris's eyebrows rose, just slightly.

"And my dad was... J.J. Whiatt."

Chris leaned back, exhaled slow. "Jesus. That complicates things."

Harper's bottom lip wobbled. "I'm sorry."

Oscar shifted, dragging Harper's chair closer to his, one arm sliding protectively around her shoulders. He whispered something just for her — soft and steady — and she nodded, breathing a little slower.

Chris sat forward again. "Look, I don't want to overwhelm you. I know this is scary. But you need to tell your mum, Harper. Nothing can happen here until she knows, and things need to start happening." He stared at them for a beat. "I'll give you until tomorrow morning. If you haven't told her by then, I'll do it myself. Okay?"

There was a pause.

Then Harper whispered, "Okay."

Chris gave her a gentle smile. "Thank you. You're part of this family now, Harper. Our family. That means than I'm going to look out for you, same as we do for him."

Oscar looked up, throat tight. "Dad?"

Chris met his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Oscar said. "Neither of us meant for any of this to happen."

Chris nodded. "I know. But it did. And now we handle it — like adults."

Oscar didn't respond right away. Then he reached across the table and hooked his pinky around Harper's. Held it tight.

Chris noticed. Didn't say a word. Just flipped open his notebook.

"Okay," he said. "Let's make a to-do list."

—

They sat outside Oscar's dorm window, backs against the brick wall, knees bumped together. It was stupid cold, but neither of them cared. Harper was wearing his blazer — it was two sizes too big on her and covered her skirt and made it took like she wasn't wearing anything underneath it.

She was quiet. Had been for a while.

Oscar kicked a loose stone. "You okay?"

Harper shrugged, but it wasn't a real answer. Her arms were wrapped around her knees.

After another minute, she muttered, "My mum wasn't always like she is now, you know."

Oscar looked over. She wasn't looking at him.

"She used to laugh at my jokes. Braid my hair for ballet. We used to bake Christmas biscuits together and she'd make my birthday cake every year from scratch."

He didn't say anything, just listened.

"When I was nine," she said, voice weirdly flat. "Me and my dad went on a ski trip. He thought it'd be a good bonding experience — just the two of us."

Oscar turned his full body toward her, heart sinking. Something about the way she said it made his stomach twist.

"There was a helicopter," she said. "We were flying off the mountain. There was a storm. It wasn't — nobody expected it. And we went down."

Oscar stared at her. "Wait, what?"

She nodded. "I don't remember us actually going down. I just remember waking up. I was so cold. I couldn't feel my legs. My back hurt. And my arm was... all messed up." She looked down at her hands. "Everyone died. The pilot, his co-pilot, and my dad. But I just... didn't."

"Jesus," Oscar whispered.

Harper gave a weak little smile. "Yeah."

He didn't know what to say. He didn't have the right words for helicopter crashes or dead dads. So he just sat there, panicking quietly.

She didn't seem to expect anything, though. "I've got some scars," she said. "On my back. From the crash. I usually hide them." She smiled at him, a bit wry. "I guess I got good at it."

Oscar frowned and shifted closer to her. "Wait, like... real scars?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, fake ones."

He blushed, and she sighed. Then, carefully, she tugged the back of his blazer and her white shirt up. Just enough to show him. A couple of pale, rough-edged marks trailed across her lower back, like lightning marks carved deeply into her skin.

Oscar's heart thudded at the sight of them. His throat thickened. "Shit," he said, because what else was there?

She pulled her shirt back down quickly and looked away. "It's gross. Whatever."

"No," he said fast. "No, it's not. It's not gross, it's... I dunno." He raised his hand to touch her and then dropped it again with a flush in his cheeks. "Sorry. I just — I can't believe I never noticed."

That made her snort, just a little. "It's fine. My mum didn't even visit me until three days afterwards," Harper said with a shrug. "When she did, she acted more like she was visiting some stranger in hospital than her daughter. I was crying in pain and she that I needed to suck it up because I should've just been grateful to be alive. And then she said that my crying was making people uncomfortable."

Oscar clenched his jaw. "She sucks."

Harper smiled at that, but it was a sad kind of smile. "She started treating me different after that," she said. "Like I'd made her life harder by surviving."

Oscar reached out and bumped her knee with his. "You didn't."

She sniffed. "Feels like I did."

"I can't believe you survived a helicopter crash," Oscar said after a bit, eyes still on the horizon. "You might be the luckiest person I know."

She gave him a look. "Osc. I'm pregnant. At fifteen."

He grinned faintly. "Okay, yeah. But still."

Harper choked on a laugh. "Right. Thanks," she mumbled.

"For what?"

"For not saying something stupid."

Oscar shrugged. "Just wish I could make it all better for you."

"Yeah," she mumbled. "Me too."

—

Oscar slipped out of the library after study-hour and ducked behind the music building, phone pressed tight to his ear. He already knew what was coming. His dad had warned him. Still, nothing prepared him for the moment her voice broke through.

"Oscar."

It was sharp. Cracked down the middle. He flinched.

"Mum—"

"I trusted you." Her voice rose — not angry, exactly. More stunned. Wounded. "I trusted you to go to England and be smart. To focus. To take this opportunity seriously."

"I am taking it seriously."

"Clearly not seriously enough if you're knocking up boarding school girls in your dorm—"

"Mum." He winced. Cut her off. "Please don't talk about Harper like that."

There was a pause. A huff. Not quite crying. Not yet. "I'm not talking about her. I'm talking about you. My son. The one I thought had more sense than this."

Oscar pressed a hand to his forehead. The wall behind him was cool against his back. "I didn't mean for this to happen." He felt like a broken record. "Neither of us did."

"No one ever means for it to happen." Her voice was tight, clipped. "And now what? What do you think happens now, Osc? A fairy-tale ending?"

"No." He was quiet a second. "No. I think we just have to deal with it."

Another pause. When she spoke again, her voice was smaller. "I feel like I don't even know you right now."

That one hurt more than anything else. He stared out across the courtyard, eyes stinging. "I'm still me, Mum."

"Are you?" she snapped. Then softer, more pained. "God. You're still a baby yourself. You're fifteen."

"I know."

"You're fifteen, Oscar. And I've seen fifteen. I was fifteen. When I was your age all I cared about was Billy Joel and which shop would sell me my next pack of cigarettes."

He breathed through his nose. "I know."

Nicole didn't answer for a long time.

When she did, it was quiet. Flat. "Your father's there now?"

"Yeah."

"So, what's the plan, Oscar?" She asked on a sigh. "Are you going to raise a child together at boarding school? Split custody between the boys and girls dorms?"

"We haven't even decided anything yet."

"God," she muttered. "Oscar, I just—" Her voice cracked. "I wanted so much more for you."

He swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"Jesus," she breathed. "Okay. Okay. I need to... I'll call you later. I'm not—I'm not in a good place to say anything else right now."

"Okay." He hesitated. "Mum?"

"What?"

"I really am sorry."

Silence.

Then, "I know, Osc. I know."

She hung up.

Oscar leaned his head against the wall, the guilt crawling under his skin like it belonged there.

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and stared at the astroturf where the year eights were playing tackle rugby.

And he sat there until the next bell rung.

—

Harper sat on the cold stone steps just below the landing outside the girls dorm — the one spot on campus where phone reception was always strongest. Her knees were pulled to her chest, Oscar's racing hoodie baggy and warm on top of her school uniform. She'd been staring at her phone for ten minutes.

The screen glowed.

Mummy (Victoria)

She tapped the call icon before she could think too hard.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times—

"Harper?" Victoria Whiatt's voice was sharp, brisk. "It's a school night. Why are you calling?"

Harper's voice caught in her throat. She tried to swallow it back down. "I — Hi, Mum," she whispered. "Can you... would you be able to come to Haileybury, please?"

Silence.

"It's just that... I need you," she said, the words tumbling out. "Please. Mum—Mummy, please." She closed her eyes tightly, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I need you to come. I'm scared and I don't know what to do."

"Harper," her mother said, voice clipped with impatience. "What's going on? Have you done something wrong? Are you in trouble? God, do I need to call my lawyers?"

Harper pressed the heel of her palm to her eye. She didn't want to say it like this. She'd planned to be calm. Clear. Strong. But now her whole body was shaking and she was begging her mother — calling her mummy out-loud for the first time since she was eight — and it had all turned into a big mess.

"I'm pregnant," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen. But I need help. I don't know what to do, and I'm scared, and—"

"You're what?" Victoria's voice was suddenly thin. "God. Jesus fucking Christ. Harper Grace — tell me you're joking."

Harper's breath hitched. "I'm not. I just—Mum, please. Please come. I need my mum. I need you."

The silence was suffocating.

When her mother finally spoke, her voice was tight. Controlled. "How far along?"

"I don't know. A few weeks. The test said three plus. I need to see a doctor but—"

Her mother cut her off with a low curse. "Christ. You're fifteen. Fifteen, Harper. You're still a child!"

"I know," Harper said, her voice breaking. "And I promise that I didn't mean for this to happen. But it has and I know that I'm stupid and an idiot and all of the other horrible things you want to call me right now — but I'm scared and alone and I need you to help me, mum."

Her mother didn't respond right away. Harper could hear something rustling — maybe papers, or her mother's laptop.

"Mum?" She whispered.

"I'm in Milan," Victoria said stiffly. "I have a show tomorrow."

"I don't care about your show." Harper's voice rose, desperate. "Please. Please just come."

A long pause.

"I'll be on a flight tonight."

Harper let out a tiny breath, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Is it his? The kart boy? Is it his baby?" She asked.

Harper nodded. "Yeah. Yes. I — Yeah. It's his baby."

"Right then. I'll be there at seven a.m. tomorrow morning." Was all her mother said. And then she ended the call.

Harper curled tighter into the stairwell wall, phone still clutched in her hand.

And then the crying started — not the quiet, clenched kind she'd perfected over the years.

But loud, messy sobs that racked her chest and made her shoulders shake.

Jane found her less than a minute later.

She didn't ask questions. Just dropped to the step beside her, wrapped both arms around her like she could hold her together, and pressed her cheek to Harper's hair.

Harper sobbed into her shirt.

Five minutes later, Oscar rounded the corner in his uniform — blazer unbuttoned, tie crooked. He paused mid-step when he saw them. Just froze.

His breath caught.

Harper, curled in on herself like something broken. Jane holding her. The echo of her crying bouncing up the stone walls.

Oscar's stomach dropped.

"Shit," he whispered, voice barely audible.

Then he moved.

He jogged the last few steps, dropping to his knees on Harper's other side. His bag hit the floor with a dull thud.

"Hey, hey," he said gently, reaching for her, brushing her hair back. "I'm here."

Harper turned blindly into his chest without thinking, her sobs still shuddering through her.

Jane shifted, giving him space, her face tight with worry.

Oscar pulled Harper into his arms, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other steady at her spine. He didn't ask what happened. He didn't have to.

He just held her tighter.

"Love you," he whispered, barely more than a breath.

"Love you too." She hiccuped.

—

The classroom was cold despite the sunlight cutting across the desks in crooked lines. Harper sat with her arms folded over her notebook, pen resting in the crease of the spine. She wasn't writing. Just breathing.

Her eyes were still red and swollen.

Oscar slid into the seat beside her, spinning his pencil once before leaning close.

"You good?" He murmured.

She didn't look at him. "Not really."

He was quiet for a second, then said, in a low, overly serious voice, "The eagle is landing near the river tonight. Nest secured. Feathers ruffled, but holding."

Harper blinked at him. "What?"

"It's code," he said, a bit flustered. "My dad. Staying at the hotel near the river. He's had the heads up that he'll be meeting the Mothership tomorrow."

She winced. "Please don't call my mother that."

"Operation Parental Peace Summit is a go. He said he'll be there when she arrives. You, me, him, Queen Doom herself — roundtable discussions. Treaties. Diplomacy."

She gave a faint, exhausted laugh. "You're so ridiculous. I don't know what you're saying, Oscar."

"Code is effective," he whispered. Then he smiled at her, all teeth — and she realised that he was just messing around. Trying to make her smile.

It'd worked.

Harper hesitated, staring at the lined page in front of her. "I think..." she started. "I think the idea of not keeping — it — makes me feel worse than I thought it would."

Oscar's expression softened immediately, his eyebrows coming together. "Okay." He said quietly.

She kept her voice low. "I'm not saying I've decided. Just — I get this tight feeling in my chest when I imagine... not going through with it."

Oscar nodded slowly. "Okay."

Before either of them could say more, the teacher turned from the whiteboard.

"Mr. Piastri. Miss Whiatt. Something to share with the class?"

Oscar straightened, fake smile already in place. "Just discussing international conflict resolution, sir."

"Save it for Model UN." The teacher glared at them.

Harper hid a smile, ducking behind her hair. The teacher turned back to the board.

Oscar passed her a note under the desk.

I'm on your side whatever you decide.

Harper traced the edge of the paper with her thumb.

—

The next morning, Harper waited just outside the school reception, blazer buttoned unevenly and hands fidgeting with the hem of her pleated skirt. The courtyard was grey and thick was early morning mist, the kind that clung to skin and made her hair frizz no matter what she did to try and stop it.

She'd been up since five. Couldn't sleep. Could barely even manage the breakfast bar that Jane had shoved at her. She'd brushed her teeth twice and still felt sick.

Her fingers trembled as the black town car pulled up — sleek and silent.

The suit-clad driver stepped out and opened the back door.

Victoria Whiatt emerged like she was stepping onto a runway. Designer coat, dark glasses even in the morning haze, heels clicking across the old stone. She didn't look like she'd spent the night on a plane. She looked like she was ready for a press release.

Harper stood up straighter without meaning to.

Her mother's eyes scanned her. Once. Head to toe. "You look haggard."

"Hi, Mum," Harper said quietly.

Victoria took off her sunglasses slowly. "Is that really what they make you wear here? I don't remember it being so — juvenile."

Harper blinked.

"Your skirt is creased. And the buttons on that blazer — God, Harper, how hard is it to dress yourself like a normal, respectable person?"

"I—I didn't sleep much." She managed.

"I should think not." There was a long pause. Victoria looked around at the school buildings like they were beneath her. Then her eyes snapped back to Harper. "So." Her voice was sharp. "Where is he?"

Harper's fingers clenched around the strap of her bag. "He's with his dad. They're—waiting for us to go to meet them at the hotel he's staying at."

Another pause.

"I don't want a performance out of you," Victoria said coolly. "I don't want tears or sentiment. I want honesty. I want facts. And I want to know how you could possibly be this irresponsible!"

Harper flinched. But she nodded. "Yes, Mum."

"Fix your blazer," Victoria muttered, already turning away. "And get in the car. Which hotel?"

"The nice one. The one you stayed at when I first moved here," Harper said, forcing her voice to stay even.

Victoria exhaled slowly. "Of course. The one with the mediocre wine list and the doorman who talks too much."

She opened the passenger door with a perfectly manicured hand. Harper moved around to the other side, heart pounding against her ribs.

They sat in silence for a moment as the driver pulled away from the school gates.

"So, they've got money then?" Victoria asked, eyes still on the road ahead. Her voice was light, sharp as a needle. "That's nice. I'm sure it'll make this a lot easier."

Harper turned her head slowly, looked at her mother. The way her profile was all angles and detachment, like she was discussing stocks or seating charts — not the life growing inside her daughter.

"I want to keep the baby," Harper said.

The words landed like a brick dropped into a still pond. The ripple of them filled the car.

Victoria blinked.

Then blinked again.

Her head turned, slow and deliberate, until her eyes locked with Harper's. "What did you just say?"

Harper held her gaze. "I said I want to keep it. The baby."

Victoria stared at her like she was speaking another language. "You're fifteen."

"I know."

"You're going to ruin your life."

Harper's throat tightened, but she didn't look away. "Like I ruined yours?"

Victoria's lips parted, then closed. She looked out the window again, something flickering behind her eyes. "This isn't a dog, Harper," she said finally, voice thin and brittle. "You don't just get to decide that you’re going to keep it. You're still a child — you're not old enough to make that decision. God, imagine it, Harper Grace. Imagine what people would say? Your father's name—"

Harper swallowed, hard. "Dad would've understood. He would've hugged me. Told me he loved me. He might've been disappointed — but he wouldn't have treated me like you are right now."

Victoria's jaw tensed. Her fingers curled against her lap, white-knuckled. "You don't get to invoke him," she said, low and venomous. "Not when you've made a circus out of everything he built for you."

Tears burned the corners of Harper's eyes, but she didn't let them fall. "I'm not trying to hurt you, mum," she whispered. "I'm just trying to do what feels right in my gut. For me. For Oscar. His dad—"

"Oh, wonderful," Victoria snapped. "The 'pit crew' is standing by." She made physical quotations around the words.

Harper flinched again. Looked down at her hands. "Please, Mum. Please don't shut me down like that. I'm scared, alright? I know that this was my fault, mine and Oscar's. But we've talked, okay? We've talked about it, about keeping it or not. And we — we both agree that it feels right to keep it."

Victoria was silent.

Then she sighed, the long, tired kind that Harper remembered from fittings and fundraisers and end-of-term reports that were anything but a 99 or above.

"I'm not shutting you down. I'm here, aren't I?" She bit out. "God knows why I even bothered. We could've done this over the phone."

Harper knew that was the closest thing to an "I love you" that she was going to get.

NEXT CHAPTER

[brucedefender4eva]

As much as I love when fanfics give a character who has been traumatized in their media (but their writers don’t ever show them affected by the horrors) having realistic reactions to what happened to them (anxiety attacks, PTSD, trust issues, etc)

Their family helps them through their problems and the issues that they’ve gained from it. Showing them that it’s okay to be vulnerable and they’ll always be there for them

I also equally love the opposite. Instead of a character being affected by the horrors, they’re just… completely fine

Everyone else around them is freaking out and expecting a meltdown of some kind, completely ready to support them in any way possible, but it never comes

It’s just another fucking day. No panic attacks, no flash backs, nada. Family thinks that they’re hiding it from them when in reality the person affected is confused on why everyone is hovering around them

The batfam is waiting for the other shoes to drop with Bruce constantly. You’d think that after this man became a short term paraplegic from Bane breaking his back that Bruce would be wary about facing the man again

Maybe even refuse to do so?

They get an alert on the Batcomputer and Bane is causing havoc in the city. He’s pumped up on Venom and destroying everything in his way.

They’re glancing at each other like “Oh shit. What the fuck do we do? Do we wanna put Bruce through all that again?”

And Bruce is just… suiting up. Doesn’t fucking phase him in the slightest. He’s fought Bane a million times before and he’ll do it a million times again. He just really wants to punch someone with all his might, knowing they won’t die from it

His kids are exchanging nervous glances as Bruce maps out a plan and as they’re leaving Alfred hands them small med kits to keep with them

“Master Bruce, please be careful.” Alfred says through his coms as he’s jumping from building to building, his voice unusually tinged with worry. Alfred only ever comes on coms and tells him to be careful when the villain that he’s facing is of considerable risk to himself or his children

Bruce is fucking confused. Why would he need to be more careful than he already is? He’s Batman

“It’s just Bane, agent A.”

“B… he broke your back…” Oracle chimes in quietly

“Right, he did do that didn’t he? I forgot that happened.”

“?” The boys look at each other in confusion. Did their Dad really just say that

“You forgot?” Cass asked, her voice incredulous

“Not that big of a deal.” Bruce shrugged, glancing over in confusion as all of his kids stopped, instead turning to face him

“Dad… are you serious?” Tim asked, his eyebrows shooting to his hairline

“As I’ve stated, not a big deal.” Bruce doesn’t know why they seem to be making a huge deal out of this. It’s been years. It’s not like anyone brought it up

“Bruce, you don’t have to be strong in front of us.” Dick whispered softly, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. Even with the mask Bruce could tell his eldest was looking at him with those deep soulful eyes he has whenever he’s trying to comfort someone.

“I’m not??” Bruce said, looking around to see his kids doubtful faces. “Seriously I’m not. It happened and I got over it.”

“You don’t just get over being paralyzed Bruce.” Barbra’s said soothingly, using the same voice she does when she tries to calm down terrified children.

“Seriously old man, we’ve all been through some shit. If you wanna sit this one out, we understand.” Jason said, in a rare moment of kindness toward Bruce.

Unfortunately, it was completely unneeded and just made Bruce even more annoyed.

“Oh I get it. This is a rouse. You all want to get out from patrol tonight.” Bruce said, figuring out what all the concern was about (he didn’t figure out shit). “If it wasn’t a school night I would’ve just brought Robin.” Bruce mumbled under his breath.

As Bruce grappled away to another building, still intent on hunting down Bane and taking him back to Arkham, all his kids could do was stare after him in disbelief.

“He seriously doesn’t care…” Steph chuckled softly, shaking her head in astonishment. “Bruce is so fucking weird.”