#because i kept cracking up lol | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jakesimfromstatefarm · 2 months ago

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fine line ── l. hs

↳ summary ── heesung's got two problems: (1) he can't sleep, and (2) he's addicted to the 1AM combo of instant ramyeon and coffee milk from his favorite convenience store around the corner. the only thing more consistent than his insomnia? his nightly visits for his beloved snacks (and maybe to glare at the new night shift employee, too). & pstt, spoiler alert: you're the said new night shift employee. and you don't know what's worse: his weird food choices or his apparent superiority complex. either way, if you have to watch him inhale another bowl like it's his last meal ever, you might lose it. but hey, you know what they say—there’s a fine line between love and hate...

↳ pairing ── heeseung x f!reader

↳ genre ── idol!heeseung, e2l!au, strangers to lovers!au, convenience store worker!reader || angst hehe, crack, eventual fluff

↳ ✎ᝰ 15.4k (gasp, she kept it under 20k????)

↳ contains ── so much bickering and banter, reader is kinda sassy and a lil crazy, heeseung is a lil weirdo at first, CRACK (this entire fic revolves around EXTRA HELL FIRE RAMEN PLS), angst, both heeseung & reader can't communicate their feelings & are stubborn as hell, tension tension tension! , deep conversations about life choices lol, cursing

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── IM ALIVE (barely) ! i survived a global expedition (one 12 hr flight) just to come back and face an apocalypse (i got a bug infection and a cold) but dragged myself out of my deathbed (my comfy bed) to finish editing this because i told yall i would and bc i felt bad ghosting everyone for a week LOL apologies (if anyone cares,,,pls tell me u do or i'll cry rn) anyways i hope yall enjoy this one,,,this one was fun to write, it felt very sitcom-y and was lowkey based off of backstreet rookie vibes (only bc it's set in a convenience store). i hope you all enjoy & pls let me know what you think :') thank u for the support & love always <3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

It’s simple, really.

Customer service voice on, a smile plastered on your face, greet the customer, scan the item, take their money, bag said item, throw in a half-hearted ‘Have a good night!’

And repeat.

Well, most of the time.

Occasionally, there’s the fun of kicking out a few drunk teenagers looking for a bathroom that you definitely don’t have (yes you do). But otherwise, this graveyard shift at your local corner convenience store?

Total dream job.

You get paid—as in actual, legit money—to sit behind a counter, scan snacks, and feast on your personal holy trinity of microwavable cheesy ramen, peach juice, and potato chips. What could possibly go wrong?

At least, that’s how the manager sold it during your interview. And by interview, you mean the three-minute conversation that went something like:

“Can you work nights?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, you’re hired.”

No background check, no follow-up questions, not even a glance at your resume. A broke college student with insomnia and schedule flexibility? You were the perfect candidate.

And it’s not like you’re picky. You needed cash, and this seemed like a pretty solid deal. What can you say? College is expensive, and someone’s gotta fund your caffeine addiction and deeply specific (and yet completely necessary, you would argue) habit of playing at every single claw machine game you stumble across.

So yeah. Easy work.

At least, that's what you thought.

Because on the night of your first shift, exactly at 1:09AM, the doorbell gives its friendly little ding, and in walks...something.

Someone?

Whatever it is, it's a walking shadow. Oversized hoodie. Baggy pants. A baseball cap shoved under the hood. A black face mask covering whatever’s left of his identity. You think it’s either a ninja, a celebrity in disguise, or—more likely—a vampire who hasn’t seen sunlight since the Joseon era (you’re leaning more towards vampire).

But more than the wild theories running around in your head, something else piques your curiosity.

Because unlike the other weirdos that usually shuffle in at these ungodly hours, this one moves with true purpose. He beelines straight to the ramen aisle, snags something off the top shelf (most likely the ultra-spicy soup one because, of course, you already have the shelves memorized), and then grabs a bottle of coffee milk from the cold drinks section without even so much as glancing at it.

No hesitation. No second-guessing. Like he’s done this a thousand times before and is now on autopilot mode.

You watch, intrigued. And then—horrified.

Because who in the right mind pairs volcanic spicy ramen with coffee milk? Is that even legal?

You’re barely recovering from your own appalled thoughts before he’s already at the counter, placing his borderline apocalyptic snack combination on the counter in front of you with the same eerie precision he has.

You fail to keep your poker face on when you scan his items, your face scrunching up in disgust.

“Uh,” you shake it off, forcing yourself back to reality, “That’ll be—”

But before you can even finish your sentence, he’s already fishing out the exact amount—three crisp bills—out his back pocket and holds it out for you.

There’s a beat of silence.

You stare down at the money in his hand for a second too long, suddenly convinced this guy practices his convenience store interactions in the mirror or something.

When you don’t show any further signs of moving, he eventually gives up, placing the money on the counter with a quiet sigh, grabbing his ramen and coffee milk, and striding off to the self-service corner like he personally owns the place.

All of this. Without. A single. Thank you.

Wow. Okay. So tonight’s customer is potentially a vampire with a side gig as a professional jerk. Good to know.

You internally scoff at the entire interaction, but—unfortunately for you—you can’t look away. Because this guy? This walking shadow?

You’re weirdly intrigued. Like when you accidentally click on a pimple-popping video and immediately regret it, but still end up watching five more.

It’s a curse.

Out of the corner of your eye (because obviously you’re not staring, you’re just…hyper-aware of your surroundings), you watch him execute his ramen-and-coffee-milk routine with the precision of a man possessed.

Step one: Hot water in the ramen cup.

Step two: Ramen into the microwave.

Step three: Wait for exactly one beep before yanking the microwave door open with alarming speed, as if he's scared to even give the second beep the chance to ring.

Step four: Peel the lid back in slowly—so painfully slow you're about to march over there and do it yourself.

Step five: Insert the straw into the coffee milk—of course, perfectly right in the center. Bullseye.

Honestly? It's all kind of impressive. Horrifying, but impressive.

And, of course, just when you think you might finally look away, because out of sight, out of mind—he slides onto one of the bar stools by the window, right in your direct line of vision. The perfect spot for you to get a pristine view of his back, which, spoiler alert, is completely unhelpful in your personal mission in trying to see even a glimpse of what this guy looks like.

Maybe if you squint hard enough, you can make out his face in the reflection of the store window. Maybe. Just maybe—

Nope.

All you catch is a brief glimpse of his eyes—barely visible beneath his excessive hoodie and hat combination. Even his mask stays glued to his face and you wonder how he even plans on eating his outrageous meal.

But even so, you still can’t look away. What even is that color? And why can’t you look away?

Whatever. It’s just eyes. Totally normal. Everyone has them. Not noteworthy at all.

Except it is.

Because you catch yourself still squinting, hoping the glare of the fluorescent lighting against the window hides your not so subtle mission from him. You’re probably risking retinal damage at this point with how hard you’re trying to decode this guy’s entire identity from literally just his eyes.

You catch another short glimpse of his eyes as he shuffles in his seat and just as you’re trying to piece together why his eyes look oddly familiar—

He looks up.

His eyes catch yours in the glaring reflection of the store's windows, and you freeze.

Abort mission. Now.

You cough—loudly, dramatically—and your eyes immediately dart elsewhere, your hands shuffling on the discounted candy bars displayed on the counter top, pretending to look busy and silently praying he didn't catch you looking for too long.

When enough time passes by, you risk another quick glance back at him, to see he’s now digging into his ramen, head tucked so low you can’t even see his eyes anymore. He’s gone full turtle mode.

You lift a brow.

Weirdo.

A weirdo with an ego. Slurping and sipping away at his crime-against-humanity meal as if he owns the building.

Maybe he's mute. Or a people-hater. Or a cryptid who thrives on ramen and coffee milk instead of human interaction. Maybe I'm being pranked?

You shrug it off, because no matter how hard you try to figure him out, one thing is glaringly obvious: he does not want to be bothered.

And you're not sure if that makes him more intriguing or more annoying.

You’re in the clear. At least, you think you’re in the clear.

After your first weird encounter with Mr. No-Name-No-Face—spicy ramen enthusiast and potential vampire—you’ve begrudgingly adjusted to his nightly visits.

He shows up at 1:09AM like clockwork, grabs his neon red Extra Spicy Hellfire Ramen (yes, that’s the real brand name, and yes, your soul dies a little every time you even have to think about it), and parks himself in the window seat across from your counter like it’s a Michelin-star ramen bar—and not your humble convenience store with a health inspection rating of B+ (don’t ask).

By night three, you’ve downgraded him from potential murderer to mildly annoying ramen connoisseur.

By night four, you’ve decided he’s your own personal karma sent by the universe.

It starts off with the door chime. You don’t even flinch. 1:09AM. Right on schedule.

You don’t look up from the colorful juice pouches you’re restocking. You’re halfway through creating a perfectly symmetrical pyramid display—color-coded, of course—because, clearly, you’ve peaked as a human being.

Behind you, footsteps head straight to the ramen aisle. And sure enough, you peek over your shoulder, and there he is: drowning in black hoodie layers, hood up, mask on, the patron saint of please don’t perceive me. Same old routine, same old—

Wait.

He freezes, mid-reach for his usual ramen on the top shelf, his hand hovering in the air. And then, horrifyingly, he turns.

And looks directly at you.

Your face heats up—probably not as red as the hellfire ramen he was about to grab, but it’s close, you imagine. You find yourself clutching onto the random juice pouch in your hand as if it’s your lifeline before you clear your throat, “Uh—is something wrong?”

He glances from you and back to the shelf in front of him, and for the first time in…ever, he speaks.

Gasp.

So we can cross mute off the list.

“They’re out of my flavor,” he says. His voice is deep, which isn’t surprising to you, given he’s the literal human embodiment of the color black, but it’s also serious. So unnecessarily serious that you almost laugh.

Almost.

Because his tone isn’t just serious—it’s accusatory. As if you personally raided the ramen aisle and hid his favorite flavor for entertainment.

Excuse me?

Your mouth opens then closes, flopping like a fish that now deeply regrets every life choice. The fire rising in your chest is about two seconds away from erupting into a full-blown lecture on how supply chains work, but you keep it in, deciding getting fired on the fourth day probably doesn’t look good on your resume.

Instead, you plaster on a flat, unimpressed look.

“Uh..yeah, it looks like it,” you deadpan, inching closer to where he’s standing to investigate the shelf.

Leaning up on your toes, you scan the shelf for any hidden Hellfire cups, hoping some miracle will save you from continuing this interaction.

Nope. It’s empty alright. Emptier than your will to entertain his dramatics.

“Tragic,” you glance back at him, strategically avoiding eye contact, and settle on offering a shrug. “There are plenty of other flavors. Maybe try…the regular spicy?”

You grab the flavor below his usual one and hold it up as an olive branch, but he cuts you off with a tone that even convinces you that you’re deranged.

“No.”

You blink.

“No?”

“It has to be Extra Spicy Hellfire.”

You blink again.

You wait for the punchline.

It never comes.

This man is dead serious.

You’re standing in the middle of a fluorescent-lit ramen aisle, at your minimal wage night-shift job, at 1:12AM on a random Tuesday, and this guy is dead serious.

And he’s staring at you like this is a life-or-death situation. And judging from the look in his eyes, it’s looking like you’re facing death.

But then, you really notice his eyes. And for a split second—just a split second—you’re derailed from your rising anger.

They’re brown. But not just any brown—the kind of brown that makes poets write bad metaphors. Cinnamon swirls. Autumn leaves. Possibly falling in love in a Hallmark Christmas movie.

But then you blink again, hard, snapping yourself out of whatever ridiculous moment your sleep-deprived brain just conjured. This is not the time. You’re literally staring at, like, three inches of this guy’s face.

And he’s a jerk. Get a grip, Y/N.

“Uh, yeah,” you clear your throat, trying your best to sound professional through your disbelief. “Sorry. We probably put in our shipment request late. But I’m sure you won’t implode by going one night without it?”

You tack on a small laugh and smile at the end of your sentence, hoping to lighten the mood.

He does not smile back.

Not even a flicker.

Instead, he continues to stare at you like you just suggested he eat plain, untoasted bread for the rest of his life.

You want to bury yourself into a hole. Maybe getting fired on the fourth day won’t be so bad afterall.

“I’m sure the regular spicy one is just as good. What’s the worst that could happen?” you offer weakly when he makes no sign of saying anything, and you really hope this guy doesn’t explode in front of you—mainly because you’re not confident in your own ability to explain that situation to your manager.

“I’m not risking it,” he finally deadpans.

Your jaw drops slightly.

“You’re not ris—” you hesitate, debating whether you want to ruin your night further. But you’ve come this far. “You’re being…serious?”

The question lined with your clear judgement hangs in the air between you two, and no amount of fake customer service can mask the expression of disapproval on your face.

His eyes narrow at you as he scoffs, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand,” you tilt your head, your annoyance slowly reaching a boiling point, throwing all professionalism out the window. All you wanted was to enjoy your juice-sorting in peace, not babysit this walking ramen manifesto. “I understand that you’re just picky.”

At that, his eyes flash—sharp, unreadable. “I’m not picky.”

“You won’t eat a perfectly fine ramen just because it’s not named after the ninth circle of hell.”

Silence.

He stares at you with the intensity of someone about to write a strongly worded online review.

Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, he finally mutters, “Fine. I’ll take the mild one.”

You blink at the flavor in your hand—the one that’s clearly labeled in giant, blazing-red, font: Regular Spicy. Then you look back at him.

“You mean regular spicy.”

“Right. Whatever. Same thing.”

He grabs the ramen cup from your hand and stalks off to grab his usual coffee milk, leaving you stranded in the middle of the ramen aisle, questioning every life choice that brought you here.

Before you’re about to mentally spiral, his voice cuts through the store.

“Hello?”

Oh. Right. Your job.

You scramble back to behind the register, quickly moving your hands to ring him up and get him out of here as soon as possible.

He hands you his three crisp bills, and before you hand him his glorified ramen and godforsaken coffee milk, you hesitate, pulling them back slightly. He freezes, his hands hanging in the air between you two.

“You know,” you narrow your eyes as you look up at him, “some people would say thank you for the recommendation.”

His brow arches—or at least, you think it does. It’s hard to completely tell under his stupid hat. Then he fires back—

“And some people wouldn’t forget to restock the ramen.”

Your mouth falls open, your words failing you as he grabs his goods from your hands, heading to the self-serve station to continue his nightly noodle worship as if he didn’t just verbally body-slam you.

Yeah. It’s going to be a long night.

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic.

Lee Heeseung’s life? Heeseung’s life is that times ten, with an extra sprinkle of what-is-even-happening-anymore?

Between back-to-back choreo sessions, recording tracks at hours that shouldn’t legally exist, and navigating the emotional and physical minefield of constant shows, interviews, photoshoots—you name it—nothing about his life is consistent.

However—

There are two things—two sacred constants—that keep Heeseung from spiraling into total madness.

The first?

Insomnia.

Not by choice, of course. He doesn’t love being awake at 3AM, staring at his ceiling and waiting for sleep to take over. But it’s a loyal companion, like a stray cat that keeps showing up at your house no matter how hard you try to shoo it away. Heeeseung’s insomnia is always there for him, night after night, ensuring he gets exactly only four hours of sleep—with a side of existential dread.

And the second?

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk.

Yes, it’s a weird combo.

No, he doesn’t care.

This unlikely pairing is Heeseung’s personal slice of heaven he can actually control and choose in a life otherwise ruled by the rest of the world.

Every night, he drags himself to his favorite corner store, grabs his fiery ramen and sweet, creamy coffee milk, and plants himself in the window seat to enjoy his culinary masterpiece in peace.

Then—and only then—can Heeseung catch a few hours of sleep, the spice-induced euphoria lulling himself into a temporary state of calm.

Does he have a problem? Absolutely.

Is he addicted? Without a doubt.

Does he care? Not in the slightest.

Because in a world that demands he change at the drop of a hat, this little routine of his is the one thing that stays consistent.

Well, except for last night.

Because last night, someone dared to disrupt the cosmic balance of his existence. Someone failed to restock his precious Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen.

He had stared at the empty spot on the shelf, the betrayal hitting him like a personal attack. He went home last night only a quarter satisfied from the mild spicy ramen he had settled with.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t stop thinking about the someone responsible.

Now here he is, stepping into the corner store at 1:09AM, ready to make up for last night’s disappointment of an outcome.

Heeseung steps into the brightly lit store, the familiar ding ringing behind him as he enters right on time. He continues his familiar route to the ramen aisle, but not before shooting a quick glance from below his hat toward the counter.

Yup, there she is.

You.

The new graveyard shift employee. The one who dared to challenge his sacred ramen ritual and stared at him like he was a walking poor life choice.

You’re here again. This is five nights in a row. Heeseung wonders if you 1) are insane, 2) have no life, or 3) are purely here just to spite him.

But tonight, he’s prepared. His focus is razor-sharp, his mission clear: Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk. Nothing will get in the way tonight.

Heeseung looks up, exhaling in relief when he spots the fiery red packaging of the Extra Spicy Hellfire sitting innocently on the shelf. There you are.

He grabs the cup (with too much excitement that it should honestly embarrass him), cradling it like a long-lost love, before he makes his way to snag his coffee milk.

Perfect combo. Perfect routine. Perfect night.

Except—

Except, of course, you’re watching him. Again.

He doesn’t even need to look up to know it. He can feel your judging eyes burning into the back of his head like you did the other night—like you’re seconds away from filing a report against his own taste buds.

He doesn’t get it—what’s so strange about ramen and coffee milk? It’s not like he’s dipping the noodles in it. Why you’ve made it your personal mission to antagonize him, he has no idea, but it’s really throwing him off his ramen zen.

Heeseung sighs to himself as he steps up to the counter, making sure you hear the sheer misery in this voice—because, of course, fate has cursed him with yet another encounter with you.

“So…do you actually enjoy these together, or are you just trying to destroy your stomach lining?”

He freezes. Great, you’re talking. So much for a perfect night.

He adjusts his cap to peer at you and that same unimpressed, judgmental look sitting on your face as you lean against the counter behind you. “What’s wrong with my choices?”

Your eyebrows shoot up, “What's right with them? This combo screams, ‘I have unresolved issues I’m trying to boil away with spicy and sugar.’”

Okay, ouch.

Heeseung narrows his eyes, trying to ignore the weird pinch in his chest at how quickly you read him, whether he likes to admit it or not.

“I like them. That’s all that matters,” his voice drips with a certain sharpness, hoping the edge in his tone is enough to make you back off.

You, however, seem entirely unfazed.

“Just trying to help,” you shrug as you scan his items, “looking out for your poor taste buds.”

For a moment, Heeseung considers firing back, but then his gaze catches yours for a millisecond too long as you take his cash and, immediately, he’s wondering—for the hundredth time—if you know.

Do you recognize him?

The thought has been gnawing at him since the first time he stepped into this store and saw you sitting there five days ago. Sure, he’s got his identity pretty much concealed under his borderline clinically insane hat-mask-hoodie combo, but still—most people at least give him a double take, a lingering glance. Something.

But you? Nothing. No flash of recognition. No curiosity. Nothing to indicate you know you’re talking to Lee Heeseung—part idol, part insomniac, 100% ramen enthusiast.

And for some reason, that both annoys and intrigues him.

“Thanks for your concern,” Heeseung mumbles dryly, quickly grabbing the ramen cup and cold drink from your hands.

“No problem,” you chirp just as sarcastically, an annoying smile on your face. “Enjoy your…uh, gourmet meal.”

Heeseung throws you one last glare before shaking his head and stalking off to the self-serve station. He puts the cup down on the counter with a little more force than necessary and pours boiling water over the noodles, glaring into the steam as your voice rings in his head.

What’s wrong with ramen and coffee milk? He scowls. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And I definitely don’t have unresolved issues.

But as he steals a glance back at the check-out counter and catches you sorting bills like nothing happened, a weird unease settles in his chest.

He looks down at this ramen, then at the coffee milk.

For the first time ever, he feels…self-conscious.

And now you’re in his head.

Great.

By night six, you don’t know whether to pity the guy or stage an intervention.

The ding of the automatic doors announces his arrival, as usual, at exactly 1:09AM. You know it’s him—Ramen Guy. The guy who you’re convinced single-handedly continues to keep the Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen business float.

You lean against the counter and subtly watch him make his usual pilgrimage to the ramen aisle, internally scoffing to yourself at the weird moment he picks up his ramen like it’s his newborn child.

He’s so weird.

You wonder what kind of person he is outside this convenience store. Does he always make such objectively strange choices? Like, does he wear socks with sandals? Does he mix his cereal with orange juice instead of milk?

Your haunting thoughts are interrupted by the sound of his usual unholy pair of snacks hitting the counter in front of you with a soft thunk. You look down at the items before glancing back up at him with a skeptical look on your face, “You ever think about switching it up?”

Ramen Guy, clearly expecting the snark, doesn’t miss a beat, “You ever think about minding your business?”

“Not really. Boredom makes me nosy,” you shrug. “And at this point, you’re the only thing keeping me entertained at this hour.”

He rolls his eyes so dramatically you’re mildly concerned he might sprain something.

“And I’m starting to think you like judging me a little too much.”

“Wrong. I like judging everyone equally,” you scan his items, then tilt your head. “But maybe you’re a special case. With issues.”

To your surprise, he snorts. Like, an actual, out-loud laugh.

“Says the girl who voluntarily works the night shift.”

Your smirk falters for half a second. He catches it.

Ramen Guy raises an eyebrow, leaning casually against the counter. “What? Too close to home?”

You shift in your spot, “Bold of you to assume I have issues.”

He shrugs, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You shift the attention back to him. “What about you, then? Why do you keep showing up here, huh?”

At that, something changes. The words in the air, and for the first time, you notice a slight shift in his demeanor—the slight awkwardness in the way he shifts his weight.

Then, after a brief pause, he meets your gaze and throws the question right back at you.

“Why do you keep working the night shift?”

You freeze, putting his items back down on the counter, caught off guard by the reversal. "Touché. But I asked first."

There's hesitation again for a moment, his fingers tapping the edge of the counter impatiently—nervously?

"I like the peace and quiet,” he finally says, and for the first time tonight, he meets your eyes.

For a split second, you’re startled by the sincerity in his gaze and sudden shift in tone—it’s almost distracting. But you shake yourself out of it just as quickly.

"Nothing about Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk sounds peaceful or quiet," your voice softer now but still teasing.

"Okay, Miss Graveyard Shift," he fires back, leaning a little closer over the counter. "Why are you here every night? Do you have a thing for fluorescent lighting and cleaning up after drunk customers or something?"

You don't miss the faint challenge in his voice as you narrow your eyes at him.

Then, you settle for a shrug and take a breath, answering honestly.

"It's flexible. Pays well enough," you start, before looking back at him, and add, almost as an afterthought, "...and I like the quiet too."

It’s an honest answer, one that seems to hang in the air between you two for a beat too long. His gaze softens ever so slightly, and you swear you see something shift underneath that stupid cap of his, but before you can dwell on it, he straightens up.

He places his three bills on the counter, grabs his items, and pauses.

“So,” he starts, his lighter tone breaking the silence, “do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Graveyard Shift Girl?”

You raise a brow, amused, as you start putting his bills away, “Do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Ramen Guy?”

For a split second, you think you see something flicker in his eyes—something smug, something entertained. And you don’t know it, but under his mask, his lips twitch, fighting back a faint smile.

“Touché,” he murmurs, echoing your earlier words before stepping back from the counter, items in hand, but lingers just a moment longer than necessary—like he wants to say something else.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns towards the self-serve station, falling back into his regular routine.

And you should do the same.

You try to do the same. But as you go back to your usual tasks—wiping down the counter, restocking shelves, pretending to be productive—you find yourself sneaking glances out of the corner of your eye toward his window seat.

He just sits there, just like he always does, stirring his ramen absentmindedly as he stares out into the empty street. And yet, tonight, something feels…different.

It’s nothing. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just curiosity. Natural, given how he keeps showing up every night, breaking up the monotony of your shift with his weird food choices and even weirder personality.

And yet—

No matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to stop thinking about him—the way he looked at you earlier, the way his demeanor shifted even slightly.

It’s nothing.

Still, your gaze flickers back at him, catching the way his fingers tap lightly against the table, lost in thought. You wonder what kind of things keep a guy like him up at night.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to find his weird little habits endearing, too.

The faint sound of the store’s music plays in the background, the clock ticks, and eventually, he finishes his ramen, tosses his trash, and makes his way toward the door.

And then—he hesitates.

Just for a second. A small pause, a barely-there moment where he stops, glances over his shoulder just slightly—just enough to look at you.

“See you tomorrow, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

You blink, caught off guard, and for a moment, all you can manage is to stare at him. Then, as you fail to ignore the weird blooming feeling in your chest, your words slip out almost on instinct:

"Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

The next night, you do something completely out of character, entirely unprovoked, and maybe just a little bit unhinged—you take your cheesy ramen, peace juice pouch, and bag of potato chips and plop yourself down right next to Ramen Guy and his usual window seat.

He pauses mid-slurp. Keeping his head low, he turns to you slowly. Suspiciously.

“What…are you doing?”

“Having dinner,” you say matter-of-factly, popping open your bag of chips.

His gaze drops to your meal, and then back to you. “It’s almost 1:30AM.”

“Okay? Dinner, early breakfast, midnight snack, call it whatever you want,” you shrug, unbothered as you continue unwrapping your meal.

Ramen Guy exhales through his nose, shaking his head to himself like he’s just accepted his fate. Without another word, he turns back to his own meal and resumes eating.

A surprisingly comfortable silence follows—the only sounds filling the empty store the quiet hum of the store’s playlist, the buzz of the lights above you, and the synchronized slurp of two insomniacs with poor diet choices.

Then, without thinking, you tilt your bag of potato chips, holding it out between you two, “Want one?”

He stops mid-motion, as if he’d almost forgotten you were still here.

Almost.

A glance into your bag, a small shrug, and then, just like that, he grabs a chip and pops it into his mouth, moving so fast you barely catch a glimpse of his face without the mask.

“Thanks,” he mutters before taking a sip of his coffee milk, still keeping his head low.

You hum in response, your fingers drumming against the counter before your curiosity wins the best of you, “So…what kind of life leads you to seek peace and quiet in a convenience store?”

It’s a question that’s been on your mind since last night’s conversation. What can you say? You’re a creature of curiosity.

Ramen Guy shrugs next to you, “What do you mean?”

“Like…you’re here every night. Why at night? Why not during the day?”

He lets out a short chuckle. “You want me to leave?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sure sounded like it.”

You exhale sharply, your fingers now absentmindedly swirling the noodles in your bowl. “Look, I’m just saying—most people are asleep at this hour.”

He smirks. You can hear it in his voice without even looking. “You’re here too, aren’t you?”

“That’s different, this is my job,” you scoff, amused, before pointedly gesturing at this meal before him, “Unless you want to call your weird habits a job. Which, honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was paying you to subject your tastebuds to that every night.”

And he laughs. It’s small, barely there, but you catch it. Then, with a quiet exhale, he finally answers, “It’s like I told you before, I like the quiet at this hour…I don’t get a lot of that.”

You stop twirling your noodles, the air shifting into that same unspoken understanding from last night. Faint, but unmistakable.

Something unsaid hanging between the two of you, something that tells you this guy is more than just an insomniac with questionable food choices.

You tilt your head. “So, what, you got a bunch of loud roommates or something?”

A small, almost knowing smile tugs at his lips. “Something like that.”

You raise a brow at his vague answer but don’t press. Instead, you nod towards his food. “And your criminal meals? That part of the quiet too?”

He huffs, “Maybe I just have superior taste.”

“Right, totally,” you laugh, the tone in your voice almost testing him.

Ramen Guy finishes up his meal, wiping his mouth quickly with a napkin before putting his mask back on and finally turning to face you fully.

He narrows his eyes at you, “You think you have me all figured out?”

You mirror his actions, facing him fully for the first time tonight, folding your arms, “Oh, I do have you all figured out, Ramen Guy.”

“Oh yeah?” He leans forward slightly. “Alright, go on. Tell me who I am, Graveyard Psychic Girl.”

You roll your eyes but accept the challenge, leaning back in your seat.

“You’re a creature of habit, clearly. You like consistency. Probably because your life is very inconsistent otherwise.”

Ramen Guy doesn’t react, so you continue.

“You’re a night owl, but not by choice. You want to sleep, but your brain won’t let you.” Your eyes flick down to the coffee milk. “So, instead, you drink this, even though it probably makes it worse.”

Still no response.

“So now, you just keep showing up here because it’s predictable,” you finish with a small shrug. “And maybe…‘cause you’re kinda lonely.”

That makes him pause.

You immediately regret saying it. Because…what was that?

That was too much. Too deep. Too intrusive.

But to your surprise, he doesn’t deflect. He doesn’t scoff, or roll his eyes, or peer them at you the way he does a million times a night.

Instead, he tilts his head slightly, eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place.

“…Not bad,” he says finally, reaching for another chip from the bag in your hands.

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“I mean, kinda harsh, but…mostly true.”

“Oh,” you don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that.

A beat of silence passes before Ramen Guy speaks up again, “So basically, you’re saying we’re the same.”

You let out a snort, “Not even close.”

“We both work weird hours. We both like the quiet. We both eat the same convenience store junk food.” He holds up the bag of potato chips before eating another one.

“You just started eating those,” you deadpan.

“Yeah, but I’m still eating them, which means my taste is obviously elite.”

“You literally eat coffee milk with nuclear ramen.”

“Okay, you’re the one who made it weird.”

A mischievous smile starts forming on your face as you snatch your bag of chips back from him, “So you agree your food choices are weird?”

His smirk falters as a small giggle rises out of you.

“Whatever you say, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

The next night, Heeseung does something completely out of character, entirely unprovoked, and maybe just a little bit unhinged—he’s late. It’s 1:30AM, well past his usual 1:09AM show-up time, and the store is Heeseung-less.

He blames late-night dance practice. He also blames Ni-ki for stealing his usual black hoodie—forcing him to spend an extra thirty minutes looking for another one. Not that the hoodie matters, he would argue (yes, it does).

When he finally steps through the door at 1:32AM, the familiar ding barely finishes echoing before—

“Wow,” you drawl from behind the counter, arms crossed. “Tragic. Unbelievable. I was starting to think you found a new place to bother.”

Heeseung snorts, making a beeline for the ramen aisle, “You wish. Wouldn’t want you to get bored without me.”

You let out a dramatic gasp, “Wow. Thoughtful and self-aware. Who knew you had layers?”

Heeseung tries to ignore you, moving to grab his coffee milk. But his lips twitch under his mask, and he’s glad it’s hiding the way he’s failing to fight the smile growing on his face.

When he finally reaches the counter, you push off from where you were leaning against the counter, hands settling on your hips. “Okay, be honest. Outside of this, do you have anything else going on in your life?”

Heeseung raises a brow, completely caught off guard. If there’s one thing he’s learned over the past few nights, it’s that you’re incredibly nosy. And for someone who claims to like working the night shift because of the quiet, you’re absolutely terrible at keeping things that way.

“Excuse me?”

“You mentioned that you work weird hours yesterday,” you gesture vaguely at him. “So, spill.”

His stare remains blank, debating if he can distract you by handing you his three bills of cash (he can’t).

“I do…stuff.”

“Stuff,” you repeat, “Quite riveting.”

Heeseung exhales, “Why do you care?”

You shrug, taking his cash and putting it away. “You must do something interesting. You’re too weirdly confident for a guy who just bums around convenience stores at night.”

Heeseung scoffs. "Weirdly confident?"

"Yeah, like—" You wave around you. "You walk around like you have some big, mysterious purpose. But all I ever see you do is glare at instant noodles and sip milk like a sad Victorian child."

Heeseung shakes his head, letting out a breathy laugh. "Maybe that is my purpose."

Then, he simply shrugs. But there’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, like he’s deciding exactly how much he wants to say.

"It’s hard to explain,” he finally says. “I just…have a weird work schedule.”

"Weird how?"

"Weird as in, I don’t really get normal hours. Always moving, always working. Makes sleep kinda impossible."

You pause, taking in his words. Then, you shift slightly, crossing your arms. "Sounds exhausting."

Heeseung exhales a laugh, leaning against the counter. "You have no idea."

For a moment, a familiar and warm quiet fills the air as the two of you linger, as if waiting for the other to say something more.

And he doesn’t know why, but his chest feels a little too tight—like he’s let you stumble into a part of him you weren’t supposed to see yet.

“Well,” you say quietly, your lips curving into a soft smile that sends a weird jolt through his body that he chooses to ignore. “I’m honored you’ve chosen this fine establishment as your official sanctuary.”

He scoffs, reaching for his items. "Don’t let it go to your head, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

He then turns to head to his usual corner when—

“Y/N.”

Heeseung pauses, turning back at you like an awkward child lost in the middle of a store.

“My name,” you clarify, casually returning to sorting the register’s bills. “A lot easier to say than Graveyard Shift Girl.”

Heeseung gives you a slow nod, something unfamiliar and unplaceable twisting in his stomach as he turns back around.

And when he finishes his meal and leaves that night, he calls out—

“See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

And, this time, he doesn’t fight the smile under his mask when he hears your voice, a little softer, call back out:

“Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

It happens the moment he steps inside.

Heeseung doesn’t even make it past the threshold before a familiar melody drifts through the weak convenience store speakers and to his ears.

Familiar because he’s heard it a thousand times.

Familiar because it’s literally his voice singing the line.

His stomach drops.

Instead of his usual beeline to the ramen aisle, Heeseung turns towards the counter where you’re idly tapping on your phone, oblivious.

The hum of the melody continues, and Heeseung is suddenly too hyper-aware of how loud his own voice sounds in the otherwise dead-silent store.

Panic creeps up his spine.

He moves fast, crossing the store in a few long strides, slamming his hands down onto the counter that divides the two of you.

You jump in your seat.

“Geez—” you clutch your chest, wide-eyed as you take in his very sudden, very urgent presence. “What the hell?”

Heeseung ignores you, pointing above him, “Did you put this on?”

Your brows furrow as you put your phone down, glance up at him, then at the speakers he’s pointing at. You barely register the song before recognition flickers across your face.

“Oh—this? Nah, it’s the store’s playlist,” you gesture towards the iPad behind the counter, currently playing a Current Hits playlist on shuffle. “It’s some group’s new song. Pretty catchy.”

Heeseung just stares at you, mind racing.

You don’t recognize it.

You don’t recognize his voice.

The realization sends relief crashing over him, but he quickly snaps out of it with a brand-new problem—because now he has to decide what the hell to do with this information.

Does he tell you? Drop the act and lay it all out? Would you believe him? Would you even care?

“You okay?” Now you’re staring at him, suspicious. “Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”

Heeseung clears his throat, realizing his stance is way too conspicuous, and slowly removes his hands from the counter to stand up straight, attempting to sound normal, “No reason.”

You squint at him.

Then—

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes suddenly lighting up. “Wait.”

His heart stops. Oh, shit. She figured it out. This is it.

“Are you a fan?” you blurt, leaning forward in your seat eagerly.

Heeseung blinks.

…What.

“Oh, you totally are,” you continue, completely missing the way his soul is currently leaving his body. “You came straight to the counter like a man on a mission. Oh my god. Are they, like, your favorite group or something?”

Heeseung has never wanted to laugh and cry at the same time more than he does in this moment.

“Something like that,” he mutters, bringing a hand to rub this temple, because no way this is happening right now.

You beam brightly from your seat, “That’s cute. Who’s your bias?”

At that, Heeseung does laugh—because this is now officially the most ridiculous thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

There’s a long pause.

And then—after a deep breath, a long and heated internal debate, and one last glance at your innocent, completely oblivious face—he finally exhales, looking you straight in the eye.

“This guy,” he says as he hears his own voice ring out through the store. “Because that’s me. That’s my voice.”

Silence.

You stare at him.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then, after what feels like an eternity—

“…Huh?”

Then you tilt your head. "I'm sorry—what?"

Heeseung watches as your expression cycles from confusion to skepticism to outright disbelief. He braces himself.

"My name is Lee Heeseung," he repeats slowly. "From Enhypen."

Another beat of silence.

Then—because you’re you—

You burst out laughing.

"Okay, Ramen Guy," you snort, crossing your arms. "Very funny.”

Heeseung sighs, "I knew this would happen."

"Because you’re delusional?"

"Because you don’t pay attention."

You roll your eyes, "Oh, I’m sorry, but when in our thriving relationship have you ever given me a reason to believe that you’re actually a famous idol and not just some guy who has concerning dietary habits?"

Heeseung groans.

He regrets everything. He regrets this entire conversation. He could have lied. He could have said literally anything else. But no—he had to be honest. And look where that got him.

"I’m serious," he insists, leveling you with a look.

You stare back at him.

Then, something seems to click in your brain, because you suddenly lunge for your phone.

"Oh, we’re doing this," you mutter, fingers flying across the screen as you type in his name. "Let’s see if—"

You stop.

Heeseung watches as your eyes widen, scanning the images in front of you. Then you look up at him. Then back down at the phone.

Then back at him.

“Take the mask off,” you mutter quietly, slowly holding your phone up next to his face.

With an exhausted sigh, Heeseung does what he’s told and pulls it down for the first time in front of you.

You scan him. Then the phone. Then him.

"You've gotta be shitting me," you breathe.

Heeseung shrugs, "Told you."

You gape at him, your mouth opening and closing.

You don’t know what shocks you more—the fact that a literal celebrity has been standing in front of you this whole time, or the realization that the once-random stranger you used to relentlessly tease has, somehow, always been this ridiculously good-looking all along.

"So…you’re famous?"

"Something like that."

"Something like that?" You shove your phone toward him, your screen now displaying the group’s Instagram page. "You literally have fans. Like, millions of them."

Heeseung cringes, "Okay, you don’t have to say it like that."

"Like what? Like you’re a superstar and I’ve been treating you like a regular guy who can't cook for himself?"

"Because that’s exactly what I am?"

“Unbelievable,” you scoff, shaking your head. “So you sing. You perform. You—commit crimes against humanity with your ramen choices each night.”

Heeseung groans. “Oh my god.”

“Oh my god,” you echo, standing up from your seat behind the counter. “So you’re telling me that every night, an actual, real-life idol has been showing up here, inhaling a week’s worth of sodium, and I—” You pause, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Are you even allowed to be eating this garbage?”

“And are you ever able to mind your own business?” Heeseung counters, now fully regretting this entire conversation.

“Absolutely not, Lee Heeseung, because this is literally the plot of a drama,” you wave your hands in disbelief. “Mystery insomniac convenience store guy turns out to be a world famous pop star—”

“Okay, let’s not get carried away.”

“—and I, the unsuspecting cashier, unknowingly roast him every night like he’s just some sleep-deprived college student instead of a millionaire with talent. Wait—” you then pause again, placing your hands on your hips, staring at him with a newfound judgment. “—you’re loaded, aren’t you?”

Heeseung pinches the bridge of your nose, exasperated, “Why is that your takeaway from this?”

“You are!” you exclaim, your smile widening as you ignore his suffering. “You’re rich and you’re out here eating instant ramen every night!”

Heeseung groans again, dropping his head onto the counter in front of you, “Oh my god.”

Grinning, you bend down to this level. “So this whole time, you’ve been lying to me?”

He lifts his head just enough to glare at you. "It’s not lying. It’s…selective honesty.”

You scoff, straightening up just as Heeseung does, meeting his gaze with an accusatory squint. “That’s literally the definition of lying.”

“Look, it’s not like I planned to make a habit out of this,” he gestures to the store around him. “I came in one night, and then I came back, and suddenly, I had a thing going. Then you showed up and started running your mouth, and—”

“And you kept coming back anyways,” you finish, crossing your arms, a slow, amused smile tugging at your lips.

Heeseung freezes. His mouth opens. Then closes.

“…Yeah.”

A silence stretches between you—charged, almost personal—until you decide to cut through the tension with a smirk.

“What if I play your group’s music over the speakers every night?”

The look on his face is deadly. “You wouldn’t.”

Your grin grows, “Wouldn’t I, though?”

“This is the worst night of my life,” Heeseung drags a hand down his face and turns towards the ramen aisle. “I’m leaving.”

“Aww, c’mon,” you tease, calling out after him and delighting in his suffering. “Also can we talk about how you literally just said you’re your own bias?”

“Shut up.”

You’re still laughing when he returns to the counter thirty seconds later—Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk in hand, cheeks tinged pink.

“Alright, serious question,” you say, leaning in slightly from your seat at the window barstools. “If you had to give up either Extra Spicy Hellfire or coffee milk for the rest of your life, which would you choose?”

Heeseung immediately stops chewing, his chopsticks frozen midair as he turns to you with a look that says you just personally offended him.

“That’s straight evil.”

“You must choose, Ramen Guy.”

Heeseung groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “You can’t just throw life-altering hypotheticals at me like that.”

“Choose.”

He stares at his ramen. Then at this coffee milk. Then back at you.

Then back at his ramen.

Then back at you.

“I hate you, you know that?”

“Aw,” you flash him your sweetest, most infuriating smile. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me. Like, ever.”

Heeseung shoots a glare at you, “I hope your regular spicy ramen tastes like disappointment.”

“Oh, it totally does,” you look down at your own ramen in front of you and take an exaggerated slurp, “It’s just so awful.”

Heeseung’s lips perk up into a smile at your weirdly endearing antics before shaking his head, “You’re a lost cause.”

You giggle to yourself, taking a sip of your own juice when you hear Heeseung, barely audible, suddenly mutter:

“…I’d give up coffee milk.”

It’s quiet. It’s barely there.

Your jaw drops.

“I know, okay?” He rubs his temples as if the decision is actually hurting him. “It’s like choosing between two children. But at the end of the day, ramen is ramen.”

You nod along, pretending you understand the gravity of his heavy decision (you don’t). But still, you smile—because you were the one who got him to betray his beloved coffee milk.

Heeseung takes a sip of it anyway, groaning as he swirls the bottle in his hand. “I hate that you made me think about this.”

“You should be thanking me. Y’know, character growth and all that.”

“More like character damage.”

You grin, victorious, and he just rolls his eyes before pausing for a second to think, then—he nudges his ramen cup toward you.

“Here. Try some.”

You recoil immediately and look up at him with a look that tells him he’s absolutely psychotic.

“Absolutely not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why? You scared?”

“No, Heeseung, I just have these things called taste buds.”

He scoffs, shoving the bowl between you two closer. “Just one bite. C’mon, Graveyard Shift Girl, live a little. For me.”

You hold his gaze, suspicious but faltering, because—damn it—he’s looking at you like that. All smug and teasing, head tilted slightly, and it affects you.

And then he moves.

He picks up his chopsticks, twirls them in the bowl, and catches a perfect bundle of noodles before leaning forward, holding them up between you two. He waits.

Your breath hitches. Your eyes flicker to the steam curling from the noodles, twisting in the air between your faces, fragile and fleeting.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

It’s ridiculous, really. I mean, it’s ramen. But the way the space between you suddenly feels thin, the way his grip on the chopsticks stays steady, his fingers just inches from your lips, the way his dark eyes stay locked onto yours, watching you with something unreadable flickering beneath the usual teasing glint—it feels like time slows down.

You blink rapidly, clearing your throat. It’s fine. It’s cool. You’re overthinking.

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, watching. Waiting.

You let out an exaggerated sigh and slowly lean in to take the bite.

Your lips brush the chopsticks as you close your mouth around the noodles, and for a split second—one charged, unspoken, split second—neither of you move.

Heeseung is so close.

So close.

You can see the soft curve of his mouth, the way his gaze flickers over your face, the way his breath catches slightly like he just realized something.

You’re suddenly painfully aware of the close proximity and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks. Panicked, you pull back quickly and settle into your seat like nothing happened.

But then you start chewing.

And that’s when you realize—

No, wait. Wait. That heat in your cheeks?

Oh.

Oh no.

Yeah. It’s definitely not because of Heeseung (well, maybe a part of it is).

Because the second you swallow down the bundle of noodles—the embodiment of heat, pain, and suffering all slams into your mouth instantly.

You freeze.

Your brain short-circuits.

And then—

“Oh my GOD—” you choke, slamming your hands onto the counter, your body shaking as the spice courses through your veins.

Your throat ignites, your sinuses clear, and you swear you can hear colors.

Heeseung? Heeseung loses it.

His laugh bursts out of him—loud, unguarded, and completely delightful. He clutches his stomach, nearly hiccuping from how hard he’s laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples deep in his cheeks.

If you weren’t literally physically dying in this current moment, you’d probably be absolutely too flustered to function at the sight.

“No way—” he wheezes through his laughter,“—are you actually struggling right now?”

“WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE, HEESEUNG?!” you glare at him through the tears forming in your eyes as you desperately flail your arms around, searching for your juice pouch. “You eat this voluntarily?!”

“Every night, baby.”

“You’re sick.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

Your hands finally find your drink and you gulp it down as if it’s your lifeline, eyes still watery, throat still burning, lungs barely breathing. But somewhere in the middle of your suffering, you catch yourself staring.

At Heeseung.

At the way he’s still smiling, like he just had the best meal of his life. At the way his eyes sparkle when he laughs, his dimples peeking out like his own hidden secrets, the way his nose scrunches slightly when he’s amused—

Weird.

You blink the thoughts (and your tears) away, shaking it off, and blame the spice, the delirium, and sheer trauma of what just happened.

You clear your throat, sitting back with a desperate huff.

“I hope,” you catch your breath, gesturing to his bowl, “that when you come in tomorrow, we’re all out of this horrid flavor.”

Heeseung smirks, leaning back in his chair as he gives you a knowing look.

“You’d still restock it for me, though.”

Damn it.

Your shoulders slump, and both of you know you’re defeated.

He knows you know you’re defeated.

Heeseung just grins, then, without a word, slides his coffee milk toward you in a silent truce.

You stare at it. Then at him.

His smile grows.

And you accept it.

Begrudgingly.

It’s 1:20AM when you find yourself behind the counter, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes of instant noodles and bottled drinks. The store hums with its usual white noise—lights buzzing above, soft music humming overhead, the low whirr of the coolers.

And Heeseung?

Heeseung is across the counter, perched on a barstool he dragged from across the store, doing absolutely nothing to help.

For the nth time tonight, he flips a soda bottle into the air.

And for the nth time tonight, he fails to land it upright, the bottle clattering onto the counter.

“You’re supposed to be helping me restock,” you remind him, tossing a pack of chips at him.

“I am helping,” he argues, dodging the bag in time and letting it fall flat onto the ground. Great.

You cross your arms, scoffing, “Oh yeah? What category does sitting there and flipping Diet Coke fall under?”

Heeseung finally puts the bottle down on the counter and hums, tapping his fingers against the counter like he’s deep in thought. Then, he flashes you a meek smile, “Moral support?”

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to unbox another package from the pile stacked in front of you.

Another silence falls between you and Heeseung watches as you go back to your job before he breaks it—

“How do you do this every night? Does it not get…I don’t know, tedious? Boring?”

You freeze in your spot, caught by surprise at the question.

“Hm,” you turn to him, head tilted as you think.

Heeseung glances up at you, intrigued. The way your lips purse slightly, how your fingers fidget absentmindedly with the torn edge of a cardboard box.

You exhale, leaning back against the counter, “Yeah, the hours suck, pay is…alright. And—”

You hesitate. Your gaze drifts toward the floor, fixating on a dent near the register, “—and I think, at some point, I thought I felt stuck.”

Something in Heeseung’s expression shifts.

“I mean, I’m a college student, for god’s sake,” you continue, a small, humorless laugh escaping you. “And I spend my nights serving cigarettes to barely legal teens and cleaning up after ramen spills. It kind of felt like I was just…watching life pass me by, you know?”

Your voice quiets and it’s just the soft hum of the store again. You pick at the box without thinking, fingers grazing over the worn edges, and Heeseung watches you.

Because he gets it.

He gets it in a way that makes his chest ache a little.

Because despite the differences in your lives—despite how he’s constantly moving while you feel stuck—you both know the feeling of watching life slip between your fingers, of wondering if you’re ever going to feel like you belong in it.

Heeseung holds the soda bottle between his hands, rolling it back and forth, murmuring, “Yeah, I get that.”

You glance up at him, making eye contact, but you don’t push.

“But then,” you say quietly, “I started seeing this place differently. Instead of somewhere I was stuck, it became more of a…break. An escape from everything. A breath of fresh air from expectations and routine.”

And that—that makes Heeseung look up.

Because deep down, that’s exactly what all of this has become for him too.

He doesn’t know when it happened—if maybe it was the first night he found the store, maybe whenever you showed up, maybe all the sarcastic exchanges, or somewhere in between all of that—but these late-night visits, these stolen moments in a world that demands from him, have become something steady. Something his.

And he wonders if maybe…maybe you’re the reason for that.

Maybe you’ve been keeping him grounded in a life that never stops moving.

And maybe he’s been keeping you from feeling stuck.

Just maybe.

It’s late. Way later than usual. And Heeseung is still here.

And you don’t know how, but you’ve both abandoned your usual spots—his self-proclaimed window seat and your stool behind the register.

Instead, you’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the register counter, backs pressed against the shelf of over-the-counter medications that you just re-organized, with a laptop and plenty of empty snack wrappers sitting between the two of you.

“See this is exactly my problem with this movie,” you point at your laptop screen, your voice slightly muffled by the gummy bears in your mouth. “One idiot makes one bad decision, and suddenly everyone’s dead! Like, be so for real.”

Heeseung scoffs, leaning back on his hands, “It’s a movie, Y/N. It doesn’t have to be realistic.”

“And I don’t have to pretend this isn’t garbage,” you shoot back as the credits roll, unimpressed. “This is objectively the worst thing I’ve seen.”

“I think I just have an acquired superior taste,” Heeseung quips, his eyes teasing. “Just like with my food choices.”

“Right,” your voice drags out. “Superior delusion, maybe.”

Heeseung shoves your shoulder with his own, and you laugh, the sound natural, unfiltered, and totally at his expense.

As you shut your laptop and start gathering the remains of your late-night snack feast, the conversation quiets for a moment into an easy, warm silence. It’s the kind of quiet that feels good, the kind that’s been happening more lately—something you never would’ve expected that first night you ever saw him enter the store.

Then, Heeseung exhales, stretching his legs out in front of him as he leans back against the shelf, “You know, this might be the longest I’ve sat and relaxed in months.”

You glance up at him, brows raised, “What, you don’t get to laze around on the floor surrounded by junk food with your favorite convenience store worker on a regular basis?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he huffs a laugh. “But I thought a lot about what you said the other night. And sometimes it’s like…”

He pauses and tilts his head back, his eyes following the way the light fixture above him flickers in and out, “Like I’m moving so fast I forget what it’s like to just…be.”

Something in his voice makes you pause in your actions, your hands putting down the miscellaneous wrappers between you.

“Is it hard?” you ask quietly.

He lets out a breathy chuckle from beside you, “It’s…a lot. You’re always being watched, always expected to be on. And even during breaks I’m already thinking about the next thing. The next schedule, next performance, next practice.”

You watch him for a moment, watch the way his fingers tap absentmindedly against his knee, something you’ve started to notice over time whenever he’s lost in thought.

“But there are moments that make it worth it,” he continues, a small smile playing on his lips. “The music, how fun it is to be on stage, the fans. The feeling of performing and knowing people are there because they love what you do. It’s unreal.”

Your own smile unconsciously appears as you listen to him reflect, taking in his words. You never stopped to really think about his life in-depth before—and it does sound like a lot. Like something people dream of but don’t realize the weight of until they’re carrying it themselves.

You nudge his knee lightly with yours, “For what it’s worth, I think you deserve to just exist sometimes, too.”

Heeseung turns to look at you, and for a moment, his expression is unreadable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, reaching into the closest bag of gummy bears to you and tossing one to him. He catches it easily, popping it into his mouth with a grin.

“See, this is why I keep coming back,” he says, chewing. “Gourmet snacks and free therapy.”

You roll your eyes. “Unbelievable. I take it back. Suffer.”

Heeseung laughs, popping another gummy bear into his mouth, before his fingers start tapping his knee again. Then, after a beat—

“You know, I’ve been thinking.”

When you look up at him, he’s already looking at you with a new…something. A newfound sincerity, maybe. Or uncertainty. Or both.

Your eyes meet, and suddenly, he visibly hesitates—shifting almost awkwardly in his spot, as if he both rehearsed what he’s about to say and yet has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. He clears his throat, breaking eye contact.

“I—um,” he swallows hard. “I’m sorry? For, y’know, being kind of a jerk when we first met. I think I was pretty…” He trails off awkwardly. “Jerk-ish.”

You don’t move for a second. Slowly, one brow arches.

Heeseung thinks he regrets everything.

Then, a smile—slow and sweet—curls at your lips.

And suddenly, Heeseung realizes he doesn’t regret a damn thing.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, nodding along dramatically. “You were a menace. Like, an insufferable, grumpy, little menace.”

Heeseung lets out a noise that lands somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Okay, I get it.”

“But,” you continue, locking eyes with him again, “I guess I should apologize too.”

Heeseung perks up, now his brow lifting, “For what? Finally admitting I was right about—”

“For judging you and your still…very questionable choices.”

“Ah, there it is.”

You giggle, nudging him with your elbow before pausing.

“But seriously…you’re, like…” you dramatically draw out the moment as if the words physically pain you to say.

Heeseung smirks, leaning in slightly, waiting for you.

“…pretty cool, I guess.”

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face, “I’ll take it.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you scoff. “You’re still a ramen-addicted jerk.”

Heeseung hums, still smiling, “Might be too late.”

Then, he tacks on, without thinking twice, “You’re pretty cool, too, I guess.”

You laugh at the hesitancy in his voice, “Okay, that sounded almost sincere.”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile softens, “No, but seriously, it’s…nice. Having someone I could talk to outside of…you know, my whole chaotic life.”

The sudden shift in the air quiets you for a moment as you look at Heeseung, noticing the slight drop in his shoulders, the way his fingers continue to drum against his leg. When you don’t say anything, he continues.

“I don’t…really talk to people like this,” he quietly says, as if admitting something to himself more so to you. Then, after a pause, he glances back up, eyes searching your own. “Now like how I do with you. Like…I could tell you anything and everything, really.”

Your breath catches, but you keep your expression neutral, “Oh?”

Heeseung shifts, looking down at his hands before exhaling a quiet laugh, “Sorry. Too serious?”

You find yourself quickly shaking your head. Because although, yes, most of your interactions with Heeseung are filled with jokes and teasing, the serious conversations or shared warm silences in between recently—have started to mean something more. They’ve become an outlet, a quiet escape from reality. It’s like the moment he steps through the store’s doors, the door rings, the outside world fades, and for a few hours, it’s just the two of you in this shared space.

A space that feels safe, untouched by expectations, where both of you can just be.

“No,” you say, softer this time. “Not at all.”

You hesitate for a beat before adding, “I…really like talking to you too. It’s—” you let out a small laugh, “almost unnaturally easy, actually.”

Heeseung doesn’t respond right away. He just nods, and then looks up at you from the ground and his eyes are serious—no teasing, no usual smugness, just something…real. Vulnerable.

Something that makes your heart beat a little too fast.

You should say something. Something light, or something sarcastic, or something normal.

But you don’t.

Because you’re too busy looking at his face.

Then, without thinking, his lips.

And he’s looking at yours.

You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly, you’re close. He’s close. Too close. Close enough to hear his quiet inhale. To see the way his lashes flutter. To feel the space between you two thinning into something dangerously nonexistent.

You should move. You should break the moment before it turns into something neither of you can take back.

But you don’t.

And he doesn’t.

And then—

Ding.

The sound of the automatic doors sliding open shatters the moment.

You both jolt apart like a pair of teenagers caught guilty, and your heart is practically breaking out of your ribcage as you scramble to your feet, wiping your sweaty palms on your pants, your face burning as you appear from behind the counter to greet the customer that was blissfully unaware of whatever was definitely not about to happen behind the counter.

You clear your throat as you look down at Heeseung, who’s still frozen in his spot and trying his very best not to lose his mind, “I should—um. Go back to work.”

Then, suddenly, Heeseung stands too, nodding quickly as he runs a hand through his hair, his face slightly pink, very much not looking at you, “Right. Yeah. Work.”

Right when you turn back to the counter, the customer is there, waiting for you to ring them up. You plaster the most normal smile you can muster, scan their snack, take their cash, and hand them their change—all while pretending you don’t feel Heeseung’s presence still lingering behind you.

You don’t turn around, and he doesn’t move.

And despite the complete lack of physical contact, you still feel his warmth. The same amount of warmth as when he was only mere inches away from your own face.

The door chimes as the customer leaves.

Then, finally—Heeseung clears his throat.

Hesitantly, you turn around, bracing yourself.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding your gaze before forcing out, in the most casual voice he can manage—

“So, uh—same time tomorrow?”

You blink.

Then, finally, you let out a small laugh, “You’re so weird.”

The tension in the air cracks just enough, and Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, “And yet, you’d miss me if I didn’t show up, wouldn’t you?”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, except—nothing comes out.

Because, unfortunately, you know he’s right.

And he knows he’s right.

So, naturally, instead of admitting defeat, you suddenly grab a rag from behind the counter and start aggressively scrubbing at a perfectly clean surface.

“Go home, Ramen Guy.”

Heeseung just grins, shoving his hands into his pockets as steps out from behind the counter and backs away. “Night, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

When he’s finally gone, you’re left standing there, staring at where he just was before you.

And finally, when the reality of what just happened fully settles in—

You groan, dropping your head against the counter.

Because now he's in your head.

Great.

The clock above you ticks, a sound that usually fades into the background and becomes a part of the store’s white noise. But tonight?

Tonight, it’s your biggest freaking nuisance.

You think if you have to hear it tick one more time, you’re taking the ladder from the backroom, climbing up there, yanking that thing off the wall, and tossing it right into the dumpster.

Why?

Because, it’s 2:21AM.

2:21AM, and you’re alone. Stuck in this sad, empty convenience store with nothing but your own annoying thoughts and the snacks laid out in front of you with no one to share them with.

Same time tomorrow, my ass, you think bitterly, aggressively straightening a stack of receipts near the register that don’t even need straightening.

Heeseung’s voice from a few days ago still rings in your head—completely, and unfortunately, uninvited.

You don’t even know why they’re stuck in there, his words looping around, constantly taunting you.

The worst part?

His words had been entirely untrue.

Because it’s been three days.

Three full days since Heeseung has walked through those automatic doors, plopped down in his usual seat, and proceeded to either a) annoy you, b) argue with you over his food-related crimes, or c) make you laugh against your will.

And you don’t know why it’s bothering you so much.

Frustrated? Yeah, you’re frustrated. But the real question is—at what, exactly?

Frustrated that he just disappeared without so much as a heads-up? No warning?

Or maybe you’re frustrated at the very fact that you’re even thinking about this at all.

It’s not like he owes you an explanation. It’s not like he belongs to this store…or to you.

So why does it feel like something’s missing every time you glance at the entrance, half-expecting to hear the ding of the doors and see him stroll in with his stupid hoodie and even stupider smirk?

You shake your head, trying your best to snap yourself out of it.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

You don’t care.

You don’t care so much that, for some reason unbeknownst to you, your brain—your traitorous, overthinking, hardworking brain—itches with a thought.

A stupid, ridiculous, subconscious thought.

And before you can fully even process what you’re doing, your fingers are already unlocking your phone, your thumbs moving on autopilot as you do something you swore you wouldn’t.

You search up his name.

It’s pathetic. It’s sad. Even you’re disappointed in yourself.

You told yourself you wouldn’t associate Heeseung with his job, with the persona that everyone else sees. Because to you, Heeseung is just…Heeseung—the insomniac who bickers with you every night, who somehow turns every conversation into an argument he has to win, who sits cross-legged with you behind the register eating spicy noodles and giving objectively bad movie recommendations.

And to him?

Well. You thought that to him, you were just you. Just some convenience store worker he happened to befriend. Someone outside of his world, outside of the blinding lights. Someone he didn’t have to be anyone around.

His words echo in your mind as you think—just a person he could tell anything and everything to.

You push the thought along with their feelings down as you continue scrolling—quick, desperate, your fingers flying over your screen, swiping through posts, comments, anything that could explain his sudden absence—

And then.

You see it.

A tweet.

Tagging his group, followed by a message. It’s short. Sweet. Simple.

Yet entirely soul-crushing.

“Can’t believe they’re leaving for tour already tomorrow! So excited to see them in a few days!!”

Your breath catches.

Your eyes flicker over the words again.

And again.

Leaving. For tour.

Tomorrow.

Your stomach twists violently as you scan for more confirmation, your hands gripping your phone with a newfound frustration as you tap through articles, fan accounts—anything to tell you this isn’t real. That there’s some mistake. That you didn’t just foolishly spend three days waiting for someone who was never going to show up.

But there it is. Everywhere. Right in front of you.

Confirmed dates. Cities. Posters.

Heeseung is leaving. Tomorrow.

And he didn’t say a word.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring at your screen. The words all blur together, but the sinking feeling in your chest is sharp, clear, and undeniable.

And you hate it.

You hate that you feel like this. You hate that your first instinct wasn’t to be happy for him, or proud, or even remotely understanding.

Instead, you’re angry. Upset. Hurt.

And what you hate the most?

You know exactly why you feel this way.

And just as that realization settles in—just as the blur of your feelings finally sharpens into something unmistakable, something you can no longer ignore—the familiar ding of the automatic doors cuts through the quiet store and the screaming thoughts in your head.

You almost don’t look up.

Almost.

But then you do, and your stomach drops.

Because there he is.

You blink, because at first you think maybe you’ve been drowning in your thoughts for so long that you’ve started hallucinating him—manifesting his presence out of sheer frustration towards him.

But, no.

Heeseung stands there, at the entrance, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, looking at you like nothing’s changed.

Like he hasn’t been gone for days, like he hasn’t left you suffering with your own emotions—like he hasn’t been the only thing on your mind even when you really, really, didn’t want him to be.

“Hey,” Heeseung nods at you casually, walking over to his usual stupid aisle, grabbing his usual stupid Extra Spicy Hellfire, then reaching for his usual stupid coffee milk—all like clockwork, all like he never left.

You don’t respond.

Instead, you busy yourself—wiping the spotless corner of your counter, smoothing out a crumpled receipt, pretending you’re looking for something in the shelves beneath you.

Anything to keep yourself from looking at him.

And you might actually lose it.

Because if you have to stand here and pretend like you’re fine, that these past few days haven’t felt like an eternity for you—you might actually lose it.

Heeseung finally walks up to the counter, places his things between you, then pauses before repeating, tilting his head, “Hey?”

He shifts slightly, waiting for you to acknowledge him.

You don’t.

A beat passes. Then another.

“You mad at me or something?” he asks, his head still tilted, his voice light, hesitant.

You inhale, your fingers subconsciously tightening around the edge of the counter.

Then, you let out a quiet laugh—an empty, humorless scoff.

“Should I be?”

Heeseung frowns, clearly confused, “What?”

You finally look at him. And you think it was a mistake. Because the second you meet his gaze—uncertain, searching, so annoyingly familiar—you feel your throat close up.

He looks the same. Same stupid hoodie. Same messy hair. Same tired eyes that you’ve somehow come to find comfort in.

And that makes you hate this even more.

“Is this because I haven’t been showing up?” Heeseung tries again, a small, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Damn, I didn’t realize you’d miss me that much. Sorry, Graveyard Shift Gi—”

“When were you going to tell me?”

Your voice is quiet, but he doesn’t miss it.

And he stills.

There it is.

He shifts in his spot again, his eyes now darting down to where his fingers are tapping against the counter.

“What?” he says again, but this time, it’s different. Careful.

You swallow, forcing down the lump forming in your throat, forcing yourself to look at him.

“When were you going to tell me you were leaving?”

It’s soft. Barely above a whisper. But lined with something raw, something vulnerable, something hurting.

And Heeseung hears all of it. He feels all of it.

He doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, lips pressing into a thin line.

Somewhere in the background, the clock continues ticking, the lights overhead buzzing, a song from the speakers humming.

And Heeseung stays silent.

“You weren’t,” you murmur, the words caught in your throat. “Were you?”

Heeseung exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, “I—”

He stops. Starts again.

“It’s not—it wasn’t—”

You cross your arms tightly, more so to ground yourself more than anything.

He lets out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head.

“Look,” he gestures vaguely, between you, at the store, at the shelves, at the space you’ve unknowingly carved out for him here. “This—this is the only thing that’s felt normal for me in a long time.”

Your stomach twists.

“Everything else—my whole life, it’s all…chaos. But this?” He swallows, his eyes finally looking up to meet your gaze, his voice quieter now. “You?”

His eyes flash with something new, something softer, something that lingers in the way he looks at you. The same way he has over late-night snack feasts, whispered movie nights, conversations that blended into the early mornings.

“You’re the closest thing to normal I’ve had.”

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because you get it. You know him, so you understand.

But it doesn’t change the fact that he was going to leave without telling you.

You inhale slowly, your heavy gaze holding his.

“So what?” your voice is still quiet, but now edged with a new sharpness. “You thought if you didn’t say anything, it wouldn’t have to be real?”

Heeseung presses his lips together. “I thought maybe if I didn’t say it, I wouldn’t have to lose this yet.”

Your breath catches.

You want to laugh. You want to cry.

Heeseung didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to ruin this.

Whatever this is.

Whatever the two of you had built over the weeks between instant noodles and snacks, between arguments over food choices, between all the unspoken moments that made you feel like maybe, maybe, this was something more.

You let out a wavering breath, shaking your head, “That’s not fair, Heeseung.”

“I know,” his voice is rough now, like he’s tired of saying it. Like he’s already told himself a million times and accepted it. Like he wants you to just accept it and move on.

But you can’t.

“Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know how!” His voice rises in frustration, an exasperated sigh slipping out. “Because you—this—whatever this is, it started feeling real. Too real. And I just didn’t want to fuck it up, alright?”

The words knock the air out of your lungs.

Because suddenly, everything you’ve been trying so hard to ignore, every feeling you’ve been trying to convince yourself wasn’t there, is suddenly painfully undeniable.

And worse than realizing how real this is?

Knowing that Heeseung knows it, feels it, too.

But heavier than that realization is the anger.

Not just at the situation.

Now, at Heeseung.

“So you thought it’d be better to just disappear instead?” Your voice shakes, biting down on the thick emotion rising in your throat. “You didn’t even think to tell me.”

Heeseung steps closer, and for the first time tonight, you see it—his own frustration bubbling beneath his surface, the barely restrained emotion.

“What does it matter, Y/N?” his sharp voice cuts through the heavy air lingering between you. “What difference would it—would you—have made? It’s not like this was ever going to change anything.”

Your heart stops.

At that, you falter, and Heeseung sees it.

He sees the way your eyes move away from his. He sees the way your posture suddenly deflates, as if his words physically hurt you.

Because they do.

Because you know what he’s saying.

He’s leaving. And you’re staying.

And no matter what, no matter the amount of realness, no matter what either of you feel—that was always going to be the reality.

“Right,” you finally say, your voice dangerously close to giving out. “Because it’s not like any of this really meant anything, right? At least not enough for you to acknowledge.”

Now your words hurt.

Heeseung winces. His jaw tightens. His fists clench.

Then finally—

“…I don’t know,” he mutters.

The final crack.

You let in a sharp inhale, nodding once, your lips pressed into a straight line. “Got it.”

Heeseung clenches his jaw, like he wants to take the words back, like he wants to fix whatever just broke between you.

Instead, he exhales, stepping back from the counter, “I should go.”

This time, you don’t stop him.

You don’t say anything at all.

Heeseung hesitates for a half second, like maybe—just maybe—he’s waiting for you to say something.

But you don’t.

Not when you feel so utterly lost in everything you’re feeling that you can’t even begin to put into words.

So he nods once, shoving his hands back into his pockets, turning away.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting you.

Cold air rushes in.

And then—he’s gone.

And you?

You’re left at the counter, staring at his abandoned cup of ramen, untouched coffee milk, and the ghost of something that never got the chance to be.

Heeseung doesn’t think.

He wasn’t thinking four days ago, when the space between you two had grown impossibly small—when he was this close to you, when the air felt thick with something unspoken, yet undeniable, something that made his pulse race and his breath hitch.

He wasn’t thinking when he let fear creep in, when the weight of him realizing his own feelings sent him running, keeping him from stepping foot into the store at all. For three days.

He wasn’t thinking when he looked you in the eye last night and told you this didn’t matter. That none of it ever did.

He wasn’t thinking when he walked out of the store, leaving you to think that you didn’t matter to him. That you never did.

And he definitely isn’t thinking now, when he’s supposed to be leaving for the airport in an hour, but instead—his feet pound against the pavement, tearing through the empty, quiet streets like a man possessed, like maybe if he runs fast enough, he can outrun the regret clawing in his chest.

The cold air stings against his face, streetlights flicker overhead, and the city hums all around him—but none of it matters. None of it even registers.

Because all Heeseung knows, all he cares about, is getting to you.

Because Heeseung?

He can go months on tour without his Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen.

He can go months on tour without his coffee milk.

He can go months on tour without those, even if it means braving his insomnia.

But what he can’t go without?

Heeseung can’t—he won’t—go months on tour knowing you think you meant nothing to him. That you didn’t bring him relief after the longest days, laughter when he forgot how to find it, comfort in a world that never slowed down for him.

That you weren’t the one thing that felt real in a life that so often didn’t.

And if there’s even the smallest chance to fix this—to make sure you know—then nothing else matters.

The neon glow of the convenience store sign comes into view, and Heeseung’s heart lurches in his chest as he approaches, his staggered breathing visible in the cold air in front of him, his hands clammy.

He stumbles through the sliding doors, the familiar ding barely registering in his mind as his eyes dart around—only for his stomach to drop.

The counter is empty. The soft sound of your absentminded humming, the teasing lilt of your voice, the annoyed glare in your eyes—it’s all missing.

And all wrong. Too quiet, too empty, too…not you.

Instead, some guy he’s never seen before glances up from behind the register, staring at the way Heeseung just lingers frozen near the entrance.

“Uh,” Heeseung swallows thickly, his voice strained from his sprint. “The girl who usually works nights. Is she here?”

“Oh, Y/N?” the worker raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, she called off tonight.”

Heeseung stills.

You’re not here.

And it’s his fault.

Because last night, you were here—waiting, hoping, and he walked out on you.

“Oh,” is all Heeseung can manage before he feels the words getting caught in his throat.

His jaw clenches, his stomach twists. The weight of regret settles deep, heavy and unrelenting.

“Right. Okay. Thanks,” he mutters, nodding absently, then turns towards the door.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting him.

Cold air rushes in.

And just as Heeseung steps out—

He sees you.

You.

Right there, walking towards the store, hands shoved into the pockets of your coat, face buried into your scarf.

You stop.

He stops.

For a moment, neither of you move. Neither of you breathe.

The neon glow of the store’s sign reflects off your face, casting a shadow over your widened eyes. A car honks in the distance. A gust of wind blows past.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Heeseung says without thinking, almost breathless.

A small laugh escapes your lips, airy and uncertain, “Yeah, well…neither are you.”

You’re right.

He should be on his way to the airport. Bags packed, schedule set, moving on.

But instead? Instead, he’s here, standing in front of the only person who has ever made him hesitate.

Heeseung takes one step forward, “I was looking for you.”

You tilt your head, your lips pressed together like you’re weighing something in your mind.

Then you take a small step forward.

“And now you’ve found me.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry.”

It comes out all at once and rushed, but utterly honest. Honest and heavy, the way it’s been aching in his chest—and he can’t hold it in anymore.

You blink, unmoving.

“I’m so sorry,” Heeseung says again, stepping closer. His voice is steady, gentle, but nervous, scared you won’t believe him. “For everything. For not telling you. For leaving like that. For being a completely fucking idiot about—”

He stops. The look in his eyes is vulnerable, genuine. Longing.

“About this. Us.”

You don’t say anything right away, just watching him carefully.

Heeseung runs a hand through his hair, letting out a dry laugh as he realizes he’s about to lay everything out bare.

“I think I was scared,” he admits. “Of what it all meant. Of what you meant to me. I kept telling myself none of it was real, that it didn’t matter. But then I walked out yesterday and, I realized—”

He swallows hard, looking at you and the way your eyes soften with something unreadable.

“It does. You do. So, so much, Y/N.”

Another pause.

Then, you let out a soft exhale, shaking your head, as if something’s finally clicking into place, “I’m sorry too.”

Heeseung’s eyebrows burrow in confusion.

“For not—,” you sigh, your hands now fidgeting with the ends of your scarf. “For not saying something sooner. Because the truth is, I’ve been denying it too. I didn’t even realize how much I—how much you meant to me until I saw you last night and…”

You trail off, your cheeks warming. Then, with a deep inhale, you take another step closer, meeting his gaze from an arm’s length away.

“I was just so angry and upset, but I think…I realized it’s only because I like you, Heeseung. So much.”

Heeseung swears his heart stops. It feels like his whole world has just shifted, and all his thoughts are tangled up in the way you’re looking up at him now.

“And…I should’ve been more understanding,” you add softly. “I shouldn’t have held it against you like you owed me something. I was just hurt, and I didn’t know how to handle it, honestly.”

Heeseung doesn’t say anything right away, not when his thoughts are running wild and his heart is beating like it’s about to fully grow legs and escape.

Then, he exhales a breath of relief.

And lets out a quiet laugh to himself.

You blink at him.

“We’re both idiots,” he says finally, shaking his head softly.

A small, knowing smile dances on your lips, your eyes locking onto his, “Yeah. Looks like it.”

The tension eases. Just a little.

Heeseung takes a small step closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating off of you, despite the cold air surrounding you both.

“So now what?”

You tilt your head as you look up at him, eyes searching his, “Aren’t you supposed to be catching a flight soon?”

Heeseung’s breath hitches.

Because he knows he should say yes.

That’s what’s been planned all along. That’s the reality.

But, for the first time—

He hesitates.

“Maybe."

Your eyes narrow slightly, a playful glare sparking in them, "Maybe?"

Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering at the nape of his neck. "Yeah. Maybe."

The warmth in his chest spreads when he sees the way you bite back a smile, the way your weight shifts just the tiniest bit closer—like you're testing the space between you.

Then, you reach into the tote bag slung around your shoulder and pull something out.

“Here.”

You press a small bottle of coffee milk into his hands.

Heeseung stares at it in his hands.

Then at you.

And you’re looking at him with something gentle—something that makes his chest tighten in the best way possible, something that makes the world feel just a tiny bit warmer.

“Just in case you need a reminder,” you say, your voice light and grounding. “Of what’s normal.”

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and suddenly—everything makes sense.

The missing piece clicks into place as the static in his mind all fades away, leaving only this—only you.

You, standing here in front of him, looking at him with that small, steady smile, and Heeseung knows.

He's never been more sure of anything in his life.

A laugh escapes him before he even realizes it, soft and breathless, bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest, where warmth curls all around it, wrapping around his own heart like a quiet, undeniable truth. His heart races and his fingers tighten around the bottle in his hands—slightly trembling, not from nerves, but from the realization of something so much bigger. Something so much realer.

And then, without even thinking, he steps forward like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and closes the small space between you before wrapping his arms around you. He pulls you in, slow but certain, with a gentleness that catches you by surprise.

You freeze, breath catching, but only for a second. Because then—like a reflex, you melt into him, your own arms tightening around him.

Holding onto him just as much as he’s holding onto you.

Neither of you say anything.

There’s a quiet calm between you two—no need for words, just the rhythm of your heart beating against his own. Steady, calming, like it’s syncing with his, like they’ve always known each other’s pace.

Like they’ve been moving in tandem all along, even when neither of you realized it.

And in a way, maybe that’s just how it’s always been with you two—balancing on the fine line between pushing and pulling, between sharp words and lingering glances, between pretending you didn’t care, yet feeling everything all at once.

So easy to cross, so easy to blur, so easy to mistake for something else.

Maybe you spent all this time thinking you were standing on opposite sides, only to realize you were always moving toward the same place.

And now, as one of his arms moves across your back, the other threading gently through your hair, holding the back of your head against his chest like he never wants to let you go, his heartbeat still steady against yours, you know for certain—

You were never meant to stay on one side.

You were always meant to cross it.

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic.

Lee Heeseung’s life? Heeseung’s life is that times ten, with an extra sprinkle of what-is-even-happening-anymore?

However—

There are three things—three sacred constants—that keep Heeseung from spiraling into total madness.

The first?

Insomnia.

Not by choice, of course.

The second?

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk.

Yes, it’s a weird combo. And no, he still doesn’t care.

And the third?

You.

And honestly?

You’re the only one he really needs.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

the end! if you made it to the end, i'll ship u some extra spicy hellfire ramen & coffee milk rn ! <3 luv u mwahmwahmwah !

<3, addie

m.list here!

tag list pt.1 (luv u all):

@xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaaah @heejamas @jiyeons-closet @sagegreenhairclip @betda @ineedsomezzz @motherscrustytoenailclippings @bussolares @soobnuuy @deluluscenarios @chrrific @vvenusoncasual @rairaiblog @mwahvvis @lveegsoi @desssss-0 @hoonkishoe @sunhyeswife @ilovbeshotaro @dearestdreamies @starry-eyed-bimbo @planetmarlowe @lovialy @ambi01 @elairah @therealmrsbahng @lov4hoon @hollxe1 @lovenha7 @ilovhoonie @coqhee @i03jae @letwiiparkjay @manuosorioh @mintysunoo @amiraazzz @renaishun @enhadd @ikeulove @starniras @heartheejake @zaycie

(bolded didn't let me tag, sorry :( )

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creamflix · 2 days ago

Text

SEX YEAH ! ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief a self-imposed sex ban during finals week sounds like a great idea…until your favorite professor stops playing nice. w.c 11.3k

risk assessment 18+ content mdni, smut & crack, second chance at love, cnc (adding just in case), fuck-buddies/fwb relationship, reader is of age and is a college student, age gap, exhibitionsim, unprotected p in v sex, jerking off, scenting, cosplay (the wolf of wall street reference), spanking, cowgirl, fem-dom, cock-warming. ft! choso, toji, nanami, gojo, sukuna

a/n: do people even read a/n's? lol

☆ CHOSO KAMO: CUM LAUDE AND OTHER HONORS

Choso Kamo — Professor Kamo to the rest of the campus, or “that one hot literature guy who talks about knights dying for pussy” — had really, truly, not expected to spiral like this. And it wasn’t even the whole “fucking a student” thing.

Sure, that had its own risks and thrills — medieval metaphors about sin and secrecy practically wrote themselves every time he bent you over his desk after a lecture on Dante's Inferno. But no, the real kicker here was how quickly the entire situation had devolved into something almost pitiful.

He was a man of principle. Of poetry. Of well-tailored tweed jackets with elbow patches. He annotated Beowulf in his spare time and kept a hand-written syllabus, for God’s sake. But now? He was a walking hard-on with a PhD and a steadily unraveling sense of self.

Because it started so innocently.

You’d shown up to class late on the first day, hair a little damp from rain, muttering apologies while trying not to slip on the tile floors. He'd looked up, ready to sigh, but then froze when he saw your face. Something about the tilt of your head, the way you bit your cheek while scanning for an empty seat.

“No fucking way,” he’d murmured.

And later, when you caught him in the corridor after class, backpack slung low, eyes bright with mischief—

“Hey, Kamo. Did your emo phase die with that mustache?”

You had said it like a challenge. Like a spark tossed onto dry kindling.

He remembered how your lips had tasted that first time again — after years — pressed against his mouth in the backseat of his shitty Honda. He’d driven you home like he was sixteen again, one hand on the wheel, the other trailing down your thigh, unable to focus on the road signs.

And the sex. Jesus.

“Are you gonna read Sir Gawain to me after you make me cum again?” you’d panted once, still catching your breath as he kissed down your stomach.

“No,” he muttered against your hip, smirking. “Only if you fail the oral quiz.”

He was funny back then, or thought he was.

Before his identity began orbiting entirely around whether or not you were free to sneak into his office.

He still remembered how you’d grabbed the edge of his desk to keep your balance, skirt bunched around your waist, his fingers deep inside you as you whimpered, “F-fuck, I forgot the assignment—”

“I'll let it slide,” he’d whispered like some depraved academic deity, licking into your mouth while curling his fingers just right.

Which made it all the more humiliating when, two weeks before midterms, you’d pulled away post-orgasm, adjusting your shirt like you were zipping up a compartment in your brain.

“So I'm gonna need to focus for a while. No more of this until after the exams.”

He blinked.

“Wait, you’re—what?”

“No distractions. You qualify as one. Temporary ban.”

“Temporary—” he sat up. “You’re banning me?”

You kissed his forehead with horrifying gentleness. “Don’t be dramatic.”

And that, quite precisely, was when Choso Kamo began losing his damn mind.

It was subtle at first. Quoting love poetry during completely unrelated lectures, spilling coffee on his own lecture notes, and more recently, spending ten whole minutes monologuing about chastity belts before realizing what he was saying and hastily switching to feudal taxes.

But the eyes. His big, brown, tragically earnest eyes. When you told him, they’d gone glossy, wet around the edges — not full tears, not yet, but a threat of them, like he’d just witnessed the burning of the Library of Alexandria and been denied a hug.

“You’re being very stoic about this,” you told him, trying not to smile.

He blinked rapidly. “I'm literally about to cry.”

Meanwhile, you were surviving. Thriving, even. If you counted staying caffeinated and not flunking your upcoming Philosophy elective as thriving.

The sex with Choso had been — frankly — excellent. Top-tier, euphoric even. Toe-curling in a very literal, very real way. His tongue knew things, his hands remembered places. And your cervix? Familiarized. Reacquainted like an old friend.

But unlike Professor Kamo, Ph.D., who had the luxury of retreating into his office with leather chairs and pearl-clutching guilt, you were an undergraduate scraping by with cold lattes and colour-coded notes. The breakup all those years ago had been dramatic in the way only high-school love could be — he’d told you he wanted a PhD like he was announcing he had been drafted for war.

“I need to go,” he had said, sixteen and a half and full of dreams, with his stupid floppy hair and that hand-me-down hoodie that still smelled like your perfume.

“Go where? Oxford?” you’d snorted. You didn’t mean to cry, but you did. Grossly. He’d held you through it, apologised even while making that determined man chasing legacy face, and you had let him go.

But now — now, you had midterms, and your brain had no space left for sentimentality. Or dick. Which was basically the same thing in this context.

So, like a responsible adult (or the closest approximation of one), you took yourself to the library. And, like the tragically naive idiot you were, you chose the medieval literature aisle for reasons you tried to dress up as “academic curiosity” when in truth you were just…a masochist.

The library was empty.

You should’ve known. No one studied in this section, not unless they had a god complex or an obsession with incest-coded epic poems.

You reached up toward a volume you pretended to be interested in — Courtly Love and Other Medieval Lies or something like that — and that’s when you felt it.

Something solid and warm absolutely pressed against your back.

You froze.

“If this is some hallucination brought on by lack of sleep and unresolved sexual tension, I swear to God,” you muttered aloud.

“It’s not,” came a familiar voice. Warm, low, and stupidly fond.

“Though I am flattered you’re hallucinating about me.”

You turned your head slowly, dread pooling somewhere near your pancreas. And there he was.

Choso Kamo, medieval literature messiah, complete with a cardigan that had patches on the elbows again, holding a copy of Le Morte D’Arthur like he hadn’t just pinned you to a bookshelf.

“You’re kidding,” you deadpanned.

“I come here for peace,” he said, tone saintly. “And the tragic poetry.”

“You come here because no one can see you cry in this corner,” you snapped.

He blinked. Guilty. Then, because he was unbelievable, he leaned in — just a little. Just enough for you to feel that he was very real and very not over the whole “temporary ban” situation.

“You smell like that lavender thing again,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Makes it really hard to respect your ‘study boundaries,’ y’know.”

You exhaled slowly, book still hovering in your hand, brain refusing to cooperate with basic motor function.

“Do you need something, Professor Kamo?”

He looked at you with that wounded, damp-eyed expression he had no business making in a public academic space. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I need you to maybe let me kiss you for, like, two seconds so I can remember what peace feels like.”

And that, right there, was how your study break ended — pinned between Choso Kamo and a bookshelf older than both your childhood homes combined. You were kissing like you’d forgotten what oxygen was, like air didn’t matter when he was mouthing at your bottom lip like that, with hands sliding under your blazer and pressing against your waist like he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you.

“Keep it quiet back there,” called the old librarian from somewhere far down the aisle, voice like brittle parchment. You barely pulled away, breathless, whispering a quick, “sorry!” toward the void before biting down a laugh and burying your face in Choso’s chest.

“Do you think she knows?” you mumbled against the fabric of his shirt.

“Absolutely,” he said. “She probably thinks I'm shelving books. Badly.”

“You are shelving something,” you muttered.

He groaned. “You’re disgusting.”

But he was already lifting your skirt, huffing like a man on a mission, swearing under his breath when he realized how many layers you’d cursed yourself with this morning.

“Why,” he whispered, mouth pressed against your shoulder as he unbuttoned and unzipped and peeled like his life depended on it, “Why do you do this to me.”

“Because the weather said fourteen degrees,” you hissed, clutching onto the shelf behind you, fingers brushing the cracked spine of The Canterbury Tales. “And because I didn’t think I’d be fucked next to Chaucer, Cho.”

He finally got to your thighs, his warm palms skimming over skin and stopping when he saw them — the lacey black pair. The ones with the tiny bow and mesh trim.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, kneeling slightly, letting his thumb drag just under the waistband. “You still buy these?”

“They’re comfortable.”

“They’re fucking ruining me,” he whispered.

His hands gripped under your knees as he pulled one leg up and hooked it over his hip, tugging the lace to the side, the cold air of the library kissing wet heat just before he pressed himself into you. You clenched around him on instinct, a soft, surprised sound escaping into the dusty rows.

“God, shhh,” you hissed, forehead knocking against the shelf. He let out a strained chuckle, already starting to move.

“You shush me,” he muttered, nose brushing your temple. “You’re the one making those tiny fucking noises, like you’re trying so hard to behave.”

“Maybe I am trying to behave—”

“You’re failing.”

His thrusts were slow at first — painfully deliberate, his breath warm against your cheek, his hand cupped around the back of your thigh. The faint creak of wood beneath you, the occasional rustle of fabric, and the obscene sound of wet heat meeting flesh echoed faintly through the aisle. You were half-laughing, half-gasping, fingers digging into the bookshelf, one palm flat against The Song of Roland, muffling a whine into its faded cloth cover.

“Does this count as sacrilege,” you mumbled.

“Absolutely,” he groaned, speeding up, his hips snapping sharper. “But I'll repent after you cum.”

“What a gentleman.”

“Shut up and let me ruin your study schedule.”

He angled his hips and hit something that made your breath stutter, made your hand fly to his chest and fist the fabric there, biting down hard on your lip. His lips found your throat, mouthing along your pulse, and he whispered — raw, reverent — “You’re so fucking tight. Every single time.”

You couldn’t reply, not verbally. Your mouth opened, but no real sound came out — just a high, broken gasp as his fingers slipped between your legs to circle over your clit, his rhythm stuttering when you clenched around him again.

“Cho—”

“I know, I know, baby,” he murmured, thumb working in slow, cruel circles. “Come on. Be good for me.”

And you did. One hand still clamped over a book, the other wrapped around his shoulders, hips twitching as you came with a quiet, strangled cry into his neck, teeth grazing skin. He followed right after, groaning low, clutching you close like he needed to anchor himself in the reality of what just happened.

Silence settled in the dusty air, with only the sound of breathing, of fabrics shifting.

A beat passed. Then choso whispered, still catching his breath—

“So... still banned, or…?”

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO: THE EXAM BEFORE THE EXAM

Toji Fushiguro — head of military sciences, habitual menace, and the reason half the student body walked with a permanent limp (some from sparring, others from fear). Getting into the program was doable. Surviving it? That was where dreams went to die. And you? Well, somehow, you were still standing. Walking the tightrope of respect and rebellion, womanhood and war, biting sarcasm and battle simulations — and managing not to crumble under the weight of Professor Fushiguro’s ice-cold stare.

Which would have been fine. Normal even, in the way bootcamp trauma is considered “character-building.” But the universe, in its infinite cruelty, had one little twist for you:

The man who railed you within an inch of your life at a bar this past summer — the one with the deep voice, veiny hands, and that mouth like a loaded weapon — turned out to be your fucking teacher.

You didn’t know when he pulled you into that coatroom that night. Didn’t know that those strong hands were government-funded or that the man who bit your shoulder when he came was going to be barking orders in a lecture hall two weeks later.

And yet.

You walked into class, and there he was. Professor Fushiguro. Same green eyes, same build.

Same mouth you’d kissed while breathless and begging, now saying things like “form a perimeter” and “that’s a piss-poor excuse for a flank.”

To his credit, he pretended not to recognize you. And you, in return, tried to pretend he hadn’t once called you baby while dragging his cock over your dripping folds like it was a reward.

But see, the pretending didn’t last.

Not when you started lingering after class, not when he’d walk past you during drills, and you’d stand just a little straighter, thighs pressing against each other just a little tighter.

Not even when he found you one evening in the training hall, wrist-deep in frustration over a jammed dummy rifle and an even more jammed libido.

“You still don’t listen,” he’d said that night, voice low as he boxed you against the wall. “No wonder you’re always behind.”

“Guess I need someone to show me,” you’d snapped back.

And then it spiraled.

Into on and off fucks in staff storage closets, under the flickering lights of the weapons bay, in his office when the door “accidentally” locked behind you.

He was always rough. Not cruel — he never hurt you (unless you asked). But rough like he had to get it out, had to get you out of his system or else he’d lose it. He’d mutter shit like, “always so wet for me,” while shoving your panties to the side with two fingers, pressing into you like he was reclaiming something he never really gave up. You’d scratch down his back, gasping into his mouth, feeling his teeth on your collarbone, hands gripping your thighs like they belonged to him.

“Gonna make you fail, fucking you like this,” he’d say, voice rasping near your ear, hips snapping into you as you braced yourself on his desk, your notes crumpling beneath your palms.

“Then don’t stop,” you’d dared. “Make me fail.”

But then.

A week before exams, he pulled back.

“No more,” he said, arms crossed, mouth tight.

You blinked. “You serious?”

“Yeah.”

He ran a hand down his face like he’d aged five years in the last month. “You’ve got exams. I've got integrity.”

You snorted. “Since when?”

“Since now,” he gritted out. “And don’t give me that look. Just because we’re…” he paused, made a vague hand gesture that could’ve meant ‘fucking’ or ‘cursed soulmates’ — hard to tell, really.

“…close, doesn’t mean I'm gonna grade you easier. You get that?”

You stared at him.

This six-foot-something walking contradiction, trying to draw a line now, after he’d already crossed ten of them balls-deep.

“Got it, sport,” you said, tone dry enough to parch a desert.

He flinched. You smiled. And just like that, the sex-ban was in place.

But if the look on his face said anything — clenched jaw, hands tightening into fists every time you so much as breathed near him — it was affecting him way more than it was affecting you. And that was just the beginning of his downfall.

Physical examinations were hell — plain and simple. Muscle-aching, sun-scorched, sweat-slick hell. Your limbs felt like lead, your lungs were raw, and if the grass beneath your boots felt soft for a moment, it was only because you were seriously considering collapsing into it and never getting up again.

And of course, he had to be the one barking orders.

“Outside. Now. No one gets a free pass, not even the ones whining about cramps or puking their breakfast. Ground. Move.”

Toji Fushiguro — mean as ever, especially toward you lately. His green eyes barely brushed your face now, jaw so tight you could practically hear the teeth grinding.

It was almost funny, if it weren’t also kind of sad.

You passed him in the doorway, shoulder brushing his arm. No glance, no grunt, nothing. You’d dare say he was acting like a kid. And fine, let him sulk — you had a test to get through without dying.

What you didn’t know, though, was that he stayed back. That he lingered in the quiet of the empty break room, your scent still clinging to the air like a cruel reminder. That was his first mistake.

His second?

Green eyes drifting to the bench where you'd left your bandana. Sweat-soaked black cotton, creased from being tied around your head all morning, the faintest sheen of your hair oil still warming it. And Toji — old, bitter Toji — picked it up like it weighed something.

He told himself he wasn’t gonna do anything stupid. He was just gonna…hold it. Maybe tuck it into his coat pocket and return it later, like a normal adult. But then he rubbed the fabric between his fingers.

Thin, soft, still warm. It smelled like you — that impossible mix of salt and cheap soap, shampoo and skin, and something earthy and feminine that always made him a little crazy.

He felt it in his gut first. That low throb — not just in his cock, but in his goddamn chest. Regret, guilt, arousal, shame — an ugly stew of it. He groaned under his breath, thumbing the bandana with a clenched jaw, eyes fluttering shut. His cock was hard already, straining against his pants. Fucking great. “Just five minutes,” he muttered, like some kind of prayer. “Five minutes and I'll forget you ever existed.”

He palmed himself, rough and fast, still holding the bandana like it might anchor him to something other than pure depravity. His breathing grew louder, chest heaving under the thick black shirt he always wore like armor. It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic — jerking off in a break room like some depraved teenager, when he was old enough to have tenure. But then again, hadn’t you turned him into this? You and your little shorts. Your mouth that always had something smart to say. Your eyes looking up at him like you knew what he was thinking.

He fisted his cock, hard now, thick and twitching in his grip. The ache was unbearable — heavy, pulsing, the kind that made his teeth grit and his thighs tense. And all the while, he kept the bandana close to his face, his nostrils flaring, moaning low like he was about to die from it.

“Fuck…fucckkk, you little brat…” he muttered. He was close. So fucking close —

And that’s when the door opened. Fast. Sudden.

“Shit, I forgot—”

You stopped. He didn’t.

His hand froze around the base of his cock, the bandana still in his other hand, flushed red and eyes blown wide as you stood in the doorway, breath hitching.

You stared. He stared back. The silence was so thick, you could hear the clock tick on the wall. And Toji — Toji fucking Fushiguro — had never looked more ashamed.

Not when he lost comrades. Not when he failed his last marriage. Not even when he nearly got caught sleeping with you in his office two months ago. This was different.

This was you, standing there with your hand still on the doorknob, eyes flicking from the bandana to his cock to his face. And fuck, he didn’t even have the words.

You blinked, slowly.

“…You’re seriously jerking off in a student break room?”

He swallowed, chest heaving. “I—”

“With my bandana?”

“…It smells like you.”

The words escaped before he could stop them. And yeah, he was definitely going to hell for this one.

You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you.

“Well, that’s one way to say you miss me.”

Of course, not one word was said. Not a gasp, not a curse, not even the ghost of a reprimand. You stepped forward, fingers curling around the very bandana he’d just fucked his fist into like a shameful teenager, the cloth warm and heavy and damp with the evidence of his so-called self-control, his cock still twitching in the aftermath. His jaw locked in mortification as you slowly peeled it out of his hand — never once breaking eye contact, not even when your thumb grazed the wettest patch, not even when you gave a soft amused hum that made his stomach flip and his spine stiffen.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t say a single thing as you brought it up, shook it out once with a flick of your wrist, and with casual, deliberate hands, tied your hair back with it, the fabric brushing your cheek, cooling slightly as it met your skin, still sticky from the heat of your morning drills.

And then you turned and walked away, boots loud against the linoleum, leaving the break room like nothing happened, like he was the only one caught in the storm — because all said and done, you still had an exam to give, and unlike him, you didn’t waste time. You were built for war and score sheets both, and you weren’t about to let a pervy, emotionally repressed head instructor knock your GPA off track.

Toji didn’t move for a full minute after that. Not even a twitch. The only thing that stirred was the sick realization setting in his gut that there was no walking back from this now — not after what he’d done, and definitely not after what you’d done right back.

Later that day, when the sun was dipping low and the training ground had mostly emptied out, he waited until the hallway was clear, eyes flicking left and right before grabbing you by the elbow in that no-nonsense way that meant you were in trouble — dragging you down the hall with that rough, controlled gait of his, jaw working like he was chewing through glass.

“Office. Now.”

You didn’t resist, didn’t even roll your eyes. But the smirk on your lips told him you knew exactly what this was.

The door slammed behind you, the lock clicking a second later, and you barely had time to drop your bag before he had you pressed against the nearest desk, hands already on your hips like he was restraining himself and failing miserably. “You’re gonna pretend that was nothing?” his voice was low, frayed, voice-box rasping like he’d smoked too much or screamed too long. “You think you can just walk outta there with my fuckin’ cum in your hair and act like that’s normal?”

You tilted your head, just enough for the smell to hit him again. Thick, raw, intimate. The combination of his own musk and your shampoo, grounding and familiar in a way that made his knees want to give out. He groaned — long and guttural — pressing his nose into your head like he was being punished, inhaling deep, and the way his grip on your hips tightened was almost painful.

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one,” you replied sweetly, and that was all it took for his control to snap.

His hand shoved up your shirt, not gently, the rough pads of his fingers grazing over your ribs before sliding down to the waistband of your pants, yanking them down just enough to expose what he needed, and his breath stuttered when he saw the slick already gathering between your thighs — your pussy already wet and twitching like you knew this was going to happen. He didn’t even undress himself fully. Just unzipped, pushed his briefs down to free his cock, already rock hard and leaking at the tip, angry red and pulsing with every beat of his blood.

“You got no shame,” he hissed into your ear, lining himself up and sinking in without a warning, hissing through his teeth when the tight heat of you clenched around him like a vice. “You like being filled up that bad, huh?”

“I like multitasking,” you gasped, knuckles white on the edge of the desk, nails scratching into the wood as his hips slammed against you, the sound of skin on skin echoing around the cramped office. “Told you — I can focus.”

“Focus, huh?” he growled, fucking into you harder now, every thrust raw and punishing, like he was trying to fuck the memory of earlier out of both your heads. “You’re dripping, girl. You soaked through your damn pants, and you call that focus?”

You moaned, jaw slack, lashes fluttering with every thick, deep push that filled you to the brim, the friction of him inside you so blindingly good it almost knocked you off your balance. Your breath caught when he reached around, pinching your nipple through the fabric of your sports bra, a little cruel, a little possessive, all of it insane. “Guess you’re grading on a curve now, huh?” you managed, and he laughed, breathless, wrecked.

“No,” he muttered into your shoulder, voice cracked and hoarse, hips stuttering as his cock twitched deep inside you. “You’re just that fucking smart.”

☆ NANAMI KENTO: THE WOLF OF WALL D

You never really envisioned a life of ledgers, equity risk premiums, and the horrors of double-entry bookkeeping. In fact, if anything, you’d always assumed you’d end up somewhere in the arts — or at least somewhere where the word “asset” didn’t come with twelve subcategories and a spreadsheet the size of a tombstone. But one ambitious internship, two mock stock wins, and a dangerously persuasive LinkedIn mentor later, here you are: enrolled in one of the most prestigious finance programs in the country, selling your soul for a theoretical future on Wall Street.

Except, no one warned you about the real economy — the one where your old hookup turns out to be your new professor.

It was Halloween. Pre-college euphoria, post-exam breakdown — a sloppy cocktail of confidence and denial. You’d just gotten the admission offer, the kind that comes with a fancy crest and a pretentious Serif font. You were glowing, and frankly, you wanted to celebrate. And maybe — maybe — dressing as Margot Robbie's Naomi Lapaglia from The Wolf of Wall Street was a little too on the nose. Thigh-highs, heels, the pink velvet micro-dress, the accent — you committed. You even practiced the line in the mirror. Yes, that line. Yes, that scene.

And just your luck — of course the man who walked into the party with his sleeves rolled, Rolex glinting, and a perfect scowl under his sunglasses had gone as Jordan fucking Belfort. Expensive cologne clinging to his collar, the soft pull of his silk tie hanging low, like he already knew he’d be using it later. And he did.

Nanami Kento — although he hadn’t introduced himself with his full government name that night, just “Nanami” in that bored baritone, fingers skimming the rim of his glass like he was about to sign off on your performance evaluation. He didn’t even smile when you pointed out the cosmic horror of both of you showing up as horny power couple chaos incarnate. He just raised a brow, sipped his whisky, and drawled, “Well. It would be criminal not to commit now, wouldn’t it?”

And you did commit.

Specifically: to the floor of a stranger’s (Nanami’s) bedroom, sitting pretty and poisonous in the center, legs spread just enough to tease, your dress hiked up your thighs with practiced ease. No panties, of course — what kind of tribute to Naomi would it be otherwise? The heels stayed on — tall, glossy, a shade that caught the light like blood. You sat like you belonged on display, like he should’ve paid just to breathe the same air.

Nanami was in his shirt sleeves now, his tie loosened but still there like a noose. He hadn’t broken character once, hadn’t so much as cracked a smile since you’d started this absurd pantomime of power — but his eyes were molten. Reverent. He dropped to his knees slow, like something sacred was about to happen.

And just before he got close enough to bury his face between your thighs, you tilted your head, voice sugary and venomous.

“And you know something else, daddy?” you asked, tone lilting. “Mommy is just so sick and tired of wearing panties.”

He inhaled — sharp and shaky, like it was pulled straight from the pit of his chest — then let out a stunned, broken:

“Yeah.”

You blinked slow, smiled crueler. “Yeah?” you echoed, mocking his tone with a tilt of your lip.

His mouth opened like he was going to say more, but nothing came. just another rough exhale. and then he moved, hands coming forward as he began to crawl to you, something primal starting to flicker in his posture, like he’d shed the suit entirely and become all instinct and hunger. His face was already dipping low, gaze locked on where your thighs parted.

And that’s when you stopped him. Your heel — clean, sharp, and merciless — pressed right to the center of his forehead.

“But no touching,” you cooed, all faux sweetness and full control, dragging the sole down just enough to smear your heat along the crease of his brows.

He froze, arms shaking, still breathing hard.

And you pushed. Not gently, not cruelly, but enough. Just enough to tip him further down until he was on his stomach, the full weight of him humbled under your foot, cheek scraping the floor as he groaned from deep in his chest like it hurt to be treated like this and hurt more to be denied. You just sat there, thighs parted and glistening. His own personal hell, framed in pink velvet and sin. And you said nothing.

Because the message had been sent — he wasn’t getting this. Not tonight.

And then you’d leaned back on your palms, one knee lifting slow as a threat, and whispered, “You’re not gonna touch me, Nanami. You’re just gonna sit there and look.”

And he did. For longer than you'd thought he could manage.

But later on, you don’t know what was more embarrassing: the sound you made when he spat on your pussy and shoved two fingers in without ceremony, or the fact that you came — hard, embarrassingly fast — when his mouth dragging up your neck as he muttered, “You’re not going anywhere until I say you are.”

You should’ve known then that Fate was laughing at you. That this wouldn’t be the last time.

So imagine your shock when a year later, you walk into your first Financial Management and Ethics lecture — yes, ethics, the irony is its own punishment — and see Professor Nanami Kento himself standing behind the podium, glasses perched neatly on his nose, tie done up to the throat this time, looking like he’d never so much as held a condom, let alone wrecked someone with their own pantyhose. You couldn’t speak. Your body went cold, like someone had poured iced coffee down your spine. He, on the other hand, barely reacted, didn’t so much as glance your way during roll call.

And then, later that night, an email pinged into your inbox — along with the standard welcome email he’d drafted for the rest of the class. But yours? Yours came with an extra paragraph. Entirely formal. Impeccably punctuated. Polite to the point of threat.

Regarding our prior acquaintance, I trust that you will exercise discretion. Kindly refrain from referencing the event under any circumstances. It is not relevant to your coursework. Sincerely, Professor Nanami Kento, M.B.A., C.F.A. Adjunct Lecturer, Department of Financial Management Certified in Ethical Finance & Professional Conduct

You stared at the screen for a good five minutes, equal parts humiliated and deeply entertained. Because yes, Professor Nanami may want to pretend nothing happened — but you still remember the way he groaned your name like a warning, the way he muttered “greedy little thing” while stuffing you full, the way he unbuckled his belt like it was procedure. And you’re betting ten-to-one that he remembers it too. After all… it was his tie.

Nanami, meanwhile, was losing his mind — with an elegance only a man like him could bring to a full psychological collapse.

He’d never really been a “party guy,” let alone someone who dressed up for one. Halloween, to him, had always been one of those inefficient Western distractions, mostly an excuse for adults to wear synthetic wigs and pretend they weren’t miserable. But last year, for reasons even he didn’t fully understand (perhaps an existential crisis, perhaps two glasses of aged whisky), he gave in and indulged. Picked out a suit he already owned, added a pair of shades, tousled his hair on purpose for the first time in his life, and called himself Jordan Belfort.

The real kicker? He had just watched The Wolf of Wall Street the night before. The whole thing, from top to bottom, credits and all. Not because he wanted to — because a colleague said he should “loosen up.”

And that’s when he saw you.

You, in that godforsaken, serotonin-triggering pink velvet dress, hair sprayed into a perfect blowout, gloss on your lips, and a walk like you knew exactly what scene every man in that room was already imagining. And when your eyes met his and you smirked and asked, “You seen the movie?” — he knew. God help him, he knew.

You didn’t even need to discuss it. The two of you fell into that scene like it was muscle memory, like it had been choreographed months in advance. You sat on his bedroom floor, all spread pink and no panties. And Nanami — normally so composed, so neutral — crawled. Hands and knees. Ready to abandon God and dignity both just to get a taste.

But what kept him up at night wasn’t the act. It wasn’t the bruises, or the heel mark on his pride.

It was that goddamn care package.

Nanami prided himself on being considerate. He'd laid it all out for you on the bedside table:

A bottle of VOSS water, chilled.

A small silk bag with clean makeup wipes (bought from a boutique skincare store, not that pharmacy crap).

Travel-sized cleanser and moisturizer.

A protein bar (he googled “best post-sex snacks” at 2AM).

A mint.

A goddamn luxury tampon pack — in three sizes, just in case.

A note: “Thank you for tonight. Please take an Uber Black on me — money’s in the envelope.”

And it was. The exact fare + tip, calculated down to the decimal. He even folded the envelope with a golden paperclip. The one thing missing? His fucking number.

In all his obsessive curation, he forgot the single most basic detail. And when he realized it, it was already too late — you were gone. Slipped through his fingers like lingerie and regret.

He thought about it for weeks. Might’ve written a little poetry about it in his notes app, which he absolutely did not save. But fate, cruel bitch that she is, handed him a distraction: his alumni called. Said they were building an elite course track, needed a finance pro and thought of him. And Nanami said yes, thinking, surely, this would be a fresh start. But then he walked into the lecture hall, and you were there.

Front row. Same gloss on your mouth. Same eyes that once looked down at him like he was nothing more than a toy. You crossed your legs — the pink of your dress peeking out from under your coat like it knew what it was doing.

Nanami almost dropped his lesson plan.

And you? You smiled, gave a polite little nod, as if you weren’t the reason he woke up half hard most mornings. As if you weren’t still, technically, the only woman to ever shove him to the floor and then leave without a trace.

Later on in the semester is what was supposed to be a one-time “closure” meeting — two adults, one flat white, and a mutual agreement to never speak of Halloween again. Easy. You even wore flats. That's how serious you were about not being tempted.

Nanami, unfortunately, showed up in that same goddamn tie. Pale blue, subtly striped, definitely too expensive. The man must buy them in bulk, and you’re convinced there’s a hidden shelf in his penthouse that’s just ties and guilt. You tried to talk like adults. Really. You even brought up the contract he typed out like it was a sexless prenup.

Well, it was supposed to be a contract. A “mutual cessation of erotic activities in the interest of academic integrity,” as Nanami put it, complete with an italicized heading, numbered clauses, and an embarrassing amount of legalese clearly lifted from somewhere between a divorce form and a workplace harassment pamphlet.

You signed it with a pink glitter pen, under the heading that read: “Student–faculty agreement to abstain from sexual relations and/or activities that might invoke the carnal, the erotic, or the emotionally destabilizing.”

Clause 1.1: No sexual conduct, explicit or implicit, including but not limited to oral gratification, penetrative intercourse, hand stimulation, or any roleplay reminiscent of prior encounters involving cinematic characters.

Clause 3.4: Even suggestive eye contact during class hours to be avoided — especially if wearing high heels, pink dresses, or gloss.

Your personal favorite, Clause 5.2: Nanami Kento retains the right to amend or dissolve the agreement if academic integrity is compromised or if the student in question “moans like that again.”

You snorted when you read that part. “Moans like what again?”

He didn’t answer, just stared at the lid of his coffee like it wronged him personally.

Clause 4.0 (added later): If the student is to arrive in a pink dress, she must also be wearing undergarments.

Clause 5.6: Should any aforementioned clause be violated, the offending party shall write a 500-word reflection on self-restraint.

You honestly thought he was joking until he printed it on letterhead.

Until he asked for a second copy “for record-keeping.”

Until he slid it into a folder labeled “important documents” right next to his will.

And still, despite the theatrics, despite the absurdity, you tried. You kept your skirts modest. Wore flats. Avoided eye contact in the lecture hall like Nanami Kento was the sun and you were but a humble, horny moth. But temptation, much like New York traffic, does not yield to logic.

Especially not during one rainy Wednesday, when you walked into his office to ask about your project grade and caught him mid-sentence, blazer off, sleeves rolled, sipping his espresso like a tragic European novella character — and there it was. That tie again.

“You only own one tie, don’t you?” you said, shutting the door behind you.

“I have seven of the same,” he said, not looking up. “Consistency is important.”

You crossed your arms. “Is sexual tension included in the syllabus?”

“Not until post-graduation.”

But then you leaned on the edge of his desk — his very clean, very expensive, very wide desk — and when the angle gave him a flash of your lace waistband, all bets were off. “You’re breaking clause four,” he said, already flushed, shifting in his chair like a man being tortured.

“Guess you’ll have to penalize me,” you purred, toeing off your flats like they were irrelevant.

“This is a violation of so many subclauses,” he whispered.

“Which one stops you from bending me over this desk?” you asked sweetly.

He didn’t have an answer.

“I am deeply—” he groaned as he pushed everything off his desk with one dramatic sweep and yanked you onto the wood, “—disappointed in both of us.”

Your thighs hit the edge with a thud. Your ass was in the air by the time he undid his belt, cursing softly, reverently. You shoved the pink dress up over your hips, smiled like a girl who studied hard and sinned harder. “And yet your mouth is still open.”

His mouth was, indeed, very open. The action was scholarly — like he was trying to write his thesis on you. You clenched his tie in your hand like a leash, and his groans vibrated all the way up your spine.

He fucked you like it was an unscheduled exam — brutal, precise, every thrust a line crossed in that ridiculous contract. The wood was cool under your cheek, the desk wobbling under both your bodies as he muttered incoherently into your skin. Somewhere in the blur of sweat and polished wood creaking beneath you, you moaned his name — and he froze, like a glitch in the matrix.

He nearly collapsed.

After, while wiping his glasses and adjusting his cuffs like nothing happened, he muttered, “I'll need to rewrite the contract.”

You, legs dangling off the desk, lipstick smeared and dress hiked up to your ribs, laughed. “Don’t forget to add Clause 6.9: No begging in the faculty lounge.”

He did rewrite it. This time, on thicker paper. Embossed.

But neither of you signed it.

☆ GOJO SATORU: CURRICULUM VIT-A-DICK

You should’ve known from the moment he strutted into the university auditorium like a six-foot-tall migraine in human form that life was going to test you.

Gojo Satoru — excuse me, Professor Gojo — who you first met at a tragically overfunded science fair where he proceeded to obliterate your carefully calibrated quantum demonstration with the same ease he probably uses to open cereal boxes. No, he wasn’t a judge. No, he wasn’t even supposed to be there. Yes, he still wore those obnoxious sunglasses indoors. The man had main-character syndrome, and unfortunately, the plot seemed to agree.

You thought that was the last of him, you really did. But then, scholarship in hand, you walked into your first advanced theoretical physics seminar and there he was — standing in front of the whiteboard with his hair gelled like it was afraid of gravity, grinning like a man who absolutely remembered insulting your entire personality and research method six months ago.

And that’s where it began: the pettiest academic rivalry known to mankind.

You interrupted every lecture with hypotheticals that started with “But wouldn’t that break down under—” and ended with Gojo pausing mid-sentence, sighing, and rolling up his sleeves like he was about to conduct a scientific duel instead of finishing the unit on entanglement.

The first time you lost a bet — over the probability collapse theory, God help you — he didn’t even gloat. He just handed you a page with “AFTER CLASS” written in blue gel pen and walked off humming the Jeopardy theme. That was your first “correctional training” session, he called it that. “Brat correction,” in reality, said in the tone of someone who absolutely loved how your jaw clenched every time he said it.

He likes to think he’s the authority figure in the room — Professor Gojo, head of department, youngest theoretical physicist with two international awards and a cocky little writeup in a nature magazine about quantum entanglement that he sends to every new TA like it’s a Bible. But none of that means shit when you’re in the front row again with your leg crossed just so, lips pursed in a smirk that tells him you’ve done your research — and worse, you’re going to use it.

The thing about debunking Gojo’s teachings is that it’s become a tradition now. An academic bloodsport where you come armed with papers, formulas, and sheer insolence, and he comes armed with that patronizing little chuckle and the smug belief that nobody, nobody, is ever going to outdo him in his own damn classroom.

And when you don’t? Well, let’s just say your ass knows the weight of his disappointment very intimately. There’s a very specific kind of warmth to his palm when it lands flat on you, almost reverent, like he’s patting down the remains of your pride after dismantling it entirely.

“Disrespecting your teacher again?” he murmurs, voice all low and falsely dismayed, fingers trailing the hot skin beneath your panties as if it pains him to have to teach you this way. “And I thought we were making progress. You’re gonna make me grey, sweetheart.”

You snort into the table, biting back a moan. Liar. His hair’s been white since tenure.

But when you win — oh, when you win — he drops the act entirely. Gojo becomes Satoru, sloppy and glassy-eyed as he stares up at you from where he’s half-kneeling on the floor, the lines of his shirt rumpled and his tie hanging undone like a leash you might tug if he talks back. And you’ve got one foot on his chest, the ball of it pressing ever so gently down, just enough for him to feel it and shudder like a dog in heat.

“Now say it,” you hum, tilting your head. “Say you were wrong about the decoherence model, Satoru.”

He actually whimpers. “I—I was wrong—Fuck, you were right—”

“And?”

Your foot inches lower, brushing against the bulge straining in his pants, feeling the heat of it beneath thin, overpriced fabric. He's sweating now, cheeks flushed, panting like he’s running a fever that only you can break.

“You’re smarter than me,” he gasps, voice cracking, so wet and wrecked you wonder if he even remembers what the original debate was about.

“Mmhm.” your foot presses harder. “Good boy.”

There’s a certain irony to it, really — you came here to study quantum physics, and somehow ended up mastering the laws of cause and effect in the way Satoru Gojo responds to your foot in his lap. The man can theorize particle-wave duality until he’s blue in the face, but one good press of your heel and he’s unraveling faster than any atom he’s ever split. And the best part? you still haven’t told him you’re publishing a paper that contradicts his entire thesis. Maybe next week.

But then comes finals season.

Oh, finals season. A time of chaos, caffeine, collective breakdowns — and Professor Gojo’s personal renaissance. He is, without a doubt, in the best mood he’s been all year: cheery, chipper, even. Students whisper about it like he’s some kind of academic sadist, thriving off the pain of others, grinning like the devil in a tailored button-down as he posts the final exam that reads more like a dissertation than anything else. And the worst part? He isn’t grading on a curve.

But you, his prized little rival-slash-pet project, get… kindness. Or something adjacent to it. A gentle reminder before class ends, said with an infuriatingly sweet smile:

“No staying after today, sweetheart. You’ve got bigger things to focus on.”

And then, like the most deranged cherry on top:

“We can always catch up on our…activities later.”

You almost pity the way he says it, like it doesn’t make his dick twitch. As if he hasn’t been pent-up all semester, denied of your touch and your scorn and your heel on his chest like a guilty little sinner. As if he’s not walking around with just enough self-restraint to keep from humping the podium.

But here’s where it gets fun.

Because he thought this would break you. That his absence, the sudden lack of punishment and provocation, would mess with your head just enough to send you spiraling, slipping, making one teeny-tiny mistake in your finals that he could then circle in red and jerk off to later. And it almost works. He's giddy as he grades, bouncing his leg, lips twitching in anticipation. Every other paper is a war crime, the red ink running out. But when he gets to yours? Blank.

Blank, as in: no errors. Not even a formatting issue. Not even an ambiguous variable name. Not even a single goddamn typo.

And you signed your name with a heart.

The gasp he lets out is not professional. He's sitting alone in his office with the door locked, hunched over the paper like it just whispered dirty secrets to him. His hands tremble a little — out of horror, out of awe, out of the frankly humiliating pressure building in his boxers. Because this is it. This is what he wanted.

To lose. To lose to you. And you knew it, you knew — that smug little smile when you handed it in, the way your fingers lingered against his as you passed it across the desk. You knew you’d fucked him academically and emotionally and now, he’s sitting there, legs spread and back arched like some kind of fucking... exam-brained toy.

When he returns the paper the next day, it’s with a practiced expression, the mask of Professor Gojo firmly back in place. But his hand brushes against yours — too slow, too soft — and you can feel the static hum between your fingertips like tension in a charged field. “Full marks,” he says smoothly, like he didn’t have to jerk off in his office to even touch this paper. “You've made me proud.”

You smile. “I always do, don't I, professor?”

He swallows so hard you can see the twitch in his throat. Yeah, he’s not mad at all. In fact, he’s already mentally clearing his schedule for next semester.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Gojo Satoru, professor, physicist, prodigy — is currently a blubbering, overstimulated mess beneath you, his palms flat and useless against his own silk sheets, hips twitching every time your ass connects with his thighs in that cruel, delicious rhythm. He's crying fat, glossy tears as they trail down his cheeks like he’s in mourning, but it’s just you. Just you, sitting pretty on his cock like the goddess of academic revenge, one hand planted on his chest like a paperweight, the other gently curling around his throat with all the casual authority of someone grading a multiple-choice test.

You bounce slow, unhurried, torturously controlled — and he loves it.

“F-fuck, you — you did so good,” he slurs, head thrown back so hard the veins in his neck twitch under your fingers. “So smart, baby — so fucking brilliant, top of the class, top of me —”

“Yeah?” you whisper, leaning forward just enough so your breath brushes his wet cheeks. “Who's the valedictorian now, professor?”

He whines — whines — something like a yes and a laugh and a sob mashed together, a hiccupping mess of praise and need. “M’so proud of you, fuck — fuck, y’ride me like you solved me, figured out the whole equation— m’just a— a variable— oh god—”

He’s delirious. Incoherent. Flushed chest heaving, hair a sweaty halo against the pillow, and it’s kind of funny — the irony of it all. Because this is the same man who used to look at you with that cocky glint in class, dreaming of your downfall, picturing you stuttering through corrections and red ink like a scolded schoolgirl, only to end up here: broken and blissed-out beneath your hips, all heart-shaped eyes and thank-you-mommy energy, mouthing nonsense like it’s a second language.

“Wanted me to fail so you could play teacher again, huh?” you coo, slowing down until your movements are a slow, grinding circle that has his toes curling. “But now you get to be my little after-school project instead.”

“Yesyesyes,” he gasps, voice breaking mid-word. “Use me, please— you earned it, you aced it— s’the least I can do, swear— wanna b’good for you— f-for my valedictorian—”

You press your palm firmer against his neck. Not hard — not yet — just enough to remind him that the only thing keeping him grounded is you. “That’s right, professor,” you murmur, licking the sweat off his jaw. “You’re just my bonus credit now.”

And he moans like you handed him a lifetime achievement award. If the education board ever saw this, you think, they’d have to rename the curriculum: quantum physics and Gojo Satoru’s public humiliation, taught by you, graded by orgasm count.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA: A+ IN ANALYSIS, D- IN SELF CONTROL

If there was anyone who could make a student’s life flash before their eyes with a single look, it was Professor Sukuna.

Department: Modern History. Specialty: war crimes, chain-smoking, and looking like he belongs on a “do not approach” government list.

The man walks around like tenure is just a polite word for “try me,” tattoos curling up his neck and peeking through the gaps in his shirt like they, too, are sick of the dress code. He wears formal clothes the way one wears a hospital gown — reluctantly and out of necessity — and the scent of his cologne is nicotine and disdain.

He doesn’t lecture, he warns. Powerpoint slides are a thing of myth in his class. If you miss a date, you don’t get a reminder, you get a monologue about how the fall of Rome wasn’t as embarrassing as your lack of attention to deadlines. He’s harsh, terrifying, and objectively hot in that “he will ruin your self-esteem and your cervix” kind of way — not that you'd ever say that out loud.

You never had any special rapport with him either. You just sat in the front row like a chronically anxious nerd, too scared to even sneeze wrong. That is, until he found you crying in a quiet corner of the library, head in your history textbook like it could somehow absorb your heartbreak. He assumed you were overwhelmed by the syllabus — which, okay, rude — and muttered something that was equal parts pep talk and emotionally repressed threats against “whatever loser made you cry.”

Since then, Sukuna’s been...different. Not soft, not kind — don’t be delusional — just less sharp around the edges when it came to you. He'd still verbally dismantle any student who tried to correct him without citations, but when it came to you, he asked things like “you eating?” and “sleeping or still reading?” in passing. And he did it through email, because of course he did. Because Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t text students. He barely even types. He pecks at the keyboard like it owes him money. You’ve got a folder now, unintentionally titled “passive aggressive motivation,” where emails read like:

Subject: stop crying no man is worth bombing your GPA over. eat something. drink water. also your thesis outline was dogshit. fix it. -r.s

or:

Subject: your seminar slides don’t present this without adding a section on postcolonial analysis unless you want to embarrass yourself. also that guy who came to pick you up last week looks like he can't read. don’t bring him around again. -r.s

Every email ends with lowercase letters and an implicit threat. And it’s all very… professional. Totally, completely normal professor stuff. It’s not like he lingers outside your class when it ends to “make sure nobody bothers you,” or that his hand just happens to brush yours every time he gives back a graded paper. Or that when you send him an email past midnight, he responds faster than your own friends. Strictly educational, completely above board. Absolutely not the start of a very complicated, slow-burning, morally grey something.

…Right?

Right.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. The bar, that is.

Sukuna didn’t even like bars. Hated the smell of cheap beer and watered-down perfumes and whatever desperation clung to the sweat-slick air by midnight. But he’d gotten dragged there by another tenured professor who thought he needed to “loosen up,” which was ironic considering Sukuna’s idea of relaxing involved reading war manifestos and judging grad students.

So he’s already annoyed, even more so when he steps outside for a smoke and sees you there. Sitting on the curb, arms hugging your knees, hair pinned up like you’d tried too hard tonight. He knows that expression — the mix of hurt and embarrassment and the beginnings of oh god, don’t cry in public. It makes something seize in his chest.

“Seriously?” he mutters, walking up with the cigarette still burning between his fingers. “Who the fuck takes a girl to a bar for a first date?”

You just blink up at him, and he rolls his eyes like he’s not already halfway down the spiral. He drives you home, his untouched drink forgotten. The silence in the car is stiff, quiet, the kind that makes his knuckles tighten on the wheel every time you shift slightly in the passenger seat. When he drops you off and you say thank you too softly, he doesn’t say “you’re welcome.” He just stares ahead and mutters, “Get inside safe.”

But when he wakes up to your smaller body curled against him the next morning — God, fuck. He barely remembers letting you in, just that your eyes were glassy and your voice broke when you asked if you could stay, and then you’d fallen asleep on his bed before he could make a choice. And now you’re here, mouth slightly open in sleep, your wrist resting against his bare chest like you belong there. He slips out of bed like it’s going to absolve him of anything. It doesn’t.

So the next week? He ignores you. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much. Because he’s your professor, and you’re his student, and this shit is so far past the line that the line is a fucking dot. And yet—

You stop raising your hand in class. Stop sending over-enthusiastic thesis emails. And that’s when Sukuna knows he’s fucked. Because ignoring you only works until he realizes the silence is your reaction to being ignored. He doesn’t even think before knocking on your apartment door one night, hair still damp from a too-fast shower, jaw clenched in some attempt to be rational. You don’t say anything. You just look at him.

And he cracks.

It’s the wall. The bed. The damn kitchen counter. His mouth on your neck, your thighs, your breasts — sucking marks like he wants to leave proof of the apology he can’t voice. His voice is low, gravelly, drunk off the taste of your skin. His hands are rough, too big, too familiar now, and you tremble with every movement. “You still mad at me?” he grunts against your cunt, tongue swiping through your slick like it’ll get him forgiveness. Your hand fists his hair.

“You’re such an asshole,” you moan, shoving him deeper. He hums into your cunt like he agrees. And he does.

That night ends the same way they all do — tangled limbs, sheets kicked to the floor, and your breathless whine of “you never talk to me after.” And he means to, he really does. But he leaves again without saying anything, guilt burning like nicotine in his lungs.

So the cycle repeats.

You cry, he shows up. You argue, he pushes you up against the nearest surface and apologizes with his mouth and hands and cock — biting your shoulder, squeezing your hips, kissing the angry tear-track down your cheek until you’re choking on his name.

“Say it,” you gasp, nails raking down his back as you ride him.

He doesn't. He can't. He just slams you down harder and lets his mouth fall open, guttural noises spilling out like prayers. Fuckfuckfuck—

You make him feel alive. And all he can do is keep fucking up the same way, hoping one of these days, you’ll forgive him before he can find the words. And yet, finals season’s supposed to be your personal hell, not his. Sukuna’s brooding harder than usual, a semi-permanent crease etched between his brows and his arms crossed so tight over his chest that even the most clueless undergrad knows better than to raise their hand today.

You had said it nicely — too nicely — when you showed up to his office hours that weren’t even real office hours, just you dropping by like you always did, except this time, you had a script memorized.

“I just… I think it’s better if we don’t see each other until exams are over. I can't focus. And you’re kind of… a distraction.”

Him? A distraction? In his own subject? He doesn't even know if he should feel insulted or flattered. He decides on both and sulks accordingly. And you didn’t even say anything mean. There was no fight, no cold-shoulder aftermath. just soft words, a guilty look, and then nothing.

You didn’t show up to his class again. It was optional, sure — study week lectures aren’t mandatory, professor, he can hear your smartass voice in his head — but still. It's him. You always came for him. So when you don’t? That's when he knows it’s bad.

He tells himself he doesn’t care. Tells himself this is what he wanted, anyway — distance, boundaries, some room to breathe. Maybe he’s too old to be dealing with this kind of nonsense from someone who probably still has their ex-best friend’s Netflix password memorized.

But then he finds himself at the library. Not for you, of course not. He was returning a book — something dense and miserable on post-war treaties. Definitely not stalking. Absolutely not peeking between the shelves. Except then he sees you. Head bent over your notes, hair tied back, lips slightly pursed in concentration — and then there’s him. The most annoying little shit in his class, sitting beside you like he’s earned the spot, asking questions like he actually gives a damn about the League of Nations.

It takes everything in Sukuna not to walk up and knock the guy’s books to the floor. Instead, he glares from the second-floor balcony for an unhealthy amount of time before dragging you out the second you’re alone.

No explanation. No “hey, can we talk?” Just him grabbing your wrist and leading you into one of those back hallways that smell like too much disinfectant and stress sweat.

“Are you tired of me yet?” he says, low and flat.

You blink. “What?”

His jaw ticks. Fuck. It sounded pathetic out loud. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, all quiet and cornered. But now that it’s out there, the rest just comes spilling out in the most emotionally constipated way possible.

“You stopped showing up. You didn’t even reply to my last email. Now you’re with that… kid,” he mutters the last part like it physically wounds him. “You’re just—moving on?”

You stare, confused.

“I told you I needed to focus on finals.”

“Yeah, and I thought that was your generation’s code for leaving someone” he snaps.

The hallway goes still, the lights above continuing to buzz. Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Sukuna catches it — that little tell you have when you’re about to say something heartfelt, and God, he braces himself.

“You think I'm replacing you?” you say finally. “Sukuna, he was helping me revise flashcards.”

“Flashcards,” he repeats like it’s the filthiest word he’s ever heard.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re confusing,” he counters, but softer, quieter. Almost like he’s embarrassed. “You say I'm a distraction and then just vanish. I don’t know what the fuck you want anymore.”

“I wanted to pass. And maybe try not lose my mind.”

He leans back against the wall, head tilted up, arms now slack by his side. “Well,” he mutters, “Congrats. Because I'm losing mine.”

And he is. He misses your smart mouth, your late-night emails about history memes, the way your legs hooked around his waist like you belonged there. He misses the way you made him feel young again, even though he’s not — not really — and that fact creeps up his spine every time he watches you laugh with someone your age.

You reach for his hand, pull it away from the wall, and squeeze it gently. “I'm not replacing you,” you say. “I just needed to take a breath. But I'm still here.”

His thumb brushes your knuckles before he even realizes what he’s doing.

“…Good,” he says, voice rough. “Because I don't want to go back to pretending I don't give a shit.”

You smile, and his brain short-circuits the same way it always does when you do. He's still grumpy, still tired. still convinced he’s about five years and one existential crisis too old for you. But you’re still here. And that, somehow, is enough.

Monday morning smells like pencil shavings, stress, sweat, and betrayal. Not yours, of course — his. Because there you are, nestled so sweetly in his lap at his home desk, thighs spread across his, sunk down around his cock like you belong there. Because you do.

You’re not even moving. That's the part that’s driving him feral. Just sitting there all cozy and full and smug, keeping him hot and throbbing inside while he tries — tries — to grade the final batch of modern history exams. It’s the academic equivalent of edging, and Sukuna, for all his big scary professor demeanor, is fucking losing it.

Your breath is warm against the side of his neck as you lean in lazily. You’d had your fun earlier — broken him open on his own sheets like you were studying anatomy, and now you were just… resting. Inside him. Sheathing him. Cockwarming him like some kind of reward, like he was your treat. And the worst part? He didn’t even hate it.

“You've been on question three for five minutes,” you murmur, lips brushing his ear, and he jolts — not from your voice, but from how the shift grinds your cunt around him just the tiniest bit.

“I'm focusing,” he lies, throat tight.

You hum like you don’t believe him. “You’re twitching.”

“You’re warm.”

“You’re hard.”

He glares at the paper like it’s personally responsible. “It's correction season.”

“Mhm. And you’re grading while balls-deep in your student. Who's the distraction now?”

He grunts — but it’s weak. He's weak. Because he’s still inside you and your cunt is so soft and wet and hot and he swears he can feel your heartbeat around him when you clench just once, just to remind him who’s got the power here. And then, as fate would have it, the worst fucking name in his roster shows up on the next paper.

“You've gotta be kidding me,” he says, voice dry, mouth downturned.

You peer down. “Oh. Him.”

Sukuna goes still. You don’t even need to say the name — it’s the boy from the library. The one you studied with during “the dry spell,” aka the week you ghosted him for focusing on your exams, and he swore he’d never be that soft again. Well. Jokes on him.

“He used zeitgeist in a sentence,” Sukuna says, with venom. “Unironically.”

You smile, slow and cruel. “He’s not wrong though.”

He turns to you, jaw tight, cock throbbing. “Say that again.”

“The answer’s worth full marks.”

You say it like it’s nothing. Like you don’t know exactly what that does to him.

His hand slips under your ass and pulls you down hard, deep. You don’t make a sound, just breathe against his cheek, but the flutter of your walls around him has him practically vibrating in place.

“Take it back,” he rasps.

You smile. “Never.”

He’s back to bouncing his leg again — a nervous tick turned torture as every shift sends your warmth tightening around him, soaking him, milking him. He can barely hold the pen. He scribbles out a 10 and replaces it with a shaky 7.

“He gets a C,” Sukuna mutters, spiteful.

“Abusing your authority?”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re jealous?”

“Yes.”

You lean in close, lips just barely grazing his jaw. “Say it.”

“I hate that fucker,” he breathes.

“No,” you purr. “Say what you really hate.”

His head tips back, neck flushed red, pulse hammering under your mouth. “I hate that he got to see you smile.”

You grin. “You’re seeing it now.”

And you give him a single roll of your hips — slow, devastating, slick and sinful — and his breath catches, his eyes flutter shut, and his cock twitches helplessly inside you. “Holy fucckk,” he moans, low and wrecked.

“Mark the damn paper,” you whisper, licking the shell of his ear.

He scribbles an 8. “He gets a B- and that’s generous.”

You laugh softly and clench around him again. “You’re such a mess,” you coo, brushing his sweat-damp bangs back. “And you haven’t even cum yet.”

“You’re evil,” Sukuna whimpers, half-hysterical. “I missed you so fucking much.”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know.”

a/n: thank yeww for reading!! this took way too long to format, i hope you enjoy xx. i probably won't be writing any part 2's or continuations of this trope, so please respect me and my work and not comment about it/asking for it.

#★creamfics.#jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #choso smut #satoru gojo smut #gojo smut #sukuna smut #sukuna ryomen smut #toji smut #nanami smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #choso x reader #gojo x reader #toji x reader #sukuna x reader #nanami x reader

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digitald0rk · 1 month ago

Text

TEAR YOU APART

pairing : sinister! mark grayson x afab! florist reader.

synopsis : in which mark discovers your dirty little secret and decides to help you recreate it in real time.

(18+) warnings : kidnapping. nasty petty perv mark. allusions to cannibalism. mention of kinda gory violence. hair pulling. biting. mean name calling duh. giving each other head. p in v unprotected sex. creampies. marathon sex as in multiple orgasms. squirting. overstimulation . . . ++ just really nasty smut lol [ all consentual though! you two are freaks like in capital FREAKS ]

w.c : 5.5k.

notes : erm. yeah idk what possessed me to write this but lemme know what you think ! it's my first time writing smut this long and detailed [ my search history is crazy rn lol ]. let's just say this takes place in sinister mark's universe before he starts acting like a murder machine and all, so yeah :] again interactions are always appreciated, also do let me know if you think there's any warning i should add!

taglist : @vm4879bb-blog [ for the others, i wasn't sure if you guys would be okay being tagged in a fic like this so i didn't, let me know if you wanna be added tho :p ]

now on ao3 too!

he's going to kill something, or someone.

“oh yeah this? my boyfriend got it for me!”

he hears you talk about him, your lover, everyday and it annoys him deeply, the subtle furrow of his eyebrows barely noticeable but definitely there — sometimes a twitch of his eye, clear cracks in his carefully constructed facade give away his irritation if you choose to look closely.

“that reminds me, this one time he-”

he loves that pretty voice of yours — dare he say, he's grown fond of it, but he wants to shut you up forever whenever your boyfriend's name leaves your lips.

mark wants his name to be on your tongue — to be said with the same love and fondness that accompanies the name of your lover.

he tried, he really did, to give you signs — a squeeze of your hand there, a stare that can practically undress you on its own. but it seems you're oblivious to it all, or you're playing hard to get, either way his patience is running thin.

he'll get what he wants. just you wait.

every time he visits your little shop, it smells like flowers mixed with your perfume, that sweet and sugary scent with just a hint of citrus — he had asked you about the perfume you wore during his third visit, bought it the same day so he could finally get off because his imagination wasn't enough at this point, that kept him somewhat satisfied for a bit, but it wasn't nearly enough.

so when he stopped by next time, not even buying flowers to play along with whatever this is, he asked you, “where do you buy your clothes?”

you blink a couple times, clearly taken aback back by the sudden question but nonetheless, answer him — although you're not quite sure what to make of his disheveled hair and blown out pupils.

here he is, acting like a feral dog in heat, buying anything and everything that he can at the shops you frequent that resembles your clothes. and when he's back at home, he's spraying them with the perfume you always wear, rutting like a madman into the mattress as he mouths at a pink shirt — the same one you own and the one you were wearing when he first saw you, his drool leaking and staining the shirt as he holds it close to his mouth and closing his eyes, your scent surrounding him as he suckles on the chest area of the shirt, imagining it's your chest instead which has him groaning and cumming in his pants. that keeps him going for another week or so.

next thing he knows, he's acting on pure instinct and his desires — snapping photos of your panties underneath your little skirts like a fucking pervert, looking them up online so he could order them and make a mess of them. and he does, he stains each and everyone of those panties with his hot, thick cum and sometimes his spit when he imagines eating your pretty pussy out. his desires however continue to only grow.

he visits your little shop, like he always does, mentally preparing himself to not grab your throat and shove you down to make you shut up if he hears about your stupid boyfriend again.

he's being nice, can't you see? you should be thankful.

mark sees a new ring on your finger, the small silver zircon on it shining underneath the sunlight, he wonders if it's another gift from your boyfriend.

the thought leaves a bitter taste behind, regardless, he maintains his usual aloof facade, waiting for you to finish wrapping up his bouquet that he's going to end up tossing away the next day — just like the other flowers he's bought from you, they don't compare to you or your beauty, he wants you, a flower that won't rot away once he's done playing with it.

surprisingly, you don't mention the name of a certain man who he wants dead and buried six feet deep but he doesn't comment on it, in fact, a small barely imperceptible smile tugs at his lips.

he's just about to leave your little flower heaven when he hears something that makes his heart, uncharacteristically skip a beat.

“yeah i heard, i’m so sorry,” a voice, which he recognizes as your friend speaks softly, sympathetically.

“yeah, i don't know what i was thinking,” you start, “the signs were there, i just never thought he'd cheat like that,” you blink away the forming tears, “i trusted him.”

he stops dead in his tracks. that bastard cheated on you? he'll make him pay for being the reason you cry, although your tears do make his cock twitch in his pants. he'll lick them off of your face if you let him, god he really wants to.

should he simply keep your boyfriend to torture? he's sure he could lure you in with it, after all you are way too sweet for your own good.

he'll slowly tear each of his limbs apart, making sure the man hears his bones cracking and skin ripping, he'll make that fucker bleed to death. hell, he'd even record those painful, agonizing sounds that your ex would cry out, he's sure you'd cry more if he lets you hear them, maybe he just wants to see you cry — though he's sure you'll do that when you choke on his cock.

he snaps out of his little fantasy when the bell rings, indicating the opening of the door — another customer in, he sighs. he's losing it, he's not sure how much he can withstand not having you with him. but he's trying, for you.

for the sweetest girl who he can't wait to devour.

with his restraint hanging on by a thread, he steps out of your shop, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists by his sides. he needs to have you.

and that restraint finally snaps the next day when he discovers that his favorite florist is a fucking freak.

as you're tending to customers — clearly overwhelmed by their number as valentine’s day is approaching and flowers are definitely a safe option for your partner, his eyes stay locked on your laptop's screen that you had put on one of the small tables, lid only half closed, his eyes frantically scan over some of the words as he fully opens the screen, trying to stay out of your vision.

he quickly decides to go somewhere where there aren't so many people so he could take a look inside his sweet girl's sick mind. and with that he skillfully slips outside — he feels awfully excited, sneaking into the small bathroom of some shop.

and with each click of the cursor and another tab opening, he learns your most depraved, disgusting fantasies — the kind of porn you're into, your kinks and fetishes, the smut you read, all of it.

he even stumbles upon a small blog you run, oh now we're talking. each lewd image or post you've reblogged, followed by some words of “wish that was me rn”, has him hard. and these date back before your break up, meaning your boyfriend was definitely not keeping you satisfied and that has him grinning like a maniac.

oh he'll give you what you want.

he shamelessly palms himself when he finds your dairy entry with his name, rambling about how you feel guilty fantasizing about him ruining you. he would've cum right then and there if it weren't for the knocking on the door, “hey man, you mind hurrying it up?”

oh right he's still in a bathroom and not in you, like he should be.

he manages to sneak your laptop back in, thanking the absurd amount of customers mentally which helped him go in and out without raising suspicion.

he can't take it anymore, it's only been a couple hours since he's discovered your filthy secret and also saw you tearing up earlier because of that asshole who broke your heart.

he knows he's a hypocrite — he doesn't care for your dumb feelings and your big heart, okay well maybe that's a lie.

it is a lie.

and there are definitely these feelings that he refuses to acknowledge but still, the only reason why you should be crying is because of him fucking your brains out.

and so he waits, like a predator waiting to pounce — he holds his breath, watching as the sun sets and you lock up your shop, ready to go home and get some sleep but your plans are interrupted as a hand sneaks up behind you with some sort of cloth, muffling your panicked noises and before you know it you're knocked out.

it takes you hours to gain your consciousness back, eyes all heavy and mind disoriented you blink, once. then twice, your eyes widen and your mouth suddenly feels too dry. you're all tied up to a cold hard metal chair, you're only in your bra and panties, the rope is too tight, it's constricting and will definitely leave behind angry marks on your skin.

standing before you is one of your regular customers, mark. you stare at him, dumbfounded — eyes darting around to look for an escape okay to see a single door, desk and some chairs, panic settles in your bones, the coldness of the room does nothing to soothe your nerves.

you mindlessly try to shift around, a desperate attempt that leaves you wincing in pain — the friction of the thick black rope burning against your skin.

you try to speak, but nothing comes out, only a small choked sob — looking at him with those wide eyes which are brimming with tears that are oh so close to spilling and staining your cheeks, you look utterly helpless. the sight alone makes him excited.

he takes a deep breath, he wants to take his time with you, savor you. but goddamnit, if you keep looking at him like that he's sure he'll end up doing the opposite of that.

“open your mouth,” he commands, leaving no room for argument and you hate the way it sends a shiver down your spine and a throb to your core.

you hesitantly open your mouth, with his back turned to you — doing god knows what, you try screaming for help, it is a weak attempt that makes him chuckle, “no one's going to hear you sweetheart,” he coos mockingly, “i suggest you play along if you wish to live.”

he's not joking, his voice makes it clear.

so you reluctantly keep your mouth opened, hot tears falling down — lucky for you, he's being nice, at least for now because he brings a glass of water, holding your jaw and pouring the water in your mouth, some of it spills, the coldness of it on your bare skin making you shiver — but you swallow all he gives hastily, hoping it really is just water.

you sputter a bit of the water out onto him in surprise when he licks a stream of you tears away, his tongue hot against your skin and his spit leaving a shiny trail on your cheek. scared, that he'll hurt you because of what you've just done, you close your eyes shut as if the mere action would actually rewind back time and do something for you.

he laughs, loudly.

god, you're adorable. he could just eat you up.

“are you scared of me?” he asks, knowing damn well it's a pointless question but the genuine fear in your eyes has him reeling with joy and a desire only you, his sweetheart, can fulfill.

he puts the now empty glass of water back on a small table, “you know, you look real pretty like this,” he starts, dragging a chair to sit across you, “but i bet you'd look real pretty without anything on.”

you don't answer, you don't know how to. your eyes are still looking around the big room for any exits, any openings — he smiles at your desperation, it's cute really.

“or maybe you'd look even prettier with some blood on you hm?” his tone although amused is firm enough to leave you unsure if he's being serious or not, he drags a finger across your belly, “what if i make a cut right here?”

you immediately shake your head, trying to speak but he shuts you up by pinching one of your hard nipples through your bra, your protests die down into a small whimper — the sound has him grinning from ear to ear.

his eyes glint with something sinister that has you both scared and turned on. “i know you want this slut,” he holds your jaw harshly.

shame settles in your bones as you realize he's right.

“don't play coy sweet girl i saw all of it,” when you give him a confused look, he continues, “that little blog of yours, that disgusting shit you're into.”

oh fuck.

he sees the look of absolute horror mixed with embarrassment on your face and he tuts like he's disappointed, “dirty girl,” like he isn't the one who literally kidnapped you here.

“i don't know what you're talking about,” you both know you're lying, but sure he'll play along if that's what you want — he's feeling good today.

he reaches for your bag and rips it open — a clear display of who's still in charge here and how he definitely could kill you in an instant.

mark opens your laptop and asks you the password. you don't tell him at first as if that would change anything.

“i asked you a simple question,” he walks closer to you, grips your shoulder hard enough to make you regret your words, “or do i need to rip something else for you to answer me hm?” his grip tightens and you know he's not playing around, your voice shakes as you give him the four number pin, breathing heavily when he lets go of his hard bruising grip on your shoulder.

“good girl,” fuck him, he's doing this on purpose now! and the smug look on his face only confirms your suspicions.

he shows you the deepest, filthiest fantasies of yours that you keep tucked in your laptop, away from the world.

“what's wrong? don't pretend you're not dripping wet right now.”

again, he's not wrong.

“why are you doing this?” you ask him, still struggling a bit against the ropes that bind you.

“i wanna give you what you want,” he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. he also wants to make you forget about your ex boyfriend, but he's not admitting that, jealousy is a weakness. and one that he suffers from immensely.

“you what-”

“drop the act,” he huffs, irritation visible in the way his eyebrows furrow. “just admit it already. you're a sick disgusting pervert who goes prancing around like she's not thinking of having her holes filled,” he tugs at your hair to keep your head up, his eyes dark with lust boring right into yours.

“are you crazy? you fucking kidnapped-”

he cuts you off again, “so you don't want this?”

silence.

“i’ll untie you right now and let you leave, just tell me you want to leave.”

silence, again.

you're not fooling anybody.

“yeah that's what i thought,” he let's go of your hair, “the safe word is-” he mutters your ex’s name and before you can even comment on the sheer absurdity of it all, he's ripping your panties away from your throbbing pussy, groaning at the sight of your glistening wet folds, all needy just for him.

he quickly pockets the ripped panties. pervert.

“look at this needy cunt, all for me hm?” he muses aloud, spreading your legs apart and breaking apart the ropes that tried to interfere with his ministrations. he shakily inhales when he sees your arousal slowly spill out — you're so fucking wet. his heated gaze leaving goosebumps on your skin.

he presses a chaste kiss to your folds, practically salivating as he breathes you in — he's gonna end up cumming in his pants, he's dreamt of this exact moment for so long.

he gathers a considerable amount of saliva in his mouth before spitting it onto your neglected cunt which twitches at the action, the sight is downright filthy and it makes you moan.

he wastes no time — getting on his knees, licking a strip up your slit before devouring your pussy like a man starved for days, shamelessly rutting into the chair you're sitting on at your taste. you taste so good, he wants to drown in it.

he's messy and loud, your hands are still tied behind your back so you can't push his head away and grip his hair when he attacks your clit with his tongue, sucking on it relentlessly. your hips lift up and buck into his face, your noises only getting louder as he fucks his tongue into your warm wet hole. he moans at the feeling of your thighs squeezing around his head and nearly suffocating him — your walls clenching around his tongue as you cry out his name in utter pleasure.

he shoves two of his thick fingers in without any warning — a surprised small squeal leaving your lips, while his tongue works in torturous circles around your sensitive bundle of nerves and eagerly licking between your folds. your pretty whimpers are music to his ears.

clearly overwhelmed with pleasure, you make a pathetic attempt to squirm away from his touch, which earns you a harsh smack to your thigh followed by a bite — his teeth dig into your flesh, leaving behind bruising marks that will sting for days, the line between pain and pleasure blurring.

a familiar feeling settles in your belly, it only builds up as he continues to go down on you. “mark! mark! i'm i’m-” you try warning him, but his fingers only speed up, he sucks harshly on your clit, holding your hips down when you cum — your body shaking, crying out his name oh so sweetly, he wants to hear it again and again, until the only word you know is his name.

he doesn't pull away from your cunt though, drinking up every bit of your release and arousal that you offer — holding you down and forcing you to submit to the relentless pleasure he's giving you, moaning into your pussy like he's having the best meal of his life.

he doesn't let you rest, inserting another finger in — easily massaging that sweet spot that you can't reach as easily as he does.

“oh fuck!” you whine out loud, when he keeps overstimulating your poor pussy, the squelching wet noises only increasing as he eats you out. he loves the way your brain is turning to mush, mindlessly babbling his name along with your sweet noises.

and when you cum again, he still doesn't stop.

you've lost count of how many orgasms you've had at this point, body too sensitive and shaking almost like a leaf.

with eyes brimming with seemingly never ending tears, vision practically blurry from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body, it doesn't take him long to bring you to the edge again — except this time you end up squirting all over his pretty face, a surprised noise leaves your mouth as your body jolts hardly.

he finally pulls away. a small moan leaves your lips as you take in the sight in front of you.

mark grayson, on his knees, face all wet and drenched in your juices and his spit, breathing heavily — looking at you like he's going to eat you alive.

he's breathing really heavily, your dazed state makes it hard for you to comprehend things but you can clearly see the big wet spot on his pants. he came — from just eating you out.

“messy fucking slut,” he spanks your already oversensitive pussy making you hiss and cry out, body still quivering and twitching from that intense release.

he pushes your legs apart again, spreading your pussy open for him to see, he mutters a curse under his breath as he sees remnants of your release clinging onto the sensitive skin. he needs to get up before he ends up eating you out — as much as he would love to do that, he can't wait much longer, he needs to be buried inside that sweet cunt of yours and make you see stars.

he gets up from his knees. grabbing your hair, mark makes you lick his face clean, you taste yourself on his face and feel yourself getting worked up again. “good fucking girl, gonna put that mouth to better use, just you wait,” his hand reaches down to pinch your clit, laughing when you let out a small pained noise.

he hastily tears away your bra, the fabric discarded somewhere on the cold floor. he pinches and lightly grazes his nails against the perked up sensitive buds, making you squirm and let out small whimpers — it stings, but it also gets you insanely wet.

“look at that, pretty pussy’s practically begging to be fucked,” he bites down on your shoulder, a pained groan escapes your mouth and he bites harder, pulling away to admire the mark his teeth left.

you barely have time to look at the new addition of marks he's left on your body so far, before he's untying your hands behind your back, taking your wrists into his and pulling you down. you stumble a bit at the harsh tug — legs practically jelly from all those orgasms.

he draws you closer by your arms, manhandling you easily so you're sitting in between his open legs — the cold floor against your warm body.

“take it off,” he commands, gesturing to his pants. you hesitantly take them off, his ruined boxers coming into vision.

he's an impatient man, he always gets what he wants.

mark grabs a fistful of your hair and forces your head down onto his clothed — aching cock, making his impatience very clear.

“dumb bitch, can't do anything herself,” his tone demeaning, shutting up your protests by shoving his thumb in your mouth. he lifts his hips up to finally free himself of his boxers, his cock standing up — bobbing and leaking with pre. you gulp, eyes flitting back over to his face.

he lets out a small moan as you gather some of your saliva to spit on his hard cock, licking teasingly up his length over one of his prominent veins.

“don't be a fucking tease,” he takes ahold of your jaw harshly, tugging your tongue out before you can close your mouth — that he can't wait to be in and spits on your tongue, making you swallow it, before shoving you back a bit.

he pushes your hair out of your face so he could watch you better, the gesture so sweet and gentle — it makes you almost forget how mean he's been.

you slowly start pushing his length into your mouth, “thaaat's right, take it like the good slut you are,” his words die down into a groan as he feels your tongue swirl around his sensitive tip.

he's being nice for once, letting you take your time, your head bobs up and down as you suck him off while your hands jerk the rest of his cock that you can't fit in your mouth, tongue working against his sensitive spots.

but your mouth feels so good, so warm, so wet — his hips jerk up involuntarily, making you gag and tear up at the burn you feel at the back of your throat.

you look so pretty like this, those pretty lips wrapped around his cock, eyes glassy — don't blame him for wanting to ruin you when you look like that.

he pulls himself out of your mouth slightly — just to make sure he doesn't end up cumming too soon, before shoving himself back in, moaning in pleasure at the sensations he feels. you keep sucking, forcing all of him in your mouth, almost choking on his cock, some drool leaking out of the corners of your mouth, but it's worth it — worth those small whimpers and grunts he lets out, ones he can't hold back because of how good he feels right now, all because of you.

and when your hand reaches down to lightly toy with his balls, cupping them, he shivers and lets out a low moan of your name, without a proper warning his cock twitches in your mouth and he cums, hard — flooding your mouth with his thick salty release.

you try to swallow as much as you can but it's too much, however, mark being the fucking asshole he is, forces your head back down on his twitching cock and pinches your nose shut making it hard to breathe.

he breaks into a full blown laugh. oh how he loves the way your eyes water up — that panicked expression on your face as you struggle to breathe, some of his cum leaking out your pretty mouth, squirming and still trying to push him away. it only turns him on more, “it's rude to talk with your mouthful,” he quips, holding your gaze.

he lets you go finally and you pull him out of your mouth quickly, throat already feeling sore — you cough, wiping away his cum and your spit from your face with the back of your hand.

“you should've seen the look on your face,” he chuckles darkly — clearly pleased with himself, shifting closer to you to pin you down, wasting no time shoving his tongue in your mouth, messily kissing you. he lets you pull off his shirt, his hips buck a little when you start feeling him up.

he can taste himself on your tongue and god that only adds to his growing arousal.

he pulls away a little so he can start biting and sucking down your neck, his other hand sneaking down to tease your pussy — tracing circles onto your clit, he grinds against you, “gonna fucking ruin you for everyone else,” he bites your earlobe, tugging on it, his fingers moving to tease your other hole, “gonna make sure this fucking pussy is always full of me,” he slaps your pussy, making you cry out his name.

he quickly aligns himself with your wet entrance, taking a deep breath before nudging his tip in — shoving it all in one go, making you tremble in both pain and pleasure that'll build over time, “come on i know you can take it, isn't this what you wanted?” he coos mockingly, pressing sloppy wet kisses to your face, licking your face like some fucking dog, leaving your face covered in his spit.

as soon as your muscles relax the tiniest bit he's thrusting in and out of you like a madman — you yelp loudly, holding onto him for dear life, nails digging into his back.

“fuck- oh my god!”

the only sounds in the room are the fast wet sounds of him thrusting into you, your pussy squelching loudly at the action and your combined moans and whines.

your gummy walls clench around him harder with each thrust, his cock hitting that sweet spot so well it has you seeing stars, all you can think about is him.

“oh fuck,” he grunts into your ear when he feels you tighten around him, gripping him like a vice, “think she needs to be filled all nice and warm with my cum, don't you agree baby?” he accentuates each word with a harsh thrust, relishing the way your body writhes under him.

you nod mindlessly, desperate for that sweet release more than anything.

“aww what's wrong?” he leans down to suck on one of your nipples, pinching and toying with the other one — a choked out sob leaves your lips, you feel tears pooling in your eyes, you clench around him even harder, desperate to milk him for all he's worth. he lets out a whine when he sees the outline of his cock in your belly going in and out, fuck he's going to cum.

the movement his hips falter at the feeling of your pussy gripping him tightly, “oh fuck,” he breathes heavily, muscles tensing up a bit. he pulls out, moving you on your stomach, giving your ass an appreciative spank when you arch your back for him.

“guess she answered for you hm?”, he muses — pumping himself a few times before settling back into your warm needy cunt, “fucked too dumb to answer but can still arch your back like a needy whore? you're so fucking pathetic,” he licks over the opening of your little hole, an arm coming around to hold you in a headlock that has your vision blurry — in the best way possible. getting impatient, you try to fuck yourself back onto his length but he doesn't let you.

“nasty girl, i can feel you clenching around me” spank “you like it when i’m being mean hm?” spank “oh right you can't answer,” spank “not a thought behind those pretty eyes hm?” spank “don't worry, you don't have to think at all, you wouldn't have to, when i’m done with you.”

he starts rutting into you again, his filthy mouth doesn't stop as he dicks you down like his life depends on it. his arm around your neck — squeezing, leaving you dizzy as he pounds into you from behind like he's in heat, you've given up on trying to control your noises. he sneaks a hand down to pinch and toy with your clit — making your walls clench and toes curl and you cum for the nth time with almost a scream of his name, your body shakes vigorously as a result of your intense orgasm.

it doesn't take long for him to cum as well, especially with you screaming his name like that. with a few more sloppy thrusts he fills you up with his warm sticky white release, head thrown back as a soft whimper of your name is uttered out of his mouth.

breathing heavily, he makes sure to not waste a single drop — once again buries himself as deep as he can, admiring all the various marks that he has littered your skin with.

he pulls out after awhile, keeping your thighs apart with his rough calloused hands so he can see the sight of his cum mixed with yours leak out of your hole, shit, he's getting hard again.

he's honestly not sure if you can keep up — he doesn't want to end up hurting you- well you're his toy, nothing more than that he doesn't care if he hurts you, he really doesn't.

he wants to break you, ruin you. yeah, that's it.

his eyes definitely do not soften the slightest bit as he takes in your disheveled state, back still arched prettily for him, your ass red from all his spanking, skin battered with various marks, a proof of the intense passionate sex you two had.

but when you crane your head back, looking at him, “I can take it,” you're still trying to catch your breath, wincing a bit as you shift your body around, “give it to me mark,” you sound so sweet — swaying your hips side to side to make him give in and fill you up again.

you want him to break you.

and he does just that.

again and again, until he's sure your cunt remembers each vein and curve of his cock, stuffing your hole full to the brim each time.

so when your body finally gives out — almost passing out after another orgasm that he pulls out from you, lying on top of the only desk in the room as he drills into your cunt, he stops. pulling out and painting your tits with his release with a loud groan, his hair is sticking up in all different directions from the way you've kept pulling on it, body coated in a sheen layer of sweat — shaking as his chest heaves unevenly with each breath he takes just like yours.

he watches as your eyes close shut and you drift into a light slumber after a few minutes. his heart beating weirdly in an erratic manner, he chalks it up to the sex, although he has to admit he finds your sleepy face quite adorable, he may or may not want to hear that giggle again — the one you let out when he ended up cumming a little too fast when you praised him.

but he'll think about that when his face is not buried between your thighs, tongue sinking back into your folds — he can't get enough of you.

and with the way you whimper loudly, tugging on his hair oh so eagerly.

it seems like you can't get enough of him either.

so he'll indulge you to your heart’s content — maybe he'll save that video of him torturing your ex boyfriend and leaving him to die in a ditch for some other day.

#ㅤㅤ✶ㅤ digitald0rk's library !#DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT /jk #look im not me on my period okay #also i was kinda going for the whole “he keeps contradicting himself with how he feels”#like i said i wrote this with like sinister mark in mind but before he goes full on murder machine mode if that makes sense?#basically he's always been a little fucked up so no shit he turns out doing all that once he does go full evil #AM I MAKING SENSE #because he's still mark grayson you know?#so he will lose his shit if you praise him #IT'S THE LAW GUYS #all mark graysons are munches #invincible smut #invincible #invincible x reader #invincible x you #mark grayson #invincible fanfic #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson smut #sinister mark #sinister mark grayson #sinister mark x reader #sinister mark smut #sinister mark x you #invincible variants

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eureka-its-zico · 2 months ago

Text

Residuals Pt.2

Ongoing Series

Synopsis: You and Robby spent seven long years together until the day it ended. You’ve done your best to create space; to become invisible. You can’t miss what you don’t see. Unfortunately, the universe (Gloria and the Board of Directors) seemed to have missed the memo.

Pairing: Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

Genre: Established previous relationship, slight age gap (by about 15 years give or take), a little bit of tension mixed in with a little bit of hate yearning, cause she’s a saucy angsty fic ok

Warnings: Language, sexual themes (it's the patient)

A/N: So, this chapter is much beefier than the last. To anyone new here and my writing - I'm a long-winded bitch, so I apologize in advance 🤣. This chapter also uses slight dialogue from the show. There is a scene in this I took from my time working in the ER during the 2020/2021 pandemic. 100% this actually happened. It was traumatizing lol. Thank you, guys, so much for taking such an interest in this fic! For showing so much love and loving on this show along with me (and Dr. Robby lol) because it's fantastic and deserves all the fics and all the love! I truly am grateful and hope that you enjoy this chapter. Much Love, Jenn 🖤

Shout out to @viridian-dagger for looking this over for me. Thank you for putting up with me lol. I Love you. Also, thanks to @strangergraphics for the cute little divider.

Word count: 7524

Previous I Next

7:00 AM - 8:00 AM

You’d been staring at the screen for what accumulated into an eternity in the ED. The longer you kept staring, kept from just choosing one of the damn patients on the board, the bigger the risk grew that Dana would notice.

Or worse - Robby.

If Dana took notice of you willfully choosing to stare off into premeditated space, you were willing to bet your firstborn she’d reprimand you first and tell Robby second. She'd shoo you away from her desk with a fervor usually saved for psych patients, as if you had cooties. With your current calculations on how this morning started, either option would be unpleasant.

Whether any of you liked it or not, you were here, and that meant one glaringly - neon sign bright - reality. Robby was going to be your fucking boss for the next twenty-four hours. And not in a kinky way. At least, not the way either of you used to enjoy.

From the moment the briefing ended, the disdain at your presence made it painfully clear that you were not welcome. Everyone dispersed in true manic speed to meet the batshit energy that constantly swirled inside the Pitt. It was the place that kept on giving even when you politely asked to be put in time out - because damn you needed just a moment to get your shit together. But the ER was in its own solar system, and it required everyone who walked inside to be ready for whatever was thrown their way. You didn’t get a say - weren’t allowed to say no or ‘hard pass’, on cases that came flowing in and what dictated an emergency. You were either ready or you weren’t. You either made it or you cracked.

There wasn’t any damn structure here. Just spontaneity with a dash of madness but, in that madness, greatness could be born. Adamson always said you never knew what kind of doctor you were - the depths of your compassion - until it was tested in the blood, sweat, and fire of the Pitt.

You’d been tried, tested, and by the end knew exactly what kind of doctor you were. What kind of doctor you strived to be - like Adamson. Just like Robby. But it’d been two very long years since you’d been able to call this madhouse home. The ease of set-timed patients with a patient history readily at your fingertips had spoiled you. Every question that needed to be asked without actually asking was answered and waiting just for you to see. Pre-existing conditions or possible new ones with known side effects were readily available for you to view.

So, yeah, you were panicky - terrified - about heading out onto the floor with a thousand unknowns. It wasn’t helping that Perlah and Princess hadn’t greeted you with more than a sneer and an eye roll that’d impress your fifteen-year-old niece. Robby and his flock of med students bounded off to make rounds that lasted less than three minutes before rapids began flowing through the ambulance bay. With any luck, you’d have one solid minute to look over the board, dissect what room held the most viable case to close, and head there.

Just jump right back in and pray you didn’t fall flat on your face.

The numbing sensation that resonated earlier in your chest returned with a vengeance. It didn’t start gradually, but collided against your nerves; exploding like a colony of ants that bit and tore leaving behind flashes of panic. You tried to lead the sensation out through your hands with a subtle shake. If you allowed the anxiety to fester itself it would no doubt become housed to you the entire shift.

You were better than this. You interned in the Pitt. You chose to stay after you’d obtained a full-time position. Two years away from this damn madhouse shouldn’t have affected you this strongly but that wasn’t accounting for outside stimuli…

But looking up at the large TV monitor, new names being added to the FirstNet system with brightly colored labels, it made you want to scream. It made you feel hopeless.

Fuck. You were better than this.

The background erupted with shouts from an incoming trauma. Two severe traumas from the sound of rushing feet and Robby’s directions. You didn’t hear most of what the paramedics relayed to Robby and the med students. You did, however, catch the word degloving as they rolled into trauma rooms one and two. You did not envy the med students.

You gave your hands one last shake as your eyes combed over the patient list one more time. You’d found a possible ingestion of a foreign object by a child in triage room eleven. Simple. Easy. You were already going over possible orders to give. An x-ray was to get a better picture if the obstruction was heading downward or if an endoscopy would be necessary for removal. What signs to look for as you assessed the child while making sure they were still alert and swallowing normally. You thought of how to introduce yourself when a familiar voice thrust you back into the present.

“Forget how to read a patient board, Fullerton?”

Dana’s words were pure ice. The years of friendship and playful jokes appeared to be burned to a pile of ash. You didn’t need to look at her to know she wasn’t regarding you with a friendlier expression than Perlah had moments before.

“No,” you sighed, your eyes finally dragged from the screen to her. “Just taking in the options.”

“This isn’t a buffet, in case you forgot. I know it runs easier and less dirty for you guys upstairs, but down here time is a precious commodity.”

“I am well aware of how simple consultations can turn serious, Dana.”

“Oh, you do,” she gasped in mock surprise. She’d removed her glasses from her nose and held them against her chest. “I guess that means you should stop wasting time and do your job. Don’t want your Press Ganey scores droppin’.”

“Not that I don’t love the pep talk, Dana. I’m just curious, are you going to be riding my ass this hard the whole shift?”

The question was out of your mouth before you could stop it. The ears of every available RN and technician who sat around Dana’s nursing station no doubt heard. The verbal back and forth so early in the morning was beginning to give you whiplash.

“I don’t know, sunshine is there a reason you think I shouldn’t? You know,” she began, her body involuntarily inching closer. Her shoulder leaned in closer so her barbed words could sink deep enough to wound. “What a surprise to learn that this whole time - the entire fucking two years you were gone - you’d simply been up-fucking-stairs.”

It was in those last few words you saw it. It was so quick you might’ve missed it if you weren’t dialed in. No matter what Dana, or anyone else, said to you today, it would never compare to the carnage you’d left behind with your silence. The pain of seeing the hurt you’d left behind, sharp and unforgiving, was like a lancet; slicing through the tough hide you’d prepared for the day.

“Dana -”

Shit, you did not need your voice to crack. You did not need to crack.

Unluckily for you, she wasn’t in the mood to hear from you. A hand rushed up to brush off whatever weak attempt at placating her she knew you would try and send her way.

“I don’t want to hear it, kid. Months I was worried sick about you. Just to find out you chose to forget we even existed down here. A literal ghost walking back into our lives right when we’ve just about healed. You’re a real asshole, Fullerton.”

She lifted the glasses back to rest on the bridge of her nose. The coolness of her stare reminded you - if her final words didn’t - that you weren’t a welcome sight in the Pitt. Your presence threw off what little harmony they coveted, the family dynamics, and you knew she would fight to preserve it - to protect Robby - and everyone else in the process.

Your tongue pressed against the side of your cheek. A weak balm to cool the warring wave of emotions that rapidly replaced the anxiety that moments ago threatened to shatter you into embarrassing little pieces. Now you only felt like shattering for an entirely different reason.

Dana tore her gaze away from you and answered an incoming phone call. Whatever emotions she contended with were conveniently pushed down because she had a job to do. So did you. You found yourself wanting to say to hell with today; with Gloria and all her standards. You hadn’t agreed to be fucking public enemy number one.

It didn’t matter how anyone else saw you. What mattered right now was the glaringly obvious pain you’d caused to someone who was the Pitt’s raining surrogate mother. Who’d checked in on you, and brought extra food from home because she miraculously knew you’d forgotten yours. A friend that invited you to her family’s Christmas Eve dinner your first year as an intern because you didn’t have family to celebrate with. The woman who’d held you when you’d lost your first patient and scolded you about smoking cigarettes even though she smoked herself.

You wanted to be stubborn. To wait for her to get off that damn phone so you could try and explain, but really what could you say? It wasn’t just Robby you left. You’d chosen to abandon ship with all of them aboard a sinking ship. They never even knew they needed life jackets in the first place.

The cool stare of the nursing staff made your back itch. You needed to get away and get back to why you were here. What you were damn good at doing. Clearing your throat, you made your way around the nurses' station. The stride of your steps was suspiciously close to turning into a jog. Although, you’d never admit that out loud. The sooner you could get to the patient's room the more normal this day would be.

“Holy shit, Fullerton? Is that you?”

The chipper tone and the laughter behind it had warning bells going off in your head in a matter of minutes. You only knew one surgeon who took glee in other people’s discomfort.

Yolanda Garcia, the resident pain in the ass at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, beamed at you like the cat who was dangerously close to eating a new canary. You had a not-so-sneaking suspicion you were the canary in this scenario.

“I don’t know, Garcia does it look like me? It’s too early for you to be hallucinating.”

“Does Robby know you’re here?”

Oh, she had to be eating this up. The sheer mayhem she knew this would cause - psychologically speaking - must have been making her toes curl. She was beaming, practically euphoric from the very thought. Her feet were no doubt burning to run and tell him as if he didn’t already know.

You tried to sidestep around her obnoxiously grinning form only for her to shadow your movement.

“It’s great to see you haven’t lost that dream of auditioning for the Wicked Witch of the East, Yolanda.”

“Robby is going to flip when he hears about this.”

“Great. Why don’t you run along now and tell him,” you quipped while patting her arm. “I have patients to attend to.”

“I bet you do.”

This time when you moved to sidestep her, Garcia didn’t make any move to follow. No doubt too busy riding her broom to be the harbinger of doom all over again for one specific unfortunate soul.

“Are you aware that Fullerton is here? Just walking around the Pitt attending to patients?”

It shouldn’t have come as a shock that once Garcia saw you, she’d use you in any capacity to rile him up. Hell, Robby was willing to bet the minute she’d noticed you - whether walking or inside a patient room - Garcia would’ve encroached on your space. The two of you historically had one of the worst feuds Adamson said he’d seen between interns in years. It didn’t surprise him that even after you’d both secured your jobs within the hospital it never ended.

What did surprise him was how breezily she asked her questions. She hadn’t even taken five steps into trauma one before she fired each one off in his direction. His hands crossed his body to grip his shoulders. He needed something to steady himself and each finger that dug into the meat of his biceps was all he needed to help keep him centered. Keep his head in this room with this patient and not somewhere else.

“Yes, Dr. Garcia I am well aware she is here.”

He watched the exchange between Collins and Garcia and nodded his approval at Collin’s when she stood her ground and called for a popliteal block instead of morphine.

“Where’s the next guy?”

“Next door. He’s a bit worse.”

This was something he could do. Something his mind could piece together and work around. Robby knew medicine. Saving lives wasn’t the hardest part of his day - it was having to try and make sense of his own that held that prize.

Garcia was in the middle of giving one last instruction of what she wanted before she fully followed him into the room. Dr. Mohan and a med student, Santos, were in the process of intubating Mr. Wallace.

“How do you feel about that?”

Robby had been so laser-focused watching them place the tube that he hadn’t heard Dr. Garcia the first time. So, of course, she asked again.

“Feel about what?”

He was under the impression they were focused on the patient. He should've known better when it came to Garcia. She was relentless until she got what she wanted.

“Come on, Robby, let’s not be coy. You expect me to believe you don’t have big feelings about her being down here? You guys were engaged - ”

A split second. That was all it took for him to become glaringly aware of the room. Of all the people in it, they no longer were singularly focused on the patient but split down the middle. While Garcia effortlessly watched over the med students and their progress, she equally watched him for any sign of a reaction.

He needed to put an end to her question before she overshared information that first-day interns had no business knowing. Robby found himself itching under the watchful gazes of staff. Princess in particular he caught glancing up from where she was handing over instruments.

“I don’t see how that information pertains to anything dealing with our patients, Dr. Garcia. How about we stay focused on the task at hand.”

Robby saw the smirk on her face. A dog with a bone. That’s what Garcia was going to be like all fucking day because she was just eating this up.

He put himself back in motion - being the watchful attendee as Dr. Mohan successfully placed the intubation tube.

“I’m in!”

“Good! Well done.”

Robby could do this. He could be a doctor. He could be the attendee overseeing and teaching others. He could do this. He could do this. He listened closely as Dr. King checked for the patient’s medical history - there was none. He listened to Yolanda give off medication to administer before shipping Mr. Wallace up to CT for a scan. Once Robby was sure everything was moving smoothly, he moved around the foot of the patient’s bed to stand next to Princess.

“Do me a favor,” he asked gently, “Swap out with Jessie for me, would you?”

Their degloving patient screamed in a language no one knew but - Robby was hoping - Princess would know. He was following behind her when a familiar - and unwelcome voice - called out behind him.

“Dr. Robinavitch. Do you have a moment?”

No. He would never have another fucking moment for Gloria. She effectively used up every last moment he had left to spare when she dragged you down here. Robby was barely holding on to what small pieces of sanity he had left. He didn’t need any more shit to deal with before 7:30 am.

“Ugh, I’m a little busy right now, Gloria. One sec.”

He meant no fucking seconds but he still had to play nice, right. Robby was never good at playing politics. Adamson told him countless times it was the unseen added responsibility of an attending. The constant hounding from the administration staff and CEOs demanding doctors and nurses carried more than just keeping people alive.

Gloria followed him through the rooms and stood at the side. Her presence was a constant reminder to him that she wasn’t going to leave empty-handed.

Robby did all he could to monitor the med students’ and his residents as they made their assessments. When Princess notified him she couldn’t figure out the language, Robby took it as a small win to allow him to grab language services, giving him a few seconds to breathe.

It was short-lived.

By the time the officer walked in, Gloria had her fill of being on the back burner. She wouldn’t be ignored any longer and they both knew Robby was no longer needed. His residents’ had both patients stabilized and were finishing up preparing them to begin proper treatments. It left him the odd man out. It left him having to take a walk with Gloria.

The walking and talking was about metrics - Press Ganey scores. The endless bitching about low numbers that couldn’t be fixed without proper staffing was affecting patient satisfaction. It was easy for Gloria to pin the poor numbers on Robby, Abbot, and the entire Pitt staff. Easier to claim they just weren’t already busting their ass hard enough instead of admitting they were short-staffed in every department. That their metrics and data issues of force-fed shitty scores could be solved simply by hiring more nurses - paying better wages.

But everything Robby ever said - tried to tell Gloria until his vision reddened - fell on uncaring ears.

After everything he tried to tell her again all she latched onto was when he used the word “Pitt” instead of the official term of an emergency department. Derogatory. That was what she called it. Incompatible with institutional images.

Robby wanted to scream.

“You know what's incompatible with the institution's image? Me speaking to the media about people who code in our waiting rooms and people who get shitty care in our hallways waiting for an ICU bed for days.”

“I’ve heard about doctors who tried that and found themselves out of work.”

The thinly veiled threat wasn’t lost on him. The next words he would’ve liked to have said to Gloria in response, he was forced to cover up under a mirthless laugh.

“I know today is difficult for you - “

Fuuuck no. No. He was not doing this, especially not with Gloria. No matter what was said after this, Robby could feel the cusp of a storm riding at the frayed edges of his psyche. Knew it was there with each passing millisecond as he waited for it to implode.

“Everyday is difficult down here,” he bit in.

“Boarding is a nationwide problem. Your predecessor, Adamson, sure as hell knew that. Or wasn’t that something he taught you?”

And there it fucking was. His eyes snapped shut as he tried to rain in the tidal wave that roared in his ears. The cautionary warnings of a catastrophe brewing beneath the surface only grew louder.

It wasn’t even fucking 7:30 yet.

“Fuuuuck. Wow. Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

Gloria would never back down. She was as strong and determined as anyone Robby ever met. Under different circumstances, he would’ve found her impressive, but this wasn’t any other circumstance than her riding his ass like she usually did.

Robby shook his head again to try and clear the black dots from his vision. It was just a brief shake. His eyes skimmed across each full bed that held a waiting patient. The universe must have perfect timing with fucking with him today. In that brief look, Robby watched you appear from behind a patient curtain. A reassuring smile on your face as you spoke one final time to the family of three inside before you closed it shut behind you.

You weren’t aware he’d seen you - that he was watching. It was a split second but live wires only needed one second to find a conduit to create sparks that burned down everything around it. He shook his head to try and clear it. His gaze landing back on Gloria with a new bone to pick.

“Don’t you think you should’ve cleared it with me before you brought Dr. Fullerton down?”

Before his sentence finished, Robby could tell by Gloria’s response she found his question idiotic.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was unaware the board needed to clear every decision with you first, Dr. Robby. Also, weren’t you just complaining about the lack of staffing?”

“I was saying to hire more nurses - not to bring down a doctor from a whole other floor.”

“A doctor who has been with this hospital for close to a decade, trained by Adamson, and you, might I add. Look, I get it. You two have…history. Which is one of the main reasons we frown upon fraternization.”

“Please, spare me the HR talk, Gloria.”

“You need to put your big boy pants on, Dr. Robby. Fullerton is staying down here whether you like it or not. Don’t like it, can’t manage the crisis or who the hospital chooses to staff down in the ER, you can either step up or step aside.”

Gloria didn’t give him a chance to respond. She gave him one last condescending look, one Robby hoped he mirrored back to her, before turning on her heels and walking away. His eyes followed her for a few seconds, debating if he wanted to chase after her. Just hand over his badge and call it quits because the feeling of defeat weighed so damn heavy on his shoulders that he thought there might be a chance he’d never get back up.

Instead, he turned to look at the nursing station where Dana was casually walking. He knew she heard the entire conversation. He just didn’t want to have to repeat what just occurred or discuss it in the slightest.

He stuck his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and was ready to return into the fray because he could handle that. He could help patients. He could be the doctor they needed. Before he even moved a step Dana motioned for him to come towards the desk.

The little devil on his shoulder warned him that he might end up regretting it.

“You know, Robby, I’ve been thinking - “

“Why do I feel like this isn’t going to go well,” he sighed.

Dana simply waved him off before she continued.

“You aren’t being very realistic on the whole, ‘stay in the triage only’ demand. You want her to just waste her skills by only helping out in the front?”

“She won’t be wasting them,” he huffed.

His hands reached out to grip the edge of the counter. He didn’t want to have this conversation. He did not want to have this conver -

“I think you’re just hoping that’s where she stays so you don’t have to see her.”

“One can dream, Dana.”

Robby did not trust - nor like - the coy look he received in response to his words.

“Who am I to get in the way of a man’s dream?” She replied, her eyes examining him in a way he hated. No one could hide anything from Dana. “Although, if I know you -“

“Dana -“ he warned.

“ - I would be willing to bet -“

“Dana, I’m being serious -“

“ - that you want to see her.”

“Now why would I want that?”

“You’ve been scanning the halls every few seconds since we’ve been talking, Robby. I don’t think you’re admiring the wonderful view of bodily fluids and stale piss scent.”

“Alright I’ve had enough of your idea of what I’m assuming is a half-assed pep talk.”

“Just…be honest with yourself, Robby. You both got a lot of unresolved tension with a dash of a shit ton of issues. Probably be better to hash it out when you can, and in private, instead of exploding in front of interns or patients.”

Robby wanted to question if she was willing to do the same. Would Dana be able to have you come to the desk for patient transfer information, for updates, calls; and for everything and not be as affected as he was? Robby remembered he wasn’t the only one who’d lost you - felt lost without you.

Robby wasn’t ready to confront you. Hell, he wasn’t ready to be alone with you and try to talk like civil adults. He wasn’t there yet and maybe he wouldn’t be. What he could be was an attending physician. He was great at that.

He could do that. Everything else would just have to wait.

Upon further examination of the little penny swallower in 7 North, he showed no signs of abnormal drooling or trouble swallowing. Palpitating the stomach didn’t have any response of abdominal pain or tenderness. With a few more questions about possible fever or trouble breathing, you felt confident in informing the family an x-ray would be needed just to verify the penny was making safe travels down to be…expelled. Easier and less invasive to exit that way.

You told them once you were notified the x-ray results were ready, you’d come to speak to them about the next steps. Hopefully, it meant they could be discharged in an hour or less. Which meant you had an hour to kill between waiting for the results. After reading the chief complaint on the board for 12 South, you thought it was a solid contender for a quickie.

As it turned out, it was the worst idea you’d had that morning.

When you pulled back the curtain and began the examination, what you’d found waiting for you under the dressing gown wasn’t on your bingo card. Actually, it should never be on anyone’s bingo card. Not ever.

You’d tried to come up with any other option than needing to consult Robby. He didn’t want to see you throughout the day - ever. It was a sentiment you equally shared with him and one you happily would’ve avoided except…you need the advice.

You need to present the case and get some solid, solid advice and, quite possibly, traumatize him in the process. You couldn’t be the only one subjected to seeing what you saw at freaking 7:37 in the morning. The only issue: you had no fucking clue where he was.

In true Pitt fashion, doctors were bouncing from one room to another. Already you’d heard McKay call earlier about needing a crash cart. When you’d run out to assist, Mateo, a newer RN you’d yet to meet let you know they had it - if you were needed they’d call.

You also knew that after 7:30, rigs would be bringing in elderly patients from the nursing homes. Another thing that would keep Robby busy and make it near impossible for you to try and consult with him. It was already going to be a battle just to keep him from turning and bolting in the other direction when he saw you.

This limbo of time left you a few minutes to run to the break room and take a blissful sip of your more than likely room-temperature coffee. It didn’t matter: caffeine was caffeine and you would take it any way you could get it. You just had to make one last pit stop before you disappeared.

You circled the nurses' station and found the exact nurse you were looking for sitting at one of the station’s computers. You had to hand it to Perlah, whether she saw you coming or sensed your presence like a disturbance in the force, she refused to glance up from the screen. Her eyes scan over something repeatedly as her fingers pound into the keyboard.

“Perlah, have you seen Robby?”

She still wasn’t looking up.

“Nope,” she replied, popping her P heavily.

“If you do see him, can you let him know I’m looking for him?”

“Nope.”

Your lips tucked into a grimace as your gaze peered over the edge of the computer. Perlah’s eyes didn’t lift once.

“Okay. Great talk.”

“Mhmm.”

Yeah, today was off to a really fantastic start.

There wasn’t any point hanging around the nurses' station for longer than was embarrassingly needed. You took the loss in stride, and by stride, it meant with a heavy sigh of defeat that had your feet dragging that defeatist attitude into the breakroom. Where you found one of Robby’s newest med students sitting at the break room’s table.

If you felt defeated, you weren’t sure what the proper word for her would be. She looked like a reprimanded child instead of a doctor. Her small frame was tucked in tight, like a fetal position with her forehead almost completely collapsing onto the table.

You weren’t able to catch any of their names earlier because you all but missed morning rounds. All you knew was she was one of Robby’s four interns and by far the youngest from the looks of it.

You eyed her warily as you moved towards the side counter. You’d stashed your coffee on top of the microwave and, once in hand, immediately brought it to your lips for a long pull.

Yep. It tasted as good as you thought it would.

The girl brightened once she realized you’d entered. Her nerves had her eyes darting down and back up again seemingly unable, or just not comfortable enough, to keep them trained on you.

“You’re one of Robby’s new med students today, right?” A timid smile rose and fell on her lips. You watched while she tried to make out if you were friend or foe. In an attempt to prove the former, you offered up a warm smile as you introduced yourself.

“Victoria Javadi - MS3.”

“It’s a pleasure, Dr. Javadi. May I ask what you’re doing in the breakroom instead of out in the Pitt?”

Your question was meant to be that: a simple question. No ulterior motives were waiting in the wings especially not the lecture Adamson gave you your first year when he caught you napping in here. But your simple question extinguished what little bit of life had lit up in the young girls’ eyes.

“I - I - my foot hit a gurney during Dr. Collin’s and Dr. Langdon’s demonstration on the degloving patient. It was nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing. Whatever happened was everything to her and not in the best of ways.

“That’s okay. It happens,” you shrugged. “I stuck myself with a needle once.”

“Really?” She asked, her voice timid and eyes unbelieving.

“Oh, yeah. My second year of residency too. The patient became combative while I was trying to administer the medication. The needle got jammed in my clavicle.”

You couldn’t believe it - it earned you a laugh. A nervous one, but it was still a laugh. You watched her as she brightened and dimmed; a constant flux of warring thoughts that you weren’t sure which side was winning.

“Whatever happens out there, don't let it get you down. We never stop learning as human beings or as doctors. Everyone out there has made a mistake in some capacity. Hell,” you snorted as you pushed off from the kitchenette’s counter, “Michael got hit with a bedpan once.”

“Michael?”

God, you’d gotten too familiar. Your memory of that day makes you have a Freudian slip into the days you called him more by his first name instead of his nickname.

“Oh, uhm, Dr. Robby. I’m going to head out but if you want, once you’re done here, you can come find me. I’d be more than happy to teach you.”

“Thank you, but I’m sure Dr. Robby is just having me take a break. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”

You were tempted to tell her to come find you anyway, just in case. In case it didn’t go how she thought when she did finally check back in with Robby. Whether she verbally agreed to the offer or not, you hoped she knew it was still there. This was a teaching hospital after all.

Dana and Robby were walking back to the nurses' station. He’d just gotten one major surprise of finding out Javadi was Eileen Shamsi’s daughter and while he was all for surprises, that was one he'd like to have been prepared for.

Just like Dana had warned him, via Perlah, that you were looking for him he saw you standing there waiting. For him. He’d had all of five seconds to come to terms with the fact you were both about to have your first direct conversation in over two years. After two long years of no contact, it was about work.

He should’ve been happy it was just about work and not all the other bullshit that’d accumulated over those two years. He should’ve been fucking thrilled, but he wasn’t. Robby had so many questions - so many things he wanted to say. There was so much to say - to ask - and instead here he was preparing to discuss something easy.

Robby and Dana split up at the middle entrance. She returned to man her station in the center of this circus, while he came up to stand beside you leaning against the nurses' station. Your fingers tapped on the counter while your chin rested in your other hand.

“Something’s got you deep in thought.”

Robby knew the answer - knew it because outside of himself, outside of Jake, you were the only other person he knew inside out. Your fidgeting fingers, a tick he knew well, would tap out a Morse Code of a problem you were trying to solve. The faster the tapping, the closer Robby knew you were coming closer to asking for his opinion. You’d done this all the years you’d worked together and at home when you couldn’t decide if oregano was an okay substitution for Italian seasoning.

“Cock rings.”

“Excuse me?”

Robby could feel his eyebrows skyrocketing towards the ceiling. He rocked forward and back on his feet while the fists he’d buried inside his hoodie pushed against the fabric. His body subconsciously leaned towards you because, well hell, he couldn’t believe those two words just left your mouth.

He hated that his eyes caught the slight uptick in the corner of your mouth. The same corner where all your sarcastic ass smirks originated before they blackmailed their way to full-blown smiles. What Robby hated the most was how that small bit of familiarity took a sledgehammer to the carefully constructed walls he’d built. Fucking hated how his lips betrayed him by beginning to match the playfulness in your eyes. Loathed entirely how his heart did somersaults like he was a teenager again and the girl he’d crushed on just looked at him like he hung the stars.

“Cock rings.” You said it like it wasn’t the lewdest thing he’d heard all day. Simple. Matter-of-fact. “What do you know about them?”

This was fucking absurd, was all he could think.

“Uhm, why exactly is this your question?”

“Jesus, Robby, I’m not asking if you’ve used them. My patient in 12 South - was brought in by his mother for supposed swelling and pain in the inguinal region. Upon examination, found he attached sixteen key rings as makeshift cock rings along the length of his penis.”

His brain was still in the process of trying to comprehend the scenario you’d just fed him. That was his excuse for his eloquent reply, “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I sincerely, with my full chest, wish I was. He’s traumatized. Mom’s traumatized. Shit, I’m traumatized, but I can’t figure out a safe alternative to removing the rings without causing damage.”

“What are you two discussing?”

Dana seemed to arrive at the best and worst possible moment because Robby didn’t know how to answer that question. Apparently, you had no problem informing her it was -

“Cock rings.”

Robby wondered if Dana’s stunned-to-silence expression was how he’d looked earlier.

“Well, shit, Fullerton this is the wrong department for that - “

“It’s my patient in 12 South. He decided to MacGyver himself some cock rings out of key rings.”

“What about MacGyver?”

Langdon slid a tablet back on the charging station - gaze laser focused between you and him. One of Langdon’s brows rose in silent question that Robby could only answer with a shrug.

“I’m sorry but who is MacGyver?” Dr. King asked, eyes shifting with expectation between the four of them for whoever would give up the answer.

“MacGyver’s an old 80’s TV show where the detective guy gets himself out of sticky situations by using random stuff.”

“Random stuff?”

“Anything eye level,” you quipped.

“Okay, anyways, Fullerton,” Langdon butted in, “What’s with your MacGyver patient.”

“Cock rings.”

Robby swore if he heard the words “cock” and “ring” come out of your mouth one more time he was going to fucking combust.

“Cock…rings?”

From how green Mel looked after stuttering out those words, Robby was sure he wasn’t alone in his earlier sentiment.

“They say it’s meant to enhance stimulation by restricting blood flow to the penis. I’m pretty sure men buy them because it enlarges the penis making it thicker with the possibility they’ll last longer in bed. You can currently pick one up on Amazon.”

“Jesus,” Dana mumbled.

“Really?”

Mel took a giant step closer to the edge of the desk. Her earlier discomfort was removed by the idea of garnering new information. The warning signs were blaring loudly when you whipped your phone from your scrub's back pocket.

“Oh, yeah and they come in different styles of materials - “

“Oookay.” Robby heard more than enough. If he was being honest with himself, fuck he hated how it bothered him hearing you talk so casually about sex toys. Toys he knew, for a fact, the two of you never used because he never needed the extra help. He knew every inch of your skin; how you liked to be handled and touched. Could recall with crystal clarity the plains of your body, mapped out to memory by his hands, by his mouth, and the way your breath would hitch just before a moan slid past your lips. If any asshole was touching you now - he wasn’t fucking doing it right. Clearing his throat - and his fucking head because Jesus H. Christ - he rested his forearms on the counter as he leaned closer to you. “Can we please move past showing my med students unnecessary sex toys?”

Robby was leaned down enough that the next time you looked at him it was direct. Direct and ready to challenge him every step of the way. A spark of some hidden remark you were burying back under your tongue brightened his favorite color of iris.

“Squeamish, Michael?”

And there it was again. That fucking smirk.

The use of his name falling so casually from your lips was a gut punch that stole the air from his lungs. He couldn’t stop the pinch of his eyes that narrowed in on you.

Did you just lean closer?

“Not particularly, no. I am, however, making sure we aren’t having an unnecessary conversation that doesn’t pertain to the care and wellbeing of our patients.”

“Sex education is fundamental education. Dr. King asked a question and I was teaching. This form of teaching does pertain to my specific patient who used a similar style of material usually made for this particular toy and, because of lack of education, thought key rings would be a supplementary alternative rather than a safer one. In showing Dr. King the types of materials safely used, and how obtainable and discrete it is to get one, she could educate someone else if she finds herself in a similar situation. Also, it’s 2025, Dr. Robby - we don’t kink shame here. We educate on safe sex practices.”

“Here, here!”

Robby shot a look in Dana’s direction and caught the wisp of a smile before she turned away.

“What a great speech just to cover up your kinks, Fullerton.”

Robby couldn’t tell if Langdon was trying to bait you on purpose just to rile you up or to get you to slip up. He got neither in return.

“You found me out, Frank.”

“Alright, enough.” He needed to cut in before you both went back and forth in an endless loop of who could irritate who the most. It was just a little over half an hour into the shift. “Dr. Fullerton, is there anything else?”

“Ugh, yeah. You still haven’t given me your opinion.”

“Because you never asked a specific question,” he reminded you.

He watched you consider his words; your lips rising into that small pucker. It was your tell that always let him know the debating was over and you were ready to listen to what he had to say.

A part of him hated the familiarity that rested between the two of you. Fuck, you hadn’t changed. Not in any way Robby was able to notice. It was barbaric; and painfully unfair that every mannerism and every glance housed years’ worth of memories. The most painful part of being reminded was the remembrance of loss.

Loving you had been as easy as breathing for him. Until it wasn’t.

The communication the two of you held so easily for years was torn apart during the pandemic. There was too much happening and not enough support mentally when the PTSD started. When the sleeplessness and hopeless feeling began to press a weight down on his chest - his existential crisis bloomed red and bright. Robby didn’t know how to stop the bleeding.

And then you…you’d…

“You’re right, I didn’t.” Your words cut through the fog in his mind, bringing him roaring back to the surface. “If you have a few moments, I would like to get your opinion on my patient and what you think will be best for this particular…situation.”

Robby pushed his arms off the counter. An arm swept out in the direction of the hallway south to indicate you could lead.

“Alright. Let’s see what you got.”

You clapped your hands together before you took a step forward. You hadn’t expected him to agree and the giddiness at winning a battle - or not having to fight one? - intoxicated him. A ghost of a smile tilting the edges of his lips unwillingly up.

The two of you’d made it about five feet before Myrna rolled herself from beside her latest haunt.

“Hey Sugar Tits, where are you skipping off to?”

“Myrna, I’ve expressly told you, my name is Dr. Robby.”

“I’m not talking to you, Fruitcake.”

“It’s me,” you whisper to him before returning your attention to Myrna. Never stopping. Always moving. “I can’t talk now, Myrna. I have a patient.”

“You always say you have a patient,” came her gruff reply.

It was the first hint her chipper demeanor was about to expire.

“Yes, because this is the ER; where I work.”

“Fuck you.”

“Nice talking to you again too, Myrna.”

The walk to 12 South wasn’t quick enough. Every step and moment he spent walking beside you sent a flood of memories rushing to the surface. Robby didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t know how to pretend you hadn’t shared a life - that he hadn’t spent time loving you in every way he could.

“Fruitcake, huh?”

Your words cut through his thoughts and, at first, he’d been grateful for the interruption. Grateful until Robby noticed the teasing gleam in your eyes. How he could spot the mischief that darkened your eyes and didn’t have enough time to prepare.

“Don’t want to talk about it,” he grumbled.

He didn’t need to look to know you were side-eyeing him.

“It could be worse.”

“Oh, no I doubt that.”

“She could call you something less delicious.”

His hand was mid-reach to pull back the curtain. Your sentence pulled him short and forced him to look down at you like you’d just grown a second head.

“You think fruitcake is delicious? Nobody thinks fruitcake is delicious.”

“True, but it’s arguably better to be called a shitty holiday dessert than, say, something like cocksucker,” you shrugged, moving yourself around him to push behind the curtain.

He was supposed to be angry with you - and he was. He fucking was but…it was easy, almost too fucking easy, to forget the last few months that led up to what dissolved your relationship. It was easy to forget you’d both broken each other in different ways. Robby should’ve hated you, but he couldn’t, and, because of that, he was grateful you couldn’t hear the chuckle he tried to shake away before he followed in after you.

____________

As always thank you so much for your support and for reading! Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! Much Love,

#Residuals #ongoing series #the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #michael robinavitch #dr michael robinavitch #dr robby #dr robinavitch #dr robby x reader #dr michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x oc #michael robinavitch x oc #dr robby x you #michael robinavitch x you #noah wyle #saucy angsty babies

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cinnamorollcrybaby · 7 months ago

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Hello love!! How are you doing? 💕

I LOVE your works so much!! You are so amazing and talented!! I wanted to thank you for writing the 𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 cursed technique Nanami fic, and especially not judging me for it 🫶🏽. I don’t know you but you seem like such a nice and cool person, with that being said… I was thinking about a fic I saw where Saturo Gojo got his wisdom teeth removed and he falls in love with you over again and I thought that would ADORABLE but with Kento 😭 (also I can’t remember who wrote the fic to give credit sorry) So like yeah Nanami would get his wisdom teeth removed and you’d take care of him and he would be such a charming man (he already is) but like just the most fluff thing he’d be like “you’re a very beautiful nurse” “I’m not a nurse but thank you” you feel me? Anyways that was it lol

Much love and take care!! 💗💗

(I don’t know what anon is 😅 is it like your followers cause I see request and people ask if they can be added as anon and I’m like so confused)

You’re my…. my wife?

Tags: Nanami x fem!Reader, established relationship, crack, fluff, suggestive at the end.

An: Hey Anon! Tysm for requesting again. I’m glad you liked the freaky energy fic!! Also, ofc I’ll never judge you for any fic idea (as long as it’s not like straight up deplorable with nasty kinks).

I hope it’s okay, but I changed this fic idea a little because I fear it was a bit too close to the original creator’s idea, and I don’t want to encroach on their idea. However, I hope the vibes are still there that you wanted!!

Your normally strong, doting, intelligent husband has been reduced to a confused mess. Lying in the bed in the sterile infirmary, Shoko carefully monitors his vitals while Satoru recites exactly how it all happened for the nth time.

Your loving, sweet, charming husband was hit with a very specific cursed technique while he was out on a mission with Gojo. Luckily, he was physically unharmed and mostly mentally unharmed as well… except the cursed technique is one that messes with the memory.

The curse didn’t just want to kill Nanami; it wanted to break him. The curse robbed Nanami of his memory of his most precious moments: the one’s that included you.

His hazel eyes scanned the room, wondering why everyone was making such a big fuss over him. He was fine - really.

You sat beside his hospital bed, wanting to hold his hand, but you didn’t want to overwhelm him. Shoko said that his mind may be a bit fragile after having such a crucial part of his memory tampered with.

When his hazel eyes met yours, Nanami stared at you for a moment before shifting in his bed slightly. He looked to be uncomfortable with your sheer presence, which only broke your heart more.

“Were you hit with the cursed technique too?” He finally speaks, looking over at you with a bit of a confused look. He was really trying to piece together why you were here with him.

“Oh, um… no..” You quietly respond with a forced smile. Your heart longed for your husband, and he was right here but he wasn’t your husband.

“Forgive me… Are you Shoko’s apprentice..?” He tries once again to remember. He’s seen your face before. Maybe in a different lifetime.

Satoru and Shoko are silent as they both witness what’s going on between you and Nanami. Holding their breaths, they’re hopeful that he’ll regain his memory at some point. The curse couldn’t just extract memories. As Shoko explained it, the curse probably just kept the memories hidden from Nanami. Your husband will probably slowly start to remember you over time.

“No… I’m not Shoko’s apprentice.” You politely answer again. As bittersweet as this is, it’s certainly a cute scene to see Kento trying to make conversation with you.

“Hm.” He hums to himself quietly before he gazes at you again. His hand combs through his hair, trying to fix it up from lying in the hospital bed, and Satoru quietly snickers.

“Trying to look good for her, Nanamin?” He teases lightheartedly, earning a death glare from your husband. You softly giggle too, realizing what’s going on. Your poor husband isn’t uncomfortable with your presence. He’s nervous.

“Don’t be crude, Satoru. There’s a lady in the room.” He huffs, shaking his head at Satoru’s audacity.

“Aww, thank you, Nanami.” Shoko grins, subtly playing along with Satoru’s tactic.

“I wasn’t talking about you.” Nanami responds flatly before his eyes shift to you in another “secretive” glance, except everyone notices how he keeps looking at you. Your husband can’t keep his eyes off of you.

“I.. apologize for being a bit forward, but do you think we could…” His eyes flicker down to the wedding band that’s proudly sat upon your finger. His face subtly drops to a disappointed look. “Ah, I see. forget what I was saying.”

Shoko and Satoru are nearly losing it. The irony that Nanami is disappointed that he can’t ask you out because you’re married to him is hilarious. You give them a look, and they both quickly excuse themselves from the room, so they can go laugh together.

Once the two are finally out of the room, you smile softly before placing your hand over your husband’s, using your thumb to gently stroke the back of his hand. He looks at you with an unsure look, but he doesn’t remove his hand. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows harshly.

“If you were my wife, I wouldn’t like you touching another man like that…” He mutters quietly, causing you to softly giggle.

“Well, it’s a good thing I am your wife.” You finally reveal to him, unable to keep the secret any longer.

Nanami’s eyes widen, and he looks at you with sparkling eyes but also utter confusion written all over his face. His heart is racing in his chest. The heart monitor starts to beep at a more pressured pace. The pretty woman that has been sitting next to him is his wife…?

“You’re my… my wife?” He asks quietly.

“Mhm.” You hum in agreement before lacing your fingers with his. Your wedding band rubs against his. Both of the gems were cut from the same diamond. His eyes then focus on the joining of your hands, and he notices it too. “We’ve been married for a few years now.” You explain in a calm tone, trying to ease him into the idea of it all.

“I… I’m sorry… I don’t-“ Nanami is rarely off kilter like this, but he’s just trying to wrap his head around it all. You’re his wife… You’re his wife. “I’m sorry- I just can’t seem to remember…”

“It’s okay, Ken. Take your time.” You encourage as you rub on his hand gently.

His eyes fall to his lap, and a small smile curls on his lips. He may not completely comprehend what’s going on, but he knows in his very soul that he’s the luckiest man alive because you’re his wife.

Watching Ken fall in love with you all over again and rediscover all his daily pleasures was a treat. He slowly regained his memory over time: prompted by his senses randomly picking up on familiar sighs, smells, or even tastes.

Ken didn’t only fall in love with you all over again. He fell in love with the life he cultivated with you again. He found himself laughing a bit harder. He squeezed you a bit tighter. He lounged in bed for an extra ten minutes in the morning time to bask in your presence.

Oh, and that’s not to mention the literal tears he cried the first time he felt your cherished cunt after the incident. The way you squeezed around him so intensely… the way it’s so fucking wet — greedily sucking him in… Goddamn, he’s so lucky to have you.

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen #fanfic #drabble #jjk nanami #nanami x y/n #nanami fluff #nanami x you #nanami x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk gojo #jjk shoko #kento x y/n #kento x you #jjk kento #kento fluff

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piastriprincess · 2 days ago

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caught up in circles ⸻ oscar piastri x reader .

featuring oscar piastri , time loop , f1 med staff!reader , strangers to lovers , slow burn . tw one crash , z*k br*wn and chr*stian h*rner mentions lol word count 9.9k author’s note this one is for my piastri princesses ! aka it’s all about oscar and entirely self - indulgent but i hope you all like it too ! inspired by palm springs - one of my favorite movies which for some reason made me think of osc the last time i was watching it <3 this is lowkey long as hell but in my opinion it’s worth it . as always let me know what you think , and my inbox is open for requests ! i’m hoping to have an event up in the next couple of days too . love you all MWAH ! title is from time after time by cyndi lauper .

Oscar always wakes up before his alarm goes off.

He doesn’t bother checking the date anymore. Sunday, May 25, 2025 — the 82nd annual Monaco Grand Prix. It’s sunny outside, a cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly over the glittering harbor. It seems like the perfect day for racing, though it will grow overcast around the 32nd lap and rain will cover the Fairmont Hairpin by lap 41. Lance Stroll always hits the turn going too fast on his inters and skids into the barriers. Oscar knows everything about the day, down to his bones. After all, today will be the 57th time he’s lived it.

By now, his morning routine doesn’t run on instinct so much as muscle memory. He brushes his teeth, calls his mum and tells her he loves her, listens to her tell him you’ve got this, Osc (which is entirely ironic to him now, because he affirmatively does not “got this.” In fact, he thinks this might be the first time he’s ever done anything 56 times without improving at it even an ounce). He shaves, not because he needs to, but because he knows his stubble will start itching by the time he gets to the media pen. He puts on the team kit that’s always neatly folded on his chair when he wakes, even when he leaves it crumpled on his bedroom floor the night before. At least reliving the same day over and over means he never has to do his laundry.

Here’s what he knows so far (a list, meticulously kept in one of his McLaren notebooks). He’s tentatively titled it Oscar Piastri’s Guide to the Time Loop.

Number one: the loop resets every day when he falls asleep.

It doesn’t matter if he makes it past midnight; doesn’t matter if he drinks an absurd and frankly dangerous amount of Red Bulls and drives from Monaco to Woking in one caffeine-crazed night; doesn’t matter if he flies home to Australia after the race, pinching himself to stay awake for the entire twenty-hour flight. The second his eyes close, he wakes up back in Monte Carlo, the sunlight streaming through his curtains.

Number two: he can alter the day.

There are some things that are always the same, of course. The team polo on his chair. The rain on the hairpin. The offhand crack Lando makes about him having no social life — a joke that was funny the first time, but gets increasingly cruel every time it repeats. But things can change, too. He can walk a different way through the paddock. He can have different conversations, though nobody remembers them when the day resets. He can drive the race differently, drive it better. Although, even in 55 races (his gearbox crapped out before the start of the race on Day 16), he hasn’t won yet.

Number three: he can’t die.

Can’t even get injured, really. He’d gotten a couple bruises and scrapes that seemed to heal overnight, but he’d actually confirmed the theory just a couple loops ago. He made a desperate push to pass Charles on the Nouvelle Chicane, and the back end of the car just… slid out from underneath him. There was a moment, brief and terrifying and calm all at once, that he thought that might be it. The only way out. Then he slammed into the barrier, and the carbon fiber crumpled like paper around him. It’s all bits and pieces, what he can remember after that — fire licking up the back wing, the frantic radio messages in his ears, the flashing lights of the safety car, the med staff swarming the track. Someone he’d never seen before pulling him out of the car, speaking to him in a slightly panicked voice. Blinking up at their face through the haze of pain before he lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bed on Sunday morning, not a scratch on him.

The analytical conclusion Oscar has come to, after 56 days of testing, note-taking, and driving in circles both literal and existential, is that he’s trapped. Inexplicably, inescapably trapped in a day that never really changes, and he can’t for the life of him figure his way out.

When he gets to the paddock on Day 57, everything is the same. He takes pictures with a few fans as he walks in, jogs slightly to catch up with Lando up ahead, who throws an arm around him like it’s second nature and claps him on the back. They qualified P2-P3, a solid result for the team. (In the first grand prix, on what Oscar’s now calling Day 1, Lando surprised him, pipping him to second place after an absolutely vicious overtake at the first corner. Oscar hasn’t let him pull that move again for 56 days.)

Today, he just chats idly to Lando as they walk about the upcoming race, about team strategy, about the stupid TikTok that marketing is forcing them to do later in the day. Then they round the corner towards the team hub, and Oscar nearly trips over thin air, because someone is standing there.

No one is supposed to be standing there. Oscar’s learned to control variables, gotten used to experimenting and predicting what’s coming next, because nothing ever changes until he changes it. And never, not once in the fifty-six Sundays that came before this one, has a stranger been standing in front of his driver’s room, spinning their lanyard around their fingers with their eyes fixed on him like they’ve been waiting for him.

“Hey, Piastri,” the stranger says, voice tight but polite in the way that his own gets when he’s trying not to freak out in public. He walks closer, and panic slices cleanly through him. Because you’re not a stranger. He knows your voice, your face. You’re the person who pulled him out of the car after the crash. The last thing he saw before the loop reset.

“Can I ask you a weird question?” you continue, voice pitching higher, teetering on the razor’s edge of fear.

He thinks he might forget how to breathe. “Shoot.”

“You crashed two days ago,” you say, and his pulse spikes under his skin. “Pretty spectacularly, actually. I pulled you out of the car, but you were already going under. I was—I was sure you were dead.” You pause, running a hand through your hair. “Cried about it twice. It was, like, the worst day at work ever. And now…” You trail off, like you’re afraid to say it, like you think Oscar is going to laugh and call you ridiculous. “I think I’m going insane, or else I’m having the worst recorded case of deja vu in human history, because this is the third day in a row I’ve woken up on Monaco race day, and no one remembers anything that happened the day before.”

“That’s not a question,” Oscar says, dumbly, heart hammering beneath his ribs.

You look up at him, eyes wide like he holds the keys to the universe. “Yeah. My question is: what the hell did you do to me? And how do I make it stop?”

For once, Oscar’s got no answer. Just a cold, creeping realization settling into his chest.

Number four: He can pull people into the loop?

DAY 58

Oscar’s rational. He’s reasonable. He doesn’t believe in magical thinking: he believes in statistics, logic, in systems that can be measured and tested and solved. Oscar works hard for what he achieves. He doesn’t ever let himself hope, doesn’t think there’s a need for it when you have skill and diligence on your side.

But when he wakes up the next morning before his alarm, staring up at the ceiling like he has every day for the past 58 days, he really hopes you’ll be at the paddock.

Which, statistically speaking, is not likely. The rest of your conversation yesterday had… not gone well, to say the least. He’d tried to ease you into it quietly, carefully, like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. He’d pulled the small McLaren notebook from his back pocket, frayed at the corners now, dog-eared from overuse. He’d held it out to you, as if it might bridge the gap. “Here. I started this on Day 3. It explains everything.”

You hadn’t taken it. You’d just stared at him like he’d sprouted three heads.

“It’s not just you,” Oscar had said, as gently as he could. “It’s the same Sunday for me, too. This is the 57th time I’ve lived it.”

You’d let out a laugh, shaky and high-pitched. “That’s—that’s not possible. You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m very much not,” he’d said dryly. “The first time I ever saw you was Day 55, after the crash. And this morning, you’re here. That’s never happened before.”

You’d blinked, color draining from your cheeks, fingers tightening around your badge like you were about to bolt. “So you think it’s my fault?”

“No,” he’d assured you, instantly. “No. I don’t know why it’s happening. We’re just both… stuck. That’s all.”

“You sound like you’ve made peace with that,” you’d said, crossing your arms over your fireproof scrubs, and something in Oscar’s chest had ached at the way your voice trembled around the words.

“Not made peace with it,” he’d shrugged, pasting on a smile that didn’t quite fit on his face. “Just ran out of ideas.” Just haven’t won yet. Haven’t proven myself yet.

“This can’t be happening,” you’d muttered, knuckles going white where you clutched at your medical badge. “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Or we’re both concussed, or something.”

“I get it. I freaked out at first too,” Oscar had replied.

“No, you don’t get it!” you’d snapped, eyes all wildfire. “We’re trapped in time, and you’re acting like it’s another day at the office?”

He’d had to bite back his smile. “Well, it sort of is another day at the office. For both of us.”

“I’m going to fix this,” you’d said, ignoring him. “I’m going to get myself out of this.”

“I’ve tried everything. Tested everything,” Oscar had started to explain, but his voice died in his throat when you looked at him. Really looked — bottom lip stuck out slightly, color high in your cheeks, gaze shaky but defiant. The sight of you made his brain go still.

“No way can you test your way out of this. You might have started this, but I’m going to finish it,” you’d said, and stormed off without waiting for another word.

So. The chances don’t seem great that he’ll see you today. But when he gets to the paddock, he still walks past the medical centre to see if he can catch a glimpse of you, scans every face, just in case — the team members, the med staff, the engineers, every person in the paddock holding a camera or a clipboard or a latte. He even searches the grandstands, is almost late for the driver’s parade. He’s halfway through making up some stupid excuse to Lando before he realizes it doesn’t matter, he won’t remember it anyway.

You’re not here.

It’s to be expected, really. Oscar tried to break out of the loop by force when he first figured it out, too — stayed up for a full 24 hours after the race, drove as far as he could out of Monaco, wrote down every little detail he could remember about Day 1 and tweaked it as much as he possibly could over the next few days. None of it works, but you don’t know that yet. He gets it. It’s fine.

Except there’s something about your absence that makes his chest ache.

The lack of you unsettles him in a way he’s not used to. It’s an odd reaction, Oscar can admit to himself. He doesn’t actually know you. But he’d gotten used to being the only one stuck, found a way to exist in the repetition. Until yesterday, for the first time in nearly two months, when the world suddenly cracked open just enough to let someone else in, to remind Oscar what it was like to be seen. And now, just as suddenly, you’re gone again, and the loneliness feels so much worse than it did before.

He races like shit, somehow gets passed by drivers who have no business overtaking him on a circuit that makes it nearly impossible to drop places. Not that any of it matters.

Not without the only other person who might remember it.

DAY 60

“Osc, where are you going?” Lando asks when he turns right toward the team hub and Oscar starts walking to the left. They’re leaving the morning strategy briefing, which has quickly become Oscar’s least favorite unskippable part of the day (and he’s tried — the team always tracks him down, explaining that it’s crucial he attends. He doesn’t know how to tell them strategy is somewhat pointless when you’ve done the actual race every single day for two months.)

“Med centre,” he answers without thinking. It’s become part of his routine over the past few days. Brush teeth, call mum, shave, drive to the paddock, look for you. But of course, no one else knows that.

“Med centre? Oscar? Are you okay?” Zak’s voice rises about an octave, behind them, and Oscar has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“He’s fine, he’s just aura farming,” Lando giggles, and Oscar’s mouth twists into a grin instead. In a day that loops over and over again, he has to find moments that aren’t completely monotonous. He’s taken to setting up jokes for Lando, letting him hit the punchline. Oscar always laughs, even though he knows exactly what his teammate is going to say half the time. Seeing the pleased smile on Lando’s face is good enough for him to keep doing it.

“Thinks if he walks around the paddock locked in, it’ll add to the whole vibe,” Lando continues, egged on by the grin on Oscar’s face. “Mate, you know the only reason people think you’re mysterious is because you never actually go anywhere.”

The smile fades. Well. It’s nice to know that even when Oscar’s acting weirder than normal, the joke about how he’s the most boring guy in Monaco sticks around.

“Whatever, man. See you later, yeah?” Oscar mutters, hopefully sounding good-natured enough as he goes. He’s got more important shit to do anyway — namely, tracking you down.

He walks by the med centre exactly six times, nearly trips over himself when he sees someone swinging their paddock pass around their fingers. But it’s still not you. He’s starting to worry you’re not coming back. Or maybe, he thinks as he walks dejectedly back across the paddock, you figured out how to get out. And now he’s stuck and alone. By the time he opens the door to his driver’s room, shutting it behind him and leaving himself in the darkness, the surroundings are the perfect fit for his blackened mood.

“So, that didn’t work,” you say from somewhere inside, and Oscar nearly jumps out of his own skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, flipping the lights on to see you sitting cross-legged on the small bed he uses for mid-practice naps, eating Tim Tams. The absolute audacity you have to invade his space, sit on his bed, eat his snacks — he should be annoyed. But for some reason, the sight of you makes just relief spread through his body. “You came back,” he says breathlessly, immediately regretting how stupidly eager the words sound coming out of his mouth.

“I’m back,” you confirm, grinning up at him unfazed as you pop another biscuit in your mouth. “And I think I owe you an apology for how I spoke to you last time. I may have overreacted a little.”

“S’alright,” he says affably. “I did the same thing at the beginning.”

“You drove a moped off the cliff at Pointe-Saint-Martin to see if you could hit the water hard enough to shake yourself out of the loop?” you ask.

Oscar just stares. “You did that?”

“Kind of a mix of Groundhog Day and Palm Springs,” you shrug. “Thought if it worked for them, it might work for me, but I just ended up half-flooding a boat and seriously pissing off a fisherman.”

“Probably needed to drive faster then,” he replies. You roll your eyes in response, but you’re smiling. He can’t quite tell how to read you. It leaves him feeling off-kilter, like when the car snaps around a corner in a way he’s not expecting.

“Clearly taking lessons from time-travel movies didn’t work. But you’re still stuck here too, and I don’t think either of us can do this alone. Time to compare notes, Piastri.” You waggle your fingers in the space between you. “Hand over the book.”

He pulls the notebook out of his pocket automatically, passes it to you. Watches quietly from the doorway as your eyes scan over the pages. He doesn’t mean to stare, he really doesn’t. But your hair keeps falling in your face, and you keep tucking it behind your ear impatiently, and something about the sight makes Oscar’s heart stutter in his chest a little bit.

You look up suddenly, and Oscar goes pink to the tips of his ears, shaking his head slightly as if to clear the thought from his brain. “You weren’t kidding,” you say. “This is extensive. Borderline obsessive.”

“Borderline?” he deadpans, and you laugh. It’s a light sound, almost musical. Oscar can’t remember the last time he made someone laugh without planning for it in advance.

“Okay, completely obsessive,” you agree cheerfully. “But also kind of impressive.” He doesn’t quite know what to say to that; he settles for sitting carefully next to you on the bed as you flip through a few more pages. “You really think winning is the way out?”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only goal I haven’t managed yet. Once I get it perfect, it’ll have to end.”

You grin. “That’s such a driver answer.”

“I do happen to be a driver,” he replies dryly, and you bump your shoulder against his.

“Yeah, but not everything’s about the checkered flag, Piastri,” you say, handing the notebook back to him. He clutches it in his lap, hands curling around it like a lifeline. “What if it’s about… changing? Growing? Something that matters more than racing, at least.”

Nothing matters more than racing, Oscar wants to say. But you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure him out, running over what you know of him in your mind like he’s a puzzle you’re desperate to solve, and he wants to say something that will make you realize you’ve been looking at the pieces all wrong. To unbalance you the way you do to him.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” you say, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, and Oscar realizes he’s been silent far too long. “You keep trying to win the race, and I’ll help however I can. But only if you agree to try things my way too. Half careful, half chaos. Deal?”

Oscar hesitates, and you raise your eyebrows like you’re daring him to say no. “Okay,” he says, pretending it’s a reluctant confession. “Deal.”

You grin, and Oscar has the distinct feeling he’s lost ground that he didn’t know was up for grabs until you extend your hand out to meet his. “Shake on it.”

When he takes your hand, your fingers are warm against his, and something shifts in the air. Nothing big. Probably no one else would feel it.

If Oscar believed in things like that, he’d almost say the loop was taking notice.

DAY 63

Oscar walks away as quickly as he can. Behind him, Lewis Hamilton is yelling, because someone has dyed Roscoe a shocking papaya orange. Non-toxic, pet-safe, temporary fur dye, of course — the bulldog will be completely back to normal in a few days, no worse for the wear.

Not that Oscar has anything to do with it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he picks up his pace, and he pulls it out to see a notification from you: well done agent 081. come to the pit wall to receive your reward :)

The two of you text, now. You’d scrawled your number on a fresh page of his notebook in a glitter gel pen before you left his driver’s room the other day. The messy cursive, the careless heart drawn next to it, stood out against Oscar’s cramped, boyish handwriting. “So we can talk strategy,” you’d said, easy as pie. “Scientific purposes only, of course.”

He’d traced his fingers over the numbers later, at home after the race (P4, nothing to write home about. His lines were perfect, but his front right tyre got stuck on the car during his pit stop, and it all unraveled from there). Spent a little bit too long trying to think of something to say, ended up just sending Hi, this is Oscar Piastri.

You’d responded immediately: i figured lol. u dont need to be so formal oscar!!!

Then another, before he could overthink again: meet me tomorrow at medtent before the race. time for chaosssss >:)

When you said chaos, you meant it. That first day, you’d convinced him to hang signs reading CAUTION: VENOMOUS SNAKES all over the Red Bull garage. (“It’s a metaphor, Oscar,” you’d insisted. He had to admit, seeing Christian Horner scream into his phone until he turned purple was kind of worth it.) The next day, it was reprogramming the Alpine coffee machine so it only dispensed hot water. Oscar had told you it was stupid, but watching Pierre get increasingly frustrated, his accent getting thicker and thicker as he tried to explain the problem to any mechanic who would listen, he’d laughed so hard he’d doubled over, tears pricking mercilessly at his eyes.

You’d leaned against him, wheezing like you couldn’t catch your breath from how hard you were giggling, and that was the moment, Oscar thinks. The moment he knew you were friends.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s made a friend.

When he gets to the McLaren pit wall, you’re sitting on the base of it, head tipped back, soaking in the Monaco sun. You place a hand on your brow, squinting slightly like you’re trying to make him out, and then you wave him over.

“So. Now that we’ve done my idea, what’s your plan today?” you say, pulling two sandwiches wrapped in Ferrari-red napkins out of your bag and tossing the larger one to him. You’ve started sneaking into the different hospitality suites before lunch, figuring out which garage has the best to offer and forcing Oscar to rank them with you. “It’s caprese, by the way,” you add as he catches it. “Scuderia knows what’s up.”

“It’s gonna be a clean start. Pit stop at lap 39 to switch to wets. Overtake Leclerc late,” he repeats automatically as he unwraps the sandwich, taking a bite. It’s good — fresh mozzarella, a perfectly ripe slice of tomato. Miles better than the chicken salad bites McLaren insists on.

You hum around a mouthful of your own. “You tried that already,” you point out as you swallow. “Like, four times now.”

“Five,” he corrects, and you shake your head fondly. Something about the gesture makes his breath catch in his chest. “But, uh, I’ll tweak the timing a bit. Try an overtake in the tunnel, or something.”

“You know it’s okay if you don’t figure it out right away, right?” you say, taking a sip from your water bottle.

Oscar sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. We have all the time in the world.”

You scoot closer to him, knee settling against his. “Well then… play the long game. Maybe don’t drive yourself crazy over the race before you even start, okay?” Oscar huffs a laugh under his breath. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t pull away from you, either.

“Well, well, what’s this?” someone drawls very poshly from above. Oscar looks up, and there’s George Russell towering over them both. He’s wearing that stupid Mercedes cooling jacket, a deeply self-satisfied smirk on his face. Oscar knows George thinks he looks sick in the jacket. Oscar thinks he looks like an oversized alien. “Don’t tell me you’re making friends with the med staff, now.”

You smile sweetly up at George, despite the fact that he’s essentially just referred to you as the help. “Russell, right? Nice to meet you. What time does the mothership leave?”

Oscar snorts, nearly choking on his water.

George, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “Toto usually beams me up around midnight,” he replies, deadpan.

You laugh at that, bright and unguarded, and something twists uncomfortably in Oscar’s chest. It’s not jealousy. He’s not jealous. It’s just that he’s supposed to be the one who makes you laugh. Not George Russell, with his perfect hair and dimples and ridiculously plummy accent.

George notices Oscar’s scowl, and the smile on his face stretches even wider, if that’s possible. “Not friends, then,” he sings teasingly. Oscar goes red up to his ears, staring into the middle distance and taking another aggressive bite of his sandwich. “See you at the driver’s parade, Piastri.”

As George saunters off, you turn your head to watch him go. “He’s kind of funny,” you muse. “In a weird, wax-figure-come-to-life sort of way.”

“Debatable,” Oscar mutters.

“Relax, Osc,” you grin, leaning back on your elbows and letting the sun stream down on your face. You nudge your knee against his, and he feels it everywhere. “You’re still my favorite.”

The pit stop goes off without a hitch, but even with the perfect weather strategy he can’t seem to get past Charles in the back half of the race. He’s P2, again. After the race, you text him a YouTube compilation of all of Charles’ angsty radio messages from seasons past set to sad violin music.

Somehow, the loss doesn’t sting as bad as it usually does.

DAY 71

Someone is pounding at his door when Oscar’s eyes open. It’s so different that for a minute he thinks he broke out of the loop, somehow. But when he checks his phone, it’s still May 25, just about an hour and a half earlier than normal. He drags himself out of bed to the door, pulls it open, and there you are standing on the other side, sunglasses pushed to holding a white paper bag filled with pastries and two cups of coffee. You’re not dressed in your usual race gear, switching it for a filmy black sleeveless top and denim cutoff shorts that expose miles of your bare skin.

Oscar is suddenly, painfully aware that he’s only wearing boxers. You seem to be realizing that fact, too, if the way your eyes drag torturously down his bare chest is anything to go by.

“Hey,” he croaks, cheeks flushed as he takes you in. “What are you doing here?”

You clear your throat, looking back up at him. Your eyes meet, and for a moment the air sparks between you, electric. Then you just smile mysteriously before you push your way inside, handing him one of the coffee cups as you go. “New pre-race hypothesis. Get dressed and come with me.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar’s sitting in the passenger seat of your tiny, beat-up car, watching the sun rise through the windshield. You’re an unexpectedly cautious driver, too slow around the corners, hands planted firmly at 10 and 2, eyes fixed on the road. It’s nice to know that even after weeks of spending May 25 together, you can still surprise him. (Even if his hands are itching to take the wheel from you, see just how hard he can push the Mini Cooper down these famous streets).

You pull to a stop near the harbor, the car’s brakes squealing at the effort. Oscar makes a mental note that when you both get out of the loop, he needs to take you to a mechanic. Or maybe a dealership.

“C’mon,” you say, getting out of the car and walking towards the dock. You’re moving in that sort of effortless way you do when you have a really ridiculous idea, the kind of way that makes Oscar follow you against his better judgment because he just wants to see what you’ll do next. He’s jogging slightly to catch up, sipping at his coffee, when you slow ahead of him, touching your pockets like you’re looking for something.

“Hold this for me?” you ask as he catches up to you, passing him your cup. At the moment he takes it with his free hand, almost reflexively, you pluck his phone out of his hoodie pocket and toss it over the railing.

“What the fuck,” Oscar says flatly, watching it land with a soft plop! in the azure water.

You toss your own phone in after his. Oscar grabs the railing, watches the twin black mirrors swirl around each other, sinking deep into the harbor. “So I might’ve lied a little,” you say sheepishly. “This isn’t a pre-race hypothesis. This is an instead-of-race hypothesis.”

“You’re not serious,” he says, and you just grin, wild and unapologetic.

“Oscar Piastri’s first-ever DNS,” you sing, turning and walking down the dock towards a frankly massive boat, waving off the dockhand like you own the fucking thing and starting to untie the knots holding it to the dock. “You coming or not?”

Unleash The Lion, the stern reads in script as big as his head.

You’re going to commandeer Max Verstappen’s fucking yacht.

“Max will kill us, you know,” he says as you step onto the back of the boat, pulling yourself up to the deck.

“Max won’t remember this tomorrow,” you reply over your shoulder as you rifle through the boat’s glove compartment.

“He could,” Oscar protests, mostly just to argue, because he likes the way your eyes flash when he challenges you. “Who knows? This could be the day the loop resets. Then I’ll get fired, and we’ll both go to jail.”

You grin down at him, wicked light gleaming in your gaze as you dangle the keys over the side of the boat. “Monaco prison is probably pretty nice. D’you think they’ll let us be cell mates?”

He sighs, looking up at you. The morning light kisses off your cheekbones, your skin glowing golden and sun-warmed. How is he meant to say no to you, looking at him like that? “I hate how persuasive you are,” he grumbles halfheartedly, taking your hand and climbing up the back until he lands ungracefully on the deck.

“No, you don’t,” you reply cheerfully, turning the key in the ignition. The yacht roars to life, and you pilot it out of the harbor with confidence that feels somewhat unearned, given you’ve basically stolen the thing.

That’s the problem, Oscar thinks. He really, really doesn’t.

An hour or so later, you’ve lowered the anchor, far enough out that no one will catch you for the day. Monaco is a distant speck behind you, though if Oscar squints he swears he can still see the paddock. You’ve pulled him to the bow of the boat, laying next to each other on deck chairs with a pilfered bottle of champagne between you. Your sunglasses are sliding down your nose, the boat rocking gently in the waves. It might be the bubbles talking, might be the fact that his edges have been softened by sun and champagne and you, but Oscar can’t remember a better day in a long time.

“Not bad for our first grand theft yacht,” you say, and Oscar laughs in spite of himself. “Although next time, we should probably bring sunscreen.” You look over at him with such fondness that it makes his heart squeeze in his chest, and touch your finger to the tip of his nose, gently. “You’re gonna be scorched.”

He’s warm, but it’s definitely not from the sun. “I’ll be fine,” he says, aiming for a light tone. You touched his nose, and he’s melting down like a complete weirdo. Get it together, Piastri, he tells himself. You’re a Formula One driver, for god’s sake.

You don’t seem to notice. You just hum, unconvinced, then go quiet for a beat. Too quiet. The kind of quiet Oscar’s learned to recognize as very dangerous when it’s coming from you.

“I’m bored,” you say, finally. “New plan.”

Oscar sits up so fast he nearly knocks over the champagne bottle. “This isn’t enough for today?”

You just smile mischievously at him. “Wanna go for a swim?”

“We don’t have bathing suits,” he says, dumbly. But you’re already peeling your shirt over your head, stripping to your underwear, and racing barefoot on the hot wood, your laugh trailing in the air like the kind of song he wants to learn every word to.

Oscar’s brain short-circuits somewhere around seeing your bare shoulders. He has to stare at the sky and think about Zak Brown for a minute before he can strip off his joggers and follow you.

When he climbs the ladder to the top, you’re already at the edge, toes curled over the lip of the roof, the sea breeze teasing at the ends of your hair. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes dancing, and then you leap.

It’s not graceful by any means, but you look glorious — arms thrown wide, a yell of pure exhilaration tearing out of your lungs as you plunge feet-first into the sparkling ocean below. Oscar scrambles to the side, watching for you to come up. For a second, there’s silence. Then, you resurface with a whoop that seems to echo to the horizon, and you’re smiling so wide it makes his chest ache.

“Come on!” you yell, treading water fifty feet beneath him. “Don’t make me swim all the way back to push you off.”

“You’re insane,” he calls back, but there’s no heat in it. Just that strange, subtle warmth still blooming in his chest. He steps to the edge, glances over his shoulder once at Monaco sparkling like a jewel on the coastline, at the tiny smudge that might be the paddock, that might be his real life.

And then he jumps.

For one perfect moment, he’s airborne — weightless, untethered. Free. The wind rushes by him, salt air biting at his sunburnt skin, and then the sea swallows him whole. The water is cool, soothing around him, and when he surfaces, gasping for air, you’re already swimming towards him with a smile on your face.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you say breathlessly.

“More to me than meets the eye, I guess,” he replies, steadying his eyes on you, and your cheeks flush under his gaze.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of warmth and motion. The two of you let your skin dry in the sun, pass another bottle of champagne back and forth until there’s nothing left, talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about his first karting race, how he was older than all the other kids when he started and cried because he still didn’t think he was ready. You tell him about a trip you took to Japan when you were younger, how you took pictures of the temples on your digital camera and still dream of the scent of the cherry blossoms in the air.

Later, as the sun starts to sink over the horizon, blue bleeding into soft pinks and golds, you sit together on the bow, your legs dangling over the edge, shoulders touching. Oscar’s tongue feels looser than usual, whether it’s the champagne or whether it’s you to blame, so he doesn’t think, just asks the question that’s been playing on his mind all day. “Why do you think you’re in the loop?”

You turn to look at him, like it’s the last thing you expected him to say. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have to win the race,” he says, and you roll your eyes fondly. “But — what do you have to do? Why are you here?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “I suppose there’s something I have to learn, too.”

“Like what?” Oscar asks, pressing his shoulder against yours.

You sigh, staring out at the horizon. You don’t look at him when you speak. Oscar wonders if you won’t, or you can’t. “I’ve always been good at a lot of things,” you say. “But I never committed to anything. I just kept bouncing from place to place, from project to project. Now, I love working here, but it just feels like I figured it out too late, and now I’m stuck. To get a permanent job with the team, I’d have to go to med school, and…” you pause, teeth sinking into your lip. “What if I try and fail? What if I’m average?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. Instead, he watches the way the fading light reflects in your eyes, golden catching on the edge of something tender and raw. He wants to tell you you’re not average, you’re brilliant. That the past few weeks with you in the loop has been the most alive he’s felt in months, maybe ever.

But he doesn’t.

“Today is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,” he says, the words falling ungracefully off his tongue. “Taken a risk like this. Everything in my life has been planned out. I made it to Formula One off of being consistent, composed, controlled. I’m perfect because everyone expects it. But — racing used to be fun. I used to love it.”

You tilt your head toward him slightly, enough that he can see the pout of your bottom lip. “You don’t love it anymore?” you ask softly, like he’s a scared animal you’re trying not to spook.

Oscar shrugs, chest tightening. “Feels like I’ve been trying to win for so long that I forgot why I wanted to in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what the loop’s for,” you say, leaning back on the cushions. “Not to win. To find the joy again.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. The silence feels suspended, like the whole world is holding its breath along with you both. Oscar lies back next to you, his heart thudding a little too hard in his chest for such a quiet moment.

You both lay there for a while as the stars slowly reveal themselves one by one, scattered like glitter across the indigo sky. You start pointing out constellations, making up ridiculous stories that make him laugh lowly, helplessly. He’s lying close enough to you that your arms are pressed together, breath syncing in the quiet.

When he turns to look at you, you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded, and you’re so beautiful in the moonlight that it almost makes him lean in to kiss you. But something holds him back. Fear, maybe, or uncertainty — not knowing if you feel it too, or if it’s the champagne, or the loop, living another borrowed day that doesn’t quite feel like his own.

He looks back at the sky. You sigh next to him, shifting closer so that your head rests on his shoulder, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the pale moon reflect off the waves until he drifts off into the blackness.

When he opens his eyes next, he’s in his apartment, sunlight streaming through his curtains. Oscar swears under his breath, picks up the phone that should be sitting at the bottom of the harbor. Sunday, May 25. Just like always.

He flops back onto his bed, pressing a pillow over his face. His skin is still sticky from the salt water. It’s not even the fact that he didn’t break the loop that hurts today.

It’s waking up without you.

DAY 80

Oscar’s nervous, which is completely irrational. He’s lived this day eighty times now. Done press completely hungover, slipped past Charles Leclerc on his home track, crashed full-speed into a barrier and nearly died. But none of that made his palms sweat the way they’re sweating now.

You’re in his apartment. You’re having dinner in his apartment.

The race had gone fairly spectacularly for him, all things considered. He’d made a few mistakes, taken the chicane a little too wide, and still Charles barely beat him. Oscar’s about to figure it out, the perfect race so close he can almost taste it.

You, on the other hand, had quite the busy day. Stroll’s crash started it, but in lap 60 there’d been a major pileup at the back of the race — one of the rookies hitting the brakes just a little too late, slamming into another driver. By the time he found you after the race, you looked exhausted, muttered something about how you wished this particular loop was over already, couldn’t fathom the idea of driving home, cooking dinner for yourself, going to sleep alone.

Oscar invited you over before he could think too hard about it.

He drove you back to his place, cooked dinner while you showered — some pasta dish his mum had taught him ages ago, surely worried that he’d try to survive in Monaco solely off of frozen dinners and takeout. He’s dug up some candles from a dusty box in the closet, uncorked a bottle of wine he thinks Charles gave him for Secret Santa last year, and is just putting the plates on the table when you emerge from his room, fresh-faced and hair damp. You’re wearing one of his McLaren hoodies and a pair of bike shorts, and for a moment Oscar forgets how to form sentences.

“Smells amazing,” you say, sitting on the floor across from him. “Thanks.”

You chat idly for a while, but Oscar can’t shake the feeling that the air between you feels different tonight. It’s in the way your laugh sticks in his brain longer than usual, the way he can feel his gaze searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. It’s almost simmering, like there’s some invisible boundary you’re about to break through. Things have been different since the day on Max’s boat — the glances between the two of you weightier, the touches softer, gentler. But there’s something about tonight that feels inevitable, like the weeks of being together are all pinpointing into a logical, tidy conclusion.

“You’ve barely touched your pasta,” you point out, nudging your knee against his under the table.

Oscar just shrugs, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Not hungry.” He is actually, the feeling turning to a pleasant ache in his stomach. If he’s honest with himself, he’s just too busy looking at you to bother with the food.

You raise your eyebrow, slurping up a noodle. It leaves a small smudge of sauce on the edge of your mouth. “You okay?”

“Hold on,” he says, leaning over the table. “You’ve got —”

You flush, hand flying to your cheek, but Oscar’s already there, leaning over the table and brushing his thumb against your lip carefully. You blink up at him, breath catching slightly, and then, unmistakably, your eyes flick to his lips. The moment stretches, fragile and loaded like the night Oscar stargazed with you, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to make the same mistake twice.

And then — because he’s been thinking about it for hours, days, weeks — he kisses you.

Your lips are soft, warm against his, and you taste like vanilla lip balm and red wine. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you let out the tiniest sigh against his mouth before kissing him back. It’s slow, soft at first, then deeper, like the buildup of all the days circling each other has finally burned down to this single point of gravity, rooting you both to the spot. Your hand tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, like you’re trying to pull him closer to you.

It’s perfect. And then you break away, foreheads pressed together, and Oscar opens his mouth.

“Well, that’s a new variable,” he breathes, dazed, and you flinch away from him like you’ve been slapped.

“Oscar,” you say, voice sharp, and for someone with world-class reflexes and awareness he’s definitely caught the shift in your tone too late. “You just kissed me, and your first thought was fucking data?”

“No, I —” he stops, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reset his brain. “That’s not what I meant.”

You breathe out disbelievingly, the sound shaky as it leaves your lungs. “Yes, it was,” you say flatly, standing up, and Oscar scrambles to his feet after you.

“No,” he pleads, but you’re already heading towards his bedroom, throwing your things back in your bag. “I just thought, if the loop’s trigger is emotional…”

“Don’t,” you spit, words like venom. “Don’t reduce this to numbers and logic. Don’t treat it like it’s another page in your stupid fucking notebook.”

He opens his mouth to try to fix things, but nothing comes out. Even from across the room, he can see the tears slipping down your cheek, and he knows the damage is already done.

“I thought it was real,” you whisper. “I thought we were real. And the first time you actually let yourself feel something, you turn around and treat it like evidence to be catalogued.”

“It was real,” he blurts desperately, and you scoff. “Please,” he begs. “I’m trying, I’m just — I don’t know how to do this. It’s — it’s never mattered like this.”

Your lips press together, jaw tight, and Oscar can still taste the red wine against his mouth. “Well, maybe don’t kiss me again until you figure it out.”

You don’t wait for him to reply. You turn on your heel, slamming the door behind you and storming down the hall like you’re leading an army of one to battle against his stupid, broken heart.

Oscar doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at the door, the silence ringing in his ears, before he blows out the candles. He leaves the dishes on the table, crawls into his bed and stares at the ceiling. The notebook sits on his dresser, taunting him, but he doesn’t reach for it.

Nothing about this day is worth remembering anymore.

DAY 81

Oscar doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to sunlight through the curtains and silence and the distinct feeling that his chest has been scraped hollow.

He’s never felt more stupid in his life. He had you, in his apartment, lips pressed to his, the thing he’s been dreaming about doing for weeks, and he completely fucking bottled it.

But if there’s anything to learn from being in a time loop, it’s that he’s got a chance to fix things. To learn from his own mistakes, and do something better. He sits up in bed, watching the boats in the harbor for a long moment. Then he gets up, gets dressed. Leaves the notebook sitting on his dresser, untouched. And goes to find you.

Except, clearly, you don’t want to be found. He searches the entire paddock, but you’re like a ghost. Your station at the med centre is empty, half-cleared out like you came to work before deciding seeing Oscar would hurt too much. You’re not in his driver’s room, stealing his snacks, or by the pit wall watching the team principals flit around with a scary kind of efficiency. He even tries going to the med centre HR to ask for your address, but the woman behind the desk is very particular about her employees’ privacy, won’t give him your contact information no matter how many times he drops that he’s a driver, just hands him a pamphlet about respecting workplace boundaries.

The day wears on, sun arcing high in the sky, and Oscar has to accept he’s not going to see you before the race. Maybe he’ll crash on the first lap, he thinks. Knock himself unconscious, reset the loop. He doesn’t care what it takes. He just has to find you.

Like a vision, or some sort of twisted prophecy, he turns the corner to the garage, and you’re standing there. Always standing where you’re not supposed to be, he thinks for a moment, mind racing wildly. The thought feels hysterical in his head. You’re wearing your fireproof scrubs, eyes red-rimmed, arms crossed over your chest, and you look like fate. Or his future. He’s not sure which. Oscar doesn’t waste another second before he runs to you.

“It was real,” he blurts, before you can open your mouth to speak. “I think it’s been real for me since the minute you pulled me out of that car. I’m shit at feelings, and I’m sorry, because I’m about to be even worse at—” he gestures between the two of you, the confession he’s word-vomiting into the space between you. “—this, but... I’ve spent my whole life being cool, calm, collected, trying to perfect things, trying to keep everything under control, but I can’t control love, and you fucking — you turn me in circles, and I don’t want to live another day, of the loop or anything else, without you around.”

You just stare at him, and he runs a hand over his face. Out of all the ways he’d been thinking up to profess his love while he was looking for you, this had to be one of his worst. Did he even say it? He thinks back, unsure.

“I love you,” he adds, sighing. “In case that wasn’t clear. I’m really fucking in love with you.”

“You’re an idiot,” you say to him in response, voice trembling.

“I know,” he says, helplessly. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

You shake your head, but there’s a ghost of a smile on your face. “Of course I’ll have you,” you say, eyes bright with tears. “I’m really fucking in love with you too.”

Oscar files the sound of your voice saying those words somewhere deep in his chest. Closes the distance between you and smashes his lips to yours. It’s not sweet, not soft — it’s raw, wanting, hot with need. You squeak against his mouth, your hands flying up to cup his face, and when your tongue slides against his, his knees actually buckle.

You’re both giggling when you come up for air, dazed and giddy. “Wow,” you say, fingers resting against your lips, like you can’t believe it’s real. “Glad I came back in time for that.”

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes. “What took you so long?”

You look up at him, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Well, I wasn’t gonna show up because I was still pissed at you,” you crack, and he laughs. “But then I decided I couldn’t let you drive alone. And I was late,” you say slowly, “because I just applied to med school.”

His heart skips a beat in his chest. “You did what?”

“You were right,” you say simply. “I’m not stuck. And maybe I’ll fail spectacularly, but I’ll never know if I don’t try.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Oscar says, and you just smile. Someone from inside the garage is calling for him. He’s running out of time.

“It’ll be a colossal waste of time if we don’t break out, though,” you huff out a laugh. “So now it’s on you.” You pause for a moment, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You got this,” you say, and for once Oscar believes it. “Go have fun out there.”

Ten minutes later, he sits P2 on the grid, heart beating hard in his chest. For the past 80 days, he’s been in this exact same position, obsessing over the perfect line, how to time the pit stop, where he can shave a tenth of a second off his time.

Today, when the lights go out, Oscar’s thinking about you.

He lets Lando pass him on the first lap again, for the first time in eighty days. Drives like a maniac to pass him back three laps later, waving to him as he goes. It’s a risky move; Tom is half-screaming, half-laughing at him through the radio, and Oscar’s cheeks hurt from smiling underneath his helmet. He nearly takes it on two wheels around the Tabac corner, back skidding out from underneath him. The car is responsive as he pushes to the limit; the drive feels messy, imperfect, alive. He’s never had so much fun in a Formula One car.

When the last lap starts, he’s leading the race. The sun’s starting to come back out again, the rain drying on the track. Oscar’s cruising.

By the time he gets to the hairpin, Charles Leclerc is in his mirrors.

It’s an all-out battle to the finish, red car and orange dueling side by side. Oscar presses his foot to the pedal as hard as he can, thinks if this race is the one that breaks the loop, it’ll probably go down in history as the most exciting Monaco GP of all time.

They get to the Nouvelle Chicane, and Charles slices around it with the elegance of a ballerina, the power of a heavyweight fighter. Oscar’s in his dust before he even knows what’s happened.

He finishes behind the Ferrari by a half second, and he’s never been so happy to lose.

He pulls into parc ferme, rips off his helmet, searches the crowd wildly. The paddock is bustling. It takes him a minute to spot you running towards him, your scrubs unzipped to your waist, smiling and crying all at once.

This time, Oscar doesn’t wait. He jumps off the car, reaches you in three strides, and kisses you like he’ll never get the chance again. It’s all adrenaline and aching sweetness, teeth knocking, the taste of tears on both your lips like you’re both tumbling toward something you can’t name.

You break away first, pressing your forehead against his, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “You were amazing,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry you lost.”

“I don’t care,” Oscar laughs wetly, because it’s true, and because eighty Sundays ago he would have died before he said something like that. “That was the best drive I’ve ever had.”

“You found the joy,” you say, a giggle bubbling out of you.

The sound nearly coaxes a laugh out of him too, but he shakes his head instead, smiling at you softly. “I found that a long time ago. Standing outside my driver’s room spinning their med badge like a weapon.”

You make a noise at that, somewhere in between a sigh and a sob, and he pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re the first-place trophy. “I love you, you know,” he says into your hair, and he can hear you mumbling the exact same thing into his race suit.

You walk back to Oscar’s apartment together, a silent agreement that he’ll skip the post-race interviews, just this once. You sit on the balcony he never uses, watch the sunset over the harbor. He doesn’t let go of your hand for a single moment, like he needs to feel your touch under his fingertips to remind himself he’s still here.

“D’you think we did it?” you mumble later when you’ve both found your way to his bed, voice slurring around the edges from exhaustion. “Broke the loop, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Oscar says, his fingers brushing through your hair slowly. “I’ve thought we did, before, and obviously we hadn’t.”

“Me too,” you say, but there’s something hanging in the air between you. An unspoken confession, like you’re both afraid to jinx it. This time feels different.

You yawn gently, burrow tighter into his side, and his heart feels like it might crack open in his chest. “M’getting pretty tired,” you say. “So I think whatever the answer is, we’ll know pretty soon.”

There’s silence, for a moment. What do you say when your entire universe hangs in the balance?

“If this was the last day, if we really figured it out,” Oscar says finally, breath catching in his throat as he stares at the ceiling, “I really liked spending forever with you.”

DAY 82 DAY 1

Oscar wakes up to the beep of his alarm and the sound of rain on his roof.

You’re there, too. Curled against his body, still asleep. Oscar watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, listens to the soft sounds of your breathing. You smell like that jasmine perfume you started wearing around Day 68 and you’re snuggled in one of his old McLaren hoodies and you’re so real that he thinks he might die of happiness.

It is Monday, May 26, 2025, and Oscar Piastri is so in love with you that he’s stooped to watching you sleep like a total weirdo and using ridiculous hyperbole to describe his feelings instead of waking you up to tell you the news. He nudges you gently, and you stir.

“Osc?” you mumble disbelievingly as your eyes flutter open, like you’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or not.

“We did it,” he whispers back to you, and the smile on his face is starting to hurt his cheeks. “We’re out.”

You don’t even respond — well, with words, anyway. You just drag his face to yours, kiss him like you’re making up for 81 days of lost time. You still taste like vanilla, and your mouth, your tongue work against his in a way that makes it hard to think of anything else.

“We’re out,” you repeat as you pull away from each other. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and Oscar can’t resist kissing you again. Small pecks this time, scattered from your lips to your cheekbones, each one like a drop of water for a man dying of thirst. He thinks absentmindedly that kissing you might be his new favorite thing.

“God, I can’t believe this is real,” you giggle as his lips brush down your collarbones, and Oscar laughs, because he was just thinking the same thing about you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you sigh it back sweetly, your pulse thrumming beneath his lips.

Forever isn’t an easy concept to swallow for a man who’s just been stuck in a time loop. But Oscar thinks if you’re by his side, he could definitely get used to it.

#f1 #f1 x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fluff #f1 imagine #oscar piastri #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you #oscar piastri x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #❀ my work .

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uramakimochi · 10 months ago

Note

hihihi babe i don’t know if you’re accepting requests but im love love loving the wolf star parents fics!!!! i was wondering if you might be able to write about everyone when r gets her first boyfriend or goes on her first date?? totally get it if not im just wondering babe!!!

HIII I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS^^ IT WAS FUN WRITING THE FIRST PART OF THIS FIC BUT I'M NOT SO PROUD OF THE REST SO I JUST HOPE YOU LIKE IT🩷

MEETING THE FAMILY

Wolfstar x daughter!Reader

Fred Weasley x Reader (i know, everyone always writes with him i'm sorry, but it just fits for the plot)

James Potter, Regulus Black & Barty Crouch Jr x Reader (platonic)

WARNINGS: this is just a crack fic lol, FEM!R + some use of Y/n, your Hogwarts house is not specified, Sirius and James being dramatic, Regulus and Barty being Slytherin threats, Remus being the most normal and Y/n being so done with her family. Maybe Fred is a little ooc? Idk.

English is not my first language so feel free to correct me.

"SHE HAS A WHAT?!"

Remus jumped when he heard Sirius' voice shouting from the living room, but before he could even ask him the reason for the shouting, he heard footsteps approaching him at a run, until Sirius' figure appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"SHE HAS A BOYFRIEND! OUR DAUGHTER HAS A BOYFRIEND!" Sirius yelled with wide eyes and Remus noticed the letter he was clutching in his hand. "AND I KNEW NOTHING ABOUT IT!!"

Remus rolled his eyes and went back to cooking lunch as if nothing had happened.

"Try asking yourself why she didn't tell you anything..." he murmured with a smirk.

"Ha ha ha, funny babe, really funny" Sirius retorted with a grimace. "Why doesn't that upset you??"

Remus shrugged.

"She's 15 Sirius, it's normal at that age to find a boyfriend. Don't be dramatic"

"It's Fred Weasley"

Remus dropped the spoon on the kitchen counter and slowly turned to face him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"So...Fred Weasley?"

You groaned, not looking up from your book when you heard Harry's voice behind your ear.

"Yes, Harry. Fred Weasley. Is there any problem about that?" you asked, turning the page.

Harry sat next to you on the bench at one of the four tables in the Great Hall. Strangely enough, Ron and Hermione weren't with him, but you knew that sooner or later they would join too.

"Honestly? You're practically my sister and it feels weird to know that you're dating someone" he said and you smiled in amusement. "Especially someone like Fred Weasley"

"And what does that mean?" you asked again, finally turning to look at him.

Harry shrugged without saying anything and you sighed.

"Look, Fred is your friend Harry, you know him. You should be glad i'm not dating Malfoy" you said and Harry made a disgusted face. "And then..."

You couldn't help the small sigh that left your lips as your eyes landed on Fred's figure, who was sitting at the table across from yours. As if he felt your gaze on him, at a certain point he too raised his eyes from his breakfast and met yours. He flashed you a smile and waved at you before giving you one of his winks that gave you butterflies in your stomach. You shyly waved back and Harry could perfectly see in your eyes all the love you felt for him.

"He's always sweet to me. He always makes me laugh" you said. "And he also gives me a lot of gifts"

Harry smiled slightly.

"How long have you been together?" he asked you.

Fred went back to chatting with George and Lee and you looked back at your best friend.

"For a while. We kept it under wraps at first because we wanted to make sure it was an official thing. We didn't want to spread false rumors, you know what i mean?" you said and Harry nodded. "You know, i invited him home for the holidays, to let him meet my parents"

Harry's eyes widened.

"He's going to meet Sirius and Remus??" he asked shocked and you giggled. "And you're not afraid of their reaction?"

You shrugged, closing your book and reaching for some toast. "Dad's usually the calm one, so it doesn't worry me. It's Sirius i'm worried about. You know how he is, he's very..."

"Dramatic" you chorused with amused smiles.

You began to eat your toast, until Ron and Hermione also joined you at the table and sat down across from you, starting a new conversation.

Remus and Sirius had taken it well... More or less.

"WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO TELL ME THAT YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND?!"

"YOU ARE DATING FRED WEASLEY?!"

You jumped as you heard your parents' voices ringing in the living room. As you had told Harry, Remus was the less dramatic of the two, but he was still shocked that you were dating Fred Weasley.

"Dads…" you murmured, running a hand over your face.

"Darling i thought you liked Neville, i mean you're so alike! Or Harry! Or even a girl!" Remus exclaimed. "But one of the twins..."

"Harry and Neville are my friends, i never liked them that way" you retorted with hot cheeks. "And i don't like girls"

Sirius dropped dramatically into his chair. Typical of Sirius.

"My sweet little girl is going out with that rascal of Fred Weasley..." he murmured, covering his face with his hands. "Why couldn't you like Charlie or Bill?"

"I don't know Bill and Charlie and they are too old for me"

Remus pointed a finger at you. "Correct answer"

You groaned and crossed your arms.

"Look, i'm going to tell you both the same thing i told Harry. For your information, Fred is very sweet and kind to me and i care about him. A lot. So i'd like you to be nice to him the day he comes here, okay?"

"Ugh, does he really have to come to our house?" Sirius muttered, looking at you from behind his fingers.

"Do i really have to cook for him?" Remus asked back.

You rolled your eyes and went up to your room, ignoring their calls.

The day finally came when Fred would come to meet your parents. When you heard the front door bell you ran down the stairs from your room.

"He's here! Are you ready??" you asked frantically, looking at your fathers.

Remus glanced at his watch.

"I'm surprised he arrived even early" he murmured in confusion.

You walked towards the front door with an excited smile, but Sirius passed you.

"I'll open it!"

Your eyes widened and you immediately chased after him. "No! Dad!"

Just before Sirius could open the door, you glued yourself to his body, trying to drag him away.

"Let me go!" he exclaimed, trying to make you detach from his body.

"No!" you retorted, wrapping your arms around his waist. "You'll make him run away!"

"I just want to say hi, i swear!"

You turned your head towards the direction of the living room.

"Daaad!" you exclaimed, hoping that Remus would talk some sense into him.

"Sirius" came Remus' calm voice. "Come here, don't be a baby"

But before Sirius could protest, the door opened on his own and you and Sirius froze. But it wasn't Fred. It was...

"Uncle James?"

James flashed you a bright smile as your arms slowly loosened from around Sirius' body. The two men exchanged a high five and James looked at him worriedly.

"Am i late? Has he arrived yet?" he asked and you looked at him confused.

"Who?"

James turned to look at you with an obvious expression. "Your boyfriend, sweetheart. Of course!"

"Of course?"

"Of course! Harry told me that you are dating Fred Weasley and of course, as your favorite uncle, i absolutely want to meet him!"

Your eyes widened, while in your head you were already devising a plan to kill Harry the snitch without ending up in Azkaban. You turned to look at your father in shock.

"Did you tell him to come??" you asked.

Sirius shook his head with a smirk and raised his hands. "Your father and i have nothing to do with this, darling. I swear"

"Oh my god…" you muttered, turning to walk back into the living room. "Oh Salazar..."

Now you were panicking. You knew nothing about it, Fred knew nothing about it! What would he have thought if he had seen James too? Maybe he would have thought that you lived in a family of overprotective dramatic crazy relatives and he would have been scared and wouldn't want to deal with you anymore and-

The fireplace in the living room suddenly lit up and the green flames blazed for a few seconds until a person came out of them and you and Remus, who was sitting on the couch, opened your eyes wide.

"Good evening chérie"

"Uncle Reg??"

Regulus gave you a small smile and in the meantime Sirius and James also joined you in the living room.

"Reggie!" your father exclaimed. "I didn't think you would actually come"

You quickly turned to look at Sirius, shocked again, while Regulus straightened out the folds of his clothes with his usual calm.

"If my niece has a boyfriend i want to personally make sure that he is a good person and not an idiot like-" Regulus replied, but was cut off.

The fireplace flared up again and another person jumped out of it less gracefully than the younger Black.

"Where is this little boyfriend? I want to see him right now!"

You almost fainted when you saw him.

"Uncle Barty?!"

He opened his arms wide, coming to hug you with a smile. "Oh my little viper, look at you. You're already bringing home your boyfriend, you're really growing up"

You didn't return the hug, still shocked by the presence of your uncles who had crashed at your house without warning. After a few seconds you silently backed away.

"Darling, are you okay?" Remus asked you, standing up from the couch and so everyone's attention was on you.

But you backed away and alternated your panicked eyes between your parents and your uncles, who were looking at you in confusion.

"No no no! I'm not okay at all!" you exclaimed nervously as you looked at Remus and then set your gaze on Regulus. "Uncle Reg, no offense but why are you here??"

Regulus didn't take offense at your words and remained calm as he took off his jacket to hang it on the coat rack.

"Sirius told me that this evening we were going to have a family dinner to meet that scoundrel who stole your heart, my dear. And i want to make sure he's not a criminal"

"It's the truth, i swear i only invited Regulus" Sirius continued, raising his arms in surrender, looking at you slightly sorry for the panic he had caused in you.

"Come on little viper" Barty then interjected, shooting you a smirk. "We all know that without me this evening would be boring. And if Reggie wants to meet your boyfriend, then i absolutely MUST meet him too"

You let out a loud sigh and ran a hand over your face desperately. Then you started walking back and forth along the living room carpet, muttering "What do i do now? What do i do??", while your relatives looked at you strangely.

"Honey-" James tried to say, taking a step towards you, but suddenly someone rang the doorbell again and you all froze. And when your parents and uncles were about to run to open the door, you blocked their path, opening your arms wide.

"Don't you-dare-open-that door!" you threatened them, looking at them one by one, and then lowering your tone of voice to make it more severe and threatening. "And i swear to Godric that if you scare him away i... I... I don't know but don't try, okay? Am i clear?"

Everyone nodded silently and you rushed towards the front door. You fixed your hair and took a deep breath, praying to the four founders that everything would be okay. Then you reached for the doorknob and opened the door, feeling your heart skip a beat when you saw Fred's bright smile.

"Hi" he said.

"H-Hey" you responded nervously.

"You look beautiful" he told you and you smiled embarrassed.

"So do you"

It was at that moment that your eyes fell on the small bouquet of flowers that Fred was holding in one hand and he noticed it too.

"Oh! Um..." he handed you the flowers. "These are for you. I hope you like them"

You took the flowers gently from his hands and felt your cheeks heat up.

"They're beautiful" you said, holding them close to your face to smell them. "Thank you"

Fred smiled and leaned forward to give you a small kiss on the lips and you let him. But you realized too late that perhaps you should have stopped him from doing so, because you next heard whispered voices coming from behind you.

"You little red-haired brat, how dare you kiss my daughter in my house?"

"Sirius!"

"He got her flowers though"

"Tch, that's the minimum don't you think?"

"Would you all shut up??"

You turned around and saw the heads of your parents and uncles peeking out from behind the wall stacked on top of each other, intent on spying on you. You gave them a murderous look and they walked away in fear, heading towards the dining room.

"Looks like we'll have some company" Fred chuckled nervously.

"Forgive me" you murmured, looking at him awkwardly. "It's just that my uncles are a little protective of me and when they heard you were coming to dinner they decided they wanted to meet you in person"

You let out another sigh, lowering your head to hide your face in the flowers. "I'm so sorry"

"Hey don't worry, it's no problem" your boyfriend reassured you, placing a hand on your cheek to lift your face. "I'm not scared of anyone. I'm ready to face any member of your family"

You smiled, rubbing your cheek against his palm. "Thank you Fred, i appreciate it. But if they cross the line i'll throw my broom at their head, i swear"

The tension was growing visibly in that room. You were afraid that the slightest mistake would cause all hell to break loose.

"So..." Barty said slowly, looking Fred straight in the eyes. "You're Gryffindor"

Sitting opposite you, Fred looked at you for a split second, then flashed a nervous smile at Junior who was sitting to your right. "Yes sir"

"Tch" Barty cackled arrogantly. "And i bet you're proud of it too, right?"

Both you and Regulus, sitting to your left next to Sirius at the head of the table, shook your heads with a sigh, while James, who was sitting across from Barty, next to Fred, gave him a small kick from under the table, mimicking a "Quit it!" with his lips.

"Forgive him" you interjected, looking at your boyfriend with apologetic eyes. "Uncle Barty does this with all Gryffindors, it's not you, really. He even hated my parents and Harry's when they were in first year haha"

Barty rolled his eyes and Remus, who was sitting on the other side of Sirius, smiled slightly and nodded in agreement with what you said as he continued to eat.

"It's no problem, i understand what he means" Fred replied, giving you a reassuring smile, then looking at Barty. "I'm very proud of my house. Just like you Slytherins, but also Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws"

Barty chewed his bite slowly and narrowed his eyes at him, knowing full well that the brat had the same distrust of him as Slytherin. But what he didn't know was that Fred only refrained from retorting because he was a member of your family and didn't want to make a bad impression and let you down.

"Fred" Regulus then interjected, with his usual calm and rational tone. "How old did you say you are?"

"I'm 17, sir. I'm in my last year of school"

At those words both Regulus and Barty froze as if they were two marble statues and both looked at him with icy eyes.

'Crap' you thought.

In fact, your parents and James already knew Fred, as he was Molly and Arthur's son and Harry's friend, but Regulus and Barty didn't even know how old he was.

"Oh" Regulus said, slowly. "You're older than my niece. I didn't know that"

"Only by two years Uncle Reg" you retorted, turning to your uncle and trying to smile at him. "There are couples who have a much larger age gap, this is not a problem"

"Of course honey, you're right" Sirius reassured you. "But you know how we are, if our little girl tells us she's going out with an older boy we get worried"

"I hope you're treating my little viper like a princess, Weasley" Barty said menacingly, pointing his fork at him. "You're both teenagers and teenagers like you, especially boys, do a lot of stupid things"

"I just hope you don't do what Junior did at your age..." James muttered, looking away. "In that case it would really be a problem"

You turned to give Remus a panicked look, begging him to help you. But before your father could order everyone to stop the interrogation, Fred put down his cutlery and stood up.

"With your permission" he said, causing everyone to fall silent. "I would like to say a couple of things too"

Barty crossed his arms and sank back into his chair as Regulus wiped his mouth with his napkin, looking at him sternly. James and Remus stared at him patiently, while Sirius observed him from behind his glass of wine, which he was still sipping.

"I knew i would have to face Y/n's family sooner or later and that made me very nervous" Fred began, looking at them one by one. "But i won't be intimidated by any of you because i'm here to prove that i want to date her"

You felt your lips slowly curve upwards on their own and Remus and James smiled too.

"I am very, very in love with her and i always treat her with immense respect. Not like a princess, but rather like a queen" Fred continued, his eyes resting on Barty at that statement. "And both she and i can assure you that if i didn't do this, Harry who is her best friend, would've already sent me to the other world. But since it hasn't happened yet, then i think i'm doing a good job. And i honestly believe there are even worse people out there you should be worried about"

Then Fred looked back at you and you could see his red cheeks, which matched his hair, while on his lips he had what all his friends described as his usual lovesick smile.

"Yes i'm a troublemaker, but i would never hurt her and i always try to keep her out of trouble. I care about her a lot okay, and i consider myself the luckiest man in the world to know that this wonderful girl really feels the same. And i hope that all of you who are her family, don't spend the rest of your life hating me just because i'm in love with her"

He sat back at the table and everyone remained silent for a few good seconds. Your face felt like it was on fire and you didn't know what to say after everything Fred had said. You just knew that you had no doubts about the feelings you had for him.

Suddenly, someone sniffed and when you turned to look at who it was, you saw to your surprise that Sirius was wiping his napkin under his eyes.

"Siri, are you... Crying?" Regulus murmured, looking at him with furrowed eyebrows. Sirius shook his head, looking at him with red eyes.

"O-Of course not! Do you think i'm going to cry over the romantic speech of a teenager in love with my daughter?? Absolutely not!" he retorted and then blew his nose.

Remus patted his shoulder and flashed you a smile, but then he noticed that James was also rubbing the palm of his hand over his eyes.

"Prongs, you too??"

James shook his head, looking at him with a pout. "I-I'm just crying because Sirius is crying, okay?? I'm very empathetic"

Barty grimaced.

"You're both disgusting, you're making me lose my appetite"

The two who were crying glared at him, while you and Fred exchanged an amused look.

"I say we all understand that your relationship is serious" Regulus then said with a small smile, alternating his gaze from you to Fred. "You're a good boy Fred Weasley so as far as i'm concerned, you have my approval" Fred smiled at him happily.

"Thank you Mr. Black, i really appreciate it"

"But..." the smile fell from Regulus' lips, and he looked your boyfriend straight in the eyes with an icy gaze. "If i find out that you made my niece suffer, i'll be happy to make you experience tortures you've never even heard of. I've done a lot of research, you know?"

Fred swallowed nervously.

"Uncle Reeeg…" you called back, making the man turn towards you.

"You know i'm joking, chérie" Regulus told you, changing his expression again to give you a small smile as if nothing had happened. "Let me scare him a little, that's what us Slytherin uncles are for, isn't it?"

James leaned towards Fred.

"He's just joking, don't worry" he murmured next to his ear. "Or at least i think... Just don't make him angry, okay? Regulus is scarier than Sirius, for your information"

Fred nodded fearfully, bringing the glass to his lips to take a sip of water to release the tension.

"Your kind words touched us Fred, especially Sirius here" Remus then said with a smile, nodding towards Sirius and continuing to hold his hand. "We're sorry if we were a little aggressive towards you. We were just worried about our daughter, you know?"

Fred nodded understandingly. "I understand. I would do the same if it were for my daughter. If i'll ever have one..."

"Hey!" Sirius said, pointing a finger at him. "Be careful with what you say, Weasley"

Fred looked down, making Remus and Regulus smile amusedly. You stretched out a foot under the table to touch his ankle and when Fred looked up at you you smiled sweetly at him, to let him know that he apparently succeeded in his aim of winning over your relatives. The worst was over and the evening would certainly continue for the better.

"Unbelievable..." Barty murmured, running his fork across his plate to play with his food absentmindedly. "One day my little viper comes home with her boyfriend and the next day she'll get married to him and the day after that we'll see our grandchildren with ginger hair running and screaming in the garden"

"JUNIOR!" "Uncle Barty!" you all exclaimed in unison.

"What?? What did i say??"

GUYS DO YOU THINK I SHOULD ADD EVAN TO THE SLYTHERIN UNCLES GANG?

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gay-dorito-dust · 9 months ago

Note

Hello! Just wanted to say I absolutely love your writing! A bit of a request for the batboys (Jason, Tim, Dick, and Damian), just something silly.

I recently saw a video of a girl saying her boyfriend's entire name as if he was in trouble only for her to tell him she loved him. It was funny to me at the time, it was also late at night lol.

Soo... How would the boys react to reader suddenly saying their full name out of the blue as if they were in trouble as a prank? 👀👀🤭

Dick is thinking to death about what he might done to earn you saying his full name, so much so the poor man was sweating bullets which each step he took in your direction

Did he miss an anniversary?

Date night?

Hayley’s vet appointment?

He wanted to know badly so that he could think up a way to make it up to you however you wanted. Steal his clothes because they smell like him, he didn’t care, he just didn’t like you using his full name.

So as he looked you deep in the eyes, mentally preparing for whatever left your mouth, only for you to relax your face and kiss his cheek much to his surprise.

‘I love you.’ You told him sweetly as you smiled at him.

‘What?’ Dick said.

‘I love you.’ You repeated, still smiling.

‘That’s…that’s all you’ve called my full, legal government name for, to tell me you love me?’ Dick asked as though he was waiting for a joke that was never going to come.

‘Yep.’ You said.

‘No catch.’

‘None.’

‘Can you stop calling me Richard now and go back to calling me baby, cutie, dickie bird or -preferable- handsome now?’ Dick again asks as he felt a weight lift off of his shoulders and was finally able to breathe again now that his questions could finally be laid to sleep.

You chuckled as you kissed his lip. ‘Sure, whatever you say, handsome.’

Damian is unfazed.

He’s use to his full name being used and he doesn’t exactly feel anything but annoyance that he has to leave the piece he has spent the better half of a week working on, just to answer your call.

Damian loved you without a doubt but he’s not exactly fond of whenever you try to follow along these tasteless ‘trends.’ Though he knows himself well enough to know that he would never stay upset or mad at you for long, you were his weak spot, his treasure forever and always even if this is the things they kept you entertained.

‘I know you’re not saying my full name for any particular reason my treasure.’ He told you rather plainly.

‘And how would you know there isn’t a reason I called for you?’ You replied, crossing your arms over your chest. Damian copied.

‘Because I have a good memory and I haven’t missed any important date, that’s not until next week, that and the fact that I can see the muscles in your face struggling to keep the smile at bay.’ Damian said as he pointed out your biggest sign that you were lying about something.

You always involuntarily smiled when telling a lie the title made it far easier for Damian to know that what you were saying was far from the truth. It was your Achilles heel and Damian knew how to use it to his advantage.

‘I’m not.’ You said, struggling to stop the smile.

‘You are and you’re doing a bad job at it my sweet.’ He replied as he was now the one cockily smiling, knowing he’s got you where he wants you that you couldn’t do anything but crack under his stare.

‘Fine you loser, I only called you in here to say I love you, there happy?’ You asked as you pouted.

Damian walked over to you and pressed a kiss to your forehead. ‘All you had to do is say my treasure.’ Was all he said as he spent the rest of the day with you and Titus.

Jason is immediately in front of you within a heartbeat.

He, much like dick, didn’t like it when you use his full name.

You’re his partner! USE THE CUTE NICKNAMES YOU CHOSE FOR HIM INSTEAD! Who’s this Jason Todd? He only responds to Jaybird, jay jay, or baby with the occasional sweetheart from time to time.

‘Chipmunk, can you please tell me want I did wrong?’ Jason asked as he walked into the kitchen where you called him from.

You furrowed your brows. ‘Wrong? I only called you in here to tell you I love you.’ You replied as Jason started at you for a bit before he pinched your side, making you squeal.

‘You’re a little shit, you know that sweetheart.’ Jason asked as he kept pinching your sides, making you giggle and squeal in his hold. ‘Had me all worked up and everything.’ He adds as he starts biting your neck playfully.

‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Have mercy!’ You cried, trying to push yourself away from Jason but it was proven nearly impossible when your man was a literal wall of muscle.

‘’All I can hear as the squeaks of a cheeky little mouse.’ Is all Jason said as he continued to tickle, pinch at your sides. He hates it when you call him his full name, it reminded him of lesser then ideal times, sure it sounded far sweeter and loved when it was coming from you rather than theirs, but he’d much rather you call him anything it his full name.

Tim knows what you’re up to the very moment you use his full name.

His detective brain kicks into hyperdrive and goes into the logical explanation as to why the sudden change.

You’ve never used it before, so why now did you use it unless you had seen a cute trend or something that you thought was hilarious on TikTok, or on another social media platform and wanted to try it out for the sake of following whatever was the thing to do.

That or you were genuinely mad and he should at least go talk to you in hopes of de escalating the situation, should it come to it.

‘I love you.’ You said.

‘You’ve said my full name, lured me out of my room, just to say I love you?’ Tim asked with a raised brow as though his heart wasn’t going nuts once again with how much your words easily affected him.

You paused for a brief moment before smiling. ‘Yeah sounds about right.’

Tim sighs but he couldn’t help but feel a smile creep up on his lips. ‘You’re ridiculous sometimes I swear.’ He says under his breath, ‘you almost had me second guessing myself there but I’m glad this is what you called me out for instead.’ He finished as he pressed his forehead against your own, feeling relaxed and clear minded once more.

‘You may say I’m ridiculous but you love it when I keep you on your toes, it’s like a brain exercise in a way.’ You cheekily told him as you kissed his cheek.

‘You call that a brain exercise?’ Tim said. ‘That was barely a brain activity but more like a brain fart if anything.’ He said as you pouted and smacked his bicep, causing him to smile.

‘We can’t all be smart asses like you drake.’ You said and Tim shrugged as he tugged you close.

‘True but you certainly are a pain in the ass.’ Tim replied, which only made you slap his bicep again as he chuckled and you bury your head into his neck.

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sh4nksslvt · 17 days ago

Note

Imagine Gear5!Luffy And normal luffy fighting over reader.......

wait! this is so smart! i like ur idea! dahaha

Double Trouble

When a freak accident splits Luffy into two, chaotic Gear 5 Luffy and sweet Normal Luffy — both versions hilariously compete for your heart, dragging the entire crew into the madness until everything returns to normal… mostly.

LUFFY X GN!READER | ONE SHOT

tags: fluff, sfw, love triangle(both are luffy lol)

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe

word count: 1.1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

It all started with a bang — literally.

One moment, you were helping Nami reorganize the treasure room. Next, the whole Thousand Sunny lurched with a loud BOOM, rattling the floorboards and sending gold coins scattering like fireworks.

"What now?" Nami groaned, hands on her hips.

You rushed topside with the others, weapons drawn or fists clenched — expecting an attack.

Instead, you got... two Luffys.

One perfectly normal, grinning Luffy. And one... not so normal.

The second Luffy floated lazily above the deck, hair glowing brilliant white, pupils swirling hypnotically, laughter bubbling from his lips like music.

"Y/N!!" both Luffys shouted at once when they saw you.

You took an instinctive step back.

"Nope," Zoro said immediately, reaching for his swords.

"Is it a mirror fruit?!" Usopp yelped.

"Did the Captain eat himself?!" Chopper wailed, clinging to Sanji's leg.

Robin tilted her head, studying the scene with polite interest. "Fascinating..."

Franky just laughed, "SUUUUPER confusing!"

"Focus!!" Jinbei barked, trying to corral the chaos.

But it was already too late. Both Luffys made a beeline for you, tripping over each other and crashing into your legs like toddlers desperate for attention.

Nami pressed two fingers to her temple. "I need a raise," she muttered.

You quickly learned that having two Luffys was both better and worse than you could imagine.

Better, because they were extra affectionate — offering you food, carrying your things, cheering whenever you smiled.

Worse, because they were in full competition mode.

Gear5!Luffy (as Chopper breathlessly called him) kept showing off — stretching his limbs into ridiculous cartoonish shapes, bouncing around like a rubber band on crack, pulling faces until you doubled over laughing.

"Look, Y/N!" he crowed one afternoon, turning his whole head into a massive heart, complete with a squeaky heartbeat sound.

Normal Luffy was no slouch either. He stuck to his strengths — stubbornness and sincerity.

"I don't need crazy powers," he told you solemnly, handing you a slightly squashed rice ball he'd made himself. "I'm already the best for Y/N!"

You bit into the rice ball, smiling despite yourself.

Meanwhile, the crew took sides — shamelessly.

"I bet the crazy one wins!" Franky announced loudly.

"No way," Sanji scoffed. "Y/N deserves normalcy."

"Technically," Robin mused, "both versions are Luffy."

"Yeah, but one’s glowing," Usopp said. "Glowing automatically makes you cooler."

Zoro snorted. "Idiots."

Brook just laughed. "Yohoho! Twice the Captain, twice the chaos!"

You wanted to protest — this isn’t a contest! — but then you’d look up and catch two sets of hopeful, sparkling eyes gazing at you, and the words would die on your tongue.

At first, it was cute.

They followed you everywhere — two shadows glued to your heels. They fought over who got to sit next to you at dinner, who got to carry your stuff during island stops, who could make you laugh harder.

Gear5!Luffy once turned the entire galley into a giant bouncy castle trying to impress you. Sanji screamed for three hours cleaning it up.

Normal Luffy responded by dragging you up the mast one night, pointing proudly at the sea of stars and whispering, "I wanted you to see somethin' only I can reach."

You sat there, high above the world, heart hammering against your ribs, wondering how you were supposed to choose between them.

But the tipping point came one evening.

The crew was gathered on deck — a rare, peaceful moment under a pink-streaked sky. Dinner plates were scattered everywhere, Brook strumming a soft tune on his violin.

You leaned against the railing, smiling at the sight.

Then — disaster.

Gear5!Luffy and Normal Luffy both lunged at you at once, trying to hand you a flower they'd picked from a nearby island.

Their arms tangled. They tripped. And with a yelp, they toppled overboard — dragging you with them.

The splash was enormous.

You resurfaced, spluttering and coughing, the two Luffys flailing beside you.

"Y/N!! Are you okay?!" they shrieked in perfect unison.

From the deck, Sanji was screaming bloody murder.

"YOU IDIOTS!! YOU COULD'VE DROWNED THEM!!"

Chopper was already tossing a lifesaver. Usopp was sobbing dramatically. Zoro just sighed, clearly contemplating letting you all drown to solve the problem.

Somehow, you all clambered back aboard, dripping wet and exhausted.

You sat there, shivering slightly, as the two Luffys crowded you again, guilt written all over their faces.

"I’m sorry," Normal Luffy whispered.

"Me too," Gear5!Luffy mumbled, his glow dimming.

You sighed heavily, wringing out your clothes. "You guys can’t keep fighting over me. You’re the same person, you know?"

They blinked at you.

"You both care about me. I care about you too. But... not if you hurt each other."

The deck fell silent.

Then, very slowly, the two Luffys turned — and smacked their foreheads together in a show of stubborn apology.

Thump.

You couldn't help it — you burst out laughing.

The tension shattered instantly. The crew joined in, cheering and clapping, Brook playing a jaunty tune.

"Looks like the Captain(s) learned their lesson," Robin said, smiling.

"Finally," Jinbei rumbled, folding his arms.

"Can we have just one Luffy now?" Nami pleaded.

You grinned, ruffling both Luffys' wet hair. "I'll take both for now."

They beamed at you — two idiots, one heart.

That night, you fell asleep curled between them on the deck, watching the stars wheel overhead.

For the first time in days, everything felt peaceful again.

You woke to soft snoring against your shoulder.

Blinking sleepily, you sat up — and found just one Luffy curled against you, straw hat sliding down to cover his eyes.

His hair was black again.

No swirling pupils. No crazy glow.

Just your Luffy.

You stared at him for a long moment, heart pounding in your chest.

The rest of the crew was stirring around the deck, yawning and stretching.

"Looks like whatever split him wore off overnight," Chopper said, checking Luffy’s vitals. "His heartbeat’s normal again."

"Amen," Sanji muttered, dragging a broom across the ruined galley.

Zoro shot you a sidelong look. "Guess you don’t have to choose anymore, huh?"

You smiled softly, brushing Luffy’s hair back from his forehead.

"No," you murmured, "I already chose."

Because whether he was wild or serious, glowing or not — he was still Luffy.

Yours.

Always.

And even if he didn’t remember everything that happened while split... The way he instinctively curled closer to you in his sleep said enough.

You leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

"Idiot," you whispered fondly. "I love you too."

The sun rose over the horizon, golden and bright, as the Thousand Sunny sailed on, carrying you, your crew, and the boy who had somehow, impossibly, stolen your heart twice over.

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece x y/n #idk man #fluff #luffy x reader #luffy #monkey d. luffy #one piece luffy #straw hat luffy #op luffy #monkey d luffy #gear 5 luffy #sun god nika #gear 5th #luffy x you

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 29 days ago

Text

Call Him 'Mr. Handle It' (Eren Y. x Black!F!Reader 18+ One Shot)

Pairing: Possessive BF!Eren Yeager x GF!Feader

Synopsis: Eren is unlike any boyfriend you have ever had...and you mean that because no other has been as obsessive and possessive with you as he is. While he isn't controlling, he will definitely let somebody know that you are his. So when he accompanies you to a work dinner and catches the creep at work that you've been complaining about lately, Eren makes it very clear that his baby is NOT to be played with. And despite his best efforts, he'll have to make that known to you too...in private.

Warnings: Smutty Smut, 18+ (MINORS DNI), Mild Plug!Eren x Mild Bimbo!Reader, Argument to Sex Pipeline lol, Masturbation, Voyeurism, Exhibitonism, Car Sex, Oral (Giving & Receiving), Blowjob While Driving, Doggy & Missionary on the Car, Dom!Eren x sub!Reader, Tongue Piercing, Deep Dicking, Reader Cums 2x, Mutual O, Creampie, Eren is Possessive, Protective, Obsessive & He is Strapped

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer's Note: Had this one up in my head after listening to SZA. Hope y'all enjoy! -Jazz

****************

"Eren, baby, just please try to stay calm tonight."

Eren, your boyfriend who will proudly introduce himself to anyone and everyone as just that, gives you a hard side-eye as you walk together into the high-end restaurant for your work-related dinner party.

"Whatchu mean?" he asks. "I'm always calm. You're talkin' to me as if I'm five seconds away from crashin' out, babe."

He cracks a smile to reassure you-his baby, his princess, his everything-and ease your frazzled nerves, but it doesn't do much to soften that anxious look on your face. It does nothing to take away from how goddamn gorgeous you look tonight in your black mini dress, nylon stockings, and heels.

"No, but..." You trail off, looking off to the side at the bar filled with the stereotypically loud and stuffy businessmen that are no doubt the higher-ups in your corporate company. No doubt you're looking out for someone in particular.

And Eren believes he knows just who, but he won't say it until he is sure he has found him for himself. 'Blonde hair, mole on his cheek,' he thinks to himself. Truthfully, this is the only reason he decided to come: to see just who is bothering his girl while she's working hard at work.

When you walked in from work last week, talking about how someone asked you out to your work-related dinner party that you had already texted Eren about, Eren was ready to cut a bitch. You had giggled about it at the time like nothing was wrong. "Yeah, that Rui guy I told you about asked me to the dinner," you said.

"Uh-huh," Eren replied, focusing hard on his cutting skills to avoid jabbing the knife into the counter. He can feel anger pouring through him at the blatant disrespect he was hearing with his own two ears. "And what did you say?"

"Don't worry, boo," you reassured him as you sat your cute ass on the counter beside him. "I told him that you're my date. He didn't know I had a boyfriend, but I never talk about my relationship at work."

Perhaps that is why this Rui guy that Eren has heard so much about kept complimenting your work fits and chatting you up until recently when he finally dropped his "nice guy" act and asked you out. Eren had been slicing garlic for a steak dinner that night, but all he could think about was pulling up to this bozo's house and putting that knife in his....

'No,' he thought, releasing his grip on the knife handle. 'No murder. Remember what is at stake.'

His booming tattoo shop, popular on Twitter, Instagram, and among celebrities like Rihanna. The cozy apartment he shares with you as your roommate and partner. His pit bull puppy Lil' Eren that you adopted for him for Christmas. His amazing friends and work team. His weed side hustle. His motorcycle.

You. Beautiful, adorable, amazing you. Eren has never felt so deeply about another person the way he does you. When he met you in that bar four years ago when you were introduced as a friend of Armin, his childhood friend, it was a done deal.

Once he got a look at those curves, those pretty brown eyes, and that smile, he was obsessed with you and wanted so much to scoop you up, put you in his pocket, and ride off with you on his motorcycle. He learned later on that the feeling was mutual.

As soon as you got a look at the tattoos roping those toned arms, his piercings, pretty smile, and intense, steely eyes, you were hooked. Eren always had a very confident way to him that remains quiet yet vibrant. It's in the way he speaks. It's in his gait. It's in his personality. You can't get enough of it.

And it's especially in the way he protects you. Some would say that Eren is obsessive, and perhaps, he may be, but anyone who sees you would be. As cute and as sweet as you are, how could a man not want to keep you safe?

Eren considers himself possessive over you. He doesn't go overboard telling you where to go or what to wear (he isn't THAT insane), but he does check in with you often and will gladly go anywhere you want to go.

You're going out with friends? He'll drive you there in his Range Rover and hold your tiny purse if you ask with a "Sure, sweetheart" and a kiss. You want to go to the gym and run some errands? He'll be your personal trainer and slice a motherfucker with his eyes checking out your ass in yoga pants. He is your unofficial bodyguard

He would gladly go to work with you too, but alas, he must let his baby be a big girl and a good little employee, and handle her business alone. But that doesn't mean he won't show up when you need him to.

Eren just doesn't like anyone toying with what is his. Like his pretty motorcycle and his pretty car, you are his alone, which means no one can even touch or look at you in a way he perceives as more than friendly. And this Rui guy? Definitely more than friendly.

This flirtatious leech has been irking Eren for quite some time-probably for over a month since you started chatting about him. Whenever you had come home with more news about his many attempts at buttering you up-"He complimented my skirt today!" or "He said I should wear my hair like this more often, tee-hee~"-, Eren patiently and quietly listened, hoping for the chance to see this guy and put his fist in his face.

Unfortunately, in addition to his possessive nature, Eren is also a hothead. He manages to combat it with boxing lessons and much-needed rough sex with you where he tosses your ass around the bed like you weigh nothing, but if someone is working his nerves, like a guy who can't take the hint that you're taken, he can't just keep calm and put his emotions on ice.

Luckily for you, he knows how important this dinner is to you, and will be on his best behavior. "You got nothin' to worry about, mama," he soothingly tells you as he walks you farther into the restaurant. "I'd never embarrass you like you think I would."

"I didn't say that," you protest. "You don't have to. It's all over that pretty face."

"I'm sorry," you whimper. "I just don't like to see you get mad. You'll make yourself sick."

"Always lookin' out fa' me," he dreamily sighs. "Don't worry about me, okay? If I see the guy, I'll just leave him be and let you handle it. I'm sure your boss is around here somewhere."

The plan tonight is for you to "handle your business" and talk to your boss about Rui aka the pervert fuck who keeps harassing you. Initially, you didn't think too much of anything about his compliments and advances being that you never disclosed that you were with someone.

But once you rejected his date to the dinner, Rui changed...or as you stated to Eren, he changed. When you came home this week with your mascara soaking your cheeks, which meant you had been crying, Eren was on about 100 and ready to commit a drive-by on the one who made you cry.

He hung up your pretty pink peacoat for you, took you in his arms, and sat you down in his lap. "What is it?" he gently asked you. "Talk to me, baby. I'm right here." You sobbed your pretty eyes out for a bit, ruining your makeup even more, before you answered him. "I-It's that guy, Rui," you sobbed.

You then proceeded to tell Eren that Rui told you during your shared elevator ride (in which he practically forced by running on and then pressing the pause button) that you led him on and that Eren is lucky to have gotten himself such an 'easy' girl.

Eren felt like wringing someone's neck at the thought of some bum fuck insulting and disrespecting his girl. "What he look like?" he asked. You took notice of his acerbic tone and suspiciously squinted at him. "Why?" you asked. "Eren, please don't do anything stupid."

Your boyfriend completely ignored you, tapping your nose. "You didn't answer my question: what does he look like?" He drilled you with an intense stare that you couldn't ignore or squirm away from. "Short, blonde, and has a mole on his cheek," you reluctantly muttered. "I wanna handle this, Ren. This is my business, and my job! So I should be able to handle it."

He had agreed, but God knows he isn't going to listen. While Eren is proud of you for wanting to do this on your own, he also isn't going to let you. He knows how guys like Rui are and he knows that if he finds out you reported him, he'll make your days at work even more unbearable.

"You trust me, right?" he asks you now. He stares down into your perfect face, beat to perfection with Fenty Beauty makeup. "Of course, I do," you reply, looking up at him with those long, doll-like lashes. "I'll always trust you, Ren." That gives him more happiness than anything else ever could. Your trust is everything to him...but so is your safety.

"Y/N!" someone yells across the room. "Over here! Bring your man too!" You both turn, finding a brunette standing in a purple gown, surrounded by your other coworkers. "Oh, there's Sasha!" you happily squeal. "Oooh, and they've got a chocolate fountain!" Eren chuckles at your cuteness, kissing your forehead. "You go and get yourself some. I'm gonna head to the bar and get some drinks."

"K," you giggle and give his cheek a peck before walking off. As you saunter away, he watches your ass jiggle, shake, and bounce in your dress. "Fuck," he mutters to himself, feeling his cock twitch. How the fuck did he get so lucky?

After shaking off his hard-on and the urge to bend you over in front of your coworkers, boss, and the entire company, Eren walks over to the bar located off to the right side of the room where he is accompanied by others in their best-dressed clothes. After flagging down the bartender and ordering you and your friends mini-margaritas, with a shot of vodka for himself, he is suddenly aware of the couple sitting a stool down from him.

The girlfriend is tall and slender with a red cocktail dress and stripper heels. "Where the hell is this bartender?" she scoffs, slamming one manicured hand down on the bar. "Is the service always this slow here?"

"C'mon, Cheryl, don't," her boyfriend mutters. "It's a fuckin' dinner party...or did you forget that? You were the one who was desperate to come." He sounds so bitter that Eren has to turn around to look...and nearly drops his glass.

Blonde hair. Short. A mole on his neck. So this is the Rui guy that he's heard so much about. He has an even more punchable face than Eren fantasized about. "I was not desperate!" Cheryl hisses, glaring down at him. She is taller than him even when sitting. "Why are you being such a dick to me tonight?"

Rui takes an unbothered shot of his beer which Eren is sure isn't his first or second. "Well, maybe it's because I was almost an hour late 'cause you were too busy with your hair earlier," he hisses back.

Cheryl slinks an arm on his shoulder, squeezing it. "I did that for you," she seductively coos, peering down at him with hooded eyes as she teases her curls with the other. "C'mooon, Rui. You don't think my hair looks good enough to grab?" Eren resists the urge to laugh into his drink. So this man is clearly cuffed, but flirting with other women? What a tool!

"Hey, Rui!" comes a shout. Rui's attention from Cheryl shifts and he looks towards his buddy. "Keni, my boy!" he guffaws. "I was waitin' to see your skinny ass tonight!" The two hug and pat each other on the back while Cheryl sits there, teasing her hair and looking very irritated. Especially since Rui doesn't introduce her, so Keni has to do it himself. "Hi, I'm Keni. I work in Rui's department with him."

"Cheryl," Rui's mystery girlfriend says with a tight smile. "Rui, I'll be right back." She doesn't clarify where she's going and Rui doesn't ask, so she struts off for the exit. Eren hopes she's planning on leaving his sorry ass here.

As the bartender returns with the round for you and your coworkers, Eren perks an ear to listen in on the two businessmen. "Soooo that your new girl?" Keni asks. Rui scoffs, his words slightly slurred. "Oh, please, dude! You know me. She just thinks she's my new girl." The raucous laugh that escapes him pisses Eren off even more.

"So what ever happened to that Y/N girl?" Keni curiously asks. "She's here, y'know." Eren watches as he looks towards you and your sinful red dress. "She looks good."

Rui only spares you a side-eye. "Oh, her," he spits. Eren grips his glass so tight that he is sure he'll break it. "Told me she had a boyfriend last week even though she's been actin' like she's been single this whole time! I mean, why didn't you say anything while I was giving you all of those compliments? Like you think I'm chatting about your hair 'cause I think I'm so interested in what you do to it?"

Eren drains the rest of his vodka before returning to his eavesdrop session. He is silent...and silent Eren isn't good. "So I take it you didn't hit?" his friend chuckles. Rui hums in acknowledgement. "It's for the best. She's easy anyway. You should see the shit she wears to work."

Quickly, Eren takes the round of mini margaritas and hurries away from the bar. If he had murder on his mind before, it is even worse now. He can't escape the images of him slamming Rui's face into the bar after smashing his glass over his fat head. 'Stay calm,' he thinks like he would chant a mantra. 'Stay calm. Stay fuckin' calm.'

When he gets back over to you, you and your bright smile are like a breath of fresh air. "Hey, baby, there you are!" you joyfully exclaim, holding a plate of chocolate, fruit, and pastries. Sasha ogles at the tray Eren holds. "Oooh, he got just drinks!" she giggles. "What a gentleman."

Eren stiffly hands the margaritas out to you and your friends. "Don't mention it," he says, but it sounds forced even to him. Your smile fades and your pretty eyes roam over his face. "What's wrong?" you whisper. God, you know him so well.

Eren's eyes flick across the room to the bar, just in time to see Rui's short stack ass making a beeline to the bathroom. "Nothin', babe, just gotta pee." He pecks you on the cheek, giving you a reassuring wink. "I'll be back. Enjoy yourself."

He leaves before you can ask anymore questions and makes a break from the bathroom, trailing right behind Rui. He cracks his knuckles while he does so. When he gets to the bathroom, Rui is right where Eren wants him: alone and unbothered, pissing in a urinal.

Eren decides to go for the one next to him. He only gives the dickhead a friendly nod when he unzips his pants and takes his dick out to do his business. They are silent, the only sounds being the muffled music from the dinner party and their piss hitting the porcelain urinals.

As soon as Rui is done, he zips up his slacks and moves to the sinks, whistling to himself. Eren follows after several seconds later, not wanting to seem too suspicious but also wanting to grab this chance by the horns. They both run hot water, the sound filling the tense air between them.

As Eren lathers his hands, he risks a chance at conversation: "Crazy out there, ain't it?" he asks. Rui is more than happy (and drunk) to engage. "Oh, yeah," he agrees with a laugh. "I'm only three drinks in and I need more. These kinda events get so borin' though."

Eren hums in agreement. "I would think if you didn't have a date and came alone." Rui pauses and turns to him, tapping a finger on his stubbly chin. "Say...do you know someone here? I don't think I've ever seen you before."

Eren's brows raise in question, wondering if the guy is serious. Didn't he see him walk in with you earlier? "You don't know who I am," he realizes. Rui's eyebrows knit in confusion. "Uh...no? Am I supposed to? You work in one of the departments?"

Eren bites his lip, choosing his next words carefully to reel Rui in. "No, I just know a...mutual coworker," he decides. "Someone you know quite well." He stops the water from running and silence ensues.

Rui blinks at him and gives him a humored smile. "Uh...okay? I know a lot of people well." He laughs to himself, trying in vain to ease the tension. It doesn't work.

"From the looks of it, yeah," Eren deadpans, "if you're talkin' to someone who's taken while you're dating somebody else...oh, excuse me. I meant fucking, not dating."

Now Rui's annoying, sloppy smile fades, replaced with an offended expression. "Excuse me?" he scoffs.

"Yeah, excuse you," Eren replies without missing a single beat. He turns to look at Rui fully, no doubt intimidating him with his size difference. "So you got a thing for my girl, is that right? Oh, yeah, you probably have no idea who I mean because you flirt with everything that walks and has a skirt. Does Y/N ring a bell to you?"

Rui blinks once and suddenly, his eyes grow big with fear. "Yeah, that's my girlfriend," Eren continues, his voice getting steelier. "Emphasis on 'my'. She's mine and I don't like anybody playin' with what's mine. 'Specially someone who makes her uncomfortable and can't take a fuckin' hint."

He doesn't go any deeper than that. He knows that Rui knows exactly what he means. "L-Listen, I don't want no trouble," he stammers.

"I know you don't, so allow me to give you a word of advice from me to your sorry ass." Eren leans his arm on the sink and leans in towards Rui who instantly leans back, wanting to get away from the taller, tattooed man.

"If you ever come near Y/N, if you ever talk to her, if you even so much as look her way, and I find out about it, you're gonna have to deal with me. Not her or your boss. Me." He tenses his jaw and narrows his eyes. "And let me tell you: you don't wanna deal with me," he whispers. "You don't want none of this."

Click.

Rui's eyes flick down at the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking in Eren's pocket. He sees it and Eren's thumb grazing the trigger. "How'd you get that in here?" he asks, his voice wavering with fear.

Eren passively shrugs. "I got my ways. None of 'em you need to worry about. What you need to worry about is those slacks." He nods down at Rui's crotch that has gone wet. The man peed himself! Eren resists the urge to laugh.

Your boyfriend smirks as Rui shakes his boots, terrified and traumatized. "So I can trust that I'm not gonna hear about you trappin' her in an elevator or askin' her out again, am I?" he asks, his voice low and menacing.

Rui is so afraid that it takes him several seconds to speak. "Yeah," he chokes out. "I-I mean, no. No, you won't. R-Right!" Eren takes his hand off of his gun and gives him a smile. "Good!" he chirps. Nice meetin' you, Rui! I'll see you out there!"

He then turns and leaves Rui standing there in a puddle of his own mess, open-mouthed, and shaking. When he returns to the party, you have finished your margarita and are standing by the bathroom waiting for him. "Hey, I was looking for you. Is everything okay?"

He smiles into your big, doe-like eyes and wraps a secure arm around you. "Better than okay, baby," he murmurs, nuzzling your cheek. "Where's your crew?" You lean your head into him the way he likes. "They went out to smoke, but you know me: I don't like cigarettes. I was trying to look for my boss to talk about-"

"Don't worry 'bout it," Eren interjects. You pause, taken aback by his words. Then a light flickers behind those eyes. "Did you...say something to him?" you carefully ask, and then your eyes narrow. You're mad. "Eren, I told you that I'd handle it."

"And you did, mama," he reassures you. All I did was see the guy in the bathroom and-"

You toss your arm off of him, enraged. "And what? You threatened him, didn't you?" Eren stays quiet, knowing better than to speak. "Ugh, I can't believe you! You never listen to me!" You begin to storm off, but Eren grabs your hand to stop you. "Hey, hold up," he growls.

But you once again toss his hand off of you, stinging him. "I don't wanna hold up. I wanna go home." So what do you do? You pull your phone out and tap-tap-tap away with those acrylic nails.

Eren forcefully takes your phone, holding it out of reach of you. "No, the fuck you're not orderin' an Uber right in front of me," he growls, looking at your screen. You look away from him, somewhere off to the side. "I don't wanna be around you right now, Eren."

But your boyfriend isn't having none of that. "Too fuckin' bad. And if you keep pushin' me, I'll tear that ass up right here. You know I'm serious, Y/N." At the steely gaze on his face, you begin to flush and cross your arms over your ample bosom. Bratty and defiant but quiet.

"C'mon before people start staring and I really embarrass you," Eren mutters. He takes your hand again. You don't shake it off this time.

************

On the car ride home, you say nothing.

You are completely silent. Even the soft music playing from Eren's AUX doesn't help to ease the tension. You are about fifteen minutes from home when Eren finally speaks. "So are we gonna talk or are you just gonna keep quiet the whole time?" he pushes.

You say nothing, still sitting there like the very angry passenger princess you are with your arms crossed and eyes locked on the world rushing by you out of the window.

Eren drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other on his lap. He wants so desperately to have it on your thigh instead. "Y/N, baby, I'm sorry," he sighs. "It's not that I didn't trust you to handle it. I just-"

"You just what, Eren?" you snap. He is taken aback by your sudden explosion. "You just couldn't help yourself? What a shock! You couldn't even keep your anger in check for ONE NIGHT!"

You have just opened Pandora's box for a guy like Eren. He grips the wheel so tight that his knuckles turn white. "Listen, I'm not likin' the way you're talkin' about me. I'm not a gasket ready to blow all the fuckin' time, Y/N, but you know how I feel about you. I told you from the jump that I'm very protective over what's mine."

You squint accusingly at him. "What's yours?" you scoff.

"Yes, mine," he replies, and his tone is final. Firm. Not to be argued with. "Da fuck? You got no problem with me callin' you that in bed, so why are you trippin' now?"

"Don't talk to me like that!" you bark, raising your voice now. "I'm not a car or a pet or a child, Eren! I can make my own decisions and handle situations myself! I didn't need your help!"

Your boyfriend scoffs, smiling dryly at the road. At this point, he is going 50 on a 30 speed-limited road. "So what? Now I'm the bad guy because I wanted to protect my girlfriend and make sure she's safe?"

Though the tension ebbs, it is still there hanging in the air. "Don't do that," you argue, but your voice grows soft. "Don't make me feel guilty."

"Yeah, you should!" he snaps. Now it's his turn to raise his voice and it makes you visibly flinch. "You should feel fuckin' stupid for even fighting with me about this! You tried to handle it once and that pervert didn't take the hint, so I drilled it in his head. Trust that he won't bother you anymore. No one is going to make you feel uncomfortable or unsafe while I'm here, Y/N, and maybe you need to get that drilled in your head too."

"Eren," you softly exhale. But he doesn't let you finish.

"I'm mad as fuck at you right now," he seethes, "but not enough to not make you see that I love you. I'm fuckin' crazy about you. Crazy enough to kill anybody that makes you frown? Yes. Crazy enough to tie you up and keep you in our apartment forever just to keep you safe? Hell yes. But you love your job, so the least I can do is make sure you're straight and no motherfucker tries you. You deserve better than that."

"Eren," you whimper. Your sweet voice manages to calm him down a smidge and he loosens his grip on the wheel. "We can talk more when we get home," he mutters. "And you're welcome, by the way."

You are silent, barely even giving him a little mewl of acknowledgment. He looks over and his eyes nearly pop out of his skull. "What are you doing?" he hisses. "Are you fuckin' touchin' yourself?"

Sure enough, there you are in the passenger seat, your thighs speed and your hand trailed down between them, gently rubbing yourself through your panties. Eren stares in shock as your manicured fingers toy with your pussy only covered by the thin layer of cloth. "Were you wet the entire time I said all of that?" he asks, curious. Your eyes flicker down at his pants, obviously aching for his cock.

"And don't lie," he growls. "You know I can tell when you're lyin' to me." Your eyes flick back up to him as your hand continues to rub yourself. "Y-Yes," you stammer.

Eren's cock springs to life in his pants, chubbing against his slacks. The tension before has vanished, but it is now replaced with something more sexual. "Ohhh, so it turns you on to see your man like this, hm? What ever happened to all that BS you were spewin' at the dinner?"

"Eren, please," you sigh. Your soft voice is an aphrodisiac to him as well as his kryptonite. No matter how much you piss him off, you never fail to turn him on and make him forget why he was even angry at you in the first place. You're a vixen the way you toy with your pussy and tease your breast at the same time, using one hand to pop both of your titties out for him to see.

Eren has never been the one to speed, but he is pressing hard on the gas now, weaving between cars and getting some honks in return. "You wanna put that hand somewhere, put it right here." He uses his free hand to slide it down to his crotch, gripping his semi-hard cock that is quickly pulsing and throbbing from the sight of you.

And like a fiend in need of her next fix, you unbuckle your seat belt, fully trusting Eren's driving skills, and switch position so you're kneeling in your seat. You then lean over his lap and proceed to rub him through his pants, sliding your palm up and down his hard-on. "Ah," he sighs, his head leaning back against his seat. "Fuck."

Feeling your soft hand applying pressure to his cock is making it so much harder to focus on the road. And when you finally unzip his pants and take his dick out so he can feel your soft, pretty hand wrap around him, he nearly swerves into another car trying to hop into a closer empty spot.

He raises a hand as an apology to the angered driver, but he isn't as apologetic when you begin gathering the pre-cum pooling at the head of his cock to slide down his shaft. A shuddery moan leaves his lips as you ogle at his cock, your eyes widening in excitement from the way it continues to harden and throb in your palm.

You're so excited that you begin to litter Eren's cock in kisses, adding some long licks along the vein that trails from his heavy balls to the dripping, bulbous tip. Eren chuckles, feeling ticklish from your kitten kisses along his dick. "What are you...oh, shit!"

He loudly gasps and grips the wheel with both hands as you begin to suck on his cock. The perfect grip you have on his shaft stroking him up and down combined with your soft lips, wet tongue, and heavenly throat gripping him tight are all enough to make him bust. "You little pervert," he chuckles. "You're so eager fa' me. Jesus, babe, you drive me fuckin' crazy, you know that?"

His hand slides along the back of your head as you suck away at him, hollowing out your cheeks to make your mouth vacuum-tight for him. He groans at the feeling, tiny vibrations of pleasure making his entire body shiver. When he stops at a red light, you slide your wet mouth off of him and stare up at him with hooded, lustful eyes. "M'sorry, Daddy," you murmur against his cock.

Eren has never wanted to fuck you more than right now, seeing his dick pressed against your soft cheek. "Prove it."

That is all he needs to say to you. Immediately, you go back to giving him your sloppy, tight throat as the red light turns green. He hits the gas immediately, speeding off so fast that his tires squeal. To anyone watching through their cars, they would only see your head bobbing up and down as you suck off your boyfriend like your life depends on it.

Eren soon grows feral, his hand curling in your hair and pushing you down deeper. "Deeper, babe," he growls. "Take me deeper. I know you can do it." You gag around his cock, the lewd sound making him throb. One of your hands press into his lap, stopping you from taking too much.

"You let me worry 'bout drivin', okay?" he breathlessly hisses. "You just worry about takin' this cock." You do as you're told, continuing to sloppily suck off your man, causing saliva to dribble down your chin and onto Eren's balls and the leather seats. Neither one of you care. Not when Eren's moans sound so fucking hot to you and your mouth feels so fucking good to him.

Curiosity gets the better of him and he takes his hand out of your hair to instead occupy underneath your dress. He smiles as you moan around his cock as his fingers glide between your thighs to move your panties to the side. Sure enough, when his index and middle fingers glide along your puffy, soft slit, his fingertips become sticky.

"Fuck, you're wet!" he hisses. "You're such a little slut, makin' me this mad just to get me off." His thighs quiver and shake when you begin to suck him off faster, your hand stroking what your mouth can't take, desperate to make him bust.

But not yet. Not in here. He's so glad that he manages to get off the highway before quickly switching lanes and getting on a route that isn't for home. A sharp left turn makes you squeak, his cock slipping out of your mouth. "W-What are you doing?" you gasp.

He silences you by pushing your head back down towards his cock. "Don't worry about it," he growls. "And don't stop suckin' till I stop this fuckin' car."

Once again, you do as he orders and keep sloppily and wetly blowing him as he drives like a maniac. When he manages to scout out an empty hospital building with an open, empty garage, he just about praises God. Sssssskrt goes the tires when Eren literally Akira slides into the empty parking garage.

And like a good girl, you finally stop sucking. You sit up, your eyes big and your mouth wet, all of your lipgloss gone. "Get out," he finally demands. He doesn't even look at you when he says it. "What?" you dumbly ask. He turns to you and from the way your breath hitches, he knows that you know that you're in trouble. "I didn't stutter. Get out the car."

With some hesitation, you wipe the spit off of your mouth and open the door to get out of the car. Your dress is hiked up to show off your panties that Eren realizes is a thong from the way your asscheeks eat it up. He smacks your ass on your way out before he slides out of the driver's seat, dick still out and slamming the door shut.

He meets you around the front of his car and stands behind you, your ass pressed against his cock still dripping in your spit. He groans in your ear as the cool air makes him shiver and his naked cock twitch. You whimper as you feel him, trapped with nowhere to escape.

"You wanna be a slut, this is what sluts get," he cooly says. "Hands on the hood. Bend that ass over fa' me." Slowly, you do as you're told, pressing your hands against the car hood. Eren watches your ass with interest, loving how your thong sinks deeper between your asscrack. "A thong, baby?" he tsks. "Oh, you we're hopin' to get fucked later tonight."

Thwap, thwap, thwap!

You let out a soft, slutty moan when you feel his cock slap each of your asscheeks before gliding down to tease your hole. "E-Eren, baby, wait," you weakly protest. "Someone could see us."

Eren sucks his teeth, unashamed and unbothered by these other people. "I don't give a fuck," he growls. "Should've thought about that before you started playin' with that pussy in my car. Now do you wanna get my mouth or not?"

At the prospect of not receiving his tongue on your needy pussy, you bite your lip and turn to stare at him over your shoulder. "I do," you confess. "Please, Daddy. I'm sorry." He smirks at you and presses a kiss to your ass as he kneels down behind you. "You will be."

You realize just how serious he is moments later when he has you arching your ass into him as he sloppily and greedily eats your cunt over the hood of his Range Rover, his tongue piercing sliding along your slippery clit as his hands grip and spank your ass.

You slip and slid along the hood, your tits nearly spilling out of your dress and pushing against the cool metal. “Oh, my God!” you moan. “Eren!” You can't keep quiet. Your body refuses to as your man tongues your pussy like his life depends on it.

He pulls away to grin up at you, prying your asscheeks apart with his hands to admire the way his saliva drips from there down to your glistening pussy. “Yeah?” he teases. “Does my baby like that piercing?”

He teases you with his tongue again, making sure to slide his metal stud against your needy button while he uses one thumb to gently rim your asshole. Your moans and whimpers grow louder, echoing throughout the empty lot. “Yes, fuck, Daddy, keep going!”

Hearing your sweet voice grow ragged with need and pleasure makes Eren go feral. How he loves being the man to feast on your cunt. How he loves being your boyfriend and your Daddy, using you when he wants and pleasing you when you need. His tongue sinks into your pussy, filling you up and making you nearly moan your voice box out. “So good,” he mutters into your hole. “All for me.”

He continues to lick and slurp away at everything you give him, making your thighs quiver and your ass bounce against him as you begin to fuck his tongue. Finally, with a desperate "Fuck, Ren, I'm gonna cum!", you finally flood Eren's tongue with all of your sweet honey, drenching his mouth and chin in your cream.

Hearing your moans and tasting your cum makes Eren take one hand off of your ass to stroke his hard, throbbing cock, fucking his fist at the sound of you. After he finishes up licking you clean and pressing kisses along your pussy to make you twitch, Eren finally stands with his dick swinging between his thighs and leans over to see you.

You are pressed against the hood, breathing heavy and looking like an absolute slut with your ass and pussy hanging out of your dress hiked up over your hips. He gently lifts you up and turns you around to face him, growing harder at the sight of your messy mascara and ruined lipgloss. "Now do you get the message?" he asks, gripping your chin in his palm. "Or do you need a better persuasion?"

You gulp, looking like a fish out of water. "I...I want..." He smiles, watching your pretty brain leave your head. "Huh?" he teasingly asks. "You want what? C'mon, use your words. Tell me what my baby wants."

He takes his cock and taps it against your clit, making you whimper and grip his shoulders as if you're scared he will disappear. "You," you gasp out. "Please, Daddy! I need you in me now!" And as you turn back around and assume the position, Eren feels himself falling more in love with you. "That's a good girl," he whispers. "Always so eager...so needy fa' me."

He begins to kiss along your spine and gently massage your ass, earning soft moans and giggles in response to his ministrations. "Tap me twice if it's too much. You got it?" He taps his cock against your ass before sliding it down to your slit, gently pressing the head against the entrance of your pussy. "Yes, Daddy," you obediently reply. "I won't forget."

But it never is too much for you. Not when Eren's thick cock is stretching you out in the best way possible as he fucks you doggystyle against his car. Your moans and the sound of his thighs repeatedly clapping against your ass echo throughout the empty lot, creating a symphony of sex.

To anyone walking by all they would see is you, his beautiful girl getting her pussy filled and her tits massaged by her semi-naked boyfriend, his pants down and his shirt unbuttoned to reveal his toned torso and tattoos. “Oh!” you moan. “Oh, fuuuuck yes!”

Eren fucks you harder and rougher the more he watches you bounce around his cock like a good little bunny, your ass shaking and quivering so enticingly for him. “Now do you see how you make me feel?” he growls. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy, baby. You and this fuckin’ body.”

SPANK!

You wail out as his hand smacks your ass hard, so loud that one would think that it was a gunshot. “Only I get you this way. No other man could compare to me.”

SPANK!

“Ain’t that right, baby?” he growls in your ear, leaning over to sink his cock in deeper. “Say it! Let me hear you!” Despite your whimpering and sobbing in pleasure, you manage to reply to him despite how illegally good you're feeling on his cock. “Y-Yes!” you whine. “Harder, Daddy, please!”

Eren forces you to straighten your back and lean against him so your back is flush against his front. He fondles one of your tits with one hand while he palms your ass with the other, still pistoning into your tight, wet heat with abandon. “Like this, babe?” he asks. “You want it like this?”

He grins at your blissful, slutted-out expression, your mouth open and eyebrows knitted in ecstasy. “Yes, yes, Eren, fuck me!” you cry out. “Faster! Please!” He pecks your cheek, laughing in your ear at your pleas. “Damn, already? Just a needy thing.”

He begins to slow down his thrusts until he pulls his cock out of you, earning a whine of protest. He then swirls you around and picks you up, his hands under your ass as your legs and arms wrap around his body. “I’ve gotchu, sweetie. You just hang on, okay?”

You nod, giving him the sweetest smile that makes him want to kiss you stupid and cum all over your face all at the same time. He shares a passionate kiss with you as he sits you down on the car hood and proceeds to give you long, deep, slow strokes that steal your breath away.

The way you grip his shoulders and stare deep into his eyes makes Eren fuck you faster until finally, you're bouncing on his cock once more. Only this time, he gets a great view of your pretty titties and gorgeous face. “Oh, fuck, oh, oh, oh!” At this point, you’re a singing canary for him, loud and proud.

Eren loves every moment of it. He loves it when you get so lost in the pleasure that your pretty, brown eyes fill with tears and you allow him to spread your thighs wide so he can get his cock deeper inside of you. “God, look at you,” he groans. “How are you this fine? This fuckin’ pretty?"

So enchanted by you, your messy hair, and your glassy eyes, he brings you in for a sloppy tongue kiss where your moans are shared and you gently suck on his tongue, making him want to bust. No other woman has been able to arouse him as much as you do.

He would die for you. He would kill for you. He doesn't care which. Anyone that lays a hand on his baby will feel his wrath, including that stupid creep at your job.

When you pull away, you gasp and he feels your pussy clench around him. “Eren,” you sob. He smirks at you, keeping up the same perfect pace as you begin to frantically rub your clit, desperate to cum. “Yes, baby? What’s up? You wanna cum?”

“Mmm-hmm!” you pitifully hum, nodding as fast as a bobblehead. Eren grips your throat, tightening his fingers around your neck just the way you like. “Then keep sayin’ my name. Tell me who the fuck you belong to and you’d better mean it.”

Faster. Harder. Rougher. He fucks you until you are shouting, your voice echoing throughout the empty lot, giving everyone and anyone a listen to the good sex and dick you're getting right now. “You!” you shout. “You, you, Daddy, always you! Fuck, Eren, m’close!”

Eren grunts at the feeling of your cunt tightening around him, squeezing and stroking his nut out of him. “Me too,” he groans. “Cum with me right now. Give it to me, baby. Fuck, I love you so much.”

His face nuzzles yours, your nose brushing against each other's, lips barely touching. “I love you too,” you gasp before his lips cover yours. The two of you kiss and kiss and kiss as Eren fucks and fucks and fucks you until finally-

“Fuck!” Eren groans as his orgasm draws every ounce of cum out of his shaft. He tightly grips you to him as he unloads his spunk into your quivering pussy as you cum all around his cock, adorable moans and sweet whimpers escaping you as your orgasm takes you sky high. Eren can feel your mixed cum dripping down to his balls, soaking them. Maybe he'll let you suck it all off at home.

But for now, he needs to tend to you. After his aftershocks subside and you have tightly embraced each other for some time, he finally pulls away to look into your eyes. “You good, mama?” he pants. You give him a dazzling, joyful smile, an afterglow glazing your skin and face. “Yeah,” you giggle. “I’m perfect, Daddy.”

‘I know you are,' is all Eren thinks.

When you tight your inner thighs around him, keeping him there, he laughs. "Y'know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you like the way I handle shit." He presses a kiss to your forehead, his fingers gliding along your sweat-soaked skin.

"I do," you giggle, nuzzling his neck. "I'm sorry about earlier. I hate it when we fight." He gently shushes you, stroking your hair. "M'sorry, too. I just love you too much."

"I love you too, Ren," you whisper. "You're the only one for me."

Words cannot express how happy that makes your boyfriend...and also how horny it makes him too. You squeal when you feel his cock throb inside of you, signaling his returned arousal. "Eren!" you gasp.

He shrugs, giving you a smirk. "What? You turn me on, you know that." He possessively grips your ass, pawing at the soft globe. "You up for another round?"

Your eyes swish from right to left, obviously nervous but an excited smile appears on your lips. "Out here?" you whisper.

Eren raises an eyebrow of interest at you and your freakiness. "I meant back at home...but if you want it out here, we can do that too. I could even take you on a ride on my motorcycle and do you there. I like this freaky side of you."

He presses a kiss to your neck, earning a moan as he begins to roll his hips against you, once again stimulating your sensitive pussy. "Only a real man can handle that," he chuckles. "That asshole wouldn't know what to do with you. And not to body shame, but his dick is fuckin' ugly."

"Shut up," you groan.

"Just sayin'."

THE END.

#black fanfic writer #smutty smut #my works #black coded reader #black writers #attack on titan smut #aot smut #eren jaeger smut #eren x reader #eren x black y/n #eren x black fem!reader #eren yeager #eren jaeger #eren jeager smut #plug eren x black reader

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icarusignite · 1 month ago

Text

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (p.1)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Civilian! GN! Reader

Summary: In a city where kindness is fleeting and warmth feels like a myth, a reclusive vigilante crosses paths with another ghost orbiting the same darkness. What begins as cautious companionship spirals into something tender, fragile, and terrifying. But when fear drives him away, and violence drags you to the edge of death, Jason Todd is forced to confront the one truth he’s always run from: some things, once lost, can’t be stitched back together. And some things are worth bleeding for.

Warnings: Stabbing, mentions of blood and injuries, Jason is kind of a jerk in the beginning, but forgive him for it, he's got attachment issues lol. Hurt/comfort, angst. slowburn. YEARNING, lots of yearning, my boy is a yearner

Word Count: 8.5k

A/N: I am not a medical professional lol so I can't say how accurate this is lol, but just go with it for the angst vibes. This is super self-indulgent lol, I wanted the kind of fic that causes you physical pain so here we are. This was getting a bit too long so I'll post the second part later, lemme know if yall wanna be tagged.

This is my first time writing for DC or the batboys, but the brainrot is real. This is technically a part of a bigger Jason long fic I'm working on but I just really needed to get this scene out lol

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

You were friends, weren't you?

You'd like to think so. It made it easier to explain away the ache in your chest every time he left without a word. Or the warmth that bloomed beneath your ribs when he showed up, battered and brooding, yet somehow still seeking you out.

But then again, did vigilantes even have friends?

Arms folded loosely across your chest, you leaned against the doorframe of your cramped kitchen, watching him from across the dimly lit room. Your apartment was small, embarrassingly so, and the light above flickered in that way you kept meaning to fix. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and cheap chamomile tea, curling around your ankles like smoke.

He sat at your wobbly kitchen table with his boots carelessly propped on the worn wood, the laces still muddy from whatever hell he'd clawed his way out of tonight. His brow was furrowed, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as he wound a fresh bandage around the gash on his arm. A grimace tugged at his mouth as he worked, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

His mask lay discarded beside the pile of bloodied tissues, a splash of crimson on your table that felt far too symbolic. You hated how used to the sight you'd become. It no longer made your stomach turn the way it once did. Now, it just sat there, like a guest you hadn't invited but didn't dare ask to leave.

You wanted to help. You always did, but in the careful months since he'd tumbled, quite literally, into your life, you'd learned not to offer unless he asked. Red Hood—or Red as you had fondly dubbed him because you still didn't know his actual name—was a man built of walls and wreckage, of hairline fractures hidden behind sardonic grins and barbed quips.

He didn't like prying. So neither did you.

You still remembered the first time you'd met him. Your life had been steady, if not dull, up until then. A slow existence filled with microwaved meals, cracked book spines, and long, lingering silences. Then, as if fate had grown bored with your monotony, he had crashed into it. One minute, you were walking home from work. The next, you were the sole witness to something that had no business existing in your version of reality. Guns, masks, blood. Gotham in all its gritty glory.

You were stubborn enough to get involved. He was—well you didn't quite know why he let you get involved.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. Maybe it was. But even now, as he sat there in your kitchen like he belonged, you weren't sure what tethered him to you. The case you'd helped him with had ended days ago. Loose ends tied. Threats neutralized. And yet he hadn't stopped coming.

That first time he'd stumbled through your bedroom window with a bullet wound, all adrenaline and snarled curses, you'd expected him to leave as quickly as he came. But he hadn't. He'd let you stitch him up. Said nothing when you offered him a drink, or when you laid out an old quilt on the couch. You hadn't known his name then, and still didn't. But you knew his face. You knew his eyes. You knew the way his shoulders stiffened before a storm of emotion, and the subtle quirk of his mouth when he found something amusing but didn't want to admit it.

He reminded you of a stray cat, too proud to ask for affection, but too lonely to stay away from the warmth you offered. So you gave it.

Quietly. Patiently. Repeatedly.

You'd begun to anticipate him in all the little ways you shouldn't have. Setting out a second mug when you brewed tea in the middle of the night, because somehow, without fail, he would appear just as the steam began to curl from your chipped porcelain cup. Leaving the bathroom light on, knowing he preferred patching himself up under its dim, humming glow. Folding the throw blanket on the couch just the way he liked—creased at the corners, but not tucked in. He hated feeling confined.

You kept extra ramen in your pantry. Started buying that brand of granola bars he always grumbled about but never left untouched. And now, here he was again in your space, holding his pain in the same way you held your thoughts.

Tight, hidden, private.

You watched him from the doorway and wondered if he saw you the way you saw him. If he noticed the weight of his presence, or how your world tilted subtly every time he stepped into it. If maybe, just maybe, he was coming back not because he had nowhere else to go, but because you were here.

No, that was stupid. You were a lot of things, but you weren't stupid. The city had no room for the foolishly naive.

But were you friends?

You wanted to ask him, but you didn't. You were afraid of what the answer might be. Hope was a delicate thing, and in a city like Gotham, it never lasted long.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. Sometimes, when the silence stretched long and unbothered between you, you found yourself playing a strange little game in your mind. You tried to guess his name.

It had started as a harmless, idle curiosity, but it had grown into something you clung to when his presence lingered long after he'd gone. The guessing had become a comfort of sorts, as though naming him might make him more real. Less myth. Less mystery.

He didn't look like a Robert. You imagined a Robert might wear boat shoes and a pressed polo, maybe even a handlebar mustache if he was particularly insufferable. A Simon would have round glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a fondness for spreadsheets. Anthony? No, far too smug. He'd be the kind of man who winked at waitresses and thought himself charming. Luke maybe, if he had more of a boyish softness to his features, but Red? No, he had an edge carved into him, all angles and tribulations.

Occasionally, when he sat slouched like this, the flickering bulb overhead casting harsh shadows over his jawline, you'd swear you had seen him before.

Not like this, with blood seeping slowly through bandages and a half-gloved hand trembling ever so slightly from the adrenaline still wearing off. But somewhere, in the back of your mind, there was an echo. A fading image of a photograph you might've once seen in a crumpled newspaper. Something about a billionaire's dead son. An obituary that featured a smiling young boy with bright eyes and a future that might have been written in gold leaf and marble.

You'd dismissed it as fast as it came. You never paid attention to socialite tragedies. The world of gala dresses and legacies was so far removed from yours that it barely felt real. Besides, that boy was dead, buried in some manicured graveyard you'd never be allowed into. And this boy was sitting in your kitchen bleeding all over your table.

Alive.

Though, perhaps not for long, if he kept living like this. He had the same regard for his own life that you had for the cracked mugs in your sink. Tolerated, but barely.

You watched him fumble again with the blood-slick bandages, the crimson staining through like watercolours blooming on canvas. He was trying to wrap his shoulder one-handed, which clearly wasn't working. The angle was wrong, and the effort was shaky.

You bit your lip and told yourself not to interfere.

He never asked nor expected your help, and that unspoken boundary hovered between you like a landmine, one you dared not disturb. And yet, eventually, you couldn't take it anymore.

You crossed the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps, like approaching a wild thing that might flee at the first sudden movement. He stiffened, the line of his back going rigid as you rounded the table, but he didn't look up. Didn't flinch. Didn't utter something sharp and dismissive, like you half expected him to.

You took it as a good sign.

Without a word, you pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. For a heartbeat, the room felt breathless. He tracked your movement with the wary precision of a soldier, but he didn't stop you. When your fingers reached for his arm, he tensed beneath your touch, muscles coiled like a drawn bowstring, but he didn't pull away.

That was enough.

You worked in silence, your touch careful and clinical. You unwound the soaked bandages and tossed them aside, grabbing the rubbing alcohol and clean gauze. You murmured apologies when he hissed at the sting, but you didn't stop. If he could live through getting stabbed and shot at, you figured he could endure a little antiseptic.

His skin was warm beneath your fingertips—fever-warm, maybe—but sturdy. He was littered with half-healed wounds and fading bruises, scattered across the landscape of him like constellations only he could decipher. There was a story written in each of them, and you hated that you wanted to read them. To know the ugly details. To understand.

You tamped the impulse down. This wasn't about curiosity. It was about care.

Your gaze lingered longer than it should have. At the sharp ridge of his collarbone. The sinew of muscle taut beneath tattered fabric. The way his calloused hands tightened into fists when the pain surged, but never once tried to stop you.

You should probably get him some lotion for Christmas. The thought rose unbidden, absurd, but somehow entirely fitting. "For your dry, murdery hands," the label might read.

If this... whatever this was... even lasted until then.

When you were done, you gave his arm a light pat. It was gentle, like punctuation at the end of a sentence you didn't know how to finish. Then you stood, discarding the bloodied tissues, and scrubbing your hands clean. You moved on autopilot, draining the tea that had long gone cold and replacing it with a fresh cup—extra honey, just the way you'd learned he liked it, even if he never said it aloud.

Then, because you were helpless against the urge to say something, you leaned one hip against the table and smirked faintly.

"Careful, Red," you drawled, "if you keep getting hurt like this, I might start to think you have a thing for my first aid skills."

He didn't answer right away, but his lip twitched. It was a breath of a reaction, but it was there, and for someone like him, that was practically a sonnet.

You sipped your tea, letting the warmth sit on your tongue before you spoke again. He hadn't touched his yet, staring down at the swirling amber surface like it held answers he hadn't figured out how to ask for.

"You're less chatty than usual," you remarked casually. "And I say that knowing full well you're already a man of, like, four words max."

Nothing. Not even a smirk this time.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were brooding. Which, y'know... shocker."

Still nothing. No anger, just quiet. It was oddly unlike him.

"You don't have to tell me, of course," you amended quickly, not wanting to come off as nosy. "Whatever it is. I just—you're carrying it like it's made of concrete."

You pressed your lips together for a moment, then tried to fill the space again, your tone lightening, the way you knew he preferred it when things got too close to raw.

"I mean, if this is about the tea, I can make it again. Stronger. Less... 'grandma's house' and more 'man on the run.' I just figured you liked honey, seeing as you keep finishing the jar and pretending it was like that when you found it."

That earned you a tiny huff, maybe a laugh, maybe a scoff. You were not sure which, but it was something.

Emboldened, you tilted your head and gave him a crooked smile. "Or maybe you're just disappointed I haven't guessed your name yet. I'm running out of options, you know. I've gone through the entire cast of Friends at this point."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"No, really," you continue, warming to your own ramble. "Ross? Too whiny. Chandler? Too annoying. Joey? ...Well, I could see it, but you'd have to say 'how you doin' at least once to convince me."

When he didn't respond, you wondered if you'd made a mistake with the reference. Did vigilantes have time to watch sitcoms? Maybe you could convince him to partake in a marathon with you.

You let the inevitable silence stretch for a beat, then wrinkled your nose and glanced at him over the rim of your mug.

"So, just for my own peace of mind, you are housebroken, right?"

Your guest didn't look up, but his head tilted curiously. One eyebrow quirked the tiniest bit, the closest thing to a response you were likely to get when he was in one of his moods.

You gestured broadly toward the red helmet on the table, the scuff of his boot across the wood grain, and the faint trail of dried blood from the kitchen. "I mean, it's starting to feel like you live here, Red. And if that's the case, I should start charging you rent. Or at the very least, make you take out the trash once in a while."

No response.

"Because I don't just let any emotionally constipated vigilante bleed all over my apartment. I have standards too."

A twist. Barely there, but his mouth moved, almost betraying a smile. You held onto that like it was gold.

"I'm just saying," you went on, folding your arms dramatically, "if you're gonna keep showing up here at three a.m. looking like you got in a fight with a deli slicer, you could at least pretend to be a little more domesticated. I don't know, maybe wipe your feet at the entrance? Use the actual door? Bring flowers?"

His voice, when it finally came, was roughened by fatigue. "You want flowers?"

You blinked at him, caught off guard. "Okay, well now it's weird because you asked. If you actually show up with flowers, I'm going to assume there's a bomb in them."

He let out a quiet huff. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.

"And don't even think about roses," you added, waving a finger. "Too cliché. You're more of a—I don't know—carnivorous plant guy. Like a spooky Venus flytrap. 'Cause nothing says housewarming present like a plant that eats things."

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours. They were unreadable, but the heaviness behind them seemed to ease, just a little.

"You done?" he demanded, gruff but not annoyed. More like he was indulging you.

You were not, and the next words spilled out in an involuntary confession.

"Sometimes I think about how strange this all is. You. Me. This. Whatever this is." You gesture loosely between you. "You're out there dancing with death on a nightly basis, and I'm here pretending tea can fix bullet wounds."

You don't mean for the smile that followed to be so sad, but it was.

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

For a moment, he was utterly still, the kind of stillness that lived in the eye of a storm. His response came frayed like it was coming through a static radio.

"Why?"

It knocked the air from your lungs. It wasn't quite an invitation. Not quite a wall. A wound, maybe.

You wanted to ask what was bothering him. Wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand, just for a second, to tell him without words that he was not alone. That he didn't have to be.

Jason hadn't meant for the question to sound like an accusation.

"Why?"

It slipped out sharper than he intended, but it had tumbled off his tongue before he could stop it. And now he sat there, watching you across the table, your hands wrapped around that chipped mug like it was the most natural thing in the world to sit across from someone like him and say:

"I guess I'm just glad you come back. That's all."

Something in his chest tightened. An ache, deep and reflexive, like a muscle spasming around an old injury. You had said it so simply, like it was obvious, like it wasn't a concept that felt foreign when he tried to believe it.

Glad? To see him?

It couldn't be real. No one was glad to see him. Not really. Not anymore. And the way you'd looked at him when you said it made his defences flare up like an allergic reaction.

He had to ask. Why.

Why would you be glad to see someone like him? Someone who showed up at your window uninvited. Someone who never told you his real name. Someone who brought death on his heels and stayed too long.

Your lack of response only made it worse. You looked at him like he was the one not making sense.

Of course, you were glad he came back.

He hated how fast the words came after that, how he couldn't stop himself from lashing out.

"You shouldn't be."

He said it like a truth he needed you to believe, even if he didn't. Said it hard, like if he drove the words deep enough, they'd take root and push you away before he got used to the idea of you staying. Because he was growing too attached. That much was certain.

It had started creeping in quietly, like a burglar. He hadn't even realized how bad it had gotten until he caught himself during a patrol, slipping off to some rooftop, hand digging into the inner pocket of his jacket for the burner phone you had the number for.

For emergencies. That was all it was meant for. That was the excuse he told himself when he'd scrawled the number down and pressed it into your hand.

You never used it. You never called or even texted. You let him keep his secrets, and that should have made it easier to let go. It didn't. And he'd found himself checking that phone anyway, half in agony, half in hope.

He still had it. Weeks past the point when he should've tossed it and gotten a new number, like he always did. But he kept this one. Maybe one day, you'd need him. Maybe one day, you'd use it. Part of him hated how much he wanted you to.

He stared at your tea across from him now. You never asked if he wanted any. You just knew.

And that wasn't all.

The second mug you always left out on the counter after midnight. The way you started keeping extra bandages under the sink. That one faded hoodie you folded up and left on the back of the couch after he complained—once—about the cold. The cabinet with the snacks you didn't like but kept stocked anyway.

You made space for him without asking anything in return, without ever pushing.

It made his skin itch. It felt like walking into a dream that would crumble the second he touched it. Too temporary. Too good. Too false. Like one of those illusions, fate gave people like him, just long enough to feel warm before it was ripped away again.

Because nothing good stayed. Not for someone like him. Not in Gotham.

But somehow, impossibly, you kept leaving the light on, and he kept coming back.

You tilted your head slightly now, watching him from across the table, your lips pressed into a gentle smile. There was no fear in your eyes. No judgment. Just the quiet patience of someone waiting for a wounded animal to decide whether it wanted to be held or bite.

Jason Todd only knew how to bite, even when he didn't mean it. Especially when he didn't mean it.

Before either of you could speak again, he stood, the legs of his chair scraping sharply against the floor. The untouched tea on the table wobbled in its cup but didn't spill. Not yet. It waited, just like you did.

"Don't," he snapped suddenly, dangerous in the way a wounded beast growled before it struck. "Don't look at me like that."

You blinked, startled, rising instinctively from your chair like you could fix it before the moment broke entirely.

"Like what?"

"Like I matter." The words were bitten off. "Like this means something."

He didn't mean to say it, but it was already happening, and he couldn't stop himself. The vulnerability curled in his gut like something shameful. Something that had to be punished before it grew too loud.

"I'm not some stray you can keep feeding and expect it not to bite your hand." He stepped back from the table like your kindness was something venomous. "You think leaving out tea and wrapping up my arm makes this normal? Makes me safe?"

You flinched imperceptibly, but Jason saw it. You always wore your heart on your sleeve, letting your emotions bloom too brightly across your face. It made you easy to read, and he knew when his words hit home, when the warmth drained from your expression, replaced by sheer hurt. He felt it, sharp and sudden in his chest like a splinter lodging deep into scar tissue.

But he kept going. He had to.

"I don't need your pity. I don't want to be your goddamn charity case. This—whatever the hell this is—you don't owe me shit."

"Red—" you started, but he cut you off.

"You think this makes you a good person? Taking in the stray? Letting me bleed on your damn floor so you can feel better about yourself?" He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I'm not your project. I'm not here so you can collect your brownie points for being the kind one. You're not getting anything out of this, so why the hell do you keep doing it?"

Your breath caught, but you didn't move. You didn't yell back. You didn't tell him he was wrong. You just stood there, with that same stubborn gentleness in your eyes, and it drove him mad.

"Jesus," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, pacing now. "You need to stop. Stop caring. Just stop."

"I never did it for something in return," you whispered.

"Well, maybe you should have."

The silence after that was suffocating, and Jason stilled. His chest heaved. He couldn't look at you. If he did, he might stay. If he did, he might say something tender, something real. And then he'd ruin you.

You inhaled shakily. "You think I'm doing this for points? That I'm keeping score?"

"You should be," he hissed. "Because all I've done is take. All I do is take. You keep giving and I keep showing up like some parasite, and for what?"

"Because I care," you said finally, too tired to hide the yearning in your voice.

"You shouldn't. I'm not one of the good ones. You think you're doing something noble, letting me in, playing Florence Nightingale. But I'm not who you think I am, and the sooner you stop pretending otherwise, the better."

He stared at you, waiting for you to yell. To scream. To say anything that would prove him right, would make walking away easier.

But you didn't.

You just stood there, hands limp at your sides, lips parted like you wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. And God, your eyes looked so betrayed, like you were trying to understand where everything had gone wrong. Like you had failed some test you didn't know you were taking.

Jason hated the sight of your heart breaking in real-time and knowing he had done it.

You swallowed thickly. "I didn't ask for any of this. I just... I just wanted you to be okay."

Jason's breath hitched.

You weren't crying, but your voice shook like it might come to that if he pushed one word further.

"I've been careful," you added, quieter now as if the room itself might judge you for the confession. "I never ask you to stay. Never asked for anything at all. You're the one who keeps coming back. How am I to blame for that?"

Jason looked away. The guilt hit like a bullet, right where it could do the most damage.

"You should've," he returned flatly. "You should've asked for more. That way you'd see exactly how little I have to give."

He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to tell you that you were the only good thing in his life that hadn't asked anything of him.

Instead, he said, "You should've slammed the door on me the first time I showed up. That was your mistake."

You didn't have the heart to point out that he hadn't used the door. You didn't follow him either. Didn't plead, didn't reach for his hand or beg him to stay. That hurt worse than anything else.

He was right.

You were too kind. Too kind to call him out on his bullshit. Too kind to tell him to go to hell. Too kind to stop him when he stepped toward the window and opened it, cold air spilling in like water from a broken pipe.

And in your generosity, Jason realized the worst part.

You still would've left the light on for him.

Even now.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as the window slid shut, sealing in silence and sealing out the sound of his retreating steps.

A sinkhole opened in the pit of your stomach, swallowing the remnants of warmth that had once lived in the corners of the space, and it left you hollow, like a house with the doors blown off. His departure felt too much like a goodbye. Too much like a half-finished letter, the ink smudged, the signature missing. The last page of a story ripped clean from the spine.

You stood there for a while as if the air might stitch him back into the room if you stayed motionless enough. As if the chair he’d occupied might creak under phantom weight. But nothing moved. Nothing stirred.

You doubted he’d ever show himself in front of you again, and even if he did—somewhere, out there beneath Gotham’s godless sky—you wouldn’t know where to look. Not that you would, of course. You weren’t foolish enough to chase after someone who didn’t want to be found. If he didn’t want to see you anymore, you would not burden him with your presence. You would not be a nuisance.

When the tears finally came, they gouged hot trails down your cheeks. You bit your lip to keep from making a sound, unwilling to fill the void he’d left behind with your grief. At least you had your answer now. You and him were not friends. Maybe vigilantes didn’t have friends. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be yours.

And oh, how that simple truth ached more than any goodbye ever could.

It had been three weeks since the boy you had grown attached to cleaved himself from your life, not that you were counting, of course. You would never be so pitiful as to tally the days in his absence, to chart the sunrises without him like some widow mourning a love that had never been named.

And yet…

The calendar pages turned with a slow, dragging inevitability. The hollow ache in your chest had become something familiar. Manageable. You were slowly adjusting to the shape your life had taken before he’d ever crashed into your world.

Still, there were nights when the wind howled a little too loud and the tea kettle hissed just before three a.m., and you found yourself setting out an extra mug. You never filled it—not always. But sometimes, on the worst nights, you did. You'd place it gently beside your own, the steam rising between them like the ghost of a conversation.

Come morning, it would sit there untouched. Cold. Filmed over. Forgotten by everyone except you. You couldn’t blame yourself for hoping.

Tonight was another late shift at work. The kind that stretched you thin until your bones ached with exhaustion and your thoughts blurred into fog. The headache had bloomed sometime after midnight and now throbbed relentlessly behind your temples. You pulled your cardigan around yourself as you stepped out into the Gotham streets, rain slanting in bitter sheets from a sky as grey as mourning.

Of course tonight, of all nights, you’d forgotten your umbrella.

Your shoes squelched with every step, the water soaking through the soles and into your socks. Streetlights flickered overhead, some sputtering, others long since dead. You kept your eyes down, focused on the familiar path home, on putting one foot in front of the other, but even so, you felt that prickle on the back of your neck, the kind you couldn’t shake off, no matter how tightly you wrapped your arms around yourself. The streets were too empty.

You tightened your grip on your keys, slotting them between your fingers like jagged little weapons. You were half a block from safety. Just a little farther.

And then hands. Cold, foreign, and wrong. Fingers like iron gripped your arm and yanked you sideways into the yawning dark of a nearby alley.

A gasp tore from your throat, but you didn’t scream. Instinct moved faster than thought. You lashed out with your keys, catching your attacker across the face—or somewhere, you weren’t sure, but the sharp hiss of pain told you it had landed. You tried to twist away, but the alley wall met your back, and your heart hammered like a trapped bird in your ribcage.

It wasn’t a mugging. He didn’t reach for your bag. He didn’t demand anything. He just came at you with precision, with intention.

And then… he was gone, like a shadow pulled back into the deeper dark, vanishing as swiftly as he’d come. You stood there stunned, breath ragged, mind catching up with what had just happened. It wasn’t until the adrenaline began to fade that you felt it.

The pain.

Hot, sharp, deep. A burning throb in your side, just beneath your ribs. You reached down with trembling fingers and they came away slick and red. It was difficult to see the exact shade of carmine that marred your hands in the dark, but the heat of it told you all you needed to know. It clung between your fingers in syrupy ropes, and beneath it all, the pain bloomed sharp and insistent, flaring like a cruel reminder every time you breathed.

You’d been stabbed.

A hollow, almost hysterical laugh escaped your lips, grating the back of your throat. You’d been fucking stabbed. Of course, you had. Tonight was already a monument to misery. Why not crown it with something poetic?

You weren’t sure what the weapon had been—a knife, a shard of metal, something small and quick—but whatever it was, your attacker had taken it with him. You weren't a medic, but even you knew that you weren’t supposed to take the weapon out of the wound. Not if you wanted to avoid bleeding out like a gutted street urchin.

There was nothing left in you now. Only the blood, warm and gushing, and the panic rising in your throat as your body betrayed you with a wave of nausea so fierce it made your vision blur. The heat in your side was unbearable. Blinding until even that faded, replaced by a strange, iciness that spread from the wound outward, curling beneath your skin, settling into your bones.

So very cold.

Your knees buckled beneath you, and you collapsed sideways against the grime-caked alley wall, cheek scraping brick as you slid down into a crumpled heap. Your breath came in shallow gasps, as though your lungs were filling with broken glass. You pressed your hands harder against the wound, but it was futile. The blood seeped past your fingers, indifferent to your desperation.

Time lost meaning. Minutes blurred into hours, or maybe hours into seconds. You couldn’t tell. You sat slumped over yourself, trying to remember how to breathe properly, how to think, how to gather even an ounce of strength to get back up.

Eventually, with twitching fingers, slick with your own blood, you fumbled in your pocket for your phone. The screen flickered to life, glowing too bright against the dark. You’d smeared the glass red, ruined it, probably.

You didn’t care.

Your thumb hovered over your contacts. And then… faltered. Another laugh bubbled out of you, fraying at the edges.

Who were you going to call?

Your coworkers? You only ever spoke to them in clipped pleasantries, trading shift schedules and dead smiles. Your manager? God, she’d be annoyed more than anything. You could already hear her, full of barely-veiled condescension.

How dare you get yourself stabbed when we’re at our busiest? Do you know how difficult it will be to find someone to replace you on such short notice? Honestly, it’s selfish. You clearly don’t care about the team’s success.

Your laughter splintered, turning into a strangled sob, and your shoulders shook violently from the effort of it.

It’s not like you had any friends.

And even if you did, what could they do now? Friends were for sunny mornings and warm café booths, for midday walks and shared sandwiches in the park. What sort of friend could help you now?

No one was coming.

You sank deeper into the concrete, the phone slipping from your fingers, the bloodied screen flickering like a dying star.

The cold crept in intimately, then. Not just the cold of the night, but the one that nestled in your marrow.

This was it. This was how you'd go. Alone, and irrelevant. In that moment, all you wanted—more than comfort or help—was for someone to notice you were gone.

Your fingers quivered as you scrolled through your contacts again, the names blurring before your eyes, all of them meaningless, until one, in particular, made your thumb falter.

His.

You stared at the entry. The number he’d given you with all the solemnity of a last resort. For emergencies only. The implication had been clear. You had never used it.

Yet here you were. Bleeding out alone. Surely this counted. What constituted a greater emergency than your slow descent into death? You should call him. He owed you that much, after the countless nights you’d nursed his wounds, brewed tea for his unravelling nerves, offered wordless comfort when he couldn't meet your eyes.

You hesitated.

He was the one who had left. He’d made it clear that your concern was unwanted, that your presence was a burden, a kindness too foreign for him to accept. Who were you to claw back into his life now, demanding something from a man who had nothing to give?

Besides, he had probably thrown the phone away already. Changed numbers. Burned the whole thing and permanently severed all connection to you.

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed down the lump forming there.

You had helped him expecting nothing in return, and if your care had ever truly been selfless, then you couldn’t call him now. You wouldn’t dishonour whatever shred of dignity remained by asking for something he never offered.

He told you not to rely on him, and you were nothing if not obedient. Even in death.

But would he even know that you'd died?

Would he hear about the nameless person found lifeless in some forgotten alleyway? Or would you be just another unclaimed cadaver, swiftly removed with nothing but a toe tag to mark your end?

The thought struck harder than the pain in your ribs.

No. That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t right.

You were no one—yes. An inconsequential creature tucked into the shadows of a city that never slept, but you were not nothing. You had existed. You had loved. You had helped. And whatever little sliver of self-worth burned in your chest would not let you die like this, like some discarded scrap on the edge of the world. You wanted to at least have the dignity of dying in your own home.

With a choked cry, you forced your blood-slicked palm against the wall, fingers scrambling for purchase. Your legs screamed in protest, and your vision went white with pain, but you pushed, staggering to your feet like a marionette with half its strings cut. Your body bent nearly double, every breath a dagger in your ribs, but you moved. You moved because you had to. Because you refused to die here in this piss-stained alley, where the rats would be your only mourners and your story would end in tragic comedy.

Step by agonizing step, you dragged yourself toward your apartment building, each footfall a prayer, each gasp a rebellion.

You were not going to die out here. You refused to.

By the time you reached the entrance to your building, your body was little more than a shuddering husk, hollowed out by blood loss and sheer willpower. The stairs loomed before you like a joke, an unscalable mountain for someone with no air left in their lungs. You cursed the building for not having a damned elevator, cursed yourself for choosing this place, this street, this life. But then you remembered, with no small measure of desperation, that your apartment was on the first floor. Just one flight. Just a few steps.

You could do this.

Each stair was its own Everest. Your hands gripped the banister like it was the only thing tethering you to this world, your knees buckling with every upward shuffle. By the time you reached your door, your vision had gone obsidian around the edges, the hallway swimming before your eyes like you were underwater.

Your fingers fumbled at the keyring, sticky with blood. You dropped it once. Then again. The keys jangled to the floor in a wet scatter, and you nearly screamed in frustration. It took everything in you to bend down and retrieve them, the movement setting off a white-hot flare in your side. When at last you managed to force the key into the lock and shove the door open, it felt like winning some futile, cruel battle.

The moment you crossed the threshold, your legs gave out. You caught yourself clumsily on the edge of the doorway, panting. There was a trail of red already soaking into your welcome mat, smearing across the floor where your shoes dragged in rainwater and the city’s muck.

You thought of what a mess it would be in the morning. Not your pain. Not your fear. The mess.

Of course. Always worried about the inconvenience.

Your bed beckoned, soft and warm in memory, but you knew better. The thought of dying there, of ruining the sheets, staining the mattress, and leaving some poor cleanup crew to find you sprawled like a ghost in a coffin of cotton, made your stomach turn.

No, you couldn't do that to them. You couldn't be a burden, even in death.

So you turned instead toward the bathroom, dragging your feet unsteadily. The mirror reflected something ghastly as you passed, but you didn’t look long enough to register it. The bathtub was where you would go. Easy to clean. Contained. Not that you had plans to die, not really. Just a precaution.

You collapsed inside it, the porcelain biting cold against your rain-soaked clothes. You had meant to only sit on the edge, to open the cabinet, maybe fish out the old first-aid kit, the one you’d used on him more times than you could count. But that thought was as distant now as the stars. You couldn’t move anymore. Couldn’t lift your arm, couldn’t reach the faucet, couldn’t even curl properly into yourself.

The chill was everywhere, gnawing its way into your bones. Your side throbbed, your hands were numb, and your clothes clung to you like a second, sopping skin. The bathroom ceiling blurred above you, a dull white light flickering in and out of focus.

Maybe if you could just turn the shower on, and run the hot water, it'd warm you. Even that was beyond you, and your eyes slid shut.

Just five minutes, you told yourself.

You’d rest for five minutes and then you’d wake up. You’d patch yourself up, and you’d clean up the mess.

Jason Todd stood outside your apartment door, a greasy pizza box balanced in one hand, the old burner phone cradled in the other. He hated how long he stood there, staring at your door like some coward at confession, trying to summon the nerve to knock. The light overhead flickered erratically, buzzing like it, too, was mocking him for coming back with his tail between his legs.

He didn’t do apologies. Not well. Not in words. Nonetheless, this was the closest thing he could offer. A peace offering. Your favourite pizza and an irrational hope tucked in his chest that maybe you hadn’t stopped waiting for him.

He told himself it was just a coincidence when his patrols started curving past your building more often than necessary. Gotham was dangerous, after all. Plenty of reasons to keep an eye on your neighbourhood.

That didn’t explain why he always ended up outside your window. Why he paused there, hidden in the shadows with his helmet in hand, unable to resist the pull of light spilling through your curtains. Why he’d squint through the fogged-up glass, watching the shape of you as you went about your night, a ghost in your own home.

Sometimes you’d sit at the little table by the kitchen window, two mugs set down instead of one. One of them always remained untouched, placed directly in front of the empty seat he used to occupy like muscle memory. And god, those were the worst nights, the ones where he caught you staring at that vacant spot, eyes glazed with thought, fingers wrapped around your own mug for warmth that never quite reached your face.

It gutted him in ways he didn’t want to examine. Routine was memory. Memory was grief.

You’d left the light on most nights, like you always did. Once he’d seen you crack open the window just a sliver, as if you were expecting someone to come climbing through. He hadn’t moved from the fire escape that time, just sat there like a coward in the dark, watching you wait.

You hadn’t closed it again until dawn.

Here he was now, standing at your door like a man with something to offer, when all he’d ever done was take.

It had been three weeks, not that he was counting. Three weeks since he’d stormed out, spitting venom at the only person who'd offered him a lifeline. He’d told himself he was doing you a favour by leaving. Sparing you. Protecting you. But all it had done was leave him bitter, clawing at the emptiness where your laughter used to sit.

So he’d come back. He was even doing it your way this time. No rooftop skulking, no slipping through your window like a thief in the night. He’d wiped his boots on the doormat like you always nagged him to, grumbling under his breath about manners even as he indulged your rituals.

It was then that he saw it.

The mat was wet, and not just from rain. It was stained with something thicker than water. His brows furrowed. He crouched down, pressed his fingers against it, and brought them up to the light.

Blood.

A chill knifed down his spine. The pizza box slid forgotten to the floor, and the burner was shoved back into his pocket with numb fingers as he stepped forward. He reached for the door and froze. It was ajar, just enough to be wrong.

Jason’s jaw clenched as he pushed it open, inch by inch, his muscles tense. The air inside was still, but not in the comforting, quiet way. It was stale, coated in something metallic.

The hallway beyond the threshold told him everything he needed to know, and nothing he wanted to. There were smears. Streaks of blood that dragged in uneven trails across the walls and floor like someone had been pulling themselves, struggling to crawl. It didn’t take a detective to know it hadn’t happened more than a few hours ago. It was still wet in places.

“No,” he muttered under his breath.

He followed the trail, dread festering like rot in his gut, stifling in its certainty. The apartment bore the signs of someone trying—and failing—to get to safety. A chair half-toppled in the living room. A phone on the floor with bloodied fingerprints on the cracked screen. The bathroom door half-open, swinging slightly on its hinges.

Inside, Jason’s boots crunched over scattered pill bottles, cotton pads, and disinfectants. The cabinet had been ransacked, the sink stained, and the floor a battlefield of debris. However, it was the bathtub that rooted him in place.

The shower curtain had been torn from its hooks on one side, hanging askew like a shroud, and there at the edge was a hand.

Unmoving, and painted the same devastating hue as his discarded helmet.

“No, no, no—”

Jason surged forward. His fingers trembled as he grabbed the edge of the curtain and yanked it back. His heart stopped.

There you were, curled up like a broken doll. Blood had seeped through your clothes, and pooled beneath you in a slick that had long gone cold. Your face was too pale. Your lips were tinged with blue. You looked like you'd been dying alone.

And he hadn’t been here. He’d left you.

“Shit—” The curse ripped out of him as he dropped to his knees beside the tub. “Shit. No, no, no. Stay with me. Don’t you dare fucking do this.”

His eyes raked over your body in a frenzied scan, finally landing on the crimson bloom beneath your ribs, still seeping sluggishly into the sodden fabric of your shirt.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, yanking his jacket off and pressing it hard against your side. “Just—fuck—open your damn eyes. Please. I can’t—just stay with me.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry out. You didn’t even stir.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he pleaded again, trying to keep pressure on the wound while reaching up to cradle your face. His fingers brushed over your cold cheek, the dampness of it jarring. “Shit, you’re freezing.”

Your skin had the waxy hue of someone far too close to death.

“Don’t do this.” His voice cracked around your name. “Don’t you fucking do this to me.”

He ran his thumb across your temple, trying to coax warmth back into your skin. “You’re not allowed to go out like this.”

He wanted to rage, to tear apart every alley in Gotham until he'd found the bastard who’d done this to you and buried him in pieces, but he couldn’t leave you. Not again.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. “I was trying to keep you safe, you stupid, stupid—all I did was get you hurt.”

The blood kept leaking through the fabric under his hand. He tried not to look at it. Tried to focus on the flutter of your breath instead, shallow and shaky as it was.

“You stayed up for me. Every night,” he continued hoarsely. “Kept the light on like a goddamn lighthouse. You set out mugs for a ghost, and I—I let you.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. “I thought if I stayed away, you’d move on. Forget me. Be safe.”

He brushed back the damp strands of hair plastered to your forehead and nearly flinched at the chill of your skin. “But you didn’t forget. And now look at you.”

Another shallow breath rattled from you. Not enough. Never enough.

Jason let out a bitter laugh. Half relief, half devastation.

“You always patched me up without question. Let me bleed on your couch like it was normal. Told me to stop tracking blood in like it was mud, like I was just some dumb, messy roommate. You made me think I could be something other than this.”

He gripped your jaw gently, coaxing your face toward his, needing even your closed eyes on him. He had seen worse wounds. He’d inflicted worse wounds. But never before had his hands shaken like this, not even when pulling bullets out of his own flesh. Not even when bleeding in the dark with only adrenaline and resentment keeping him alive.

You weren’t moving, and that terrified him more than anything else.

He hadn’t wanted to look. Had clung to the jacket pressed against your side like it might reverse the damage, like he could will the blood to retreat into your body, but the pressure wasn’t enough. He had to see it, to know what he was dealing with.

"Sorry...I’m gonna lift your shirt now. I need to—I need to fix this.”

As if you could hear him. As if that mattered.

Nevertheless, his entire demeanour softened when speaking to you, even now.

Almost reverently, Jason tugged the fabric of your shirt upward. It clung to your skin, soaked through with blood and rain, and he had to tear it gently around the wound to reveal what lay beneath.

It was sickeningly deep. Ragged. A puncture wound, just below your ribs, the edges dark with drying blood, the center still weeping. It hadn’t clotted. It wasn’t going to.

“Shit,” he grunted, clenching his jaw as a fresh wave of helpless fury surged through him. His hands hovered, uncertain. “You weren’t supposed to…”

He wasn’t supposed to let this happen.

His gloves were already off, discarded god knew where when he found you. And now, he reached for the cabinet above your sink, flinging it open and pawing through it until supplies tumbled out. A crude first aid kit: gauze, antiseptic wipes, a needle and thread in a plastic pouch. Nothing close to sterile. Nothing close to what you needed, but it would have to do.

Jason fell to his knees beside the tub again. His fingers were too numb, but he forced them to work. He yanked the antiseptic open with his teeth, nearly choked on the smell, and drenched a clean cloth with it.

“This is gonna hurt,” he uttered another apology as he dabbed around the wound. You didn’t flinch. That silence hit harder than a scream.

He took a deep breath and threaded the needle.

“I’m not good at this,” he told you. “You usually do the patching. I just sit there like a jackass and make fun of your tea.”

A breathless huff escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

“But I’m gonna try, okay? You just—you stay with me. Just for a little while longer.”

The first stitch was agony. Not for you, but for him. The needle pushed through skin with resistance, your blood sticking to his fingers. He cursed under his breath, eyes burning as he worked. He tried to be careful, gentle even, but he didn’t have time for grace. He just needed to stop the bleeding.

One stitch. Two. Three. The jagged edges of the opening puckered beneath his efforts, but slowly the worst of it began to close. He wrapped it after, thick layers of gauze and the remains of your shirt to press against it.

Then his hands fell still.

“Okay,” he consoled, brushing hair away from your brow. “Okay. That’s… that’s the worst of it.”

You didn’t stir.

“You’re not dying,” he repeated as if he could manifest it into truth. “I didn’t just fix you up so you could fucking die on me anyway.”

He leaned down and brushed his lips against your forehead, tasting rust.

“I’m not losing you.”

He had come here thinking it would be the beginning of an apology, but now it might as well have been a eulogy.

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