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mercvry-glow · 2 days ago

Text

Stop making this hurt

parings. jack abbot x doctor!reader

summary. jack knew he didn’t want to go to pitt fest, instead suggesting you take a few of your girl friends on your day off. little does he know that decision leads to you experiencing the worst day of your life without him.

warnings. pitt fest incident, guns/shootings, hospital setting, blood and gore, reader gets hurt, death (not reader), medical inaccuracies and not show accurate but i tried my best, jack and robby are stressed af, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. finally my first pitt fest fic, hopefully this is angsty enough for ya'll and pleases all of my anons who asked for this! I love all of you, thank you for almost 300 followers and as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 3600+

You knew it was a long shot trying to convince Jack to come with you to Pitt-Fest.

Crowds were never his thing, not even before his time as an Army medic. Too loud, too many moving parts, too unpredictable. Add a decade of trauma medicine on top of that, and the thought of shoulder-to-shoulder festival traffic was enough to make him visibly tense. You didn’t blame him — not even a little.

And as much as you loved your husband, you weren’t going to fight him on this one.

“Go have fun,” he’d told you that morning, standing in the doorway in his usual worn t-shirt and sweats, a coffee mug in one hand and the other wrapped around your waist. “Text me when you get there. And text me again when you leave. And maybe don’t lose your phone this time?”

You’d rolled your eyes, kissed him once, then twice — and promised to behave.

Truly, it was better for him to spend his one of his days off actually resting, not galavanting around the venue with you and your friends, half-drunk on overpriced cider and yelling about pierogi trucks.

So you let yourself enjoy it. The chaos, the music, the warm breeze coming off the river. You danced with your friends in the middle of the concert to some college band playing covers too fast. You tasted six different kinds of barbecue and took a picture with a guy dressed like a giant bottle of Heinz ketchup. And every couple hours, your phone buzzed with a little check-in from Jack — usually short, always a little dry since he wasn’t a big texter.

JACKY [1:14 PM] You hydrated today or just vibes?

JACKY [3:06 PM] Hope the pierogi truck is worth the foot traffic.

JACKY [4:11 PM] Home if you need me.

You were smiling at that last one about to respond around 5pm, standing in line for boozy lemon slushies with Emma and a few others, when it happened.

At first, it was just a sound — one that didn’t register immediately. A sharp crack in the distance. Then another. Then screaming.

The crowd surged before your brain caught up. Someone dropped their drink. Someone else shoved you sideways. Your phone slipped out of your hand and hit the pavement.

“Is that—” Emma started to say, eyes wide.

You grabbed her wrist and pulled. “Run.”

You didn’t know where the shots had come from. You didn’t stop to look. You just moved — through the panicked chaos, toward the edge of the crowd, ducking behind a food truck with a group of strangers just as another round cracked the air like lightning.

Your chest was tight. Ears ringing. People were yelling. Crying. Calling for help. And your phone—your phone was still on the street.

Jack.

You couldn’t call him.

But he’d know. You didn’t know how, you just knew.

And however a mile away, as police scanners lit up and trauma alerts pinged on hospital radios, Jack was already on his feet — keys in hand, work boots half tied—and heart racing faster than he’d felt since he returned to US soil.

He didn’t wait for a callback. Didn’t care that he wasn’t on the schedule. He grabbed his badge and his trauma bag and was in the truck before the next dispatcher finished her second sentence.

Because something had happened at Pitt-Fest.

And you were there.

It really sounded like a firecracker at first — maybe someone messing around near the alley that ran behind the Pitt-Fest booths. But then came the second, then the third. Screaming followed.

You turned your head just in time to see another wave of people running. And then—

“EMMA!!”

She was beside you one second, and the next, she was down.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t think. You just dropped to your knees, catching her head before it hit the pavement, your mind going a mile a minute.

“Hey, hey—Em—look at me,” you said, your voice louder than you realized. “Where were you hit?”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her hands were pressed to her stomach, blood already soaking through her shirt and fingers.

“Fuck,” you hissed. “Okay. Okay, pressure. Emmy, stay with me. You’re gonna be okay.”

You barely noticed the searing pain until your legs buckled and you were on your side. A sharp, ripping sensation tore through your ribs like glass.

Shot.

You had been shot too.

Someone was shouting. A vendor nearby had flipped a table and was screaming for people to duck. A stranger—a kid, maybe barely twenty not much younger than you—ran toward you both through the chaos, eyes wide.

“Are you hurt? I have a truck—”

“Help us—please!” you said, trying to sit up, trying not to black out. “I’m a doctor—ER. Trauma. She needs a hospital now.”

He nodded, panicked, glancing at the blood now pooling on the concrete. “We’re like five blocks from PTMC—I’ll drive!”

You helped haul Emma up with shaking arms, biting back a cry when your chest screamed in protest. She groaned as you dragged her toward the curb, her weight nearly toppling you.

The kid had his pickup pulled up half on the sidewalk within seconds.

“Put her in the bed!” you ordered. “It’ll be faster to lift her in!”

Someone else joined—another panicked bystande —helping you hoist Emma into the truck bed as gently and as quickly as possible. You climbed in after her, teeth gritted, your once cute outfit sticky with blood.

“Go!” you screamed as the tailgate slammed shut behind you.

The engine roared and the truck peeled off, tires screeching. You barely held on, your legs braced against the wheel well, one arm clamped across Emma’s wound, the other pressing against your own side to slow the bleeding.

“You’re okay,” you told her, voice tight, even though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince. “Emma, you’re gonna make it. You’re not fucking dying at Pitt-Fest! I won’t let you.”

Her eyes fluttered, and you cursed under your breath, checking her pulse.

Thready. Too fast.

You knew you had minutes. Maybe less.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew Jack was at the Pitt. On shift or not, he was always there when it mattered.

He had no idea you were on your way. Or that you were bleeding out in the back of a stranger’s truck, racing through downtown Pittsburgh.

But if you made it… if you could just hold on a little longer…

You’d see him again.

The truck rattled like it was going to fall apart with every pothole it hit on Carson Street. The shocks weren’t built for this kind of weight or speed, and the stranger behind the wheel didn’t care. He’d barely said a word since he’d skidded to a stop at the edge of the chaos. Now, you could barely hold your head up.

Emma was curled in on herself across from you, clutching the side of the truck bed like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth. Her glitter jacket was soaked through—Msot of it hers, some of it not—and her ponytail had come loose, curls hanging limp against her face.

You turned your head toward her, everything in you aching.

“Em,” you rasped.

She didn’t answer.

“Emma, look at me.”

She did, finally. Her lip was split, her eyes glassy. She was holding her side with one hand, the other shaking where it pressed against her stomach. Blood oozed through her fingers.

“Hurts,” she whispered.

“I know.” You reached out, hand slick and trembling. You were starting to feel lightheaded, the pain in your side sharp and spreading, warm and wet and endless. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. We’re almost there.”

She nodded—but then her gaze dropped to your side, and her eyes widened. “Babe… you're—”

“Don’t look at me.” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “Just breathe, Em. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t sure if that was true. The blood loss was getting worse. Your top was drenched. The bullet had torn low, near your hip, and every bump in the road sent fresh agony lancing through your whole body. You tried to apply pressure but your arm wouldn’t stop shaking.

The guy driving honked again, swerving around a city bus. Ahead, PTMC’s trauma bay came into view, the red trauma flags flapping against the gray building. Almost there. Almost safe.

Then Emma made a sound that shattered you.

It was small. Wet. A choking breath followed by nothing.

You lurched forward, dragging yourself toward her with everything you had left.

“Emma—Emmy. Stay awake. Look at me.”

Her head lolled. Her eyes were still open, just barely. “I’m really cold,” she whispered.

“No, baby. No, you’re not.” You gathered her into your lap, tried to shield her with what strength you had left. “We’re here. You’re okay.”

The truck hit the curb at full speed, rocking the bed. The brakes screamed as it slid sideways, stopping half a second before it would’ve crashed into the wall of the trauma bay. And then hands—at least half a dozen of them—were yanking open the tailgate.

Chaos.

“Two critical GSWs in the back—Jesus, they’re both going out!”

“She’s losing consciousness!”

“Someone help me get her—”

“She’s coding!”

You heard all of it like you were underwater. You were vaguely aware of someone pulling Emma from your limp arms. Someone else catching you as your head dropped back, limp, blood seeping down your spine.

A nurse’s voice rang out as she tried to open your airway.

“Who is she—anyone got a name?!”

No one answered.

Inside the trauma bay, Jack was elbow-deep in yet another chest wound, barking orders, adrenaline humming through his veins. He didn’t hear the commotion at the ambulance bay over the noise of suction and a flatline monitor. Didn’t look up when the bay doors slammed open again.

Didn’t know.

Didn’t know that somewhere down the hall, two trauma rooms were opening side by side—one for your best friend who wouldn’t make it, and one for you, his wife, who just might.

Not yet.

But he would.

He always did.

Now rushing inside to the hub, “Her BP’s eighty systolic and dropping—she’s hemorrhaging fast.”

“Pulse is thready. Pupils sluggish.”

“Get Dr. Robby in here, now!”

The trauma bay was already spinning into motion when Michael stepped through the sliding doors, hand dragging down over his messy brown hair. He was halfway into his new trauma gown as he crossed the room.

“What’ve we got?”

“GSW to the lower abdomen. Entry left, possible exit—can’t tell through the bleeding. She was brought in non-EMS, unknown downtime.”

Robinavitch’s eyes tracked the chaos instantly, sharp and assessing. He reached the foot of the bed and froze just long enough to squint at your face beneath the mask of blood, dirt, and bruises. Something flickered across his expression.

“…Is that—?”

“Yeah,” one of the nurses whispered. “That’s our second Abbot.”

He didn’t react. Not outwardly. Just snapped his gloves tighter and stepped in, voice calm but commanding.

“Alright. Let’s move. I need two large-bore IVs, type and cross, four units O-neg hanging yesterday, and someone page trauma surgery—now.”

A nurse slid a face shield over his head as he pulled the curtain closed behind him.

“Pressure dressing’s soaked through.”

“She’s crashing, Dr. Robby.”

Michael leaned in over your body, catching the faintest movement of your chest. He knew your voice, your laugh, the way you snapped off one-liners at Jack and him in the hall. And right now, none of that mattered. You were just another patient bleeding out on his table. And he was going to keep you alive.

“Hang another liter. Let’s get a FAST scan going—we need to find that bleed.”

A tech slid gel across your abdomen. The screen flared to life, the grainy black-and-white image revealing what they were dreading.

“She’s bleeding into her abdomen,” someone said.

“No kidding,” Robby muttered. Then louder: “Alright. We don’t have time. Prep her straight for the OR. I want her there five minutes ago.”

He pressed down on the wound with both hands, hard. Princess to his left winced.

“She should seee Jack,” she whispered.

“No,” he said firmly. “Jack needs her to still be breathing when he finds out.”

He looked down at you, your face pale and growing colder beneath his fingers.

“You hang on,” he said under his breath. “You do not die on me. He will never recover.”

You didn’t respond. Your eyes fluttered once, lips barely parted. A sound escaped, too soft to decipher as Mikey leaned closer.

Not as a doctor now, but as a close friend.

“What was that?”

Your mouth twitched. “Tell… Jack…”

But then your body jolted under his hands—heart monitor screaming into v-fib.

“Code!” someone shouted.

“Start compressions!” Robinavitch was already moving, calling for paddles. “One of you get Abbot!”

“But he’s still in Pink—”

“I don’t care if he’s in surgery or nott,” he snapped. “Tell him it’s his wife. Tell him she’s coding.”

Across the hospital floor, Jack looked up—something in his chest going cold before he even knew why.

The Pink Zone was chaos, and Red was a shit show.

Jack had blood smeared to his elbows and the kind of tension in his jaw that only came from running full tilt on no sleep. His short, curls—streaked at the temples with silver—were plastered to his forehead with sweat. His hazel eyes, usually sharp and quick, were laser-focused on the wound in front of him.

“Clamp—now,” he barked, voice low and lethal.

The security guard on the table had been fine for the minute, eventually turning critical. Shrapnel to the chest. He’d already coded once in triage. Jack had cracked him open right there on the gurney, and there was no room in his world for anything else.

Until—

“Dr. Abbot!”

He didn’t look up. “Hold pressure!.”

“Jack!”

That voice. Too familiar.

He finally looked.

One of the new night shift interns stood just inside the trauma bay doors, Jacob’s own scrubs stained and his expression wrecked. And he never looked wrecked.

Jack straightened, adrenaline still coursing, brow furrowed. “What?”

Jacob’s mouth opened—but nothing came out at first. He took a breath. Another. Then:

“She’s here. Your wife.”

The words didn’t land right at first. Jack blinked, frowning, like he hadn’t heard correctly.

“She what?”

“Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Came in the fourth or fifth wave from Pitt-Fest,” the young man said, voice tight. “They stabilized her. She was hypotensive on arrival. Tachy. Someone named Emma was with her—they were in the back of a civilian truck.”

The name Emma barely registered.

Jack’s pulse went sideways.

“She coded once—Robby sent her to the OR.”

“No,” Jack said, too fast, shaking his head. “No, she wasn’t even—she said she’d text me when—she wasn’t—”

The air felt thick. Too heavy. Too loud. His fingers curled into fists, shaking beneath his gloves.

“Dr. Abbot,” Someone said, stepping closer. “She’s still alive. They got her back. But you can’t leave right now. We need you here.”

Jack didn’t move.

“She asked for you,” Jacobs added quietly.

That broke something open.

Jack’s hazel eyes—usually unreadable—flashed wide. For half a second, pure panic. He turned, looking toward the hall that led to the elevators, toward OR.

But he couldn’t go. He knew it. The man on the table in front of him was dying.

And his wife… his wife was being cut open upstairs.

He squeezed his eyes shut once, breathing like it physically hurt. When he opened them, they were steely again. Grounded by sheer force of will.

“Tell Robinavitch to get me when she’s out,” Jack said. His voice was barely steady. “And tell him if she crashes again—he calls me. Immediately.”

“I will,” Jacob promised.

Jack didn’t answer. He just turned back to his patient like his spine was made of iron. Like his heart wasn’t bleeding under his ribs.

But his hands trembled—just once—before they found the scalpel again.

And he didn’t say another word about it, because what was there to say you could be gone before he even got to see you.

Eventually the world returned in fragments.

A slow, stuttering beep. The soft rustle of hospital sheets. The sterile hum of fluorescent lighting. Everything hurt—but not sharply. Not like it had. Now it was dull and heavy, like your body was made of stone, barely yours.

You blinked against the overhead light. It took effort. Your limbs felt like they were filled with sand.

A shape moved beside you.

Jack.

He was hunched forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tight. His short, silvery curls were flattened on one side, sticking up in the back like he hadn’t moved in hours. His hazel eyes were fixed on the floor, red-rimmed, dark and distant.

Your heart monitor ticked just a little faster. He looked up immediately.

“Hey,” he breathed, already at your side.

You tried to smile, but your lips barely moved. “Hi.”

Jack let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and reached for your hand. His touch was careful, reverent. “You scared the absolute hell out of me.”

“Me too,” you rasped.

He gave you a sip of water, helping steady the cup as you drank. When you pulled back, your throat still felt raw—but the words came anyway.

“Emma?”

Jack’s face changed.

The crack in his expression wasn’t obvious, but you’d seen it before—on the battlefiel, in different red zone code blues, in the quiet moments after a loss. He didn’t answer right away.

You already knew.

“…She didn’t make it,” he said softly. “They couldn’t even try. She was gone in the truck.”

Your breath hitched.

“She was getting married,” you whispered, tears already brimming. “She was twenty-eight, Jack...”

“I know.”

“She was going to try out for th-that promotion. She just bought her wedding dress last week—she wanted to show you, and—and she was finally gonna ask David to move in with—”

Jack didn’t try to stop your rambling grief. He just leaned in closer, resting his forehead against yours.

“I know,” he said again, voice thick. “I’m so sorry.”

You swallowed hard, your throat burning. “She died in my arms...”

His hand tightened around yours.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he murmured, guilt and grief bleeding into his voice. “I was a couple zones over. We were shoulder to shoulder with victims. I didn’t know until after they took you up to surge.”

You blinked fast. “Were you there when I came in?”

“Robby got you stable. Barely. Everyone just said it was bad. Said one of ours went down.” His voice caught.

“Jack.”

“I couldn’t go up,” he whispered. “They were still bringing bodies in. And you were already in surgery. I had to keep working.”

Your vision blurred again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, you’re the one that got shot.” His hazel eyes were fierce now, even through the exhaustion. “You did everything you could. You kept Emma safe as long as you could. And you lived. That’s all that matters right now.”

You didn’t feel like it should be enough. Not with her gone, and the fate of the rest of your friends unknown. But the way Jack looked at you—like the entire world had stopped spinning until your heart started beating again—it made the pain settle differently.

He reached up and brushed your hair back, his touch gentle. “I’ve got you now. You’re safe.”

Since the first shots rang out at Pitt-Fest, you let yourself feel the weight of everything that had happened.

Your fingers twitched under his, slow and aching, but deliberate. Jack noticed immediately, shifting to cradle your hand in both of his, as if he could anchor you there by touch alone.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice shaky but sure. “Thank you for staying with me…”

Jack’s eyes closed, lashes trembling. His head bowed as his grip on your hand tightened, pulling it gently to his chest.

“I’d stay a thousand times,” he murmured. “I’d go through hell a thousand times if it meant getting you back.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest—because you believed him. There was no part of Jack Abbot that ever did anything halfway, least of all when it came to you.

“I thought I was going to die,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. “In that truck. I-I knew Emma was gone and—I couldn’t feel my legs. Everything hurt. I didn’t know if you’d even know…”

Jack leaned forward again, resting his forehead against your hands, breathing you in like he was trying to convince himself you were real. “I know now,” he said, voice rough. “And I’ve got you.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek, the way his body trembled just slightly with the force of holding himself together.

“I kept thinking—‘he’s gonna be mad,’” you whispered. “Because I went without you. Because I didn’t duck fast enough. Because I let one of the girls get hit.”

“Stop,” he said, voice firm but thick with emotion. “You don’t need to carry that. Not even for a second.”

You nodded faintly, tears sliding into your hair. “She died, Jack. Emma died. And I couldn’t save her.”

He stayed quiet for a beat, then moved to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, like he could pour every unspoken word straight into your skin.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I’ll carry that with you. Every single day.” The monitors continued their slow, steady rhythm. Jack stayed at your bedside like he’d never leave it again.

Outside, the world kept spinning—grief, news headlines, recovery, chaos—but inside that quiet room, wrapped in his presence, you finally let yourself rest. Because you weren’t alone. Not anymore.

And you knew, in the deepest part of yourself, that Jack would keep holding on enough for the both of you—because that’s the type of man he was.

mercury-glow 2025

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tedmustache · 1 day ago

Note

bartender younger girlfriend, who gets brought in during Jack’s shift with a broken nose

Bar Fight

Pairing: Jack Abbott x Bartender!Girlfriend!Reader

Warnings/tags: protective!Jack, Hurt/Comfort, established relationship, age gap, physical assault (non-graphic), mentions of blood and bruising, medical setting, brief description of injury (broken nose)

Summary: A rough night leads Y/N to the ER, and Jack’s only priority is making sure she’s okay.

Requests are open | Masterlist

[...]

Jack Abbott wasn’t supposed to be on shift that long. He’d promised himself it would be a short one, just enough to help with the overflow, check on a couple trauma consults, and go home at a decent hour.

But like most promises in a trauma hospital, that one didn’t last.

He was just finishing up suturing a deep forearm laceration from a kitchen accident when Dr. Shen appeared in the doorway of the bay, his expression unreadable, which was never a good sign.

“Jack” Shen said. “You need to come to Bay 3. Now.”

Jack didn’t look up from his stitches right away. “Can it wait? I’m almost—”

“It’s Y/N” Shen said quietly. “She just walked in. Looks like a broken nose. Possibly more.”

Jack froze.

His hands were steady, but the world around him blurred for a second. He didn’t even register the nurse beside him offering to finish up the sutures. He set the needle driver down carefully, turned on his heel, and was gone without another word.

The walk through the ER felt like it took forever and no time at all. The second he rounded the corner into Bay 3, his chest tightened so hard it knocked the air from his lungs.

She was sitting on the edge of a gurney, shoulders tense, one hand pressing a bloodied towel to her face. She wore her usual bartending clothes, and her apron still hung half tied around her waist. Her lower lip was split, and blood streaked her cheek where it had run from her nose.

But she was upright. Conscious. Breathing.

“Jack” she breathed when she saw him.

He crossed the room in three steps, his hands already reaching for her but stopping short, hovering just in front of her face like he was afraid to hurt her.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low and tight.

“A guy at the bar didn’t like being cut off. Got grabby. I shoved him, and he hit me.” Her voice was slightly nasal from the swelling. “Security dragged him out. I’m fine, really”

“You’re not fine” Jack said. His eyes scanned every inch of her face, then flicked to her arms, her torso, looking for more injuries. “He hit you? With what? His hand? An object?”

“Just his fist. Straight to the nose. Guess he got lucky.”

He inhaled sharply, jaw clenched. “Lucky” he echoed. “Right.”

He turned to the nurse. “She’s with me. I’ll handle this.”

Y/N opened her mouth to argue, but the nurse nodded and stepped back, shooting her a knowing look before slipping out behind the curtain.

Jack finally touched her, gently cupping her cheek, brushing a smear of dried blood away with his thumb. His fingers trembled ever so slightly.

“You should’ve called me.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt your shift—”

“I don’t give a damn about my shift when you walk in bleeding” he said. “You could’ve passed out on the way here. What if you were concussed? What if he’d done worse?”

“I’m okay,” she said softly, leaning into his touch despite the ache.

“You’re bleeding,” he said again, like he didn’t believe it even now. “Come on. Let’s take a closer look.”

He helped her down gently and guided her to a nearby trauma room a little more private, quieter. Once inside, he sat her on the gurney and clicked on the overhead lamp, his eyes still dark with concern.

She let him work in silence as he palpated around her nose and cheekbones with skilled fingers.

“Definitely broken” he said after a moment. “Clean break, though. No eye socket involvement. You’re lucky.”

“I keep hearing that tonight” she muttered.

Jack didn’t smile. “I’m not joking.”

He grabbed supplies and paused when he turned back to her.

“Can I?” he asked, lifting the syringe gently.

She nodded. “Go for it. You’ve already seen me cry over Disney movies. I can’t embarrass myself any further.”

Jack let out a breath, a faint smile ghosting across his lips, and injected the anesthetic with careful precision. He watched her the whole time, not just the injection site, but her face, her breathing, any sign that she was flinching or hiding pain.

“Jack” she murmured when he stepped back. “You don’t have to baby me.”

“Yes, I do” he said simply. “Because you’re mine. And someone hurt you.”

The softness of his voice made her chest ache in a completely different way.

He splinted her nose with steady hands, but when he was done, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he sat on the gurney beside her, his hand sliding gently into hers.

“You could’ve been seriously hurt.”

“I’ve had worse bar fights.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“I know” she whispered. “But I handled it. I’m okay now.”

Jack looked at her like she had no idea what her own face looked like. “You’re bleeding. Bruised. Shaken up. That’s not okay in my book.”

She reached up with her free hand and tugged at his sleeve. “But you’re here now.”

He exhaled slowly and leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers, mindful of the splint.

“I don’t care how many hours I’ve worked. If anything like this happens again, you call me first. Understood?”

She nodded. “Yes, Dr. Abbot.”

“That’s not fair” he said, finally letting a smile creep into his voice. “You’re not allowed to flirt while wearing a bandage I applied.”

She snorted, then winced. “Ow. Okay, laughing hurts. New rule: no jokes.”

Jack kissed the top of her head gently.

They sat in silence for a few more moments, his fingers laced with hers, the chaos of the ER muffled behind the curtain.

Eventually, Jack glanced down at her and asked, “Want to come home with me tonight?”

She looked up at him through tired eyes. “I thought you were on call.”

“My shift is almost over”

Y/N smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. “Only if you let me eat ice cream for dinner.”

“Done.”

“And let me control the TV.”

He hesitated. “Even if you choose reality dating shows?”

She looked up at him, smug. “Especially then.”

He groaned. “Fine. But only because you got punched in the face.”

She leaned into him, warm and safe. “You’re a very romantic trauma doctor, you know that?”

He kissed her temple again. “Only for you.”

[...]

Back at his apartment, Jack cleaned the last of the blood from her face, his touch impossibly soft while she put on the last episode of a reality show he didn’t know the name

"You’re gonna have a hell of a shiner tomorrow" he muttered, tracing the bruise.

Y/N shrugged. "Worth it. Dude’s banned for life."

Jack’s expression darkened. "He’s lucky that’s all that happened."

She studied him. The tension in his shoulders, the storm in his eyes, and sighed. "Jack."

"What?"

"You’re doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"That thing. Where you look like you’re five seconds away from hunting someone down."

He didn’t deny it.

Y/N cupped his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. "I’m fine. I Promise."

Jack exhaled sharply, leaning into her touch. "...I hate seeing you hurt."

"I know." She smiled. "But you fixed me up pretty good, Doc."

He huffed a laugh, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Damn right I did."

“...I love you, you know.”

“I know,” he said, brushing his thumb across her temple. “And I love you too.”

And when she curled into his side that night. Safe, warm, his. Jack swore to himself that no one would ever lay a hand on her again.

#jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot #dr jack abbott #jack abbott x reader #the pitt #the pitt fanfic #the pitt hbo

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frombookstoretobookstore · 1 day ago

Text

You Say That Like You Care

Abbot x Injured!Reader Summary: After reader takes a punch to the face, Abbot's emotions flare as he realizes he might care a little too much.

TW: Blood, injuries, angsty Abbot, Abbot admitting his feelings.

A/N: I don't love this piece but I needed to get an angsty Abbot piece out of my head. This might be purely self indulgent. Masterlist

Y/n groans as she digs the ice pack deeper into her eye socket to ground herself. Her shift was already in tatters, and she didn’t need to look at the clock to know her official shift hadn’t even begun.

She’d been called in early to help in the ER, a resident had gone home sick. She’d swung in early, happy to help where she could. Now she wished Dana had called someone else. She felt guilt rise in her chest, if she hadn’t come in, it could have been one of the med students who’d drawn the short straw.

She’d stepped in to help with a combative patient, nothing unusual. Hell, she worked with women in labor who usually threatened her the pain was so bad, she was used to never taking anything personally.

The patient had presented with a partially degloved leg but the meth in his system had sent him ballistic. Y/n had caught a punch to the face. She’d been dragged out by McKay as she’d tried to continue helping despite the blood draining down her face.

So, Y/n finds herself sitting behind the nurses’ station, Princess swearing as she presses gauze to her nose while Y/n ices her swollen eye. Still another hour left to wait before her L&D shift is set to begin.

“Christ sweetie, the hell happened?” Dana asks, quickly donning a pair of gloves, removing the icepack from Y/n’s face as Princess continues cursing under her breath.

Y/n groans and bats her friend’s hands away. “Just dealing with it all tonight. Apparently. I’m fine.” She grounds out as Dana pulls her glasses on to study her bloodied face.

“Did you go to CT?” Dana asks, quickly grabbing some tissues to wipe away the blood encrusting Y/n’s face and neck.

“I’m not wasting CT’s time, I’m fine.” Y/n said, tears springing to her eyes as Dana prods her nose.

“Please tell me you fell. Or lost a fight with a newborn.” Robby says, Dana moving so he could assess their friend.

“She took a hit from curtain three.” Princess says, Y/n hissing when Robby started putting pressure on around her eye.

“Princess, call down to CT and get her in line. Let L&D know they’re down a doctor.” Robby starts testing her pupil reactivity.

“No, I’m not going home. I’ll be fine. I came here to collect myself, not to distract the best workers of the ED.” Y/n says, waving Princess off the phone. She rolls her eyes as she lets Y/n usher her back to work. Robby only sighs as he crosses his arms and takes in her appearance.

“You probably have a concussion if not a fracture. Let’s get some morphine so I can pop this nose back into place. Also, I doubt your patient satisfaction scores will go up with the way you look right now kid.” Robby says, chuckling softly as Y/n tries to scoff through the wads of gauze shoved up her nose.

Y/n bats his hands away again. She stands and Robby tries to push her down onto a stool again. The four newest med students’ eyes grow big as they took in the L&D doctors banged up in front of them as they wait to check in with Robby before leaving.

Y/n groans as she notices the newest pairs of eyes on her. “Alright gremlins time for a teaching moment gather around.” Robby only rolls his eyes.

“If you’re going to be stubborn, at least let Dana come back with morphine. For my sake.” Robby says, pinching the bridge of his nose as he already knows what Y/n is going to do.

“Quickly, how do we do a nasal fraction reduction?” Y/n asks doctors King and Javadi’s hands fly up first. Santos huffs with her arms crossed and opens her mouth to speak.

“Santos you’re out of the running. Raise your hand and maybe I’ll call on you next time.” Dr. Santos’s mouth hands open slightly, clearly not used to the sharp attitude of the usually sunshiny L&D doctor they’ve all gotten used to.

“A doctor manually realigns the displaced bone and cartilage; my guess is we’re looking at a type III nasal trauma. Biggest take away is never do a realignment on your…” Abbot’s gruff words and disapproving scowl are cut off as a sharp crack is heard as Y/n manually realigns her own nasal cavity.

The med student’s faces drop and a few pale even as they watch Y/n reset her own nose, the sound sickening. Y/n bends forward, the pain blinding for a few moments. She rights herself and presses gauze to her nose as it starts leaking blood again.

“That was both the grossest and most impressive thing I’ve ever seen.” Dr. Javadi whispers, her mouth still open.

“As I was going to say before Dr. Y/l/n did one of the stupidest things, is never reset your own nose.” Abbot’s tone is gruff and sharp, and judging by the med students’ faces, he’s using that icy stare that makes everyone uncomfortable.

“Check on your patients. Go.” Y/n only catches Robby’s smirk from across the nurse’s station as the med students scatter. Abbot has her by the elbow and is dragging her into a trauma room, snapping the curtain shut.

He’s slamming drawers closed as he starts grabbing materials to pack her nose. The room is icy, and Y/n can hear her heart pummeling in her ears, feels it in her nose.

Usually, she’d steer clear of pissing Abbot off, knowing his temper is short and how cold he can get. But today? She doesn’t care, she’s exhausted and angry.

“Quit hulking out. I’m fine.” She says, hissing as her breath burns her nose.

He doesn’t answer. His shoulders are tight, his jaw set, and his hands are tense as he drops everything onto a small metal table, yanking it closer as he looks at her nose and bruising around her eye. He adjusts a light to get a better look at the bruising.

“What happened?” He growls, tilting her head back as he checks the alignment on her nose.

“Got slugged.” She shrugs.

“Last I checked you worked with babies.��

“Not all of them are happy to leave the womb.”

“Stop I might actually laugh at one of your deflections.” He deadpans as his fingers skim her skin, checking for more fractures.

“Unless you have some superpowered hands there hulk, you aren’t going to be able to feel any fractures.” She speaks.

“I know.” His eyes are still icy, his brow furrowed as he keeps giving her a once over.

“Still injured. That isn’t going to change the more you stare at me.” She huffs out.

He tips an eyebrow up before throwing away the discarded, bloodied gauze, snapping his gloves off and heaving them into the trash. He leans against the counter behind him, his arms crossed against his chest as he stares at her again. He sighs deeply and lets his head drop.

“Jack Rabbit, talk to me.” She says as she shifts on the bed. “Your silent treatment is even creepier through one eye.” He smirks as he glances up at her trying to open her partially swollen eyelid.

“What are we going to do with you tonight? Any being you deliver is crawling right back in as soon as it sees that face.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He breathes out and runs a hand through his curls and he lets it rest on the back of the neck. His gaze finally meets hers.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I might disappear.”

He groans as his head falls back. “Every time something like this happens. I worry it’ll be the thing that drives you away from here.” His confession tumbles past his lips.

“You say that like you care.” Her heart swells as he looks at her, his stare full of emotion instead of ice.

“Maybe I do.” He mutters, his arms bracing on either side of him on the counter, his gaze back on his feet.

Y/n swears she can hear the heart monitor from three doors down as Abbot sits with the emotions he just showed her. She’s also sure her mouth is hanging open a bit.

“I.. I’m sorry?” She says, tilting her head towards him as if to hear him better.

“Because maybe I do care. Maybe I care if you get hurt. Maybe I care that I wasn’t called in early. Maybe I care, because I don’t want to see you hurt, ever.” He’s crossed the room in a few strides before she even realizes, close to her again.

“It was just a punch Abbot.” Her brows are furrowing as she grabs his hand as she notes that they’re shaking slightly.

“What if it wasn’t? What if it had been worse and I wasn’t there?” His eyes aren’t on her anymore, their distant.

“Abbot, it was one punch, and I wasn’t alone. Princess nearly bit his arm off, and security was in the room right after.” She laughs slightly, swinging their clasped hands between them.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Abbot’s voice is low, almost a whisper. “It’s not about the punch or the guy who threw it. It’s about you. I care about you, Y/n. I care more than I should. Seeing you hurt, even a little, makes me feel like I’m failing you.”

Y/n’s expression softens, her grip on his hand tightening. “You’re not failing me, Abbot. You never have. I don’t need you to protect me from the world.”

He looks down at their joined hands, “That’s what I want too. More than anything. But it’s hard to turn off the part of me that wants to shield you from everything.”

She smiles gently, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Then don’t turn it off. Just... let me in.”

He nods, letting their clasped hands dangle between them. He steps forward, dropping her hand, before carefully tucking her into his chest. She breathes him in, smelling laundry soap and something that reminds her of leather.

They pull apart and he looks at her with an eyebrow raised. “Seriously though, I wouldn’t trust you to deliver anyone’s child.” She swats at his chest as a laugh rumbles his chest, his eyes clearer.

“Shut up and buy me dinner Army Boy, I’ve got a lot to talk to you about. You aren’t the only one caring more than you should.” His heart flutters in his chest as she stands. Before he can pull the curtain back, she’s pulling him in by his scrub top and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. She pulls back with a smile.

She pulls open the curtain to Dana and Robby swapping cash, their eyes wide as they’re caught by the two.

“If either of you breathes a word of this to anyone.” Y/n hisses with her hand up to stop them from running. “I’ll make sure you leave your shifts with similar bandages.” She points to her own face as she walks off, Abbot only smirking as he watches her go.

-------- This one took me FOREVER to write and I'm not sure how I feel about it. I've been watching Animal Kingdom and I needed to write angsty Abbot after. Hope y'all enjoyed it!

#dr abbot x reader #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot imagine #shawn hatosy #jack abbot x female reader #the pitt 2025 #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt hbo #jack abbot x you #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot #jack abbott x reader #dr abbot

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jinwoosbabyboo · 16 hours ago

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Be My Canvas

Rafayel has been tracing invisible pictures on your back while cuddling. It seems like it’s a new habit of his. One day you decided to make a sarcastic comment about being his canvas. [Requested by: Anon] A/N: A little Drabble (kinda) here.

Here you were sitting topless on the couch, hugging a pillow to your chest as Rafayel got his paint supplies together. The couch dipped behind you as he settled into a comfortable position.

A little bit of rustling then silence.

The cold tip of the paint brush touching your skin made you jump “Ah- It’s cold” Your reflexes kicked in making your back arch away from the cold sensation. You froze and quickly apologized, looking over your shoulder at your boyfriend. He had the same shocked expression as you, but his eyes were fixated on your back instead of making eye contact with you. Rafayels’ fingers gently curled around your waist, shifting you back into place.

“A canvas doesn’t speak” He quipped. You felt the pad of his thumb press into your back and swipe. “Sit still Cutie”

Easy for him to say he’s not the one who just got ice cold paint smeared on his back. “Well this canvas does so get used to it” You wriggled out of spite pretending to ‘just get comfortable’ before settling down. He giggled with amusement as he went back to painting a masterpiece on your back. You were nervous at first wondering if you could sit still long enough for him to do this thing, but as time passed it was almost therapeutic.

The gentle brush strokes accompanied by his firm, but gentle fingers had you melting under his touch. He rested his hand on your hip and gave it the occasional squeeze and mindless taps when he stopped to think or examine his work.

After what felt like hours you felt him pull away leaving you a little cold. “Beautiful” He mumbled as he leaned back and dropped his brush on the coffee table.

“Me or the painting?” You giggled flashing a quick smile over your shoulder.

Rafayels cheeks burned bright red — something about the way you looked over your shoulder at him in this moment made him melt instantly. He pressed a soft, careful kiss to your shoulder “You’ll always be more gorgeous than any piece of art that comes from these hands” He gave your hips a quick caress as he stood from the couch. “Now don’t move I need to take some pictures”

#love and deepspace #lads #rafayel fluff #rafayel x reader #lads rafayel #lnds rafayel #l&ds rafayel #love and deepspace rafayel #lads fluff #lnds fluff #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x you #lnds #l&ds #nikaaaaimagine

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levanterhaze · 1 day ago

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── GAMEBOY, BANGCHAN

♡ ― 󠀬󠀬 fratboy!bangchan x f!reader praise kink, protected sex, rough sex, fluff & angst.

♡ synopsis ― Bangchan is the campus playboy—charming, cocky, and infuriatingly irresistible. One reckless, drunken night leads to a secret you swore you'd never have. Now, hating him is harder than keeping him your dirty little secret.

[12.3k words ]♡― here we are, at the last chapter of gameboy. writing this series has been so much fun and having the opportunity to tell the stories i love to write is a privilege. i hope i don't disappoint you with this ending, that you understand each choice made for the characters. i also hope you continue to support me, this has been so special and welcoming to me, i can't thank you enough for everything. thank you for embracing gameboy, for continuing to read and for all your support. from the bottom of my heart. PLEASE READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS!!!! that said, have a good read.

♡― THE PLAYLIST.

♡ [part one] ♡[part two]♡ [part three] ♡[part four] ♡[part five] ♡[part six] ♡[part seven]

'Cause I'm right here waiting for us 때로는 두려웠어 다신 오지 않을 것 같아서 두 손 꼭 잡은 채 그 어떤 순간이 덮쳐 와도 널 놓지 않을게

After all the chaos, the only thing that made sense was leaving.

So you did.

You shot Hyunjin a text, practically begging him to take you to the bus stop. He didn’t ask questions—he was too pissed off about the whole thing, ranting the entire drive about how it was bullshit that you had to be the one to go. In his mind, Eunji and Mingyu should’ve been the ones packing their bags.

And maybe he was right. But you were exhausted. Your body ached from the tension, your head was a tangled mess of emotions, and honestly? You just didn’t have it in you to fight anymore.

By the time you got back to campus, you had a plan—or at least, a temporary bandage disguised as one. You marched straight to the admin office and spun some tragic, half-true sob story about needing to “regain focus” on your studies. A few forced tears later — maybe slightly real ones— they handed you the keys to a new dorm on the other side of campus.

No hesitation. No second-guessing. You packed what little you had and moved in before anyone even realized you were gone.

And then you disappeared.

One day after another, like clockwork. No calls, no texts, no explanations. Just silence.

Your life has shrunk down to a routine: rehearsals, studying, sleep, repeat.

Hyunjin and Seungmin still tried to pull you out of your self-imposed exile, inviting you to lunch, cracking jokes at rehearsals to get a reaction out of you—but you always politely refused. You weren’t rude, just... distant. Like a ghost of yourself.

Bangchan had tried. Over and over. Messages sent and then deleted, calls he never made, moments of hesitation that stretched into frustration. He wanted to give you space, wanted to respect whatever it was you needed, but that didn’t make it any easier. Every time he saw you, it felt like his chest was caving in.

He’d even asked Hyunjin about you, but the guy was like a vault. Hyunjin wasn’t about to betray you—not even for him. “She’s busy,” was all he ever got. “Leave her alone, man.”

But how could he, when you were right there? When you were always the last to show up at rehearsals and the first to leave, slipping away before he even had a chance to try? It was torture. Watching you go about your life like he wasn’t part of it anymore. Like he never had been.

And it was worse because he could still feel you.

In his bed, between the sheets. In his hands, aching for your touch. In his mind, where your laugh and your voice were stuck on a loop, growing more distant with every passing day—like a dream he was trapped in, running but never getting anywhere.

And you wouldn’t even look at him.

If your eyes ever landed on him in the theater, they flicked away like it physically hurt you to see him. If you spotted him on campus, walking with the boys, you immediately turned your head.

So you buried yourself in anything that wasn’t him. Anything that wasn’t Eunji. Because thinking about either of them was the only thing more unbearable than being alone.

And Eunji—who didn’t even look at you, let alone speak to you. Every time your paths crossed, she barely acknowledged your existence, like you were something rotten in her periphery. A stranger. No, worse—something beneath her.

And that hurt. Maybe even more than Bangchan.

Because you’d believed in her. In you two. In the kind of unspoken loyalty that came with late-night talks, inside jokes, and secrets exchanged under dim dorm room lights. You thought there was sisterhood in that. Something unshakable.

But in the end, it was nothing. A mirage. A mist that vanished the second you tried to hold on.

A few weeks had passed and you were enjoying your own company in the library, an iced coffee and your headphones. You were studying your lines for the next class, until someone took the seat in front of you and your eyes looked up in surprise to see Sohee sitting with her arms crossed.

“Sohee.” you murmured, almost not believing she was there.

Sohee arched her brow, unimpressed. “Oh, so you do remember me.”

You blinked, scrambling for words. “I—of course, I do. I just—”

“Disappeared?” she finished for you, leaning back in her chair. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Guilt twisted in your stomach, but you kept your expression neutral. “I’ve been busy.”

She let out a dry laugh. “Right. Busy. Too busy to text? Too busy to tell me why you packed up and moved to the other side of campus?” Her eyes narrowed. “Eunji won’t tell me what happened. Neither will Hyunjin. Which means something happened, and I need you to stop bullshitting me.”

Your mouth went dry, fingers tightening around your coffee cup. The truth sat heavy on your tongue, bitter and unspeakable.

What if she looked at you the way Eunji did?

Sohee exhaled, her sharpness softening just a fraction. “Look, I don’t know what went down, but I missed you, okay?”

Your heart clenched. She wasn’t angry. She was hurt. And that somehow made it worse.

You put your headphones aside and took a deep breath, gathering the courage to begin.

So you started from the very beginning. Bangchan, the secrets, then Mingyu, Eunji finding out, all your emotions, the fight between Bangchan and Mingyu, and how completely broken you’d been ever since.

Sohee listened, her expression shifting from shock to disbelief. “That’s... insane. I can’t believe Eunji would do something like that.”

“I know.” You gave a small, bitter smile. “That’s why it hurts.”

“And rightfully so. She had no right to interfere in your life or come at you like that.” Sohee leaned on the table, eyes searching yours. “But please, don’t let this kill your spark. Everyone misses you.”

And you missed them too. All of them. Without exception.

“If you must know,” Sohee drawled, cocking her head with a little smirk, “I’d already kind of guessed there was something going on with you and Bangchan.”

You shot her a look, but she kept going, unbothered.

“I just figured you’d spill when you were ready. No pressure. Not my circus.” She shrugged, then narrowed her eyes playfully. “But seriously… you do like him, right?”

Your chest tightened. Because the answer was obvious.

Sohee gave you a pointed look, like she could see right through you. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that I guess it doesn’t matter bullshit.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “It doesn’t.”

“It does.” She leaned in, voice low but firm. “You’re miserable. He’s miserable. And all of this is because of what? Miscommunication and some high school level drama?”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yeah, it kinda is.” She shrugged. “You like him. He clearly likes you. But instead of dealing with it, you ran.”

“That’s not fair—”

Sohee held up a hand. “I’m not saying you didn’t have your reasons. I’m saying that if you keep avoiding it, you’re just gonna hurt yourself more. Let things cool down, sure. But don’t wait until it’s too late.”

You stared at her, words caught in your throat. Because the truth was, you were terrified. Terrified that if you faced him, he’d look at you differently. That the damage was already done.

But another, quieter part of you—the part that still remembered the warmth of his touch, the way he looked at you like you were it for him—wondered if maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late at all.

You were alone in the theater, the crumpled sheets of your solo scattered around you like forgotten love letters. You were dead set on nailing that high note — the heartbreak one, the kind that’s supposed to rip your chest open and bleed on stage. Humming through the first verse, you air-strummed like your life depended on it, lost in the rhythm.

“Am I crashing a rockstar's private concert?” Changbin’s voice broke through your focus, making your head snap up so fast it almost hurt. He was in his basketball jacket, the team logo front and center, and that usual mischievous grin was pulling at his mouth. He stepped closer, then plopped down next to you on the edge of the stage like he belonged there. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You’re fine.” You flashed him a crooked little smile as you scooped up the sheets from the floor. “I’ll just pretend you weren’t suspiciously wandering the theater.”

“Busted.” He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “What can I say? If you hadn’t pulled a full-on undercover mission and vanished from campus, I wouldn’t have to play detective just to track you down.”

You shot him a look. “Busted.”

His smile softened a bit, but it didn’t reach his usual brand of easy humor. Changbin had always been the steady one — loyal to Bangchan, to the whole group really. But right now, there was something quieter in him, like he’d pocketed the jokes for later.

And even though you kept your expression cool, you felt it too — the weight of whatever he wasn’t saying yet. “The guys miss you, you know that, right?”

His voice was casual, but it landed heavier than he probably meant it to. You dragged in a breath, sharp like it might actually clear out the guilt clogging your chest.

Spoiler: it didn’t. You’d gone ghost on them, the second life got messy, and there was no pretending otherwise.

Before you could open your mouth, probably to spit out some lame excuse, Changbin raised a hand like he could see it coming from a mile away. “And no, before you even ask, he didn’t send me,” he said, shooting you a knowing look. “Didn’t even bring you up. But it wasn’t rocket science, you know? Mingyu stormed off, then Chan showed up looking like he lost a bar or something.”

You winced. “Bin… I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” He shook his head, like that wasn’t what he came here for. “This isn’t a guilt trip, alright? Whatever Mingyu pulled, he had it coming. Trust me, no one’s crying over him.”

A pause. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

You straightened up, catching the shift in his tone. Less playful, more real. The kind of real that you couldn’t dodge even if you wanted to.

“I’m just—look, I’m just trying to knock some sense into both of you,” Changbin went on, like he’d been carrying this around too long. “I don’t know all the details, and honestly? I don’t need to. But I do know my best friend’s been walking around like the lights are on, but nobody’s home.”

Your chest tightened, the words slipping past your guard way too easily.

“And I’m not saying this to dump it on you, okay? I swear,” he added, catching your expression before you could speak. “It’s just... he’s a mess. And it’s not just the basketball thing, or the usual stress — it’s you. He misses you. Bad.”

The way he said it — simple, no drama, no exaggeration — hit you harder than any speech could’ve.

And you hated it. You hated that part of you wanted to hear it. You hated that it hurt more than you expected. Because deep down, you already knew.

“I’m only doing this because he’s my guy,” Changbin started, running a hand through his hair like this whole conversation weighed more than he let on. “Chan’s always been the one to clean up after the rest of us, you know? First to show up with advice or some half-baked plan to save the day.”

You tilted your head, a small smile sneaking onto your lips despite yourself. Classic Chan.

Changbin caught it, and his own grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, softer this time. “Yeah, exactly. And when he met you? Man, it was like someone turned the lights on in his head. Swear to God, I’ve never seen him like that. He was just... lighter.”

The way he said it twisted something in your chest, but you held his gaze, letting him finish.

“What I’m saying is,” he went on, “even if you two don’t go back to being, like, whatever you were before—” he waved a vague hand between you, “—at least talk to him. He’s stuck in that ‘she hates me, so I better give her space’ spiral, and you know how Chan is. He’ll bury it to do what’s best for you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how much that stung. “Wait... so he doesn’t hate me?”

Changbin actually laughed at that, a real, rough-around-the-edges laugh. “Hate you? Please. I don’t think that man has it in him, even if he tried.”

Your fingers tangled together, fidgeting without you meaning to. The truth slipped out before you could stop it. “I care about him. I really do.”

“Yeah,” Changbin said simply, no teasing this time, just plain fact. “I know you do. And I know you’ll figure this out.”

After a beat of quiet, Changbin pushed himself up, casually brushing nonexistent dust off his jersey like he’d just wrapped up something way more dramatic than a heart-to-heart.

“Thanks, Binnie,” you said, flashing him a crooked smile as he gave you an overly formal little bow.

He started toward the door but paused right at the exit, glancing back over his shoulder with that familiar spark in his eye. “You know I love you, right? But if you mess with my best friend’s heart, I will write the nastiest diss track you’ve ever heard. Full production. No skips.”

That earned a laugh out of you, real and warm. “Gonna throw in choreography too?”

He smirked like you’d just dared him to. “Obviously. Backup dancers and everything."

And with that, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall, his voice echoing back as he called out, “You’re not getting off that easy!”

And just like that, you were alone again—surrounded by a whole storm of thoughts you weren’t quite ready to untangle.

You’d swallowed that whole conversation with Changbin like it was a bad shot of cheap tequila — still burning in your chest, still impossible to forget. And yet, life rolled on, dragging you with it while you kept trying to figure out when the hell would be the right time to talk to Bangchan.

Problem was, the whole thing still felt like an open wound — not bleeding anymore, but definitely not ready for anyone to poke at it either.

Sohee was in your new room, fussing with the straps of her dress in front of the mirror. The place wasn’t as roomy as the one you used to share with her and Eunji, but it did the job.

“I talked to Eunji," Sohee said, swiping mascara on with laser focus. "Well — argued is probably the more accurate term. She wouldn’t even let me finish when I tried to tell her she was being a bitch."

You were sprawled across your bed, cozy in your oldest, softest pajamas, like this whole conversation wasn’t tying your stomach in knots.

"I didn’t want you two fighting because of me," you muttered, playing with the hem of your sleeve.

Sohee whipped around, one eye still missing eyeliner but her energy fully charged. “Please. I’m morally allergic to bullshit. What she did was a straight-up foul. And until she figures out how to act like a halfway decent human being, maybe it’s time we put that friendship on ice.”

You sighed, a tangled mess of guilt and low-key relief knotting in your chest. "Yeah, well... it still kinda sucks."

“Everyone’s gotta make their own choices…” Sohee went back to her makeup like it was no big deal, but then spun around again, narrowing her eyes at you. “Speaking of choices… you’re really not going to the game? It’s the final. Literally, everyone’s gonna be there.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh and flopped onto the pillows like your life depended on it.

“Yeah, hard pass. Not in the mood to humiliate myself in public, thanks.”

“Girl, come on,” Sohee groaned. “This is your perfect excuse to finally talk to Bangchan and fix things. I know he’d love to see you there, especially at his last game this semester.”

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “I don’t know… Feels like showing up would just make it worse.”

Sohee snapped the mascara shut like it personally offended her. “Stubborn as hell, I swear. Fine. Just—promise me you won’t do something you’re gonna regret later, alright?”

“I know, I know,” you waved her off, a little smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll figure it out when the time’s right. Go have fun, kiss your boyfriend, and drink an unreasonable amount of beer in my honor.”

She grabbed her bag off the bed, but before heading out, she paused at the door and shot you a final look over her shoulder. “Last chance. Are you sure you’re staying?”

“Yeah. Have fun at the game,” you said, forcing a half-smile.

Sohee shrugged like she’d expected that answer. “Alright… I tried. Don’t say I didn’t.” She shot you a quick grin over her shoulder as she headed out. “Catch you later!”

As the minutes dragged on, boredom hit you like a brick. Your brain was way too wired to even think about running lines for the play. You tried putting on a movie, but you zoned out every five minutes and had to keep rewinding just to figure out what the hell was going on.

That’s when you decided: screw it. Time to hit the campus café and drown your existential crisis in hot chocolate and maybe the most sugar-loaded cupcake you could get your hands on. Comfort food therapy, top tier.

You threw on some cute but cozy clothes, something to shake off the emotional slump clinging to you like a bad ex. Skirt, sweater, your trusty boots — the holy trinity.

The second you stepped outside, it felt like the whole weather system had joined your pity party. What started as a light breeze had upgraded to full-blown dramatic gusts, and the sky was throwing major moody vibes with all those gloomy gray clouds.

The cafeteria was basically a ghost town. No surprise there — most people were off hyping up the basketball final, the very game everyone had been pushing you to go to. But showing up last-minute just to cause a scene was so not your style. If you were going to fix things, you’d do it on your own terms, not crash the party like some soap opera twist.

Inside, the café was warm but dead quiet. The staff looked just as miserable as you felt, probably counting down the seconds till they could ditch work and catch the game too. You kind of felt bad for bothering them. Kind of. But hey, desperate times. Your soul needed sugar before life threw another plot twist your way.

You went for the hot chocolate — obvious choice — and threw in a slice of strawberry sponge cake for good measure. Not exactly a gourmet pairing, but at this point, flavor combos were the least of your problems.

You slid into the table by the window, pulling out your phone like it could somehow save you from your own restless brain.

Sohee had just posted a story: her, Minho, and Felix, all grins and mid-cheers. Typical. You kept scrolling, letting the endless stream of everyone else’s highlight reel wash over you. Felix, Jisung, and Hyunjin had apparently hit up a barbecue place recently, and yeah — that one stung. Hard. Like a punch right in the ribs, just above where you’d been keeping all your unresolved guilt.

Brilliant. Love that for me.

“Hey.”

The voice snapped you out of your spiral so fast you damn near fumbled your phone like it was evidence in a crime. Guiltily, you locked the screen and glanced up.

Mingyu stood there, iced coffee in hand, wearing that soft, easy smile.

“Hi…” you answered, a little awkward. He hadn’t exactly been on your recent contact list either.

"Can I sit?" He gestured at the chair across from you. "I won’t take up too much of your time, scout’s honor."

You nodded, curiosity getting the better of you. Might as well — it’s not like you were killing it at the whole “alone with your thoughts” thing anyway.

“You kinda vanished,” Mingyu said as he set his coffee down and folded his arms casually over the table. “Haven’t seen you around at all.”

You let out a humorless little laugh, more of a scoff really. “Didn’t exactly feel like I had a choice.”

“I see,” Mingyu exhaled, slow and steady, like he was gearing up to unload something heavy. “Look, I’m really sorry about everything. Honestly. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, coming out swinging at Bangchan like that.” He shook his head, as if still baffled by his own actions. “That’s not me. At all. And I’m sorry for dragging you into the mess.”

Well. That was... unexpectedly nice of him.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected — maybe some half-baked excuse or him brushing it off — but an actual, straight-up apology? Kind of refreshing.

“I should’ve seen it, you know?” He gave a small, hollow laugh. “The way he looked at you... yeah, it was pretty obvious. Can’t really blame the guy.”

There was a flicker of something in his smile, something resigned and maybe a little bit sad.

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” you added, softer this time.

He shrugged, a wry twist to his lips. “No need. Things happen the way they’re supposed to, right? We had a good run. And well... I guess that’s it.”

“No hard feelings?” he asked, reaching his hand across the table like he was closing a deal.

You didn’t even hesitate — you took it, gave it a firm squeeze. “No hard feelings.”

“Right.” He nodded, like it was the final period of a sentence. Then he got up, grabbed his coffee, and shot you a parting smile. “I—I just hope you’re happy.”

And just like that, Mingyu walked out through the glass doors, disappearing across campus like he was just another passerby in your life. It wasn’t until the door swung shut behind him that his words really hit you, settling deep in your stomach like a lead weight.

I hope you’re happy.

And you weren’t happy. Not even close.

The brutal truth? You had no one to blame but yourself. Every twist, every wrong turn, it all traced back to your own fear, your own hesitation. If you’d been just a little braver — if you’d let people in instead of keeping them at arm’s length — maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe you’d be happy.

The cruel part? It took hearing it from Mingyu to finally see it for what it was. It was always you.

Your half-eaten cake sat abandoned on the table, the hot chocolate cooling into something sad and forgotten. Without thinking twice, you pushed back your chair and stormed out of the café, straight into the chaos waiting outside.

The wind hit you like a wall, and then, as if the universe was feeling especially theatrical today, fat, icy drops of rain began to fall — fast and merciless.

Karma? Maybe. Challenge accepted.

You didn’t slow down. You ran.

Your biker boots pounded against the slick grass, water splashing up your legs as the rain came down harder, so heavy it blurred the world into a messy watercolor. But you didn’t care. You weren’t stopping now — not when your heart was finally awake after pretending to sleep for so long.

The gym was all the way across campus, of course it was. Far enough that you were completely drenched by the time the courtyard came into view. Your chest heaved with every breath, burning like you’d sprinted through fire instead of rain. Your clothes clung to your skin, soaked to the bone, and your hair stuck to your forehead, your cheeks, your neck — like the rain wanted to wear you down.

But you kept going. You had to get there. No matter how soaked, no matter how late.

You had to.

You squared your shoulders, puffed out your chest like you had a whole army at your back, and stomped straight toward the gym doors. No hesitation. Okay — a little hesitation. Your heart was doing somersaults in your chest, adrenaline crashing into nerves like they were fighting for control.

But you pushed the doors open anyway.

Only to be greeted by... absolutely no one.

Just the janitor, casually mopping the far end of the court like this was any other boring Saturday.

Your pulse stumbled, like it tripped over itself. No way.

You yanked out your soaked phone, fingers slipping against the drenched screen, and checked the time. Way too late. The game had ended — you’d missed it. They were probably already at some bar downing cheap drinks and yelling over greasy plates of fries, and here you were, a walking raincloud with nothing to show for it.

Your thumb hovered over Sohee’s number, ready to call, beg, something — but before you could hit the dial, a voice cut through the empty court.

“Your plan is to flood the gym or what?”

Your heart flat-out stopped.

Slowly, you turned, every inch of you shivering from the rain and a healthy dose of panic.

Bangchan.

He was right there, leaning against the entrance like he hadn’t just flipped your entire internal system upside down. His hair was a mess of wet strands, some falling over his forehead in a way that should’ve been illegal.

Your mouth went dry, brain buffering like a bad connection.

"I'm... um... a little soaked," you managed, glancing down at yourself and the puddle spreading beneath your feet. A tremor ran through you, part chill, part nerves, leaving your words thin and shaky.

Bangchan gave a quiet, amused breath — almost a laugh, but softer — before he started walking toward you.

It was only then, as he drew closer, that you really saw him. His hair had grown longer, the damp curls now brushing the nape of his neck, framing his face in a way that felt painfully unfair. Draped over his shoulders was a black jacket, the kind that made him look like he’d stepped right off a movie scene.

"What are you doing here?" Bangchan’s voice cut through the hollow echo of the gym, roughened by surprise but threaded with something deeper.

With one simple movement, he removed the jacket from his shoulders and placed it over yours. You gulped, the words knotting in your throat. "I—I'm leaving," you managed, barely above a whisper.

"You're leaving?" His brows pulled together, like the thought alone caused him genuine pain.

Instinctively, you took a step back, clutching his jacket tighter around your soaked frame. Coward. Even now, even with him standing right in front of you, you were slipping into old habits, retreating when you should be reaching out.

Bangchan tilted his head, eyes flicking over your rain-soaked figure. "You really think I’m gonna buy that? After you ran through a damn storm to get here?" His voice was low, rough around the edges, but his gaze was soft.

Your throat felt like it was closing in on itself, your breath turning shallow and uneven. "I thought the game was still on," you confessed, your voice small, almost childlike.

"It ended early," he said, his tone softening. "Thunderstorm warning." He gestured toward the windows, where the rain continued to batter the glass in relentless sheets. "Most people cleared out fast. But I stayed behind."

Why? you wanted to ask. But maybe you didn’t need to — his eyes already told you everything you needed to know.

"You stayed," you echoed, almost in disbelief, as if saying it aloud would make it real.

He stepped closer, his gaze dipping to your hands, which clung to his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you afloat. When his eyes met yours again, something flickered in them — something deep and quiet, something that felt dangerously close to hope.

Bangchan’s gaze didn’t waver. "You came here for a reason," he said, his voice rough at the edges. "So stop pretending you didn’t."

Your heart twisted painfully, tangled in the unsaid. The truth clawed at your chest, desperate to surface. I wanted to see you. I wanted to stop running.

"I..." But your voice trembled, fragile as glass stretched too thin.

Bangchan’s expression softened, like he could see straight through the façade, like he saw every crack you were trying to hide. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached up and brushed a damp strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers were warm against your chilled skin, and despite yourself, you leaned into his touch.

"You’re freezing," he murmured.

"I'm fine," you lied, even as your body betrayed you with a violent shiver.

A faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Liar."

"I need to ask you something," you said, your voice tighter than you wanted. "That night on the beach… were you serious? About everything you said?"

His expression twisted, disbelief written all over him. “Really? Really? Don’t waste my time pretending you don’t know.”

You let out a breath, sharp through your nose. Fair enough. But you had to say it, get it off your chest before it ate you alive.

"I messed it all up," you admitted, the words tumbling out. "I kept telling myself I didn’t care what people thought, like I was above all that crap. But it turns out I care. Way more than I should. And that fear? It had me choking on my own feelings."

You risked a glance at him. He was watching you like you were the only thing left in the world worth looking at. No interruptions, no sarcastic quips — just quiet focus.

"I mean, you were— God, you were so good to me," you kept going, voice thick with regret. "And I think I freaked out because I’d already fallen for you way before I let myself admit it. Like, properly fallen. And that scared the hell out of me because I never thought I’d actually… like you. Not like this."

Your throat tightened, a painful lump that wouldn’t go away. "I liked everything. Being around you. Talking to you. Even the way you annoyed me." you smiled softly.

Your eyes stung, tears slipping free, but you kept going like you couldn’t stop. "I hate what I did to you. I hate that I messed this up beyond fixing it. And I know it’s too late... yeah. I get it. I understand."

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, words tumbling out too fast. "I just needed you to know, before I go — I’m sorry. For everything. You didn’t deserve any of it."

Your breath hitched, but you met his eyes anyway — full on, no flinching. "I’m so sorry."

Tears blurred your vision as you crossed the court toward the exit, not even bothering to shield yourself from the rain. What was the point? You were already soaked, inside and out.

You let out a choked sob, hating yourself for being such a coward — for always running when it mattered most.

“Wait—” Bangchan’s voice cut through the downpour, rough and almost swallowed by the storm.

You froze, eyes narrowing against the sheets of rain, blinking fast to see through the water streaming down your face.

“Wait," he called out again, sharper now, like the rain itself had finally lit a fuse. "What gives you the right to drop that on me and just walk away?” His anger was written all over him, carved deep into the lines of his face.

"What?" you shot back, breath catching, but the storm swallowed your voice, forcing you to yell just to be heard.

Bangchan raked a hand through his soaked hair, slicking it back as he stepped closer, chest rising fast, like he couldn’t breathe right with you this far away. "You’re running," he said, rough and tight. "Running from me. From us. Again."

And hell, he wasn’t wrong.

"Everything I’ve done," he said, the words rough-edged and raw, "since the second I met you — it’s been about you. Always you." He caught his breath, like saying it out loud made it real. "Because I wanted you. More than anything."

The confession hit like a punch to the ribs, sharp and breath-stealing.

"Since Hyunjin introduced us and you barely noticed I existed," he kept going, like he couldn’t stop now. "Since you breezed right past me without a second thought. Since you crashed into my life and wrecked every single thing I thought I had figured out."

Your heart was beating out of rhythm, too fast for your own body to keep up, like it was trying to outrun the storm — or maybe run straight to him.

"You don’t get to stand there and tell me it’s too late," Bangchan shouted over the rain, his voice tearing through the downpour like it had something to prove. His eyes burned so bright, it almost hurt to look at him. "Not when I’ve been standing here this whole time, heart wide open, just waiting for you to see me."

His chest heaved, rain sliding off him like he didn’t even notice, like all he could see was you. "I’ve been waiting for you," he said, softer this time, but it was the kind of softness that carried weight. Heavy. Unshakable. "So if you want me — really want me — you’ve got to say it. I need to hear you say it."

The storm raged around you, but it felt like the eye of it had landed right here, right between the two of you. Your pulse throbbed in your ears, every muscle strung so tight you could barely breathe.

This was terrifying. This was exhilarating. This was everything you had been too scared to want.

Your lips parted, but for a heartbeat, all you could do was try to swallow the lump in your throat. Then, steadying your breath, you let a small, shaky smile tug at the corner of your mouth. A flicker of defiance, maybe even a little hope.

"Bangchan," you said, your voice rough but sure, "there’s never been anyone else. It’s only ever been you."

There wasn’t a second of hesitation when your lips found his — only the wild, breathless certainty of two people who had run out of ways to pretend they didn’t need this.

The desperation between you felt electric, almost feverish, like your skin couldn’t decide if it was burning or freezing in the rain. You’d never felt anything like it — like the whole world had finally spun off its axis and was crashing headfirst into this moment. Into him.

When his hands, just as cold and trembling as yours, cupped your face like he was terrified you might slip away, you gasped, a sharp breath of shock and longing tangled together. Bangchan made you feel reckless. Young. Like you were caught in the middle of one of those ridiculous romance high-school movies you always scoffed at, the kind where the girl lifts her leg during the kiss — and for once, you understood why.

This kiss, soaked to the bone and laced with every scrap of resentment and longing, felt like proof. Proof that what you had wasn’t just real, but unstoppable.

You clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth, fingers fisting in his drenched shirt as the rain poured over you both, careless and wild. And still, beneath the chaos, something pure unfurled in your chest — something terrifyingly beautiful, raw and undeniable.

Bangchan kissed you like he was starving, like he had been starving for you. He deepened the kiss, tasting every inch of you like it had haunted him in dreams and in every quiet, aching moment you’d spent apart.

It wasn’t new, this hunger — you’d felt it before. But tonight, in this storm, in his arms, it felt entirely different. Like you’d finally let yourself give in to the fire you’d been dancing around for far too long.

How you ended up sprinting down the hallway with soaked shoes that squeaked like a bad joke didn’t even matter at this point. Thunder growled overhead like it was personally offended by your existence, and Bangchan was fumbling with the dorm keys like his life depended on it.

“Could you not kill the key while you’re at it?” you shot at him, half breathless, half laughing despite the anxiety twisting in your stomach.

“I'm trying, damn it,” he muttered, jamming the key into the lock with a speed that was both impressive and completely ridiculous.

The door finally gave in, and the two of you stumbled inside, drenched to the bone. The room was dim, only lit by the bruised grey daylight leaking through the window, and for a second, the world just... stopped spinning so fast.

You didn’t even think about it. Your hand found his face like it belonged there — like you were tracing something ancient and sacred, a statue carved by the gods, Apollo himself if Apollo wore wet hair and a breathless grin. Your thumb brushed his cheekbone, and you caught yourself smiling, then sinking your teeth into your lip to hold it back.

Bangchan swore under his breath, like your touch was enough to short-circuit his whole system. He closed his eyes for half a heartbeat, then caught your hand in his, holding it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I missed you…” you admitted, your voice low and honest, like the words had been burning a hole in your lungs.

Bangchan’s breath hitched. He caught your hand gently, his fingers wrapping around yours like he was scared you might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. His eyes — god, his eyes — they searched your face like you were something holy, like every answer he’d ever wanted was written in the curve of your smile.

He kissed your knuckles, slow and passionate, and that tiny gesture nearly undid you. The way he was looking at you sent a shiver down your spine. Tears pricked behind your eyes, not from sadness, but from the insane, overwhelming relief of finally feeling. Like your chest had cracked open and light was pouring in, fierce and free.

And damn, it felt so, so good to finally breathe again.

The best part, freedom didn’t need an invitation — it just showed up, slipped right between you two like it belonged there all along.

And then, his lips found yours. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just there — warm and certain and carrying every shred of doubt far, far away. If those questions still existed, you sure as hell weren’t looking for them.

Bangchan kissed you like he knew. Like he knew exactly how long you’d been waiting for this, and he wasn’t about to ruin it with panic or rush. He was careful, but not shy — calculated without making it feel forced, a perfect balance of hunger and restraint that made your heart stutter in your chest.

This wasn’t reckless. No, this was something else entirely. This felt like he was handling something precious, like you were made of glass and he wasn’t sure if you’d shatter or melt in his hands. Maybe a bit of both.

Your arms looped around his neck, a familiar move, but now it felt charged. You’d always been secretly obsessed with how he towered over you, how his presence alone seemed to wrap around you like a second skin. Like gravity had picked favorites and he was yours.

Without even breaking the kiss, you found the hem of his drenched T-shirt, fingers brushing over cool skin as you tugged it upward. He caught the hint, helping you pull it over his head in one smooth motion before tossing it somewhere behind him like it didn’t matter — because it didn’t.

The jacket he’d draped over your shoulders slipped to the floor with a quiet thud. Your lips were still tangled in his, tasting rain and fire and something dangerously close to forever. Every brush of your mouth against his felt like a spark in a storm, friction building and building until you were certain you’d catch flame.

You didn’t know how long you’d been kissing him, and honestly? You didn’t care. All you knew was this moment — soaked skin, racing pulse, and the wild, breathless certainty that whatever this was between you, it was finally, finally real.

Before he even thought about sitting down, Bangchan stripped off every soaked, useless layer like it personally offended him. His shirt hit the floor with a wet splat, followed by the rest, and then he dropped onto the edge of the bed like he owned the damn place — which, technically, he did, but still.

You stood between his knees, and for a second, it felt like the air got thinner.

Slowly — painfully slowly, because he had to know exactly what he was doing to you — he tugged your skirt lower, knuckles grazing your skin like it was an accident. His fingers made quick work of your boots, then your sweater, all without breaking eye contact. His gaze had this impossible mix: soft but hungry, steady but burning with something you couldn’t quite name. Like you were some kind of inevitable he’d been waiting for without even realizing it.

Without a word, he curled his hand around the back of your thigh and coaxed you onto his lap, like you were gravity and he didn’t stand a chance. You went willingly — of course you did — knees bracketing his hips, your palms finding his shoulders, solid and warm beneath your hands.

He hovered at your mouth, maddeningly close but not quite there. A ghost of a smile played at the corners of his lips, easily teasing you.

His breath skimmed yours, electric and careful, until finally his lips brushed over yours, so light you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. His hands tightened at your waist, fingers sinking into your skin like he needed you closer. Like breathing wasn’t enough anymore.

The room fell into this heady, perfect silence, just the sound of your breathing, uneven and shallow, and the rain tapping against the window like it was keeping rhythm.

Your voice barely rose above a whisper, but it carried all the weight in the world. “Can we just freeze this?” you asked, your eyes tracing every line of his face like you were afraid it might vanish. “Right here, right now. Forever.”

You felt him shiver beneath your fingertips — or maybe it was you. Hard to tell anymore. His answer was the way he kissed you like yes. Like hell yes.

Bangchan let out a low, rough sound, like you’d just stolen the last ounce of self-control he had left. His mouth trailed along your jawline, barely-there kisses that felt like they were searing into your skin.

Normally, he was the one filling the space with words — teasing, coaxing, making you dizzy with how easily he could wreck you. But tonight, you wanted him to feel it. To really feel it. Not just in his head, but in his bones.

You cupped his face between your palms, your thumbs brushing the damp heat of his cheeks. God, he looked at you like you were the whole damn galaxy — like he’d waited light-years for this exact moment. And you traced your fingertip along his parted lips. He didn’t even hesitate; he kissed your fingerprint like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m yours,” you breathed, your voice barely louder than the rain tapping at the window — but it hit him like thunder all the same.

He froze, like your words had short-circuited every nerve in his body. His chest rose on a sharp inhale, his eyes drinking you in like you were the only thing keeping him alive. “I’ll always be,” you whispered, like a vow only he was meant to hear.

His eyes softened, something raw flickering in them, right before you kissed him — full of every unspoken promise, fearless and certain, like you were stitching your heart straight into his mouth.

His hands found your waist, grounding you, as he shifted you effortlessly to the center of the bed. His lips brushed your neck, making you shiver all over again.

“My heart is yours,” he said softly, his lips brushing your skin like he was confessing a secret. “I’m all yours.” His words melted into kisses — first at your lips, then your cheek, and finally at that place beneath your ear that made your breath hitch.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed, breathless and a little reckless. He grinned against your throat, like he liked you like this — alive, teasing him back.

For a heartbeat, you just looked at him. At this man who somehow made the world quiet and loud all at once. Like maybe, just maybe, life could actually be this simple.

“God, you’re so beautiful…” he said, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, his fingers cradling your chin. His gaze dipped to your lips, dark with hunger. “Wanna touch you everywhere…”

His hand slid to the curve of your neck, making your eyes flick up in challenge.

“Make you feel so good,” he added, voice rough with intent.

You bit your lip, settled deeper into his lap, and gave him your signature smirk. “Then what are you waiting for?”

He didn’t need an invitation twice.

The kiss deepened, turned heady and hungry, but never rushed. Bangchan’s fingers toyed with the side of your panties, lazy and teasing, like he had all the time in the world to drive you insane. He hooked his finger under the edge, barely grazing your skin — just enough to send a sharp, electric pulse through your entire body.

There was heat, sure. A wildfire between you, no doubt. But underneath it, something steadier, something that felt terrifyingly like eternity. He wasn’t rushing it. He wasn’t just touching you to have you — he was memorizing you. Worshipping, almost.

“I want you,” you breathed in his mouth, voice rough around the edges, like it had been sanded down to the truth.

He didn’t waste a second. Quick, practiced, a little frantic but still smiling that lazy half-smile of his as he reached for protection, slipping it on in record time, like every second apart was unbearable.

You shifted your knees, adjusting for him — for both of you — and his eyes darkened like you’d just flipped a switch. He tugged the last stubborn scrap of fabric away, his hands lingering like he couldn’t quite let it go.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you sank down onto him, the movement natural, inevitable, like your bodies already knew this rhythm by heart. A gasp escaped you both, caught somewhere between surprise and relief.

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, not for balance, but because you needed to hold on to something real — and he was the only thing that felt like solid ground.

Bangchan buried his face in the crook of your neck, lips warm and wet against your skin, like he couldn’t get close enough. Like he wanted to taste every inch of you, commit you to memory, down to the last shiver.

You moved against him slowly at first, like you wanted to feel every single second of it — to let it burn through your nerves until it became too much to hold back. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer, anchoring you to him as if he couldn’t stand even a breath of distance.

Every shift of your hips dragged a sound from him, rough and raw, like he was barely holding on. His head fell back for a moment, jaw clenched tight, but then his gaze was back on you — dark, devouring, full of need that felt like it could swallow you whole.

You tried to swallow the sounds tearing out of you, sinking your teeth into your lip, into his shoulder, into whatever you could reach — but it was useless. Every slow thrust made you unravel a little more, made you feel like you were coming apart right around him. He filled you so deep, so perfectly, it felt obscene, like your body was made just to take him.

And he knew it too — the way he moved inside you was relentless, unhurried but devastating, like he wanted to make sure you felt every inch of him, every inch of what he was doing to you.

And he wasn’t any steadier.

He fought to hold himself together, but the moans kept breaking free, rough and desperate. He was lost in the delirium of being buried deep inside you, of feeling you stretch and clench around him like you were made to take him. The way you took him, so eager and tight, had his control fraying fast.

He was pulsing with need, every second of restraint twisting into something almost unbearable — too good, too much, almost painful in its pleasure.

His hand slid up to your hair, fingers threading through before he tugged it aside to expose your neck. His mouth found your skin without hesitation — warm, open kisses trailing along your pulse, his tongue tasting the sweat-slick heat of you.

He worked his way down your neck, lips brushing teasingly over every inch of your sensitive skin. At your chest, he paused, let his tongue explore the soft skin there, coaxing a sharp gasp from you as your body reacted without thinking. He wanted to ruin you with his mouth, to taste every inch until you were dripping for him, until the only thing you could think about was how good he felt owning you like this.

You found your rhythm together, perfectly in sync, like you’d been built for this. Built for him. Each roll of your hips sent a fresh wave of need spiraling through your veins, building, tightening, pulling you both closer to the edge. His hands held you like he couldn’t bear to let go, his touch rough but reverent, worshipping every inch of you.

The room felt molten, the air thick with heat and desire. Moans tangled between you, breathless and desperate, until all you could hear was the storm outside and the sound of your bodies moving together.

"Can’t get enough of you—fuck—" Bangchan’s voice tore out of him, rough and wrecked, words slipping into broken sounds as his hips snapped into yours, chasing the high with a desperation that felt like it might kill him.

Sweat and rainwater dripped down his skin, slick between your bodies, his hair clinging damp to his forehead. He looked like sin, like every fantasy you’d ever had but filthier, messier, better.

You crashed your mouth to his, swallowing the ragged moan that escaped him, tasting the heat of it on his tongue.

“Please,” you begged, breath trembling as your lips brushed his. “God, please, just—”

"You feel—fuck," he choked, breath catching hard as you rolled your hips, grinding right where he needed you. His eyes fluttered shut, helpless to the way you squeezed around him.

"Say it," you demanded, your voice all heat and sin, lips brushing his ear like a spark to gasoline.

He groaned, wrecked. "So good, so fucking good, baby, you drive me insane."

Your lips parted on a shaky exhale, your entire body tightening around him. The knot low in your belly twisted, pulling you closer to that breaking point with every relentless thrust. The storm outside thrashed against the windows, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside you.

Your forehead pressed against his, breaths tangling, sweat-slicked skin sliding together as you moved in sync. His gaze burned into you, wild and wrecked, like he couldn’t get enough.

"That's it," he rasped, rough and hungry. His thumb worked your clit in tight, relentless circles, dragging you closer to the edge. "Cum for me, baby. Be my good girl and soak my cock. Let me feel you lose it all over me."

“Fuck, you were made for me,” he rasped, voice thick and raw, every word dripping hunger. His hips snapped into you, fast and relentless, hitting so deep it made your mind spin, had you gasping his name over and over like it was the only thing you knew how to say.

You felt impossibly full, stretched around him to the point of unbearable pleasure, and you craved it — you wanted more, wanted him to take you apart until you were nothing but his.

Bangchan’s hand slid up to your throat, not choking, just holding you there, steady and close, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you. His other hand gripped your waist tight, dragging you harder onto his cock, like he was chasing something dangerous and beautiful all at once — like he needed to claim every part of you.

“Take every inch of me,” he growled against your skin, his lips hot at your neck as his teeth sank in, just sharp enough to make you shiver. “Fuck—yes, just like that, my perfect fucking girl.”

Your body clamped down on him, another violent wave of pleasure wracking through you as you moved together, desperate and wild. His breath stuttered, sharp and wrecked, his hips jolting hard when you clenched around him again, milking him, pulling a raw, broken moan from deep in his throat.

“Fuck, angel,—” His voice cracked, strangled on a gasp, and then he lost it completely. His hips slammed up into you, rough and frantic, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you with a helpless, guttural sound, like he was unraveling from the inside out.

The second you felt him pulse, you shattered, pleasure crashing through you in devastating waves. Your whole body jerked, trembling in his hold, your mouth falling open on a cry of his name that sounded like both worship and ruin. He groaned through his release, grinding up into you as he emptied himself fully, like he couldn’t stop, like he never wanted to stop.

Even when the aftershocks tore through you both, he kept you tight against him, breathing hard, lips brushing your skin in shaky, reverent kisses. He kissed you like he was trying to swallow your moans, like he was desperate to keep every last sound of you for himself.

Your breath was wrecked, your chest heaving against his as you clung to him, still pulsing around him like you never wanted to let him go.

“Such a perfect little thing for me,” he rasped, dark and tender all at once, “my pretty girl.”

And in his eyes, you swore you saw it — the words he didn’t say yet, thick and heavy and dangerous on the tip of his tongue.

After basically spending the entire weekend barricaded in Bangchan’s apartment — more specifically, in his bed — where you’d thoroughly explored every possible way to kill the mutual longing, you figured it was time to rejoin society. Preferably not looking like you’d just crawled out of a two-day sex coma, but well, damage done.

The perfect excuse arrived in the form of Changbin and the rest of the soccer guys throwing a victory party after their game. They won, obviously — and Bangchan had not let you forget it for even a second. He’d been strutting around the dorm like some smug MVP, dropping lines like, “You’re literally sleeping with the best basketball player, babe. Iconic behavior.”

You were so gone for him it was almost embarrassing. Almost.

It was Sunday night, and looming over you like an anxious little storm cloud was the fact that this was your last week. Final week. Curtain call was Friday, and you were already spiraling.

The panic over your performance felt like it had its own pulse — quick, sharp, and completely unnecessary, considering Hyunjin and Seungmin had basically held your hand and all but screamed, “You’re going to kill it. Stop overthinking.”

Still. Easier said than done.

Although, to be fair, the crippling anxiety had taken a temporary vacation over the last 48 hours — because Bangchan, bless him, had thoroughly, repeatedly, and almost heroically, fucked it right out of you.

Like a true gentleman.

He kept your hand in his the entire walk, fingers tangled like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you couldn't help but smile at the way he casually included you in every plan for the mid-year break. Like he couldn’t imagine doing any of it without you. You didn't even realize how much you needed that feeling until you had it.

When you got to the frat house, the party was already in full swing—music thumping, laughter spilling out into the yard. The moment you two stepped through the door, a few of the basketball guys waved, greeting Bangchan with their usual teasing banter. And, surprisingly, they were actually kind of polite to you. No eye rolls, no snickers. Just the usual ‘Hey, Bangchan’s girl’ vibes. But that was enough.

You’d chosen a dress that was a little daring—tight, short, and definitely not the kind of thing you’d wear to a casual party. But you didn’t mind it. Especially when Bangchan’s leather jacket was draped over your shoulders. It was a nice change, wearing something of his, and you kind of liked how it made you feel like you had a little piece of him with you.

And, of course, he didn’t complain about it. In fact, he was practically glowing, the way he looked at you, like he couldn’t wait to show you off. You could tell he was enjoying the attention, and somehow, that made you want to pull him in closer, just to remind him that yeah, you were his too.

The party was already in full swing when you and Bangchan walked in, fingers laced. When he squeezed your hand like a silent promise, you didn’t think twice about holding tighter.

The music was loud, people were already half-drunk on cheap beer and good vibes, but it was the way your friends froze mid-conversation that really caught your attention.

Changbin’s eyes went wide first, like he’d just seen his parents kissing. “Hold on. Hold on,” he said, pointing between you and Bangchan like he was trying to solve a crime scene. “My two pretty best friends are... doing this now?” He made a vague swirling motion with his finger that you hoped was meant to represent holding hands and not something filthier.

Hyunjin didn’t miss a beat. He scoffed and threw his arm over your shoulder, grinning like the devil himself. “Back off,” he shot back. “She’s my best friend.”

You raised a brow, looking between the two of them. “Okay, can we not make this weird?” you deadpanned, shrugging Hyunjin’s arm off with a smirk.

Your friends were loving every second. You could see it on their faces — the shared glances, the knowing smirks, like they’d been waiting for this moment longer than you had.

"Honestly," Jisung chimed in from the couch, raising his drink dramatically, "about damn time."

Seungmin just gave you a slow, nodding approval, the corners of his lips barely twitching into a smile. “We had a pool going,” he said, as if that explained everything.

You shot him a playful, but suspicious look. "A pool? Seriously?"

"You're a very predictable couple," Seungmin replied with zero shame.

Bangchan chuckled under his breath, his smile tugging at the corners of his mouth in that way that made your knees go a little traitorous. "Told you they’d figure it out."

You nudged him with your shoulder, smiling but with a touch of sass. “I was kind of hoping for more mystery. You know, make them work for it.”

"Yeah, well," he said, leaning closer so only you could hear, his voice low and warm in your ear, "I’m not that good at pretending I don’t want you."

And just like that, you were the one who had to fight back the stupid, giddy grin threatening to take over your face.

The night rolled on with teasing jokes and too many toasts in the team’s honor, but somewhere between the crowded kitchen and the messy dance floor, you caught Bangchan watching you — like you were the only person in the room worth looking at.

And you looked at him the same way.

You were still breathless from Bangchan’s kiss, your smile stretching so wide it almost hurt. You two were dancing and kissing almost the whole night. When you felt someone step into your line of sight.

You turned, and there she was — Eunji.

Her gaze flicked between you and Bangchan, catching the way he still had his arm slung lazily around your waist like he belonged there (because he did). For a split second, something unreadable passed over her face, but then she forced a smile.

“Hey.” Eunji’s voice was quieter than usual, almost hesitant, as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Congrats on the game. You played really well.”

Bangchan blinked, caught off guard by how soft her tone was. “Uh… thanks,” he said, a little wary.

She shifted her weight, eyes flicking to you for a beat before landing back on him. “Do you think we could talk for a second?” she asked, nodding toward the hallway. “Just us?” Her gaze lingered on you, like she was asking permission. Or daring you to say no.

You shot Bangchan a quick glance. He met your eyes with quiet understanding and gave you a little nod, squeezing your hand before letting go.

Curiosity pulled you to follow her.

In the quieter corner of the frat, Eunji took a breath like she was gearing up for something heavy.

“Look, I probably don’t have the right to even ask you to listen,” she began, voice tight. “But I need to say this.”

You didn’t move. Arms crossed, not hostile — just careful. “Okay. Say it.”

She nodded, like that tiny bit of permission gave her permission to fall apart.

"I was jealous," she admitted, the words tumbling out too fast, like they’d been bottled up for too long. "It’s stupid, I know. But it felt like you had everything — both of the hot guys," she gave a bitter, awkward laugh, "while I had no one. And it got in my head. Made me ugly inside. I hated how small I felt next to you."

Her honesty was disarming. You hadn’t expected her to just lay it out like that.

"I guess I thought," she went on, voice wobbling, "if I could tear you down, maybe I’d feel less... invisible. But it didn’t work. It only made me feel worse. And I am sorry. I’m sorry for how I treated you."

You searched her expression, looking for cracks, for any sign of performance — but what you saw was genuine. Flawed, but real.

You studied her face. No defenses. Just raw regret and maybe a little shame. For the first time, she looked like someone trying to unlearn the worst parts of herself.

You tilted your head. “Is this because of Sohee?”

Her head jerked up. “No,” she said quickly, eyes wide. “This isn’t damage control. This is me... finally being honest.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Finally, you let out a breath.

"I can’t speak for everyone," you said honestly, thinking of your friends who had long since cut ties with her. "But for me... I need more time. You hurt me, Eunji. Really hurt me. And that’s not something I can forget overnight."

Eunji’s eyes shimmered, but she didn’t argue. She nodded slowly, lips pressed together like she was holding back a hundred other apologies. “That’s fair,” she whispered. “And... I’m happy for you. And Bangchan. You look really happy.”

You didn’t say thank you. But you didn’t walk away, either.

And maybe that was enough — for now.

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked away, her figure disappearing back into the noise of the party. You stayed there for a beat, letting the moment settle in your chest, then spun on your heel and made a beeline for Bangchan.

He caught sight of you immediately, his whole face lighting up like you were the only thing that mattered in the room. "Hey," he said, pulling you back into his arms like you were gravity itself. "Everything okay?"

You slipped your arms around his neck, your heart finally settling. "Yeah."

His grin went lazy and warm, and he kissed you again, slow and certain, like you were home.

You were pretty sure your organs were about to revolt — heart somewhere in your throat, stomach twisted in knots, lungs forgetting how to breathe. Your hands trembled as you peeked through the velvet curtain, catching a glimpse of the packed house. First row, all family. Behind them, a blur of students, teachers, and more faces than you wanted to count.

Seungmin was adding the final touches to his makeup with clinical calm, while Hyunjin stretched dramatically in the corner like he was about to run a marathon instead of hitting the stage.

You were ready — or as ready as someone could be when standing on the edge of a dream. The makeup they had given you was soft, radiant. Perfect for Seulgi — the wild, bright, untamable girl you’d spent months breathing life into. A character made of longing and light, all wild heart and messy hope. You’d love her instantly.

And tonight, you were going to give her everything.

Then, right on cue, you felt him — warm arms sliding around your waist, steady and grounding, a kiss pressed to the top of your head like a silent anchor in the storm.

You leaned into him without thinking, soaking in the calm he carried like it was oxygen.

“Holy shit,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you, his grin wide and full of awe. “My girl’s a star.”

And for a moment, everything stilled — nerves, noise, the chaos behind the curtain — like the whole world was holding its breath just for you.

You felt your face flush, your cheeks burning in that dizzying, weightless way that only came when someone made you feel so properly, soul-deep loved that it scrambled your entire system.

“I’m so nervous, I think I might faint,” you whispered, pressing a trembling hand to your stomach. The silky fabric of your dress did nothing to calm the storm underneath.

You peeked through the curtain again, heart stuttering at the packed audience. It looked endless. A sea of eyes. A million possible failures.

Bangchan gently cupped your chin, coaxing your gaze away from the chaos and back to him — steady, warm, certain.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and fierce in that quiet way of his. “You’re gonna walk out there and blow their minds. There’s not a single universe where this doesn’t go amazing — because it’s you. And you’re the best.”

It was stupid, how quickly your throat tightened. How fast your chest got all shaky, like his words had knocked the air clean out of your lungs. You blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall and mess up the makeup Nahee had so carefully painted on you.

“Stop,” you whispered, biting back a wobbly smile. “You’re gonna make me cry and then everyone’s gonna think my character dies in act one.”

He laughed, quiet and warm, and you took a shaky breath. Because suddenly, you wanted to say something that had been burning at the edges of your mind for days.

You wanted to leap, to risk it all.

“Bangchan, I—”

“Guys! It’s time!” Miss Baek’s voice cut through the moment like a bell, bright and urgent as she clapped her hands, motioning everyone to gather backstage.

You stepped back, breath caught, the confession stuck in your throat. But you weren’t ready to let go of him just yet, so instead of finishing your sentence, you reached for his hand and pulled him into the small circle forming around the cast and crew.

Miss Baek stood in the center, her eyes gleaming with pride. “All right, everyone,” she said, voice a little breathless with excitement. “This is it. You’ve worked hard for this show. Now go out there and own it. I trust you — every single one of you. So... break a leg.”

You felt Bangchan’s thumb brush over your knuckles again, grounding you.

And even with your nerves still coiled tight in your chest, a flicker of something brighter pushed through — like maybe you could do this. Maybe you were ready.

Especially with him right there, holding your hand like he never planned to let go.

The curtain rose slowly and steady, gliding open with a faint hum that made your pulse spike. Lights warmed the stage with a golden hue, soft and rich, like the first rays of sun spilling through a window on a quiet morning. The theater was silent — not the heavy, awkward kind of quiet, but the kind that buzzed with anticipation. Like everyone was holding their breath at the same time.

And then Seungmin stepped into the light.

Dressed in his costume — something timeless and simple — he looked completely at ease, the softest confidence in his posture as he took his place center stage. No theatrics. No build-up. Just him. And then he opened his mouth to sing.

It was like the world paused.

His voice slipped into the room like silk — clear, effortless, pure in that heart-wrenching kind of way that doesn’t just touch you, but clutches at something deep inside your chest. Notes floated from his mouth like a secret he trusted the whole room to keep.

Someone in the third row audibly gasped. Someone else sniffled. And no one even cared about hiding it.

You could feel it ripple across the room — the moment where everyone realized this wasn’t just a student play. This was something real. Something alive.

And a huge part of that was Bangchan. He made a real effort to help.

You could see him in the sound booth, lit only by the glow of his equipment. His headset was on, hands gliding over the controls like he was conducting his own invisible symphony. Every rise and fall in Seungmin’s voice was perfectly balanced, wrapped in a sound that felt warm and cinematic.

The reverb was subtle, giving Seungmin's voice the echo of a cathedral without drowning him in it. The background instrumental, faded in at just the right moment, swelled like a heartbeat — quiet and steady — then soared.

The lighting shifted with the rhythm, delicate hues melting from gold to soft blue, and you knew that was Bangchan too. Timing everything. Perfecting everything. Making the show feel bigger than the stage it stood on.

The audience didn’t move. No one dared. It was like they were afraid that even a single breath might break the spell.

And when Seungmin hit the last note — long and gentle, the kind of note that settled into your bones — the silence lingered for one suspended second before the applause burst like a wave, loud and relentless, crashing against the walls of the theater.

You clapped with everyone else, heart pounding, chest full, eyes shining.

And somewhere backstage, you caught Bangchan glancing up from his booth just long enough to shoot you a grin.

As if to say, Yeah. We did that.

It was Act Three.

Your act.

The final, sweeping moment you’d been rehearsing in front of mirrors, empty classes, and late-night voice notes. And now, standing just behind the curtain with the theater buzzing like a live wire around you, it hits you all at once — the weight of it. The lights dimmed, the overture swelled, and your pulse was racing so hard it felt like it might echo through your mic.

You smoothed your dress with slightly trembling hands, eyes darting through the curtain gap to catch a glimpse of the full house. Your chest rose with a shaky inhale.

“Hey—hey, wait,” a voice said, breathless.

You turned, confused — and there he was.

Wild-eyed, flushed, a little out of breath like he’d just run across the building — and completely not where he was supposed to be. “What are you—? You need to go,” you whispered, eyes wide. “You’re supposed to be in the booth! I’m literally about to go on—”

He didn’t answer. He just grabbed your face and kissed you.

No warning. No hesitation. Just lips on yours like it was the most natural, necessary thing in the world. And everything else — the voices, the music, the sheer panic clawing at your ribcage — melted into static. It was just him. Warm and real and grounding you in a moment that didn’t feel like it could possibly exist in real life.

When he pulled away, he didn’t go far — his forehead pressed to yours, and his hands lingered like he didn’t want to let go just yet.

“Break a leg,” he whispered. Voice low. Serious.

You were about to respond, maybe something witty to cover how stunned you were “Thank—” but then he said it.

“I love you.” He mumbled.

Just like that. No build-up, no performance. Just soft and real and tossed at your feet like a match he was willing to watch burn.

Your breath caught.

You looked up at him, eyes gleaming, lips parted — something in your chest cracked wide open, but the words stayed stuck behind your teeth. Not because you didn’t feel the same. God, you did love him back. But the moment had too much weight, too much emotion, and not enough time.

Someone offstage hissed a frantic “Places!” but neither of you moved.

Instead, you smiled. A little too wide. A little breathless. Tears covering your eyes.

And he got it. He didn’t ask for anything else.

His entwined fingers slid unhurriedly, inch by inch, until the last touch. Then he backed away like it hurt to leave and vanished into the shadows like he’d never been there at all.

You wanted to cry — not from sadness, but from the overwhelming weight of it all. Being loved like this, so completely, felt like being wrapped in sunlight after a lifetime of gray. It was terrifying and beautiful and everything in between.

You never expected to fall for Bangchan. Not like this. Not so fully.

But somewhere between the late-night conversations, the lingering looks, and the quiet ways he held space for you, your heart cracked open — and he simply walked in.

And that was it. You were his. And he was already yours.

And then the curtain rose. The light hit your face. And you stepped into it like you were made for it.

And as the first line left your lips, steady and clear, you weren't just playing a part anymore.

You were living it — heart full, eyes bright, and finally, finally, not acting at all.

♡ taglist ― @kenia4 @chrizrizz @meerabmalik @gnabnahcsworld @gncbnahc @jinniejjam @skzworldx @itsacatastrophe-xo @soonie1010 @4ng3l-ch1ld @justwonder113 @tsunderelino @eastjonowhere @lyracarvahall @akindaflora @victoriaaf @ebnabi @wickedbutlovely @bitchysunflower11 @ravengxbss @letrascafeymar @letrascafeymar @twentytwofour @pacha02 @skzaddictsincedebut @strayk1ds143 @micr0c0soms @vixy-vix

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toxicanonymity · 2 days ago

Note

Hii! Appreciate you using your platform to encourage action against the fascist gov in the states. I did 5 calls today to senators about the SAVE act vote, have been participating in protests across NYC monthly at minimum, and protesting at Columbia for Mahmoud Khalil as a member of the uni community there. Anon to protect my identity from Columbia.

My ficlet request is NightWalks Joel and reader smoking, boob workship, and cockwarming :)

- 🌿 fern anon

SAVE Act | 5calls | resistbot | Update - ask senators to vote no on cloture AND bill. Ty for all of your activism and good call protecting your identity. 💚💚🍃

nugs and kisses

Joel x f!reader | 1780 words | Joel masterlist

“Good girl,” he said and got the joint from the nightstand...“Now c’mere,” he added with commanding eyes. You playfully whined at the prospect of moving. He tilted his head...You got on your hands and knees and stretched. He bit his lip and nodded.

SUMMARY: A playful, intimate, and hot wake & bake romp. WARNINGS: I8+ weed, shotgunning, praise, unsafe p in v NOTES: night walks AU (after tired & rested ). can read alone.

You slept like a baby in his embrace. He even managed to resist waking you up for sex. He had said he couldn't promise he'd behave in the morning, but he knew you needed sleep, so he tried. His body was flush against yours, his leg over yours, with his foot resting on the bed, his heel against your ankle.

He smelled you before fully waking. Your shampoo, or your soap, and your pheromones. Your Scent carried a whole wave of comfort and familiarity, stirring affection in his heart before he knew what or who he smelled.

As he roused into a half-awake state, he imagined he had broken into your basement again. But after a moment, the thrum of the fan told him this was his bed. A bed where he normally slept alone.

He could get used to this, he mused for a moment, then his face heated as his thoughts became fully conscious. you shifted slightly in your sleep, and your nipple dragged against his forearm. He sharply inhaled and his hips pushed forward in a reflex, pressing his erection harder against you.

If you weren't wearing anything, it would be a lot more difficult, but your cold nature left you in your pants and camisole whereas he had stripped.

He took in a slow breath with his nose pressed to the nape of your neck. His hips rocked in a subtle motion he couldn't stop, aching to put it in you. But he wanted to know how you felt first. You had been upset by the pool before he found you. He wanted to be what you needed and also inside you.

Wake and bake, he thought to himself and after giving you a little squeeze and a light kiss on the crown of your head, he willed himself himself to roll over to his nightstand where he had some good shit.

You stirred with the loss of your comfy cocoon. You didn't fully wake up, but you turned onto your back and you looked so pretty.

The shape of your lips, the curve of your breasts. The way your face scrunched slightly. And then it scrunched more. You rolled toward him, and he laid a hand gently on your head. “Mornin’, pumpkin.” A little smile flashed onto your lips before your eyes even opened.

“Baby, you've made me believe in beauty sleep. Always wake up gorgeous.”

You turned your head slightly into the pillow with a shy smile. He asked, “How do i look?” puffing out his chest a bit with an expectant tilt of his head. His muscles looked great but a tent in the sheet was tugging at your peripheral vision. You finally glanced there and the sliver of skin you could see under the sheet made you answer, “naked” with a chuckle.

He looked down at himself. “It's hot work bein’ your personal heater, ya know. You still cold?”

“Not really… You did a good job.”

He took a puff of the joint and you reached for it. He held it back playfully and said, “dare ya to get naked.”

You giggled into the pillow and then your eyes met with playful affection. “You triple dog dare me?”

“Quadruple dog,” he replied. “Five dog.”

You said okay, and he lowered himself to be at your level and he looked from your eyes to your lips, and brought his lips millimeters away from yours before slowly releasing the smoke.

You sucked in the smoke with your eyes closed. As you held it in your mouth, he couldn't resist pressing his mouth to your upper lip, and then your cheek.

As you exhaled against the side of his face, he palmed your breast, then his thumb tugged at the camisole's strap.

“Lemme help ya with that,” he said and reached way back to put the joint in an ashtray on his nightstand. You sat up and lifted your arms.

“Attagirl,” he said as he pulled your top off and “Mmm” when your breasts fell free.

“Ladies,” he greeted them.

“ladies?” you giggled.

“Hadn't named’em…”

He tugged at your waistband and you removed the pants.

“Good girl,” He said and got the joint from the nightstand, still holding it away from you. “Now c’mere,” he added with commanding eyes.

You let out a playful whine at the prospect of moving. He tilted his head.

You got up on your hands and knees first, and stretched.

He bit his lip and nodded.

Then you made your way into sitting - you were gonna sit next to him, but once you were up on your knees, you found yourself going straight for his lap.

You tugged the sheet off his lap, exposing his hard cock and thighs. He raised his eyebrows, and you sucked your bottom lip with a playful glint in your eye as you straddled him.

“Hell yeah,” he said, “that's my girl.” You hovered and looked down at his thick stiff cock and felt your breath deepen as you lowered yourself. You descended to just the right spot, so your naked front was pressed right up against his hard-on.

“All yours,” he murmured with a little tilt of his hips as he held the joint up to your mouth.

You took a short puff then pulled your head back and he set it aside. He looked back and forth between your breasts and palmed them with the reverence some men reserve for artwork. His hand pressed against one, framing the nipple in the crook of his thumb. His other arm nudged you into moving up a few inches. He took a deep breath through his nose, then tongued the sensitive skin as his mouth covered it.

His eyes closed and brow furrowed as he sucked and tongued at your nipple and breast. “Mmm,” he moaned, and you throbbed. His dick twitched against you. Arousal surged through your blood like a drug.

God, you needed him bad.

He pulled himself away, and your hips rolled, grinding against his hardness as he paid attention to the other one. Then he pulled himself away with a smack and licked his bottom lip.

“Pumpkin, I know I've said it, and I'll say it again, but from the bottom of my heart… you are so goddamn hot.”

You smiled and replied, “okay… I know you know it, but you're pretty hot yourself,” then bit your lip at the admission.

His eyes widened with an impressed raise of his brows. “You think I'm hot?” He asked, and you would've rolled your eyes if it was just a compliment, but it was an understatement if anything.

“There's something about you,” you said.

“She thinks I'm hot,” He gloated, and you playfully gave his muscular chest a little punch.

“Prove it, baby,” he said.

That was all you needed to rise up on your knees again, giving clearance for his cock. Then you held it at the base and slid it through your ample slick. That was proof. Solid evidence. He took in a chest full of air, looking sexy as hell with his hair disheveled his eyes blown out with lust. Then he watched you notch his cock at your entrance, and his mouth opened as your snug, wet cunt swallowed his tip. You sank down on him, and he moaned in a haze of desire. You didn't bottom out right away on your own. When you lifted up an inch, leaving the smooth skin of his dick shiny and wet, he grabbed your ass. He pulled you down on his cock, fully seating himself all the way in your warmth.

“Fuck, pumpkin,” he breathed. He cradled your face and pulled it toward his, kissing you deep with an inhale through his nose. Your lips fit together, and his cock twitched inside you as his tongue plunged into your mouth. His hips rocked under you at the rhythm of your kiss. You licked into his mouth, pulling a short moan out of him as he accepted your tongue, caressing it with his.

Your hips moved, meeting his cadence. A gentle ride, more of a joystick pivot than up and down, to start. His hands possessed you as you made out.

He groped your ass, your breasts.

He pulled you tighter, wrapped an arm tight around you, and when he broke the kiss with an urgent breath, he lifted you enough to begin fucking you from the bottom, bouncing you on his cock. He kissed your neck, breathing audibly and moaning into your jaw, grunting against your cheek, as he fucked you, and your hips rocked together.

“God damn, you're fuckin’ perfect,” he breathed. “Th’way you ride this cock.” He thrust up and let you down, with his cock even deeper. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Yeah, lemme see ya ride it. He pulled his head back against the wall, captivated by the way you moved. You planted your hands on him, one on each pec, and rolled your hips. Keeping his cock deep inside, you tilted forward and grinded against his pubic bone, moaning at the synchronized pressure on your cunt and the nudge of his cock in your depths.

“God damn, that's good,” he marveled. “Yeah, just like that.”

You felt fuller with each drag of his girth through your soft walls. The fullness made your mouth fall open, then his head came off the wall. His neck began to stretch, then when you moaned again, his core flexed as he came off the wall and wrapped an arm around you. His mouth took yours again, and you gladly surrendered it to him. You kissed and fucked, sliding against each other, pressed together. With your arms around his neck, you breathed against each other's mouths. His cock throbbed, and you whimpered.

Pleasure built in your belly, in your chest, then seized your body with a shaking release that nearly had you choke on a moan. “Baby,” he moaned as your climax hugged his cock so good. “Feel so–oh, fuck–” His body jerked as his first rope shot into you, with your thighs already trembling from your own release. He kissed you as you finished milking his cock, each warm burst in your core had him moaning a little softer into your mouth.

When your mouths separated, your foreheads came gently together. You breathed each other's breath, and you only realized your hand was in his hair after you absent mindedly raked your fingernails over his scalp and he hummed, “Mmm.”

He planted a firm kiss on your neck, and held you until you started dozing off and he leaned back against the wall, stroking your back, softening inside you, content for you to stay like that as long as you wanted.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for your activism. please consider sharing this fic if you like it <3

#🌿 fern anon #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller #blorbos for democracy #toxicanonymity ☠️#blorbos for democracy ☠️#pedro pascal characters

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daegudrama · 2 days ago

Text

Title: Suck It Part 1

Pairing: Reader/Jung Hoseok

Summary: What starts as lingering glances and offhand touches turns into something neither of you can ignore. You're not supposed to fall for someone on tour, especially not him. But between stolen moments and rising tension, it's only a matter of time before everything changes.

Word Count: 13.1k

Part 2

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The room stills as Hoseok walks in, his confident aura palpable. His easy smile and effortless cool seem to draw the air toward him, like gravity bending to his presence. It’s always fascinating to see the way he commands a room without saying a single word. Your breath catches, despite having rehearsed with him and the rest of the dancers for weeks now. That spark of awe hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it's grown, fueled by the moments he’s given you. The encouraging nods, and the praise he doesn’t usually offer lightly.

Hoseok’s gaze sweeps over the group, and when it lands on you, his grin widens just slightly. “Alright, team. Let’s go hard today. I want the energy up, no holding back,” he says, his voice warm but firm.

The room bursts into motion, everyone eager to match the energy Hoseok expects. The rehearsal is grueling but electric, every step and every movement carrying weight and purpose. You throw yourself into the choreography, pushing your limits, aware of Hoseok’s eyes occasionally flicking in your direction. The senior dancers seem to notice too, their expressions tight, their movements sharper than usual as if they’re trying to outshine you. Good luck.

The tension lingers in the air, but you keep your focus. You’ve worked too hard to let their jealousy rattle you now. Every move, every count, is an opportunity to prove yourself, and to everyone else, why you belong here.

By the time Hoseok claps his hands, signaling the end of the rehearsal, your muscles ache, and sweat clings to your skin. “Good work today, everyone,” he says, his voice carrying genuine approval for once. “Let’s keep building on this energy. Get some rest and stay hydrated. We are just a few weeks out now.”

The team disperses, some dancers chatting in low voices while others grab their bags and file out. You linger to stretch, avoiding the sideways glances from the senior dancers as they leave in a cluster. Their whispers trail behind them, but you block it out, focusing instead on your breathing as you pack your things.

Feeling the need to clear your head, you wander into an empty practice room down the hall. The space is quiet, the mirrors reflecting the stillness. You drop your bag by the wall and start running through a few sections of the choreography on your own. The rhythm grounds you, each movement a reminder of why you’re here.

“Still working?”

The familiar voice makes you freeze mid-step. You turn to see Hoseok leaning in the doorway, his expression soft but unreadable. He steps inside, letting the door close behind him.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here,” you admit, your voice a little shy.

“I could say the same to you,” he replies with a faint smile. “You already gave everything in rehearsal. What’s keeping you here?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lips. “I guess…I just needed a minute to breathe. To clear my head.”

Hoseok crosses the room, his movements unhurried. “I noticed the way some of them were acting today,” he says, cutting straight to the heart of it. “I wanted to check in with you after rehearsal, but I didn’t want to bring it up in front of everyone.”

Your chest tightens, embarrassment and frustration swirling together. The things you overheard earlier reply in your mind, stinging like fresh wounds. You’d walked into the changing room mid-whisper, and though they stopped when they saw you, the smirks and knowing looks said it all. The other dancers' whispers were sharp, accusing you of things so far from the truth they almost felt laughable—if it didn’t hurt so much. They assume you’ve slept with someone, blackmailed staff, or even bribed Hoseok to get the opportunities you’ve earned. None of it is true. You pour everything into this, long nights perfecting choreography, pushing through exhaustion, and showing up with relentless determination. All you want is to be accepted and appreciated. But it doesn’t matter to them. They refuse to see your effort, dismissing it all as underserved favoritism. Now standing in front of Hoseok, the weight of those baseless accusations feels heavier, but the steady warmth in his gaze offers a sliver of relief. Without needing to hear the details, he seems to know exactly what’s on your mind, and the sincerity in his presence alone reminds you why you’ve fought so hard to be here.

“I’m fine. Really,” you say quickly.

Hoseok’s eyes search yours for a moment, as if trying to gauge how much of that “fine” is genuine. His expression softens, and he steps closer, his tone careful but firm. “You don’t have to say that. I know what it’s like being in the spotlight, having people assume the worst just because they don’t know your story or don’t want to see your talent for what it is. It’s not fair, and it’s not right.”

Your throat tightens, the effort to hold back the emotions you’ve been bottling up threatening to break. You nod, lowering your gaze to the floor. “I’ve worked so hard, Hoseok,” you admit quietly, your voice trembling despite your best effort to keep it steady. “Every single thing I’ve gotten, I earned. But no matter how hard I push myself, they don’t see that. They don’t want to see it.”

He exhales softly, a look of understanding crossing his face. “They’re threatened,” he says simply. “By your talent, your energy, and the way you carry yourself. That’s not on you, that’s on them.” His voice drops slightly, more serious now. “But I need you to promise me something: don’t let their insecurities dim your light. You’re here because you deserve to be here. Nothing anyone says can take that away.”

You blink, his words settling over you like a warm blanket. For a moment, the weight on your chest eases, and you feel seen. Not just as a dancer, but as someone who’s been fighting for their place. “Thank you,” you whisper, the sincerity in your tone matching his.

Hoseok smiles gently, his hand twitching like he’s considering reaching out but stops himself. “Don’t thank me for telling the truth,” he says with a wink, his tone lightening. “But if you need to talk, about this, about anything. I’m here. You don’t have to shoulder this alone.”

The warmth in his words stays with you as he steps back, giving you space. He gestures to the empty room with a small grin. “Now, let’s see what you’ve been working on. Show me that fire they’re so jealous of.”

The silence in the practice room becomes a melody of its own as you reset to the opening pose, your heart thundering as you meet Hoseok’s gaze in the mirror. You take a steadying breath and let the music in your head guide you. With each movement, you channel everything—the doubts, the whispers, the quiet anger, and the determination that keeps you moving forward. You’ve rehearsed this choreography countless times, but tonight, it feels different. Hoseok’s presence sharpens your focus, pushing you to dance not just for yourself but for the truth of your abilities.

As you finish, your chest heaving from the exertion, you finally look at him. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, but the intensity in his eyes tells you everything. He takes a step forward, clapping once, slow and deliberate. “That,” he says, his voice low but filled with certainty, “is exactly why you’re here. No one can take that away from you.”

You don’t trust yourself to respond, simply nodding as you gather your things. Hoseok doesn’t say anything more, giving you a parting glance that lingers just long enough to leave you wondering.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The next rehearsal is nothing short of brutal. The room pulses with intensity as bodies move in perfect synchrony, sweat painting the floor beneath them. Each beat of the music is met with sharp, deliberate motion as the group drills the choreography again and again, the echo of sneakers and stomps filling the mirrored space. You’re dancing like muscle memory has taken over, fluid, focused, determined, barely noticing the burning in your limbs anymore.

After a full run-through, the choreographer finally calls for a break. Everyone collapses to the floor or grabs their water bottles, panting and grateful. You grab a towel to dab the sweat from your neck, catching your breath when the lead choreographer suddenly steps forwards again.

“Alright, listen up,” he says, his voice slicing through the hum of low conversation. “J-Hope choreographed a new section that will feature three pairs. He’ll be choosing who gets the spotlight tomorrow. Until then, you’ll be working with assigned partners to learn the duet. Learn quickly and show me you want this.”

You sit up straighter as he begins pairing dancers. There’s a flicker of anxiety in your chest, this section is important. It’s not just about technique anymore. It’s about chemistry, presence, making people feel something.

Your name is called alongside Heeseung’s, and relief washes over you. He’s one of the few who doesn’t treat you like an outsider. Maybe it’s because he’s newer to the team too, or maybe it’s because he doesn’t get involved in the drama. Either way, you’ll take it.

The music shifts to something lower, grittier, slower. You both watch as the assistant choreographer demonstrates the duet. It’s bold, sensual, and more intimate than anything you’ve done with this group before. Hands sliding over waists, synchronized steps that pull the dancers close before sending them apart again, dramatic pauses that demand eye contact. It’s not raunchy, it’s electric, and it’s meant to make the audience feel something.

You glance at Heeseung as the demo ends. He just raises his brows with a quiet smirk and says, “Ready?” And just like that, you fall into step.

Heeseung matches your energy beat for beat. His movement is clean, sharp, but when the music calls for it, he melts into the flow like honey. His facial expressions are deadly. Confident, teasing, completely in sync with the mood. Rehearsing with him doesn't feel like work; it’s fun, even a little thrilling. For the first time in days, you’re reminded why you love this.

But not everyone is thriving. You notice Mina and her usual crew struggling to grasp the rhythm and comfort of the pairing. Some of the girls look visibly uncomfortable, hesitating at the close contact or fumbling through transitions. There’s a mean spirited satisfaction in watching the girls who usually whisper about you now floundering under pressure. Maybe it’s petty, but it feels like karma is right on time.

“YN and Heeseung, come to the front.”

You both step forward, brushing past someone who audibly sighs and rolls their eyes behind you. The choreographer ignores it, gesturing for you two to demonstrate.

“Watch them,” he says to the rest of the room. “This is what I’m looking for.”

The music kicks in and you lose yourself in it. You give every step your full attention, every beat your best expression, letting the tension and chemistry between you and Heeseung do the work. When the final pose hits and the music fades, the room is quiet before the choreographer claps once, satisfied, but only with you and Heeseung.

“Again,” he says simply. And so you do it again. And again. Until you stop counting.

By the time rehearsal ends, your shirt is sticking to your back and your thighs ache with the effort of hours spent pushing yourself to the limit. You’re grabbing your things when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Hey!” Yunjin jogs up beside you, practically bouncing. “You killed that duet. Like, seriously—if Hoseok doesn’t pick you tomorrow he’s blind. That section is so good. I love it.”

You try to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Yunjin narrows hers. “Okay. What’s up? You’re not freaking out about Mina again, are you?”

“I’m not freaking out,” you say quickly, but the look on her face tells you she doesn’t buy it. You sigh. “I just…we cannot mess up tomorrow. Hoseok is going to be extra critical. We have to be perfect.”

Yunjin giggles. “You sound like you’re about to audition for the Olympics or something.”

“We kind of are. The duet is a big deal.”

A mocking voice chimes in from behind you. “As if he would pick you.”

You don’t even need to turn around to know who it is. Mina.

She’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, one hip cocked like she owns the hallway. Her perfectly arched eyebrow is raised, her lips curl into a smug little smirk. There’s no denying she’s talented, probably one of the best dancers in the crew, but her jealousy has always poisoned her shine.

You turn to face her slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “You should focus on your own part before worrying about mine.”

Mina’s smile tightens, but she doesn’t reply right away. Her gaze flicks to Yunjin and then back to you, eyes narrowed. “We’ll see who he picks tomorrow.”

She walks off without another word, her ponytail swinging like a warning behind her.

Yunjin scoffs beside you. “She’s just mad you were asked to demonstrate. Again.”

“Still,” you murmur, staring down the hallway. “Tomorrow is going to be a war.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The next day, the rehearsal room buzzes with nervous energy before anyone even steps onto the floor. There’s an edge to every voice, a sense that something important is about to happen. You can feel it in your bones. Today matters.

You’re already stretching in the corner when thet door swings open and Hoseok walks in, sunglasses perched on his nose, a cap pulled low, and that unmistakable aura trailing behind him like static electricity. The room seems to exhale all at once, tension morphing into something else. Anticipation, maybe. Respect. He’s calm but focused, nodding a silent greeting to the choreographer and a few dancers he passes on the way in. Then his eyes sweep the room.

When they land on you, he gives a small smile, barely there, but enough to make your stomach flip for a second before you snap your attention back to your warm up. He’s always been kind, professional, but tough. Hoseok doesn’t hand out praise easily. You have to earn it.

“Alright team,” he says, clapping once, his voice sharper than the last time you heard it. “I’ve seen the footage from yesterday. Some of it was promising. Some of it…needs work.”

A few dancers shift uncomfortably. Mina stiffens beside you.

“We’re going to run all the pair choreo. I want to see full energy, no holding back. Expressions. Intensity. Chemistry. Everything.” He pauses. “At the end of rehearsal, I’ll be choosing three pairs to feature.”

There’s a murmur through the group, some excited, some anxious. Hoseok doesn’t reveal the last part of the plan, but the stakes are already high. The chance to be in a featured pair for a section he choreographed? That’s already enough to make people push past their limits.

You and Heeseung watch from the sidelines as the first duets go up. Some are good, technically clean, and well rehearsed. Others lack a spark. Mina’s routine is sharp, but her partner feels like an afterthought. You can almost see her trying too hard to win instead of just dance.

Finally, your names are called.

You move into position with Heeseung, exchanging one quick glance before the music hits.

And then, it’s all instinct.

You both dive into the choreo like you’ve done this hundreds of times, like you were made to move together. There’s tension, heat, and a boldness to every step. Your hands slide into places like muscle memory, your eyes lock when they need to, and your movements match so seamlessly it barely feels like performance, it feels like connection.

When the final beat hits and you hold the last pose, the silence in the room feels different.

Then Hoseok claps. Just once. Crisp and deliberate.

“That,” Hoseok says, a smile creeping onto his face. “That’s the energy I want.”

You pull back slightly, catching your breath as the music fades. Heeseung subtly bumps your shoulder with his, and you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

“Take five,” Hoseok says. “Then we’ll run it one last time with the final picks.”

You step off to the side, heart still pounding, when Yunjin beelines for you with wide eyes.

“He clapped,” she hisses, gripping your arm like she might explode. “You know what that means.”

You shrug like it’s no big deal, but you’re still buzzing. Hoseok never claps for the group unless something really hits. The look in his eyes when you're finished…there was something extra there. Something calculating.

Across the room, Mina stares daggers through your reflection, arms crossed so tightly it looks painful. You ignore her.

When the break ends, everyone regathers, tension thick in the air.

Hoseok stands at the front again. “I’ve made my decisions,” he says. “These three pairs will be featured in the sections.”

He starts calling names—Heeseung and your name first.

Your stomach flips. You don’t look at Mina, but you can practically feel the steam coming off her.

Hoseok finishes naming the other two pairs, then adds, “One more thing.”

The room stills.

“There’s another slot. Not a pair.” He pauses just long enough for everyone to start glancing around. “One dancer does the duet with me.”

You blink.

A duet with Hoseok? A sharp, electric silence stretches through the room as he scans the group again, his expression unreadable.

“I’ll decide after one final run through,” he says, stepping back. “So if you’re holding back…now’s your last chance.”

The final run-through feels heavier, like everyone is pushing beyond their limits. The chosen pairs are locked in, but that solo duet spot is still up for grabs.

You give the routine everything. Every movement, every look, every shift of weight is intentional. You know Hoseok is watching—really watching—and there’s no room for mistakes. Heeseung matches your energy, and for a second, you forget about the stakes, about the competition. It’s just you and the music, your body moving like it belongs in this moment.

When the last beat lands, you hold your final pose, breathless, feeling the weight of Hoseok’s stare.

Then, after a long pause, he exhales and nods.

“Alright.” His voice is calm, but the decision is final. “The featured three pairs are set. And for the solo…”

The tension is thick. You swear you hear someone’s breath hitch.

“…YN.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

There’s a ripple of reaction around you, some hushed murmurs, a sharp intake of breath. Mina stiffens, her arms crossing, jaw tight.

Hoseok continues, his voice steady. “It’s a shame to separate such a strong pair, but YN is the best pick for this.” His eyes flicker to Heeseung for a brief moment before returning to you. “You have the control, the expression, and the versatility this role needs.”

You barely register Yunjin’s hand squeezing yours in excitement before Hoseok speaks again.

“Heeseung, you’ll be with Yunjin.”

Yunjin lets out a tiny squeak, trying, and failing, to keep her composure. Heeseung just grins, giving her an encouraging nod.

That’s it. That’s the final lineup.

You and Hoseok in the front. Three pairs behind.

Mina…nowhere.

The realization sinks in across the room, and you don’t miss the way her hands clench into fists at her sides, but she says nothing. Doesn’t make a scene. Just lifts her chin slightly, as if daring anyone to pity her.

Hoseok claps his hands together. “That’s it. Rehearsal’s over. Get some rest and we run full-out tomorrow.”

You exhale, the adrenaline still pulsing through you.

As the dancers begin filtering out, Yunjin throws an arm around your shoulder, practically bouncing. “Are you kidding me? With Hoseok? Front and center? You’re about to be iconic.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “I can’t believe it.”

She grins. “Believe it. And be ready because if he’s dancing with you, he’s expecting perfection.”

You already know that. And for the first time, it doesn’t feel terrifying.

It feels like a challenge you’re ready to take.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The room empties out slowly, dancers murmuring their goodbyes as they head for the exit. You start to follow Yunjin, but before you can take another step, Hoseok’s voice calls out behind you.

“YN, stay for a minute.” Just beyond the doorway you see Yunjin pause. Hoseok notices and addresses her. “Yunjin, I’ll make sure she gets home safely.”

You pause, turning back to face him. He stands in the center of the room, rolling his shoulders out, an easy confidence in his stance. Your heart kicks up slightly. You take a slow breath, stepping back onto the dance floor as the last of the others disappear down the hallway. The door swings shut, leaving just the two of you in the massive rehearsal space.

Hoseok tilts his head, studying you for a beat before speaking. “I wanted to run through a few things. It’s important that we’re comfortable with each other before we start full rehearsals with this.”

You nod, shifting your weight slightly. It makes sense. Dance, especially a duet, is about trust.

“I know you can handle yourself,” Hoseok continues. “You’re an amazing dancer. But I also know it can be intimidating dancing with someone like me.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he raises an eyebrow, and you know he’s right.

It’s not that you doubt your skill. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t good enough. But Hoseok is Hoseok. Years of experience, endless stage presence, and an almost supernatural ability to make every move feel effortless. It’s impossible not to feel the weight of that.

Still, you refuse to let nerves show. “I’ll be fine,” you say.

He grins. “Good. Then let’s start.”

You move into position. The choreography isn’t foreign anymore, but the difference is immediate—this isn’t Heeseung. He is a few inches shorter than your previous partner and Hoseok moves with a fluidity and confidence that makes every step feel like second nature to him.

But when it comes time to place your hands on him, you hesitate. It’s just for a fraction of a second, but he notices.

Hoseok chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s okay. Pretend I’m Heeseung.”

You blink.

“It’s the same thing,” he says easily. “Same hands, same pressure. No difference.”

No difference. Right. You swallow, nodding, and this time, when your hands find their place, you commit to it.

Hoseok hums approvingly. “Better. But—” He shifts, taking your wrists in his hands, adjusting them slightly. His grip is warm, firm but not forceful. “More weight here. Less here. Feel the difference?”

You do. He guides you through it, step by step, his touch light but precise. The smallest corrections, pressure, angles, breath control and as you move, something shifts.

The hesitation melts away, replaced by something new. Tension. Not the bad kind. The kind that makes every movement electric, every glance charged. Hoseok notices it too, but he doesn’t acknowledge it outright. He just meets your eyes for a beat longer than necessary before pulling away.

“Good,” he says simply. “That’s enough for now.”

You exhale, feeling something unravel inside you.

For a while, neither of you says anything. You both just sit on the floor, catching your breath. The silence isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable.

Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you say, “I danced from when I was three until I was fifteen. I don’t know how they got the idea I just started a few years ago. Dance was my whole life for most of my life.”

Hoseok turns his head slightly, listening.

“I had to stop because I tore my ACL.” You glance down at your knee, absently tracing a pattern on your leggings. “I recovered pretty fast, but when I tried to come back, my peers had already gotten too far ahead. I felt like I couldn’t compete anymore.”

You don’t look at him, but you can feel him watching you.

“So I quit.” You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I didn’t dance at all for years. Until about three years ago.”

Hoseok leans back on his hands. “What changed?”

Your lips curve slightly. “I saw a BTS dance practice.” His eyebrows lift in surprise. “I don’t even remember which one it was,” you admit, shaking your head. “But something about the way you guys moved made me want to move again. I started learning choreography for fun and before I knew it…I was back.”

A beat of silence passes before he speaks again.

“That’s crazy,” he murmurs. Then softer, “In a good way.”

You finally glance at him, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. A flicker of something behind his eyes, like he’s processing more than he’s saying. And then he smiles, slow and knowing.

“Well,” he says, pushing himself to his feet and offering a hand. “Guess that means this dance is a full-circle moment, huh?”

Your chest tightens just a little. You take his hand.

And as he pulls you up, you think—yeah. Maybe it is. Your hand is still warm from his as you gather your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. You expect him to head out first, maybe give a casual “see you tomorrow,” but instead, Hoseok lingers near the door, waiting for you.

“You ready?” he asks.

You blink. “Uh…yeah.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

You give him a sideways glance. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I said I would,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “Told Yunjin I’d get you home safe.”

You’re not sure if he’s doing it out of politeness or something else, but you nod anyway. “Okay.”

The night air is cool when you step outside the building, still warm from rehearsal. Hoseok walks beside you, his hood pulled up again, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He doesn’t say much at first, and neither do you. It’s a comfortable kind of quiet, the kind that settles in when something meaningful just happened.

You expect him to point you toward the train or call a staff car to take you home.

Instead, he falls into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t have to walk me,” you say gently, glancing over.

He shrugs. “I know.”

You pause. “Then why are you?”

Hoseok doesn’t answer right away. He keeps his gaze forward, but you catch the faintest lift of his lips. “I said I’d make sure you got home safe, didn’t I?”

You smile softly, heart fluttering. “You didn’t have to actually do that. People are gonna talk.”

“They already do,” he says, voice light, teasing. “Might as well make it worth it.”

You laugh, and he grins at the sound.

As you walk, the sharp edges of the professional Hoseok, the perfectionist, the dance leader, the choreographer, start to fade away. Instead, something else emerges. Softer. Warmer. This is the version of him you’ve only seen in clips. The one who makes dumb jokes on Run BTS, laughs with his whole chest, and gets way too into silly games.

“You know,” he says, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets, “you looked like you were gonna pass out the first time I corrected your placement.”

“I was not,” you protest, bumping your shoulder lightly into his. “Okay, maybe a little. You’re kind of a big deal.”

He laughs. “Nah. I’m just a guy who never stops dancing. Kind of annoying, actually.”

You shake your head. “You’re really not.”

There’s a pause, and when you glance over, he’s watching you with that same unreadable look from the studio. It’s not intense or overwhelming, it’s just steady. Thoughtful.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he tells you. “You’re a good dancer and you feel the music. That’s rare.”

Your cheeks warm. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I said you inspired me.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true,” he replies. “You’ve got something.”

You walk a few more paces in silence before his voice comes again, this time quieter. “And hey…I meant the other thing, too.”

You glance at him.

“If something’s ever messing with your head, whatever it is, you can tell me.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. “You don’t have to hold it all in.”

The memory of that conversation in the empty studio flashes through your mind, the way his voice had softened when he told you he knew what it was like, the way he saw straight through you without prying. You swallow the sudden lump in your throat.

“I’ll remember that,” you say quietly.

He nods like that’s enough. You reach your building quicker than you thought. When you stop in front of the gate, you half expect him to wave you off and leave. Instead, Hoseok lingers.

“This is me,” you say, turning to him.

He nods, taking a step back but not quite leaving. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s gonna be brutal.”

You smile. “Looking forward to it.”

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, then gives a small salute and turns to go. You don’t move until he disappears around the corner.

Inside, the lights are on. Yunjin is waiting, perched on the edge of the couch, a snack bag in her lap and a look of pure, concentrated mischief on her face.

You don’t even get your shoes off before she pounces.

“Tell. Me. Everything.”

You blink, taking a step away from her. “I—”

She stands. “Nope. Don’t even try to play it cool. You stayed late with J-Hope. You walked home with J-Hope. And you’re blushing.”

“I’m not blushing,” you mumble, which only makes her laugh harder.

“You so are,” she says, grabbing your arm and dragging you toward the couch. “Spill. Every little detail. Right now.”

And you do. Eventually.

But as you tell her the story, there’s one part you leave out. A moment too small to explain, but impossible to forget:

The way Hoseok looked at you when he said, “You can tell me anything.”

Like he meant it.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The studio is quiet now. Most of the dancers have filtered out, the buzz of today’s rehearsal replaced with the faint hum of a speaker left on low volume. You’re sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of you, rolling out your calves with a foam roller. The mirror reflects the tired set of your shoulders, your hair sticking to your neck, and the slightly dazed look in your eyes.

You’re not sure when Hoseok came back in, but you hear the door click shut and the soft shuffle of his steps before he drops onto the floor beside you.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just sits close enough that your arms could brush if you leaned a little to the side. Then he speaks and it’s quiet, but direct.

“You good?”

You glance at him, blinking like you hadn’t expected him to actually sit down.

“Yeah,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Just tired.”

Hoseok doesn’t look convinced. His expression is steady, unreadable like it always is when he’s being careful with his words.

“You danced like you were somewhere else today,” he says, not unkindly. “Still sharp, but…distracted. Off. It wasn’t physical, it was in your head.”

You press your lips together, pretending to focus on the roller beneath your thigh. “It’s nothing serious. Just some…catty stuff.”

He tilts his head. “Catty like ‘someone wore the same shoes as me,’ or catty like ‘people are being assholes behind your back’?”

You sigh, closing your eyes for a moment. “It doesn’t matter.”

Hoseok shifts his weight, leaning forward a little. His voice softens, but there’s an edge of seriousness under it. “It clearly does matter. If something’s going on that’s affecting how you feel here, I need to know.”

You glance at him. His brows are drawn in concern, not in a nosy way, but in that quiet, careful way of someone who’s watching more closely than he lets on.

You try to smile, but it feels tight. “It’s just some girls being salty. Nothing new.”

“Was it Mina?”

You pause. That alone tells him everything.

He exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “What did they say?”

You shake your head, grabbing your water bottle and taking a long sip to stall.

“Hey,” Hoseok says, gentler now. “I’m not asking because I want drama. I just don’t like the idea of you being put in a bad spot because of me.”

You blink. “You?”

He meets your gaze, expression open. “I’ve been around long enough to know what people say when they think attention isn’t fair. Especially when it comes from someone like me. I shouldn’t have pulled you aside yesterday without making it clear to the group why. It gave them room to assume things.”

Your chest tightens. “It’s not your fault.”

“But they’re whispering about you, aren’t they?”

You look down. “Yeah,” you admit softly. “They said I must’ve begged for the rehearsal. Or offered something in return. That I don’t deserve the spot.”

There’s a heavy silence. Hoseok doesn't respond right away.

When you glance up, his jaw is tight, eyes unreadable.

“I can talk to them,” he offers.

You shake your head instantly. “No. Please don’t. That would just make it worse. If they think I ran to you, they’ll hate me even more.”

He doesn’t argue, but you can feel the tension in him.

“You shouldn't have to deal with this,” he says finally, quieter than before. “None of this is your fault. You work hard. You earned your spot. And anyone who can’t see that, who chooses not to see it, doesn’t deserve to be taken seriously.”

You nod, barely. He watches you for a moment longer, then shifts slightly, bumping your knee with his.

“You can tell me anything, you know.”

You look over at him.

“I mean it,” he says. “Even if we’re not close or whatever yet. If stuff like this keeps happening, please don’t carry it alone.”

You nod again, this time more sincerely.

“Thanks,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He gives you a small smile, then gets to his feet and holds out a hand.

“C’mon. Show me where you got stuck earlier. Let’s work through it before we call it.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet, and before you can say anything, he’s already stepping back toward the center of the studio gesturing for you to follow.

“Let’s go from the beginning,” he says, sliding his foot across the floor into position. “Just our duet. No pressure…feel it out.”

You nod and move into place, facing him, your heart still a little tight from the conversation, but lighter than before. The music kicks in low from the speaker, just loud enough to hear the rhythm, and you both fall into motion.

You mirror each other for a few counts before stepping into the partnered section, his hands catching yours, the turn, the lift, the slow lean-in that has your breath catching for a reason that has nothing to do with the choreography.

His eyes flick up to meet yours for just a second, the barest glint of mischief in them.

“You sure you’re not mad at me?” he asks mid-spin, voice teasing as you land.

You blink, confused. “What?”

“Your grip is kind of intense,” he jokes, laughing softly.

You scoff and roll your eyes, but your cheeks flush all the same. “Maybe I am mad at you.”

“Damn. I knew it,” he says dramatically, tossing his head back in mock despair before resetting for the next movement. “Guess I’ll go cry in the corner. Alone. With my incredible sense of rhythm.”

You huff a laugh, the tightness in your chest easing just a bit more.

The next run-through goes smoother. Your timing aligns perfectly, and the tension that’s been coiled in your body all morning starts to melt away. Between counts, Hoseok slips into goofy-mode. He’s pulling exaggerated faces during transitions, pretending to wobble like a baby deer when you jump, and fake-swooning when you land a tricky turn.

“You trying to show me up?” he asks between breaths, hands on his hips. “I thought this was a partnership.”

You smirk. “Sounds like someone’s feeling threatened.”

He gasps. “Okay. Wow. I’m being disrespected in my own studio.”

You giggle, covering your mouth. “You started it.”

“Me?” He points to himself with wide eyes. “I’m innocent.”

“You’re literally never innocent.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Yeah, but I’m cute.”

You hesitate just long enough for him to notice, your brain scrambling to process whether that was flirting or just…Hoseok being Hoseok.

He grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing and spins toward the mirror, smoothing back his sweat-damp hair in exaggerated slow-motion. “Okay. Again from the top,” he declares dramatically. “This time with ten percent more flirtation and twenty percent more sass.”

You snort. “Is that the official note?”

“Yes. I’m very professional.”

He catches your eye in the mirror, and you smile without meaning to. He returns it, softer this time, a little more real.

“Seriously,” he says, tone dropping just a bit, “you good now?”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Hoseok just nods, like he expected nothing less, and lifts a hand toward the speaker. “Then let’s dance.”

And this time, when the music starts again, you really let yourself move.

The music flows around you, the rhythm pulling you back into your body as you and Hoseok move together again. Everything sharpens, the way your hands connect, the heat of exertion building under your skin, the way he smiles when you hit the counts just right.

You’re in the final eight, the part where your bodies come close—close enough that your breath catches and you almost forget you’re supposed to keep moving. Hoseok’s palm slides to the small of your back, guiding you through the turn. His voice is low but playful.

“See?” he says. “Told you we’d get it.”

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth lift. “You’re not always right, you know.”

“I am when it comes to this,” he grins. “And also when it comes to—”

The studio door creaks open with a soft click.

You both freeze.

He’s still close. His hand is still on your waist. Your breath still feels just a little too loud in your throat.

Sana stands in the doorway, blinking like she didn’t expect to see anyone. Her brows lift a fraction as she takes in the scene, your closeness, the music, the fact that you’re both very clearly in the middle of something.

“Oh,” she says, smiling a little too wide. “Didn’t realize there was still rehearsal going on.”

You step back immediately, your body going stiff as you reach for your water bottle, suddenly hyper-aware of how this must look.

Hoseok clears his throat, casual but a little clipped. “Private practice,” he says evenly. “We’re running duet sections.”

Sana’s eyes flick between you two. “Right. Of course.” Her tone is perfectly polite, but there’s something just beneath it. You know she’ll twist this. She doesn’t need evidence, just the image.

She lingers a second longer before turning toward the lockers. “Don’t mind me,” she calls over her shoulder. “Just grabbing my sweatshirt.”

You glance at Hoseok, but he’s already looking at you.

“Ignore her,” he says under his breath. “This is our time. Let her talk if she wants.”

But your chest has already tightened again.

You nod, trying to keep the knot in your stomach from growing. “Let’s just finish the run.”

He hesitates, eyes scanning your face, then gives a soft, reassuring smile. “Okay. From the top. Let’s kill it.”

The music starts again, but it’s harder now to ignore the whispers that you know are coming.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The studio is already humming with quiet chatter and the sound of sneakers squeaking against the floor when you walk in the next morning. Your duffel hangs heavy on your shoulder, but not as heavy as the pit in your stomach. The last rehearsal before tour. The final run of the full program. It should feel exciting.

Instead, the energy feels…off.

You’re barely a few steps inside when you catch it. Low whispers, the kind that stop just as quickly as they start. You glance toward the mirrors, where Sana and Mina are stretching with two other girls. One of them, Momo, smirks and leans in closer to Mina, who’s pretending to focus on her split stretch.

“Must’ve been a late night,” Mina says under her breath, not looking at you.

Sana hums thoughtfully. “Mm. Guess some people need the extra help.”

The girls snicker, and you feel a flush rise to your cheeks. Yunjin, walking just behind you, hears it too. She mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, “I swear to god,” but you gently tug on her arm before she can say anything louder.

“Not worth it,” you murmur.

Yunjin shoots you a glare, protective and fiery. “They think they’re slick, but they’re just sad.”

You give her a small smile, but the edge of it wavers.

You take your usual spot on the floor to begin warming up, trying to stay focused, but the tension in the room is palpable. Everyone knows this is a big day. The full run-through. All eyes will be on Hoseok’s final decisions who shines, who doesn’t, and who might get more spotlight once the tour kicks off.

Your nerves were already frayed, but now the added scrutiny. The stares, the fake laughter, the whispered theories about why Hoseok chose you for the duet, it makes your stomach churn.

You stretch in silence, headphones in, trying to block them out. You know you earned your place. You know. But it doesn’t stop the noise.

Hoseok walks in fifteen minutes later, ball cap low over his brow and a coffee in hand. The room shifts instantly. Everyone straightens, energy tightening like a wire pulled taut.

His eyes flick across the studio as he greets everyone with a quick, “Morning,” before his gaze lands briefly on you.

It lingers for just a second.

You don’t smile. You don’t react.

You can’t. Not with every pair of eyes watching.

“Alright,” Hoseok claps his hands together. “Let’s run it top to bottom. No stops. Treat it like a real show. Find your focus and give me everything you’ve got.”

People start moving to their places, but the whispers haven’t stopped. If anything, they’ve just gone quieter slinking under the surface like snakes in tall grass.

You swallow hard and exhale through your nose. One more rehearsal. Then the tour begins, and maybe hopefully you’ll finally be too busy proving yourself to hear them at all.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The first few shows in Seoul go off without a hitch. Every cue lands, every formation clicks, and the energy in the KSPO Dome is electric. Hoseok commands the stage like he was born on it, and somehow, being beside him under the lights feels more natural than nerve-wracking. You move in sync, you hit every mark, and the crowd responds with deafening cheers that echo in your chest long after you leave the stage.

But the online reaction? A different story.

Korean fans aren’t exactly thrilled about the close choreography between you and Hoseok. Some accuse the creative team of pushing too hard for attention, as if this wasn’t his idea. Others aren’t shy about voicing their discomfort, dissecting every interaction between the two of you with brutal intensity.You don’t let it get to you, you’ve worked too hard to be shaken by faceless usernames and half baked speculation.

Brooklyn night one is just as electric. The crowd is louder, rowdier, and when you step off stage soaked in sweat, there’s a fire in your blood that you don’t want to put out.

Then comes night two and the day starts to unravel just a few hours before showtime.

You’re in the dressing room, tying your hair back, when the stage manager walks in looking like she’s carrying a live grenade. “Wardrobe issue. One of the interns hung your outfits in the wrong place and they are ruined,” she says, holding up her phone. “Customs seized the backup costumes when they came into the U.S. The shipment paperwork was flagged.”

You blink. “All of them?”

“Everything. Yours, the duets, even the encore outfits.”

Your stomach sinks. “So…what are we supposed to wear?”

She disappears behind a garment rack and pulls out a hanger. It holds a cropped jersey with the tour logo in silver glitter across the chest. On the back, it reads in huge block letters:

HOPE’S GIRL

You stare. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“They were from a scrapped number. We have a full box of them in the truck. They’re clean, they’re pressed, and they fit the aesthetic.”

You eye the jersey. It’s cute. Actually, it’s really cute. But it’s also really cropped, your stomach will be fully on display. And the name on the back? Way too bold.

“Isn’t this a little…” you gesture vaguely at the lettering. “Much?”

“Do you want to fly to Newark and sweet talk the customs agents yourself?” the manager asks, half-joking, half-panicked. “Because call time’s in thirty.”

You don’t have a choice. You change.

The jersey fits like it was made for you. Snug in all the right places, sleeves cuffed just above the elbow, hem hovering above your waist. You check yourself in the mirror, trying to ignore the lettering burning into your back.

When you step out, conversations stall. A few dancers glance over. One of the stylists lets out a low whistle. Then Hoseok turns, mid-discussion with a crew member, and his eyes land on you.

He freezes.

Then, slowly, he grins. Not the polite stage smile. The real one. The one that makes his eyes crinkle and your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with the jersey. You glance down, suddenly hyper-aware of just how much skin you’re showing, and the text stretched across your shoulder blades.

Still, the moment passes. The music starts. The show goes on. But the mood sticks with you. A little unsettled, a little unsure. You look amazing. The crowd will scream. The performance will be flawless.

So why do you feel so weird inside?

The lights dim. The roar of the Barclays Center swells around you like a wave, and the opening VCR flickers to life on the screens above the stage. You’re already in place, heart hammering in your chest, fingers twitching at your sides as you wait for the music to drop.

The crowd is louder tonight, maybe it’s the weekend energy, maybe it’s just New York. Maybe it’s the jersey.

Your jersey.

The one that reads HOPE’S GIRL in massive silver letters across your back.

You try to shake it off. Focus. Breathe. You know the routine inside and out, muscle memory will take over. But as the spotlight hits and the opening beats explode through the arena, you can’t help the flare of heat that climbs your neck when you and Hoseok hit your first mark center stage.

He’s already smirking when he looks at you.

You swear it’s a little cockier than usual.

The crowd loses it when he reaches for you during the duet section. His hand grazes your waist, right where the cropped jersey ends, and you hear the collective shriek ripple through the venue like a current. You don't falter, not even for a beat, but your pulse skitters. You wonder if he notices. (He does.)

The chemistry tonight is different. Tighter. Sharper. Every move is crisp, charged, laced with something just below the surface. Hoseok doesn’t break character once, but there’s something extra in the way he watches you, like he’s feeding off the crowd’s energy, and you're the spark.

At one point, he leans in for a choreographed moment—faces close, breaths shared—and you swear you catch him whispering, “They’re gonna riot.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

Instead, you snap into the next move, heart pounding, mind focused, eyes locked.

When the last beat hits and the lights go black, the arena erupts. It’s deafening. Screams echo through your bones as the two of you jog offstage, breathless and slick with sweat. You’re grinning, high on adrenaline, already tugging your in-ear out when Hoseok turns to you in the wings.

“You crushed that,” he says, still breathless. “That jersey…” He whistles, grinning. “Might have started a war.”

You roll your eyes, breath hitching on a laugh. “Don’t even.”

But he just flashes that infuriating smile again. “Hope’s girl, huh?”

You shove his shoulder, but your cheeks burn, and even as the crew moves around you resetting for the next set, he lingers a second longer, eyes lingering like he’s memorizing you all over again.

The show ends in a blur of lights and music, the crowd's cheers still ringing in your ears as you make your way backstage. Your body aches from the intense performance, sweat dripping down your back as you strip off the jersey, feeling the cool air hit your skin. You’re breathing hard, but there’s a high buzzing through you, an energy that doesn’t quite fade yet.

Yunjin is there in an instant, practically bouncing with excitement.

“Okay, first of all,” she starts, eyes wide, “what was that?! You were literally on fire tonight. You looked so hot, I almost couldn’t concentrate! Like, how does that even happen?”

You laugh, wiping your face with a towel. “It was just the jersey, Yunjin.”

“Just the jersey?” She places a hand over her heart dramatically. “You’re telling me you don’t know what you were doing out there? The way it clung to you, the way you moved, if I were in the crowd, I’d be screaming my head off. Hoseok probably had to be holding himself back from jumping off stage just to catch you.”

You try not to grin, but the thought makes your chest tighten. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I am not. Babe, I don’t even know how you stayed so calm. I was practically hyperventilating on the sidelines watching you. You’re like…a goddess.”

Before you can reply, the sound of footsteps clicks through the hallway, and you know who it is before you even turn around.

Mina and Sana.

“Well, well,” Sana says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “look who’s enjoying the spotlight.”

Mina crosses her arms, eyes narrowing at the exposed skin of your stomach. “Must be nice. Wearing a jersey with ‘Hope’s Girl’ on it. Subtle.”

You don’t respond immediately, but you feel the tension creeping up your spine. Yunjin, however, isn’t having it.

“Really? That’s what you’re gonna focus on?” she shoots back, eyes flashing. “I think we all know the story behind the jersey, and it’s not like she went around asking for this attention.”

Sana smirks, a little too pleased with herself. “Sure, it’s just a scraped costume item. But only one of us got assigned that particular one, didn’t we?”

Mina’s gaze sharpens, her tone fake-sweet. “Yeah, just be careful. You might get too comfortable being everyone’s center of attention, those things don’t last long.”

Her words sting, but you keep your face neutral. You want to tell them to mind their business, but you hold back, not wanting to make a scene.

Yunjin steps closer, her voice low and cutting. “You guys are real classy, huh? Try not to be so obvious.”

Mina and Sana share a look before walking off, their footsteps echoing down the hall like a statement.

Yunjin exhales sharply, her fists clenched at her sides. “Seriously. Do they ever stop?”

You shrug, trying to shake it off. “Let them talk. They don’t get to decide what’s true.”

“Yeah, but damn, it’s hard not to hear them when they’re that loud,” Yunjin mutters, her eyes still on the retreating figures.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The next few stops of the U.S. leg flow like muscle memory. Rehearsals, shows, after-show hangouts in hotel rooms or wherever you can find food that late. Everyone slips into their own rhythms. Little cliques form, some loud and chaotic, some quieter and tired. You and Yunjin are the latter, always rooming together, always ending the night whispering half-asleep jokes under hotel comforters, letting the adrenaline of performance burn off slowly.

Hoseok is kind to everyone, but there’s something a little softer in how he treats you. Even when he’s obviously exhausted with dark circles under his eyes and a gravelly voice. He'll still toss you a grin in passing, a warm “good work today,” or a brief shoulder squeeze as he walks by. Nothing intense. Nothing you can’t explain away. But still, it lingers.

Mexico City feels different the moment the plane touches down.

The crowd is electric, louder than anything so far, and the setlist tonight gives the dancers a chance to shine, one particular number puts the girls front and center, a line of you holding onto each other’s hips, all sweat-slick skin and sharp movement, hip thrusts and rhythm pulsing through the floor.

You barely even register it when Mina’s fingers dig into your waist. Not at first.

But then she digs. Sharp nails through the thin fabric of your costume, pressing so hard it feels like they’re carving into you.

You flinch, barely, but your body keeps moving like it’s on autopilot. You smile, you hit every beat, you power through. There’s a camera somewhere. Fans screaming. You don’t miss a step. But when you hit the wings, adrenaline drops all at once, and the pain settles in.

You rush toward the wardrobe first thing, heart thudding in your chest. “Hey, do we—do we have any backup options?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level. “Like...something with more coverage?”

Thankfully, they do now. You swap out the crop top and slip into something looser. The scratches burn, but at least they’re not visible anymore.

You don’t think anyone noticed.

Later, the green room is quiet. Most of the dancers have drifted out, some heading to the hotel, others grabbing food or showering off the performance high. You stay behind to grab a hoodie from the top shelf of the wardrobe racks, reaching up on your toes.

The door creaks open behind you.

“Hey—” Hoseok’s voice cuts off. “Wait.”

You pause mid-reach, glancing over your shoulder.

He’s standing just inside the doorway, brow furrowed, eyes locked on your waist.

You look down.

Your shirt has ridden up just enough to show the angry red scratches along your skin, faint but clearly there. His expression shifts instantly, quiet concern turning sharp.

“What happened?” he asks, stepping closer.

You tug your shirt down quickly. “It’s nothing. Costume just rubbed me the wrong way.”

He gives you a look, one that says he doesn’t buy it for a second.

“Can I see?” he asks gently, his voice low, eyes searching yours.

You hesitate, then nod once, slowly lifting the hem of your shirt just enough to show the marks along your side.

His breath catches. “Jesus,” he mutters, kneeling slightly to get a closer look. “These are from nails.”

You lower your shirt again, already bracing.

“I have to tell management,” he says, voice calm but firm.

“No.” You shake your head. “Hoseok, please. You can’t.”

His jaw clenches. “She drew blood. You don’t do that by accident.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “But if you report her, she’ll know it came from me. She already hates me enough.”

“I don’t care if she hates you. She crossed a line.”

You look down, fists tightening at your sides. “And if she gets reprimanded? Cut? Then every girl on this tour is going to think I’m trying to get people fired just because I’m close to you.”

“You’re not close to me,” he says without thinking, then winces. “I mean—not like that. I just mean, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Exactly,” you say. “So don’t make it worse.”

There’s a long pause. His gaze softens a little, but the tension’s still there, tight in his shoulders.

“I won’t go to management,” he says finally. “But only if you swear to tell me if she touches you again.”

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

He exhales through his nose, clearly still not thrilled, but lets it go, for now. Then, a little softer, “You didn’t even flinch out there. No one would’ve known.”

You offer a small shrug. “Didn’t want to mess up the show.”

Something flashes behind his eyes—pride, maybe. Or something warmer. He doesn’t say it out loud, but you can feel it settle between you.

“Still,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “you shouldn’t have to bleed for a stage.”

Back at the hotel, it’s just past midnight. You and Yunjin are in your room, both freshly showered, your hair still damp as you sit cross-legged on your bed scrolling through messages. She’s across from you, stretched out on her stomach and picking at a protein bar with barely-contained boredom.

“God, we should order fries or something,” she mumbles into her arms. “I know it’s late, but I’m still wired.”

You laugh softly, about to answer then you stretch.

Your shirt lifts just enough to reveal a faint red line on your side.

Yunjin sits up like she’s been electrocuted.

“What the hell is that?” Her voice is sharp, alarmed. She scrambles over the bed toward you, pushing your arm up before you can react. “Wait—is that a scratch? That’s blood.”

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, trying to pull your shirt down again. “Seriously.”

She isn’t having it. “Don’t lie to me. Who did that?”

You go quiet.

“Who.” Her voice drops into a dangerous whisper.

You sigh. “It happened during the performance. Mina. She dug her nails in during the line choreo.”

Yunjin is already off the bed.

“Absolutely not.” She’s halfway to the door, hair wild, grabbing her hoodie off the chair. “I’m going to drag her. I’ll knock on her door and rip her fake lashes off one by one—”

“Yunjin!” You scramble up, grabbing her wrist before she reaches the handle. “Please. Don’t.”

“Are you serious right now? She injured you in the middle of a live performance!”

“I know. But if you storm down there, it just gives her what she wants. More drama. More fuel.”

Her jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle twitch. “She wants you humiliated. She’s been whispering garbage since Seoul and now she’s physically hurting you? And you’re the one worried about drama?”

You squeeze her wrist gently. “I’m tired. You’re tired. Just…let it go. For now.”

Yunjin glares at the door like she’s imagining it’s Mina’s face, but finally, finally, she exhales sharply and slumps back against the wall.

“I swear,” she mutters, “if she so much as breathes in your direction wrong again, I’m not stopping at lashes. I’m coming for her extensions too.”

You smile faintly, despite the sting in your side. “Noted.”

She walks back to you and flops down beside you again, grumbling under her breath, “Next tour, we’re getting roommate requests and I’m making sure we’re in a different hotel wing.”

You laugh. “You’d miss me.”

“Shut up and order the fries.”

You reach for your phone. The tension still lingers in the air, but it’s easier now, the weight of it softened by the person next to you who’s always ready to go to war, no matter how small the battlefield.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The fries are gone, Yunjin is out cold, and the hotel room feels too warm, too cramped with everything that happened still buzzing in your head. You need to get out of here.

You slip on a hoodie, grab your keycard, and make your way up to the rooftop lounge. It’s quiet at this hour, just past 2 a.m., and the Mexico City skyline stretches around you, lights glittering in the distance like stars fallen to earth. You sit down on one of the loungers, tucking your knees up to your chest, letting the night air cool your skin and settle your thoughts.

You don’t expect anyone else to come up.

Which is why your heart jumps a little when the rooftop door creaks open.

Hoseok steps out, hoodie pulled low, hair damp like he just showered. He spots you immediately and pauses, his expression unreadable for a second before he walks over.

“I figured I’d find you up here,” he says softly.

You give a small smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah,” he nods, settling into the lounger beside yours. “Me neither.”

There’s a brief silence, comfortable, somehow. Then he turns his head to look at you, eyes catching faint light from the city below.

“How’s your side?”

You blink, still surprised that he seems to care. “It’s fine.”

“Can I see?”

You hesitate for half a second, then pull the hoodie up just enough to show the bandage, a thin sliver of red peeking out underneath.

His jaw tenses.

“She really did that during the choreo?” He asks again, like he can’t believe that it was true the first time you had this conversation.

You nod. “It wasn’t that deep. Just enough to be petty.”

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “You didn’t even flinch on stage.”

“Can’t flinch when there’s seventeen thousand people watching.”

He shakes his head. “You’re tougher than most people I know.”

You snort, trying to brush it off. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do,” he says. “You don’t complain. You just keep working.”

You glance over at him, a little startled by the quiet sincerity in his voice.

“You notice that?”

He looks at you, the edges of his mouth quirking up. “I notice everything.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hide the heat creeping up your neck. “Smooth.”

“I’m not trying to be smooth,” he says, laughing now. “If I was, I’d say something like you danced so well tonight I almost missed my cue.”

You giggle despite yourself. “That’s terrible.”

“Right? I knew it,” he grins, then leans back against the lounger, staring at the sky. “You know, people ask me the same questions in interviews. Favorite food, dream collaborations, stuff like that. But no one ever asks the weird stuff.”

“Weird stuff like what?”

He hums, making his thinking face where he looks up. “Like the first time I ever forgot choreography on stage. Or the first time I realized I liked dancing more than rapping.”

“You forgot choreo?” you ask, eyes wide.

He groans. “Yes! 2016 we were in Osaka. I completely blanked. I played it off, but I wanted to die. I still think about it sometimes when I’m in the shower.”

You laugh, and it feels easy, light in a way you haven’t felt since this tour started.

“You ever think about quitting?” you ask, quieter now.

“Yeah,” he says. “Twice, but I didn’t. I stayed. And then…people like you came along. Reminded me why I loved this in the first place.”

You’re stunned into silence for a beat, and he just smiles, leaning back again like he didn’t just drop a weight into your chest.

The air shifts, warmer now. More charged.

You stay up there with him until the sky starts to tint pink at the edges, trading quiet stories and silly jokes and tiny truths you’re not sure either of you mean to share, but don’t regret. Not even a little.

You and Hoseok sneak in your naps earlier in the day, quick, quiet moments of rest that leave you both looser and lighter. You haven’t spoken since the night before, but when your eyes meet across the green room as everyone starts getting into costume, there’s something wordless exchanged. A kind of mutual grounding.

When it’s time to run the show, everything clicks into place. Mina’s been shifted out of your proximity in all the formations. She’s still there, but now her energy can’t touch you. You don’t have to brace yourself. You can just dance, and you do.

The crowd is louder than night one. They are wild, alive, feeding you energy from the second you step out. Every cheer feels like it’s vibrating in your bones. Your body moves like it’s never known hesitation, hitting every count with precision and power. Every hair toss, every hip hit, every spin. You’re on fire.

The numbers flow one into the next, and soon enough, you’re side-stage again, waiting for the duet. Everyone else clusters on the other side, but Hoseok finds you right where he did the night before. You’re both smiling this time.

“Better night?” he asks with a little raise of his brows, already knowing the answer.

“The best,” you say, and you mean it.

He steps in close, just like yesterday, but there’s no hesitation now, only warmth. His hands come to your face again, thumbs brushing the tops of your cheeks as he leans in until your foreheads touch.

“You were glowing out there,” he says, voice low and playful. “Like, full-on radiant. Crowd’s obsessed.”

You laugh, heart hammering in your chest. “Pretty sure they’re obsessed with you.”

“Nah,” he grins. “Tonight, they’re yours.”

It sends something giddy fluttering in your stomach. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again. “Let’s go own this. I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you too,” you say, and you’re both smiling like you’re about to get away with something.

The cue hits. The lights flare, and then you're dancing together.

This time, everything is free and full. Hoseok’s energy wraps around you, not protective, not careful, just completely in sync. Hoseok dances with the kind of presence that makes people forget to blink. He still avoids the spot where your cut is healing, but it doesn’t feel like he’s pulling back. It feels like he knows you. Like you’ve built something real in all those hours of rehearsal, tension, and trust.

When the duet ends, the crowd goes wild, and as you hold the final pose beside him, Hoseok glances your way with that same dazzling smile. Only now, there’s something a little different in his eyes. Pride. Mischief. Maybe even a spark of something more.

You feel unstoppable.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The post-show adrenaline lingers like glitter on skin. The performance high, the crowd’s roar, the perfect execution, it’s all still pulsing through your veins as you sit with the other dancers and crew at a lively restaurant tucked into a buzzing neighborhood just beyond the venue. The energy’s infectious. Laughter pours from every table, drinks clink, and someone orders another round before you can blink.

Hoseok shows up a little after the rest of you, wearing a baseball cap and a plain white tee, the kind of casual that still somehow makes heads turn. He slides into the seat beside Yunjin, across from you, and when your eyes meet over the rim of your glass, you can’t help the quiet smile that rises.

He toasts you later with a simple, “To killing it two nights in a row.”

Eventually, most of the dancers rally into a louder crowd, talking bar hopping, clubs, “just one more,” and “we’re in Mexico, come on!” But you, comfortably buzzed and warm from the tequila and laughter, decide to head back. Yunjin stays behind, swept into the tide, and you’re happy for her.

Back at the hotel, you take your time. A long, hot shower. Moisturizer. Your favorite oversized tee and soft shorts. Then you pad barefoot down the hallway with a hotel-bar cocktail in hand and head for the rooftop lounge.

The air is cool but gentle, and the view stretches out like a glittering painting. You settle on a lounger, legs tucked under you, drink cradled in both hands as you sip slowly and let yourself feel everything. The ache in your muscles. The thrum of triumph. How far you’ve come.

And then—

“Thought I might find you up here.”

You look over your shoulder. Hoseok steps out onto the rooftop, holding a drink of his own, something dark and neat in a short glass.

He’s changed, too. Into joggers and a hoodie, hair still a little damp from his own shower. He looks tired, but content. You wave him over.

He settles beside you on the same lounger, close but not crowded, and for a while, you just… talk. About nothing. About everything. About how wild this whole thing is: the tour, dancing, fans screaming your name.

And then a song starts playing through the rooftop speakers. Something upbeat and groovy, with a smooth, bouncing rhythm that makes your shoulders sway almost instinctively.

You glance at him.

“Dance with me.”

He chuckles. “Right now?”

You stand, offer your hand. “It’s tradition now, isn’t it?”

Hoseok hesitates for half a second before taking your hand and rising to his feet. “Alright, tradition.”

The two of you fall into rhythm easily, bare feet sliding over the rooftop tile. It’s loose, playful. No choreography, no mirrors. Just movement. Just you and him. You laugh when he tries a silly body roll and laugh even harder when he copies your spin with exaggerated flair.

One song blends into the next, and somewhere along the way, it shifts. You’re still laughing, still dancing, but the space between you shrinks. His hands linger longer. Your breath comes quicker.

Then he twirls you.

Your back presses gently to his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist. He turns you again, catches your hand in his, and dips you.

Time stops. You’re suspended in the moment, his arm strong around your back, your hand resting on his shoulder, and he looks at your lips.

Then, almost guiltily, his eyes flick away. Up, off to the side.

You look at his lips. Then back up at his eyes and you nod. Just once.

He kisses you.

One hand cradles the small of your back, holding you in place as the other comes to your jaw, tilting your chin up just right. The kiss is warm, slow, exploratory. His lips move like he’s learning the shape of you, like he’s been waiting for this longer than he realized. Your heart is slamming against your chest trying to understand what is going on. The kiss ends gently, like a breath, but the moment it does, Hoseok steps back like he’s just come to his senses.

“I—I shouldn’t have done that,” he blurts, voice hushed and panicked. His hand flies up, fingers brushing his mouth like the kiss might still be there. “God, I’m so sorry. That was…totally unprofessional. You’re my dancer. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

You blink, still half-drunk on the feeling of his lips against yours, your body still tingling from where he touched you.

“I mean—” he keeps going, running a hand through his hair. “You’re just… you’re so pretty. You’re funny, and smart, and you’ve been killing it every single night and then tonight you looked at me like that and I just—” He breaks off with a frustrated groan. “Shit. I let my feelings get ahead of me. I shouldn’t have—God, I’m sorry.”

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Your thoughts are moving like molasses. You’re trying to process what just happened, what he’s saying, how this spiraled so fast from soft rooftop magic to this flurry of regret.

“I just don’t want to make things weird for you,” Hoseok says, already backing away, voice rough with self-recrimination. “You’ve worked so hard to be here and this is your moment to prove yourself. I don’t want to mess it up because I can’t control myself—”

“Hoseok—”

But he keeps rambling, barely hearing you. “Seriously, just forget I did that, okay? I’ll keep everything professional from here on out. You don’t need to worry about me, I swear.”

And before you can even figure out how you feel or how to respond, he’s turning to leave.

“Hobi—” You yell desperately. “Wait!”

He freezes. You’ve never called him that before. His favorite nickname hangs between you delicate and real. He turns just slightly, looking over his shoulder, eyes wide and searching. Now it’s your turn to be breathless.

You take a deep breath, gathering whatever courage you have left. The tension is thick, the air crackling between you both. You step closer, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying every ounce of confidence you’re trying to muster.

“If they’re going to whisper about me anyway,” you start, “might as well make it true.”

Before he can react, you reach out, catching his wrist in your hand, turning him back toward you. His eyes flash with a mix of surprise and something deeper, but before he can say anything more, you lean in, kissing him again.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t pull away. He melts into it, his lips soft against yours, his breath steadying as he lets the moment wash over him. You can feel the tension leave his body, how he’s relaxing into you, like he’s been holding it all in for far too long.

You tug on the excess fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, your chest pressing against his. You feel the heat between you, the softness of his body as he leans in further, his hands moving to your back, tracing the curve of your spine. The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, the world outside disappearing as the music plays softly in the background.

For a moment, there’s no tour, no pressure, no expectations. Just you and him, and everything feels right. When you finally pull back, your breath mingling in the air between you, Hoseok’s eyes are dark, lips parted as if he’s trying to catch his breath.

“You sure about this?” he asks, his voice quiet but filled with the same uncertainty he had before.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “If they’re gonna talk anyway…might as well give them something to really talk about.”

Hoseok chuckles, low and breathless, before pulling you in for another kiss. This time, it’s full of quiet promises, no words needed. The rest of the world can wait.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The morning after, sunlight creeps in through the curtains, warm and golden across your sheets, but it doesn't soften the twist in your chest. You wake up slower than usual, almost like you’re trying to delay facing reality. There's no knock at your door. No message. No sign that anything happened last night at all.

You see him in the hallway a little later, just outside the elevators. You weren’t expecting it, so your smile catches you off guard before you can stop it. He’s walking with a couple of stylists, laughing at something someone says. His eyes pass over you like you’re a stranger.

Not even a nod. It stings more than you'd like to admit.

Back in your room, Yunjin is packing up her things, humming softly to herself.

“You sure you don’t wanna come with us today?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder. “San Antonio’s got good food and my college friend’s letting a few of us crash at their place.”

You give her a half-hearted smile and shake your head. “I think I’ll stay behind a little. Be a tourist for a day. Last chance and all.”

“Your loss,” she teases lightly, dragging her suitcase toward the door. “Don’t forget sunscreen.”

She doesn’t press further. She doesn’t notice anything is wrong. No one does. You’re still smiling. Still functioning.

Just…quieter.

You spend the day wandering through the city, letting the sun soak into your skin and the colors of Mexico City blur into a kaleidoscope. You try mezcal at a street-side bar, buy a handmade bracelet from a vendor who compliments your earrings, and stand still in front of a cathedral until the bells chime and make your chest ache.

Hoseok stares at his phone like it might answer all the questions for him.

It doesn’t.

It just glows with the time. Too early for this kind of spiral, too late to sleep it off. He rubs a hand over his face and sighs, reaching for the only contact that might give him something useful.

He hits call. It rings three times before Jin answers, voice still thick with sleep.

“Hyung,” Hoseok says before Jin can even get a proper greeting out. “I messed up.”

Jin groans. “Hello to you too. What did you do?”

“I kissed her.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Who—wait. Her her? YN?”

“Yes.” It’s almost as if Hoseok can hear is hyung silenting judging him.

“Well damn,” Jin says, a little more awake now. “That’s…unexpected, and kind of bold. How’d it go?”

“She kissed me back. It wasn’t like—I don’t know. I didn’t plan it. It just happened and now I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“That checks out,” Jin mutters. “You’ve had a crush on her for a while, haven’t you?”

Hoseok winces. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to anyone with eyes.”

He groans again, collapsing back onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t think I’d actually do anything about it.”

“And yet here we are.”

There’s a pause.

“I don’t even have her number,” Hoseok admits, his voice small. “I thought about asking someone on staff, but that feels…I don’t know. Weird?”

Jin snorts. “Yeah, kind of creepy. Don't do that.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you get her number last night?”

“I was distracted. I didn’t think—there was this moment, and it felt like everything in the world narrowed to just her, and then it was over.”

“Well,” Jin says, “it’s not over if you don’t let it be.”

“I saw her in the hallway this morning. She smiled at me. I didn’t smile back.”

Jin groans. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

“I panicked!” Hoseok snaps. “I don’t know what she’s thinking, and I don’t want her to regret it. I’m her boss. I should’ve never—”

“You already did,” Jin cuts in, firm now. “So the whole ‘I shouldn’t have’ ship? It’s sailed, capsized, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean.”

“Thanks for the imagery.”

Jin huffs a laugh. “Look, I get that this is complicated. But you’re allowed to feel things, Hobi. You’re allowed to want something good. If you’re serious about her—really serious—then don’t let protocol be the reason you ruin it.”

Hoseok is quiet for a long time. He watches a crack of sunlight stretch across the floor of his hotel room and thinks about how your smile looked under stage lights. He thinks about how he made you feel like you weren’t alone in it.

“…I am serious,” he says quietly.

“Then find a way to show her.”

🧡part 2🧡

#suck it #bts fanfic #jung hoseok #jung hoseok fic #hoseok fic #hoseok smut #jhope fic #jhope smut #jhope x reader #jhope x you #hoseok x you #hoseok x reader #bts x reader #bts imagines #bts fic #kpop fic #kpop smut #bts smut

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izzih22 · 2 days ago

Text

Chapter 3: Just Say You Need Me

Note: remember this is fiction.

The quiet after Azzi left for prom felt heavier than anything Paige had ever known.

Paige had watched her walk out the door in that black sparkly dress that shimmered in the hall light, her heart thudding painfully behind her ribs. She’d barely spoken as Azzi adjusted the sleeves of her dress and slid on her heels, her face neutral but eyes distant. The final blow had been the moment Azzi turned back to hug her goodbye—not just a quick hug, either. A long, slow squeeze, arms winding tight around Paige’s neck like she didn’t want to go. Then came the kiss.

It was barely anything. A soft, warm press of lips just under Paige’s jaw, right at the edge of her neck. Quick. Secret. Gone before Paige could even react. No one had seen, but Paige felt it like lightning.

“Bye Paigey.” Azzi had said as Marcus grabbed her hand a pulled her out the door. Paige wanted to say something anything. Pull her back, tell Marcus to fuck off but she didn’t. She wanted Azzi happy…

So Paige stood frozen in the hallway, Azzi’s scent still clinging to her varsity jacket—because, of course, Azzi had asked to wear it over her dress. And, of course, Paige had wordlessly handed it over. Because that’s what she always did. Whatever Azzi needed, Paige gave.

Now, Azzi was gone, and Paige felt hollow.

She barely responded when Jose and Jon asked if she wanted to hang out, just shook her head and wandered into Azzi’s room, shutting the door behind her. Everything smelled like Azzi in here. She crossed to the bed on autopilot and laid down on Azzi’s side, her head resting on the pillow Azzi always slept on, hoodie still warm from her body.

The ceiling stared back at her. She didn’t cry. She just…lay there. Not moving. Not thinking. Just feeling everything and nothing all at once.

Her phone buzzed hours later, breaking the stillness.

She turned her head. The room was dark now. She blinked at the screen.

Azzi 💗

Her heart jumped. She sat up fast, thumb swiping to answer.

“Az?” Her voice was low, hoarse.

A soft, shaky breath crackled through the speaker. Then: “P-Paige?”

That one word. Broken. Barely there. Paige was already off the bed and grabbing for her shoes.

“I’m here,” she said quickly. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”

Azzi’s voice was trembling. “Can you…can you come get me? Please? Don’t tell my parents. Just—just come, okay?”

Paige was already sprinting up the stairs. “Of course I’ll come. Are you hurt?”

“N-No. I mean…I just—I’m in the bathroom. At school. Please hurry, Paige. I just need you.”

“I’m coming,” Paige said, already bursting into the kitchen where Azzi’s parents were watching TV. “Azzi wants to come home. I’ll go get her. She said she’s okay, just wants to leave.”

Mr. and Mrs. Fudd glanced up. Neither questioned it. Paige had been around for so long, she was basically family.

“Of course,” Mrs. Fudd said, nodding. “Tell her to text me when she’s home.”

“Will do,” Paige said, already out the door.

She stayed on the phone the entire drive. Azzi didn’t say much, just little sniffles, small breaths, soft whimpers that twisted something sharp in Paige’s chest. Her hands gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline. She didn’t know what happened yet, but she knew it was bad.

“Az, I’m almost there, okay?” she said gently. “I’m pulling into the lot. Where are you exactly?”

“Girls’ bathroom. Back hall. Near the gym…”

“I’m coming. Stay on the line.”

She parked, threw the car into park, and sprinted across the front walk, her heart pounding. The hallways were quiet. She pushed through the door of the bathroom and immediately heard it—soft crying from one of the stalls.

“Azzi?” Paige called, her voice catching.

A click, a slow creak, and then the stall door opened—and there she was.

Azzi’s makeup was streaked down her cheeks, eyes red and glassy. She was still wearing Paige’s hoodie over her dress, the sleeves pulled down over her hands like she was trying to disappear inside it. She looked up at Paige and instantly broke into sobs, stumbling forward.

Paige caught her, arms wrapping around her tight. “Hey, hey, I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Azzi buried her face in Paige’s neck, shaking. Paige just held her there in the middle of the bathroom, rocking slightly.

“I didn’t—I didn’t let him do anything,” Azzi sobbed, voice muffled against Paige’s skin. “I didn’t—he tried—he wouldn’t stop—”

Paige’s blood turned to ice. She pulled back just enough to look at Azzi’s face.

“What happened?” she asked softly. “Az, tell me.”

Azzi choked on a breath. “It was Marcus. My date. He got drunk. I told him no, Paige, I told him no.”

Paige’s jaw clenched. Her whole body went rigid.

“And then—then he—he tried to kiss me. He was grabbing at me, and I tried to get away. He kept going, and I pushed him, and he shoved me. That’s when I ran. I ran to the bathroom. I locked myself in and called you.”

Paige was shaking now, too—but with rage.

“I’m going to kill him,” she whispered. “I swear to God, I—”

Azzi reached up, cupping Paige’s face in both hands.

“No,” she said, eyes wide and wet. “Don’t. Don’t leave me. I just need you. Please.”

That stopped Paige cold. Azzi’s voice was raw. Pleading.

Paige softened instantly, wrapping her arms fully around Azzi again.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Azzi nodded against her chest, fingers curling in the fabric of Paige’s shirt. She clung like she was afraid Paige would disappear.

Paige maneuvered them out of the bathroom quietly, shielding Azzi from any lingering promgoers. The gym was mostly empty now. She got Azzi to the car and opened the passenger door, helping her in carefully.

But Azzi didn’t want to let go.

“Can you…can you sit with me?” she whispered.

Without hesitation, Paige nodded, climbing into the passenger seat and pulling Azzi into her lap. Azzi curled into her, head under Paige’s chin, still crying softly. Paige cradled her, rubbing her back gently.

They sat there in the quiet hum of the night, the car’s soft interior light glowing above them.

After a while, Azzi started talking again—voice quieter now, but steadier.

“I kept thinking about you. In the bathroom. I just kept thinking—‘Paige will come. Paige will come.’ And then you did.”

“I’ll always come,” Paige whispered.

Azzi didn’t say anything, just gripped her tighter.

“I can’t stop thinking about him touching you,” Paige admitted. “I hate that he did that. I hate it so much.”

“I didn’t want him to. I only went with him because… I don’t know. I felt like I was supposed to.”

Paige swallowed. Her fingers trembled slightly as they traced slow circles into Azzi’s back.

“He doesn’t get to touch you,” Paige said, voice low. “He doesn’t get to put his hands on you. Not ever.”

Azzi leaned back slightly, eyes shining with emotion as she looked up at Paige. “Why do you always say stuff like that?”

“Stuff like what?”

“Like…” Azzi hesitated. “Like you care more than you’re supposed to.”

Paige stared at her. For a moment, it felt like the air between them shifted.

“I don’t know,” Paige said honestly. “Maybe I do.”

Azzi blinked. Her lips parted, like she was going to say something—but she stopped.

They both glanced at each other’s lips, then eyes.

The moment hung there, fragile and charged.

But Paige pulled back gently.

“You’re not in the right headspace,” she said softly. “I don’t want to do anything you’ll regret later.”

Azzi looked stricken, confused. She pulled back just enough to create space, like she was trying to protect herself from being hurt.

But Paige saw it—saw the hurt and the fear flickering behind Azzi’s eyes.

So she leaned forward and kissed Azzi’s cheek.

Then the other.

Then the tip of her nose.

Then her forehead.

“I got you,” Paige whispered. “Let’s go home.”

Azzi gave a tiny, tired smile. The first one since that awful night began.

They drove back in silence. Paige opened every door for her like she always did, guiding Azzi gently through the house, quiet as they crept back inside. Mr. and Mrs. Fudd were asleep.

Back in Azzi’s room, Paige helped her out of the dress, letting her wear her hoodie. She didn’t comment when Azzi reached for her hand and didn’t let go.

They crawled into bed together like they always had—but this time, Paige held her closer than ever. Azzi was tucked against her chest, her breath soft, finally steady.

Paige stroked her hair and whispered, “You’re okay now. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

And when Azzi’s breathing slowed and her body melted into Paige’s, right on the cusp of sleep—Paige leaned down, brushed her lips against Azzi’s temple, and whispered:

“I love you.”

She thought Azzi was asleep.

But just as she started to close her eyes, she heard it—barely above a breath:

“I love you too.”

A small, quiet smile spread across Paige’s lips.

And for the first time that night, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, Azzi meant it the way she hoped she did.

#pazzi fics #paige bueckers #paige x azzi #uconn wbb #azzi fudd #paige and azzi #pazzi

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lavenderhateswritting · 2 days ago

Note

*cough* *cough* im gonna need a aprt to of the speedster yn x invincible variants, like maybe how life is like withsome of them

Please 🙏

Nicknames for the Marks Mohawk Mark - Markie Sinister Mark - Mark (he does not fuck with nicknames)

Ring, Ring, Ring

The sound of your alarm filled the bedroom with collective groans from everyone. God, you had to stop getting so many morning classes. You attempted to detangle yourself from the mass of limbs wrapped around you to turn your alarm off, but were trapped by the limbs of surprisingly cuddly viltrumites.

"Turn that shit off," Markie groaned into your ear. For all his complaining, he definitely wasn't helping the problem as he kept his arms firmly locked around your waist.

"I'm going to break your phone if the alarm doesn't get turned off." Right, okay, and now Mark was upset to great. He had his legs interlocked firmly with yours and an arm thrown over your chest, keeping you pinned to the bed.

"You guys have to let me go if you want me to turn it off." You thought that was a perfectly reasonable suggestion, which you quickly learned was not the case, as they both let off groans, and the arms encircling squeezed you harder.

"I think I'd prefer he just breaks your phone." They were both so dramatic.

"I can't believe I'm agreeing with this idiot, but I am ready and willing to break it,"

"Break my phone and I'm not fucking either of you for the next month. " You felt them release their grips on you for only a brief moment, but that was all you needed. You used your super speed, and in the blink of an eye, you went from being pinned between the two of them to holding your phone on the other side of the room.

Sometimes you forget that you weren't the only person with superspeed in your house now, because they were up just as fast as you, and now you were placed between the wall and Markie's outstretched arms. On your right, Mark was leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest and an absolutely sinful smirk on his mouth. All three of you were naked from your previous activities the night before.

"You wouldn't be able to survive that long, pretty boy." Markie was leaning forward, and the smile on his face was a cruel one. Shit, you shouldn't have provoked him. He turned his head to look at Mark.

"I think he's getting a little bold since you let him bend you over," Well this was going to quickly become a pissing contest between the two of them.

"If I remeber last night you were screaming like a little bitch for him," Mark got that look in his eyes that he always did when he knew he was trying to hurt someone." What was it you said 'Y/N please harder, I need you' I mean if anyone the bitch I'd say it's you." He was casually leaning on the wall next to you, which really betrayed how much he loved riling Markie up.

"You think you're so funny, huh, because I wasn't the one watching the whole thing like a freak in the corner, you cuck." he was trying to act nonchalant, but his face had broken out into a blush across his cheeks.

You loved both of them quite a lot, but the best aspect of having them both was the ability to let them argue so you could do what you wanted. As they argued about which one of them took your dick better you used your superspeed to finally get your shower in and get ready for your college classes for the day.

Finally getting dressed and leaving the bathroom, though, showed that the argument had continued through the entirety of your morning routine.

"Are you two still arguing?" You couldn't help but let a smile rise to your face. I mean having two gorgeous men debate about which one of them took your dick better was definitely a dream you had in high school at least once.

"And why have neither of you put on clothes yet?" God, you really needed to figure out something for these two to do when you weren't around. They spent so much time just waiting for you to come home and trying to get into your pants. Mostly because you were the only connection they had to this universe.

"The real question is, why do you have clothes on?" Markie had crossed his arms and tried to project a level of disgruntlement that his naked body kind of took away from.

"Because I have school to get to and I can't just spend my days fucking you two and watching trash TV."

"Yeah, well, we'll see you when you get home."

"I know, babes."

#invincible x reader #invincible x you #alternate mark grayson #invincible x male reader #sinister mark #mohawk invincible

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sturnsblogs · 3 days ago

Text

WERE REALLY DOING THIS.

Teacher!Matt X Milf!Reader

—

Matt had shut the bathroom door behind you gently—soft like he was afraid to startle you, like the moment was fragile. Fifteen minutes earlier, he’d grabbed the car keys with nothing but a kiss to your forehead and a quiet “stay right here.” Now he was back.

With a pharmacy bag.

And not one, not two—but three pregnancy tests.

“Just to be sure,” he said, with that crooked little smile he always gave you when he was trying not to let nerves show. “You don’t have to take them all. But, you know, backup. And… backup for the backup.”

He kissed your temple again before you disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a shaky breath. The air felt heavy with possibility. You sat on the toilet, staring at the stick in your hands. Your fingers shook slightly.

In the hallway, Matt waited.

You could hear the gentle creak of the floorboards as he shifted from foot to foot. Then his voice, soft and low, floated through the door.

“I want this baby,” he said, like it was a fact—not a question. Not something to be weighed or feared. “If you are, hm? I want this. I want you. All of it.”

You felt your chest tighten, eyes stinging.

“I love you,” he continued. “I love Eliana. And if you’re pregnant… then I love the baby, too. Already.”

Your hand flew to your mouth, a tiny sob catching in your throat. You stared down at the little window on the test, willing the lines not to show… or maybe begging them to.

And then, just like that, they appeared.

Two solid pink lines.

Positive.

“Matt…” you called out, breathless.

The door swung open slowly, and there he was. In his sweats and hoodie, barefoot, with his eyes glued to your face.

You held the test up with trembling hands. He didn’t even need to look at it—your teary smile said it all.

He stepped forward and wrapped you up, arms tight around your waist, face buried in your neck. “Oh my god,” he whispered, laughing against your skin. “You’re pregnant. We’re having a baby.”

And just as he pulled back to kiss you—

The pitter-patter of tiny feet came running down the hallway.

“Eliana!” Matt called quickly, straightening up. “What did we say about knocking, baby?”

She looked up at the two of you with wide, curious eyes, clutching her little stuffed bunny. “Why’s Mommy crying?”

You knelt down to her level and pulled her close, brushing her hair behind her ears. “Because Mommy’s happy, baby.”

Matt crouched down beside you, resting his hand on her back. “We have something really special to tell you,” he said softly.

Eliana blinked. “What?”

“You’re gonna be a big sister,” you said gently. “There’s a baby growing in Mommy’s tummy.”

Her eyes went huge, jaw dropping in that dramatic way only a five-year-old can pull off. She gasped. “Really?!”

You nodded, and Matt chuckled when she looked between the two of you, eyes narrowing.

“That’s why Mommy was getting bigger!” she blurted, pointing at your stomach with her bunny’s ear. “I knew it!”

You and Matt both laughed, teary and overwhelmed, and he scooped her up into his arms.

“Are you excited?” he asked, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

She nodded so hard her curls bounced. “I’m gonna be the best sister. And I’m gonna teach the baby how to walk. And eat snacks. And play with Barbies!”

Matt grinned at you over her shoulder, mouthing, we’re really doing this.

And all you could do was nod, tears still shining in your eyes, hand resting over your stomach.

You were really doing this.

Your family—your real family—was growing.

—

A/N- I love them ): PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REQUEST THINGS FOR THEM.

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy @chriss-slutt @franticroads @thecrawlys @ribbonlovergirl @freshlyinlovewchris @whore4chris @matts-girlfriend @ariana3lovesu @sturnl0ve @cass-sturn @sturns-mermaid @sunrisemill @fadedstvrn @ikyoudreamofme @mattsdemi @kitkatbar1275 @skelet0nsinmyycloset-deactivate @lezleeferguson-120 0 @bells-sturn @sturniolosymphony @kenziesturniolo54 @kikirasweatsweathoho @emely9274 @sturnns-world @realuvrrr @zenithsturniolo @kier-with-a-k @eeyoresturnz @elizasturn

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halo-stylinson · 1 day ago

Note

The “Louis is homophobic” narrative is so outrageously dumb that it feels like it was manufactured in a top-secret lab that specializes in bad takes and Twitter misinformation. Like, are y’all okay? Blink twice if it has rotted your critical thinking skills.

Let’s start with the infamous “I am in fact straight ” tweet thread debacle .Yes. That one. The cursed hieroglyphic carved into the stone tablet of Larrie discourse. Do we know Louis even wrote that? No. Do we know he wasn’t pressured to tweet it? Absolutely not. That thing reads like it was drafted by an intern who smells like Axe body spray and internalized homophobia. And even if he did write it, who among us hasn’t tweeted something mid-spiral, mid-slander, or mid-pr-management-disaster? I once tweeted “I love cardio” after crying on a treadmill run. We’ve all been there.

But here’s the thing: Louis’s actual, observable behavior? Screams “deeply queer coded closeted boy who’s been suppressed for over a decade” let’s start rom the very beginning, in 1D interviews, he straight up REFUSED to entertain the weird, gross questions about male fans and them potentially being attracted to the boys bait questions. He danced around it and looked at the interviewer like they needed therapy. A homophobe doesn’t do that. A person who’s been taught to fear queerness would not dance around a bigoted opportunity served on a silver platter by British tabloid goons.

Now, let’s talk about Only the Brave. That song is so queer-coded it needs to pay rent in West Hollywood. The lyrics sound like they were stolen from a poet who stares longingly at their best friend across a candlelit pub. You think some homophobe just wakes up and writes “it’s a church of burnt romances” over sad,slow guitar strums like that’s a normal Saturday morning? Honey. That song is aching. It’s cinematic. It’s closeted gay in a war film meets Catholic guilt meets forbidden glances across a church pew. Straight men don’t write like that unless they’re trying to land a GLAAD award or overcompensating for owning five pairs of cargo shorts. Let’s also not ignore COACOAC and all along.

AND DON’T GET ME STARTED ON THE GAY BARS. This man isn’t “accidentally” stumbling into queer spaces like he tripped over a curb and landed on the dance floor at Heaven. He’s comfortable there. He brings his long-term “girlfriend” there for her birthday. He’s not just vibing—he’s thriving. He’s at home. He probably knows the bartender by name. Homophobes do not take their “girlfriend” to one of the most queer friendly known places (Amsterdam) and then write about missing their lover while they’re there 🤨. And then do damage control when people figure out the line HE pointed out to make it clear it was not about his “girlfriend”. Be serious.

Also, let us not forget that this man promoted Polari. Polari. Do antis know how deep cut that is? That’s not “I saw a rainbow once and felt warm.” That’s “I researched underground queer British slang from the 1900s and wore it proudly on my literal chest.” It’s like if a straight dude casually wore a T-shirt that said “Stonewall was a riot” and then went right back to watching football. That’s not a casual choice. That’s a coded statement wrapped in giggles and subtext.

Oh and antis love to erase how Louis helped shape Harry into the fearless, gender-fluid person he is today. “Painted nails make Harry beautiful.” HE SAID THAT. Welllll before it was male fashion. That was during the era of tight skinny jeans and judgment, not Gucci gowns and Vogue covers. He was supporting Harry’s expression when people were still saying “that’s a bit much, innit?” And then there’s the “I’ve never seen you in a dress before mmmmmm” moment. The delivery? Iconic. The eyes? Full of love. The vibe? Boyfriend.

When Harry waved the pride flag for the first time and Louis was literally BEAMING at him like he’d just watched his baby take its first steps? Yeah, that wasn’t the reaction of a man who hates queerness. That was a man who was proud. That was personal. That was “I see you, and I love you” with a Donny accent and a huge smile.

Also, the way antis act like Louis would be totally fine with queer fans in person, but then immediately log onto Twitter like the Wicked Witch of Westboro Baptist Church is so laughably illogical I’m getting a six-pack from the mental gymnastics. Homophobia isn’t platform-dependent! You can’t be like “he’s a proud dad at concerts but a bigot in 280 characters or less.” That’s not how people work. That’s how satire works.

And please—please—tell me how a homophobic man would stand in front of thousands of queer fans waving pride flags and say “I feel so fucking confident, so fucking protected.” He didn’t say “appreciated.” He didn’t say “respected.” He said protected. As in, “I feel safer here than anywhere else.” If you think a homophobe says that sincerely, you need to open a book and then maybe touch grass.

But maybe I’m just a troglodyte, sitting in my little internet cave, clutching my gaydar and refusing to accept twitter takes as gospel. But what I do know is that Louis is about as homophobic as that guy who claps as he watches a drag queen get engaged. He’s queer-coded, emotionally intelligent, and more comfortable in queer environments than most straight girls at bottomless brunch.

Let’s be real. They don’t actually think he’s homophobic. They just don’t see him. They don’t listen to him. They refuse to understand him. And instead of owning up to their bias, they make it weird.

holy shit anon i am kissing you on the mouth this is beautiful and SO correct. also, hilarious. i laughed unreasonably hard at the jokes and puns. whoever you are, please get into a writing field. youll thrive there.

#answered asks #one direction #louis tomlinson #harry styles #larry stylinson #louis closet

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woozinhos · 2 days ago

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HAPPY 700 FOLLS!!! your works are amazing ✨

i have a req, can you please write something about reader had been caught humping on pillow and then cheol or hao come to watching and teasing you? thx

Give me a show|| Seungcheol x Reader

Notes: stop this ahh so good hope you guys enjoy!!

You're in your room, alone and feeling needy. The quiet of the house only amplifies your desires as you begin to rub yourself through your clothes. The heat between your legs grows more intense with each passing moment, and you can't help but moan softly as you picture someone, anyone, taking care of you. You hear the front door open and close, but you're too lost in your own pleasure to pay attention to the sound. Your hand slips beneath your waistband as you continue to touch yourself.

The footsteps on the stairs get louder, but you're too caught up in the sensation to stop. The anticipation of being caught only adds to your arousal. You grab your pillow and straddle it, rutting against it desperately. The friction is intense, but it's not quite enough to satisfy the growing need inside you.

You whimper and whine as you grind down on the pillow, imagining that it's someone's body beneath you. Your fingers dig into the pillowcase as you chase your pleasure. The footsteps are almost at your door now, but you're too far gone to care. Your movements become more frantic, your breathing heavy and uneven.

You hear a knock on your door, but you're too lost in your pleasure to respond. The sound only spurs you on, and you moan louder, your hips grinding faster against the pillow. The door creaks open, and you catch a glimpse of someone standing in the doorway, watching you with a mixture of shock and lust.

"Looks like someone needs some help," the person says, their voice deep and smooth. You recognize it immediately as your roommate Seungcheol. You jump in surprise, scrambling to cover yourself with the blanket. Your face is flushed with embarrassment as you look up at Seungcheol, who's leaning against the doorframe with a smirk on his face.

"Don't stop on my account," he says, his eyes trailing over your disheveled form. "You looked like you were having fun." Your heart races as you try to process the situation. Part of you wants to throw him out, but another part is thrilled by the idea of him watching you.

"I... I didn't know you were home," you stammer, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "And I didn't expect you to just... watch." Seungcheol chuckles, pushing off the doorframe and taking a step closer to your bed. "I didn't expect to walk in on such a show either," he says, his eyes darkening with desire.

"But I'm glad I did," he adds, his voice low and sultry. "You look beautiful like this, all flushed and needy." Seungcheol moves closer still, until he's standing right next to your bed. He reaches out and gently pulls the blanket away from your body, revealing your disheveled state once more.

"No need to be embarrassed," he says, his fingers trailing up your thigh. "I think it's hot, seeing you like this." His touch sends shivers down your spine, and you can feel yourself getting wet again despite the embarrassment. "What are you going to do now?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Seungcheol sits down on the edge of your bed, his eyes never leaving your body. "I'm going to watch you," he says, his voice filled with a possessive tone. "And you're going to put on a show for me." He leans back on his hands, his gaze roaming over your body as he waits for you to make a move. The air is thick with tension, and you can feel his eyes burning into your skin.

"Go on," he encourages, his smirk growing wider. "Touch yourself for me." You stare at him in disbelief, your heart pounding in your chest. You've never felt so exposed and vulnerable before, but there's something about the way he's looking at you that makes you want to obey.

"I... I can't," you say, your voice trembling slightly. "Not with you watching." Seungcheol raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Oh, I think you can," he says, his tone gentle but firm. "You were enjoying yourself before I walked in. Why stop now?" He leans forward, his face inches from yours. "Let me see how you like to be touched," he whispers. "Let me see what makes you moan."

You start to move again, slowly rocking your hips back and forth against the pillow. Your eyes lock with Seungcheol's as you begin to give in to the pleasure once more. He watches you intently, his gaze burning with desire as he takes in every movement, every expression on your face. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "Just like that."

You can feel his eyes on you, drinking in every detail of your body as you continue to move. The feeling of being watched by him is both thrilling and terrifying, but you can't deny how much it's turning you on. Your breathing becomes heavier as you grind against the pillow, your body responding to Seungcheol's intense gaze. You can see the bulge in his pants growing, and it only makes you more aroused.

"Faster," he commands, his voice rough with need. "I want to see you fall apart." You obey, increasing the pace of your movements, chasing the building pleasure once again. The friction is perfect, and you can feel yourself getting closer to the edge.

Seungcheol reaches out and places a hand on your hip, his fingers digging into your skin as he watches you writhe beneath him. "That's my girl," he whispers, his eyes dark with lust. Your whines grow louder as you rock harder against the pillow, your body shaking with need. Seungcheol's grip on your hip tightens, his fingers leaving little bruises on your skin.

"You're so close," he says, his voice thick with desire. "I can see it in your face. Let go for me, Y-N." You can feel the pressure building in your core, and you know you're right on the edge of orgasm. Seungcheol leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "Cum for me," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin.

The sound of his command sends you over the edge, and you cry out as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body convulses, waves of pleasure washing over you as you grind against the pillow. Seungcheol watches in awe, his eyes drinking in every moment of your climax. "Beautiful," he murmurs, his hand stroking your hair as you come down from your high.

"You're absolutely stunning when you cum," he says, his voice filled with adoration. "I could watch you like that all day." You collapse onto the bed, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Seungcheol gently moves the pillow away from you and pulls you into his lap, cradling you against his chest.

"You did so well," he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You were amazing." You nuzzle into his chest, feeling both sated and embarrassed after what just happened. "That was... unexpected," you say, still trying to process the whole situation.

Seungcheol chuckles, running his fingers through your hair. "Unexpected, but definitely not unwelcome," he replies, his tone playful. "Maybe next time I'll join in."

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internetdaddy98 · 3 days ago

Text

The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 24

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist] Content Warning: steamy; jealousy: angst; swearing ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t mean to check her location. He really didn’t.

But the app was still on his phone from that one time she got locked out of her apartment after a shift, and now—now it glared back at him like proof of weakness. Y/N: Home.

Of course she was. Because it was their week off. Because normal people used their days off to relax. Not to spiral.

He tossed his phone on the counter and paced. Again.

Three times that morning, he’d almost texted her.

Once to ask if she wanted coffee. Once to see if she’d seen the weather. And once—because he missed her. Stupid. Childish.

The jealousy from the night before still simmered beneath his skin. He could see it like snapshots behind his eyelids: the way that guy had leaned into her space. The sound of her laugh—one he hadn’t heard directed at him in weeks. The stupid way she’d blushed when the guy asked her out while she was holding gauze to his eyebrow.

Robby didn’t blame her. Not really.

He blamed himself.

For the rooftop. For letting his pride get louder than his heart.

But that didn’t change the way it felt—watching her smile at someone else. Not when she used to smile at him like that.

He grabbed his keys.

This wasn’t going to fix itself.

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

You’d spent the better part of the day in pajamas, alternating between staring at your ceiling and doom-scrolling through videos you weren’t really watching.

You weren’t expecting the knock.

You were still in the giant hoodie you’d stolen from Robby months ago, curled up on the couch with a half-drunk cup of tea and a heartache you’d been nursing like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

When you opened the door and saw him, you froze.

Robby stood there—hood down, chest rising fast, jaw clenched like he’d run here on pure adrenaline. His eyes were brewing up a storm. Wild. Angry. Wanting.

“Michael? What are you—?”

“You laughed with him,” he said, stepping inside before you could even finish.

You blinked. “What?”

“That patient,” he growled. “He was flirting with you and you laughed.”

You shut the door, spine straightening. “And that’s why you’re here?”

His eyes flashed. “You think that was easy for me to watch? You think I liked seeing him look at you like you were his to have?”

“I’m not yours either,” you snapped, chest tight.

That did it.

In two steps he was in front of you, chest to chest, eyes burning.

“You think I haven’t wanted to make you mine every damn day since you walked into that pedes room?” he said, voice low, dangerous. “You think I don’t wake up thinking about your mouth, your laugh, the way you say my name like it matters?”

You swallowed hard, heart slamming against your ribs.

“Then why—” you started, voice shaking. “Why did you push me away? Why did you let me think you didn’t care?”

“Because I was fucking terrified!” he snapped. “Terrified of how much I cared. Of how deep I was already in before I even realized it.”

You took a shaky breath, but he wasn’t done.

“I see you with other people and it kills me. That guy last night? I wanted to throw him through a fucking wall.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’m not proud of it,” he murmured. “But I’m not gonna pretend anymore.”

He stepped closer. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. But if you think I’m just gonna walk away and let someone else touch what I’ve been dying to hold—”

He cupped your jaw then.

“—you’re wrong.”

Your lips parted, a protest half-formed, but he kissed you before you could say it.

And God, your body was on fire.

The kiss was not gentle. Not sweet.

It was weeks of unresolved tension, frustration, jealousy, and lust, all crashing into each other like a dam breaking. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer. Your fingers clutched at his shirt like you needed something to anchor you.

You gasped when his mouth broke from yours and trailed down your jaw, your neck.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered against your skin. “Every damn shift. Every time you smile at someone else. Every time you walk away.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed.

You blinked. “That’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair is you pretending you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he growled. “Walking around the ER, laughing with every idiot who gets five minutes of your attention. Acting like you’re not mine.”

Your breath caught.

“You don’t get to say that,” you whispered.

“You’re mine, Y/N,” he said, voice low and possessive. “I don’t care if it’s messy or complicated or if the whole damn hospital knows. I’m done watching someone else look at what’s mine.”

“I thought you didn’t want me,” you whispered.

“I lied.”

Silence thundered between you.

“I lied because I was afraid,” he said. “Because I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”

He took your face in his hands, gaze dark and raw.

“But then you walked in, and every rule I’ve ever followed stopped mattering. Every night I went home and couldn’t sleep because I could still smell you on my scrubs. Every shift I memorized the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, the way you bite your lip when you’re charting, the sound of your laugh when you actually let someone in.”

You stared at him, eyes wide, throat tight.

“And when I saw him touching you,” Robby said, stepping forward until your back hit the door, “it felt like someone was trying to take you from me.”

You gasped. “Michael…”

“Say you’re not mine,” he whispered, mouth inches from yours. “Say it, and I’ll leave.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

And that’s all it took.

He crashed into you with a growl, mouth claiming yours like he’d been starving for it. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you up against the door, and you wrapped your legs around him without a second thought.

His kiss was fire and fury—angry, aching, desperate. Your hands clutched at his hoodie, tugging him closer, anchoring yourself to the only thing that felt real in the mess.

“You think anyone else gets to see you like this?” he whispered against your mouth. “Touch you like this? Never. You’re mine, Y/N. Only mine.”

You moaned into the kiss, and that sound—God, it undid him.

He carried you to the couch, laying you down like something precious, like something that had always been his, and tonight—finally—he could have you.

His mouth found your neck, your jaw, the spot beneath your ear that made you shiver.

“I should’ve said this months ago,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Should’ve claimed you the second I realized what this was.”

You arched into him, body aching for more.

“You still can,” you whispered.

His mouth met yours again—hot, possessive, and full of every word he hadn’t said until now.

Mine.

Yours.

#michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt imagine #the pitt fanfiction #dr robby #dr robby x reader #dr robinavitch x reader #dr robby imagine #dr michael robinavitch #dr robinavitch #noah wyle

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forest-hashira · 2 days ago

Text

Mating Season

back with my final entry for my love in the air omegaverse event! it's also technically a sequel to this fic that i wrote for a different omegaverse event last spring. it's not necessary to read that one first, but for anyone who's into hybrid smut, that one's like 8k words, so. more for you to enjoy! i hope this sequel measures up to the original, bc i once again let the horny gremlin take over and write most of this for me lmao. enjoy this madnesss 💜

event masterlist | read on ao3 | wc: ~3.5k | cw: omegaverse, hybrid au (fox!suguru/bunny!satoru/bunny!reader), gn afab reader (afab anatomy terms used), alpha!suguru/omega!satoru/omega!reader, gojo cries & not in a sexy way, mating cycles/in heat (gojo + reader), intersex omega (gojo has a pussy + a dick), established relationship, oral sex (satoru receiving), threesome, multiple rounds, multiple orgasms, creampies, heavy breeding kink, knotting, reader & satoru referred to as "mommy" once. 18+ only, minors & ageless blogs do not interact, you will be blocked.

When Satoru’s heat had started, you’d waved Suguru off, promising to take care of your fellow bunny until your alpha returned from work. He’d hesitated at first, understandably, but when he saw the way Satoru nuzzled into you and relaxed, his tail twitching happily, his worries seemed to ease a bit. Unfortunately for you, though, that had just been the calm before the storm. Almost as soon as your omega mate shed most of his clothes to keep from overheating too badly, his scent filled the room, even more syrupy-sweet than usual because of his heat. It practically had your mouth watering, and you knew from the moment that Satoru had given you his pleading puppy look, fingers playing with the waistband of your pants, that you were a goner.

What you hadn’t really expected, though, was for your own heat to rear its ugly head while Satoru worked you open with his fingers. The combination of his pheromones and the way he babbled between kisses about needing to breed was apparently enough to make your body get with the program. You felt fire flicker to life in your core, and you whined needily into his mouth, suddenly as desperate as he was.

He swore into the kiss, pulling away to stare down at you, the stunning cerulean of his eyes now only a thin ring around his pupils. You stared back up at him wordlessly, panting and rolling your hips down to meet his fingers. When he added a third and curled the digits into your sweet spot, your back arched off the bed, a nearly inhuman noise escaping your lips.

“Satoru,” you cried out, squirming at his touch even as your body relaxed a bit more. “‘S too hot in here…”

“‘Cause you’ve still got your clothes on,” he replied, though he made no move to help you out of them, just watched your pussy greedily clench around his fingers, clearly eager for more.

“Then help me out of them!” you replied indignantly, trying to pull your shirt over your head and only managing to get the fabric twisted around your ears. “Satoru,” you whined again, bumping his side with your knee. “‘M all tangled.”

The other bunny looked up at you then, and he did his best to help you get out of your shirt without hurting you, but he refused to quit fingering you even for a second, so it took the pair of you a good thirty seconds to finally toss the offending fabric onto the floor. Having not put on a bra after waking up, you were now completely bare beneath your mate, and he quickly buried his face in your chest, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to every inch of skin he could reach. The feeling of his fluffy hair and soft ears brushing across your skin had you gasping and trying to wiggle away from the ticklish sensation.

“Where you tryin’ t’go, little bunny?” Satoru asked, tilting his head slightly to look up at you. “Don’t you like when I touch you?”

Heat flooded your face, leaving every inch of you burning over your circumstances. “Tickles,” you told him after a moment, threading your finger through his hair and pushing it back from his face.

“My little bunny’s sooo sensitive,” he teased, a glint in his eye, but he had a bit of mercy on you, lifting his head to capture your lips in another heated kiss instead. When you sighed into him, he took advantage by slipping his tongue into your mouth and curling his fingers hard against your sweet spot. The way you jolted and moaned into him made him moan, too, and he rocked his hips down against yours.

“Please,” you panted, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. “Fuck, ‘toru, need more. Need you to fill me up, please.” With every passing moment, your heat was further clouding your mind, narrowing your focus to the burning need to be filled by your mate, to be knotted and bred until you couldn’t move anymore.

Feeling just as desperate as you with the need to breed, Satoru obliged your plea, pulling his fingers from your pussy and guiding his aching cock into you in their place. The glide as he pressed forward was effortless, your body already dripping slick even though your heat had barely even started.

You moaned at the faint stretch as he filled you, immediately rolling your hips up to meet him; if he didn’t start fucking you right away you thought you might cry. Thankfully, though, your fellow omega either got the hint, or was just as frantic for relief as you were, and he began driving into you in earnest. The bedroom quickly filled with a symphony of your moans and Satoru’s grunts and whines. You were vaguely aware of your own voice begging your fellow bunny to breed you, and his only partially intelligible responses, and before you knew it, an orgasm was racing through you, leaving you shaking beneath your mate as you clawed at his back and cried out his name.

The feeling of you clenching around his cock was enough to send Satoru toppling over the edge. He bit down on your shoulder as he spilled into you, not quite hard enough to break the skin, but certainly hard enough to leave a mark. His hips never quite stilled even as he came, and a few moments passed with the two of you breathing hard against each other’s skin. Despite each of you having had a rather intense orgasm, the voracity of your heats failed to ease at all. If you’d been in a more rational state of mind, it wouldn’t have been a surprise – you hadn’t gotten the knot you craved, and Satoru had yet to experience any sort of attention to his own pussy – but with your minds muddled by hormones, all you felt was upset.

“Satoru…” you whined, rolling your hips up against him, one hand threading into his sweaty white hair. “Please, need more… Need you to breed me, need your babies…”

“Fuck, yeah, need it too,” he mumbled into your neck, beginning to move his his hips again almost immediately, his pace just as desperate as before.

Lost to the pleasure of being filled over and over, one round blurring into the next, you found yourselves losing track of time; the only thing that mattered to either of you was breeding, the need so deep and intense that it threatened to eat you from the inside. There wasn’t a moment that Satoru wasn’t inside you, and that you weren’t clinging to him; the air of your bedroom filled with the scent of your shared heat and the breathless panting and moaning of each other’s names as you tried to ease the fire you both felt in your core.

What clued you in to the fact that the two of you were no longer alone wasn’t the sound of doors opening, or the sound of Suguru calling your names, letting you know he was home; it was his scent entering the room, spicy and smoky and soured with worry.

You and Satoru both stilled for the first time in… you weren’t sure how long, and did your best to turn to him without separating from each other. Thankfully, he was already making his way to your bedside, and he dropped to his knees as soon as he reached you.

“Oh, bunnies, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” he murmured, brows pinched and ears drooping; even through the haze of your heat you could tell he was upset, and likely feeling guilty. You really couldn’t have that.

Weakly, you reached out towards him, a soft whine of what hopefully resembled his name escaping you. He was quick to take your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm before cradling it to his cheek. He searched your face for a moment, then turned his attention to Satoru, whose cheek now rested against your own as he panted soft, quick breaths. When Suguru’s hand came to rest on his other cheek, his eyes fluttered shut and he whined.

“Alpha,” you pleaded, weakly wrapping his own hand around his mate’s wrist. “Need your help… ‘s too hot without you…”

“Shh, sweet boy, it’s okay. I’m here now, and I’m going to take care of both of you, I promise.” He leaned forward and kissed the other man’s forehead, then your own, before standing once again. He made quick work of his own clothing, and once he was nude you were granted a fresh wave of his scent; the worry had faded a bit, replaced with arousal that was beginning to show itself in other ways, too.

Without even thinking about it, you reached out again, brushing your fingers against his hip, hazy eyes locked on his half-hard cock. Before you could take it into your hand, though, he was moving to the foot of the bed. Grabbing your ankle with one hand and Satoru’s with the other, he tugged you closer to himself, causing you both to squeak in surprise.

Once he was satisfied with your proximity, he released you, and knelt once more. Though he was now out of your line of sight, it wasn’t difficult to realize what he was doing, especially based on the way your fellow bunny reacted

Satoru’s gasp quickly melted into a moan, and he rocked his hips back towards your alpha a bit, though he didn’t want to leave the welcoming heat of your cunt.

Suguru, eager to make up for lost time, lapped at the omega’s pussy, drinking in the slick that dripped from him like he needed it to survive. When he moaned at the taste, Satoru’s hips bucked again, making you moan breathily beneath him. The alpha fully committed himself to the task before him, fucking the bunny relentlessly with his tongue, as if he were trying to apologize for leaving his mates wanting for so long. Though he wanted to close his eyes and fully lose himself in pleasuring his mate, the fox dutifully kept his gaze locked on Satoru’s snow-white tail as it twitched with pleasure; just like always, it twitched faster and faster as he grew closer to orgasm, until it was trembling nonstop.

It wasn’t long until Satoru was gasping and moaning, babbling a half-garbled warning before he came, once again filling you as he cried out, the sound muffled by the skin of your throat. The feeling of him spilling into you again drew a soft moan from your lips, and you wrapped your arms a bit tighter around him, your nails lightly scratching against his scalp. You watched over your fellow bunny’s shoulder as Suguru stood, lightly nipping the soft skin of Satoru’s ass on his way up. His pupils were blown wide with lust, his dark hair already tumbling around his shoulders, his half-bun fighting to keep any of the silky strands out of his face.

He caught your eye as he wiped your omega mate’s slick from his chin, and he smiled at you. “Has our bunny been taking care of you after triggering your heat?” he asked, his voice almost jarringly sweet.

You nodded in response, watching with hazy eyes as he removed the hair tie from his hair, allowing it to spill around his face like ink for a moment before gathering it all into a quick, somewhat messy bun once again. “Mm-hm,” you hummed after a moment, knowing that your alpha liked when you answered him verbally.

“Good,” the fox murmured, smiling down at you for a moment before turning his attention to the other omega. “What about you, Satoru? Has our little one been taking good care of you today?” As he spoke, he rubbed gentle circles at the small of Satoru’s back, just above his tail; he was almost as touchy as Satoru was when it came to the two of you, but he was much more subtle about it.

“Y-Yeah, they have,” the frosty haired bunny managed to pant after a moment, subtly pressing back into Suguru’s warm touch. “Need you, too alpha, please?”

You whined softly in agreement with Satoru’s words, reaching for Suguru once again; sure, you’d been bred practically nonstop by one of your mates for most of the day, but it wasn’t the same as having your alpha’s knot.

Suguru was quick to take your hand in his own, leaning down slightly to press a kiss to your knuckles. “I know, sweet bunnies, I know, but I can only help one of you at a time.” He looked genuinely guilt stricken as he spoke, like it pained him deeply to know he would have to leave one of you wanting.

Apparently more lost to the haze of his heat hormones than you, Satoru let out a weak little sob against your throat at Suguru’s words. He arched his hips up a bit closer to your alpha as he practically begged, “Please, alpha, need you so bad… ‘m so empty, it hurts.”

The once pleasant aroma of all of your combined scents quickly soured, Satoru’s distress so intense that you could practically taste it. You immediately began scratching his scalp again, murmuring little assurances and massaging the base of his fluffy ears; anything you could think to do to soothe him, you did. He quieted the smallest amount under your touch, but it was clear that his heat hormones were really starting to mess with him.

Suguru swore quietly under his breath, and you glanced up at him, giving him a faint nod when you finally caught his eye; you were dying for his touch and attention, too, of course, but having Satoru breeding you for hours had taken the edge off your own heat enough that you could wait until your fellow omega was able to get the relief he was in such desperate need of.

The alpha relaxed a bit when you gave him the go ahead, and he nodded back, his ears slowly easing from where they’d gone flat with worry over his distressed omega. “Shh, Satoru, it’s okay. I’m right here, okay? I’m here to take care of you now, it’s okay.” He resumed rubbing circles on the bunny’s back as he spoke, soothing his mate as much as he could before going any further. When Satoru calmed at his words, his touch easing more tension from his lithe frame, Suguru smiled a bit, seeming to relax a bit himself. Once he was satisfied, the fox shifted, one hand gently holding your fellow omega’s hip steady, the other guiding his cock towards the bunny’s slick cunt.

“Deep breaths, bunny,” Suguru murmured, giving Satoru’s hip a gentle squeeze.

Satoru did as he was asked, taking in a deep, somewhat shaky breath, though the exhale quickly dissolved into a moan as the alpha finally gave him the attention – the relief – that he needed, slowly sliding into his tight, wet heat. “Fuck,” he whimpered, canting his hips back toward your alpha. “Feels so good…”

Both you and Suguru moaned in tandem, Satoru’s movement causing his cock to drag against your walls and dragging Suguru in deeper at the same time. When the fox was finally as deep as he could get, hips flush against your fellow bunny’s ass, he paused, letting out a few shaky breaths as he collected himself. Satoru’s tail twitched against his abdomen, and the alpha let out a soft, short growl, his ears twitching at the feeling; if you’d been less lost to your sudden heat and the pleasure of being full for so long, you’d have found it more amusing.

The sound of Satoru whimpering is what finally got Suguru moving again. “Shh, bunny,” he soothed, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Settling both hands on the omega’s waist, he got a firm, though still gentle, grasp of his hips. “Gonna do all the work for you now, okay?”

“‘Kay,” Satoru murmured, allowing himself to melt into you a bit more. Though the weight of him relaxing further into you, coupled with the added weight of Suguru keeping you all pressed together, was more than you were used to, you had to admit you liked it; it was comforting, in an instinctual way you couldn’t quite articulate. Then your alpha followed through on your promise, and your head dropped back onto the pillow.

The way that your fox guided Satoru’s hips was incredible, the movements fluid but calculated, playing all three of your bodies like instruments; each roll of his hips had the tip of his cock pressing into your sweet spot, and if the breathy little moans that left your bunny’s lips were anything to go by, they also had Suguru’s cock pressing all the right buttons inside of Satoru.

For a little while, the steady, fluid pace that Suguru set was perfect, but eventually Satoru began to grow impatient, letting out fussy little breaths and rocking his hips back a bit more forcefully into the fox.

“Need it, alpha, please…” he whined, lifting his head from your neck, where he’d been pressing kisses and leaving little nips wherever he could reach. “‘M not gonna break, just give it to me.” Glancing over his shoulder at Suguru, he twitched his tail again, knowing the sensation would spur your mate on, just like it always did.

Despite looking mostly composed still, you noticed his tail twitching behind him, one of his dark ears flicking in response to your omega’s words as well. “You need it, hm?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What is it that you need, Satoru? Need me to fuck you real good? Need me to make the heat pains go away for good? Need me to put a baby in you, make you a mommy? Is that what you need?” With each question, Suguru increased the pace he moved Satoru’s hips, making both of you moan beneath him. When the alpha referred to him as “mommy,” though, Satoru moaned even louder. The sound only seemed to spur Suguru on, and soon enough he was snapping his hips against your fellow omega’s with every thrust, though he made sure to still fuck the other bunny’s cock into you; he didn’t want to leave either of his mates wanting, after all.

“I see,” he said, breathing a bit harder as he spoke. “You need me to breed you, huh? Don’t worry, bunny, I’ll make sure you’re so thoroughly bred during your heat that it’s impossible for you to not be carrying my baby.” He drove into the other man harder and harder with every thrust, which in turn made every thrust of Satoru’s hips more forceful. The tip of your omega mate’s cock was practically bruising your cervix, and it made stars burst across your vision. You could feel that coil tightening in your core once again, but it wasn’t quite enough to get you to your peak.

“Please!” Satoru wailed, tears once again spilling down his cheeks. “Yes, please, alpha, fuck, want it so fucking bad…” He was practically babbling at this point, consumed by his instinct to be bred by his alpha to the point that nothing else mattered to him.

“I’ll give it to you, Satoru, no need to cry,” the fox crooned, though there was the faintest hit of taunting in his tone. “Just need you to fill up our little one again, one last time. Gotta make them a mommy, too, yeah?”

As if all he’d been waiting for was permission to cum, your fellow bunny let out one choked sob of pleasure before his cock throbbed, then painted the inside of your pussy white again.

The feeling of him filling you up again was enough to tip you over the edge, and you cried out his name as you came, clawing at his back as your vision whited out for a moment. You were dimly aware of Suguru swearing, then stopping the movement of both his own and Satoru’s hips.

It was a few moments before you fully came back to yourself, and you turned your head, resting your damp forehead against Satoru’s sweat-sticky one. He bumped his nose lightly against yours, letting his lips ghost across yours – not quite a kiss, but as close as you could manage as you fought to catch your breath.

Your gaze flitted upward again when you felt Suguru take your hand, lifting it to his lips as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist right above your scent gland. He then leaned down a bit further, pressing a kiss to Satoru’s shoulder as he caught his own breath.

You felt your ears droop with exhaustion, but your heart stuttered for a moment when you both heard and faintly felt your alpha’s low, rumbling purr as he laid over the two of you. Though you knew that soon the three of you would have to separate to get cleaned up and to eat, for now you would bask in the afterglow of such an intense bout of lovemaking with your mates. When Satoru began to purr as well, you couldn’t help but join in; all was right between the three of you, and you were happy. Nothing else really mattered beyond that.

also special shoutout to @pastelle-rabbit & her post about bunny hybrids that i got permission to incorporate into this fic. hope i did that mental image justice for you friend 💜

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