#he does not know the chaos he left behind

[joelcrush]

Let Me Learn You

pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: mdni, | age gap | oral (f & m) | fingering | unprotected sex | size kink | dirty talk | praise + possession | face grabbing | mild & mutual obsession | Joel being emotionally unwell about it in the hottest way | no outbreak word count - 7.7k summary - Your dad’s old friend Joel helps you move. You don’t see the tension—but he does. And when it finally breaks, there’s no going back. A slow build into something filthy, soft, and completely his.

part one part two

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

Your place was already too warm by the time the couch got wedged in the hallway.

Boxes everywhere. Cabinets open. You’d been living out of a backpack for three days and still hadn’t figured out where to put your bath towels or your coffee mugs. But it was your first place, and the chaos felt kind of earned. You weren’t expecting help until later, but someone knocked just after noon. When you opened the door, a man was already walking up the short front path. Mid-40s, maybe older. Black shirt. Solid frame. A calm face that didn’t give much away.

“Your dad said you might need help with furniture,” he said. “Oh—yeah. I didn’t know he sent someone already.”

He nodded once, like that was enough talking, and stepped inside when you held the door open. You moved a box out of his way and watched him take in the space.

“Sorry it’s such a mess. I’m still figuring things out.”

“That’s what movin’ is,” he said, and then he gestured toward the hallway. “You want that couch in there?”

You nodded. “Yeah, that’s the living room.”

He got to work without another word.

You grabbed the lighter end automatically, even though he didn’t ask, and together you managed to get the thing unstuck from the hallway and into place. He didn’t struggle much. Barely looked winded. You didn’t talk a lot while he moved the rest. Just helped where you could—pointed at where things should go, said thank you more than necessary. He wasn’t cold, just quiet. Direct. There was something steadying about it, actually. The way he barely blinked when you offered him a half-finished bottle of water or said you were probably gonna live with a broken bookshelf for the rest of time.

“You don’t need a new one,” he said. “Just better anchors.” “That sounds like something a bookshelf would say right before collapsing on me in my sleep.”

That made him smile. Small, quick, but you saw it.

He finished sooner than you expected. Wiped his hands on his jeans. Gave a little grunt of finality like he was mentally checking the job off a list. You followed him toward the door, grabbing a new bottle of water from the fridge.

“Thanks again,” you said, handing it to him. “Seriously. I would’ve been here all day trying to flip the mattress on my own.”

“No problem.” He took it, his hand brushing yours. “Glad to help.”

Then, like it was nothing:

“Take it easy, sweetheart.”

The word didn’t stick. Not in a weird way. Just something he said, maybe a habit. You smiled, nodded.

“See you around, probably.”

He left with a short nod and a low “mmhm” that barely registered before the door clicked shut behind him.

You didn’t think twice about it.

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

He wasn’t planning on saying yes when her dad called.

It was supposed to be his day off. A list of errands to half-ignore. Tools to clean, laundry to avoid. But then the man mentioned his daughter—first place on her own, said she was “barely five feet and stubborn as hell,” trying to move a bed frame solo.

Joel didn’t ask for details. Just wrote down the address and showed up twenty minutes later with a socket wrench in his back pocket and a short list of things he was telling himself this wasn’t. He was expecting someone anxious. Chatty. The kind of girl who got overwhelmed easily and didn’t know the difference between drywall and brick. He wasn’t expecting her.

She opened the door barefoot, shirt hanging off one shoulder, hair barely held in place by a clip. A box cutter was still in her hand. She blinked like she forgot anyone else existed.

“Oh—yeah. Hi. Come in.”

She didn’t look twice at him. Didn’t pause or fidget or start fixing her hair. She just waved him in and apologized for the mess, like he gave a shit. Joel followed her inside, slow, eyes catching on the curve of her back as she bent to move a box. Her legs were bare—soft, clean skin above the knee, and a pair of shorts that weren’t trying to be anything but comfortable.

It didn’t mean anything. Didn’t have to. He kept his voice steady.

“Your dad said you needed help with the bed frame?”

She nodded, smiled like it was nothing. “Yeah—it’s in the bedroom. Not built yet. It’s kind of in pieces, sorry.”

Joel just grunted, made his way down the hall, and tried not to think about how small her bed was. How soft the mattress looked when he pressed it into place. How nice her voice sounded when she laughed at herself.

She stayed close. Helped with one end of the dresser. Pulled things out of boxes while he worked. Told him about the bookshelf she half-built and already gave up on.

“It’s gonna collapse on me in my sleep. Death by IKEA.”

He’d smiled. Couldn’t help it.

She had no idea how easily she pulled reactions out of him.

She moved like no one was watching. Sat with her legs folded under her. Hummed along with her phone when music came on. Handed him tools without making it weird. Said thank you every single time like she meant it. He tried not to stare at her mouth when she talked. The way she bit her lip when thinking. The little breath she let out when lifting something heavier than expected. By the time he finished, his hands were itching. His jaw ached from how tight he’d kept it the whole time. He took the water bottle she offered him, let their fingers brush for half a second too long, then stepped toward the door before he did something dumb.

“Thanks again,” she said behind him, voice easy, warm. “I would’ve been here all day trying to flip the mattress on my own.”

“No problem.” He forced the words out. “Glad to help.”

He turned back to her. She was smiling, casual, eyes bright but unreadable.

“Take it easy, sweetheart.”

It slipped out. Not flirtation. Not even affection. Just… instinct. Something familiar to fill the space before it got quiet enough to admit what he was actually thinking. She didn’t react. Just nodded and said see you around.

She didn’t know.

Didn’t even fucking know.

Joel walked down the steps with his jaw tight, grip still too firm around the neck of the water bottle. He told himself he wasn’t coming back unless she called. And that if she did—

He’d keep his hands to himself.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

Your shelf gave out around 11:45 on a Tuesday night.

You weren’t surprised. It had been tilted since move-in, bowing just slightly in the middle. You told yourself it’d be fine as long as you didn’t put anything too heavy on it—which was, in retrospect, a lie. Three cookbooks and a ceramic bowl later, it tipped forward and slid halfway off the wall with a low, dramatic creak.

You stared at it for a minute from the hallway, then texted your dad.

Me: hey do you still have joel’s number? the guy who helped move the bed?

He sent it over right away.

Dad: What’d you break lol Me: nothing important

You stared at Joel’s number for a second. Then tapped out a quick message.

Me: hi! this is y/n, from the move-in last week. my shelf kinda fell off the wall and i think i stripped one of the screws trying to fix it. no rush at all but if you’re around sometime this week, i’d really appreciate the help.

You hovered over “send” for about half a second—then hit it.

He replied later that morning:

Joel: I can come by after 6.

You changed into a hoodie and shorts after work, didn’t think twice about it. Hair up. Face clean. You weren’t trying to impress anyone—you were just tired. You cleared the area near the shelf, shoved the broken screws into a Ziploc, and ate half a granola bar standing at the counter while you waited. 

When the knock came, you opened the door barefoot again.

“Hey,” you said, stepping back. “Thanks for coming.”

He nodded once, stepping inside, his tool bag slung low in one hand.

“This the one?” “Yeah. It gave up.”

He crouched without hesitation, unzipping the bag and pulling out a drill. You moved to the side, then bent down next to him without thinking—knees close to his, your hip brushing his arm as you leaned on one hand. 

He stilled, just for a second. You didn’t notice.

“I tried to tighten it again myself,” you said, squinting at the side bracket, “but I think I stripped the screw.”

“Probably,” he said. “Wrong kind for drywall.”

You rested your chin in your hand, watching as he fit a new anchor in place. His hands moved slow, careful. He didn’t fumble or double check. Just measured, placed, and drove the screw in clean.

“You make it look easy,” you said, and you meant it.

He didn’t respond right away.

“It is,” he said eventually. “Just takes practice.”

You stretched your arms overhead with a soft breath. Felt the hoodie rise slightly against your ribs but didn’t bother fixing it.

“I should learn,” you said. “So I don’t have to keep bugging you.”

“You’re not,” he said. Quick. Low.

You blinked. Looked at him.

He was still focused on the wall. Like the drywall had something real important to say. When he finished, you stood and stepped back, brushing off your legs as he gave the shelf a firm test tug. It held.

“All good now,” he said, rising.

You smiled. “You’re magic.”

He didn’t smile back—not fully—but something in his face shifted. Like he wanted to.

“Seriously, thank you,” you added, walking toward the kitchen. “Do I owe you anything for the anchor things?”

“No.” “Not even like, a coffee or something?” “You don’t owe me,” he repeated. “You needed help. That’s all.”

You turned, leaning your hip on the counter, granola bar wrapper in your hand.

“Well I still appreciate it.”

Joel adjusted the strap of his bag.

“Text if anything else breaks.” “Hopefully that’s not a weekly thing.” “You never know.”

He walked to the door, pulled it open.

“Night, Joel.” “Take care,” he said. Then, after a pause—“See you.”

You nodded once. Locked the door behind him. Then turned back to clean up the mess of drywall dust on the floor, not thinking twice about how close you'd been. Not even wondering what he’d seen when you bent down next to him.

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

He shouldn’t have said yes.

He told himself that the first time, and again when her text came in. He sat there with the phone in his hand, staring at the words like they meant something bigger than they were.

Her: hi! this is y/n, from the move-in last week. my shelf kinda fell off the wall and i think i stripped one of the screws trying to fix it. no rush at all but if you’re around sometime this week, i’d really appreciate the help.

It was polite. Friendly. Clear. Not flirty. Not suggestive. Still ruined him anyway.

He told himself not to answer right away. Answered anyway.

Him: I can come by after 6.

And that was that.

She opened the door in that same kind of outfit—something soft and small and lived-in. Hoodie half-tucked, legs bare to mid-thigh, hair up in a clip that didn’t look like it was doing much.

He looked at her face. Only her face.

“Hey,” she said, stepping back to let him in. “Thanks for coming.”

“This the one?” “Yeah. It gave up.”

She smiled like it was no big deal, then followed him to the wall.

He crouched low, unzipped his bag, pulled out the drill.

And then—then—she crouched down beside him. No hesitation. Her knee knocked gently into his. Her hip brushed his arm. She planted her hand beside him, close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin.

Joel’s heart stuttered hard in his chest.

She didn’t notice.

“I tried to tighten it again myself,” she said, leaning in closer. “But I think I stripped the screw.”

“Probably,” he said, throat dry. “Wrong kind for drywall.”

She rested her chin in her palm. Her shorts rode up slightly as she shifted her weight.

He didn’t look.

He absolutely looked.

“You make it look easy.”

He didn’t answer right away. Couldn't.

“It is,” he managed. “Just takes practice.”

And then she stretched. Arms over her head. Hoodie lifting just enough to expose the soft dip of her waist, a sliver of skin above the waistband of her shorts. She sighed like she’d been holding her breath all day.

He almost did something stupid.

“I should learn,” she said. “So I don’t have to keep bugging you.”

“You’re not.”

Too fast. Too hard.

She blinked at him, caught off guard. He didn’t meet her eyes. Couldn’t. Focused on the drywall like it was going to crawl off the wall if he didn’t stare it down.

When he stood, she did too. Watched him test the shelf, nod in approval.

“You’re magic,” she said.

He wasn’t. If he was, he’d disappear before he did something he’d regret.

“Seriously, thank you. Do I owe you anything for the anchor things?” “No.” “Not even like a coffee or something?” “You don’t owe me,” he said again, voice rough. “You needed help. That’s all.”

That was supposed to be it. His line. His boundary.

Then she leaned against the counter. Granola bar in hand. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Looking at him like he was just… normal. Like she wasn’t killing him without even trying.

“Well I still appreciate it.”

“Text if anything else breaks.” “Hopefully that’s not a weekly thing.” “You never know.”

He turned toward the door before his mouth could get ahead of him. Opened it. Let the cooler evening air hit his face.

“Night, Joel.”

“Take care,” he said.

He hesitated and looked back.

“See you.”

Then he left before he could fuck it all up. He didn’t even make it to the car before he had to stop and breathe. Stared at his truck like it might help. Gripped the edge of the driver’s side door like he needed something solid to hang onto. She had no idea.

Didn’t even know what she was doing. Didn’t know what she’d done.

And that? That was the worst part.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

You hadn't seen Joel in almost two weeks.

You hadn’t needed anything since. The apartment was starting to feel like yours now—boxes gone, rugs laid down, kitchen mostly organized. You spent your mornings with coffee by the window and your evenings on the couch with a book or something half-watched on TV. Quiet. Repetitive. In a good way.

Some nights, you stayed up too late just rearranging cabinets or deciding which drawer made the most sense for silverware. It wasn’t that deep. It just felt nice—having your own space, your own rules, your own rhythms.

Every once in a while, you’d think about Joel. Not in a way that meant anything. Just—when something squeaked. Or when the fridge made a sound you didn’t trust. He was the kind of person who’d know what it meant. That’s all.

So when the kitchen drawer started acting weird—handle loose, catching on something inside—you didn’t think twice.

You grabbed your phone and texted him:

You: hi. sorry to bother you again but my kitchen drawer is being weird. handle’s all wobbly and i have no clue what i’m doing. if you’re around, i’d love the help. but no pressure!

He replied an hour later:

Joel: I’ll be there after five.

He showed up in a navy work shirt this time. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Same tool bag. Same quiet expression.

“Handle loose?” “Yeah. It’s barely hanging on.”

You gestured toward the drawer, stepping out of the way. He crouched beside it, tugging gently on the knob. Watched it tilt sideways and catch.

“You got a screwdriver?”

You blinked. “Somewhere. I think.”

He gave a low hum—noncommittal—and set his bag down.

You turned toward the junk drawer, rummaging through it with one hand, then realized the screwdriver you did have had rolled under the counter the other night when you tried to open a wine bottle with it.

You spotted it—tucked just behind the leg of the lower cabinet.

“Wait—I think it’s down there.”

You bent at the waist, one hand on the counter, reaching for it blindly. 

Behind you, Joel went still. You didn’t see it—didn’t turn around. Didn’t notice how close he was standing. Just grabbed the screwdriver, stood back up, and turned to hand it to him.

“Found it. Not that I know how to use it.”

He took it slowly. Said nothing at first.

“This one’s fine,” he said, glancing it over. “You wanna try?”

You blinked. “You mean actually fix it?”

“Why not.”

You smiled, stepping in beside him as he held the drawer open. He pointed to the screw just inside the panel.

“This one’s backing out. You wanna keep it flush. Push in, twist clockwise.”

You crouched down again beside him and lined it up—then tried to turn it. It slipped.

“Here,” he said, quiet again.

His hand came around yours, firm and steady, guiding your wrist. His palm covered the back of your hand easily, fingers calloused but warm.

“Like that,” he murmured. “Gentle pressure.”

Your breath caught—not sharply, just enough to notice. Enough to make you pause. His chest brushed your shoulder. He didn’t move away. You kept your eyes on the drawer. Focused.

“I think I got it.”

He let go a beat later. Stepped back just slightly.

“Good,” he said. “It’s in.”

When you both stood again, you smiled without thinking. A little dazed, maybe, but content.

“Thanks,” you said, and meant it. “That was kind of satisfying.”

“Yeah?” he said, voice a touch rougher than before. “Guess it’s worth teaching.”

You laughed. “Well I’ll still probably text you next time something breaks.”

He nodded once. Looked at you for just a second too long.

“You’re welcome,” he said finally. “Glad to help.”

He left not long after. And once again, you stayed in the kitchen long after he was gone, still holding the screwdriver in your hand like it was worth something.

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

It was just a drawer. A loose handle. Five minutes of work, tops. She’d probably be busy—on the phone, cleaning, half-distracted. He’d fix it, nod politely, get out before he did something stupid.

And then she opened the door. Same bare legs. Same oversized hoodie, sleeves pushed up her forearms. Her hair was clipped back messily, like she hadn’t thought about it once.

She smiled when she saw him.

“Yeah. It’s barely hanging on.”

She pointed to the drawer like it wasn’t a trap.

Joel crouched, checked the damage, asked for a screwdriver even though he already had one. Just to hear her laugh. Just to keep her talking.

“Somewhere. I think.”

She turned to look for it, rummaging like she’d forget it halfway through.

And then she bent.

Bent.

At the waist. One hand braced on the counter. Shorts lifting just enough to expose the full curve of her thighs, the soft underside he’d been trying not to think about for weeks. He was behind her. Close.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

She had no idea. She came back up like nothing happened. Smiled as she handed it to him. No pause, no shift in her voice. Like she wasn’t burning him alive.

“Found it. Not that I know how to use it.”

He wanted to tell her. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.

But he just nodded. Told her to try. Handed her the screwdriver like it was a test.

She crouched beside him. Elbow bumped his. Her shoulder brushed his chest.

He stared at her hands, small and careful, fingers slipping once.

“Here.”

He wrapped his hand over hers, gently. Guided her wrist, pressed his palm to the back of her hand to steady her grip. 

And that was it. That was the fucking moment. He felt it—heat, want, something hard and undeniable sparking low in his spine. She was so close. Warm. Smelling like laundry detergent and faint vanilla and something softer underneath it all. She looked so serious. So focused.

She didn’t notice. Didn’t shift away. Didn’t tease. Didn’t flinch.

When he let go, her fingers flexed just once. She smiled at the drawer like it had passed a test.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “That was kind of satisfying.”

Joel couldn’t speak for a second. His jaw was locked. His pulse loud.

“Yeah?” he managed. “Guess it’s worth teaching.”

She laughed, soft and light. Like nothing had happened.

He nodded when she said she’d probably text again soon. Forced himself to turn around. Told her “glad to help” like it wasn’t the fucking truth.

He made it out the door without letting it show. Made it to his truck before his breath caught.

But he didn’t drive home right away. He sat there with his hands on the wheel, hard and shaking, and his dick aching so bad it bordered on painful. Her laugh. Her legs. Her little thank you. The fucking bend.

He drove home with one thing on his mind. Locked the door behind him. Dropped the bag. Went straight to the bathroom. Unzipped his jeans, fist already tight around the base of his cock before he even got the water running. Leaned hard against the counter, eyes closed. Thought of her on her knees—not because she meant to be there. Just crouched beside him, bare skin brushing his arm, looking up like he was someone worth listening to.

He came fast.

Too fast.

Palm braced to the mirror. Breathing rough.

Still hard. Still wanting.

It wasn’t the first time. He thought of her more than he admitted. At night, especially. When the house was quiet and the TV was off and there was nothing left to distract him. He saw her laugh. Saw the way she sat cross-legged on the floor. The way she always said thank you. The way she smiled when she held the door open and didn’t look at him twice.

She didn’t know.

And that was the thing he hated most.

Because part of him was starting to hope that one day she would.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

Your door wasn’t broken, not really.

It latched. It locked. But sometimes it stuck, and sometimes it didn’t. The key turned stiff. The frame shifted just slightly when it rained. You weren’t sure if it was normal, but the idea of it not working right—the thought of forgetting to double check it before bed—had started to settle in your chest the way small anxieties do.

You told yourself it wasn’t worth bothering anyone. Then you texted Joel anyway.

You: hey—sorry again lol but do you mind checking something with the door lock? it’s probably fine but i’m paranoid and you’re the only one who knows what they’re doing.

He replied quickly, like always.

Joel: I’ll stop by. Be there in an hour.

You didn’t rush to get ready. Just changed out of your tank with the bleach stain and pulled on a clean one. Combed your hair. Opened the windows to let the evening breeze in. You weren’t trying to make anything of it.

But when he knocked, your stomach did that quiet fluttery thing anyway. He looked the same. Always did. Button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled high, work-worn jeans, one hand loose at his side and the other around the handle of his tool bag.

“Door’s acting up?” he asked as he stepped inside.

You nodded. 

“It’s probably nothing. The latch just sticks sometimes. Or it clicks too fast. I don’t know—I don’t want to lock myself out one day and realize it’s been busted this whole time.”

He gave a small grunt in response, already crouching near the frame, running his hand along the wood with practiced ease. You leaned against the counter and watched him move—quiet, focused, not in a hurry. There was something oddly calming about the way he handled things. Like he could break something down and make it make sense without saying much at all.

He worked in silence, checking the alignment, nudging the hinge with his thumb. He didn’t ask for tools. Didn’t explain what he was doing. Just moved like someone who’d done this a hundred times before. You stayed still. Tried not to let your eyes linger too long.

But when he bent to inspect the strike plate—shoulders flexing under the fabric of his shirt, jaw set tight as he leaned into the motion—you looked. Just for a second. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him crouched over things before. You had. The bed, the shelf, the drawer. But something about tonight felt… closer. Or quieter. Like your apartment had shrunk while he was in it.

He stood again, twisting the deadbolt back and forth until it slid smoothly.

“Heat’s probably pushing the frame out a little,” he said. “Wasn’t latching clean. Fixed now.”

You nodded. “Thanks.”

You didn’t move right away. Neither did he. He glanced toward you, eyes unreadable, and for just a second the silence stretched—not awkward, but full. Charged. Something in your chest stuttered.

“I feel like I should pay you for this,” you said lightly, voice thinner than you meant it to be.

Joel shook his head. “You know I don’t want that.”

The way he said it made your throat go tight.

He stepped forward to put a tool back in his bag, and as he passed, his arm brushed yours—bare skin to bare skin—and the contact left something behind. Something warm. You could still feel it after he moved away.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the counter.

He picked up the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and didn’t speak again until he reached the door.

His voice was low this time. Softer.

“You keep the bolt oiled, it’ll stay smooth.”

You nodded. Didn’t say anything.

“Night, sweetheart.”

You heard the door click behind him. And you didn’t move for a while.

Just stood there, hand still pressed to the spot where he’d touched you, wondering when his voice started sounding like that in your head. Then—

The doorknob turned again. You’d forgotten you hadn’t locked it yet.

He hadn’t made it far—probably still on the porch—maybe he forgot something, maybe—

You opened it just a little.

Joel was still there. One hand at his side, the other adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. He looked up like he was about to say something, but didn’t.

And before you could stop yourself—

“Wait.”

He blinked.

You opened the door a little wider. Stepped back.

“Do you… wanna stay a little longer?”

It came out too fast. Not flirty. Not smooth. Not even really intentional.

You didn’t know why you said it. You weren’t lonely. You weren’t scared. You didn’t need anything. You just didn’t want him to go. Joel didn’t move at first. Just looked at you—slowly, like he was trying to understand something you hadn’t even figured out yet.

“I mean—if you’re not busy,” you added quickly. “Or if you don’t want to drive yet. I don’t know. It’s dumb. Forget it.”

He didn’t let you spiral. Just said it, quiet and even:

“You sure?”

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t hopeful. It was serious. Rough around the edges. Like he needed to hear you say it twice, just so he wouldn’t do something he couldn’t take back.

You swallowed.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Joel didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just stepped back inside. You shut the door behind him, heart hammering like you were the one who had something to hide. You didn’t know what you wanted. But you wanted it to be him. 

You didn’t know what to offer him. He’d already fixed the door. Already stepped back inside. It wasn’t like there was something to do—no show to watch, no dinner to finish.  

So you said:

“You can sit if you want.”

And he did. Took the end of the couch like he was still on duty. Leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands folded. He didn’t relax. He didn’t sprawl. Just… sat.

You curled into the other corner. Pulled your legs under you. Told yourself not to overthink it.

At first, it was small talk. Something about the weather. The construction noise a few blocks down. You said your neighbor’s dog barked like it had been through a war and Joel let out the smallest huff of a laugh. It was easy. Comfortable.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the quiet stretched again and your eyes drifted—slow, unthinking—to the way his forearms rested across his thighs. To the line of his profile in the soft light. To the way he looked at the floor like he was trying not to look at you.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your legs. Your knee bumped his.

Just a brush. Just skin.

But it was something. 

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

Your breath slowed in your chest like it was afraid to make a sound. You said something then—you couldn’t even remember what. A question. Something about where he grew up. Or maybe if he liked his job. Anything to fill the space.

He answered softly. Nothing too deep. But his voice had dropped again—lower, quieter, like it only belonged in the room you were sharing. You nodded along. Fiddled with the hem of your tank top. Your hands were warm. You didn’t know why.

A few more minutes passed. A few more glances. The energy never spiked. It just sat between you—thick and warm and new.

Eventually, he checked the time.

“I should head out.”

You nodded.

“Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

You walked him to the door again. He didn’t look at you quite the same way. And when you said goodnight, it came out quieter than you meant.

He said your name, low and even.

“Take care.”

You locked the door behind him. Checked it twice, like that would make the moment last longer. The living room felt different after he left. Not colder. Not empty. Just… aware. Like the air had shifted around you and was still trying to settle. You stood there for a while. Then turned out the lights. Got a glass of water. Tried to act normal. But when you passed the couch—that spot—you felt it again.

That hum under your skin.

The tension in your chest.

The way your breath had slowed when his knee touched yours.

You went to bed without brushing your hair. Climbed under the blanket and stared at the ceiling like it had answers. It didn’t. You closed your eyes. And the first thing you thought of was his voice. That low “take care” at the door. The way he said your name. The way his hands looked when he fixed things—rough, steady, careful. You exhaled, quiet and shaky. Your thighs pressed together beneath the blanket.

You didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan it. But your hand slid down anyway.

Just over your stomach. Just under the hem of your shirt. You weren’t thinking clearly, weren’t even sure why you were doing it—but your body was buzzing, hot, still echoing from the way it had felt sitting next to him. You touched yourself softly. Slowly. Just enough to take the edge off the ache you didn’t know how to name.

You didn’t say his name. But you thought about his hands. And somehow... that was worse.

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

It was around 8 pm the next day when she texted.

Her: hey—are you around?

No other details. No broken drawer. No explanation. Just like the night before.

Joel had spent most of that day trying not to think about her. Didn’t work. He kept seeing her—how she looked when she asked him to stay. The way she leaned on the counter, lip tucked between her teeth like she didn’t know what she was doing to him. He kept hearing her voice in the dark. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He didn’t know what the hell she thought this was. He didn’t even know what he thought it was anymore. But when she sent that message, he didn’t hesitate.

He answered.

Him: Yeah. You need something? Her: no just—wanted to see you if you’re not busy

He read that last part twice. Then grabbed his keys.

Her apartment was dim when she let him in—lights low, one lamp near the window, something soft playing in the background. She wore a ribbed tank top and sleep shorts, her hair half-clipped up, a faint line across her cheek like she’d just woken up from a nap on the couch.

She didn’t look nervous. But she didn’t meet his eyes right away either.

“Hi,” she said.

That was it. No reason. No problem to solve.

Joel stepped inside and felt his body lock up almost immediately. The air felt too warm. The room too quiet. Like the walls knew something he didn’t.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. Smiled. Tucked her leg up on the couch and motioned for him to sit.

“I just didn’t feel like being alone tonight.”

She said it lightly, like it didn’t mean anything. But Joel could feel it. Something was different.

He sat at the opposite end of the couch. It felt too small. She curled up in her usual spot, blanket draped over her legs, a glass of water resting on her thigh. Her foot brushed against the cushion near his hip when she shifted. She didn’t pull it away.

He couldn’t focus on what she was saying. Some story about her neighbor’s smoke alarm going off for two hours, about how she tried banging on the wall but it didn’t help. He nodded when he should. Said “yeah” once. Let her talk.

But all he could think about was how good she smelled.

How soft her voice was.

How close her knee was to touching his.

The worst part was how normal it looked. From the outside, it could’ve been nothing. Just two people sitting. One talking. The other listening. But inside him, everything was clenched.

Every time she tucked her hair behind her ear. Every time her tank top shifted when she reached for her glass. Every time her voice went quiet at the end of a sentence. It was like being on fire. Quietly. And she didn’t even notice.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat like that. Maybe an hour, maybe more. The sound of her voice, the way she laughed at her own joke, the curve of her body under that blanket—it all started to stack up. He shifted once. Adjusted the way he sat. It didn’t help. His hands were too still. His legs too tense. His jeans too tight across his thighs.

He wanted to leave.

And he wanted to stay forever.

Eventually, she leaned back a little, head against the cushion, voice low.

“It’s nice when you’re here.”

Joel didn’t respond. He couldn’t. 

She looked over at him. Eyes soft. Barely searching. And God help him—he almost reached for her. Almost touched her ankle where it peeked out from the blanket. Almost slid his hand over her knee and just held it there. But he didn’t.

He just nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

When she walked him to the door an hour later, she said goodnight the same way she always did. But her voice had changed. And Joel? Joel barely made it to his truck before he gripped the steering wheel with both hands and sat there in the dark, breathing like he’d just run six miles uphill.

She didn’t need anything from him. She just wanted him there. And he didn’t know how much longer he could keep coming over without letting her know what that did to him.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

It was 6 pm on a Thursday. You had just gotten home from work and settled in.

You weren’t expecting anyone. You hadn’t texted him. Hadn’t broken anything. You’d just been pacing a little—half-folding laundry, checking your phone without a reason, replaying the sound of his voice from last night in your head. It was quiet. Too quiet. 

You were mid-sip of water when the knock came. Not loud. Just two firm knocks—confident. Familiar. Your breath caught before your brain caught up. You set the glass down and wiped your hands on your shorts. Walked to the door slowly. When you opened it—he was already looking at you.

Joel. Still in work clothes. Shirt wrinkled, sweat at his collar, bag slung off one shoulder. His eyes didn’t move like they usually did. No casual sweep of the room. No distant quiet. They were on you. And they stayed there.

“Hi,” you said, soft. “I didn’t know you were—”

“I know.”

His voice was rough. Tired. Not angry. Just… decided.

You blinked. Your fingers curled lightly around the edge of the door.

“Everything okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. And then, without breaking eye contact— “Can I come in?”

⊹₊˚⋆☾⋆˚₊⊹

She opened the door wearing that same look she always had with him—soft, unsure, like she didn’t even know what she was doing.

But he did. He knew. It had hit him earlier that day, hours after he left—when he realized how long she’d watched him from the couch. How quiet she’d gone. How the blanket had slipped down just far enough to show the top of her thigh and she hadn’t pulled it back up.

She’d wanted him there. Not because she was lonely. Because she wanted him. And that was it. That was the fucking end of his restraint. He hadn’t called. Hadn’t thought it through. Just got in the truck. Drove straight to her door. And now he was standing inside her apartment, watching her back away slowly as he stepped in. She looked nervous—but not scared. Like her body was catching up to something her brain hadn’t named yet. 

Joel dropped his bag by the door.

“You sure you’re not just bein’ polite?” he asked quietly. “What?” she blinked. “You didn’t ask me to fix anything.”

She shook her head once, eyes wide.

“No. I just… wanted to see you.”

He stared at her. Then took one slow step closer.

“You ever let anybody else in here just because you wanted to see ‘em?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Joel’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped.

“Didn’t think so.”

She was still standing by the doorway, arms at her sides, breathing like she didn’t trust her own chest to move too much. Joel took another step.

Closer.

Slow.

The silence between them folded into something heavier.

“Why’d you really want me here?”

She blinked, lips parting. No words. Just air. He could see it in her eyes—the hesitation, the pull, the heat she hadn’t admitted to herself yet. And it wrecked him.

“You don’t even know,” he murmured. “Do you?”

She swallowed. Didn’t speak.

“You got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

That made her breath catch.

He stepped even closer, so close now he could feel the warmth coming off her skin, could see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.

“Every time I come over here. Every time you call. Every time you smile like that like I ain’t comin’ apart at the fuckin’ seams…”

His hand twitched at his side. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t move.

“You sit there in your little tank tops. You lean close. You say my name like it don’t mean nothin’. And you don’t even know.”

She was staring up at him now—still quiet, still frozen—but there was something in her eyes.

A question.

A need.

She whispered it, like it wasn’t even meant to be heard.

“What if I do?”

Joel went still. Just for a beat. Then—

He moved. Not rushed. Not soft. Just real—a hand at her jaw, fingers curling gently but firmly, tilting her face up. Not a kiss. Not yet. His mouth hovered just over hers, breath mingling, eyes locked.

“You say that again, baby… I won’t be able to walk away.”

Her eyes flicked down to his mouth. Then back to his eyes. She didn’t say it again. But she didn’t move. And she didn’t stop him when his forehead came to rest gently against hers.

“Tell me to leave,” he rasped, jaw tight. “If I stay, I won’t keep pretendin’ I don’t want you.”

She didn’t say a word. And that silence? 

That was all he needed.

She just looked up at him with those wide, careful eyes, breath slow and warm on his mouth. And he knew.

Joel’s hand slipped from her jaw to the back of her neck, slow and certain, and the second his mouth touched hers—it was over.

Soft at first. Gentle. Like maybe he could stop himself if he started slow. But then she made a sound—something small, something like a sigh—and it wrecked him.

He pulled her in. Gripped her waist, pressed her back against the wall without meaning to. Mouth open now, kissing her like he needed it, like it had been building for years instead of weeks. Her hands slid up his chest, shaky, unsure, fingertips digging into the fabric like she didn’t know what to hold on to.

“Joel—”

She breathed it like she couldn’t help it. Like it was already a habit.

He groaned, low and deep into her mouth, then pulled back just enough to look at her.

“Tell me to stop.”

She blinked, lips parted, cheeks flushed. Didn’t say a word.

He kissed her again. This time rougher—hands in her hair, thigh between hers, tongue tasting the little gasps she gave him. She clung to him like she didn’t know what else to do, and he let her. Let her pull, let her press up against him, let her feel everything he’d been trying to hide.

He dragged his mouth down her neck, nipped lightly at her collarbone.

“You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me,” he muttered, voice ragged.

She whispered back, almost dazed:

“I want to.”

That was it.

Joel lifted her without thinking. Hands on her thighs, walking her backward through the apartment until the backs of her knees hit the couch. He laid her down gently. Crawled over her slow.

She looked up at him like she was still trying to believe this was real.

He kissed her softer this time—one hand braced by her head, the other brushing her cheek.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely there.

She nodded—then paused.

Eyes searching his face. Lips parted, like the words were already sitting there, waiting to fall out.

“I’ve never…” she breathed. “Not like this.”

Joel froze. Not because he was surprised. But because of how softly she said it. Like it mattered. Like it meant something. Like it wasn’t just about sex—it was him.

She looked up at him, nervous. Exposed. Brave.

“I’ve never been with anyone like this before,” she said again, quieter now.

Something in Joel’s chest cracked wide open. He touched her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone.

“You don’t have to explain that to me, baby.”

His voice was low, almost reverent. His hand cupped her jaw like she was breakable. Like he’d do anything not to hurt her.

“You just tell me how to touch you,” he murmured. “Tell me what you like. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Eyes locked on his. Lips parted. Like something was about to come out, but her breath caught instead.

“I—I don’t know what to… I mean, I’ve never—”

Her voice cracked. She swallowed. Blinked fast like she was frustrated for even trying to say it. 

Joel leaned in, hand cradling her face, steady and warm. He kissed the corner of her mouth—just once, gentle—then pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to know what to do.”

“You just let me learn you.”

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt. He brought his forehead to hers.

“I’ll go slow,” he murmured. “You wanna stop, you tell me. You want more—I’ll give you more.”

“Joel…” she whispered.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

She looked at him—wide-eyed, nervous, open.

“I want it to be you.”

Joel exhaled like her words physically hit him in the chest. But he didn’t move forward. He leaned in, kissed her—once, slow, firm. Then pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.”

Her face faltered. She looked like she was about to apologize. Joel shook his head—soft, gentle—thumbing her cheek before she could look away.

“I like that you’re new to this. Like that you trust me.” “But I’m not in a rush, baby.”

He kissed her again. Deeper this time.

“Not gonna take you fast. Not gonna take you like you’re just somethin’ I can fuck and leave. I want you feelin’ safe. Wanted.”

She blinked up at him—something between a gasp and a breath catching in her throat.

“I do,” she whispered. “Feel safe.”

That almost did him in. Joel groaned softly and dipped his head, kissing her slower now—longer, lips moving against hers like he was savoring the shape of her mouth. Like he had all night to learn it.

Her hands came up around his neck. Her body pulled him closer. The couch shifted beneath them as he laid her back gently—not to take, not to fuck—but just to have her close.

He kissed her jaw, her cheek, her neck—each one softer than the last. Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently. He let out a breath against her skin.

“You tell me when you’re ready,” he said, voice low. “Until then… I’m gonna take my time.”

She nodded, eyes fluttering shut as he kissed her again.

And for a while, there was nothing but the sound of mouths meeting, breath between them, the soft drag of his fingers over her waist and thighs—not pushing, just exploring.

Not claiming. Just caring.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

You didn’t expect it to feel like this.

His weight above you. His hands slow and steady. His mouth moving like he wanted to memorize you—not take you apart. Joel wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t even undressing you anymore. Just kissing. Letting the couch shift beneath your backs while his hands slid over your waist like it was something precious.

“You tell me when you’re ready,” he’d said.

And you believed him. God, you believed him.

Now his lips were on your throat. Your collarbone. His hand was smoothing over your thigh—up, down, warm, patient—like he wasn’t trying to get anywhere. Just feel. Just touch. You didn’t know your body could light up like this. Every place he kissed felt like it meant something. Your skin tingled. Your breath kept catching—right in that tight little place under your ribs.

You didn’t feel nervous anymore. You felt wanted. Not like a thing. Not like a curiosity. Like something he needed. Like something he’d been waiting for.

“You’re killin’ me,” he whispered suddenly, voice thick and low in your ear.

You smiled—barely.

“Why?”

He kissed your neck again, then your jaw.

“’Cause you don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

That made your stomach drop. Your hips shifted before you could stop them. You didn’t mean to grind up against him—but you did. And he groaned. Deep. From the chest. His body stiffened. Then he backed off just an inch—eyes meeting yours, wild but controlled.

“You want me to stop?”

You shook your head immediately.

“No.”

It came out faster than you meant. Hung in the air between you. He nodded once—then leaned back down, kissing you softer now, his hand cupping your face, holding you like he didn’t want to let go.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” he murmured. “You just let me hold you like this, and that’ll be enough.”

And God— that made your throat tighten. Because you didn’t want to stop either.

You just didn’t know how to say: I want to feel like this forever.

So instead, you whispered,

“Okay.”

And then you let him hold you. Let him kiss you slow. Let his hands slide over your skin like he was trying to learn every inch of it before asking for more.

And for the first time in your life, you didn’t feel nervous about being touched.

You just felt like you wanted to be.

✧˚ · . ୨♡୧ . · ˚✧

Joel: “Go out with me.”

You hadn’t seen him in about a week.

Not since the night he held you on the couch like something worth keeping. Like he didn’t want to rush, or take, or ruin anything. Just learn you. Kiss you slow.

But he texted. Every day. Never too much—just enough to stay in your head.

Sometimes it was a joke. Sometimes something stupid he saw at the hardware store. You smiled every time his name popped up. Sometimes you reread the things he sent you when you couldn’t sleep. Tonight was quiet. Laundry folded. Tea in your mug. You were halfway through some show you weren’t paying attention to when your phone buzzed again.

Joel: You eaten tonight?

You smiled.

You: not yet. why?

There was a pause—long enough you almost thought he got busy or changed his mind.

Then:

Joel: Thought I’d take you out.

You stared at the screen.

Out.

Not over. Not “swing by.” Not “grab something on the way.”

Out.

You: like… out out? Joel: Yeah. A date.

Your stomach flipped. Then a second message came in.

Joel: Unless that’s not what you want.

You answered fast.

You: no. I do. I want that. Joel: Friday okay? I’ll come get you. You: what should I wear? Joel: Somethin’ you feel good in. Joel: Don’t dress up for me.

Another pause. Then:

Joel: You’re already pretty.

You set the phone down. And sat there for a while, smiling at your hands.

[sixxels]

it girl

nerd!gojo x popular!model!reader

part 1 ! part 2 !

wc~ 14k

!!disclaimer!! will include heavy mentions of fling!sukuna, mentions of drug use, alcohol consumption, smut, angst/eventual confort.

summary so far: you’re the campus icon, glamorous, untouchable, always in the spotlight. but your world tilts when you fall for satoru gojo, awkward, brilliant, weirdly hot. what starts with flirty banter spirals into unexpected intimacy, and something real. you invite him into your life, your world, even your heart. but your past isn’t finished. sukuna, your toxic, magnetic almost-ex, crashes back in with chaos and temptation. now, torn between danger and devotion, you face a choice, the storm you know or the calm you crave.

the music feels louder now, like the bass is trying to drown out the lingering tension. satoru, suguru, choso nanami and shiu go back to their drinks, to their idle conversation, but there’s a charge in the air that hasn’t settled. you can feel it under your skin, buzzing hot and erratic, and it all traces back to him.

sukuna.

you clench your jaw, fingers curling around your drink too tight, and you know if you don’t get away right now, you’re gonna explode.

“i’ll be right back,” you mutter, not really waiting for anyone to answer. gojo blinks up at you, concern flaring in his pretty blue eyes, but you can’t look at him right now. not when your blood’s boiling and your vision’s turning red.

you sit up quickly, your pink bedazzled handbag left abandoned next to satoru as you stalk towards the exit of the kappa house.

you spot sukuna by the hallway, leaning against the wall like he owns the place. some girl’s trying to talk to him, all doe eyes and giggles, but he doesn’t even glance her way. his attention is on you, and the second your eyes meet, his mouth curves like he’s already won.

“you have five seconds to get your ass outside,” you hiss, storming past him. “or i’ll make a scene even you can’t top.”

he follows, of course he does, cocky and quiet, slipping through the crowd behind you like a shadow. you shove the door open and step out onto the porch, cold air rushing to your cheeks like a slap. it’s quieter here, but the anger still rings loud in your ears.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, spinning around to face him.

sukuna lets the door fall shut behind him with a lazy click. “you’ll have to be more specific,” he says dryly. “i do a lot of things wrong.”

“don’t play coy,” you spit. “what the hell was that in there? you humiliated satoru, you embarrassed me, and you ruined the entire fucking vibe. why? because i brought someone new around?”

he raises an eyebrow. “i didn’t ruin anything. you brought a stray into the lion’s den, and i treated him accordingly.”

you blink at him, stunned. “you’re so fucking arrogant it’s unreal.”

he laughs, a dark, humorless sound that makes your chest tighten. “and you’re so naive. do you even know who that guy is? do you really think he gives a shit about you, or is he just riding the high of being seen with the school’s favorite wet dream?”

“fuck you,” you snap, voice rising now. “you don’t get to talk about him like that. you don’t get to act like you know anything about what i want or who i want.”

“i know you,” sukuna says sharply, stepping closer. “i’ve seen every version of you, the real ones. and you don’t fall for soft boys who flinch when someone looks at them sideways. you fall for assholes. you fall for people who can fight you and fuck you up at the same time.”

your chest heaves, fists clenched. “so that’s what this is about? jealousy?”

he smirks. “don’t flatter yourself.”

“you’re insane,” you hiss. “you think you get to waltz in here, throw a tantrum in front of everyone i care about, and still act like you’ve got some fucking claim over me?"

“i don’t have to act,” he growls. “i know what’s mine.”

“i’m not yours, sukuna!” you scream, voice echoing off the porch walls. “i never was!”

there’s a beat of silence.

his eyes flash, dark and dangerous. “then why the fuck do you keep coming back to me?”

you falter, lips parting, but nothing comes out. the words shrivel on your tongue because goddamn it, he’s right. you hate him. you want to rip his stupid smug face off. but your feet never seem to know how to walk away.

he steps forward again, close enough that your breath stutters. “you think gojo’s ever gonna get you? you think he could ever handle the mess that lives in your head? he doesn’t know you. not like i do.”

you open your mouth to fire back, but his hands are already on your face, rough and sudden, and before you can think better of it, you’re kissing him.

or maybe he’s kissing you. it doesn’t matter. it’s all teeth and fury, lips bruising against each other like a war cry. you shove at his chest, but it only pulls him closer, his hand sliding to your jaw, tilting your face up like he’s starving and you’re the only thing left on earth.

your back hits the porch railing, the wood biting into your spine, but you don’t care. you claw at his shoulders, your anger spilling out through every movement, every breath. he bites your lip and you moan, half in pain, half in something you don’t want to name.

“i hate you,” you gasp against his mouth.

“liar,” he breathes, and then he’s kissing you again, harder this time, like he wants to destroy every thought that isn’t him.

you hate this. you hate how his mouth fits against yours like it was made to, how every furious breath you take just drags him in deeper. your fingers are in his hair, pulling hard, like maybe you can hurt him enough to make yourself feel better. like maybe pain will make sense of the ache that’s been festering under your skin since the last time he touched you.

but it doesn’t. it just makes you hungrier.

your head is spinning, chest heaving, your lips swollen and stinging. it’s like trying to breathe underwater, like drowning in something you swore you were done with. you tell yourself this is a mistake. that you don’t want this, don’t want him. but your body isn’t listening.

because this is sukuna. it’s always sukuna.

every time you try to run, he finds you. every time you try to choose someone softer, safer, someone who smiles with his whole face and says your name like it’s something sacred, someone like satoru, you end up back here. back in the fire.

his hands are all over you now, possessive and rough, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he’s not touching enough of you. like he can keep you with his grip alone. but it’s not enough. it never is.

your heart is a snarl of guilt and want and why can’t i let this go?

“you ruin everything,” you whisper into his mouth, breath hitching.

his laugh is low, bitter. “then stop letting me in.”

you could. you should. god, why don’t you?

because you know what this is. what it’s always been.

it’s not love. it’s not soft. it’s a fucking car crash. it’s the chaos after a storm. it’s ugly and loud and burning, and you’ve always been too vain to admit how much of you is built like that too.

he sees it. he sees you. not the filtered version in the magazines, not the perfect smile you wear for the camera, not the queen bee everyone fawns over at parties.

he sees this. the bite in your voice, the tremble under your fury, the craving that lives in your bones. he matches it. mirrors it.

and you fucking hate him for it.

your fingers slip under his shirt without thinking, nails scraping along his stomach, and he growls into your mouth. it’s a mess—tongues, teeth, heat radiating off both of you like a fever. your back slams harder into the porch railing, and it almost hurts, but you like it. you need it.

your name leaves his lips like a threat and a prayer. like he’s begging and taunting you in the same breath.

you gasp. “you’re not allowed to say my name like that.”

“i’ll say it however the fuck i want,” he mutters, his mouth dragging along your jaw, biting at your skin. “you gave it to me.”

“i didn’t give you shit,” you snap, even as your thighs press together, as your hands fist in his shirt like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff.

he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are glassy and sharp all at once, drunk on you, on this, on the violence that lives between your mouths. “you don’t kiss someone like that if you want them gone.”

you stare at him. lips parted. breath ragged. the porch light flickers behind his head like a bad omen.

your chest aches. your stomach twists.

he’s right.

and you hate that he’s right.

but he’s wrong, too. wrong in the way he believes he’s the only one who sees you. like he’s the only one capable of wrecking you.

because gojo sees you too. in a different way. in a way that makes you feel safe, and not just seen. and suddenly the memory of those bright blue eyes flashes behind your lids, and it’s like a bucket of cold water.

you feel sick.

you shove sukuna off you.

he stumbles back a step, dazed, lips bruised and wet, his chest rising like he’s just come up for air.

“don’t,” you whisper, voice cracking.

he blinks. “what?”

your hands are shaking. your whole body’s shaking. “don’t pretend this means anything.”

his face twists. “are you fucking kidding me?”

“you’re not—” you bite down hard, fists clenched at your sides. “you’re not good for me. you know that. i know that. this—this thing we keep doing, it doesn’t go anywhere.”

he’s silent for a second, just staring at you like he’s trying to memorize you. or maybe figure out what the fuck you’re doing. his jaw ticks.

“you kissed me back.”

“i always kiss you back,” you snap. “and it always ends the same.”

he steps closer again, but this time you flinch.

“don’t,” you say, softer. “please.”

he stops.

your breath hitches again. “you’re supposed to be the bad choice. the one i got over. the one i left.”

“then why are you still here?” his voice is raw now, low and wrecked. “why do you keep choosing me?”

you don’t answer.

you can’t.

because this isn’t a choice. it’s an addiction. a wound you keep scratching open. a ghost you keep trying to fuck into silence.

and for a second, you almost say it. almost tell him that you don’t know how to stop. that you’re tired of hating yourself every time you leave his bed. that you wanted tonight to be different. to feel new. to feel clean.

but you don’t.

you just turn around.

your palms are sweaty. your face is hot. your lips are sore. and you want to cry.

you make it three steps before his voice catches you like a hook in your spine.

“he’s not gonna make you feel like this.”

you pause.

“he’ll never make you burn like this.”

your jaw clenches. your eyes sting.

you don’t turn around. you just whisper, “good.”

then you open the door, walk back into the party like you weren’t just sobbing on the inside. like your heart isn’t caught between a boy who looks at you like you’re made of gold, and one who touches you like he wants to ruin you.

like you aren’t already ruined.

~

you slammed the porch door shut, taking deep breaths as you try to calm yourself down again, trying to make the thought of that asshole go the hell away. heels clicking against the wooden floor, you navigate your way back to the couch where satoru and the rest were supposed to be sitting. 

everyone seemed to be there, except satoru. you scanned the couch once, twice, no sign of him. 

'shit, shit, shit.' you knew he wasn't a baby, but this was a new experience for a nerd like him, so where the hell was he? your pace quickened as you approached the couch, disrupting whatever dumb story chico was telling the others.

"where is he?" you pant.

they all give eachother looks, then point to the back entrance.

your eyes trailed to a retreating satoru, looking distraught as he pushed past people towards the exit, and he did not look happy. 

'fuck? did he see? does he know?'

all the worst thoughts came flooding into your mind like a tidal wave, and before you new it, you were chasing after him. 

you catch up to him just as he’s shouldering through the side door, the thud of it swinging shut behind him echoing in your ribs like guilt. the backyard is dark, string lights swaying in the breeze, but he’s already halfway across the lawn, walking like he doesn’t want to be followed.

“toru, wait—” your voice is too loud in the night, but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t turn around.

you jog after him, breath catching, dress hitching, heart still beating erratic from sukuna’s mouth and the shame curling under your skin.

“satoru!” you grab his arm.

he freezes. not the soft, playful kind of freeze, not the kind where he turns with a dumb grin and says something that makes you roll your eyes. no, this is cold. stiff. like touching him burned you both.

he turns around slowly.

his glasses are gone, tucked away in his pocket. you can see his eyes now, wide and blue and hurt, and it knocks the wind right out of you.

“why did you kiss him?” he asks.

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. your lips part, the taste of sukuna still clinging to them like blood.

satoru huffs a breathless laugh and shakes his head. “don’t lie. just don’t.”

“i wasn’t—i didn’t mean to,” you say quickly, weakly, and you hate how it sounds, how pathetic it feels on your tongue.

“right,” he scoffs. “you accidentally made out with the guy who’s been staring at me like he wants me dead since the second he walked in.” he scoffs lightly. "I thought you'd at least be decent enough to at least try stay away from him while i'm here."

you flinch. “it wasn’t like that. i didn’t—he—god, satoru, he cornered me, and i was mad, and—”

“and you kissed him,” he says, like that’s the only part that matters. maybe it is. "y/n, you know how much i like you, how much ive spent obsessing over you. i'm not mad that you have flings and maybe ours didn't matter as much to you as it did me, but really? did you have to do that when you're supposed to be here with me?"

you don’t know what to say. the words are a mess in your mouth. you feel like a mess, standing here in your perfect outfit with your makeup smudged and your heart unraveling.

“do you still want him?” he asks, voice low. serious. it’s not a joke. it’s not a tease. it’s real. “because i need to know what the fuck i’m doing here.”

“i don’t want him,” you say. “not really.”

“‘not really’?” he repeats, blinking like he can’t believe this is happening. “jesus.”

“you don’t get it,” you say, chest tightening. “he’s in my head. he knows where all the broken parts are, and he uses them. he’s... he’s toxic.”

“and you kissed him anyway.”

you fall silent. the string lights hum above you. the muffled bass from inside is a heartbeat you can’t keep in time with.

“i thought maybe—” he starts, then cuts himself off. presses his lips together. swallows.

“what?” you ask, too softly.

he looks at you, eyes glassy, like he wants to say something brave but doesn’t know how. “i thought maybe i could be good for you, someone you could rely on, not just someone to bring around like a new handbag then go make out with another guy.”

you close your eyes. that’s the worst part. because he is good for you. he’s so fucking good it makes your chest hurt. and you—god, you’re the one who keeps reaching for the fire even though you know how it ends.

“you are good for me,” you whisper.

“then why do you keep running back to the guy who isn’t?” he snaps.

because you’re scared. because sukuna doesn’t ask you to be soft. because he meets you in the dark and doesn’t flinch. because being loved by someone kind feels like walking into the light with all your scars exposed.

you open your mouth, but he’s already stepping back.

“don’t,” he says. “it’s okay. i get it now.”

“satoru, please—”

“you don’t have to choose me,” he says, quiet. “just don’t pretend like you’re trying.”

and then he turns around.

and you let him go. because maybe that’s all you’ve ever known how to do.

but god, it fucking hurts.

~

you don’t go back inside.

you just sit there, out on the back steps, wrapped in silence like a punishment. the string lights flicker above you, dull and golden, casting little shadows across your knees as you lean forward and press your forehead into your hands.

your lipstick is smudged. your mascara’s probably ruined. the breeze lifts the hem of your dress and you don’t even care. you feel… hollow. like something vital has been scooped out of you and replaced with shame.

what the fuck was wrong with you?

you kissed sukuna.

you kissed him.

after everything. after the photo shoot, the café, the way satoru looked at you like you were the only girl in the world. after he made you laugh in front of your friends and actually held his own and didn’t even flinch when choso and suguru weee scoping him out.

you kissed someone else.

and not just someone else.

him.

you curl your fingers into your scalp, breathing hard. it wasn’t even worth it. sukuna was angry. you were angry. it wasn’t tender or special or even satisfying. it was just messy. bitter. a collision of teeth and heat and ego and old wounds. it tasted like guilt before it even ended.

you think about satoru’s face.

not just the hurt in his eyes, but the way he tried to hold it in. the way he looked at you like he was bracing for impact. like part of him already knew.

he told you how much he liked you.

satoru told you.

and you still...

you press your palms harder against your eyes until your vision pulses. maybe you’re a bad person. maybe sukuna was right all along, that you’re good at breaking things, even better at pretending you didn’t.

you don’t know how long you sit there. the party thumps on behind the walls, and eventually someone opens the door and asks if you’re okay. you say yes. you lie.

you always lie.

~

later that night in satoru’s dorm, he can’t sleep.

he’s tried.

he took a shower, burning hot, like he could scald the night off his skin. changed into clean clothes. even microwaved one of those sad little dorm ramen cups, just to have something to do with his hands.

but it’s almost 2 a.m. and he’s still wide awake, staring up at the ceiling like it might start answering questions if he looks long enough.

his room is quiet. too quiet.

no music, no phone calls, no stupid tiktok edits of you playing in the background as ambiance. just the hum of the mini fridge and the occasional creak of the floor above him.

his mind won’t shut up.

he keeps seeing her face.

god, your face.

the way your eyes looked when you grabbed his arm. panicked. guilty. pretty.

he hates that he still thinks you’re pretty.

that’s the worst part.

you could probably ruin him a thousand different ways, and he’d still think you look like art in the aftermath. like the kind of pain you’d thank for teaching you something.

he rolls over, groans into his pillow.

'why did you kiss him?'

he knows it’s stupid to ask. he already heard the answer. or at least part of it. the excuses, the guilt in your voice, the way you stood there like you’d already lost him and couldn’t figure out why.

but he’s not mad, not really. not anymore.

he’s just… embarrassed.

he replayed it in his head all night. how proud he’d felt showing up with you. how lucky. how fucking cocky, thinking he could handle this. that he could actually keep up with someone like you.

everyone was watching.

and he swore he could hear it, when it shifted.

the mood. the tension. the way suguru and choso exchanged glances like they knew. like something was wrong.

and then you came back without him.

lipstick smeared. breathing like you’d just sprinted through a storm.

and he knew.

he knew.

god, he’s such an idiot.

he’d been so sure it was going somewhere. that he wasn’t just another phase, another fling, another accessory in your glittering, chaotic world.

maybe he was just the nerd you flirted with for a week because he said something funny and liked your instagram pictures from 2019. maybe he was your rebound. your charity case. your soft, safe thing to play with until someone more exciting pulled you back in.

he rolls onto his back again, arm flung over his face.

he hates this.

he hates how his chest aches.

how he misses you already.

how every part of him wants to text you, even now, even after everything. not to yell. not to guilt you. just to ask if you got home okay. if you’re warm. if you’re still thinking about him.

he wants to delete your number. block your stories. act like he doesn’t care.

but he can’t.

because it wasn’t fake for him.

not even a little.

the way you looked at him over the coffee cup. the way you sat on his lap and whispered things that made his brain short-circuit. the way you smiled when he made you laugh, like you couldn’t believe he was real.

he felt seen.

he felt wanted.

and now…

now he just feels stupid.

his phone buzzes once on the desk.

he flinches. hopes it’s you. knows it’s not. still hopes anyway.

but it’s just yuji.

“u okay?”

he stares at the message. doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t know how to say 'yeah, i’m fine' when his chest feels like it’s full of glass.

he gets up, pacing.

his dorm is small, cramped, still smells faintly like instant noodles and cologne. the window’s cracked open but the night air does nothing to cool his thoughts.

he’s spiraling. he knows he is.

but how is he not supposed to? how do you go from being kissed like a secret in someone’s bedroom to being forgotten like background noise in the span of two days?

he sinks into his desk chair, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

he can still feel your skin.

the way you smiled at him in that dress.

he didn’t imagine that.

he knows you’re not perfect.

knows you’ve got a past, and messy people in it.

he just thought maybe… maybe you wanted to leave some of that behind.

he thought he could be something solid for you. not flashy. not dangerous. not the guy who sets your world on fire, but the one who stays behind to put out the flames.

and maybe that was the problem.

maybe you don’t want to be saved.

he sits like that for a long time.

the sky outside goes from navy to gray, like the sun can’t quite make up its mind. the city’s still half-asleep. he’s exhausted but wired, rubbed raw with disappointment.

he doesn’t know what happens next.

doesn’t know if you’ll call. if you’ll say sorry. if you’ll even want to fix things.

and he’s not sure if he should let you.

~

~

two weeks.

that’s how long it’s been since the party. since you kissed sukuna. since you chased after him, breathless and guilty, and he walked away with that look on his face like you’d gutted him clean through.

since then, you’ve hardly seen him. you tried ,once, twice, but the timing was never right. or maybe it was and he just didn’t want to see you.

and satoru? he’s been surviving.

not in a dramatic, falling-apart kind of way. more like he’s forcing himself into the shape of a normal person. waking up, brushing his teeth, putting on clean clothes, going to class. no more daydreaming about you between lectures, no more rereading your old messages or checking your instagram like it’s gospel.

okay... maybe he does that last one. but only sometimes. only late at night when he’s half-asleep and weaker than usual.

what’s surprised him most is suguru and choso.

he wasn’t expecting them to reach out. they were your friends first, after all, your ride-or-dies, the intimidatingly cool guys who always hovered somewhere at the edge of your spotlight, sharp and beautiful and effortlessly magnetic.

but the night after the party, he got a text from suguru.

suguru [3:04am]: you free tomorrow? come kick it with us. no drama. just chill.

and satoru had stared at it for a full ten minutes, wondering if it was a trap. but the next morning, choso had caught him outside the dining hall, handed him an iced coffee, and nodded like that was that.

they were both surprisingly normal.

well, normal for two guys who looked like they walked out of a cursed gucci ad campaign.

suguru was cool in a dangerous kind of way, always calm, always watching. and choso was dry, a little deadpan, but had a weirdly comforting presence. they didn’t talk much about you, at first. just dragged him to their favorite ramen place off campus, introduced him to their movie night rituals (choso had incredibly niche horror taste), and made him feel like he wasn’t completely drowning.

he learned that choso actually did art, really well. but the brown haired boy had to quickly put away his sketch pad when showing satoru some of the stuff he's done when sketches of you suddenly flipped past. 

surprisingly, suguru was lowkey a genius who edited most of your essays when you didn’t feel like doing them yourself. they made fun of satoru’s nerd tendencies, but in a gentle way. never cruel. never dismissive.

it made something in him loosen.

“you ever gonna stop moping?” suguru asked one night, a week and a half in, stretched out on the floor of choso’s room with a joint between his fingers and his laptop open to a cursed playlist full of slow jam remixes.

satoru was curled up in a beanbag chair with a bowl of stale popcorn, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. “not moping.”

“you’re a little mopy,” choso said, sprawled on his stomach like a sleepy cat, paint under his fingernails.

“i’m trying to move on,” satoru muttered, cheeks hot. “this is me moving on.”

suguru snorted. “you’re sulking and stalking her instagram. that’s not moving on. that’s… spiraling with extra steps.”

satoru groaned and shoved his face into a pillow. “i hate that you’re right.”

they didn’t press the issue after that. just let him lie there, halfway stoned and emotionally gutted, while slow music thudded in the background and the lights flickered like a lullaby.

the thing is, he liked hanging out with them. not just because it was a distraction, but because they were actually good company. smart. grounded. weirdly funny. they made him feel like maybe he wasn’t completely lame, even if he still wore anime hoodies and overthought everything to death.

but no matter how much fun he had, no matter how many late night hangouts or inside jokes they built, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

you were a background hum. a ghost in the static. always there, just out of reach.

he’d be laughing at something choso said and suddenly remember the way you used to scrunch your nose when you were really amused. he’d be scrolling through his phone and see your story, half your face in golden hour, lips glossy, eyes unreadable, and his stomach would drop like a stone.

it wasn’t fair.

he knew you weren’t perfect. he knew sukuna was a whole mess of a situation. he knew you’d made your choices, and maybe it should’ve been enough to just… let it go.

but he missed you anyway.

he missed the way you looked at him like he was interesting. like he wasn’t just some nerd you found amusing but someone who could actually keep up with you. he missed the way you teased him, the way you touched him, like you weren’t afraid of breaking something delicate. like he wasn’t fragile at all.

and he hated that he still wanted you.

hated that every time someone mentioned your name . in passing, in stories, in whispers across campus, his chest tightened just a little. hated that every hallway he walked down, he scanned for a glimpse of your outfit, your laugh, your perfume.

hated that the night you kissed sukuna still lived behind his eyelids when he closed his eyes.

“you’re doing better,” choso said, two weeks in, as they sat on a campus bench under a gray sky, sketchbook open in his lap. “you don’t look like you’re gonna cry when someone says her name anymore.”

“wow,” satoru said dryly, sipping his third coffee of the day. “glowing review.”

“seriously, though,” suguru added, standing nearby with his headphones around his neck. “you’ve come a long way. just… don’t trick yourself into thinking she’s your only shot.”

satoru nodded. because he knew they were right.

he’d gone from completely crushed to almost functioning. from heartbreak to the hazy kind of ache that feels survivable, even if it still hurts.

but late at night, when the music’s off and his phone’s quiet and the dorm room feels too still, it’s your name that sits in his chest like a song stuck on repeat.

you, in that ridiculous mcbling outfit the first time he saw you.

you, grinning behind your phone at the cafe. you, on his lap during the photoshoot, skin warm, voice low. you, whispering that some of those pictures were only for him.

he exhales, pressing his forehead to his pillow.

you’re not his anymore. maybe you never were.

but god, he wishes you had been.

~

now, it was late. later than it should’ve been for three college guys to be cramped into a diner on a tuesday night, the air heavy with the smell of grease and cheap cigarettes from the patio two tables over. satoru stirred the straw in his milkshake for the fifth time, his long fingers twitching around the paper cup. he hadn’t taken a sip in fifteen minutes.

choso sat across from him, hood up, dark circles under his eyes. suguru leaned back beside him, stretched out like he owned the booth, but there was a tension in his posture that gave him away, his knuckles were tight around the root beer glass, jaw clenched.

they hadn’t talked about you all night. they’d been talking about some dumb movie suguru wanted to drag them to next weekend, about choso’s lab partner who smelled like onions and always messed up the titrations. they laughed, satoru forced a smile or two, but it all kept coming back.

your name was on the tip of his tongue.

he couldn’t stop seeing you in the back of his mind. that same bright, filtered version of you, laughing in the latest instagram reel, posing in low lighting with sunglasses on inside some house party, tagging friends he’d never met, showing off outfits and drinks and that same fucking smile. like none of it had happened. like that night on the lawn hadn’t torn something open between you.

“can i ask something?” satoru finally said, voice too soft for how loud the question felt in his chest.

choso looked up first, eyebrows raised. suguru stopped stirring his drink.

“for sure,” suguru said carefully.

satoru hesitated, tapped his finger on the table. “how’s she doing?”

neither of them responded right away. choso blinked, eyes sliding toward suguru. suguru’s lips pressed into a line, his jaw ticking once. they looked at each other like they were silently deciding who would speak first, like the question was loaded. like they hadn’t expected it.

that’s how satoru knew.

“guys?...” he said softly. "i've seen her stories, her tiktok's, it looks like everything's fine-"

“it’s not,” choso said, and his voice was so quiet, so flat, it made satoru’s stomach drop.

he looked between them, his milkshake forgotten. “what do you mean?”

“she’s not doing great,” suguru said simply. his fingers toyed with the condensation on the side of his glass. “she’s trying to make it look like she is. but it’s bad.”

satoru felt his mouth go dry.

“how bad?”

choso exhaled through his nose. “she parties almost every night. not even with us anymore. she goes out with friends we've never even met, or ends up crashing wherever there’s noise. doesn’t text back. won’t answer calls unless she’s blacked out and sobbing.”

“drugs, too,” suguru added. “she’s not subtle about it. ket, molly, sometimes coke. whatever keeps her numb enough to not think.”

satoru looked down at his hands.

“why?”

suguru glanced at choso. “you really wanna know?”

he nodded. “i do.”

“because she feels like shit,” choso said bluntly. “like she ruined everything with you and now she doesn’t know how to deal with it.”

there was a silence after that. just the low hum of the diner lights, the soft clatter of dishes in the kitchen. satoru felt like something heavy was pressing against his ribs, like all the air had been sucked out of the booth and he was stuck inside a vacuum of his own thoughts.

satoru doesn’t breathe. his throat tightens. “but she looks—”

“yeah,” choso cuts in, voice low. “she looks great. viral. perfect. whatever. but the second she’s off camera, it’s like someone shuts the lights off inside her. she’s barely sleeping. barely eating unless someone forces her. the other night she had to be carried out of a club because she blacked out in a stairwell.”

satoru’s heart cracks so hard it echoes in his chest.

he tries to picture you like that, not the version with glossed lips and glittery eyeshadow, not the one who called him baby and straddled his lap like she owned him, but the one behind all that. the girl with shaking hands. the girl who’s hurting.

“and sukuna?” he asks, quietly. “are they…?”

suguru snorts. it’s bitter. “they’re done.”

choso nods. “she blew up at him. told him to go fuck himself. said he ruined everything. blocked him on everything. hasn’t spoken to him since.”

satoru’s eyes sting.

“it wasn’t pretty,” suguru adds. “they were screaming at each other outside some gallery opening. like, full scene. she was shaking. he tried to touch her and she slapped him.”

something inside satoru goes cold. “jesus.”

satoru swallowed hard. his throat was tight. “why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“because we didn’t want to make it worse,” suguru said. “we know how you felt about her. still feel, probably.”

satoru didn’t say anything to that.

he didn’t need to.

choso leaned forward a little. “we didn’t pick sides. we’ve been trying to hold her together without enabling her. but honestly, she’s falling apart either way.”

“she asks about you sometimes,” suguru said. “not directly. just… in passing. like she’s pretending she doesn’t care but hoping we’ll slip up and say something.”

“we don’t, though,” choso added. “she’s not ready.”

satoru let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, elbows on the table, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms. “i hate that i still care,” he admitted.

“you don’t,” choso said. “you just hate that she doesn’t care about herself.”

satoru stared down at the milkshake between his hands.

“yeah,” he whispered. “that too.”

they sat in silence again, the three of them surrounded by the buzz of fluorescent lights and clinking silverware. the outside world moved on around them, uncaring, fast, dizzying. and still, satoru felt stuck.

“she ever gonna stop?” he asked eventually. “the partying, the drugs, the… self-destruction?”

“we’re trying,” choso said.

“but it’s not about us,” suguru added. “she has to want it. and right now? she’s just trying to block everything out.”

satoru nodded slowly.

he understood that.

maybe more than he wanted to.

“you think she’s gonna be okay?” he asked.

neither of them answered right away.

then suguru looked him dead in the eyes. “maybe. if she gets out before it eats her alive.”

satoru closed his eyes.

he could still see her, laughing in a video from just two days ago. some party, some guy’s lap she was half-sitting on, a drink in her hand and too much glitter on her cheeks. you looked like you were having the time of your life. you always did.

but now, it didn’t look fun anymore.

now it looked like drowning.

he opened his eyes again, staring blankly at the drink in front of him.

“i miss her,” he said quietly.

choso didn’t say anything.

suguru just nodded.

“we know." he murmured.

~

you wake up in a stranger’s bed. again.

the sheets smell like stale sweat and cheap cologne. your head pounds, a dull throb that echoes the bass of last night’s club. you sit up, the room spinning, your mouth dry and tasting of regret.

flash.

you’re in the club, lights strobing, bodies pressing against you. someone hands you a drink—you don’t ask what it is. you down it, chasing the numbness.

flash.

you’re laughing, too loud, too bright. someone’s lips are on yours, but you don’t care who they belong to. it’s not him. it’s never him anymore.

flash.

you’re in a bathroom stall, powder on your fingertips. you tell yourself it’s just to keep the night going. to keep from feeling.

flash.

you’re dancing on a table, bottle in hand, screaming the lyrics to a song you don’t know. your 'friends' cheer, but their faces blur. they're not your real friends, you're ignoring them right now.

flash.

you’re alone in your room, the silence deafening. you stare at your phone, his name still blocked. you want to call, to hear his voice, but pride and shame hold you back.

flash.

you’re at another party, another drink in hand. someone offers you something stronger. you take it without hesitation.

flash.

you’re in a car, the city lights blurring past. you don’t know where you’re going, and you don’t care.

flash.

you’re back in bed, the stranger beside you snoring softly. you slip out, gathering your clothes, avoiding the mirror.

you tell yourself you’re fine.

you post a selfie, filters hiding the bags under your eyes, the hollowness in your gaze. the likes pour in, affirming the lie.

but the emptiness grows.

you see him in your dreams, his eyes filled with hurt. you wake up crying, the ache in your chest unbearable.

you try to fill the void.

more parties, more substances, more meaningless encounters. more more more. each one leaves you feeling emptier than before.

your real friends notice.

they try to intervene, their voices filled with concern. you brush them off, insisting you’re just having fun.

but deep down, you know.

you’re spiraling, losing yourself in the chaos. the pain you’re trying to escape consumes you.

you miss him.

his laugh, his touch, the way he looked at you like you mattered. you wonder if he thinks of you, if he regrets walking away.

you want to reach out.

but you’re scared. scared of rejection, of facing the consequences of your actions.

so you continue the cycle.

numbing, partying, pretending. hoping that one day, the pain will fade.

but it doesn’t.

and you’re left with the fragments of who you used to be, trying to piece yourself back together in the aftermath.

~

now you were drunk at some house party, you don’t remember what he said, this random asshole.

something stupid. something smug. something about how he “always knew you’d come back,” like you were some broken thing crawling back to its owner.

it’s not sukuna, but it might as well be. same type. same eyes. same voice that makes you feel like your ribs are cracking under the weight of old mistakes.

you’d laughed at first. that sharp, detached laugh you’ve perfected over the past two weeks, where your teeth gleam and your eyes stay dead. but then he touched your waist and said it again, said something about how “girls like you always need attention,” and something just snapped.

“fuck you,” you’d hissed.

he grinned. smug. wide. “god, you’re a mess. weren’t you, like, crying over some nerd last week?”

and that was it.

something inside you went cold and then red-hot all at once.

you don’t remember lunging at him, not really. don’t remember screaming. don’t remember shoving your drink into his chest or the sound of the cup hitting the floor. just your voice cracking and screaming “you don’t know shit about me!” as everything else blurred out.

the music stopped.

the room hushed. just like that.

you were shaking. mascara streaming down your face, hands clenched at your sides, chest heaving as you stared at him like you wanted to kill him, but mostly like you wanted to disappear.

he was laughing. of course he was. brushing you off like you were nothing. like your breakdown was a punchline.

and that hurt more than anything else.

everyone was watching.

you stumbled backwards, caught someone’s shoulder, shrugged off the hand that tried to steady you. you muttered something, maybe fuck all of you, maybe i’m fine, and bolted out the front door, into the cold.

the walk back to your dorm is a blur of static. your heels in your hand, feet bleeding. phone dead. everything else too loud.

the second your door clicks shut behind you, you collapse against it, sliding down the wood until you’re a heap on the floor.

you breathe.

and then you sob.

your dorm smells like laundry detergent and fake perfume and something rotting in the trash. it’s a mess. like you. discarded outfits on the floor, makeup-stained tissues, a magazine with your own face on the cover torn in half and stuffed under a pillow.

you pull your knees to your chest and press your face to them.

and finally, the silence hits you.

and the silence says: you did this.

you let go of the good thing. you fucked up the only love that ever felt real. you kissed a ghost and chased it straight into hell and now you’re here, screaming at strangers and crying on the floor of your overpriced dorm because no one loves you enough to stop you.

no one loves you like he did.

no one ever has.

and you didn’t know how to handle it. didn’t know how to be held that gently without flinching. didn’t know how to believe someone like satoru could really want someone like you.

not after everything.

not when you’re like this.

because what are you, really, without the followers and the outfits and the fake smiles? you’re just a girl who doesn’t know how to be soft. who only knows how to survive. who only knows how to run when things get too quiet.

you think about that afternoon in the library.

how warm he looked. how he looked at you like you were a secret he wanted to learn by heart. how careful he was when he touched you. how he blushed when you teased him.

how safe you felt.

and then you remember how he looked when he asked, “do you still want him?”

and how you said “not really.”

god.

what the fuck is wrong with you.

your body feels like it’s giving out. like there’s nothing left.

because no matter how many parties you go to or bottles you finish or people you let touch you, you still feel empty. still feel haunted.

he’s in everything.

you see him in your notifications, even when they’re not from him. in the mirror, when you put on that shade of gloss he liked. in the way your fingers still hover over his contact at 3am. in every guy you ignore because he isn’t tall enough or kind enough or awkward enough.

he’s in the way your chest aches when you’re alone.

he’s in the way no one else has ever made you feel like you were more than pretty.

you curl up tighter, sobs wracking your ribs.

you want to call him.

you want to say i’m sorry and please come back and i think i’m in love with you and i don’t know how to live with that.

but you don’t.

because he deserves better.

he deserves peace. he deserves mornings with someone who doesn’t disappear at night. he deserves someone who won’t break his heart just because she doesn’t know how to hold something so gentle.

you deserve the emptiness.

you stay on the floor until your legs go numb.

~

~

satoru doesn’t think twice when suguru texts him.

suguru [6:23pm]: party tonight. u coming?

he stares at the screen for a while. it’s not like he wants to go. he’s not really in the mood to pretend he’s fun or normal or even okay. but it’s been three weeks now since everything cracked open. two weeks since that night he saw you pressed up against sukuna like nothing had ever mattered. two weeks of trying to breathe through the ache.

suguru and choso have been good to him. better than he deserves. they don’t mention you unless he does. they keep things easy. movies, ramen, lazy afternoons in suguru’s apartment. they never pressure him to talk about it. they just sit with him when the silence gets too heavy.

maybe that’s why he says yes.

he wants to be normal. wants to be fine. wants to believe he can be in a room with people again without thinking of you.

so he throws on a hoodie and jeans, meets them outside the apartment, and pretends he’s not thinking about you when suguru says, “you sure you’re up for this?”

“yeah,” satoru says, forcing a grin. “i’m not gonna cry in the bathroom, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

choso snorts. “please do. it’ll give the party some depth.”

the three of them laugh, and for a second, it almost feels okay.

~

the bass was thudding through the floorboards. lights were low and hazy, smoke curling around the ceiling like the whole house was about to levitate. bodies pressed in on all sides, moving like one dumb, brainless thing. the stink of alcohol, sweat, perfume and something sharper thick in the air. he hated it. he used to imagine parties were exciting, glamorous even. that’s how you always looked in them, anyway. perfect lighting. perfect makeup. perfect body. always with a drink in your hand, someone whispering in your ear, laughing like your world wasn’t on fire behind your ribs.

he’d forgotten for a second. just a second. forgotten this was your scene. your territory.

and then he saw you.

it knocked the air right out of him.

you didn’t see him. not even close. you were across the room in a dress that barely stayed up, mascara smudged under your eyes, glitter on your collarbones like dust. and you were smiling. at least, your mouth was. your eyes didn’t look like they were part of your face anymore. they were glassy, unfocused, empty. like someone had taken the real you out of your body and left a wind-up doll in your place.

he watched as you tossed your head back and laughed too loud at something a guy said, someone he didn’t know, someone with his hand way too low on your waist. he watched you throw back a drink, wince, then immediately go for another. he watched you stumble when someone bumped into you and laugh like it was the funniest thing in the world.

suguru nudged him. “hey,” he said. “you okay?”

satoru didn’t answer.

his hands were in his pockets, jaw clenched so tight it ached. he couldn’t look away.

“you didn’t know she’d be here,” choso said quietly, from his other side.

no, he didn’t. they hadn’t told him. maybe they hadn’t known. maybe they had. he didn’t care. what mattered was that you were here, and you were unraveling in front of his eyes.

“she looks like she’s having fun,” suguru said, but even he sounded like he didn’t believe it.

satoru scoffed under his breath. “yeah. a real blast.”

he watched you take a shot like it was medicine, watched you lean into the guy you were with, whisper something in his ear, pull back and laugh like it was a game. you weren’t like this before. not like this. even in the middle of chaos, you had always looked composed. seductive. untouchable. now you just looked… lost.

you looked like you were trying to disappear.

“you sure you wanna stay?” choso asked, voice low.

satoru nodded once. too stiff, too quick. “yeah,” he muttered. “i’m fine.”

~

he wasn’t. every second was hell.

he didn’t want to see you like this. didn’t want to feel this sick, weighted thing sinking deeper into his chest with every minute. he hated you a little, just then. hated you for not seeing him. for not noticing. for making him watch.

and then he saw it.

some guy, some random fucking guy in a hoodie, holding something small and white in his palm, offering it to you like it was a secret. and you, laughing like none of it mattered, plucked it from his hand without hesitation. like it was candy. like it was nothing.

satoru snapped.

he didn’t remember moving, didn’t remember the plastic cup slipping from his hand or the way the music turned into a dull, echoing thud behind his ears. all he knew was that he saw you tilt your head back, laughing like the world wasn’t burning around you, and that little white pill disappearing past your lips like it meant nothing. like you meant nothing.

he was moving before he could think. heat rising under his skin like fire. maybe suguru called after him. maybe choso did, too. he didn’t hear. he just moved.

you didn’t even notice. of course you didn’t. you were busy spinning in slow, unbalanced circles near the kitchen, holding onto a stranger’s arm like it was your lifeline. your mascara was smudged. your lip gloss was all rubbed off. your dress was crooked on one shoulder. and you were smiling.

like you weren’t slowly breaking in front of everyone.

satoru shoved past the guy closest to you without hesitation and grabbed your wrist, not rough, never rough, even now, and pulled you out of the noise, down a dim hallway that smelled like dust and perfume and old beer.

“heyyy,” you giggled, stumbling into his chest with a hiccup. “wait—where’re we goin’?”

he backed you gently against the wall. not to scare you. just to make you stop. to see you.

“what the fuck did you just take?” he asked, voice low and shaking. “do you even know what that was?”

you blinked at him slowly. your lashes stuck together a little with old mascara. your smile stayed soft, dreamy.

“whoa… y’re really pretty,” you murmured, completely dazed. “d’you always yell at girls you just met?”

satoru froze. “you don’t recognize me?”

you tilted your head and giggled again, swaying a little. “no… but you... you kinda sound like...”

he stared at you, heart kicking.

you kept smiling, glassy-eyed and soft. “mm. like—like my toru…”

satoru’s breath hitched. your toru.

“w-who do i sound like?” he asked carefully.

you blinked slowly, lip gloss smudged. “my toruuu,” you whispered like it was a secret. “he talks like you. all bossy. gets mad when i do stupid stuff. but he’s sooo cute about it. he used to get all flustered and blushy when i called him pretty. ‘s’so cute…”

satoru couldn’t breathe.

“he always looked at me like i hung the moon or somethin’. he used t’get sooo serious when i was sad. even when i was tryin’ to hide it, he knew.”

you wiped at your face with the back of your hand, eyes getting wet. “he’d just—ugh, he’d hold my hand real tight under the table. or text me hearts in class. one time he ran across campus in the rain to bring me my stupid lip balm ‘cause i left it in his bag—so dumb, right?”

your voice cracked, but your smile stayed. dreamy. faraway.

“i love toru,” you whispered, eyes unfocused.

satoru’s chest was splintering.

“what happened?” he asked softly.

you leaned your head back against the wall and giggled through your tears. “i messed it alllll up. kissed the wrong guy. made my toru sad. real sad. now he’s gone and i’m like... y’know, jus’ floatin’ around. bein’ a mess. tryna party him outta my brain.”

you swayed again. satoru caught you before you could fall.

“everyone thinks i’m sooo fine,” you slurred. “they’re like, ‘wow, she’s soooo fun, she’s soooo cool, look at her little outfits, she’s sooo hot.’ but i’m like… dying inside. literally dying.”

you said it with a giggle. like it was funny. like it wasn’t killing you.

“i miss him so bad,” you sighed. “his dumb glasses. his dumber shirts. the way he used t’get so excited about science crap, ugh, it was so hot when he nerded out.”

satoru’s throat was raw.

“y'know you kinda smell like toru...he made me feel so…” you paused, eyes fluttering. “safe. like i didn’t have t’be anything but me.”

your voice broke. “i don’t feel like me anymore.”

he didn’t know when he’d started shaking. he just knew you didn’t see him. really see him. you were too far gone. too out of it. too wrapped up in the haze of loss and liquor and longing.

“he’s prolly moved on,” you whispered, slumping against him, head to his chest. “prolly forgot all about me. ‘s’okay. i get it. i’m messy. i’m a lot.”

you looked up at him eyes completely unfocused, lip trembling. “but i miss him.”

your voice was barely audible.

“miss him every’ day.”

he caught you as your legs buckled again, arms cradling you like glass. your perfume was familiar. your weight against him felt like everything he’d ever wanted and everything he’d lost, all at once.

“i still sleep in his shirt sometimes, he- he left it at my dorm when we slept together for the first time...” you mumbled. “even tho it don’t smell like him no more.”

satoru held you tighter.

“i jus’ want my toru back,” you sobbed. “i promise i’ll be good this time.”

and when your voice cracked, when you whispered “i love him” like it was the only truth left in you, satoru closed his eyes and held you close, because he couldn’t say anything. not yet.

not when you didn’t even know he was there.

so he stayed. trembling. breaking. aching.

and you clung to him like he was a stranger.

still calling his name. still calling him yours.

~

satoru didn’t even remember getting out of the house.

he just knew you were in his arms.

you’d passed out sometime between the end of that hallway and the front door, your body slack against his chest, face tucked against the crook of his neck. you smelled like tequila and cherries and perfume, your perfume. the one that made his heart ache now with every inhale.

someone said something as he carried you through the living room, choso, maybe. suguru was behind him, he thought, offering to help. but satoru didn’t stop. he didn’t look back. he just held you tighter and walked out into the cool night air like a man with one purpose.

the city buzzed quietly in the background. neon lights flickered off rain-slick pavement. everything felt slowed down and far away.

he got the passenger door open with one hand. it was clumsy, fumbling, but he didn’t want to let you go. not even for a second.

you didn’t stir as he laid you back gently against the leather seats of his car. you just breathed softly, cheek pressed to your shoulder, a little smudge of glitter still clinging to your eyelids. you looked so small like this. so far from the glossy, untouchable girl on everyone’s feed.

he sat in the driver’s seat for a moment before starting the engine. his hands were shaking.

you loved him.

you said it over and over, like a spell. and you hadn’t even known it was him you were talking to.

satoru had tried so hard these past weeks to let you go. he’d gone out with suguru and choso. laughed. trained. even flirted with some girl at the bookstore who asked about his glasses.

but none of it stuck. nothing filled the space you left behind.

he watched the streetlights blur past the windshield as he drove, one hand tight around the steering wheel, the other resting on your thigh to steady you. like you’d vanish if he didn’t keep you grounded.

you missed him.

you still slept in his shirt.

he let out a breath that was half a sob and blinked hard to keep his eyes clear. he couldn’t cry. not now. not when you needed him steady.

he pulled into the male dorm parking lot, parked, then walked around the car. you shifted a little as he opened the door and scooped you back into his arms, but you didn’t wake. just buried your face deeper into his chest like your body still knew him even if your mind didn’t.

the elevator ride felt endless. the whole building was quiet. just the soft hum of fluorescent lighting and the occasional shuffle of his sneakers on tile.

he carried you down the hall, fished out his keys, and nudged the door open with his foot.

his dorm was still the same. clean, minimal. a few books stacked on the counter. 

satoru laid you gently on his bed, brushing your hair back from your forehead with shaking fingers. your lashes fluttered but didn’t open. your lip gloss had mostly worn off. your breathing was steady now, quiet and warm.

he kneeled beside the bed and stared.

you loved him.

you were falling apart without him.

how had he not seen it? how had he convinced himself that your pretty stories and perfect posts were real? that you were just moving on while he was losing his mind?

you weren’t okay. not even close.

his chest cracked wide open. all the things he’d buried over the last few weeks came rushing back in like a flood, every moment he missed you, every time he started to text you and couldn’t, every time he saw someone else look at you like you were a prize and had to pretend it didn’t kill him inside.

he pressed the back of his hand to your cheek. you were still warm. still here.

you loved him.

your toru.

he let out a slow breath and leaned forward, resting his forehead lightly against your temple.

“i love you,” he whispered. “god, i love you so much.”

he stayed like that for a while. breathing with you. trying to memorize the sound of it.

then, gently, he stood.

he brought you water, set it on the nightstand.

he found wipes in the drawer. he cleaned your face carefully, wiping away the smeared mascara and glitter. then he slipped one of his shirts over your dress, warm from the dryer and smelling like him, and tucked the blankets around you.

you looked so peaceful now. no pain on your face. no glassy, fake smile.

just you.

satoru sat on the floor beside the bed, knees pulled up, arms draped over them, watching you breathe.

he didn’t know what came next. didn’t know what he was supposed to do tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that.

he just knew you were here.

and that was enough, for now.

~

you wake up slowly.

your head is pounding, mouth dry, and there’s a bitter taste in the back of your throat that makes your stomach churn. everything aches. the air smells faintly like clean linen and something warm, cologne maybe, expensive, familiar. your fingers twitch against the duvet, soft and foreign, and when you blink your eyes open, you’re not in your dorm.

you’re in his.

the light filters through sheer curtains you’ve never seen before, washing everything in muted gold. the bed is big, too big for just one person. there’s a hoodie slung over the desk chair. a textbook cracked open on the floor. a sleek pair of glasses folded neatly beside a stack of manga.

your heart lodges in your throat.

satoru.

you sit up too fast. the nausea hits you like a punch to the gut, but you bite down on it. memories come in fragments, shots, music, spinning lights, a hand offering a pill. then a hallway. then him. a voice you’d swear belonged to your memories. the warmth of arms around you. not cruel, not cold. safe.

a creak.

your head snaps to the doorway, and there he is.

satoru, standing there like a ghost you wished for too hard.

his hair’s a mess. he’s still in the shirt from last night, wrinkled and slightly damp at the collar like he’s been rinsing his face over and over. his eyes lock onto yours and his expression break, just a little, like he wasn’t ready to see you awake. like he’s been pacing the edge of this moment and now he’s fallen in.

“hey,” he says softly.

your throat tightens. “hey.”

silence. thick. heavy. his fingers twitch at his sides, and you grip the edge of the duvet like a lifeline.

“i—” you start, but the words crumble. shame floods you, hot and choking. “was it really you? last night?”

he nods. his voice barely makes it out. “yeah.”

you drop your head. your hands tremble as they pull the blanket up higher. “god. i thought—you—I thought i was talking to a stranger.”

“i know.”

“i said so much.” your voice cracks. “i didn’t know it was you.”

he steps forward then, cautiously, like you might vanish if he’s too quick. he sits on the edge of the bed, not too close, not too far. you glance at him, and he looks… wrecked. like he hasn’t slept. like he’s been hollowing himself out to make space for this grief.

“you meant it though,” he says, quietly. “everything you said.”

you nod slowly. “every word.”

you don’t mean to cry, but you do. the tears come fast, hot and silent, trailing down your cheeks as your lip trembles. you wipe them away quickly, but he sees.

of course he sees.

and when he reaches for you—hand slow, careful—you let him. his fingers brush yours, warm and steady, and it’s like breathing for the first time in weeks.

“i didn’t know how to live without you,” you whisper. “after that night. i kept trying to be okay and i just… fell apart.”

his hand shifts, cups your cheek, thumb swiping away a tear. “i saw. at the party. i saw you.”

“oh my god,” you bury your face in your hands. “that’s so fucking embarrassing.”

“no,” he murmurs. “it’s not. it was awful. watching you like that. i wanted to pull you away the second we got there.”

you lower your hands. his eyes are glassy. you’re not sure when he started crying too.

“you shouldn’t still care,” you say, quietly. “after what i did.”

“i couldn’t stop if i tried.

he leans forward, forehead pressed to yours, breath hitching against your lips.

“i love you,” he says. it spills out like a secret too heavy to hold. “i love you so much it fucking ruins me. i tried to forget. i tried to move on. but every time i close my eyes it’s just you. laughing. posing. slurring about your toru like he hung the stars.”

your breath shakes. “he did.”

his lips are soft when they kiss your cheek. then your jaw. then the corner of your mouth. not greedy. not hungry. just there. grounding.

“you looked so happy when you talked about me,” he whispers. “even when you didn’t know it was me. like i meant something. like i wasn’t just—temporary.”

“you’re not,” you breathe. “you never were.”

your fingers find his shirt and tug him closer. your body curls into his, all shaky breath and uneven heartbeats. he gathers you into his lap without hesitation, arms wrapped around you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear again. your face presses to his shoulder, and his palm runs up and down your back.

“i should’ve fought harder,” you murmur. “i let you go because i didn’t think i deserved you. and maybe i don’t. but i missed you so much, toru. every day felt like drowning.”

his voice is thick, soft. “then let’s come up for air. together.”

you clutch his shirt tighter. “i don’t wanna do this without you anymore.”

“you don’t have to,” he whispers into your hair. “i’m here. you hear me? i’m here.”

you nod. your tears soak into his shoulder, and his thumb strokes your spine gently, his breath shaking each time you shudder against him.

and when you finally pull back to look at him, eyes puffy, nose red, breath uneven, he cups your face with both hands and kisses you. really kisses you. slow and deep and aching, like a promise.

like home.

you don’t know how long you stay wrapped in his arms, the sun just barely starting to rise through the blinds, painting the room in soft streaks of gold and pink. your head is on his chest, and you can feel his heart, solid and steady, under your palm like it’s trying to hold yours together too. everything still feels fragile. delicate. like if you moved too fast, it might all fall apart again.

his hand is stroking your hair, fingers so gentle it makes your eyes sting.

“can’t believe you’re here,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from sleep and crying. “thought i lost you.”

you close your eyes, squeezing his shirt in your fist. “you almost did.”

it’s honest. there’s no point in lying now. not when everything’s cracked open and raw between you, not when his scent is all around you and his arms feel more like home than anything else has in weeks.

“i was so stupid,” you whisper. “i ruined everything.”

he exhales slow, presses his lips to your forehead. “you were hurting.”

“i still am,” you admit, voice shaking. “i was trying not to feel anything at all.”

he doesn’t say anything for a second. just holds you tighter. “you think i didn’t notice?” he says quietly. “you think i didn’t see it all over your face that night?”

you curl into his chest, ashamed. “i didn’t think you’d ever want to see me again.”

“god,” he breathes, “i never stopped wanting to.”

he rolls onto his side, gently shifting so he’s facing you, hand sliding up your arm, your neck, until his fingers are cupping your jaw. his thumb traces your cheekbone, like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.

you look at him, really look, eyes soft, mouth parted, the vulnerable kind of handsome that makes your chest ache.

“i thought about you every day,” he says, and his voice cracks on it. “even when i hated myself for it. even when i wanted to stop.”

your breath hitches. “me too.”

his forehead presses to yours. “i thought about your laugh. the way you talk. the way you looked at me like i was something special, even when i didn’t know how to be.”

you close your eyes, a tear slipping out. “you are special. you’ve always been.”

his hand moves down to your waist, drawing slow shapes through the thin fabric of your shirt, his shirt. “you looked so happy online. all those stories, those parties… i wanted to believe you were okay. but i knew.”

you swallow. “i wanted to forget.”

“you took something from a stranger,” he says softly. “that night. you could’ve…”

“i didn’t care,” you say, voice small. “nothing mattered without you.”

he’s quiet for a moment. then, “you told me all of it. in the hallway. you didn’t even know it was me.”

you blink, eyes wide. “i—what?”

he nods slowly. “you were out of your mind, but you told me about how much you loved your toru. how good he was to you. how much you missed him. you cried in my arms and didn’t even realize it was me.”

your lips part, a breath caught in your throat. you remember slurring something. you remember crying. but not that.

“fuck,” you whisper. “i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry.”

his thumb catches the tear slipping down your cheek. “don’t be. it was the most honest thing i’ve heard in a long time.”

you reach for him then, hand threading into the soft white hair at his nape, pulling him closer until your noses brush, until his breath is warm against your lips. “i still love you,” you say. “i never stopped.”

he kisses you.

it’s not rushed or messy. it’s slow, deep, like he’s drinking the words from your mouth, like he needs them to breathe. his hand tilts your chin, the other anchored to your waist, and he kisses you like he’s making a promise, one he’s been aching to say for weeks.

your hands slide up under his shirt, pressing to the warm skin of his back, and he shivers at the touch. you feel him melt into you, the tension draining from his shoulders, and it makes you pull him even closer.

“toru,” you breathe into his mouth, voice soft and trembling.

he exhales your name like a prayer. kisses you again. and again.

his lips move down your jaw, to your throat, open-mouthed and reverent. every touch is careful. every breath against your skin feels like it means something.

“you’re everything to me,” he murmurs, voice shaking. “you don’t even know.”

“show me,” you whisper.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching, ocean-blue and so full of pain and love and want that it makes your heart clench. “i don’t want to hurt you.”

“you won’t,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair. “i trust you.”

his forehead presses to yours again, breath uneven, and then he kisses you like he’s pouring all of it into you — the fear, the sorrow, the love that never died.

you let him. let him hold you like you’re made of something precious, like he’s terrified of losing you all over again.

your hands roam his back, his shoulders, memorizing the shape of him again. and when he leans down to kiss the hollow of your throat, you gasp, tears slipping free again because it’s just so much. everything you thought you’d lost. everything you’ve missed. he pulls you into his lap, arms firm around your waist, grounding you. your noses brush. your lips meet again. and again.

and somewhere between the kisses and the whispered apologies, the soft gasps and trembling hands, something inside of you starts to heal.

not all at once. not completely.

but enough to let the light in again.

enough to believe that maybe — just maybe — you can have something good.

with him.

with your toru.

long fic number two DONE YAYAYA

guys idk how to do tag lists SOMEONE TEACH ME 🙏🏼🙏🏼

omg all your sweet comments make me cry i'm so happy you like my writing 🙁❤️❤️

[star-suh]

The Protector.

Lee Hoseok x Male Reader.

cw: bodyguard top wonho, bottom rich reader.

—

yn is the son of an important businesswoman of the city, at 22 yn got uses to get what he wanted –the new luxury item on the market, a designer piece of clothes or even someone’s attention– but sometimes being in the eye of the public and with such a quantity of money behind someone’s back could put a target – a red dot– on someone’s forehead and that’s what happened to yn. lately he has been receiving a lot of anonymous calls, death threats and the feeling of someone always watching him –ready to jump on him and do what those threats say, seeing how he was in danger, his mother had to take action, she hired a bodyguard that would be protecting his son 24/7.

“here’s your new bodyguard son” his mother says, taking a step to the side so he can enter the lobby, here he is –tall, muscular, his arms and broad back straining against the black suit– he exuded such a strong aura and was very professional, something that trapped yn, like a moth to a flame. so naturally the flirting came, yn always made sentences emphasizing how the suits hugged his body so tightly, how he’s so muscular, so big, “i won’t mind being pinned down by you. you know, for safety reasons”, the joke falling flat to wonho’s ears, “focus yn,i’m here just to keep you safe”, his responses were always short, just a few words that were enough to shut y up for a moment. but this didn’t stopped yn to keep going, because he can see something flickering on his eyes, a little bit of heat igniting behind his eyes that held some intensity to it.

then that fateful night happened, there was a family meeting and yn was there, bored of the adults talking nonsenses that he didn’t understand –he was just there accompanying his mom with his bodyguard to his side as always, the smell of his cologne feeling like a drug for yn. then one of the other bodyguards received an enveloped, yn’s name on it scribbled in what it looks like it’s blood, he opened the letter and it says ‘tick tock, at eleven o’clock the basement would be gone’ chaos erupted in the room, everyone leaving as soon as they can –there were only minutes left for 11:00 pm to come– everyone fled to find a safe spot outside the building, “take my son far away from here”, ms. ln told wonho and he obeyed, grabbing yn and running towards the black SUV. in the road outside the city, wonho spotted a motel where they can lay low for a couple of days, parking the SUV there while asking for separate rooms, unfortunately there was only one room left, so he took it saying he could sleep on the couch while yn does it on the bed.

yn lay on the bed, taking off his jacket, staying with a white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, all while wonho peeked through the curtains, seeing if there’s something suspicious happening outside, his posture is rigid, his gun ready to fire.

“this is boring, the tv only has like two channels and the wi-fi signal is bad” he tossed the phone to one side of the mattress. “you’re safe and that’s what matters”, wonho said. “why don't you drop the professionalism for once. come on we’re alone wonho, that bodyguard act makes you ten times hotter but just drop it for five minutes at least”. his eyes locked onto yn’s, “i was hired to protect you, not entertain you” he voiced, putting his gun on the nightstand and sitting on the couch. “protect me i see…” yn trailed and then chuckled, “why don’t you protect me from this cold night then. come over here” he pats the side of the bed.

wonho felt heat creeping up his neck, becoming flushed, “would you ever watch your mouth?” he fixed his posture, “i know you like this so why would i stop?”, he sits on the bed, “i know the way you watch me, you think i’m not paying attention but i do” a grin appearing on yn’s face –you might be good at your job but you suck at hiding things” he added, “i’ll keep pushing until you break, until you give in and give me what i want” he muttered lowly with a sexy tone, crawling in the bed that was right i front of the couch where wonho was sitting.

“i don’t mix my work with personal matters. as i said i’m supposed to protect you not fuck you” wonho loosened up his tie, it felt like it was choking him, “there’s always a first time for everything” yn smirked at wonho, his chin resting over his hands that were placed on the edge of the bed. wonho stood up and walked towards yn, he stopped right in front of him –his crotch inches apart of yn’s face, he was there looking down at yn with those hunter dark eyes. he grabs his face, both hands placed on his cheeks –pulling his face up to make eye contact– “you don’t have any idea of what you’re asking for, boy” his low voice making yn’s body shiver. “then why don’t you show me?” submissiveness laced on yn’s voice.

yn’s face was pressed against wonho’s crotch, sniffing into his manly scent, feeling the bulge growing inside those clothes. he is then pulled up by wonho and then is thrown to the center of the bed –wonho crawled quickly over yn, lips latched on the other’s. his hands pinning yn’s hips in place. yn gasped, feeling breathless by wonho’s rough kisses, he melted on the kiss while his hands took off the other’s jacket and shirt –the tie still around his neck, hanging loosely. yn’s fingers quickly found wonho’s massive chest, squeezing and kneading the skin there and also playing with his nipples –swallowing his moans in the act.

yn kept tugging at his tie to deepen the kiss while wonho’s hips moved on their own, frotting his bulge on yn’s ass, the legs of the latter locked on the other’s hips. “just because i did what you wanted doesn’t mean i’m not in charge” wonho spoke in between pants and wet sloppy kisses to which yn responded with “i didn’t pretend to be in charge anyway”.

wonho as the strong man he is ripped yn’s shirt and in a swift motion pulled down both his pants and underwear leaving him completely naked under him, then his mouth latched on yn’s throat –nipping at the skin there while his hands unbuckled his belt to take off his the remaining pieces of clothes on his body. “you’re so fucking hot” yn whimpered, “you have no idea how much i wanted this”. one of wonho’s hands wrapped around yn’s dick while the other worked on his hole, coating it in saliva and stretching him open with scissoring motions. then he finally pushes himself into yn, the stretch making yn moan louder. the room quickly got filled with those arousing wet sounds accompanied by filthy words that wonho whispered on the bottom’s ear –each word making him more and more horny. the headboard of the bed slammed against the wall and the bed creaking as equally as wonho’s rough thrust were, the pace perfect to fuck some attitude out of yn, to make him realize who’s the one in charge in this work relationship.

yn’s hands clawed at wonho’s broad, muscular back, his nails leaving traces –marks of how good he was feeling thanks to him. the stinging pain didn’t matter, it’s being drowned by the delicious sensation down there, it’s like heaven. “wonho” yn slurred, hugging wonho tightly –he doesn’t want this night to end– this flipped a switch inside the bodyguard, “say my name again” purposefully slowing down his thrusts to make the other whimpers, the painfully slow drags of his cock inside his ass making him squirm, he wanted more, he needs more.

“please wonho, harder… fill me up” tears pooling on his hooded eyes, if there was an ounce of self-restraint left in wonho is completely gone now, he thrusted as fast as any human could do, yn’s words coming out shaky, gritting his teeth when he felt the climax coming –coming like a tidal wave– he came on his stomach, some of it sticking to the other’s perfectly toned abs. he is followed then by wonho who pulls out to stroke his cock, aiming the tip directly towards the bottom’s gape hole to shoot his load inside him. when he’s done he puts it back again to thrust a few times more. the bed is drenched in sweat and fluids, wonho didn’t pulled out, he stayed there buried, “i’ll tell my mom to give you a rise if you keep doing this to me” yn jokes, “shut up” wonho grinned, “i would’ve let you cockwarm me but i still have a job to do” wonho stood up and went towards the bathroom to clean himself. yn remained on the bed, his chest heaving. oh these next months are going to be very fun.

[papayainsectorone]

Bad Day Fix

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request: can you write about comforting kimi antonelli after a bad race or hes sad

content: angst, fluff, vulnerability, healing, comfort, reassurance, bad race, established relationship

word count: 1,7k

pairing: kimi antonelli x fem!reader

════════════════════════

You know it’s bad before you even see him.

The broadcast cuts off and the silence that follows feels heavier than the race itself. You’re left staring at the black screen, heart caught somewhere between frustration and helplessness — that gnawing twist in your chest when things unravel, slowly at first, then all at once.

The race had been chaos. A strategy that didn’t work. A pit stop that went long. The car fighting him through every lap. You watched the whole thing unfold from the couch, gripping a pillow like it could somehow keep the wheels turning, keep him afloat.

But it hadn’t. And now he’s somewhere out there, probably still in his suit, still wound tight, unraveling in a paddock garage with too-bright lights and too many eyes.

You wait for the message. A text. A sigh. Even a single emoji — his usual heart or thumbs-down when he's grumpy but okay.

Nothing comes.

That’s the second sign.

By the time the hotel room door clicks open, the sun’s gone. You’ve been sitting on the bed for hours, pretending to read, re-reading the same paragraph until the words mean nothing. When Kimi steps in, it’s like the energy in the room shifts — sucked out in one breath.

He doesn’t say anything. Just drops his bag by the wall like it might explode if he touches it too long. His shoulders are curled inward, baseball cap tugged low, jaw set like he’s trying not to crack his own teeth from clenching too hard.

“Hey,” you say, soft and steady.

He nods. That’s all you get.

You close the book, setting it gently on the nightstand, and pat the bed beside you. “Come sit.”

For a second, he doesn’t move — eyes fixed on the floor, the silence stretching too long. Then he does. Slowly. Like every step is a weight. But he doesn’t sit on the bed. He lowers himself to the floor in front of it, elbows braced on his knees, cap still hiding most of his face. He stares at the carpet like it said something cruel.

“I fucked up,” he says, voice rough and low. “Everything. The strategy was shit, yeah, but I should’ve adapted. Should’ve seen it earlier. I should’ve pushed, saved the tires better. I don’t know. Something.”

You slide closer, shift onto your stomach at the edge of the bed until you can rest your chin gently on his shoulder. You don’t push. Don’t try to fix it. Just offer the truth.

“You did everything you could.”

His shoulders tighten under your touch. He doesn’t lean into it, not yet, but he doesn’t pull away either. That’s enough for now.

“I hate how it felt,” he murmurs, the words thick, like they cost him something to say. “Like I wasn’t even driving my own race anymore. Just reacting. Like the whole thing slipped out of my hands and I couldn’t grab it back.”

You stay quiet, the weight of your chin resting lightly against his hoodie. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves — jaw clenched, fingers knotted together, legs bouncing faintly with leftover adrenaline.

“I tried to reset,” he goes on. “Told myself, ‘You’ve got time. You can still pull something from this.’ But then I came out behind traffic, and the grip was gone, and I just—” He cuts himself off, exhaling hard. “I don’t know why it messed me up so bad.”

His voice doesn’t break, but it dips. Frustrated. Fragile. Like he’s angry for even letting it get to him.

You shift slightly, letting your hand move until your fingers curl around his bicep. Just grounding him. No pressure.

“It matters to you,” you say gently. “That’s not a weakness, Kimi. It’s the opposite.”

He finally looks at you. Just a glance over his shoulder, eyes ringed with exhaustion, but something in them flickers — like maybe, just maybe, he hears you.

“I just keep thinking about what I should’ve done. I keep playing it back like I can undo it if I watch it enough times.”

“You’re not a robot,” you remind him. “You’re allowed to be frustrated. But one race doesn’t rewrite who you are.”

Kimi swallows hard, and for a moment, it’s like the silence is going to win — like he’ll shut down again, slip into himself and wall it all off. But then he exhales, rough and long, and leans back just enough for his shoulder to brush yours. Not fully leaning. Not yet. But closer.

“Everyone always says ‘move on’ or ‘learn from it,’” he mutters. “But right now I just feel…embarrassed. Like I let people down.”

You shift off the bed slowly, sliding down to the floor beside him. Legs folded, back against the edge of the mattress. You take his hand — still clenched — and gently pry his fingers open so you can thread yours through them.

“You didn’t let anyone down,” you say, firm but soft. “Especially not me.”

His jaw ticks again. His fingers twitch around yours. “You always say the right thing,” he mutters, but there’s a trace of warmth in it now. Quiet gratitude buried under everything else.

“I say what’s true,” you answer. “Even when you forget it.”

For the first time, Kimi lets his head fall sideways, resting against your shoulder. It’s not dramatic or loud. Just tired. Real. His cap shifts, revealing a bit more of his expression — flushed from the long day, brows still pinched like his brain won’t stop replaying the track.

You nudge his head softly. “Come on. Scoot up.”

He blinks like he didn’t expect you to say anything — like he forgot, for a moment, that he’s allowed to ask for comfort. But after a beat, he moves, slow and wordless, crawling up onto the bed.

You shift too, sliding back toward the headboard until you’re sitting upright, knees bent slightly. Kimi settles in between your legs, his head resting on your stomach, arms curled loosely around your waist. He exhales again, the sound quieter this time, more resigned than tense. His whole body melts into you, like gravity’s finally winning.

Your fingers move instinctively to his hair, slipping beneath the edge of his cap to run through the soft strands at the nape of his neck. He lets out a quiet sound — not quite a sigh, not quite a groan — and closes his eyes.

“There we go,” you murmur, barely audible over the room’s hush. “That’s better.”

He doesn’t speak, but his grip tightens slightly around you, just enough to say thank you again without words.

You let him stay like that, gently carding your fingers through his hair, the slow rhythm of it anchoring you both. The hotel room is still, the only sound the muffled buzz of the city outside and the occasional shift of fabric when he breathes a little deeper.

Time stretches. Not in a heavy way — more like a blanket pulled up over both of you.

After a long while, he speaks, voice thick with exhaustion but softer than before.

“Do you ever think it’s stupid? That I care this much?”

You look down at him, frowning. “No. Never.”

His cheek is warm against your stomach. He doesn’t open his eyes, just listens.

“Because if you didn’t care,” you continue gently, “you wouldn’t be you. You wouldn’t fight this hard. You wouldn’t have gotten as far as you have.”

He shifts slightly, pressing his forehead more firmly against you. “It just hurts. Failing like that. In front of everyone.”

“You didn’t fail.”

He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t agree either.

So you lower your voice even more, soft and certain. “You had a bad day. That’s all it was. A bad day. But you’re still Kimi. You’re still…you.”

Another beat of silence. And then:

“Keep talking,” he says, muffled against your hoodie. “I like when you talk like that.”

You smile gently, bending to press a kiss into his hair. “Good. Because I could say it a thousand times and it would still be true.”

[littledes1re]

Love again / Based on this ask!!

Warnings: reader is lonely, crying, heartbroken stuff, and fluff

You were heartbroken. The feeling of loneliness hanging on your shoulders. Heavy. The world no longer felt the same, your feelings were in complete chaos. However, everything had to go on. You had to pay your rent, you had to feed your stomach. You had to go back to work. After you broke up with your partner, everything no longer felt the same. You took a day off because the physical exertion wasn't enough; you were devastated.

And if all that wasn't enough, you also had to deal with rude customers. Doing what they wanted, but none of them saw the sadness in your eyes. None of your colleagues noticed how the light in your eyes was gone.

You felt alone.

Until there was him. Joel Miller.

The man who came to the bar every other day. An older guy, respecful, funny and good looking. Nothing you see often, not one who looks at your tits, not one who says something disrespectful in a catcalling manner.

He made you laugh, always.

And on that day you came back to your work, he was there too.

„The usual, miller?“ you asked.

„Yea. How you doin‘?“ he asked, the sweat visible on his forehead. He just came from work—like he always does.

„Ugh. I don‘t know. Good, I guess.“

„Just good, huh?“ his left eyebrow arched, he looked suspicious. Maybe trying to not mix feelings with work wasn‘t working.

You nodded and on that day, joel didn‘t ask more questions. He understood. He didn‘t want to make you uncomfortable but he also didn‘t want to leave you in this sadness that you had for whatever reason.

„Hey, s‘me again. You want me to light that up for you?“ It was Joel. On your break behind the bar, trying to light up that god damn cigarette on your hand to just feel peace for one second.

He held a lighter up for you, the cigarette lightening up as you took one big inhale and exhaled it out. Finally feeling just an ounce of relief.

„I know we don‘t know each other but—m‘here. Like if you wanna talk.“

You looked at joel, the rough edges, board shoulders and grumpy face was just a facade. He was a soft hearted man, someone you trusted. And as those brown eyes looked at you, worried, you felt the first tear drops forming in your eyes, quickly looking down and putting your hands on them so joel wouldn‘t see it.

„Oh, sweetheart.“ but he saw it. And he laid a hand on your shoulder squeezing. And as a sob came trough you unexpected, you leaned into his body burying your head into his chest. Crying. He cooed, softly wrapping his arms around you and gently stroking your back.

You felt dumb crying your heart out on the chest of a stranger. But it felt good. The care, the words. The warmth. In that moment, this is what you needed.

Joel let you know that he was going to be waiting for you after your shift. And he did. Standing there in front of his car smiling at you. It felt familiar.

„Beautiful girl like you will have lots of partners in the future. I know, the feeling after breaking up with someone. It gets better, I promise you.“ as you sit on his passenger seat, talking your heart out.

His words made you feel better. Not so alone anymore, you felt comfortable being with him. His words calming you, giving your heavy heart the peace it deserved.

„And whenever you feel sad, know that there are people who care about you. Including me.“ he added.

„Joel, you are way too kind.“

„Nah, not too kind. M‘telling the truth, it‘s a hard time. But can‘t bare seeing you this sad.“

‚Joel <3‘ was the name you gave him on your phone. He came every day after your work to pick you up, never left you hungry, never sad.

Let you talk out your heart, let you know him better. He was a good man, caring, gentle. His step daughter the same, you loved them both. And after a few weeks joel asked you for a date. While you felt like you couldn‘t let anybody in that fast, you still wanted to be with him. His words reassuring you, his acts making you know that he loves you.

„Ain‘t gonna let my girl go out with a hungry belly.“ he told you as he gave you packed sandwiches before your work, giving you a kiss on the lips and a peck on the forehead, before he lets you go. And while work sucked and the people were rude, you were awaiting to see your sweet boyfriend at the end of the day again.

Anon, I hope you feel better!!🫂🩷

[thestoryteller-thedreamer]

Alternative Ending to Crystallized:

What if Harumi's life was bonded to the Overlord? What if she could only exist as long as the Crystal King held onto his power?

Lloyd knows that as soon as he strikes the final blow, the Overlord will fall and take Harumi, the girl who betrayed and twisted him, the girl Lloyd desperately needs to redeem, with him.

He tries to find another way, to keep her alive and save the world at the same time.

But Harumi knows there is no other way, and her longing for revenge, though it has changed targets, is just as strong as ever.

Giving Lloyd one last glance, a look she knows will stay with him forever, Harumi throws herself at the Overlord and takes him down, sacrificing herself in the process.

Unable to stop her or save her, Lloyd can only scream from the sidelines, take her lifeless body in his arms, and sit in the failure that he couldn't do it. He couldn't change her. He couldn't save her.

Under the pressure of being the Green Ninja, of being the grandson of the FSM, of being the bridge between the Oni and the Dragons, Lloyd snaps. Because what does his power and duty matter, if he couldn't protect the girl he thought he loved?

Standing on the ashes of the Overlord's crystal kingdom, Lloyd realizes that maybe his enemy was right. Maybe trying to keep the balance only results in more chaos and brokenness and destruction. He has already lost so much, Lloyd can't risk losing anymore.

He rises to his feet and claims the throne the Overlord left behind, making himself Ninjago's Golden Master. The other ninja don't dare to fight back, because they have sworn to protect him. Because he is their little brother, and they would never hurt him. Because they are afraid that the Lloyd they knew, the one who was trusting and good and kind, is gone forever.

And the light that Lloyd brought to Ninjago, a light that once chased away the shadows, grows so blinding that no one can see anymore. His light has become its own darkness.

[bluerosefox]

Kidnapped Persephone Style

Me: *tossing prompt idea up and down in the air before chucking it into the Void we call the internet*

Jason is dating Ghost Prince (not yet King) Danny and goes on a really awesome and romantic date on his day off. He forgot to tell the fam though. So when Red Robin comes to give Jason an update on some entil, he watches in muted horror as Jason is 'kidnapped' by a glowing entity in black armor and a nightmare looking horse (Danny is a bit busy doing paperwork, so he had his Fright Knight pick Jason up) off of a Gotham rooftop and into a green portal, while the knight had proclaimed Jason as their future Kings 'intended'..

No one on coms is ready for Tim to yell out

"I THINK JASON JUST GOT KIDNAPPED PERSEPHONE STYLE!!"

[marvelstoriesepic]

Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

[quickestgold]

Okay but LISTENNNNN. Reader and Jack having feelings for eachother but he pulls back (she’s still new , too young , etc) he’s been cold and she decided to take that day off work and go to Pitt Fest and …oh no…. (Still lives but it’s BAD)

Strip Her: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Synopsis: Amidst a mass casualty event, Jack’s medical instincts clash with his personal life when the woman he loves risks her own life to save another. Is he about to watch you die?

Warnings: Canon-typical depictions of trauma/gun violence, mass shooting, GSWs, blood; Reader basically does what Santos did, but in the field hah! > No "good girl" energy from Jack, just anger for putting yourself in danger lol

Word count: 2k+

A/n: Thanks so much for sending this in, so sorry it's taken so long!! Lmk what you think!! ♡

This is not exactly in our mass casualty plan.

Blood is for the ones we can save.

Ten other patients will die if you put all of your energy into saving this girl.

Jack’s own words haunt him, playing through his mind on a torturous loop.

He looks at Robby, pleading for something. Then back at you, watching you fight for your life.

"Hi, handsome."

"Wanna come over after your shift?"

Read.

You huff out a humorless laugh. The old man really left you on Read.

You know Jack isn't a big texter, making the age-gap between you hilariously obvious. But today it gets to you.

Jack isn't your immediate superior, but you wonder if this is why he's been acting cold. More than usual.

The ER staff love to talk. Of course they do. But neither Jack nor you care about that. You’ve made it clear there’s an undeniable connection between you.

So, you’ve acted on it.

The last couple of months have been bliss, an unspoken understanding of exclusivity.

But now, Jack's been distant. Swapping shifts, avoiding working with you.

Was it something you did?

You've already double texted him today, wishing him a good shift and letting him know that Robby's asked you to 'babysit'.

How embarrassing. But you draft another.

"Heading to Pitt Fest now, will be up for some fun when you get home... ;)"

You delete the last part. God. Don't show your age!

"Heading to Pitt Fest now, see you soon."

You hit send.

Code Triage. Emergency Department Now.

The mass casualty event is in full swing. Patients come and go. Green. Yellow. Pink. Red. Black and White.

It's a haze of coordinated chaos.

Jack keeps trying to reach you in-between treating patients, leaving you countless voicemails.

Of course he would.

"Hey, Y/N. It's Jack. Call or text me the second you get this message, okay?" His voice trembles. "She's not picking up."

"I can't reach Jake either." Robby mutters.

"I'm sure they're ok." Dana offers gently.

Time slips away, minutes turning into hours. Their shift was supposed to end a while ago, but they've stopped keeping track.

"I'm going to check on triage." Robby announces, stepping out to help Shen and Ellis assess incoming patients. "No pulse. Black and white. Pink zone. Strong pulse. Unresponsive. No obvious GSW. Red zone GSW left chest."

A familiar voice cuts through the noise. "She was talking when we first got into the truck. T- There was so much blood."

"Jake!" Robby's at his side in a flash.

"Robby! Leah got shot. It's really bad...", Jake cries out.

Robby is at a loss for words, his medical instincts fighting the fatherly ones in a gruesome match.

"I've been putting pressure on the wound the whole time", Jake stutters.

"That's good. You're good", Robby reassures him, more for himself than Jake.

The team rushes Leah into the ER. Jake follows closely behind. "You can't stay with her. There's no room and we need to work on Leah right now", Robby says firmly, getting to work immediately.

Jack spots them and hurries over, panic rising in his chest.

"Where’s Y/N?" he asks, voice tight.

"I- I don’t know," Jake mutters. "She stopped Leah’s bleeding, then went back in."

"What do you mean?" Jack growls, trying to keep his voice calm.

Robby looks up, taking in Jake's words. The lines on his forehead growing deeper.

"People were screaming. The shots were so loud. She- She went back to see if others needed help." Jake's eyes well up, before he is wheeled off to get treated.

Of course you would put someone else's safety over your own.

Others might see it as noble, but Robby and Jack think it's reckless.

They exchange a look, knowing there's nothing they can do to reach you. To make sure you're okay.

Jack is called to another patient, while Robby proceeds to work on Leah.

Despite their best efforts, it's not enough.

Minutes pass. Jack watches Robby closely, his desperation becoming more evident by the second. Dana gives Jack a knowing look, recognizing the only person who can reach Robby right now is him.

Jack steps closer, glasses off, his voice gentle.

"The bullet tore through her heart", he says softly, giving Robby time to process.

"Anyone else with a wound like this is pronounced dead in the field. You can't keep up with the blood loss. If she was our only patient, we'd do a thoracotamy, maybe ECMO. But even then, I doubt we'd get her back." Jack's words hang heavy in the air, but he continues.

"We're gonna lose ten other patients if you put all your efforts into saving this girl." Jack doesn't let it show, but it pains him to see Robby hurting like this.

Robby does one final pulse check. But Leah's heart is no longer beating, the realization shattering his own.

"Okay, we're done", Robby whispers, breaking.

"We stopped at 19:47", Dana declares. "Move her to Pedes?", she asks gently.

Robby just nods.

"You want me to go with you to talk to Jake?"

He shakes his head. "No. No, thanks. I got it."

But another gurney is wheeled in. Robby notices first.

"Jesus Christ", he mutters. "What's going on?"

"Female. 30s. GSW to the right inguinal region. Retroperitoneal bleed", Dr. Mohan declares. But there's someone else kneeling at the end of the gurney, holding the patient's leg up. Robby and Jack's eyes widen, when they meet yours.

"The bullet must have tracked north and hit the external illiac", you state nonchalantly, ignoring the stunned looks from your colleagues.

It was supposed to be your day off.

"Dr. Y/LN did a REBOA in the field to stop the bleeding", Samira continues.

"You did what?!" Robby gasps, incredulous but unable to hide his pride.

Jack is by your side in an instant. "Are you shitting me?"

"Hello to you too, Dr. Abbot", you smile weakly, still focused on the patient’s wound.

Another time, your smile would’ve lit a spark. Not now.

Jack's anger is palpable.

You’ve seen it before, his cold, stone-faced demeanor, always one existential crisis away from breaking. But never directed at you.

"Are you hurt?" Jack’s voice is dangerously low.

He's scared.

Robby and Jack scan your blood-soaked clothing. You quickly dismiss their concern.

"Uncontrollable bleeding from a pelvic artery, no other options. I blew up a balloon in the aorta to stop the bleed. Going in a few inches, zone three, below the kidney. I just needed to hit the femoral artery."

You hesitate, but go for it anyway.

"Piece of cake", you grin, weaker than usual, but you hope they don't notice. They do.

"Radial's stronger." Mel confirms.

Robby and Jack both notice your uneven breathing but chalk it up to the stress and trauma you've experienced.

"Also, GSW to the chest, left hypochondriac region. Probable internal bleeding", you continue.

"No. That's not true-", Samira objects.

You direct everyone's attention to your own chest, your breathing becoming erratic.

"What?!" Jack's voice cracks, disbelief, shock and fear hitting him all at once.

You feel like you can hear your own heartbeat, the ER growing eerily quiet at your confession.

"Okay. Let go of her leg", Robby orders in an intimidating tone.

"Gurney!" Jack barks.

"I need to lock the balloon first." You stare directly into Jack's eyes, knowing he won't budge. You turn to your friend and mentor, pleading.

"Robby." He knows you're right.

"Do it." Robby nods, ordering Whittaker to check the wound once you're done.

"BP's 110, by palp", Donnie announces.

Jack remains frozen, his mind racing a million miles a minute.

"The balloon can stay up for an hour max. Get IR and Vascular on the case." Robby directs, before drawing everyone's attention back to you.

Your patient is stable.

You've done what you can.

But the blood loss is catching up with you.

"I- I think it's a through-and-through. My back hurts like hell and my legs feel funny." Jack snaps out of his trance, his training kicking in.

Robby lifts your top, shocked at the severity of the injury. Jack shuts his eyes, unable to stomach the sight.

It must be bad.

But it doesn't hurt too much.

Not a great sign.

"Okay. Stabilize her", Robby orders, multiple hands are on you immediately, steadying you. Grabbing the base of your neck, your shoulders and hips, securing you in place.

You're still sat on the gurney, but have now let go of the patient's leg.

"Strip her", Jack commands, voice low and firm, eyes dark and unreadable.

You try to lighten the mood. "Gee, buy me dinner first, won't you?"

A few giggles from the team, but Jack's lips are tightly pressed together in a fine line, facing downwards.

Dana cuts through your top, leaving only your bra. Unusual. But you're relieved to not flash your coworkers. You'd rather like to maintain the mysterious vibe you've got going on.

"Cowards", you tease. More chuckles, but worry growing on everyone's faces.

You whisper to Jack, "I'm sorry."

He doesn't respond. Can't look at you. Instead he orders a chest tube and a unit of blood.

A sharp gasp rips through you, the weight on your chest suddenly making it hard to breathe. "Fuck, that hurts." Any last traces of playfulness vanish, replaced by something else.

Fear.

Jack realizes he has to save his anger for later. "Hey. It's okay", a slight smile now tugging at his lips. "I've seen you worse", but the vulnerability in his voice betrays him.

Shit. It must be really bad. He's cracking jokes now?

Your anxiety spikes.

Is Jack about to watch you die?

You shiver at the thought. Or maybe it's the blood loss. Probably both.

Your vision blurs. Your thoughts get foggy.

"J-Jack?" You're not sure he hears you. Or anybody really. Did the words even come out?

Your eyes flutter shut. There are no more thoughts.

Only darkness.

Robby orders Jack to step back, the roles tragically reversed.

This is not exactly in our mass casualty plan.

Blood is for the ones we can save.

Ten other patients will die if you put all of your energy into saving this girl.

Jack’s own words haunt him, playing through his mind on a torturous loop.

He has been distant with you. But not because of your age, or your careers.

No, it's because letting you in means risking losing you and he knows he can't survive that kind of pain. He’s seen too much death, too much loss. And loving you only makes that fear stronger.

He looks at Robby, pleading for something. Then back at you, watching you fight for your life.

"I know." Robby is laser-focused, but shudders at the thought of Jack up on that roof again.

Painfully aware of the inevitable cost of losing you.

They won't. They can't.

Monitors and machines beep in a faint rhythm.

You wake, eyes heavy. A familiar figure is propped up in the armchair beside your bed.

He looks like shit.

Jack's wearing the same bloodstained scrubs, dark circles beneath his eyes, hair dishevelled. On second thought... it's a look.

"Hi, handsome", you whisper, unsure if it’s the relief of being alive, the pain meds or just seeing Jack, but a wave of comfort floods you.

He leans in, eyes wide with tenderness.

"Hi, beautiful."

His gaze radiates a warmth that kept you alive, even when your skin grew cold.

"How are you feeling?" His voice is soft. So unbelievably soft. The anger has subsided, but you know there’s a conversation you’ll have another day.

He takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently.

"Peachy", you exhale, giving him a warm and genuine smile. He returns it, his shoulders relaxing more with every steady breath you take.

You hesitate, but finally go for it. "So, about you leaving me on Read." Your smile turns into a familiar smirk. "You know only old people leave voicemails, right?"

Jack's breath catches in his throat, caught off guard. He chokes out a strangled laugh.

"You're unbelievable", he says, before leaning down, his lips brushing gently over yours.

The grip this man has on me I swear... Also, I'm still in shock from ep13 and I fear it's only getting worse... Jack being so rational about letting Leah go was So Painful, so writing this was very cathartic. Pls comment/share your thoughts below. ♡

[iceunhie]

— KISSES OR KISSES? : honkai star rail

premise. testing out your new lipstick is no fun (normally), so what better way to make use of it by kissing your lover senseless? not to mention, leaving a little something behind.... (aka, lipstick kisses with them.)

ft. blade, dan heng, boothill, dr. ratio, aventurine !

warnings: feminine reader! reader is ultimately genderless but you may interpret this as fem!reader if you want, reader wears lipstick. nicknames hehe, boothill is his own warning, mid writing tbh, unedited

a/n. the lipstick trend does not escape me at all 😞😞 but this consumed me so now i write about it ijbol

MAIN MASTERLIST || PART 2 (sunday, jing yuan, gallagher, sampo, gepard.)

“what are you doing?”

BLADE ceases all functions. like, immediately.

you'd think he'd even stopped breathing once he'd felt the soft sensation of your lips on his, and the pretty sight of the normally aloof stellaron hunter covered in multiple lipstick kisses all over his face to his neck nearly makes the rest of his other comrades keel over from laughter. his silence is indicative of his rather unusual state of shock, the only indication a menacing furrow of his brows (to an outsider, they'd think he's plotting a murder spree, but you know him too well for that) that twitch and simultaneously react the more you kiss him everywhere on the face.

silverwolf will then relay to you that blade walked around for nearly 5 system hours covered in your... marks of ownership, kafka helpfully supplies, and was only made aware when firefly accidentally bumped into him, face exploding in red when she saw the audacious sight of blade covered in your lipstick. “er, blade.... your face is...”

—

blade has never known mortification quite like today, but the intense feeling of something akin to shame is vivid as he stares at himself in the mirror, glaring.

his face is a mess, to put it simply. trailing a hand on the red stains your lips left on to him leaves him with a smudged countenance, furthering the utter chaos that is his kiss-ridden face.

“...ridiculous girl.” avoiding the uncharacteristic way his fingertips feel hot, blade reckons this is probably why firefly stopped dead in her tracks and gaped, stared, and flustered.

clever as you were, and with your equal penchant for mischief, blade, the ever unsuspecting lover he is (he doesn't normally allow anyone to touch him, but you're not just anyone) had easily become the target of your new tricks.

“pfft, nice get-up, old man. got yourself a good day?”

....so that's what silverwolf meant.

DANHENG immediately scolds you, but not in the serious way he normally does whenever stelle wants to eat an origami bird or dives into trashcans or when march accidentally destroys one of the archive books, but in a way that only dan heng ever shows you. he's red, painfully red, and is struggling to face you because he knows that the smug grin you're holding has to do with the sight he'd glimpsed himself to be in moments prior.

unfortunately for him, for all his ways of trying fervently to remove the lipstick stains plastered all over his face, it only took march one look and a melodramatic gasp before the entire express knew, the conductor included.

—

“dan heng and [name], sitting on a tree-”

“k-i-s-s-i-n-g~”

my friends are all senile, dan heng thinks, rolling his eyes while avoiding himeko's friendly (read: eerie) smile. and he's already given up on trying to meet welt's eyes. (read: concerned but not surprised)

the reason? the rouge tinted matte lipstick generously spread all over dan heng's face, slightly smudged and spanning from his cheeks to his lips, nearing his neck.

he'd never tell, but a part of him—one that was reptilian in nature, a primal need of possessiveness—adored the show of affection you showered upon him. it was only right—he was yours, and you were his.

welt is sheepish, coughing lightly that all five heads of the express members turn to him (pom-pom included) “dan heng, is that your tail wagging?”

“....”

“....”

“....”

(a resounding click! can be heard afrerwards. oh, dan heng is so going to steal march's camera.)

the loud whir of BOOTHILL’s cooling system can't even keep up with how fast he's overheating, because one thing led to another and one look you gave made him weak in the knees and now his body is covered in your kisses, scarlet against the metal gray of his limbs. he no longer has a heart, but the rapid feeling of heat emitted by his body speaks more about his current mental state in more ways than one—he can't even form words because his brain chip is practically glitching itself up into overdrive, because your lips were so warm, soft and gentle and—

“...oothill? boothill? your circuits are—”

a startling sound that sounds just like a mini explosion reverberates somewhere in the tangle of wires near boothill's power source.

oh dear.

( p.s: no warp trotters were harmed, rest assured )

“[name]...” AVENTURINE’s voice falters when you press a soft kiss near his forehead, your lover closing his eyes as he lets out a soft sigh of joy — a bit like a peacock preening... but in any case! he certainly sees no argument being swayed by you, his dignity in shambles, yes, but when you were showering him with affection like this (which, in all honesty, aventurine did not think he deserved) leaves in in a flushed and tattered mess of a man, whose strings are wholly puppeteered by you and you alone.

you are everything; and aventurine certainly can't get enough. (he doubts if enough will even be enough someday) he's the lover who'd proudly want to flaunt such salacious marks everywhere, though his craftily built reputation as a stoneheart—blood sweat and commodity code and all—leaves him to hide your marks on him, as much as he'd like them to stay. (you are a weakness that aventurine keeps like an oath, and an existence that he'd do anything to keep.)

that doesn't, however, stop him from getting you to leave a kiss near his collar, discreet enough to signal his status as irrevocably, undeniably yours.

DR. VERITAS RATIO is actually the most calm and most normal (read: boring) of all the men above when barraged by your kiss attack. letting out a tsk that's more chiding and speeachless than actually annoyed, he casually pulls you away from his face, nevermind his rapidly heating cheeks, which is only made more humorous given his lipstick stained face.

“stop that. you're making too much of a mess of me, fool.” <- is visibly leaning to your face to allow said actions. you're not fooling anyone here, doctor. smh.

however, he does get pretty flustered when a certain blond gambler notes the new addition of a ‘tattoo’ right near his lower lip. “wow, doctor. seems you woke up on the good side of the bed today.”

he spends a whole day scolding you hoarse afterwards, whatever that may entail ;).

(as a way of petty revenge, he will make sure to kiss you senseless right after, until he's sure his own lips are swollen and covered in the warm red of your chosen shade.)

a/n: blog is running on queue as of today, so this post will probably come wayyy overdue lol but hope u enjoy nonetheless!

@ ICEUNHIE: do not repost translate or plagiarize my works.

[viaxslz]

⊞﹑ᶻᶻ﹒⪨﹐ꜛ WHEN YOU STOP DURING A KISS ﹒⁂ꜝ

享受 ! .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 gn!reader, cw: kissing/making out, pet names, slightly suggestive, nothing much not proofread :P

CHAN

He blinks, dazed and breathless, still leaning forward like his lips are chasing yours. “Wait, what— Did I do something? Was it too much? Too fast? Was my nose in the way? I knew I should’ve angled more to the left—” He immediately goes into concerned boyfriend mode, rubbing the back of his neck, rambling nervously with furrowed brows. You can literally see the gears turning in his head trying to figure out if he messed up. When you explain that you just got flustered or wanted to look at him, he MELTS. Like full-on gooey marshmallow mode. “You… pulled away just to look at me?” Cue soft little chuckle, hands cupping your cheeks now, and he kisses your forehead.

LEE KNOW

You pull back mid-kiss, and for a moment, Minho just stares at you. Unmoving. Unblinking. He looks entirely unbothered… until you catch the faintest twitch of his brow. “Wow,” he says flatly. “Did I bore you mid-makeout?” You try to explain maybe you were flustered, or your brain short-circuited, or your stomach made a weird noise but he just squints at you, suspicious. “So you’re telling me I was putting in my best effort, and you just exited the app mid-update?” He looks personally offended for 0.5 seconds. Then smirks. “No, no, it’s fine. I’ll just go kiss the cat instead. She never pulls away.” (You hear him muttering to Soonie under his breath five minutes later: “At least you appreciate my affection…”) But he does end up pulling you back in, much gentler now, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “If you ever stop again,” he murmurs, “you better have a damn good reason. Like a meteor. Or Hyunjin screaming.”

CHANGBIN

At first, he’s frozen mid-pucker, lips still slightly parted, eyes blinking like he’s buffering. “…Huh?” He looks around like someone just unplugged his brain, then turns back to you with the most confused expression you’ve ever seen. Like a golden retriever who got told “no” for the first time in his life. “You— You just stopped. Was it me? Was I too aggressive? Too soft? Did I miss? Did I kiss your chin again?! I knew I should’ve practiced more—” You try to calm him down, but he’s already spiraling into self-doubt. Even throws his arms out like he’s in a drama scene. “I KNEW THIS DAY WOULD COME. You found someone with softer lips, didn’t you?” When you finally tell him the reason whether it’s you getting shy, needing a breather, or just being caught off guard by how cute he is, he immediately softens. “Oh. You think I’m cute?” Cue him grinning like a kid on Christmas. “Say it again. Say it three more times. Wait no, kiss me again. Right now. We’re finishing what we started.” Then he makes you reenact the kiss properly, “for closure.” (And yes, he absolutely brags about it for the rest of the day like it’s an Olympic sport.)

HYUNJIN

You pull away mid-kiss with zero warning, and Hyunjin just… stares at you. Lips still parted, eyes wide and sparkly with confusion and betrayal. He blinks once. Then twice. “…Did… did you just cancel me?” You try to keep a straight face, but the way he dramatically slumps back against the nearest surface arms flopping like he’s just been dumped in the most poetic way makes it nearly impossible. “Was it not good? Did I go too fast? Too slow? Was I… too pretty?” You: “You’re literally fine.” Hyunjin: “Fine? That’s it?? Not devastatingly handsome? Not kiss-me-right-now worthy? I’m gonna cry.” (He’s not going to cry. But he will roll onto the floor like an offended cat and mutter to himself in vague Shakespearean despair.) But when you admit you were just teasing him, he gasps. “So you played me?!” Cue playful chaos. He tries to act offended, but he can’t stop smiling. He corners you two minutes later, grabbing your waist like he’s about to perform a slow-mo drama scene. “You’re not getting away with that. Try pulling away again and I’ll chase you into next week.” Then kisses you again just to “reclaim his pride.”

HAN

You pull away mid-kiss, and it takes him a second to catch up. His eyes are still half-closed like he’s waiting for the sequel. “…Did the Wi-Fi cut out or something?” You try not to laugh, but he’s already leaning forward like, “Hello?? I was loading. Why did you press back?” When you don’t immediately explain yourself, he clutches his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “Don’t do this to me. I already have abandonment issues from when my ramen slipped into the sink that one time.” You: “Jisung—” Jisung: “That one time.“ Once you finally admit you were just teasing him, or got distracted, or simply felt like it he flops dramatically onto your lap, face buried in your stomach. “Unfair. You know my brain is slow and my heart is weak. You can’t just hit the brakes like that.” Then he pops his head up, grinning. “But also… if you wanted me to beg, you could’ve just said so.” Cue chaotic, overly dramatic puppy-boy behavior for the next hour. Constantly bringing it up with zero context. “Remember that time you broke my heart during a kiss?” “That was literally ten minutes ago.” “And I’m still healing.” But he forgives you with extra kisses just to “finish what you started.”

FELIX

You pull away mid-kiss, and at first, Felix doesn’t even notice he’s still leaning in with his eyes closed like he’s waiting for the encore. Then he opens one eye. “…Did I miss the cue?” You’re quiet for a second maybe your mind wandered, or you suddenly remembered that you left the laundry in the washer, or you were just overwhelmed by a random intrusive thought like “Do penguins have knees?” Felix tilts his head, trying to read your expression. “Wait… are you okay?” You nod, explaining it’s nothing serious, and that your brain just lagged a little. He chuckles softly, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “You pulled away like you just got hit by an existential crisis mid-kiss.” (He’s not wrong.) Then he gets serious for a second, gazing at you with those gentle, worried eyes. “You sure everything’s okay though? You don’t have to kiss me if you’re not feeling it. I’m just happy being with you.” You were fine, but now you’re blushing over how sweet he is. Felix gives you a soft smile and taps your forehead. “Next time your brain wanders during a kiss, just tell me what you were thinking. Unless it was about taxes. Then keep it to yourself.” Five minutes later, he texts you a meme of two penguins cuddling. Felix: "They DO have knees btw."

SEUNGMIN

You pull away mid-kiss, and Seungmin immediately blinks at you like you just skipped a line in a script he had memorized. “…That’s it?” Deadpan. Expression unreadable. Hands still resting casually on your waist, like he’s not even pressed about it. “Wow. That was… what? Three seconds? Impressive commitment.” You’re trying to explain maybe your brain short-circuited, maybe you remembered you left your phone on the stove, maybe you just needed a moment. But he’s already shaking his head like a disappointed tutor watching you fail basic math. “I rearranged my entire breathing pattern for that.” You: “You’re being dramatic.” Seungmin: “I trained my lips for days.” You roll your eyes, but he’s already pulling slightly away, crossing his arms like he’s filing a mental complaint. “Don’t worry. I’ll just log it in my diary. ‘Kiss: interrupted. Trust: broken.’ ” But the second you lean in again thinking he might actually be annoyed he’s already pulling you back with a smirk, voice low near your ear. “Next time you pull away, you better give me a good reason. Like your soul leaving your body. Otherwise, I’m finishing what you started.” And even though he acts so chill, later that night he won’t stop smiling to himself. Quietly. When no one’s looking.

JEONGIN

You pull away mid-kiss, all innocent, like you didn’t just commit the ultimate crime against his entire soul. He blinks, stunned. Lips still parted. Offended in 4K. “…Did you just— reject me in HD?” You: “Relax, I’m just teasing.” Jeongin: “Relax? RELAX? You can’t just pause mid-kiss like we’re on a Netflix trial—” He dramatically clutches his chest, spinning away like he’s in a low-budget romance drama. “I trusted you. I gave you my lips. My time. My chapstick. And you do me like this?” You’re wheezing at this point, but he’s not done. He turns back around slowly, finger pointed. “Don’t come crawling back when you want more. This factory is CLOSED.” (Factory reopens 12 seconds later when you give him puppy eyes.) Still, he acts like you have to earn it now. He’s all smug, leaning back like, “I don’t know… should I kiss you again? Are you mentally prepared this time?” But when you finally do kiss him again properly this time he just grins against your lips and murmurs: “Took you long enough. I was literally seconds away from texting Chan that I’ve been emotionally betrayed.”

PERM TAGLIST 📌🔖 ──── @the-sea-called-history02 @oc3anfloor @queenofdumbfuckery @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @my-neurodivergent-world @bookswillfindyouaway

[shaiyasstuff]

pit-a-pat | zayne

synopsis : He was never really yours. Not when she existed.

content : ANGST, zayne x non-mc!reader, some cannon some non-cannon, doctor zayne (a dash of sylus x reader)

It started beautifully.

Not with fireworks or declarations, but with something quieter—something softer.

You met Zayne on a Tuesday. The skies were overcast, and the campus café was packed with students trying to squeeze in one last coffee before the end-of-term chaos. You had just picked up your order, arms full of books and notes and a half-finished thought buzzing in your mind, when you turned too quickly and collided with someone.

The impact jolted through you. Your books scattered, your pen rolled under a chair, and your coffee splashed onto your sleeve. You let out a soft curse under your breath, flustered, apologizing before you even looked up.

Then a hand reached down, brushing against yours.

“I’m sorry,” came a low voice.

You looked up.

And that was the first time you saw him.

Zayne.

Tall, composed, sharp around the edges but inexplicably gentle in the way he moved. His eyes—hazel green, clear and steady—met yours like they already knew you. Like they had always known you.

He picked up your pen, handed it to you.

“I owe you a coffee,” he said. “Let me make it up to you.”

You smiled. Gave him your number.

The rest unfolded the way falling does—slow, weightless, inevitable.

There were no grand gestures. No overly rehearsed first dates. You didn’t even realize you were falling in love with him until you already had. He was simply there, steady and quiet and comforting in a way the world rarely is.

He never raised his voice. Never made you feel like you had to be more or less than exactly who you were. He wasn’t perfect—he kept things to himself, and his silences could stretch into days—but you loved him all the same. You told yourself it was enough. That love was never about loudness, but about staying.

And Zayne stayed.

For eight years.

You stood beside him through every sleepless night of his internship, through every heartbreak he brought home from the hospital. You held his hand when he was promoted, when he won awards, when the weight of lives saved and lost pressed too heavily against his shoulders.

You built a quiet life together. Shared takeout containers and cold pillows. Lazy Sunday mornings and long nights where your laptop glowed across the room as he dozed off beside you in his scrubs.

You became a writer, the kind with notebooks full of fictional heartbreaks, never quite knowing you were walking toward your own.

And you thought—foolishly, recklessly—that he was your ending.

That one day, you would wear white, and he would wait for you at the altar, hands trembling, heart full.

But some love stories are not meant to be lived. Only written.

—•

You stood outside his office now.

Your hand clutched his notebook, the one he left behind this morning in his rush to get to the hospital. His keys jangled faintly against your palm. You had texted, but he hadn’t responded. It wasn’t unusual. He got busy.

You told yourself that.

But the dread sitting in your chest was new.

The door to his office was slightly ajar. You stepped closer without thinking, intending only to knock—just knock, hand the things over, and leave.

But then, you heard his voice.

Low. Familiar. But not like you’d ever heard it before.

“I did this all… for you.”

Your body went still.

Inside, Zayne was standing with a girl you didn’t recognize—not at first. She was smaller than you, delicate. Her eyes were wide and wet. Zayne’s hand hovered just beside her cheek, and his other gripped her forearm like she was something slipping from his grasp.

“I planned this. To be your physician. To work here. Just so I could see you.”

The world tilted.

A cold, sharp pressure settled in your chest, and your fingers loosened. The keys dropped first, hitting the floor with a sound that sliced through the silence. His notebook followed, landing with a dull thud on the waiting chair beside the door.

Both of them turned.

She looked at you with startled recognition.

Zayne’s eyes locked onto yours. And in that instant, everything changed.

You knew.

You remembered her now. He had mentioned her once. His childhood friend. The one with the heart condition. A passing story over dinner, shared like a memory too old to matter.

You hadn’t thought anything of it then.

But you understood now.

She wasn’t a memory.

She was the reason.

The reason he became a doctor. The reason he worked here.

The reason for his choices, his ambition, his silence.

The reason he stayed up at night, staring at the ceiling.

The reason he chose a life of saving people—so he wouldn’t lose her.

You wanted to ask him if it was all a lie. But the words wouldn’t come.

Because deep down, you already knew the answer.

And he didn’t deny it.

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t come after you.

He just stood there. Watching.

And that hurt more than anything else.

You turned and walked away.

Not out of pride. Not out of anger.

But because staying would’ve shattered you in ways you weren’t sure you could recover from.

You made it to the elevator before the tears came. Quiet ones, slipping down your cheeks like they had every right to be there. You didn’t wipe them away. You didn’t try to breathe through the ache.

You let them fall.

Eight years.

Eight years of loving someone who had always belonged to someone else.

You had been writing your love story in ink.

But he had written his in pencil. And now, he had erased you.

You don’t go home right away.

You wander the streets with no destination, the city blurring past you like watercolor in the rain. Cars pass. People pass. The world keeps moving, unaware that yours has come undone.

By the time you return to your apartment, it’s dark.

You don’t bother turning on the lights. You sit on the edge of the bed where he’s slept beside you for years, staring at the familiar shapes in the shadows—his worn coat slung over the chair, the framed photo on the nightstand, the mug with his initials you always forget to put away.

And then the door clicks.

You don’t move.

You hear the soft shuffle of his shoes being kicked off. The hesitant steps down the hallway.

Then his voice.

“Hey.”

Quiet. Careful. Like the word might break.

You still don’t move.

A beat. Two. Then he speaks again. “I didn’t expect you to be there.”

You almost laugh. Didn’t expect—

You turn slowly to face him. The expression on your face is not angry. It’s worse.

It’s tired.

Empty.

“What was I supposed to see, Zayne?” you ask. Your voice doesn’t tremble, but it’s raw. “Because all I saw was a man in love with someone else.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He doesn’t even flinch.

He just looks at you with that same unreadable gaze he always has, like he’s weighing truths against silence. Like he’s trying to choose the least painful version of honesty.

“She was sick,” he says quietly. “You knew that.”

“That’s not the part that hurts.” Your words are sharp, but they don’t rise in volume. “The part that hurts is you built your whole life around her—and I didn’t know. I loved you for eight years. And I didn’t know.”

Zayne’s eyes darken, but he says nothing.

You continue, barely able to keep your voice steady. “Every step you took, every choice you made—becoming a doctor, working at Akso Hospital… You said you wanted to help people. You made me believe that was who you were.”

“I am that,” he says quickly.

“But that’s not why you did it.” Your voice cracks on the last word. “You did it for her.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You almost laugh again, but it turns into something hollow.

“You didn’t mean to,” you echo, staring at him like you’re trying to memorize the face of someone you no longer recognize. “Zayne, I built my life around you. I was ready to marry you. I was planning forever with someone who—”

You choke. You try to breathe.

“—with someone who’s heart was never really mine.”

His shoulders stiffen. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes, it is,” you say. “You loved her. You still love her. I was just… convenient.”

“That’s not true,” he says sharply. It’s the first time he’s raised his voice. “You weren’t convenient. You were—”

“What, Zayne? What was I?” you whisper. “A distraction? A substitute? Someone you convinced yourself you could be happy with because she wasn’t here?”

He looks away. That’s all the answer you need.

You don’t cry. Not this time. There’s nothing left in you to fall apart.

Instead, you stand.

“I would’ve understood if you had just told me,” you say quietly. “I would’ve left. I would’ve let you go. But you didn’t. You let me believe I was your person. And now, I don’t even know what was real.”

He doesn’t stop you when you move past him. He doesn’t call your name.

He just stands there, in the center of the hallway, with guilt written all over his face.

And you realize, for all his brilliance, for all the lives he’s saved.

Zayne never had the courage to save yours from this.

—•

You don’t even know why you agreed to be here.

Maybe part of you wanted closure. Maybe the angrier part of you wanted to look her in the eye and find something—anything—to blame.

Or maybe, in the raw aftermath of it all, you just wanted to understand what could possibly be so powerful that it unraveled eight years of your life like thread from a seam.

The hospital courtyard is quiet when you arrive. The air is cold, overcast with a brittle kind of stillness. You sit down on the far end of the stone bench, your hands curled inside your coat sleeves. The silence hums in your ears.

You almost leave.

But then you hear footsteps—soft, hesitant.

She stops in front of you. The girl.

The reason.

She looks like something out of a different life—slight, pale, wrapped in a coat two sizes too big. Her hair is tucked behind her ears, and her face is gentle in a way that feels unfair.

You wish she had sharpness to her. Arrogance.

Something you could hate on sight.

But she doesn’t.

She looks… kind.

And somehow, that hurts more.

“Hi,” she says, tentative.

You don’t answer. You just watch her, expression unreadable, trying to see what he must’ve seen.

She glances down, wringing her hands. “Thanks for coming.”

You almost say don’t thank me. Almost. But the words stay behind your teeth.

She sits, carefully keeping distance between you.

A long silence stretches out.

“I know this is strange,” she begins, “and I don’t want to make anything worse. I just thought… maybe you deserved to hear it from me.”

Your jaw clenches. “Did you know about me?”

She hesitates. Then, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly. That answer burns.

“So you knew,” you murmur, your voice tighter than you want it to be, “and you still let it happen.”

“I didn’t let anything happen,” she says softly. “I didn’t come looking for him. I didn’t expect to see him again. And when I did, I didn’t know how to undo it.”

Undo it. As if this is something she can unspool. As if your heart was a thread to pull clean.

You turn to her then, finally meeting her gaze. “I tried to hate you.”

She flinches, but you continue.

“I wanted to. I really, really did. I told myself you were selfish. That you ruined everything. That he wouldn’t have drifted if you hadn’t been there.”

Your eyes sting. But the tears stay where they are.

“I needed to hate you. Because hating him… it’s harder. And hating myself—well, that’s already happening.”

She looks at you with something close to sorrow. Not pity. Not guilt. Just a deep, quiet understanding.

“I never meant to take anything from you,” she says. “But I think… I always had him. Even when I didn’t want to.”

You nod slowly. That’s the part that kills you.

“It wasn’t fair,” you whisper. “I loved him for eight years. I gave him everything. And he—he was building a life around you the entire time.”

The girl’s lips tremble. “I don’t think he knew how to let go of me. Not fully. I don’t even think he knew he hadn’t.”

You close your eyes. The wind picks up, threading cold fingers through your coat.

“You know what’s funny?” you say, voice hollow. “I thought we were preparing for a wedding. Turns out, I was standing in the way of a reunion.”

Silence falls again. Heavy. Unforgiving.

She blinks quickly, her throat working around words she can’t say. “I’m sorry.”

You believe her. That’s the worst part.

You wanted her to be cruel, or callous, or indifferent. You wanted her to be easy to hate.

But she’s just a girl with a fragile heart, loved too deeply by someone who was never entirely yours to begin with.

You rise slowly. Your legs feel heavy, as if grief has settled in your joints.

“I hope he saves you,” you murmur. “I hope it’s worth everything he lost.”

You don’t wait for her to respond.

You leave. And this time, you don’t cry.

But something in you quietly, irrevocably, closes.

—•

He shows up three days later.

You don’t know how he finds the nerve.

You’ve ignored his calls. His texts. The pathetic, half-sincere “Can we talk?” messages that began the night after the garden. He should’ve known better. He should’ve stayed gone.

But here he is.

You hear the knock this time. You sit still for a moment, your fingers curled around the edge of the blanket you’ve barely left for days, breath caught between dread and fury.

He knocks again. Harder this time.

You stand. Not because you want to see him—because you need to. To put a face to the damage.

When you open the door, it’s like nothing has changed. He’s still Zayne. Rain-damp, serious, heartbreakingly familiar in that coat you once buried your face into when the world felt too loud.

But he’s not yours anymore.

Not really.

“What do you want?” you ask. No softness. No welcome.

His jaw tenses. “To talk.”

Your laugh is sharp and joyless. “Of course. Now you talk.”

“I know I should’ve—”

“Spare me the guilt,” you snap. “I’m not in the mood to hear you pretend this wasn’t calculated.”

He flinches. “It wasn’t.”

“Oh no?” You take a step forward. “You became a doctor for her, Zayne. You took a job at her hospital. You became her physician. How long were you going to keep lying to me?”

“I didn’t lie.”

“You didn’t tell me!” you shout. “That’s the same thing!”

Your voice echoes through the hallway. You don’t care who hears. You want it to hurt.

He looks at you, lips parted like he wants to defend himself—but nothing comes out.

“I asked you once,” you continue, quieter now but no less cutting, “why you wanted to be a doctor. You told me it was to save lives. You looked me in the eye and lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” he says again, harsher now. “That’s still true. Saving her doesn’t make that less real.”

“It makes everything less real,” you spit. “Eight years, Zayne. I gave you everything. I built a future around someone who was still living in his past.”

“She almost died,” he snaps. “Do you understand that? She was twelve. I thought I lost her. I made a promise—”

“To her,” you interrupt. “You made a promise to her, and you made a life with me. You don’t get to have both.”

He falls silent.

His hands are clenched at his sides. His mouth is tight. You can tell he wants to argue, but he won’t. Because he knows you’re right.

“She was never gone,” you whisper. “Not from your heart. Not from your plans. And you… you let me believe I was enough. That I was your beginning and your end. But I was just—” your voice cracks, “I was just a pause in the story you’d always meant to return to.”

He shakes his head, voice strained. “That’s not what you were.”

“Then what was I, Zayne?”

He looks at you like he’s searching for the right words. The truth. But it’s too late for carefully packaged honesty.

You take a breath. It’s cold in your lungs. “You don’t get to grieve this. Not now. Not when you’re the one who ended it.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You laugh again. This time, it sounds like it might break you. “But you did.”

You walk back inside and return a minute later with the box—his books, his charger, the old hoodie you used to sleep in. You shove it into his arms.

He doesn’t take it right away. “Please—don’t let this be how it ends.”

You stare at him, empty. Tired. “Zayne, it ended the moment you chose silence.”

He lowers his head. Grips the box like it’s the only thing holding him together.

And when he finally turns to leave, you don’t stop him.

This time, you don’t look back.

And this time—he does cry.

He doesn’t go home.

Not right away.

He drives. Somewhere. Anywhere. The roads blur beneath the city lights, each turn as pointless as the last. He forgets where he’s meant to be.

He doesn’t cry at first.

That doesn’t happen until later—when he pulls over on the side of an empty street, kills the engine, and sits in the silence he spent years wrapping around his truth.

And then it hits him.

Not like a punch. No, it’s slower than that.

It’s the steady, suffocating realization that you’re gone.

Really gone.

Not just upset. Not waiting for him to make it right.

Gone, because you loved him too deeply to stay where you were never really seen.

He rests his forehead against the steering wheel and exhales a broken sound that might be a sob. Might be a prayer. Might just be everything finally coming undone.

How did he get here?

He thinks back to when you met. Your laugh—unexpected, soft. The way you always saw right through his silences, but never pushed too hard. How you held his hand during exams, during sleepless nights, during the moments he thought he might collapse under the weight of what he couldn’t say.

And now?

Now you won’t even look at him.

And he doesn’t blame you.

He’d clung so tightly to a ghost of the past, he never noticed he was strangling the only real thing he had left.

The worst part? He meant it. Every word he said to the other girl. The promise. The devotion. He did want to save her. He did want to protect her.

But he never asked himself why.

Maybe he thought saving her would fix something in him. That if he kept his promise, if he held on tightly enough, he’d redeem himself for that helpless, broken boy who once stood in an ER, covered in blood that didn’t belong to him.

But he never meant to love both.

Not like this.

He stares out the windshield, watching the rain bead and slide down the glass. It reminds him of you. Of the way you never cried in front of him—not even when it hurt.

Especially when it hurt.

And that night in the hallway—your voice shaking but never pleading. Your eyes full of betrayal, not begging. That was love, too. The kind that breaks itself before it breaks you.

He wipes his face with the back of his hand, as if that will erase the weight in his chest.

But it stays.

God, it stays.

And for the first time since med school, since the long nights that almost drowned him, Zayne doesn’t know what to do.

Not with himself.

Not with this regret.

He was always good at silence. At burying what he didn’t want to face.

But this time, silence cost him the only person who ever stayed.

The hospital doesn’t feel the same.

It should.

Same corridors. Same sterile smell. Same rustle of nurses’ shoes against polished floors. He walks these halls every day—he knows the pattern of the tiles, the rhythm of the fluorescent lights above. He’s built a life inside this place.

But now?

It feels hollow. Too bright in some places. Too quiet in others.

He stands outside Operating Room B with a chart in his hand, staring at words he isn’t reading. His mind drifts. Again.

“Doctor Zayne?”

He blinks. A nurse is looking at him, brows slightly furrowed.

“You’re needed in Cardiology.”

Right. Cardiology. Her department.

He nods, mutters something close to thanks, and moves.

He still performs the surgeries. Still signs the charts. Still nods when interns look at him like he holds the world in his hands.

But something is gone.

And it’s not skill. It’s not precision.

Its presence.

He’s no longer in his life. He’s moving through it. Performing. Like muscle memory.

The girl—his childhood friend—she’s recovering. Stable. And she smiles when she sees him, small and grateful and warm.

But it doesn’t make him feel anything.

Not now.

Not since he saw the look on your face—the woman he promised a future to. The one who gave him all of herself without knowing he was never giving you all of him.

He remembers your hands, trembling when you pushed the box into his arms. The edge in your voice when you asked, “Then what was I, Zayne?”

He didn’t have an answer then.

He still doesn’t.

Because how do you explain to someone that they were your peace, your softness, your home—and you lost them because you couldn’t let go of a promise made by a boy who hadn’t learned how to speak his grief out loud?

Zayne finds himself in the stairwell, long after his shift ends. He doesn’t even remember walking here.

He sits on the steps. Folds forward. Buries his face in his hands.

He doesn’t cry. He already did that. He’s past crying now.

What he feels now is worse.

Emptiness.

The kind that seeps into everything.

He pulls out his phone. Opens your name. Stares at the last message you sent.

“Can you grab oat milk on the way home?”

He didn’t even answer it.

He thinks about texting. Something. Anything.

“I miss you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know I was choosing wrong until you were gone.”

But he doesn’t.

Because what could he say now that wouldn’t sound like too little, too late?

And because maybe—deep down—he knows you deserve someone who doesn’t have to lose you to realize you were everything.

—•

You were sitting at your usual corner table in a café tucked between a bookstore and a florist—one of those quiet places where time didn’t feel so heavy. You weren’t writing. Not that day. You just sat there, fingers wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, watching the world through a pane of glass slick with water.

Existing in the small, still spaces between grief and recovery.

You had been doing that a lot lately. Watching.

It was raining. Of course it was.

It had been seven months since Zayne. Since the silence. Since the hallway.

You hadn’t dated anyone. You couldn’t.

Not when your heart still ached in places you hadn’t named.

That’s where you met Sylus.

He walked in, his footsteps confident as he strides up to the counter.

You didn’t look up at first. Just heard the low hum of the door chime, the soft sound of boots on wet tile. Then came the voice.

“I’ll take whatever’s strongest and not completely terrible.”

It made you glance over your shoulder.

And there he was.

White silver hair that stood out against the interior of the coffee shop.

Sharp-featured. Tall. Dressed in black with a half-dried coat slung over one arm and stormy red eyes that didn’t belong in a place like this.

He looked… misfit.

Like someone who had gotten lost on his way to something louder.

He caught you staring.

Smirked.

“Judging me already?” he said as he passed your table.

You blinked, caught off guard. “You looked like you came in here by accident.”

“I did.” He set his cup on the table across from yours without asking. “Lucky me.”

You stared at him. He stared right back. There was no hesitation in him.

No over-eagerness. No rehearsed charm. Just a strange kind of confidence, like he didn’t care whether you invited him in or not.

And yet… somehow, he was easy to talk to.

That first conversation was short. Nothing special. He told you he was in the city for work. Said he hated the rain. You said you didn’t mind it.

He teased you for that. Called you a poet. You didn’t correct him.

Before he left, he asked for your name. Then he gave you his. Sylus.

He didn’t ask for your number. He didn’t flirt. He just said, “Maybe I’ll see you here again.”

And you did.

The next week. And the week after that.

Same table. Same rain.

He never asked about your past, and you never asked about his.

He talked to you like you were new. Like you weren’t made of broken pieces.

And you liked that.

You liked that he didn’t try to fix you. That he didn’t reach for your scars or ask what happened.

He just saw you. All of you.

Eventually, you started writing again.

He’d sit across from you, reading some obscure book or sketching something in a notebook he never let you see.

“You ever gonna tell me what that is?” you asked one afternoon.

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug, “when you’re done hiding behind yours.”

You laughed. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel strange.

He didn’t slip into your life the way Zayne did.

No, Sylus walked in with loud footsteps and called attention to all the parts of you that still needed to be held.

And when he finally kissed you—months later, after too many late nights and half-finished conversations—he didn’t whisper promises.

He only said, “You don’t have to be ready. Just let me stay.”

And you did.

Now, you’re curled up on the couch in one of Sylus’s old sweaters, legs folded beneath you, a half-read book resting in your lap.

You’ve read the same paragraph three times. The words blur and smear.

Not because you’re tired—though you are—but because your thoughts won’t sit still.

He notices.

He always does.

Sylus steps out from the kitchen, two mugs in hand. You hadn’t asked for tea. You never really need to. He knows the nights when you can’t quite find your center.

He sits beside you, close but never crowding, and offers the cup without a word.

You take it, fingers brushing his. His touch is warm. Steady.

You don’t speak right away.

He doesn’t push.

That’s the thing about Sylus. He doesn’t try to draw the pain out of you. He just makes space for it. Holds it. Waits until you’re ready.

After a long moment, you say quietly, “It’s almost been two years.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Since him?”

You nod.

Sylus leans back against the couch, stretching an arm along the top. Not possessive. Just there. Like a safety net.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head. “Not really. I just… thought I’d be past the memory by now.”

He hums softly. “Memories don’t care about time. They’re like bruises under the skin. You forget they’re there until something presses too hard.”

You glance at him, lips tugging into a faint, worn smile. “Is that your poetic way of saying it’s okay to feel like this?”

He smirks. “It’s my poetic way of saying I’m not going anywhere.”

Your smile softens. Fades into something real.

He’s never tried to replace what came before. Never asked you to forget it. He simply stayed.

When you turned away.

When you flinched at first touch.

When you said not yet.

When you said I’m not whole.

Sylus looked you in the eye and said, You don’t have to be.

And you believed him.

Now, you lean your head against his shoulder, tea still warm between your hands. He lets you rest there in silence.

No questions. No expectations.

Just the quiet knowing that this—whatever it is—is something different.

Something earned.

And when his hand finds yours and doesn’t let go, you feel it again.

That peace you thought you’d never know after Zayne.

The kind of love that doesn’t arrive like a storm.

But like a home.

—•

Two years later, you see him again.

You hadn’t expected it—weren’t prepared for it.

It’s a charity gala, the kind Sylus rarely agrees to attend, but he’s here tonight for you.

One hand on your back, the other wrapped loosely around a glass of champagne he hasn’t touched. He looks just like he always does, sharp suit, sharp tongue, a man made of storm and steel, and yet—when he looks at you, it softens him.

Always.

You never thought you’d get to feel this way again.

Safe.

Loved.

Chosen.

You’re speaking to someone—maybe a publisher, maybe a donor—you don’t really remember.

And then you feel it.

That cold flicker down your spine.

That familiar stillness before the silence breaks.

You turn.

And there he is.

Zayne.

Two years older. A little more tired. A little less certain.

He’s standing just across the room, alone in a sea of people.

He looks like he doesn’t quite belong here, like he’s watching a world he no longer fits into.

And then his eyes find you.

You don’t look away.

You let him see it—all of it.

The soft smile on your lips. The ring on your finger. The way Sylus leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple without even realizing he’s doing it.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t change. Not really. But you feel the ripple.

Because this time, you are not the one breaking.

You are not the one watching love walk away.

You’re standing still.

And someone is holding on.

You excuse yourself quietly from the conversation, fingers brushing Sylus’s wrist as you turn to whisper something.

He catches the look in your eyes. He knows. Of course he knows.

But he says nothing. Just stays close. Just keeps his hand resting at the small of your back like he’s reminding you—you’re not alone.

When you approach, Zayne doesn’t speak right away.

He just looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the life you’ve built without him. The one he didn’t stay long enough to deserve.

“You look…” he begins, but falters. His voice is rougher now. Thinner.

“Happy?” you offer gently.

He nods. “Yeah.”

You glance back at Sylus, who’s watching from a respectful distance, sharp-eyed and protective as ever. He always gives you space when you need it. But never too far.

“I didn’t know you were back in the city,” Zayne says.

You nod. “We moved here last spring.”

“We?”

“My husband and I.”

He flinches—just barely. But you see it.

You don’t gloat. You don’t need to.

There’s a grace in moving on that silence can never rewrite.

“He’s good to you?” Zayne asks.

You smile. “He sees me.”

The words hang between you. Heavy. Sharp. True.

Zayne swallows hard. “I’m glad.”

You nod. And this time, it’s real. “So am I.”

You don’t stay long. Just long enough for him to see that you survived him. That you bloomed after the break. That someone else saw what he couldn’t hold.

You return to Sylus without looking back.

He slides his arm around your waist and leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I am now.”

And as the music rises and the crowd begins to move again, you rest your hand over your husband’s and let yourself forget the boy who couldn’t choose you.

Because you’ve already chosen the man who never had to be asked.

masterlist

[abbotjack]

Whatever You Say, Fruitcake

pairing : Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader (established marriage)

summary: Myrna’s being Myrna. Somewhere between the chaos, you and Robby manage to come up for air.

warnings/content: Fluff, Hospital setting, strong language, married intimacy, mild sexual tension(?), bodily fluids (mentioned), chaotic workplace dynamics, Myrna.

word count: 1,767, not beta read.

a/n: I’ve written so much smut and angst lately… felt like I needed a fluff filler. Honestly, with everything Robby’s been through too—he deserves one just as much as I do.

Someone left the remains of a hoagie in the trauma fridge again, and now the back hallway reeks of vinegar, cold cuts, and poor life choices.

The smell hits you as soon as you clear the curtain bay—sharp, sour, unmistakably fermented. You pause mid-step. Behind you, Dana makes a strangled noise in her throat and immediately starts waving a clipboard in the air like it’s going to do something other than stir it up.

“If this is Whitaker’s doing,” Dana says, already pinching the bridge of her nose, “I’m pulling him from patients and assigning him to mop duty and moral reflection.”

You snort. “Pretty sure that’s not in the union handbook.”

She’s already striding ahead. “Then I’ll write my own damn handbook.”

Just ahead, Robby moves through the corridor like a man who’s been paged three times too many. Hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, coffee in one hand, a clipboard tucked under his arm, and a look that says he’s thirty seconds from announcing his retirement.

Whitaker’s hustling to keep up, slightly flushed and fumbling with a stack of blank admission forms and a clipboard clearly marked for peds. He’s also holding an empty emesis basin and a bag of saltine crackers.

“I dropped the kid off in Pediatrics like you told me to,” he says, catching his breath. “Then someone threw up on my shoes, I handed over some crackers as a peace offering, and I think I accidentally took this chart on my way out while trying to avoid a loud debate about Paw Patrol and screen time.”

Robby doesn’t even look at him. “Why are you holding a puke tray?”

“Someone in Peds handed it to me. I panicked and said thank you.”

“You don’t work there, Whitaker. You work in emergency.”

“Yeah, well, try telling that to the four-year-old who called me Doctor Crackers and wouldn’t let go of my hand.”

Dana watches Whitaker veer off toward supply, jaw tightening just slightly. “If he volunteers himself into another department’s meltdown, I’m having his badge color-coded for liability.”

You raise a brow. “Is that a charge nurse threat?”

“It’s preventative management.”

Before you can reply, the air shifts—like it always does when Myrna materializes. The low squeak of her wheelchair wheels, the jingle of cheap bracelets, and then—

“Hey, fruitcake.”

Robby slows when he sees her. Not surprised. Not annoyed. Just—ready, in that way he gets when Myrna’s name is involved in a trauma note or a psych hold request.

He hesitates, jaw clenched, clipboard tucked tighter under his arm as he steps in behind the wheelchair—slow and deliberate, one hand on the back like he's guiding a live grenade disguised in costume jewelry.

Myrna is cuffed, of course—standard protocol—but she’s sitting tall like she’s holding court. Her walker is bungee-corded to the back of the chair, and there’s a half-empty Styrofoam cup in the side pocket that no one remembers giving her. She smells like menthols and peach Schnapps. Her lipstick is smeared. Her eyes are sharp.

She cranes her head slightly to look up at Robby and grins with all the self-satisfaction of someone who knows exactly how to ruin your day and plans to do it slowly.

Robby exhales. “Myrna. What brings you in today?”

“I murdered my husband.”

“How’d you do it this time?”

“Meat grinder.”

She shifts in her seat, adjusting the tilt of her chair. When he stops, she immediately starts wheeling herself toward the empty staff breakroom like she owns the place—completely ignoring the Employees Only sign.

“Where do you think you’re going, Myrna?”

“Oh, none of your business, fruitcake.”

His jaw ticks. The clipboard drops half an inch.

“Actually, everything that happens in this department is my business. And you know what? I put up with a lot around here. I take very good care of you. So you can call me Dr. Robinavitch, or Dr. Robby, or you can use my first name, Michael. But I do not appreciate being called fruitcake.”

Dana leans toward you. “He’s two years and one more nickname away from tossing his pager in the East River and moving into a cabin with no electricity.”

You snort. “He can move to the woods if he wants, but I’m not following him into a life of compost toilets and mosquito nets. He’ll be back the second he realizes I’m not coming with.”

Back in the hall, Myrna shrugs.

“Oh, did I hurt your feelings, cocksucker?”

Dana snorts. You press your fingers to your mouth.

Robby takes a breath. “That said, it has a certain whimsical quality I can probably learn to live with.”

“Whatever you say, fruitcake.”

Without missing a beat, she pivots her wheelchair and rolls with precision toward the ambulance bay doors. The automatic sensor doesn’t catch her on the first pass, so she backs up, then rams the base of the door with enough force to jolt the frame—and nearly set off the motion alarm. A “Wet Floor” sign topples in her wake.

Then, slowly, she lifts her cuffed wrists and waves them at the security camera like she’s on parade.

Robby doesn’t move. Just watches her, unreadable.

She pauses at the edge of the exit, half-turned in her chair, chin tilted up like she’s daring someone to try and stop her.

A nurse nearby mutters, “Do we stop her… or let natural selection take it from here?”

You find him later in the breakroom, elbows braced on the table, fingers pressed into his brow like he’s trying to force the day out through his skull. His coffee sits untouched beside a chart he’s clearly given up pretending to read. The overhead light is flickering, unresolved, adding to the static hum that no one has the energy to report anymore.

You slide your coffee beside his and drop into the seat next to him. No words, not yet. Just your knee brushing his under the table—light, intentional, familiar. He doesn’t look at you, but he exhales like you just gave him permission to breathe.

After a beat: “I’m fine.”

You sip your coffee. “Mmm. Then why have you been brooding like a cursed Victorian husband.”

He drags his hands down his face and groans. “She called me a cocksucker in front of the whole emergency department.”

“And you didn’t throw anything,” you say. “Which, frankly, is a win.”

You nudge your foot against his. “Do you want me to fight her?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Outside. Ambulance bay. High noon.”

That earns the smallest crack of a smile.

“I’m serious,” you add. “I’m fully within my spousal rights to go feral.”

“Pretty sure that’s not in the HR manual.”

“Pretty sure it’s in the vows.”

He huffs out a reluctant laugh, and you feel the air between you shift. Lighter. Less taut. The corner of his mouth tilts in that way you’ve learned to love—subtle, fleeting, like warmth in a place that rarely allows it.

“Dana probably already has a memo drafted,” he mutters. “Something official—‘Effective immediately, all consults will refer to Dr. Robinavitch as Fruitcake.’”

You grin. “She has. It’s laminated. I signed off on it.”

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I’m married to you. I take my entertainment where I can get it.”

He finally leans back, posture loosening. “One of these days, I’m torching this whole department.”

“You won’t,” you say. “You love this place too much.”

“I love you. Everything else is negotiable.”

You fall quiet at that, the kind of quiet that makes room for a hand to reach across the table. Yours. His. You’re not even sure. But they find each other easily, like always.

“You were good today,” you say. “The way you handled her. All of it. You didn’t give her the chaos she wanted.”

“She got under my skin.”

“But she didn’t get a reaction. That’s power. That’s control. I'm proud of you.”

He looks at you. Really looks at you. And for a moment, it’s quiet in a way this place rarely is.

“You’re always proud of me,” he says, voice softer now.

You smile, just a little. “Not always. Just when you deserve it.”

A pause. He huffs, but it’s fond. “You should put that on a sticker.”

“Already did.” You nudge his elbow. “Slapped it on your locker right under the one that says ‘Fruitcake of the Month.’”

He groans. “I married a menace.”

“You married smart.”

“You tricked me.”

You squeeze his hand. “And I’d do it again.”

The silence that settles next isn’t heavy. It’s married silence. Full of the things you don’t need to say because you’ve already said them a hundred different ways over coffee cups and night shifts and shared exhaustion.

You glance toward the hallway, then back to him, voice lower now. “Sometimes I wonder how we’re still standing in all this. You, me. This place.”

He watches you for a long moment, then says, “Because you make it worth it.”

A pause.

Then—

“I’m not kissing you in the breakroom,” he says eventually, eyes still on yours.

“I know.”

“But I want to.”

“I know that too.”

Another small smile. “You’re trouble.”

“And you’re mine.”

The moment hangs there—warm and quiet and stupidly rare. It's the kind of silence that only happens when two people know each other too well to need more words.

His pager buzzes on the table. You both glance at it but don’t move right away. Then, like muscle memory, he stands and grabs his clipboard. You collect the two half-finished coffees and toss them without comment.

When you step toward the door, your hand brushes his—not by accident. He doesn’t take it, not here, not with the door just about to swing open. But he squeezes your fingers once, fast and familiar. It’s not affection, exactly. It’s reassurance. A habit. A promise.

You exit the breakroom together.

The hallway feels colder by comparison. Brighter. Louder. Someone’s calling out discharge instructions. A gurney wheel shrieks as it sticks on the threshold. The ER is alive again, like it never paused.

He walks ahead of you, falling back into his role like pulling on a second skin—focused, efficient, slightly intimidating. But you know that look. You know the weight he’s carrying.

When his hand grazes yours again at the hallway bend, he doesn’t pull away right away.

You don’t hold hands. You don’t need to.

But the warmth lingers.

That’s the thing about marriage in a place like this : there’s never time. So you take the seconds. And when you find each other in them, you hold on.

[syoddeye]

simon doesn't pursue people, he operates more like a one-man strike team. his approach to human connection is transactional, pragmatic, a matter of logistics.

on the rare occasion he's looking for company, he wants someone easy, who won't fuss when he introduces them to a thin motel mattress. won't ask what he does for work or try to make plans for the morning. won't bother him about 'next time'. nothing long-term. no strings.

he doesn't have a 'type' so much as a protocol: pick someone malleable, pliant, and preferably on the pill.

then you start working at his local.

the first time he sees you, he doesn't notice much beyond the basics: efficiency, attentiveness, pouring pints and bantering with the regulars with aplomb. by the second or third time, he's paying closer attention. you're not just good at your job—you're quick, always three steps ahead of the chaos. you give out smiles left and right, but it's more muscle memory than genuine warmth. and you're clever, too. funny, even, when someone manages to earn your attention for longer than a transaction.

you could probably keep up with his humor. go toe-to-toe.

you're off-limits, though. that's the rule. bartenders are switzerland—neutral territory. don't shit where you eat. it's a system that works, so long as he doesn't let himself think too much about the view when you lean over the counter or the lilt of your voice when you ask what he's having tonight.

then one evening, you take another man's number. some leering idiot, too comfortable with inserting himself into your space, grinning like he's cracked your code because you haven't humbled him. simon doesn't react, not outwardly. he nurses his drink and watches as you smile, slip the napkin into your pocket, and turn back to the bar.

but that's when you become a problem.

he tells himself it doesn't matter, that it's nothing. he doesn't want a number or a date. but the thought of someone else having you—someone who doesn't know what to do with a woman like you—it's a splinter buried just deep enough to keep him thinking about it. irritating, prone to fester.

how to approach you, though? he can't be as direct as he'd like, can't pin you down with a look or crass words. no way to corner you when you're safe behind the counter, or disappearing through a staff door. hanging around until you're off would be pathetic. dog behavior, he thinks, with a twinge of contempt for the mental image. he's got too much self-respect for that, at least.

no, he's got to actually make an effort. use his words.

the next time he comes in, he waits. no more corner tables or watching from afar. he sits close, pretends not to notice how your hands look slicing a lime. he orders his usual and tries not to overthink your tone when you set it down in front of him.

"you alright?"

you reach for his card, fingers pinching the plastic, but he holds on, smirking when you tug and then huff.

this is the moment. his moment. the one he's been building toward in his head for days. but there's a hitch, a blip in his usual confidence, and he fumbles. he blames your perfume.

"so…you come here often?"

not what he meant to say, but not the worst.

the shockwave of his nuclear-level failure doesn't register until your lips twitch, and it finally sinks in. his eyes widen a fraction as the realization lands. oh, he's fucked it. all his rehearsing, for nothing.

"…yeah," you say, voice flat, a single brow raised as you gesture vaguely toward the bar around you. "i work here?"

his mouth dries, but his face doesn't change. he doesn't fight it when you pull the card out of his grasp. there's the barest glint of something in your eyes—amusement, maybe, or pity. he's not sure which is worse.

you turn away to ring him up, but when you glance back, he's gone.

next

[miaoua3]

Ghost of Your Dreams

Pairing: bf!scoups x f!reader

Genre: smut (MDNI), size kink, no protection (don’t be silly wrap the willy), dom!scoups, spanking, choking, spitting, degradation(slight), praise, cosplay! ghost

Description: all it took was one comment of your and here he was, embarrassed and shy but ready to commit to the fullest in order for him to fulfil your fantasy

Note: everyone went berserk last year when i posted on my tiktok as what characters id like to see svt as for halloween and put coups as ghost from cod so naturally i had to bring even more chaos and write a whole fanfic about it…enjoy hehe (post writing edit of the notes: i passionately hate this my bad guys i suck so bad. and again, not proof read so…yeah lmao)

you knew what you were getting into the very minute you first stepped a foot into your boyfriend’s s home and saw a whole professional pc set-up, with headphones and the kind of keyboard that lights up in rainbow light every time you press any key on it. you knew what to expect from him-late night gaming sessions between him and his friends, him yelling whenever he got annoyed, and a whole lot of cursing.

these are just some of the things you knew to expect.

cheol, on the other hand, never even thought what kind of an effect his hobby could have on you. he knew you would be supportive, and that you would probably use his gaming time to do and practice your own hobbies.

but now, several years into the relationship, he never even expected for you to take any special interest in his hobby, never mind for you to make such an…out-of-character comment like you did two weeks ago.

he was just starting a new game, concentrating on the plot and character dialogue so he knew what to do, when he felt you approach him from behind, carefully watching the screen right beside him.

after a few seconds, cheol sees your pretty pointer finger point at one of the characters from the screen and hears your sweet voice ask “who is that?”

cheol looks up at you with his pretty and big boba eyes, a bit of confusion visible in the way his eyebrows furrow.

“his name is simon riley, but they call him ‘ghost’.”

you only hum in response, tilting your head to the side as you carefully watch the character move around the screen. after a few seconds, you deliver a comment that will forever change seungcheol and who he is as a person.

“he’s hot.”

cheol looks at you, both in confusion and in offence, totally blindsided by the two words that have just left your mouth.

“what- why? how? you can’t even see his face because of the mask. plus, you have a boyfriend, miss. how dare you find another man other than me attractive?”

you finally look at the boyfriend in question, only to see his big cherry lips set in pout, making you smile in amusement. you bend down to hug him around his neck, softly kissing his cheek to comfort him. after you see the corner of his mouth twitch in weakness, you answer his questions.

“i don’t know, something about him is attractive, maybe the way he carries himself and the mysteriousness because of the whole mask thing.”, you muse as you go back to watching ghost on the screen.

cheol does the same, the pout still present as he looks at his favourite character, now with a bit of disdain due to your newfound attraction to him.

after a few seconds of silence, you chuckle before you add another comment that will play a big part in both your futures.

“plus, he kind of reminds me of you, baby. with all the dominance, confidence and that deep voice.”, letting another chuckle, you look him directly in the eyes, you faces only inches apart so he can see your eyes clearly as you add “who knows, maybe you should cosplay him sometime. i know i would love to see that.”

you smile at him before you let a brief kiss land on his lips before you part your body away from his and go back to laying on the bed.

you may have said it in the joking manner, but cheol knew. he saw that look in your eyes, the way your pupils were dilated, the way your smile hid something a bit darker, a bit more sinister in the corners of your lips.

he knew that you weren’t joking.

so here he is, two weeks later, on a saturday night, in the full cosplay, waiting for you to get back from work, his blushing and red face hidden behind the balaclava and mask.

he fondles with all the little belts around his body, namely his waist, chest and thighs. a bit uncomfortable, but nothing cheol couldn’t handle.

hey, anything for love, right?

cheol looks around the apartment as if it will give him an answer as to what he should do, what the plan to surprising you is, but to no avail. the nervousness and sort of excitement is getting more and more unbearable the closer your arrival is getting.

finally, he settles on hiding in the bathroom, knowing that your first move will be to check your shared bedroom to see if he’s there, making the bathroom the perfect place to hide, as it is directly across the bedroom and he can then quietly sneak up behind you.

just like he planned, cheol skilfully hides behind the bathroom door, leaving the light off and the door slightly open as to make you think he isn’t inside. he stills his movements the moment he hears the keys jingling behind the entrance door before the door click open.

you drop your keys into the little dish beside the door before hanging your bag and coat on the hanger right beside it. he hears you sigh deeply, probably meaning that you have had a long day and that you need some relaxation.

perfect.

after you take your shoes off, he hears you still for a moment, carefully listening to the sounds in your own home. after a second, he hears you call out “cheol? are you there? i’m home!”

but to no avail. because he doesn’t answer.

right in that moment, cheol's belief that he knows you better than anyone else was solidified.

because just like he predicted, he hears you take a few steps before you lightly open the door of your bedroom, peaking inside to see if your boyfriend is inside.

showtime.

ever so quietly, cheol moves until he’s standing right behind you, his eyes looking at the top of your head. he just had to smirk at your cluelessness, how you are so cutely looking for him while he’s standing directly behind you.

not being able to resist the temptation, cheol leans in until his covered lips are right by your ear before he utters in his deepest voice possible.

“looking for something, m’love?”

you gasp in shock, eyes wide as you quickly turn towards him, stumbling back so much that if it weren’t for his hand catching your arm, you would’ve fallen right onto your ass.

you gape at his tall and darkly clothed silhouette, being somewhere between shocked and in awe of your beautiful muscle-y boyfriend standing in front of you in a costume you never could’ve imagined seeing him in.

the shock lasts all but 5 seconds before the widest smile he has ever seen on you takes over your features, your pupils blown out, so much so that they appear almost completely black.

with excitement you start word-vomiting “oh my god, i can’t believe you really did this. i think this is the best day of my life. oh my god, are you gonna spank me and say that i’ve been a bad girl? or maybe-“

something about the way you look little too excited, like a kid on a christmas morning that can’t wait to open their presents, the way you smiled so wide, maybe even too widely. like cheol just walked right into your trap.

it rubbed him the wrong way, blood boiling slightly.

although that just might be the multiple layers of clothes that he’s wearing.

oh well.

wasting no time, seungcheol suddenly grabs you by your neck and pulls you towards him, making whatever words you wanted to say die on your tongue and a gasp slip out instead.

the moment your body collides with his, he uses his big and broad body to push you against the wall by your bedroom door, harshly.

your body slams against the cold white wall, and cheol has the oh shit- thought for all of half second that he might’ve pushed you too hard and that he might’ve hurt you.

that is before he hears you moan loudly at the action, throwing your head back.

little masochist.

cheol then immediately comes closer to you, crowding your space so much, until the only thing left to focus on is the mask that covers his face. his chest pushes into yours, making it that harder to breathe, and his knee finds its home right between your legs, pushing upwards until he can feel the warmth between your legs on his thigh.

your beautiful and cute eyes are already teary as you look upwards at him, desperation forming on your waterline in the form of tears.

you don’t have to see it to know that cheol is smirking at the effect he has on you, smugness dripping in his voice as he says.

“what do we have here, hm? your pussy already desperate for me, baby? but we haven’t even started.” he pauses for a second to press his covered forehead against yours before he continues “is this all it took to reduce you to what you really are? a desperate, cock-hungry little bitch? so hungry for my cock hm? can’t even wait for it to enter that little pussy of yours, already rubbing yourself on me.”

it is only when his glove-clothed hand suddenly runs over your front, right where your pussy is desperately rubbing on his thigh, that you even notice what you’ve unconsciously started doing, his fingertips digging until he finds the slit of your pussy lips, pressing hard until he reaches your clit, despite two layers of clothes being in his way.

you moan at the contact, hands grabbing at his wrist, somewhere between pushing his hand away and closer to where you need him the most.

seungcheol won’t let you have any control tonight, he wants you to completely surrender to him, to let him use you and move you however he wants, to just accept whatever he gives you with a fucked out smile on your face.

hence why he grabs both your hands into his before slamming them onto the wall above your head, quickly switching his hold onto your wrists.

with a purposefully made angry face, he looks into your teary eyes. something dark and far more sinister than he thought he could ever feel awakens inside of him, the feeling of giddiness overcoming him as he watches your eyelashes get wet by the tears gathering in your eyes, neediness and desperation swimming in them.

with a deep voice overflowing with warning, he says “no touching tonight, are we clear pretty girl? you are at my mercy tonight. everything i want to give you…”, he pause for a few seconds so he can remove the skull mask from his face and reveal the identical balaclava beneath it, before he pushes his face closer until his cloth-covered nose meets your own and continues “…you will take like a good girl i know you are. understood?”

you watch his dark eyes, purposefully covered in black paint, as you process his words. your mouth are agape, shaky breaths leaving the opening until the sound hits cheol’s ears. his free hand that isn’t holding your wrists comes to hold your cheek gently, a touch of love to show you that this isn’t real, that this is just a bit of a fun game to both of you, that he still loves you despite his harsh words.

with wide eyes, you slowly nod your head to his demand, showing him that you understand.

contrary to his tone just a few seconds ago, cheol gently whispers in the little space between you two “use your words baby, i need to hear you say ‘yes’ before we continue.”

you heart squeezes in love that you have for this man. the fact that he basically interrupted his own fantasy in the name of having you consent to him with your own words makes you love him that much more. sure, it may be the bare minimum to the rest of the world, but to you, who never experienced such gentle love by the previous partners? it means the whole world.

with hoarse voice, you whisper “yes. i understand.”

cheol looks at your eyes for a second, looking for doubt and fear, only to find excitement and trust instead. nodding his head, he pushes his balaclava until his lips are freed, and using the newfound freedom to lay a gentle and light kiss to your mouth, letting them linger just for a second before he pushes the balaclava back in place, now fully ready to push you to the point of tears of pleasure.

within a second, that old flame of desire returns to his eyes. for a second you could’ve sworn that his eyes had a tinge of redness in them, almost like they were literally set on fire.

his hand slowly but firmly wraps around your neck, the leather material making the squeaky sound as he repositions his hand so his fingers are only squeezing the sides of your slender neck. the last bit of air leaves your lungs as cheol squeezes your neck, making you feel lightheaded within seconds.

your boyfriend uses your distraction and hazy mind to just observe you-the way your eyes flutter shut and how tears gather at your water line, how your hands try to grasp onto something to no avail because he’s holding the hostage above your head, how your mouth can’t decide if you want to bite your lip and keep the gasps and moans from escaping or opening them as wide as possible and letting all those pretty sounds flow like a river straight out.

he watches how your hair is already messy, a complete opposite to how you usually style it for work. then to how your pretty neck bobs in an effort to take in more air. the way his black leather glove wraps prettily around it.

his eyes fall onto your chest, and the way your button up shirt gives him a peak of your cleavage, as well as the necklace with his initials engraved on the back of the pendant hanging from the chain. the way your chest raise and fall at rapid speed, the way your tits move with every exhale.

his pupils follow the curvature of your waist, and the way your pants hug your hips-the hips he loves to hold, grab, squeeze and use as his anchor while he’s fucking you from behind.

lastly, cheol observes the movement of your hips, how you slowly roll your hips in slow and small circles on his leg that is pushed between your legs in an effort to relieve the uncomfortable tingle on your clit, the warmth from between your legs making his mouth water in need to taste you, in need to have your tight pussy wrap around his cock.

fuck, he needs to fuck you. right now.

his head drops beside yours, a groan hitting the shell of your ear before he demands “take your pants off, need to have that needy pussy around my cock right now.”

no sooner than when his hand lets go of your hands that were hanging above your head that you immediately got to work, unzipping your pants and missing the zipper a few times. the minute it was unzipped enough, you pulled your pants down, along with your panties, before you kicked them to the side.

while you were preoccupied by taking your pants off, cheol did the same to his. well, he couldn’t really take them off due to insane amount of tiny belts hugging his big thighs. instead, he just unzipped them and pulled them down just enough to free his aching cock from his boxers, precum leaking from the tip the moment it bounces upon being taken out.

your eyes immediately get drawn to the sight, how big he looks, the tip the slight pinkish colour due to lack of stimulation.

but it’s not just his dick-cheol as a whole, right at this moment, looks like something straight out of your wet dreams, like a desire or a kink you can’t talk about, keeping it locked inside a box instead, hidden deeply inside your closet.

the black balaclava with the skull printed on it hugging his head and currently hiding his beautiful face, the black turtleneck that is covered with the fake black military vest, with tons of tiny pockets. the way his big biceps bulge out, protruding even with the longs sleeves trying to keep them hidden.

the black leather gloves that are trying to keep his pants below his cock, kind of frustratedly fumbling with the material because it’s not obeying to his orders. the black pants that hug his legs, the black boots-simply everything.

it makes your whole body feel hot, so hot like somebody poured hot lava all over it.

fuck, i need to suck him off dry right. now.

just as cheol was about to grab you, you let your knees drop, kind of painfully hitting the floor, and as gently as possible due to the hunger grabbing his dick.

cheol confusedly looks down at you, mouth open to say “wha-“ but gets cut off with a moan the moment your warm mouth wraps around his cock.

normally, you would go slow, paying attention to his tip for a minute or so before trying to swallow his whole length.

normally. but not now.

the moment you open your mouth and lean in towards his dick, you start bobbing your head up and down his cock, you hand working on the base that you can’t reach with your mouth just yet. you other hand pulls on his pants, trying to keep them in place while you suck his length.

feeling overwhelmed by your sudden actions, cheol gasps a moan and slams a hand onto the wall to keep him balanced, knees buckling due to the sheer force of your movements.

your mouth haven’t even been around his dick for a minute and he can already feel his balls ready to burst, breathing deep and looking towards to the ceiling (or the heavens, whichever way you want to interpret it), praying that he doesn’t cum so quickly.

you continue with your movements, tongue wrapping around and licking his cock as you drag your mouth back before you suck his length back in, his tip hitting the back of your throat.

cheol watches you in awe and fascination, the way your eyebrows furrow not in concentration, but due to the neediness to have yourself choking on his big cock, moaning every few seconds in pure enjoyment.

never thought sucking a dick could be so good and so…sexually full filling.

you look up through your eyelashes at your boyfriend. even with the balaclava you can tell that his mouth is opened, letting those beautiful and loud moans flow freely out of them, that his eyebrows are furrowed because he’s trying to contain himself and not fuck your face.

which is exactly what you want.

you pull away, both to let yourself and himself breathe, though you keep the eye contact going.

and cheol sees it. that look in your eyes that is begging him to fuck your mouth.

how could he ever deny his baby anything?

just as you were about to go back to sucking his dick, cheol grabs your hair and pulls you away, and keeps pulling on it, making you move your body with it. he only stops once your whole body is back to leaning against the wall, legs kind of awkwardly bent before you readjust them.

your glossy eyes look up at him, needy and demanding for him to fuck your mouth, now.

tapping your cheek with two fingers, he's only able to rasp out "open your mouth."

your lips fall open without a second thought, poking your tongue out as you wait for him to give it to you hard and fast, just like how you like it.

cheol wishes that he could take a mental picture of you like this-eyes glossy, face littered with sweat and mouth calling his name. this right here, how you like right now.

this is everything cheol has ever dreamt about.

ever so slowly, cheol pushes his pelvis foward, his cock held tightly in his hand as he guides it straight to your mouth. he smears the head a bit on your tongue, letting you taste him yet again, but immediately pulling away once you try closing your mouth around it, a sound of disapprovement escaping his lips. once you look at him confusedly, eyebrows furrowed, he's adds "don't move. let me fuck that pretty mouth of yours like i know you want me to, like a good slut i know you are. just relax and enjoy, hm?"

you nod your head quickly before opening your mouth again, an amused chuckle echoing in cheol’s mouth.

very carefully, cheol pushes his cock back into your mouth. his eyes are fully trained to follow your every move, eyes cloudy with desire as he watches you close your mouth around his girth, pretty eyes looking right back into his. he continues pushing his pelvis until he feels the back of your throat close against the head, pearly precum falling down your throat, before he pulls back.

he continues repeatedly doing this a few times, getting you used to the motion and pace, before he speeds up slightly.

your fists are clenched against your thighs, desperate to touch him but resisting the urge to touch him, to pull him closer until you feel yourself choking on his thick cock. instead, you focus that energy to let all the little sounds that you know cheol definitely loves, your humming and moaning creating vibrations on his length.

cheol moans right back, throwing his head back every so often because it just feels so good. the warmth of your mouth as he rocks his hips, the way you try swirling your tongue around the head, the way you’re looking at him, like he’s the only man ever for you.

it all messes with his head.

naturally, he loses himself in the pleasure, unconsciously speeding up his movement until his cock is repeatedly hitting the back of your throat, choking sounds hitting the shell of his ear every time he pushes his cock back in.

after another few minutes of him fucking your pretty mouth, of him letting little comments like “fuck, just like that pretty girl” and “yeah chock on my cock, just like that”, cheol feels himself being so so close, almost a second away from cumming. and although he would like nothing more to paint your pretty face with his cum, to smear it around, almost like he’s marking his territory, to see tears spill from your eyes and mix with his fluids, he would much rather cum inside of you. now.

harshly, he pulls all the way out, hissing once the cold air meets his wet length, before grabbing your jaw harshly with one hand. using that hold, he quickly picks you up, dragging you up to meet him.

you gasp at the action and the way it cuts your airway off, hands quickly grabbing his forearm as he drags you to your feet.

the moment you are close enough, he pulls his balaclava all the way off and clashes your mouths together, tongue swirling around your own, stealing yet another breath away from you.

just as quickly as he kissed you, he pulls away, lips swollen from both the kiss and biting on his lips while fucking your mouth, eyes dark and cloudy like a stormy night.

you’re still gasping because he still has a hold on your cheeks with one hand, nails digging into your skin in a painful yet delicious way, your own hand squeezing his wrist in indecisiveness, unsure if you want him to squeeze it even more or to let you breathe.

pushing his forehead against your own, you can clearly see him struggling to control himself by the way he’s harshly breathing. in a dangerously low and warning tone, he just says “i’m gonna fuck you so hard, just like you want me to. gonna fuck you like a slut i know you are. gonna make you beg me to let you cum. now jump.” before he bends down and grabs you by your legs, picking you up like you weigh nothing and wrapping your legs around his waist.

your heart jumps to your throat in excitement, everything about this so new and so unfamiliar-the face fucking, the cosplay, the degradation. you previously told him it was something you’d like to try, just to see if you would like it more than when he praises you and worships you, and although you like how every time he called you ‘slut’ a shiver went down your back, his praise and calling you his love and baby while he’s fucking you will always be number one place.

cheol quickly grabs his dick and slaps it a few times against your clit before he pushes it inside of you, gliding much easier due to your arousal. you both moan loudly at the contact, cheols eyebrows furrowing almost like he’s in pain. his eyes focused entirely on how your pussy is swallowing his big cock.

you feel heat on your cheeks at the sound your cunt makes every time cheol pushes back inside you and pulls back, it’s all wet and loud, and it makes you want to hide your face in embarrassment. you can’t remember the last you were this aroused, so much so that the slick was staining cheol’s pants that were still just pushed right under his dick.

in the matter of seconds, cheol starts fucking you hard and fast, your loud moans echoing in the hallway, probably making it a show for the neighbours to hear. head thrown back against the wall, you focus on gripping cheol’s shoulders like your life depends on it.

his hands are harshly gripping your thighs, both to hold you up and keep you in place so you don’t slip due to sheer force of his movements, but also because he adores your thighs-if it were up to him, his face would be permanently squished between them while eating you out, all day, every day.

you can quickly tell that neither of you will last much longer, the long foreplay already getting you close to the finish line. for yourself you can tell by that funny feeling in your tummy and in the quiver of your legs that are wrapped around cheol’s hips. for cheol, you can tell by how his movements have lost the rhythm, only focusing on fucking you as fast as possible, desperate to cum inside of you and make you cum on his dick.

cheol presses his sweaty forehead against your own, his glassy eyes looking directly into your own. despite how dirty this all feels, you can still feel love pouring from his eyes into your own. you feel his adoration for you, you feel that his heart is beating for you and for you only. al of that is enough to make the knot inside of your tummy slowly start to unravel, your pussy squeezing around cheol’s dick stronger than ever before.

at the feeling of you milking him dry, he moans loudly, his movements sloppier than ever, holding out his orgasm and stopping himself from cumming just so you can cum together with him.

“that’s it, baby, cum around me. take it, take what’s yours. lemme feel that pussy-“

the rest of his words don’t register in your brain because cheol lets go one of your thighs so he can rub your clit, thumb pressing harshly into it as he moves it side to side in quick movements, and in a few seconds you are cumming.

cheol moans as he feels you cumming around him, his own finish following your own immediately. he tries to ride your orgasms as long as possible, but then he feels liquid drench his pants, only to see you squirting on him, his brain short-circuiting at the sensation.

he successful holds you up through your orgasms despite his legs shaking like crazy from how hard he has come. using the fact that you are leaning on the wall, cheol pushes you further into it in the name of getting closer to you, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder as he feels the last of your orgasm drenching him, his own dick pulsating almost painfully inside of you.

for a minute or so, you two just stand there, hugging each other as you breathe heavily, trying desperately to regain your vision. you pat his hair slowly, just like how he likes it. cheol, in return, hugs you impossibly close to himself, whispering beautiful nothings into your ear like “good girl” and “i love you so much baby”, just how you like it.

after another moment or so, he finally pulls back, his big brown eyes looking you over to see if everything is good, only to be met with your spent but satisfied expression, eyes unfocused as you try to look back into him.

he uses one hand to slowly move your hair away from your face, grimacing a little at the feeling of sweat that sticks to his hand as he wipes your forehead.

he watches you for a few seconds, eyes so gentle and full of love, he can’t resist kissing you slowly, his lips a bit chapped from continuously biting it, but still somehow so soft.

you close your eyes and just enjoy the feeling of his love, arms lazily wrapped around his shoulders, fingers twirling his hair at the back of his head.

he slowly pulls away, eyes searching your own. once he sees you finally being able to focus on him, the first thing he says to you is

“i love you so much baby.”

and for some reason, probably due to all the adrenaline and because of how gentle he is being, you feel your eyes prickling with tears, quickly hiding your face in his shoulder and hugging him closer than ever, seeking out his comfort.

cheol tries prying a bit worriedly, gently asking things like ‘what’s wrong baby? hm? tell me so i can make it better’ but all you have strength for is to whisper quietly to him “i love you too. so much…bedroom, please.”

cheol gets the hint, quickly pulling out of you so he can carry you to your bedroom so he can cuddle you and take care of you, lips kissing your temple as he kicks the door open and walks to your bed.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

you stir awake, eyes blurry as you try to find your boyfriend.

only to see his side of the bed empty.

you quickly get up in panic, still a bit needy and in need of his touch, looking around with furrowed eyebrows.

only to see the bathroom door open, cheol standing in front of the mirror as he’s trying to take off the black paint from his eye area, softly and quietly cursing at how stubborn the paint is, only smudging around instead of getting off his face.

you immediately stop panicking, observing his half naked form, his soft muscles and little tummy getting all of your attention.

he’s so effortlessly beautiful, it makes you wonder how he is even yours. he’s just standing there, only in his black towel, yet he looks like a god, wet hair falling into his eyes as he’s still trying to take the makeup off, pouting at how unsuccessful he is at getting it off.

slowly, you get out of the bed and walk towards him, arms immediately wrapping around his waist from behind the moment you are close enough to him, nuzzling your face into the soft skin of his back.

he smells fresh, like his body gel. luckily your boyfriend isn’t one of those people who uses 36 in 1 shower gels, instead of opting for the regular one, this time having grabbed the one that smells like…cucumbers maybe? nevertheless, he’s clean and smells great, and you enjoy every second of it.

cheol drops one hand across your own that are rubbing his tummy, still trying to take the paint off.

you watch him across his shoulder, smiling in amusement for a few second before you use your hands to slowly turn him around so he’s facing you.

he immediately starts pouting at you, hands quickly finding your waist under his shirt that is hanging from your frame.

in whiny voice, he starts complaining “it won’t come off baby. what am i supposed to do? i have an important meeting tomorrow morning.”

you smile as you take the cotton pad from his hand and take your own micellar water, dabbing the pad a bit with it before you gently start rubbing his eyes.

you feel his thumbs rubbing slow circles on your hip bones in comfort, enjoying the sensation and his touch to the fullest.

“you need to use a micellar water that has some oil in it as well, so the oil can break off the paint particles. your micellar water isn’t strong enough for it apparently.”

cheol just hums in response, fully taking advantage of you taking care of him, eyes closed in enjoyment.

after a minute or so, you pull your hands away to see if everything has come off successfully, nodding your head as you see his open eyes clear of paint. you tell him that he can wash his face now, but before you can pull away and let him get back to it, cheol uses his hold on your hips to pull you into a hug. his lips immediately find yours, tongue slowly entering your mouth so he can deepen the kiss. you kiss him right back, melting in his arms because of how gently he’s kissing you.

your hands rub his chest as he’s kissing you, his own hands travelling up your back, pulling your (his) shirt with it, cold air greeting your ass that is only in a pair of panties.

slowly pulling away, cheol again looks at you with those eyes, making you feel something catch in your throat at the look he’s giving you.

smiling gently, he bends down a little so he can kiss your forehead, the whole action performed slowly and gently.

pulling away yet again, he smiles again as he uses one hand to cup your cheek, thumb slowly rubbing your skin as he looks at you.

seconds go buy as he just watches you before he lightly says in the little space between you “i am so in love with you. you don’t even know it but you own my whole being. i want to give you the world. i want to spend eternity with you, if you would let me.” he pauses so he can push his forehead against your own. almost inaudibly, he adds “in this world, it’s just you and me, love. i don’t need anybody else as long as i have you.”

and as you kiss him to shut him up before he says something else and makes you cry yet again, you think to yourself.

if only you knew, choi seungcheol. if only you knew.

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤBELOVEDㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Damian Wayne x Fem Reader Part 2

☆⁠ HEADCANON : What If Damien's Obsession Continue Even After You Broke Up With Dick? What If His Obsession Grow As He Grow Up?

☆⁠ NOTES : Reader is the same age as Dick. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You never thought your life would look like this. Working in a small flower shop wasn’t what you dreamed of as a bright-eyed twenty-something in Gotham, but it was peaceful. You’d long since left the chaos of capes and vigilantes behind, including a certain acrobat who never could hold onto a girlfriend.

Now, at 33, you felt invisible. Your reflection in the mirror wasn’t what it used to be, and time had stolen some of the confidence you once had. You didn’t mind, though. You had your flowers, your little corner of the world, and the belief that love belonged to someone else’s story.

But then, there was him.

The first time he walked into the shop, you barely noticed him. Just another handsome guy buying flowers for some lucky person. It wasn’t unusual—flower shops brought in romantics, after all.

But then he came back.

And again.

And again.

Each time, he would only take flowers from you. If you weren’t behind the counter, he’d wait patiently, pretending to browse until you returned. If you were busy, he’d stand to the side, quiet and stoic, as though he had all the time in the world.

It became routine. He’d show up every Wednesday like clockwork, always choosing something simple—a bouquet of daisies, a handful of roses. He rarely spoke more than a few words. "I’ll take those." "How much for this?" "Thank you." His voice was low, smooth, almost hypnotic.

You didn’t think much of it. Maybe he was just particular. Maybe he liked the way you arranged the flowers. You didn’t dare entertain the idea that he might like you.

One day, as you were arranging tulips, your coworker Hannah nudged you with a mischievous grin.

“Have you noticed how Flower Guy only comes in when you’re here?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You know, the tall, handsome guy with black hair and green eyes? He’s got the whole brooding vibe going on. Like a tortured poet who secretly reads love sonnets at night.”

You laughed. “Hannah, please. He’s just a regular customer.”

“Oh, sure. Because regular customers stare at you like you hung the moon and only buy flowers from your hands. Totally normal.”

You rolled your eyes. “He doesn’t stare.”

“He does, though. It’s kinda romantic. Maybe he’s secretly in love with you.”

You snorted. “There’s no way. He’s probably got a girlfriend or a wife. Guys like him don’t…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “Anyway, I’m too old for him.”

Hannah scoffed. “You’re 33, not 83. And you’re gorgeous. I bet he’s into you.”

You brushed it off, but Hannah’s words stuck with you.

One Wednesday, he came in as usual, dressed in a worn leather jacket and dark jeans. His hair was slightly tousled, and he looked… well, annoyingly perfect, as always.

But this time, something was different. He didn’t just take his flowers and leave.

As you handed him a bouquet of sunflowers, he paused, his green eyes locking onto yours.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.

You frowned, tilting your head. “Should I?”

He hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. “No. I suppose not.”

There was a long silence, and then he said, “Would you have dinner with me?”

Your brain short-circuited. “Excuse me?”

“Dinner. With me. I’d like to take you out.”

You blinked, genuinely stunned. “I… don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I mean, you’re—” You gestured vaguely at him. “You. And I’m—” You gestured vaguely at yourself. “Me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t follow.”

“You’re young. And handsome. And probably have women falling all over you. Why would you want to go out with someone like me?”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t see yourself clearly, do you?”

You laughed nervously. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not looking for anything. Thank you, though.”

He didn’t argue. He just nodded, took his flowers, and left.

He didn’t stop coming. If anything, he doubled down.

One week, he showed up looking disheveled, his jacket frayed, his shoes scuffed. When he handed you the money for his bouquet, you noticed it was crumpled, like it had been fished out of a couch cushion.

“Are you okay?” you asked, genuinely concerned.

He sighed heavily. “It’s been… a rough few months.”

“Oh?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his expression pained. “Kicked out of work. Rent’s overdue. Been crashing on a friend’s couch.”

Your heart ached for him. “That sounds awful. I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s life.”

You couldn’t help but feel bad for him. Maybe that’s why, when he asked again if you’d have dinner with him, you hesitated before saying no.

But Damien was nothing if not persistent.

Eventually, you gave in. Mostly because he wouldn’t leave you alone.

“Fine,” you said one day, throwing your hands up. “One date. Just to get you to stop asking.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

That night, he showed up dressed sharply but not overly flashy, carrying a single rose. He held it out to you with a small smirk. “For you.”

The date was… perfect. Annoyingly perfect. He was charming, attentive, and surprisingly funny. He made you laugh more than you had in years, and by the end of the night, you found yourself wondering why you’d ever said no in the first place.

He never told you who he really was. Not that night, not the next, and not for months. But eventually, you pieced it together.

It happened when you were flipping through an old photo album, reminiscing about your time in Gotham. And there he was. A scowling 13-year-old boy glaring at the camera.

“Oh my God,” you muttered. “It’s him.”

When you confronted him about it, he didn’t even try to deny it. He just smirked, leaned back in his chair, and said, “Took you long enough.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “You knew me this whole time?”

“Of course.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it?”

He shrugged. “You didn’t remember me. I wanted a clean slate.”

You wanted to be mad, but the truth was… you didn’t regret giving him a chance.

By the time he kissed you for the first time, you realized that maybe, just maybe, love was still a part of your story after all.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— NEXT ☆ Part 1. Part 3.

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆