#i was writing this while as i had to leave and then when i was trying to fix the typos the elevator i was in started malfunctioning

[daxisyzz]

hiiii i hope you are well !!! i was wondering if you could maybe do a fic where the reader gets kidnapped and tortured by hydra on a mission or something, and after a while bucky and the team find her and save her but she’s so psychologically damaged that she’s scared of everyone? preferably lots and lots of protective and comforting bucky as he looks after her and he becomes the only person she’s comfortable with, all the angst and hurt/comfort with a happy ending would be amazing!!! thanks 🩷

Heyyy!! Hope you're doing well too. Writing this fic made me cry so I hope it's what you expected. Sorry for answering late🙃

Only safe with you

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst, trauma recovery, Kidnapping, psychological torture (not graphic), PTSD, panic attacks, emotional vulnerability, mentions of touch aversion, recovery

Word count: 1.1k+

You didn’t scream when they took you.

That came later—when your voice cracked raw from begging the shadows for mercy, for death, for something other than the cold numbness pressing in around you like icewater under your skin. But in the beginning, there was only silence. The kind that hollows you out from the inside.

The kind that makes you forget your own name.

You had been captured by Hydra. A mission gone wrong. A corner turned too fast. A shot fired too late. And then it all disappeared beneath the haze of a needle and the slam of a steel door.

No one found you. Not for weeks.

And in that time, you stopped existing.

You curled in on yourself, starved and shaking, while voices you didn't recognize whispered in the dark, breaking you down with every calculated word. They told you you were abandoned. That no one was coming. That you were alone because you were unworthy of being loved.

They never needed to touch you.

They just watched you rot from the inside out.

When the team finally found you, you didn’t recognize them.

You heard the explosion first—the thunder of boots, the sharp bark of Bucky’s voice, the sound of someone screaming your name like it meant something.

But all you saw were more shadows.

You tried to crawl into the wall when they burst into your cell. Your fingernails broke against the concrete, your body instinctively folding into itself, your mouth whispering pleas in a language you didn’t know you remembered.

You didn’t know Bucky was crying until his tears hit your hands.

"Hey," he choked, dropping to his knees, blood on his knuckles and desperation in his eyes. "It’s me. It’s Bucky. I’m here, okay? I’ve got you. You’re safe."

But safety was a concept that no longer made sense to you.

When his hand brushed yours, you screamed.

You screamed like you were dying. Like you were on fire.

And something in Bucky broke that day.

The jet ride back was too bright. Too loud. You were swaddled in a blanket like a child, staring through people who whispered your name with eyes full of quiet sorrow. Natasha sat across from you, tense and silent, her hand clenched in her lap.

Steve paced quietly in the back, eyes heavy with guilt.

Tony said nothing, choosing instead to sit beside you in stillness.

They all felt the ache, but none knew how to hold it.

Because they saw the pieces of you, scattered and bloody, and none of them knew how to put you back together.

Except for Bucky.

He didn’t leave your side. Not once.

You wouldn’t let anyone else near you. The first time Bruce tried to assess your wounds, you had a panic attack so violent your lips turned blue.

But Bucky?

You let him stay.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t see him. But he was there. Sitting on the floor, silent and patient, like he was trying to absorb your pain with every breath.

"You don’t have to talk," he whispered once, voice so low it made your ribs ache. "I’ll just be here. I’m not going anywhere."

And he wasn’t.

Not when you curled into corners, sobbing so hard you threw up.

Not when you tore your own skin in your sleep.

Not when you started to disappear into yourself again.

He stayed.

And the others watched, hurting in their own quiet ways.

Natasha lingered by your door some nights, pacing like she wanted to knock but couldn’t.

Steve brought books you didn’t read.

Tony made sure the lights never flickered in your room again.

They didn’t say much. They didn’t force anything. But they were there.

And Bucky? He just was.

Weeks passed.

You started whispering again. Small things. Words like "water" or "blanket" or "stay."

Always to Bucky.

Only to him.

He was the first person you let touch you again.

A pinky finger. Brushing yours. Barely there.

You sobbed when it happened. Clutched your chest like it hurt. Like it burned to feel something again.

Bucky didn’t cry. Not then.

But that night, Steve found him in the hallway outside your door, fists bruised and bloodied against the wall.

"I can’t lose her again," Bucky whispered, voice shattering. "I can’t."

Recovery wasn’t linear.

Some days you smiled.

Some days you screamed.

Some nights you let Bucky hold your hand.

Some nights you clawed at your own skin, begging him to make it stop.

And he did.

Not with force.

Not with words.

Just with presence.

He’d pull you into his lap, wrap his arms around your shaking body, press his lips to your temple and whisper, "You’re safe. You’re not alone. I’ve got you."

Until you believed him.

Even if only for a moment.

One night, you whispered, "Why did you stay?"

Bucky looked at you, moonlight catching the cracks in him that matched your own.

"Because you matter. Because you didn’t give up. Because you let me find you."

You blinked, tears spilling freely. "I don’t feel like a person anymore."

His voice broke. "Then let me remind you how to be one."

They say healing is like a mosaic, broken pieces coming together to form something beautiful.

You were still cracked. Still healing. Still learning how to exist in a body that had been turned into a prison.

But Bucky loved you through all of it.

With hands that never rushed.

With words that never demanded.

With a heart that only ever whispered, You are safe here.

And for the first time in months, maybe years—You believed him.

One Year Later

The morning sun slipped in through the curtains, painting your room in pale gold. The shadows that once clung to the walls had long since faded, replaced by quiet warmth and slow, steady breaths.

You sat curled on the couch, a book in your lap, half-forgotten, as Bucky entered with two steaming mugs in hand. He paused in the doorway, watching you with that soft look he reserved only for you—a kind of awe, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

"You’re staring," you said, voice lighter, steadier now.

He grinned. "Can you blame me?"

You set the book aside and took the mug he offered, your fingers brushing his without flinching. That tiny act still felt like magic sometimes.

You leaned into him when he sat beside you, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in without a word.

There were no more nightmares that week.

You’d started laughing again. Dancing in the kitchen. Humming in the shower.

You still had days where the world felt fragile, like it could crack open beneath your feet—but you no longer fell alone.

You looked up at Bucky, your eyes soft. "Thank you for not giving up on me."

His thumb brushed your cheek. "You saved yourself. I just got to love you through it."

And you did. Slowly, then all at once. Day by day, moment by moment, you let the light back in through him.

[maghendearey]

I’m begging you please write something for dad!Lando Norris maybe he is streaming with Max f and y/n walks in with their kid and lando just goes from game raging to being the softest person ever

I love this idea so much and am so excited to put it into action. Sorry if it took a while. If any of you have any ideas, my requests are open.

Baby days

Masterlist

:in which Lando decided to stream on one evening and ends up cuddling with the children

triggerwarnings:none

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Since Lando was little, he only wanted a few things, to find a best friend: which came in the form of Max, to get into F1: he managed in the year 2019 and to win a world championship: he hadn't done that yet but was well on his way.

What wasn't on his plan, however, was you, when you broke down on the side of the road with your car problem and he stopped because you were somewhere in the mountains and he wasn't going to leave you there overnight without any help. What wasn't on his plan, however, was your beautiful smile and your sense of humor which was so bad it made everyone in the room laugh. What wasn't on his plan was that he would make you his girlfriend, that you would get on really well with his family and that Max, his best friend, would soon be like a brother to you. And what was least on the agenda was that at the age of 23 you would become a father to a little girl, Maja, and at the age of 25 you would become a father for the second time, in this case to a little boy, Oliver-Max.

He didn't quit F1 and to be honest, you didn't want him to either. You loved him and what the sport meant to him. And even though that meant he wasn't home a lot, the time he was there he was completely there for you and the little ones. He loved them and he loved you too, madly. He would die for the three of you in seconds if he had to. And even when he was home today, you had allowed him to stream on the computer with his friends; it was good for him to switch off and besides, Oliver, who really was the cutest baby, was already asleep on your chest. And Maja was watching Cars. You thought that film was weak but she had inherited her weakness for F1 from her father. Although she couldn't do anything with a go-kart yet because her little feet couldn't reach the pedals, you still knew that one day she would be a really good driver.

You left Maja alone in her room for a moment, the tablet in her little hand, and the film still playing, to put Oliver to bed. As you walked past Lando's streaming room with the baby in your arms, you heard him cursing loudly. You didn't really mind, but if he was that loud, it would wake Oliver up. So you knocked gently on the door before pushing down the doorknob. When he didn't answer, but presumably didn't hear you, you pushed down the doorknob and went in with the baby. Lando was wearing headphones, so he couldn't hear you. You stepped behind him and gently tapped his shoulder, which made him flinch. He took off his headphones and looked up at me, his smile changing from professional to loving in an instant. "My baby," he said, taking your son from your arms. You knew that "my baby" meant not just him but you too, because he didn't just take the baby from your arms. but also pulled you onto his lap. Your little boy pointed with his fingers at the screen, which your gaze also wandered to. There was not only the game but also Max, who was smiling brightly at you. "Hey, how are you?" Max asked, whom you could clearly hear through the headphones that were now on Lando's shoulder. It was difficult to concentrate because Lando's head was tucked into your neck and his lips were on your baby's forehead. "I'm fine, Max." You were just about to ask, but before you could, you heard the little footsteps running down the hallway and into your room with Lando. She must have heard Max's voice, because the one thing she loved besides F1 was definitely Max. But before she could do anything, you pulled Maja onto your lap.

Shortly after, Lando ended the stream; he wanted time with you. He wanted to kiss you, hold you, and spend the evening with you, Maja, and Oliver, with lots and lots of cuddles.

You didn't care about anything. You didn't care that you only got to bed in the middle of the night today, you didn't care that you'd both be overtired tomorrow. And you also didn't care that the photos from the stream would be all over the internet tomorrow. Because no matter what you were like, you were together. Totally in love and more than happy with everything you had and will have forever.

I hope you liked it and I was able to implement your idea. I wish you all a nice day.

Love you all 💋

[brninghouse]

Let me help you | Robert Reynolds

Pairing. Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Summary. A year after the events in New York City, the memories of that dreadful day come back to haunt you. Luckily, this time you have Bob with you and he will not let your pain drag you down, the same way you won’t let him blame himself for it.

Word Count. 3.8k

Tags/Warnings. Hurt to comfort, slight angst, SMUT, mention of Bob’s father and trauma, female receiving penetration, use of pet names such as honey, sweetheart and baby. Reader calls him Bobby during sex.

EXPLICIT CONTENT AHEAD, MUST BE 18+ TO READ, I WILL BE CHECKING. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Notes. My comeback to being a fic writer since I abandoned my writing blog back in 2023. Shoutout to Mr. Bob and his pathetically charming self for dragging me back to my writing ways. Also… I created and pushed the Inexperienced!Bob agenda in this fic. Hope you enjoy! Feedback is always welcomed.

You could feel the darkness trying to consume you. It worked slowly, yet it felt as if it was rapidly trying to drown you, robbing the air straight out of your lungs and leaving you without any air left to breathe. It was an all-consuming feeling of dread — except this wasn't a feeling, it was a person. He had a face and a name. The exact same face of the man you would eventually come to fall in love with, but it wasn't him, not really.

It was the silhouette of the darkest parts of him. The dark side of him that wanted you to feel the exact same type of pain he was feeling. All of the abuse and suffering. He wanted you to feel it, too. He wanted every living person to feel it.

He was nothing more than a void — and he wanted you to drown in it. He wanted you to understand that there was nothing more in this world than the neverending feeling of numbness and agony.

His darkness was consuming you and there was nothing you could do about it.

“Honey, you have to wake up,” a worried sleepy voice urged you while a warm hand wiped the sweat off your forehead, carefully brushing and putting away the strands of hair that were stuck to it.

You opened your eyes so fast it felt like your heart was about to give out. Your breathing came out in quick, unsteady gasps that made it hard to figure out where you were. Your heart was beating just as hard as last year, back when the man next to you wasn’t the one he is right now.

“Bob?” you asked, trying to catch your breath and reaching out to him with a shaky hand.

“Hey, it was just a nightmare. Can you, uh.. can you take a deep breath for me?” he asked, sitting up in your shared bed and turning on the bedside lamp next to him before taking your hand in his, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. You didn't reply, all you could do was close your eyes and sit up next to him, bringing your free hand to your racing heart.

Your lack of an answer didn’t help soothe the worry he was feeling. “C’mon, sweetheart. Please,” Bob begged you, squeezing your hand two times.

I’m here. He’s gone.

You nodded once and opened your eyes, turning your head to the right and meeting the soft brown eyes of your boyfriend who was sitting next to you. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice raspy and strained. He shook his head. “It’s okay. We can do it together,” he answered with a small smile.

Bob took a deep breath, held it in for a few seconds, and then exhaled. You copied his movements, keeping your hand in his. “Again,” he said before taking another deep inhale and then letting it out, never taking his eyes away from you.

You weren’t able to count the number of times you breathed in and out with Bob, but he stayed with you through it all. Holding your hand until you were finally able to breathe normally.

You stayed silent for a while, but Bob didn’t seem to mind. All of his focus was on you, and he would wait for you for eternity if that was the time you needed to get a word out. “I’m sorry,” you croaked.

“None of that, honey,” he answered, not missing a beat. “Does it hurt to speak?” He thought of things he could do to help, rummaging through his head for any useful advice when his eyes lit up as he remembered something from his childhood.

“Do you want me to get you a glass of water?” He asked, his eyes shining as if he had finally gotten the right answer to an unsolvable paradox.

“Please,” you whispered. Bob took hold of the covers that were discarded away to the bottom of the bed and brought them up to your chest, standing up with a small groan as his feet met the cold floor and he stretched his arms above his head, giving you a clear view of his toned shirtless figure.

“I’ll be right back,” he replied, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead before moving to your bedroom door and walking out.

Bob didn’t take long walking to the kitchen and grabbing you a cold glass of water, yet every second he spent outside of your shared room made you remember your awful nightmare, which you wouldn’t even describe as a nightmare — it was a terrible fucking memory.

You anxiously chewed on your bottom lip as you stared at your door, impatiently waiting for your boyfriend to come back. The door eventually opened after a few minutes and Bob walked in with a glass of water in his right hand, you took notice of the metallic straw inside of it.

“It’s, uh… so it’s easier for you to drink,” he explained.

“That’s nice, thank you,” you replied before taking the glass from him and taking a small sip. The coldness that seeped through your body and the feeling of the condensation on the glass helping you ground yourself back to reality.

“Better?” He asked, climbing back onto the bed and placing a hand on your thigh, giving it a light squeeze. You hummed and leaned your body closer to him, leaning your head against his toned shoulder.

“I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“You really need to stop apologizing, sweetheart. It’s alright,” he replied, turning his head to the left and kissing your temple.

You stayed silent for a while, taking small sips of your water. Finding comfort in each other’s presence and the sound of his steady breathing next to you. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asked.

“It was—,” you started.

“I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But my mom used to tell me that talking about these types of things could help make you feel better,” Bob rambled, moving his free hand as he spoke to try and make his statement seem casual.

Bob had once shared with you that his mother used to help him out whenever he’d wake up terrified from nightmares about his father. She would give him a glass of water — with a straw to make it easier to drink — and comfort him through it all. He mentioned those moments were what eased his mind whenever he had one of his Low Days.

You let out a soft sigh, setting the empty glass on the bedside table next to you. “It was about last year,” you said softly.

“Oh,” Bob whispered, his shoulder going tense beneath your head. You didn’t have to look up at him to know there was a look of worry in his eyes.

You placed your hand over his on your thigh. “It’s not your fault,” you tried to comfort him, only to be quickly cut off by him.

“But it was me who did that,” he stated, his head hanging low.

“You weren’t in control, Bob. God, you didn’t even remember what happened once we got you out,” you said, slightly turning your head to press a kiss against his shoulder blade, causing Bob to let out a shaky breath.

“That doesn’t change the fact that I.. he,” Bob corrected himself, “He hurt you. He hurt every civilian in the city,”

“It wasn’t you, baby. I mean, now you're considered a hero. A goddamned Avenger, for fuck’s sake.”

“A pretty useless one. All I do is clean up after everyone and be Walker’s gym buddy,” he said, a self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips.

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short. You also helped Alexei get that Red Bull sponsor for his ugly New Avengerz merch,” you replied, trying to lighten the mood.

That caused Bob to let out a genuine smile and it was enough to make you feel like you had single-handedly caused world peace. It felt like the sun had shone straight through your heart. An infinite sunbathe.

“You’re a good person, Bob,” you lifted your head from his shoulder, sitting up to meet his gaze and bringing a hand to caress his cheek. Bob closed his eyes at the feeling, a soft sigh leaving his lips as he felt your touch on his skin. “Once you learn how to control your powers — how to control him.. you’ll be the most powerful member of this team.”

“I thought I was supposed to be the one comforting you, honey” he replied, opening his eyes and turning his head to give the palm of your hand a kiss, his eyes not leaving yours as he did it.

“Knowing you’re next to me is enough to make me feel better.”

A bright blush took over Bob’s cheeks. He wasn’t fully used to all of this, to the way you seemed to love him despite his darkest moments. Two months into your relationship he had shyly confessed to you that he had no romantic experiences due to his addiction and Low Days. That didn’t change the fact that he was eager to learn and make you feel just as loved as you made him feel.

He was about to open his mouth to say something along the lines of you being too sweet for a messed up man like him when he was distracted by the yawn that escaped you. A soft smile adorned Bob’s features.

“Oh, honey. You must be tired,” he said in the softest voice he could muster. “Do you want to go back to sleep?”

“Is it that obvious?” You joked, another yawn leaving your lips, causing Bob’s smile to get even bigger. “Nope, not at all, sweetheart.”

Bob extended his arm to turn off your bedside lamp with a small sigh and moved to lay down facing you, you followed his movements, laying on your side and pressing your back to his strong chest. He wrapped his arms around your waist and gently pressed a kiss to the back of your head.

You closed your eyes and tried to focus on the feeling of his beating heart against your back to lull you to sleep. It didn’t take long for you to notice that your attempt to slip back into dreamland was futile. You had no idea how long you spent trying to go back to sleep, it could’ve easily been fifteen minutes or an hour, but that didn’t matter. You just couldn’t.

You were so fucking exhausted, your body knew that but your brain wasn’t cooperating. You couldn’t fall back asleep. You tried to switch positions and move around, but it was useless. Nothing was working. Maybe your nightmare shook you up more than you thought.

“You okay over there?” You heard Bob’s tired voice behind you.

“Yeah… No. I don’t know why I can’t fall back asleep,” you answered, frustration lacing your tone.

Bob’s right arm that was gently wrapped around your waist moved down as his warm hand traveled beneath the sleeping shirt you were wearing — his sleeping shirt to be exact. His hand rubbed slow circles on your skin.

He used his free hand to move away the hair that was covering your neck and began to trail sweet kisses up your throat, moving slowly until he reached your jaw. “Is this alright?” He asked. You hummed and closed your eyes as he continued scattering soft wet kisses against your jawline until reaching your earlobe, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

“Let me help you, honey,” he whispered in your ear, his warm breath and wandering hand under your shirt causing a heat to build up in your core. A whimper escaped your lips as your hips involuntarily pressed back against his. The feeling of his hardening member against your ass and his toned, strong chest right behind your back making you feel dizzy.

“Bobby,” you gasped, slightly turning your head to meet his eyes. “Tell me what you need,” he replied, licking his lips and pulling his hand away from under your shirt to use it to lift himself up and hover above you. You weren’t able to get any words out so you did what your body was begging you to do.

You pressed your lips against his and kissed him. Bob eagerly kissed you back, using his free hand to hold your face and lift it up towards him, a small moan leaving his lips. You two had been in this position several times, yet it always felt like the first time for him, because due to his inexperience: every feeling was new to him. Moans and whimpers would always escape him whenever he found himself making out with you.

His hand moved from your cheek to your hair, tangling his fingers in it and pressing himself closer to you. The kiss was heated but still soft — still so Bob. He pulled away to take a breather before saying, “Wait, I, uh.. I think I know of something that could help.”

He shifted his position to lay on his back, spreading his legs and manhandling your body, moving you to sit between his thighs. “Is this.. Is this alright, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you answered, letting out a sigh of comfort as you laid your head on his chest, your back pressed against his shirtless figure, his head above yours and his legs keeping you in place, spread next to yours.

“You tell me if you want me to stop.. or if it’s too much,” he rambled “Oh! And also if I do something wrong—“

“It’s fine, Bobby,” you replied with a small smile. “You’re pretty good at what you do, don’t worry too much about it.”

Your statement brought a bright blush to his cheeks, the second of the night — which wasn’t strange because he always got shy whenever you praised him during your intimate moments. He still wasn’t used to being praised, especially not on times like this.

He lets out a nervous laugh as he uses his left arm to hold your waist, pulling you closer to his chest and his right hand smoothes over your covered abdomen, the tips of his warm fingers making you shiver and internally beg for more.

“Can I.. Is it okay if I take this off?” he asks, slightly pulling your shirt up, your eyes close as you feel his lips against your ear.

“Please,” you exhale. Bob slowly pulls your shirt over your figure, causing the cold air of your shared room to hit the soft skin of your bare chest, making your nipples harden. Leaving you almost completely naked, the only thing covering your body being your panties that were getting wetter by the second.

“Jesus,” Bob whispers, bringing his hand up to softly trace the outline of your right breast. Taking his time as he trails the tips of his fingers through its underside, leaving goosebumps in his wake. He slowly brings his fingers up to play with your hardened nipple, pinching it slightly before using his whole hand to grope your breast.

“Stop teasing.”

“I wasn’t trying to tease,” he replies. You didn’t have to see his face to know there was a huge smile adorning it. “I’m just admiring my beautiful girlfriend.”

You try to move closer to him, wanting to feel something — anything that could help ease the burning in between your legs. You dropped your hand over his left arm that held your waist in place and pushed your hips back against his, a moan escaping you as you grind your ass against his hard cock.

Bob’s self-esteem boosted at the sweet sound you let out, giving your breast a last squeeze before trailing his fingers downwards to where you wanted it the most.

“Please, Bobby,” you pathetically whimpered, your hips involuntarily jutting upwards towards his hand as your body begged for more of his touch.

“Shh, I know, honey,” he hushed your pleas. He trailed his fingers through the plush of your thighs before letting them linger along the hem of your drenched panties. He slowly brings his hand down to cup your covered pussy over the fabric of your underwear, causing another moan to escape you.

You threw your head back against him, your breathing coming out in unsteady pants. You could feel and hear his heavy breathing, too. Feel him getting worked up over the sight of your begging body. He slowly pressed his fingertips down to touch you through the drenched fabric of your underwear, the pressure of his fingers against your covered folds feeling just right.

“God, look at that,” Bob panted. Quickly taking his hand off of your needy core to stare at his fingers, watching them glisten with your slick wetness. “Can’t believe all of this is because of me, sweetheart.” You whimpered at the loss of his hot touch, your hips bucking towards him in a desperate way of trying to get closer.

“Only for you, Bob. Fuck.”

Bob’s chest swelled with pride at your reaction. “Lift your hips, honey,” he ordered, his breath fanning against your cheek as you swiftly lifted your hips and watched him slowly bring your underwear down, finally letting you completely spread your legs as your naked pussy met the cold air of the room.

Bob’s entire world stopped spinning the second he saw your bare body laying against him. He could see your wet pussy glisten with arousal due to the dim light that entered your room through the small crack underneath the door. He had seen you naked a bunch of times already, but it still felt new to him to see a woman’s body be this needy for his touch. It still surprised him that he could be the cause of the wetness that dripped on your bedsheets. He was nothing more than a recovered addict with a shit ton of mental issues and yet… he could cause this. He could somehow make you trust and love him completely.

“Touch me, Bobby,” you begged.

Your boyfriend happily obliged, swiping his long middle finger in between your folds and spreading your wetness through your pleading pussy. “Bob,” you warned.

He let out a shaky laugh, “Sorry, I got you.”

He slowly eased his middle finger in you, feeling the way your walls clenched against it, begging for more. Both of you moaned at the sensation. “You’re so warm, honey,” he moaned.

“More, please.”

Bob used his thumb to press your clit and give it slow circles, feeling the way it pulsated under his finger. Making his blood flow straight to his hard member. You mewled at the feeling of his middle finger pumping in and out of you as his thumb worked on your clit. Your wetness covering his hand.

He took his time pumping into you in an easy rhythm, waiting for your begging body to be ready for him to add a second one. Remembering everything you taught him about pleasing your body. Bob’s free hand came up to grope your tits as he began to drop wet kisses on your neck, sucking on your skin, forgetting that you’d wake up in a few hours to a purple bruise sitting there.

“So good, Bobby,” you whimpered, closing your eyes and letting the pleasure he was causing you take all over your body. His strong hand groping your breasts and his other one working on your pussy making you feel drunk on him. The length of his finger pumping against your soft walls made your body melt against him.

Bob slowly entered his thick ring finger inside your wet heat, causing a moan of his name to escape you. He began to push it in and out, matching the rhythm he had created with his middle finger. Your body shook against him. He added more pressure to his thumb on your clit, circling it faster as he felt your breathing hitch and saw a blissful expression take over your face.

“Just like that, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me, you always do,” he praised.

Your body kept shaking and your breathing came out in short gasps. “Relax, honey. Breathe,” Bob reminded you, but it was useless. You could feel him all over your body. Only him. Not The Void. Not your suffering. Only Bob and the love he felt for you.

You could smell your arousal and hear the lewd sounds of his fingers moving in and out your pussy, it all felt too much and too right. The fire you felt in your belly got bigger, causing your hips to buck against Bob’s fingers, wanting more. “I think I’m gonna—” you exhaled.

“I know. I got you,” Bob whispered in your ear. Bob put more pressure on your clit the moment he felt your walls clench and shake against his fingers. You closed your eyes and let the pleasure you were feeling wash all over you.

“Oh my God. Oh my God,” you whined. A hot feeling taking all over you as Bob continued to ease his fingers in you, helping you ride your orgasm. Seconds later, you come all over his fingers, your wet and hot fluids soaking his hand and spilling over your sheets. It was all so hot, Bob couldn’t help but moan at the sight.

Your body shuddered and your legs shook as you kept your eyes closed and came down from your high. Trying to catch your breath and focus on the whispered praises you were getting from Bob that seemed light-years away.

“Are you with me?” Bob asked. You hummed and buried your head on his chest, making him chuckle. Bob slowly pulled his fingers out, making you whine at the overstimulation you were feeling. “I’m sorry, honey,” he apologized before raising his soaked fingers to his lips and groaning as he tasted your hot juices.

You could feel a wave of exhaustion lulling you to sleep. “It’s okay if you fall asleep, I’ll just run to the bathroom real quick for a towel to clean you up. I’ll be right back,” he spoke softly, remembering how you taught him about the importance of aftercare.

Just as he was about to leave for the bathroom you said, “Hey, Bob?” stopping him on his tracks.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I love you. I’m thankful that Valentina almost killing me brought us together,” you replied in your sleepy state.

“I love you, too. You have no idea,” and you really didn’t. Because he would never let the darkness consume you. He wasn’t going to let you drown in it, the same way you wouldn’t let him drown either.

Bob admired your naked body for a bit more before walking to the bathroom for a towel. He wondered if life had always been this beautiful.

© BRNINGHOUSE. do not translate or claim any of my work as your own.

[thewolfofthestars]

Y'know, I wrote this post 6 years ago now. Y'all remember 6 years ago? I know it's hard to think back, but together we can try.

6 years ago was right at the cusp of when Jowling Kowling was revealing just how much of an awful person she was. 6 years ago she was mostly known for making cringe HP lore tweets about wizards shitting their pants, and this was right when she went really mask-off with the TERFery. I wrote this post as a way of processing that, that this series I'd so beloved as a child was written by such a cruddy person--and not only that, a cruddy person who hated me specifically and in particular for being trans. It was mourning, really, grief over the loss of this part of my childhood. But a mourning I saw was necessary; I saw a lot of people refusing to engage with the problem, making the whole "Hatsune Miku made this" joke to elide any issue with it, and it frustrated me enough to point it out.

A lot has happened since then. JKR only got more rabid about her transphobia over time; instead of passively being a stinking asshole, she's decided to spew her rancid shit all over the UK government and pushed her transphobic influence worldwide. And unfortunately, she has a significant amount of influence.

And I've grown as a person. I've had more time to process all of this. I've borne witness to all of this happening. And I still see this post getting notes, every now and again, and it kind of makes me cringe now every time I see it. I could leave it to languish as a relic of the past, sure--I have, for a couple years--but never let it be said the internet lets anything truly die. I think an update is necessary.

I still stand by the first part; you cannot erase or ignore the problematic elements of Harry Potter. They've been there since the beginning, they are embedded into its foundation.

And I also think that, if you didn't see that at the time, that doesn't necessarily make you a bad person. Most of us were, y'know, 9 years old when we were originally reading this series. I don't think you're to blame for not being perfectly #Woke about it. And even if you were old enough to know better then, at least you know better now.

But I do think that it has long, long since become time to leave Harry Potter in the past. This series was an important part of my childhood, yes, and that's where it belongs. We can leave it there, appreciate it for what it was to us at the time, and put it away in the attic alongside the box of sidewalk chalk and the favorite stuffed animal.

Rowling is not just a case of "the author is a dickhead" anymore. She is actively throwing the money and influence she has, as the author of this series, behind transphobic movements, legislation, etc. Engaging with Harry Potter in the present day means you are giving more money and influence to the person doing this. It's not just a case of "oh, the author said some shitty stuff a few times, but that doesn't have anything to do with the books." She has MADE it have to do with the books, she has forcibly intertwined her bigotry and her IP. You cannot offer your support for one without supporting the other.

Your nostalgia is not more important than the lives and well-being of trans people in the present day. It's time to leave Harry Potter behind. It's BEEN time, for a long, long while. It's time to stop buying books and merch etc., but it's also time to stop talking about it, stop writing fanfic about it, stop letting it be relevant, both in public culture and in the privacy of your own mind. Because the more relevant it is, the more influence JKR has to throw behind the next bit of legislation trying to define trans people out of existence. Let her turn into a washed-up, has-been asshole in the public eye, instead of an author of a beloved children's series. Let people hear her name and think not "oh, I loved Harry Potter as a kid!" but "jeez, that lady needs to cool it with the conspiracy theories." You don't need Harry Potter anymore.

I have to wonder, what it is that drives people to stay so attached to Harry Potter specifically as an aspect of their childhoods, as opposed to anything else. When was the last time you drew with sidewalk chalk? Decades ago? Maybe you could start doing that again, instead of feeding the TERF.

You know what? No. No, Hatsune Miku did not write Harry Potter.

J. K. Rowling wrote Harry Potter. And we need to accept that.

Harry Potter isn’t some pure unproblematic beacon of perfection that we can just choose to erase the scummy author from and enjoy without guilt. Harry Potter is very much rooted in Rowling’s view of the world. The blatant antisemitism in the portrayal of the goblins, the entire race of slave creatures that actually really like being slaves and Hermione’s attempts to free them are largely played off as a joke, the almost complete dearth of canon characters of color (and then when she does put canonical characters of color in, they’re… Nagini…), the complete lack of respect for other cultures (the Japanese wizarding school literally translates to “Magic Place” in Japanese, Cho Chang is not even remotely a proper Chinese name, don’t get me started on her usage of Native American folklore), the almost complete lack of LGBTQ+ characters, the “Dumbledore is gay!” baiting, the lycanthropy-as-HIV metaphor that involves one of the werewolves intentionally infecting as many people as he can, with a preference for targeting children, no less…

These are all very much present in Harry Potter. They’re not things you can just ignore. And they’re there because Rowling wrote them in.

I know you read Harry Potter as a kid and loved it. I know when you read Harry Potter as a kid you probably didn’t even notice how shitty all this stuff was. I certainly didn’t. But you can’t go back to that time. You can’t go back to when you were 10, when you were consuming this media and loving it uncritically without notice or regard for its more problematic elements. You can’t go back to being a kid again.

And that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you’re required to wholeheartedly condemn this important part of your childhood. You can still enjoy these books while acknowledging that they’ve got some really shitty things in them. You can enjoy Harry Potter as a mature adult. You don’t have to be a kid again to like it. And you’re perfectly allowed to hate on Rowling for her shittiness, past and present, while still loving Harry Potter.

So don’t say Harry Potter was written by Hatsune Miku. It wasn’t. It was written by J. K. Rowling, warts and all.

[arrenjo]

Part one is here

Summary: Your apartment floods and you do your best to make it on your own, but when Robby finds out he takes matters into his own hands; part two

Back | Next

A/n: the only true part two so far but leaving all the unresolved tension without so much as a kiss seemed kinda rude. I’m an angsty gal at heart so of course it has to be dramatic. Also my first time writing almost-smut, be gentle ;D srry for lack of gif, I know it’s more aesthetically pleasing but I couldn’t find one that scratched the itch, yk?

Content/trigger warning: Panic attack portrayed, plot with a bit of almost-smut sprinkled in. 18+ only, minors DNI!!

The following morning, you woke up with your head on Robby’s chest. Your hair splayed in every direction across the burgundy fabric of his shirt, his chin resting on top of your head. His thumb made small circles on your shoulder blade over the fabric of your oversized t-shirt as he held you. Your legs were entangled with his, your bare legs against his thin sweatpants. You felt safe, secure. You didn’t move for a moment, almost afraid it was a dream. You opted to lie still for a moment to try to assess if he was awake yet.

“Good morning,” He murmured into your hair after a moment, lips brushing the top of your head. Your stomach did a flip as you tried to decide whether to look up at him or not.

“Mm,” You said softly, willing yourself to keep your breathing even, trying not to think about the fact that you were literally in Robby’s bed.

“How long have you been awake?” You asked.

“A while,” He responded simply, still rubbing small circles on top of the fabric of your tshirt. Neither of you felt particularly inclined to move, this was as close as you had ever been to him and it was comforting to know he at least wanted you close like you did him, but his silence unsettled you.

Last night, the silence had been comfortable. There was something different about this morning though, almost as if there was something hanging in the air. Your stomach started to turn at the thought of him regretting letting you be here. You could have easily just fucked up, arguably, the best and most important work relationship you had.

Had he not wanted to sleep in the same bed? Had you asked too much? Did he not feel the same way? The touches and the coffee and him running his fucking thumb over your lips in the supply closet like he was considering fucking you right there sure seemed like there was something between the two of you, but maybe you were wrong.

I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up, your brain said relentlessly on repeat.

Your breathing started to pick up speed and tears welled in your eyes.

I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up,

You were in your own head and you needed to get away. The panic was starting to set in and it was impossible to coordinate your movements, you needed to get away. You started to push him away and he tightened his arm around you.

Away, away, away, your brain said.

Don’t let him see you like this,

You tried to push him away again and choked back a sob.

“Hey, hey,” He said as soon as he realized what was happening. He quickly placed his hands on your waist, under the hem of your shirt and just above the waistband of your shorts, fingers making contact with your bare skin. He lifted you in one smooth motion to partially on top of him and to eye level. You looked away from him, desperately trying to blink the tears back. Your breathing turned ragged, desperate for air. He took your chin in his hand with one hand, the other arm still securely around your waist, and moved your chin so you were looking at him.

“Where is your head at?” He asked, his voice low.

“Michael-“ You choked out with a sob. Robby almost physically winced, hearing you desperately say his name like that was almost too much. Robby moved to completely under you and braced the back of your head with one hand, the other still around your waist tightly. He quickly sat up with you, your legs on either side of his torso. He held you close to him as your body racked with a full-on sob.

“Hey, I’m right here. I’ve got you,” He soothed. The hand attached to the arm around your waist started rubbing circles on the small of your back. He stroked your hair with his other hand and said your name in the same soothing, low tone as you sobbed again.

“I’m sorry,” you tried again, managing to get the words out between sobs.

“No, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. Everything is fine. Everything is perfect,” he soothed you. “I’ve got you, I’m right here.” He repeated. After a moment, he used one hand to gently tilt your chin up to him again, forcing you to make eye contact with him. His brown eyes searched yours for any sign of what might be wrong. He looked at you, pleading, desperate for an explanation.

“I shouldn’t have asked and now you regret it and I’m sorry,” You pushed the words out in one breath before you dropped your head and pressed your palms to your eyes, breath hitching on another sob that you were desperately trying to control. “Fuck, Robby, I’m so sorry,”

It took Robby a solid ten seconds to process what you had said before he reacted. He pulled your hands from your eyes and grabbed your chin again.

“You think I regret this?” He asked in a low, steady voice. “Do you know how long I’ve thought about waking up next to you? Thought about having you in my bed?” You were silent as you took another steadying breath, heat flushing your face and chest. You were suddenly very aware that you were fully in his lap. Your hands found the fabric of his t-shirt on either side of his body and you gripped it tightly.

“Long before Pittfest, long before that first time I acted like a jackass,” He continued.

“That was the best I’ve slept in a long time.” He said, eyes locked on yours. “I think I was still a little disoriented,” He admitted through a half hearted chuckle that vibrated your body. He let his smile fall, “I never want you to think that I regret this, not for even a second,” You nodded, processing what he was saying, breaking eye contact with him for the first time in several minutes.

“Hey,” He said softly after a beat of silence. You looked back at him again and he slowly pressed his forehead to yours, noses touching. You closed your eyes and one hand reached up to stroke his beard. He let out a small ‘hmm’ at the contact.

“I could never regret you,” He whispered. You took in a ragged breath at his words, it was all you could do to maintain what little composure you had regained.

Your mouth was centimeters from his, his breath hot and wet on your lips. His hands moved to under the hem of your shirt, on either side of your hips. He squeezed gently and you moaned softly, feeling his dick almost immediately harden beneath your weight. The sensation sent waves of heat up your neck and down your abdomen, and it lingered between your legs.

You tilted your head up just enough for your lips to ghost over his and that tiny bit of contact seemed to be all the permission he needed, his lips crashed into yours, hot and desperate. One hand found the hair at the base of his neck and you pulled him closer as his lips moved frantically against yours. His tongue darted into your mouth and you moaned against his lips. His hands squeezed your hips again and you shifted your weight into him, creating friction between you and his erection. He let out a low moan against your mouth and started trailing kisses down your jawline and your neck, stopping to lick and suck with each individual kiss.

“Robby,” You moaned, desperate for more. His lips found yours again after a moment and his hands moved upwards under your shirt as he claimed your mouth. Your breathing was ragged and so was his. In one smooth motion, he laid you back and was on top of you, your hands started to glide up his shirt when the shrill alarm on Robby’s phone went off, startling you both.

“Fuuuck,” Robby groaned, dropping his forehead against your collar bone. You both had completely forgotten about work and didn’t have time to finish what you had started. You laughed humorlessly.

“Figures,” You said, stroking his hair.

“We can be late?” He offered with a grin, looking back up at you. The proposition brought a real laugh out of you.

“Uh huh, and we would never ever hear the end of it. Can’t you imagine both of us walking in at the same time, both late? Jack Abbot would be insufferable.”

“It would get the rumor mill started for sure,” He tugged the neckline of your shirt down and pressed a kiss to your collar bone. His beard combined with your heightened senses had you clenching your jaw. You closed your eyes and took a steadying breath.

Maybe being late wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The shrill alarm interrupted your thought process again and you groaned. “No, we have to go,” You said, mostly to yourself. Robby laughed and pressed one more kiss to your lips before getting off of you and walking out of the room. You whined at the sudden loss of contact. You laid there for another minute, trying to compose yourself, when Robby reappeared with a set of folded scrubs in his hand that he offered to you. You immediately sat up, your brow furrowed.

“I did some laundry last night after you went to sleep, thought you might need some clean scrubs.” He explained. It was all you could do to keep your mouth from dropping open.

“You didn’t have to do that,” You started.

“I know, I wanted to.” He said, you took the scrubs out of his hands and smiled up at him.

“Thank you,” You whispered, standing up to press a kiss to his cheek. Robby wrapped his arms around you and kissed your forehead.

“Come on, let’s go. The more I think about it, the more I realize that you’re right and Jack is about to give us hell.”

[ijustwannabecool]

Just Like Papa

Dad!Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary... Charles is the loudest dad at your son’s karting competition. You’re mostly amused, occasionally mortified, and completely in love. Flashbacks remind Charles just how far he's come—from a boy in a helmet too big for his head to the dad screaming strategies from the sidelines.

Warnings: excessive dad energy, mild heckling, emotional whiplash, and overwhelming love

A/N: I had way too much fun writing this! I hope this little story captures the chaotic, warm, soft, and competitive soul that Charles would bring into being a dad. There's something really full circle about imagining him getting heckled by umpires while coaching his mini-me and still getting emotional over podiums years later 😭❤️

If you loved this story and want to support more F1 fics and soft chaos like this, feel free to buy me a matcha🍵 or reblog/comment to share the love!

As always—happy reading, and have a beautiful day today 💌🏁

✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ✩

You should’ve known.

The moment Charles insisted on being the one to pack the gear bag and label the water bottles with lap-time stickers “just for fun,” you should’ve known.

Now, standing at the edge of the mini paddock with a coffee in hand and your sunglasses doing little to hide the smirk tugging at your lips, you’re watching the father of your child have a full-blown meltdown over a karting strategy like he’s on the Ferrari pit wall.

“GO! GO, TAKE HIM ON THE OUTSIDE! INSIDE LINE—YES, THAT’S IT! MON CHAMPION!”

Your six-year-old is out there in a kart that’s almost the same size as him, helmet bobbing slightly with every bump in the track, while Charles is clenching the chain-link fence like it owes him money.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, watching as other parents flinch. “Charles.”

He doesn’t hear you. Too busy yelling across the track to no one in particular.

“That was a block! Did you see that? That was ILLEGAL. Does this league have stewards?!”

The umpire walks over, visibly exasperated. “Sir. This is your second warning. If you yell at another coach, I will have to ask you to leave.”

Charles blinks like a kicked puppy. “I was just—he’s six. I’m supporting him.”

You chime in, trying not to laugh. “He’s supporting him loudly. Very loudly.”

The umpire sighs and walks away. You tug Charles’s hoodie.

“You’re gonna get us banned from all regional karting events,” you say, amused.

“Good. They don’t deserve him.”

You snort into your coffee.

And then—like a scene from Charles’s own childhood—your son zips across the finish line.

Second place.

It’s like watching a firework explode. Charles jumps up, throws his arms in the air, and literally climbs halfway onto the fence before you grab his hoodie and yank him back down.

“Charles! He’s six. Get down.”

“He’s a prodigy, Y/N! A genius! That move in the last corner? He braked later than the other kid! That’s pure instinct. He gets that from—”

“—you, I know, I know,” you finish, grinning.

-----

Flashback – Monaco, 2004

A little boy in a red and black helmet sits in a worn kart, hands shaking, eyes peeking through the visor. Lorenzo leans over and tightens the strap on his neck guard.

“Papa says you’re ready.”

Charles swallows. “But what if I mess up?”

His brother kneels beside him. “Then you try again next time. But I think you’re gonna win.”

Charles doesn’t win that race. He finishes second.

And when he climbs out, sweaty and tired, he sees his papa waiting with a proud smile and watery eyes.

“Bravo, Charles. You were incredible.”

-----

Back to Now

Your son barrels toward you in the paddock, helmet tucked under one arm, grinning ear to ear.

“Maman! Papa! Did you see me? I almost caught him!”

You crouch to hug him, smoothing a hand over his sweaty curls. “You were amazing, baby.”

Charles swoops him up before you can even finish the sentence.

“Second place! Not bad for race number three, mon champion. We’ll go over the telemetry later and see where you can gain next time, okay?”

Your son blinks. “I just didn’t want to crash.”

You burst out laughing. Charles nods seriously.

“That’s good too.”

You walk back to the car as a unit—Charles carrying your son like a trophy, you trailing behind, already dreading the debrief session that’s about to happen in the living room with a mini whiteboard and color-coded lap charts.

“Oh—and I may or may not have emailed the umpire,” Charles says casually.

You groan. “Charles.”

“He accused me of being intimidating!”

“You heckled the other team’s coach.”

“He deserved it.”

Your son giggles. “Papa got in trouble again?”

Charles kisses the top of his head. “Always.”

-----

Flashback – 2019

Charles sits alone in the Ferrari motorhome, staring at his hands. Race day nerves.

He pulls out a folded photo from his wallet—him at six, in a too-big helmet, holding a tiny trophy. His father’s arm around his shoulders.

One day, he thinks. I’ll do this for someone else.

-----

Now

That night, Charles lays beside you in bed, watching your son’s karting trophy on the dresser.

“You think I was too much today?” he asks softly.

You smile and tuck yourself closer to his side. “Oh, absolutely. The umpire is one heckle away from a restraining order.”

He laughs, but his voice turns quieter. “I just… I see him out there, and I remember being that small. And wishing I had more time with Papa.”

You kiss his shoulder. “You’re doing everything right, Charles.”

“He’s just like me, isn’t he?”

You smile against his skin. “No, love. He’s better.”

Charles nods, emotion clinging to his lashes as he whispers, “That’s the point.”

-----

Leclerc Family Debrief

Time: 7:42 PM, That Same Evening Location: Living room, now also known as Papa’s Mini Strategy Center™

Your son sits cross-legged on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in his lap and a blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape. Charles is kneeling in front of the whiteboard he dragged out of storage (with your reluctant approval), uncapping a red marker with the flair of a Ferrari race engineer.

“Okay,” Charles says seriously, drawing a crude outline of the karting track. “Let’s review Turn Four.”

You lean against the doorframe, arms folded, watching the scene unfold like a live Netflix docuseries.

Your son squints at the board. “That’s where Luca passed me, right?”

Charles points the marker at him like he’s just been promoted to chief strategist. “Yes. He went wide. You followed him instead of defending. But that’s okay—we learn!”

He quickly draws two stick figures labeled YOU and LUCA with little helmets.

Your son munches popcorn. “So next time I go… tighter?”

“Tighter,” Charles confirms. “Cut the angle. Like this.” He demonstrates with exaggerated swooping motions. “Think of it like dancing. The inside line is your secret move.”

“Papa,” your son says, staring blankly, “I don’t know how to dance.”

You can’t help it—you laugh.

Charles groans dramatically, flopping onto the couch beside your son. “Maman will teach you. She’s got rhythm. I just have passion.”

“That’s one word for it,” you mutter, walking over to sit on the armrest, ruffling your son’s hair.

Charles reaches up and takes your hand, squeezing it as he softens. “You know, when I was your age, I was scared of corners too.”

Your son looks at him wide-eyed. “Really?”

Charles nods. “But then my papa told me something that helped. He said, ‘Don’t be afraid of the turn. That’s where you learn how fast you can go.’”

There’s a beat of silence. Your son slowly smiles.

“Okay,” he says, curling into Charles’s side. “Then next time I’ll go even faster.”

Charles kisses the top of his head. “That’s my boy.”

You lean into both of them, warmth spreading through your chest.

On the whiteboard, Charles has unknowingly drawn a little heart next to the word turn.

-----

Three Years Later – Junior Karting Nationals, Barcelona Circuit

You don’t know who’s shaking more—your son on the top step of the podium or Charles standing below it, visibly crying behind his sunglasses.

The moment the checkered flag waved and your son's name flashed on the leaderboard—P1. First. Place.—Charles gasped like he couldn’t breathe. He'd gone dead silent for once in his life, clutching your hand so tightly it hurt.

Now?

He’s standing front row at the podium ceremony, clapping so hard you’re sure he’ll dislocate a shoulder, tears running freely even though he’s pretending they aren’t.

Your son—now nine, with legs a little too long for his suit and confidence stitched into every movement—holds up his trophy with both hands. It’s not a small one this time. This one matters.

He scans the crowd until he finds Charles. Points straight at him.

“That’s for you, Papa!” he yells, no mic needed.

Charles’s hand flies to his chest.

You lean in and whisper, “Don’t you dare ugly cry on Spanish television.”

Too late. He sniffles, grinning wide.

“He’s so much better than I ever was,” he says, eyes never leaving the podium.

You smile. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true. He’s fast. Smart. Brave.”

“And dramatic. Definitely your son.”

Charles laughs wetly. “And mine to coach until F1 steals him.”

-----

Later, when the crowd dies down and medals have been handed out, your son runs to you, sweaty and beaming, throwing his arms around your waist.

You kiss his head. “You did it, baby.”

He looks up. “Did Papa cry again?”

You grin. “Like a waterfall.”

Charles walks over with the trophy in hand, crouching to meet his son eye-to-eye.

“First place, huh?”

“Just like you, Papa.”

Charles shakes his head, eyes glassy again. “No, no. You? You’re better.”

Your son tilts his head. “You always say that.”

Charles smiles. “And I always will.”

-----

That night, back at the hotel, the trophy sits on the nightstand between your son’s bed and Charles’s laptop—where he’s already analyzing lap times “for fun.”

Your son falls asleep holding a tiny Polaroid Charles slipped into his race bag earlier: it’s a photo of Charles at age nine, standing on his first karting podium, wearing a helmet too big for his head.

-

Scrawled on the back: Don’t be afraid of the turn. That’s where you learn how fast you can go. —Papa

And beside it, a newer note in messier handwriting:

I went faster today. Did you see me? —I did, mon champion. I always will.

#charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x reader #f1 fanfiction #dad charles leclerc #f1 imagines #charles leclerc fluff #dad au #f1 x reader #karting au #charles leclerc one shot #soft charles leclerc #leclerc family chaos #fanfic recs #charles leclerc emotional #charles leclerc fanfiction #chaotic dad energy

[resident-gay-bitch]

Steve’s always a little insecure in his relationships, always worries that they’re only in it for a short while, that all their promises are just words, no truth behind them.

He’s two months into his relationship with Eddie, and Steve’s already very in love with him, and it’s terrifying. This is the most in love Steve has ever been.

They said it for the first time the other day, during a super romantic and cosy night of Chinese takeout and nostalgic kids movies, snuggled up on the couch with never ending kisses. They had sex that night too, for the first time.

They had fooled around only a couple of times before that, nothing too serious, and only twice, since Eddie’s Demisexual. Steve didn’t know that waiting was exactly what he needed, assurance that Eddie wasn’t just there for his body.

After that night he feels even more connected to Eddie, feels the love radiating from his goofy smile and his puppy dog eyes. And the way Eddie kissed him, the way Eddie touched him, it was unforgettable. Genuine electricity. Steve had never felt so special and precious in his life, never felt so loved.

He’s still got his insecurities though, now that they’ve stepped up their relationship, Steve’s gotten a lot more comfortable, shown the secret side of him, the side that only Robin knows about really. He’s worried, like all the rest of them, that Eddie won’t like him anymore, that he’ll leave.

Robin tells him he’s being negative and stupid, Eddie’s totally the one, she can feel it!!

Steve wants to feel it, thinks the tips of his fingers are buzzing from it, but he just won’t let himself. Not yet. Not until he knows for sure.

They’re on FaceTime, having dinner together because Eddie’s gone away for a few nights with his band for a gig, and they miss eachother. Eddie called him, no prompting needed, and when Steve answered he said: “Stevie, baby, oh my god I missed you— hey fuckin, Jeff!! Look at my boyfriend, how hot is he? I got a cute ass boyfriend, wow, I feel so much better now I get to talk to you again. How are you, sweetheart? I hope you’re okay.”

Steve’s heart fucking bloomed. He feels nauseous he’s so fucking in love.

“What are you doing, Ed’s? You keep looking away from me.”

“I know, a total crime, don’t hate me. I’d much rather look at you, baby— hey shut up, Jeff, let me be in love!” Eddie yelled, tossing a pen at his bandmate across the room, “Sorry, Stevie. Uh, I’m doing some research for some songs I’m writing, making sure I’m not gonna fucking accidentally steal someone’s copyrighted track. Boring stuff, legal stuff, what are you doing?”

“Not much, missing you.”

Eddie chuckles, “God, I miss you too. Want me to come over when I get home? I’d invite you to mine, but these guys always get grouchy after a long drive home and our unit would probably just depress you.”

“Yeah, please.” Steve smiled sweetly, picking at his dinner. They fall into silence for a while, Eddie deep in concentration, his eyebrows furrowed and his tongue poking out over his top lip as he types away on his laptop.

Steve’s got this question gnawing at him. One of those dumb fucking questions that he shouldn’t ask, because it’s stupid. The kind of question that if he asks too many of them, his parter will get pissed off and leave, or yell at him to stop. He’s already asked Eddie one weird question, but it wasn’t even that weird, it still got a strange reaction from Eddie though. Steve didn’t take it as a good one.

Fuck, he can’t help it though, it just starts coming out of his mouth before he can really stop it, “Hey, uh, Eddie…?”

“Yah, light of my life?” He laughs to himself, isn’t looking at the camera so he can’t see Steve begin to blush, thankfully.

“If you became a rich and famous rockstar, would you leave me behind? Be honest.” Steve nodded, “I can take it-“

“Of course not, Stevie.” Eddie said, still looking at his laptop screen, it seems like he barely even thinks about the answer, “Why would I do that?”

“If you were famous, you’d have other options.”

“Yeah, but I have you. Would you leave me, if you got famous?”

“No.” Steve snickers, like it’s obvious. Because it is, because Steve’s attached to Eddie, obviously, Steve loves Eddie more than Eddie loves Steve, probably.

“See, so why would I?” Eddie says simply, a small smile on his face as he looks at Steve like he’s being goofy and weird.

Steve should just shut his mouth before Eddie starts to hate him, but he just can’t, “Well, there are better options for famous people.”

“Not for me.” Eddie says simply, and it kills Steve, genuinely, a fucking stake through the heart in the best kind of way.

“What if you were on a red carpet, and… uh… oh, what if Hugh Jackman hit on you? Would you chose him over me?”

Eddie laughed, “Look, Hugh is hot, but he’s not as hot as you. Have you seen your ass, Stevie?”

Steve flustered, “We- Uh, what about like, Dave from Foo Fighters? He’s really hot.”

“Not my type at all, besides he’s a cheater so ew.”

“Okay…” Steve wonders, “Megan Fox?”

“Gorgeous! But I don’t swing that way.”

“Right, yeah, of course.” Steve sighed, “Oh, you really like Robert Irwin, right?”

Eddie laughed, looked over at Steve on his phone and smiled sweetly, rubbed a hand over his mouth, “Yeah, I like him, he’s cute. Wanna know why?”

Suddenly, Steve feels very jealous. It must show on his face too because Eddie snickers at him, “Uh, why?”

“Because he reminds me of you, dork.”

“What? How?” Steve is baffled.

“He’s cute, I like your little blonde highlights and he’s blonde. And he’s fit like you I guess. But mostly because he’s like, just a good looking chill out dude until you hear him talk, then you realise he’s a huge massive super ultra dork and you can’t help but want to know more about him.” Eddie smiled, turned back to his laptop and Steve watched him scroll through a document through the reflection of his glasses, “If Robert Irwin ever hit on me I’d be flattered as fuck. But I’d kindly reject him, and tell him I’ve got my own dork at home who prepared me for such a moment, by asking stupid questions like would you ever leave me— no Steve. I wouldn’t. Duh. You’re too good of a kisser.”

Steve laughed, let himself feel flustered for a while. Satisfied that he let himself be just the right amount of clingy to let Eddie know that he’s kinda like that, but not too clingy that he scared Eddie away.

“Would you take me with you then? When you’re rich and famous?”

“Oh, you know it baby.” Eddie grinned, “When I’m making millions, you’re quitting your goddamned job and travelling the world with me, and I’ll buy you whatever the fuck you want. I’ll be your full time sugar daddy no doubts about it, gorgeous.”

Steve loves this guy so much. “Yeah, sure, you can be my sugar daddy the day you figure out how to ask me how to touch your dick without stuttering and blushing and hiding in my neck about it.”

Eddie stuttered, clearly caught off guard as he began to choke on air. Steve could hear his friends in the room around Eddie begin to laugh and make fun of him. Steve laughed with him, because Eddie knows how Steve feels about that, he knows that Steve likes how shy Eddie got in bed.

Steve thinks it’s incredibly hot, a guy so confident and out there reduced to a stuttering mess the second he gets a “hot” guy in bed, as Eddie said.

Eddie’s friends begin to heckle and tease him for a bit, and Steve listens in silence as his boyfriend fights with the lot of them.

“Hey, Eddie?” Steve asks, once they’re calmed down and quiet again.

Eddie sighs, rolls his head away from his laptop and over to look at Steve, Steve hates this. Eddie smiles anyway, even though Steve is sure he’s faking it now, and says, “Yes, my love?”

He wants to take it back. He wants to shut his mouth.

“Never mind.” Steve shakes his head.

“No, my love. Ask me, go on. It was a follow up question to the whole fame thing, right?” Eddie shrugged, “I only sighed because you should know that how I feel isn’t something so easily raptured by a mere celebrity.”

“Oh…” Steve nodded, thought about that for a moment. Wondered if anyone else in his situation would have known that, maybe he’s just insecure, too insecure, Eddie’s bound to get annoyed by it. It seems like he already is. “I was just going to ask if you’d ever write a song about me?”

Eddie smiles, blushes, and it’s so sweet, “I already have, Stevie. Three.” He looks back at his laptop, groans and Steve sees in his glasses reflection that Eddie closes all the tabs he’s looking at in anger, “Yah, you’re so easy to write love songs about to be completely honest. But no, I’m not telling you anything about them. You’ll hear when they’re ready.”

Steve is over the moon, “Okay.”

Silence again. He watches Eddie open up a new application, Steve recognises as his music app thing. He makes demos and back tracks with it, which is cool. Eddie begins to play around with if a bit, and Steve listens to the noise and wonders what song Eddie’s trying to create.

He’s got that urge again. God, he’s so clingy. Steve can’t stand how clingy he is, no one can. It’s only a matter of time before Eddie’s telling him he’s too clingy and walking out the door.

He really can’t help himself. Maybe he’s just self destructive.

“Eddie, would you tell the world I was your boyfriend, if you get famous?”

“Yup.” Eddie nodded, “But they’d only know your name, and your face, and how much I love you. Don’t want you getting stalked by weirdos— you know, if I get famous enough that people want to stalk my boyfriend.”

Steve thinks that’s really sweet of him, especially since he had that rolling off the top of his tongue, no thinking time needed.

“Well… would you take me to all your A lister parties and events?”

“If there’s no plus one option, I’m not going sweetheart. Wouldn’t want you sitting at home, worried.”

“What would you do if a celebrity like… hmm, Eddie Van Halen hit on me?”

Eddie grinned, “Then I’d say you’re seeing ghosts, sunshine.”

“If he were alive, though?”

“Then… I’d think it’s awesome that we have something in common, you’re our type— oh! And then you’d get to say you were hit on by two guys named Eddie who played guitar super good.”

Steve laughed, “Would you introduce me to Sabrina Carpenter?”

“It would be the first thing I’d do.”

“Would you get jealous if she hit on me?”

“Oh yeah.” Eddie nodded, “I’m gay as fuck and I’d still take her out on a date, you know, she’s pretty. She’s like, the girl version of you. Anyway I’d be super jealous and heartbroken but I’d tell you to take your chance.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup.” He assured, “You will be hearing from me, I’ll be that crazy ex just waiting for you two to break up. I’d sabotage so bad, but I’d just want you to be happy. But I would hate if that was without me.”

Steve smiled, “Imagine if we were animals? Would you still fall in love with me if we were both little otters or something?”

“Yup, I’d be head otter heals for you.”

Steve laughed, “Dude, you’re so lame.”

“Don’t call me dude whist asking these clingy ass questions.” Eddie snickered out, and Steve shut up.

He swallowed. Stared hard at the camera and tried to surpress his sudden urge to cry.

“You get so fucking clingy sometimes.” Eddie muttered, quiet enough that his friends couldn’t hear him, “I genuinely didn’t think someone could get this clingy.”

Steve hates him.

He’s about to shut off the call when he sees something flash in Eddie’s glasses, squints to get a better look at whatever is on Eddie’s screen.

“Hey, uh, forgot to mention my uncle had this watch he thought you might like— cause I got one, but you don’t wear silver do you?”

“Nope, never.” Steve shook his head, bile rising in his throat, he can’t figure out what’s taken up all of Eddie’s attention, “Tell him thanks though.”

“Got it.” Eddie muttered to himself, pressed enter on his keyboard, and a webpage popped up with large images of golden band rings.

“What are you doing?” Steve wonders quietly.

“Huh? Oh, just mixing some music still, like I was before. Just trying to think up what I should do next.”

Steve is not that stupid. He knows Eddie’s lying. He’s lying so hard right now.

Eddie grabs his phone, pulls it close to his face so Steve can only see from his nose up, and he begins tapping away at his screen.

“Sorry, I’ll put you down in a sec, cutie, just checking something.”

With this closer angle, Steve can see very clearly what Eddie’s checking on his phone. He’s checking his bank account.

He’s checking his bank account, looking back at the web page of rings on his laptop, then pondering something in his head.

“Everything okay, Eddie?”

“Yup, just thinking up some lyric changes. Got them all written in my phone, I’ll put you down now.”

He’s such a liar, Steve’s just confused. And hurt.

“Why are you so quiet?” Eddie wondered, his phone back down on the table like it was before, eyes back on his laptop as he scrolls through rings, “Are you okay?”

“Yep.” Steve nodded.

Eddie sighed, “Hey, would you still love me if we were animals? You never answered back.” Eddie said, “What if I was an otter and you were a little fishy?”

Steve hesitates, “You’d probably eat me.”

“I’d eat you right now, Steve.” Eddie said flatly, then he ducked his head and whispered, “I miss the taste of you. I love kissing you- Hey, can I suck your dick sometime? Been thinkin’ about it.”

“Oh, now you’re brave enough to ask whilst you’re a million miles away and not even looking at me?”

“Yup.” Eddie snickered, froze for a moment with his brows furrowed, clicked on a ring and zoomed in on it, glanced between his laptop and Steve a few times. “Uh, sorry, what were we talking about?”

Steve can see the description of the ring he’s looking at. He can see, clear as day, the description reads (backwards): “Solar - Gold embossed engagement ring.”

Steve can’t believe this. Eddies looking at engagement rings. Is he looking at engagement rings?

“How much do you love me?” Steve asked, a vomit of words.

Eddie smiled, hung his head like he’s all embarrassed about it, “A lot, Stevie baby. A lot.” Eddie chuckled, “I can’t believe I get you all to myself. Not to be poetic or anything, but my life was a dark, empty night sky before I met you, and then suddenly my life was summer sun, gorgeous. You’re my sunshine, right?”

“Right.” Steve nodded, “I love when you call me that.” He squints at the reflection in Eddie’s glasses and can make out the pattern of the sun embossed on the ring.

“God, I miss you.” Eddie sighs, adds the ring to his shopping cart and keeps scrolling.

Jeff walks behind Eddie on his way out of the kitchen and stops in his tracks, walks over.

“Just working on that song, look good?” Eddie asks, and Jeff leans down on his shoulder, “I think if I add this in, this take could be the one. What do you think? Or do you think I’m being too stupid? Is it too soon for that big moment?”

Oh, fuck, he’s really looking at engagement rings.

Jeff smiles, squeezes Eddie’s shoulder encouragingly, “I mean, yeah, in theory. But you’ve never done anything by the book, and all your best choices have been a little crazy like that. If you feel it’s the right choice, and will work well with the music, then yeah, by all means.”

Eddie gins, looks back at Steve, “Yeah, it’s definitely the right choice.”

Jeff snickers, wonders off shaking his head, and Eddie looks so giddy as he takes one last look at the ring.

Eddie’s thinking about proposing to Steve.

“Don’t you think I’m clingy?” Steve blurted out, catching Eddie completely off guard.

Eddie glanced at him, sighed, carefully shut his laptop and set his attention on Steve, “Well, yeah? You are clingy.” Eddie shrugged, “Dude, you don’t understand how lucky I feel, I think. I like that. I mean, you love me so much that you wanna cling to me like a fucking koala. I’m surprised you haven’t gotten bored of me yet.”

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, Steve feels so warm and fuzzy inside.

“I love you so much.” He mumbles, brings the phone close to his face to virtually kiss Eddie, “Do you want to move in with me?”

“What?” Eddie stuttered out, “Uh, are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious in this conversation and also about this relationship. About you.”

“Fuck.” Eddie sighed, laughed a little delirious, “Yeah, yes, I do. I’d love that, sunshine.”

“When you get back then. Just… just come over and don’t leave.” Steve nodded, “We can talk more then, about us, and everything. I just want you around me always.”

“God, Stevie, you don’t know how much I feel that in my heart.” Eddie said, two hands pressed over his heart to swoon a little.

Steve doesn’t tell him that he knows of Eddie’s plans, and five months later, when the special day comes, Steve doesn’t tell him that he’s already seen the ring. Though, he does mention it in his vowels, tells everyone watching just how much harder that evening made Steve fall in love with Eddie. That he couldn’t believe someone was falling so hard, so fast, just as he was.

Steve never doubted another relationship again, purely because his only relationship from then on was with Eddie.

He’d never felt as secure as he does with Eddie, since that night, never second guessed his intentions, never doubted their love.

They’re mutually head otter heals for each other. Robin was right, Eddie is the one.

[womanofwords]

Next is batfam x neglected clone reader superfam.

Back when Dick was Robin he and Bruce broke into a lab and in it was a clone of Batman and Superman (trying to make the ultimate hero). It was only a toddler then and they couldn’t let it stay to be turned into a weapon so they took it home.

They called Clark to let him know and yeah he has his reservations about clones of him. But this one’s still only just a toddler a little mix of him and Bruce. He’s ready to just take the child home but Bruce convinces him not to. That he has better resources and (at this point Clark and Lois aren’t together yet) Clark is always busy between reporting and hero work.

So Clark leaves raising them to Bruce but visits as much as he can. But he visits less and less as he gets busier trusting Bruce to care for their child. But in that time Dick left (not really liking that this sibling got to be a mix of his adoptive father and pseudo dad) Jason came and eventually died and Bruce began to wallow in his grief.

Little SuperBat loved their family and tried to cheer Bruce up but he gets angry that they seem to not care that Jason is gone (they care, a lot. But they’re putting their grief on hold to try and cheer up their dad). This is when the neglect really starts.

Of course Tim joins, Jason returns and all the other batkids follow. But they’re all following Bruce’s lead and the only ones who (should) remember that they’re a clone are Bruce, Dick and Jason (Tim was smart and discovered it on his own at some point in time). It’s when Damien attacks them and they try defending themself that they punch Damien (not even that hard) and Bruce pops off on them for “attacking him”. That they’re wrong cause they “could have killed him” with their “super strength” thus revealing their a clone.

Only Bruce doesn’t know they have super strength because they never showed signs of Clark’s abilities. He tested for a while when they were younger but stopped. They went through gaining and navigating their powers alone (afraid of Bruce’s no meta’s rule).

“But why not go to Clark?” well because Bruce is a control freak who during him yelling at them after Jason’s death, denies them going to visit Clark since (I believe that) Clark and Lois would (or could) have either just gotten married or had Jon on the way. Bruce basically projecting that they’re starting their own family and wouldn’t want a clone.

Angst all around as clone!reader is basically bullied by the entire family. Especially Damien who loves to tout about how he’s the only natural born child of Bruce not a “cheap failed experiment”.

Reader quietly leaves wanting to be alone goes to Mt.Everest. Meets Papa Clark again cause he thought someone was stuck crying on Everest and needed rescuing. Turns out it’s his baby and they’re crying in pajamas on the world’s tallest mountain. Listens to their woes and is furious. He asks why they didn’t come to him and they repeat all the things Bruce and the fam would tell them. How they’d risk exposing him cause they look so much like him and Bruce, how he was starting his own family and they would get in the way.

Clark is furious, but his baby needs him first. Takes them to meet Lois, Jon, Conner and his parents. They all adore clone reader. Lois and Martha Kent are upset that Clark never told them but even more mad Bruce said the things he did to keep clone reader home. Especially since she missed her own father’s wedding and the birth of her brother.

Some way some how the batfam discover clone reader is missing (choose however you want. personally my bet is Damien torments them when he’s bored and discovers their gone because of it). It takes them a while but discovers she’s with Superfam. Cue crazy yandere custody battle in costume and out of it

Great idea, but no thanks. Way too angsty for me. There are so many times I can make myself cry while writing, and I know I will be floating out of my house on a river of my own tears if I ever wrote this. I'm passing on this for the sake of my own sanity.

[dark-l-angel]

hi!! I saw that you accept request, so I have an idea. It's not really a creative one but I'm obsessed with clingy Jason Todd 😭😭 so I was thinking if you can maybe (please🙏) write something where reader needs to go to work but Jason stops reader because he's needy. Do you get it😭😭

Thank you!

-G.A.

A/N: needy, whiny, bed-hogging Jason who clings like a big heat-emitting emotional weighted blanket telling you to quit that damned job that keeps you away from HIM? YES.. I've been waiting for this moment..

Clingy jason Todd x Reader

Clingy jason, reader is tired of their job. Everything else is fluff

The sun had barely risen. Pale gold light filtered through the curtains you swore you closed the night before, and the shrill alarm on your phone had already gone off.. twice. You were late.

You groaned and shifted, trying to sit up, but you didn’t get far.

There it was. That arm. That damn arm.. muscular, warm, and currently locked like a steel bar across your waist.

"Jason..." you warned softly, already knowing the game he was playing.

He didn’t answer. Not with words, at least. His only response was a muffled grunt into the crook of your neck, his nose nudging against your skin like a sleepy, stubborn dog refusing to move. You could feel his scruff, slightly overgrown, tickling your jaw.

"Jay, I have to go," you tried again, wiggling just enough to reach the edge of the bed.

"Mm-mm" he muttered, holding tighter. "Call in."

"I can’t just call in every time you get clingy-"

"You say that like it’s not a perfectly valid reason.." he interrupted, voice gravelly and deep from sleep. "Tell them your husband is a needy bastard and he’ll literally die if you leave him in this cold, cruel world alone."

You turned just enough to catch his expression.

Eyes still half-lidded, hair sticking up on one side, and that little pout forming on his lips. He looked like trouble disguised as a Greek god wrapped in a blanket burrito. Holding you in one arm while the other hugged a cute pink mochi-cat plushie.

"Jay..." you said again, but this time it was harder to fight the smile tugging at your lips.

He cracked one eye open. "What if I’m cold? You gonna leave your poor man here all defenseless and shivering while you run off to.. what.. type emails?"

"Not defenseless," you snorted. "You have guns, Jason... There's one inside that cat plushie.. and one under our pillows.. and another two in each of the nightstands jay.. "

He chuckled "And yet none of them keep me as warm as you.. and THAT JOB? It’s draining you. And I hate it. I hate seeing you come home exhausted, giving them all your time when I could be giving you everything... I don't fuckin know why you're still insisting on working when i can work instead.."

You looked down at your phone.. the messages of your coworker asking about why you're late..

Jason continued "I don’t want you breaking your back just to survive. I want you to be safe, healthy and happy. I didn’t crawl out of the damn Pit, rebuild my whole damn life, just to watch the woman I FUCKIN love so damn much struggle.. SO.. quit. Stay home. Sleep in. Read your books. Take long baths. Buy shit loads of brands, makeup and skincare... Hell, start that little dream project you've been putting off. I’ll handle the rest. I'm the man in this relationship.. the one who protects, provides, and handles the weight. And my baby? Her only job is to Be soft. Be spoiled. Be mine. You doesn’t ask for luxury.. you expects it. And I make damn sure you get it.. while you.. you? You just focus on looking pretty, being yourself, and let me give you the life you were born to live."

You rolled your eyes yet you almost couldn't contain your smile. "You’re being ridiculous."

"You like ridiculous. It’s part of my charm. Now shut up and cuddle me."

He tugged you back down with very little effort, pulling your face into his chest and throwing a thigh over your hip like a greedy child with a favorite stuffed animal. His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath your cheek, and his scent.. warm, woodsy, something expensive you could never pronounce.. made it that much harder to resist.

"...Five more minutes," you mumbled into his skin.

Jason smirked, victorious. "That’s my girl."

And five minutes somehow turned into 2hrs. You didn’t even feel bad.

"yeah babe... maybe I'll quit".

Ps: i really needed to see someone write jason with that speech.. i made it since i couldn't find it 🫠💕

[footygirl114]

R is friends with Alexia's trainer, Alexia can't take her eyes off R, R does not feel in shape enough to be there at a class run by their friend with some famous clients present, and couldn't possibly believe Alexia is enthralled by them- while working out.

No pressure! Good luck with the writing! Have fun!

The last thing you wanted to be doing on a Saturday morning was heading in to a workout class, you much preferred to get your exercise in by hiking or exploring new cities, but when your childhood best friend was opening a new fitness study in a trendy Barcelona neighbourhood you had to show up. 

Your friend had worked her ass off, she maintained a very exclusive client list including celebrities and professional athletes and everything in between. You were proud of her to watch her grow her dream into a reality and now that she has a her pwn studio you were always going to show up and be her biggest supporter. 

As you walk into the new studio you are impressed at how it looks full of life and people, as you had only seen it empty, and you smile watching her greet every person with a big smile and hug. When you get a chance to see her you cant help but to laugh and pull her into a hug. 

“Congratulations, I am so proud of you” you whispered into her ear as you squeeze her tight. 

“thank you for coming Y/N, i know this isn’t your normal scene” she says as she pulls back. 

You smile and say “I wouldn't miss this for the world.”

You don’t get a chance to say anything else as she is pulled away with a smile and you move away to get ready to start this class. You take a moment to stand off against a wall and let your eyes roam the crowd. You recognise more than a few famous faces, and you feel way out of your league when you spot the professional athlete. 

As your scanning the room, you catch the eye of a tall blonde athlete, who you are positive is Alexia Putellas. She smiles at you and you can feel the blush rush to your cheeks and when she winks you know the blush is noticeable on your face. Before you can do anything else embarrassing there is announcement to start the class. 

You make sure to put yourself to the back of the class as you were not up to embarrassing yourself in front of a room like this. 

By the end of the 45 minute session you can barley breathe and you know your shirt is covered in sweat. You don’t even want to look in the mirror as you are sure your sweaty hair is every where. You lean back agains the back wall half watching as the other participants start to gather you things and leave, most of then looking like they are barley out of breath. 

You feel her before you hear her but someone comes and stands beside you, her arm brushing yours. 

“hola” she says to you, and when you turn and see Alexia Putellas smiling at you. 

You gape at her for a moment, and squeak out a “hi” feeling the red burn of a blush on your cheeks, but you know it is covered up by the red of your cheeks from working out. 

She chuckles and says “I was hoping to catch you before you left.” 

“You were?” you immediately blurt out to her.

Nodding she says “Yes, when I see something I like I don’t like to let it pass me by.” 

“Me?” you stutter out a response, not quite believing that she would notice.

She smiles and leans in closer and whispers “Si, I noticed you right away and would like to take you out for a post workout smoothie?” 

You have a hard time responding as you can feel the whisper of her breath on your ear. 

When you do not respond she takes a step back and smiles lightly and says “No pressure, I will leave you be though.”

“Wait!” you yell out and place your hand on her forearm to keep her in place. You also notice multiple people looking at you including your friend who is smiling at winks at you. When you turn back to Alexia she is looking at you with a smirk and you smile and say “yes, I would like a smoothie with you”

She smiles brighter and says “should we jog over there together?” 

You gape at her trying to come up with a retort and before you can she bursts out laughing at your expression and says “you’re cute, but I’ll save my running for chasing after you.”

[semperama]

One more thing though. So let's say this episode was supposed to just be about Athena's grief, and the rest of the fallout will be in the next two episodes. Well, unfortunately, they did a bad job of handling Athena's grief too.

Don't get me wrong, Angela Bassett was AMAZING. She did a perfect job with what she was given. Her breakdown with Hen was heartwrenching, and the scene at the end with his casket was the closest I got to crying, all on the power of her acting.

But as far as the character of Athena goes, I think the writing only failed her.

First of all, and most importantly, the subplot of the mom with the dead kid was not the mirror to Athena's grief that it should have been. Athena was not in denial that Bobby's dead. She wasn't avoiding planning the burial and funeral because she was in denial. She was avoiding it because those are hard things to do, things that no one who has lost someone wants to do. So did investigating this case help her avoid that? Yeah, but it did it in a way that was confusing to the audience, because it made you wonder if Athena, and we the audience by extension, SHOULD be doubting whether Bobby is dead. But then that emotional thread didn't play out and just left Athena's inherent cynicism reaffirmed. Miracles aren't real. The end. How did that show us anything about Athena's grief? How was that narratively satisfying?

Second of all, they did several things that didn't make sense for Athena as a character. The biggest one, I already mentioned: she was avoiding her kids' calls. I don't for one second believe that Athena would leave her children alone in their own grief. May and Harry saw Bobby as a father, and it would be one thing for her to be acting withdrawn or stoic, but to IGNORE their calls is cruel in a way I don't think Athena would be.

Also, while I did enjoy the scene where Athena gets angry with Chim, the fact that this is her only interaction with him in the episode is I think another disservice to her. The fact that she barely interacted with the rest of the 118 is a disservice to her. This was an important chance to show that Bobby was not the only glue holding Athena to the 118, but instead they drove a wedge between them. Maybe they will address this in the next two episodes, but even in the short term, in a season that has far too frequently had Athena off doing her own cop thing, to further isolate her when it really counts just makes you wonder what they even plan to do with her if Bobby is really gone.

And this is without even getting into what it says about the 118 that THEY aren't shown to be surrounding Athena. Anyone who has lost anyone knows that that's just not how it works. Families huddle together when someone dies. The episode made it seem like Athena was alone, and they could have justified it with writing that shows how grief can make a person feel alone, but they didn't do that. She literally just WAS alone in a way that doesn't make sense for her character or for any of the other characters either.

[stylesispunk]

"Blind faith" | part viii

priest!Joel Miller x dancer!reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: Joel's name in your mind hurts. Everything inside you hurts. But seeing him again leaves both of you with hearts broken. w.c: 8.5k

warnings: age gap (Joel's is in his late 40s and reader late 20s early 30s), heavy angst, violence against reader, choking, mentions of panic attacks, grief, mentions of mental health, forbidden love. Mentions of politics, mentions of exile. Remmeber english is not my first language and blablabla. Reader is Latina. (She worrying about joel shows how good she is).

a/n: Oh man, I cried a bit while writing this one. There is a lot of pain on reader's heart and mind. I wish I can have next chapter ready for next week but I will busy busy during the next four weeks, so i hope you can enjoy this one a bit. Yes, it's angsty but still. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. If you read and don't leave a comment I will cry.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Since the beginning of time, bad men had existed. You knew that — not in theory, not from bedtime stories or whispered warnings at the dinner table, but in the marrow of your bones. You’d grown up with those same phrases every mother in your country had murmured to their children like prayers: Don’t take candy from strangers. Don’t follow a stranger. Don’t believe their kind words, their empty promises.

But the truth was, you didn’t need the warnings. You came from a place where monsters didn’t bother hiding under beds or behind masks. They wore uniforms. They smiled in broad daylight. And in those years of blood-soaked streets and curfews that fell like iron gates over the city, you learned to be cautious. You learned early what it meant to keep your head down, to lower your gaze when soldiers passed, to hold your tongue and your breath when your father argued with the radio in the kitchen.

Under a dictatorship, there wasn’t a place for soft hearts. You’d watched neighbors disappear. Friends. Family. One by one. Gone in the night or dragged from their homes in daylight with no apology, no explanation. The smell of fear hung thick in the air back then. And you — you had a fire in you that should’ve gotten you killed.

You were young. Brave in the way only the reckless and desperate could be. An activist. A rebel. Smuggling leaflets in your backpack, standing in protests that got washed away in tear gas and batons. And you’d survived. God, you’d survived so much.

You didn’t trust easy. Couldn’t afford to. People smiled and shook your hand with one while holding a knife behind their back with the other. It was just how it was. And yet — Gabriel happened.

Gabriel with his easy grin and the way he lied about freedom like it wasn’t some unreachable star. Gabriel who made you laugh in places laughter wasn’t supposed to exist. He slipped past your walls. You fell in love with him the way you fall asleep after too many sleepless nights, fast, desperate, and without meaning to.

You trusted him. God, you trusted him.

And it cost you everything.

In the days leading up to what happened, you’d felt the old warning bells clanging somewhere deep in your chest, but you silenced them. You told yourself you were being paranoid. You believed him when he said you were safe. That he loved you.

But men like him… they don’t love. They own. They devour.

And now, here you were. In a hospital room, bruised and broken. The pain wasn’t just in your body, it was in your soul. In the realization that even after everything you’d survived, it was him — the one you let in — who almost killed you.

The room was too clean. Too quiet. You could almost hear your own voices screaming your name, pleading for a tiny bit of strong, a one more minute of fighting.

You could feel the way your eyes stung by tears that you didn’t allow to stream down your face. You tried to look everywhere but the man who was too close to you.

The pale blue walls, a thin paper sheet stretched over a narrow exam bed. The tray of instruments on the counter, catching the overhead light in tiny sharp flashes. You sat on the edge of the bed, your legs dangling, But the weight of Gabriel’s stare pressed against your skin like his own hand around your throat.

You couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.

The nurse, a woman in her mid-thirties with kind, tired features, was trying to get you comfortable, fussing with the pillows behind you, adjusting the flimsy hospital gown over your shoulder.

“Sweetheart, you okay?” she asked gently, crouching a little to meet your gaze.

You opened your mouth, a flicker of something like your voice catching in your throat—

“She’s fine,” Gabriel cut in smoothly, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a predator lounging in the open. “Just a busted finger. She’s not much of a talker.”

The nurse’s eyes darted between the two of you, catching the tension thick in the air. The bruises. The way your body flinched when he spoke.

“I wasn’t asking you,” the nurse said softly, her voice careful but edged.

Your throat tightened, eyes burning. You wanted to say it. Help me. Don’t leave me alone with him. Get him out. But it was like your tongue had been cut out somewhere along these last five days.

And you hated yourself for it.

Gabriel smiled then, slow and cold. “Ain’t no need for drama. We just wanna get this over with. Don’t we, cariño?”

Your eyes met the nurse’s for a split second — a flicker, a desperate pulse of please. And whether she saw it or not, she gave a small nod and stood.

“I’ll get the doctor,” she said quickly, shooting one last glance at Gabriel before leaving the room.

The door clicked shut.

You could feel him behind you without looking. Could feel his eyes on your face. Could feel the ghost of his hand tightening on your broken finger days ago.

“You always were good at getting people to care,” he murmured, taking a slow step closer. “But it doesn’t matter. You won’t leave me again to drown on my own. Not this time.”

And something in you, even as your body trembled, screamed against it.

“Estoy harta de ti,” (I’m sick of you) you gritted, voice low but shaking with the weight of every second you’d swallowed your rage.

Gabriel froze mid-step.

But you didn’t stop.

“Estoy harta que estés en cada lugar que veo.” (I’m sick of you being everywhere I look at) Your chest rose and fell with the effort it took to speak, to push the words past your fear. “No soporto tu cara. Quiero que te vayas y me dejes.” (I’m sick of your face. I want you gone. I want you to leave me.)

For a moment, it was silent.

No smirk. Not a clever remark from him.

Just the raw, stunned stillness of a man who thought he still had control, watching it slip between his fingers like smoke.

His eyes narrowed, lips parting like he might say something cruel, something to reestablish the grip he’d had on you for five long, hellish days — but you didn’t give him the chance.

You stood, even if your knees trembled, even if your heart was a hammer in your chest. You stood because you could. Because defiance, even in whispers, was still power. “Look at me.” you added, this time in English. “You could have killed my friends, my family and you could kill me at this very same moment, but that won’t erase your pathetic little life because that’s what you are. A fucking nobody, you will die and be forgotten.”

The words tasted like blood and salt on your tongue, but you didn’t stop.

“Look at me.” Your voice was raw, a scrape of glass against the quiet room. “You could’ve killed my friends. You could’ve killed my family. You could kill me right here, right now — but it won’t mean a thing. It won’t fix you. It won’t make you matter.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched, a darkening flicker in his eyes — but no clever words came. No sharp reply. Because you’d carved through whatever twisted power, he thought he still held.

“That’s what you are,” you whispered, your voice trembling but sure enough, “A fucking nobody. A bitter, useless coward clinging to the scraps of a life no one’s ever going to remember and if somebody does, you will remember as fucking murderer just as the rest of them.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, fists curling at his sides, his breathing uneven.

And for the first time, you saw him breaking.

You were tearing down, “Your uniform wasn’t worth it. Hell, even your family must despise you. I do despise you, and I will do it until the day I die.”

Gabriel’s face twisted, something feral and cracked in his eyes as you spoke, as you stripped him down to the nothing he’d always feared he was.

“You shut your fucking mouth—”

“Or what?!” you challenged him, after all there was nothing else for you to lose.

And then his hand was on your throat. Fast. Brutal. Crushing.

The air vanished from your lungs in an instant. Your hands clawed at his wrist, nails digging, your broken finger screamed in pain but it didn’t matter. You could feel yourself slipping, the edges of the world blurring, your heartbeat pounding louder and louder in your ears until it wasn’t a sound anymore but a dull, distant thrum.

And you saw it — not rage. Not hate in his eyes but fear.

He was scared. Frightened of you. Of the truth you could see. Of the fact you weren’t even afraid of him anymore.

But your vision dimmed, your body going slack—Memories of your life, of the happy short moments…

Until a pair of hands wrenched him off you.

“Get your hands off her!” Your recognized Carmen’s voice tearing through the suffocating haze, hoarse and furious.

The world spun as you collapsed to the floor, gulping air like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to your own body. You heard shouting. The doctor’s voice. The nurse. And then boots, heavy.

Two police officers pinned Gabriel against the wall, one of them snarling warnings you could barely register over the hammering in your skull.

“Cuff him! Now!”

Carmen was on her knees in front of you, hands trembling as she cupped your face, brushing the hair from your sweat-soaked skin. Her eyes were glassy, filled with so much rage and grief it nearly undid you.

“I’m here, mi estrellita,” she choked. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Your chest heaved, throat raw, tears breaking free as the air finally reached your lungs.

“I—” you tried to speak, to tell her you thought you were going to die, that you were so fucking tired, but no words came. Only a wrecked, broken sob.

Carmen pulled you into her arms, holding you like she could put your pieces back together just by sheer force of will.

“Shh, you’re safe. He’s done. He’s done.”

And somewhere in the storm of it, you realized Gabriel’s voice was gone.

And you breathe because he would never touch you again.

You buried your face in Carmen’s shoulder, the scent of her hair, a mix cigarettes and lavender lotion — hitting you like a memory you didn’t know you still had room for. The moment her arms wrapped tighter around you, the damn broke.

The sobs came hard. Ugly. Shaking your whole body. The kind of crying that came from somewhere so deep inside, you weren’t sure you’d ever really stop. You clung to her like she was the only thing anchoring you to this world, your hands fisting in the fabric of her jacket.

“I thought—” you gasped between ragged breaths, voice cracking, “I thought I was gonna die… Carmen, I—I couldn’t—”

“I know, Estrellita.” she whispered, rocking you gently like you were a child again. “I know. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Her hand smoothed over your hair, her own tears falling into the crook of your neck. The world around you — the bright lights, the shouting officers— faded to the background. It was just her and the sound of your crying.

Your throat was raw, every breath a jagged thing, but you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop clinging to Carmen like if you let go, you’d disappear, like the weight of the last five days would swallow you whole. Her fingers trembled as they ran through your hair, as she whispered soft, broken words in your ear.

 I’ve got you, you’re safe now, you’re safe, you’re safe.

But somewhere beneath the wreckage of your heart, past the terror and grief and bone-deep ache, another name clawed its way to the surface.

You pulled back just enough to speak, your voice barely a whisper, a raw rasp of air and desperation.

“Joel,” you choked out, eyes bleary, still pouring tears. “Carmen—where’s Joel? Is he… is he okay?”

The words hurt to say, like speaking them might shatter what little was left of you if the answer wasn’t the one you needed.

Carmen’s face crumpled, her lips pressing together, fresh tears shining in her lashes. She cupped your cheek, brushing the damp hair from your face. She couldn’t believe that after he had done, you still had the heart to worry about him.

“He’s okay,” she murmured, her voice breaking. “He is well and alive.”

A new, ragged sob burst out of you, part grief, part relief, part everything you hadn’t been allowed to feel. You collapsed into her arms again, your fingers tightening in her jacket, the world spinning and tilting.

“I need—” you stammered, barely able to breathe. “I need…. please, Carmen, I need to—”

“I know, sweetheart,” she whispered, kissing your temple, holding you like she’d never let go out of her sight again.

Your body wouldn’t stop shaking. Even as Carmen whispered to you, even as her hands cradled your face and her lips pressed against your hairline like she could will the terror out of you — your sobs kept coming, violent, sharp, breaking your chest open with every ragged breath.

Your vision blurred, your head spinning, the world tilting as the sobs took you under. The panic clawed higher, your heart racing so fast it felt like it might burst, and you clung to her like you were drowning in a deep ocean.

“I know, Estrellita, I know—” Carmen’s voice cracked, tears running down her own face as she tried to hold you together, but even she could feel it — that your body was giving out, your mind fraying at the edges. “Somebody help her! Please!”

The medics were there in seconds. The nurse from before, her face drawn tight with worry, a syringe trembling in her gloved hand.

“We need to calm her down—” one of them said urgently.

“No—” you gasped, shaking your head, your voice nearly gone. “Please, don’t—I need—”

“I promise, estrellita,” Carmen cupped your face again, forehead against yours. “I won’t leave you. I’ll stay right here. And when you wake up, we’ll go to him, I swear.”

Your body gave one last shudder as the needle pricked your arm, a cool wash of sedation flooding your veins. The sobs dulled into uneven hiccups, your muscles going limp in her arms. The chaos of the hospital room blurred, colors bleeding together.

But even as your vision dimmed, your lips still formed his name.

“Joel…”

The quiet of the hospital at night was a different kind of heavy. The hum of fluorescent lights, the steady beep of heart monitors in distant rooms — it all felt like it existed in some other world, one you weren’t fully tethered to anymore.

Carmen sat alone in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs outside your room, her hands wrung raw, her eyes rimmed red. She hadn’t left. Not once. She hadn’t gone down the hall to see Joel, hadn’t let herself face what state he might be in. Not when you were like this. Not when the memory of Gabriel’s hands around your throat still ghosted against your skin.

When the elevator doors opened, she didn’t look up at first. But she knew those boots. That voice.

“Carmen,” Billy’s voice was low, urgent, his face lined and pale beneath the harsh hospital lights.

She stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly against the tile. “Thank God,” she breathed, and before she could stop herself, she was in his arms.

Billy held her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head, his chest solid and familiar. “I came as soon as you called,” he murmured into her hair.

“I didn’t know who else—” her voice cracked. “I didn’t know what to do, Billy.”

“It’s okay, you did good,” he said, pulling back to look at her face. “Where is she?”

“In there. They sedated her… she wouldn’t stop crying. She was… she was barely breathing, Billy. I thought—” Carmen swallowed hard, shaking her head. “I thought we were gonna lose her.” She stopped for a moment, “That asshole was chocking her.”

Billy gasped at the thought of you, “How did you know she was here?”

“I didn’t. I promised Joel I was going to go back later and I saw her talking to a nurse…”

“Joel?”

“Come on, calling him father seems really unholy.”

Billy let out a sharp, disbelieving breath, half a huff of a laugh despite the weight in his chest. “Jesus, Carm…” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “Of all the goddamn hospitals.”

She gave a broken, crooked smile. “I know.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hallway stretched out quiet around them, only the distant beeping of monitors and the occasional murmur of nurses passing by. The kind of stillness where too much had already happened, and more was still waiting.

“She was asking for him, you know,” Carmen said softly, eyes shining again, staring down the hall like she could see through the walls, to Joel’s room. “Even when she couldn’t breathe… even when her face was turning blue… she was still worried about him.”

Billy’s throat tightened at that, his gut twisting. He looked through the window into your room — your small, still form against too-white sheets. “We should’ve protected her better,” he muttered. “We should’ve—”

“Stop,” Carmen cut him off gently but firmly, reaching out to grab his wrist. “We didn’t know he was going to do that.”

He swallowed hard, and after a beat, nodded. “I’ll sit with her,” he said quietly. “I’ll be here if she wakes up soon”

Carmen gave him a grateful, weary look and squeezed his arm. “Okay, the doctor said she would sleep for hours though, but I don’t want her alone.” she whispered, turning to go.

She made it two steps before stopping again, Billy’s voice low but fierce. “Tell Joel she is here. But tell him she didn’t need him to save herself.”

She nodded, and with that, Carmen turned and finally made herself walk down that long hallway toward Joel’s room, her pulse a storm in her throat, a hundred what-ifs chasing her with every step.

The door to Joel’s room creaked as Carmen pushed it open, the soft glow of a bedside lamp washing over his face. He was half-sitting against the pillows, an IV line in his arm, his skin pale and drawn but his eyes, those tired, familiar, stubborn eyes, were open.

He looked up when the door opened, and the moment his gaze landed on her, something in his face shifted. A flicker of relief, of dread, of some unspoken, as if he deep-down knew you were okay.

“Carmen,” he rasped, his voice raw like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

She closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a second like she needed the support. Her throat tightened, and it took everything she had to stay steady.

“She’s here, Joel,” Carmen whispered, her voice breaking on the words.

His eyes went wide. The breath left his lungs like a punch.

“Where?” His voice cracked.

Carmen’s lips trembled, and she crossed the room in three steps, siting in a chair beside his bed, “She’s down the hall. Room fourteen. The bastard got her during these past five days… she was with him. And she—” Carmen had to stop, swallowing back the sob. “She fought him. She was asking for you. Couldn’t even breathe but she still asked for you, can you believe it?”

Joel’s head dropped back against the pillow, a tear slipping down his cheek. His hand gripped the sheets so tight it hurt. “Is she… is she okay?”

“They sedated her,” Carmen whispered. “She wouldn’t stop crying. She… was a mess.”

Joel’s face crumpled then, his whole body shuddering with a silent sob. “Goddamn it,” he choked out.

Joel’s breath came in short, uneven bursts, chest rising and falling as though the weight of those five days had just crushed down on him in full. His knuckles went white where they gripped the sheets, his throat working around the thick lump there.

“I gotta see her,” he managed, voice rough and breaking. “Carmen — I need to see her.”

But Carmen’s hand shot out, pressing firmly to his chest, keeping him where he was. Her eyes were sharp now, her jaw clenched. The grief was still there, but fury — clean and bright — licked at the edges of her words.

“Not yet,” she snapped. “I’ve been really goddamn nice to you because of her. But don’t get it twisted, Joel. All this… this hell she’s been through, it happened because of you.”

His face twisted, stricken. “Carmen, I didn’t—”

“Maybe you didn’t mean to,” she cut him off, voice tight, trembling. “But you left the fucking door open. You let that piece of take her, and you didn’t see it coming. And now she’s passed out in a hospital bed because of it. You don’t get to just go in there like some goddamn savior and make it right.”

Joel closed his eyes, a tear tracking down the side of his face.

“You will stay here,” Carmen said, steel in every word. “And you will wait. Until I say it’s time. Because we still don’t know what the hell happened during those five days, and I won’t let you hurt her again — even if you don’t mean to.”

She watched him for a moment, waiting for him to fight back, to argue like he always did. But he didn’t. He just nodded, broken, his voice barely a whisper when he asked,

“Is she alone?”

Carmen’s jaw flexed, softening a little.

“No,” she said quietly. “Billy’s with her.”

Joel gave a faint, shuddering breath, like some part of him unclenched at the thought.

“Good,” he murmured. “Good… she shouldn’t be alone.”

Carmen’s throat bobbed as she stood from the chair. “I’ll let you know when you can see her,” she said, softer now, though the edge of warning hadn’t left her voice. “And Joel… you better pray she makes it out of this whole.”

He didn’t look up as she left, but the tears wouldn’t stop falling.

All of this was because he had let his jealousy break the best thing he had ever come to see in his life.

The room was dim, the harsh glare of hospital lights softened by the hour. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound for a while, save for the quiet, tired murmur of Carmen and Billy talking in low voices by the window.

You stirred — just barely — a soft, broken sound leaving your lips as your lashes fluttered. The weight of your own body felt foreign. Heavy. Like gravity had tripled its hold on you. Every breath scraped your throat raw. Your chest ached, your hands ached, your goddamn soul ached.

Carmen was on you in a second.

“Hey, hey—” she whispered, her voice already breaking. “Baby, you’re okay. You’re safe. I swear to God, you’re safe.”

Billy was there too, his face pale and drawn, but his hand reached for yours like he’d been waiting for the smallest sign of life.

The moment your eyes cracked open, blurry and stinging; a tear slid down your temple. Then another. And another. It was like your body remembered before your mind did — remembered the hands at your throat, the words, the terror that felt like it would never end.

Your breath came in short, shallow bursts, your whole-body trembling. “I—” you tried, but your throat felt like sandpaper, every word scraping on the way out. “Hurts…”

“I know,” Carmen whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing sweaty hair back from your forehead. Her hand trembled against your skin. “I know, baby. God, I’m so sorry.”

Billy squeezed your hand, his jaw clenched tight, eyes glassy. “You’re safe now, sweetheart. We got you.”

But nothing about you felt safe. Not your skin, not your bones, not your memories. It felt like you’d left pieces of yourself behind in that room and nothing would ever quite fit right again.

Your body shook harder, a sob hitching in your chest, and Carmen gathered you up against her carefully, mindful of the IV line. She cradled you like you were a small little girl waking up from a nightmare.

"My family is dead" you confessed in a whisper, trying to get used to the idea you would never be with them again.

Carmen’s breath hitched in her throat at your words — a soft, broken confession spoken like a child admitting a secret no one else could fix. You felt her arms tighten around you, her palm smoothing down your hair, a tremor running through her hand.

“Oh, mi Estrellita” she whispered, voice cracking like glass underweight.

Billy turned away, one hand covering his mouth, his shoulders stiff with the effort to keep it together. The room felt smaller, heavier. The air thick with grief too big to name, the kind that clung to your skin and made your chest feel like it was caving in.

You swallowed, your throat raw and aching, your face pressed against Carmen’s shoulder. “They’re gone….and I wasn’t there. I didn’t… I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

A sob ripped from your chest before you could stop it, and Carmen held you tighter like she could keep you from shattering. “They knew you loved them,” she murmured fiercely into your hair. “They knew. And if there’s a goddamn heaven, they’re watching’ over you right now, baby. I swear it.”

But the hole inside you stayed. A dark, gnawing thing that no words could fill.

Your voice came again, small and wrecked. “They were killed because they carried my last name and I don’t know how to live with that weight on me.”

Carmen’s whole body tensed around you, like your words cut through her, sharp and merciless. She pulled back just enough to cup your face in both trembling hands, forcing you — gently— to meet her eyes, even as your tears blurred everything between you.

“No,” she said, voice thick, breaking on the word. “No, baby, listen to me. This isn’t your weight to carry. Do you hear me? This wasn’t your fault. Those pieces of shit made a choice — their choice. Not yours. Not theirs.”

Your lips quivered, your breath shuddering as you struggled to hold onto her gaze, the raw grief in your chest threatening to drown you. “If I wasn’t— if I hadn’t been born into this family, they’d still be—”

“Stop.” Carmen’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and soft at once. “You are not a curse. You are not a burden. You didn’t pull the trigger. You didn’t give the order. You are not to blame for a monster’s sins.”

Billy swallowed hard; his voice rough when he finally spoke. “If anythin’, you’re the reason many people are alive. If you weren’t there, if you hadn’t fought as you did, there would be more people dead—Don’t you dare think for a second this blood is on you.”

You felt your whole-body collapse inward then, a broken sob leaving you as Carmen pressed your forehead to hers, her thumbs brushing your wet cheeks.

“Gabriel?” you asked Carmen.

“He is in custody” Carmen went on, her voice shaking but controlled, “left bruising on your throat… and God knows what else those five days did to you. But he’s done. He’s not getting near you again. I swear it.”

You saw it then, the fire behind her eyes. The barely leashed fury. Carmen had always been a force of nature when it came to protecting the people she loved, and right now you were all that mattered to her.

“He’s going away for the rest of his miserable fucking life,” she added, her thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “He will be in prison soon and he will face charges.”

Billy gave a rough nod beside her. “I already made a few calls,” he said hoarsely.

“Good.” You said, simply as if you still couldn’t believe it. “But prison but time will be enough for him to pay for everything he had done.”

You tried to swallow, the pain in your throat a sharp reminder of the hands that had been there, of the helplessness. Of what it meant to survive it. Your chest ached, not just from the bruises and the brokenness of your body, but from the weight of the grief still coiled inside you.

“You need to rest. You don’t owe him a goddamn thing until you’re ready, you hear me?”

Billy squeezed your hand. “We’ll stay right here. As long as it takes.”

The pain meds from the hospital, the exhaustion of five days spent in terror, and the sheer grief weighing down your bones — it had all pulled you under like a tide. The last thing you remembered was the nurse gently resetting your finger, the cold of the hospital room, and Gabriel’s sharp voice on the phone outside.

You hadn’t known Joel was there. Carmen neither Billy had told you that.

And Joel’s leg screamed with every step — the stitches pulling, the bone-deep ache of healing wounds making his vision swim. But none of it mattered. Not the pain, not Carmen’s warnings, not the fury in her eyes when she’d told him to stay away.

Because you were here. And he needed to see you like he needed air in his lungs.

He leaned heavily on the wall as he made his way down the hall, sweat slick on his brow, heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to break free. The world blurred at the edges, the sterile hospital lights too bright, the antiseptic stench thick in the back of his throat.

When he reached your door — Room Fourteen — his hand trembled on the handle. He didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate. He opened the door.

The sight of you hit him like a goddamn freight train.

You were asleep, small and broken in the hospital bed. The bruising on your throat stark against your skin, your face pale, a faint frown still etched in your sleep. His chest constricted, a sob catching in his throat before he could stop it.

Carmen was sitting in the chair beside you, her head leaning back against the wall, exhaustion etched deep in her face. The second she saw him, her expression crumpled — like something she’d been holding together for too long finally cracked wide open.

“Joel,” she breathed, her voice barely a sound.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t offer an apology she wouldn’t accept or a promise he knew would fall short. He just stood there for a moment, swallowing against the tight, burning ache in his throat, watching your chest rise and fall.

Carmen shot to her feet then, her body tense, a thousand words written in her tear-filled eyes.

“You weren’t supposed to come in here,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I told you to wait. You don’t get to just —”

“I need to see her,” Joel rasped, his voice thick, ruined. “I need… I need to know she is fine.”

Carmen’s jaw clenched, tears welling. She looked at you, so small in that bed, and her shoulders dropped, her face breaking again. She hated him for what had happened. For what his mistakes had set in motion. But even now, she knew you. She knew how deep he ran in your blood and bones.

“She doesn’t need more pain, Joel,” Carmen whispered, her voice hoarse. “If you’re gonna do anything — anything at all —

His hand hovered above yours for a second before pulling back.

“Can I have a moment alone with her?”

Carmen hesitated for a moment, but the heart in her gave up and she ended up nodding, “Okay. I will be outside. If you make her cry I will punch in the face, do you hear me father?”

Joel simply nodded, waiting for her to get out of the room. And when she did his heart was in his throat as he saw you there, so small in that hospital bed, your face turned toward the window. The bruises on your skin, the way your fingers trembled in sleep, it gutted him. He hated himself in a way he hadn’t known was possible. Hated every moment he’d wasted, every jealous word, every time he didn’t tell you the truth.

He didn’t ask for permission.

Didn’t speak.

He just leaned down, breath unsteady, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. His lips lingered longer than they should’ve, pouring every apology, every ounce of love he hadn’t known how to say into that one small, desperate act.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your skin. “I’m so goddamn sorry, baby.”

And then, your eyes opened.

Soft, dazed, but clear. You looked up and there he was — so close your noses almost brushed, your breaths tangled between you. Those brown eyes weren’t filled with fire anymore. No anger. No resentment. Just aching tenderness and the raw, broken kind of love you could barely survive.

For a second neither of you spoke. The world shrunk to just your faces, your breaths, your eyes searching one another like you both needed to be sure this wasn’t a dream.

“Joel,” you breathed. A word, a plea, a prayer.

His throat worked around a sound, one he choked down because if he spoke now, he’d fall apart.

But his hand cupped your cheek, trembling and rough, and for the first time in five days, you weren’t afraid.

Not of him. Not of anything.

And outside, down the hall, the storm still waited. But for now — for just this moment — you were both here.

Your breath hitched, a sharp, fragile sound in the space between you. Joel’s thumb brushed your cheekbone, careful like you might break under his touch — though you’d been breaking for days, hadn’t you? And still, somehow, you were here.

“You came,” you whispered, voice cracking, disbelief and something dangerously close to hope flickering in your words.

Joel’s eyes shut for a moment, as if the sound of your voice hurt. “Course I did,” he rasped, voice thick and low. “I should’ve sooner. I—I fucked up.”

The tremble in his words split something open in you, a sob caught halfway in your throat. You swallowed hard, trying to speak around the ache. “I thought you hated me.”

His head shook before you even finished the words. “Never. God, no.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, his hand cradling your face like you were something sacred and fragile at once. “I was stupid. I let… I let that jealousy and anger get between us. I let my head lie to me. But I never stopped… I never stopped loving you, not for a second.”

Your lips parted, a tear sliding down your temple. Joel caught it with his thumb.

“I thought you were going to die,” you admitted, voice barely a whisper, breaking in the middle. “And you weren’t… you weren’t there and I thought I was alone, Joel. I thought I was dying out there.”

His jaw clenched so hard you felt it against your cheek. “I know, baby. I know. And I’m gonna fix it. I swear to God; I’ll make it right. Whatever it takes. I’ll tear the whole town apart if I have to, you hear me?”

You closed your eyes against the wave of emotion, feeling his breath against your lips. “I’m so scared.”

“Not anymore,” Joel promised. His hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads pressed together. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you again. Not him. Not anybody. You’re mine, sweetheart. Always have been.”

And God help you, despite everything, despite the fear still clawing at your ribs, you believed him because you wanted to let yourself believe you weren’t alone.

The sob that tore from your chest was helpless, raw, like something dug up from a place too deep to ever fully heal. It shook your whole body, and Joel pulled you into him before you could fall apart completely.

His arms wrapped around you like armor, one hand at the back of your head, the other around your waist, holding you so tightly it felt like maybe he could piece you back together just by being close enough.

"I've got you," he murmured into your hair, over and over like a prayer. "You’re safe now. You hear me? You’re safe."

You buried your face against his chest, soaking in the feel of him, the way his shirt smelled like him — sweat, earth, something warm and steady. It was like coming in from the cold after being lost in a storm for days.

"It hurts," you choked out. "Everything hurts, Joel."

His voice cracked. "I know, darlin’. I know it does." He rocked you gently, like you were something breakable in his arms, something worth protecting. His fingers slid softly through your hair, his lips pressing into your temple.

"You don’t have to be strong anymore," he whispered. "Not with me. You can fall apart. I’ll catch every piece."

You clung to him like a lifeline, fists curled into his shirt.

And Joel didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. He held you through all of it, silent tears slipping down his own face, his breath shaking.

"I should’ve been there," he whispered once, broken and furious with himself. "I’ll never let anything touch you again."

And in his arms, no matter how much pain still lingered inside you, you were allowing yourself to believe what you knew it was a lie.

Because the kind of love you both shared was the type of love that couldn’t survived the wreckage.

You must’ve fallen asleep in his arms, exhaustion dragging you under like a tide you couldn’t fight. Joel never left, not for a second, holding you until your breathing evened out, his hand resting protectively against the curve of your back as if he let go, you’d disappear.

But morning came anyway.

The weak gray light slipped through the hospital blinds, spilling across the small room, and with it came the ache.

Your eyes opened slow, crusted with salt from the night before. You felt it before you even fully woke — the dampness on your cheeks, the warm trail of tears slipping down to your ears. Your chest clenched, that ugly, hollow ache rising up all over again.

And then you saw him.

Joel was there, sitting in the chair beside your bed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees even when one of them was healing from the shot, his eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at. The guilt on his face was bone-deep, and it should’ve meant something. It should’ve comforted you.

But it didn’t.

The memory hit like a blow to the gut.

 him giving you back to Gabriel.

Not with a word, but with silence. With jealousy. With cowardice. You remembered the way you’d begged him with your eyes, how you’d prayed for him to fight for you, and how he hadn’t.

You flinched without meaning to, your body tensing, curling inward like a wounded animal.

"Hey, hey," Joel murmured, reaching out — but you shook your head violently, the tears coming harder now, your breath hitching in short, painful sobs.

"Don’t," you croaked, voice barely there.

His face crumpled, a broken, desperate thing. "I know," he said softly, hand retreating, but not leaving. "I know what I did." His voice was so low it was almost a whisper. "I was a fool. I was weak. And you paid for it."

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The grief and betrayal tangled so thick inside you it felt like you were drowning in it.

"I don’t deserve to be here," he admitted, his throat thick. "But I’ll stay. I’ll stay until you tell me to go."

And God, some broken, stubborn part of you still wanted to reach for him. Still wanted to believe in him. But the hurt was too fresh, too deep.

You turned your face away, more tears sliding down, and Joel just sat there in silence, letting you grieve. Because he knew this wasn’t something an apology could fix.

The minutes stretched long and quiet, broken only by the soft, uneven sound of your breathing. You didn’t have the strength to fight anymore — not him, not yourself, not the memories clawing their way up from the dark. The tears kept coming, hot and relentless, soaking the pillow beneath your head.

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t try to pull you close. Didn’t reach for your hand.

He just stayed there, sitting in that hard hospital chair like it was his penance, eyes red-rimmed and hollow, watching over you like a man guarding a grave.

"You are right to hate me," he rasped, his voice rough from a night without sleep. "I should’ve never let him take you. Should’ve never turned away. I—" his voice cracked, and he dragged a hand over his face like it hurt to keep talking. "I thought I was doing the right thing by allowing him to get close to you. I didn’t know he was a bad person.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t want his words, didn’t want his regret. You wanted your family back. You wanted your old life. You wanted what Gabriel had stolen from you.

And maybe… a tiny, broken part of you still wanted Joel.

You clenched your eyes shut, hating yourself for it.

"You don’t have to forgive me," Joel said quietly, leaning forward so his forearms rested on his knees. "Hell, you shouldn’t. I don’t deserve it. But I swear to you — nobody’s gonna lay a hand on you again. Not while I’m still breathing."

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

But the trembling in your shoulders slowed a little. The weight of those words sinking in, despite everything.

And after a long while, when the exhaustion dragged you under again, you didn’t flinch when Joel pulled the scratchy hospital blanket up over your shoulders. You didn’t turn away when the rough calloused tips of his fingers brushed your hair back from your face.

He stayed.

The next time you woke, the room was quieter than you remembered. No distant footsteps, no beeping monitors, just the steady, familiar sound of Joel’s breathing beside you. He hadn’t left. He was still there, one hand loosely holding yours, his thumb tracing absent, broken circles over your skin.

You swallowed hard, your throat raw, your body aching everywhere in ways you didn’t have names for. The weight on your chest felt unbearable, and for the first time in days, maybe longer, the words rose up before you could stop them.

"He told me…" you rasped, voice barely audible. Joel’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto yours like he wasn’t sure if you were really speaking.

"Gabriel… he told me he was gonna kill me," you continued, staring at the ceiling because you couldn’t quite look at Joel yet. "That I’d outlived my usefulness… that no one was coming for me. Said I was already dead, just didn’t know it yet."

Your voice broke on the last word, and Joel flinched like it physically hit him.

"And my family…" the word felt like glass in your mouth. "They're gone, Joel. He told me what happened. I’ve got no one left. No one in this whole goddamn world."

Your voice gave out then, the tears rising so fast they blurred your vision. You felt them fall sideways down to your ears as you lay there, and this time you couldn’t stop the sound that came from you — a quiet, heartbroken sob that cracked something open in the room.

Joel leaned forward, his face wrecked, eyes glistening. "You got me," he choked out, voice hoarse and uneven. "I know it ain’t worth a damn right now… but you got me. And you always will. I swear to God."

You finally looked at him then, and it wasn’t the Joel you remembered — the one who used to smirk and tease and steal glances like he didn’t mean to. This was a man broken open, raw and aching, carrying every ounce of guilt like a stone in his chest.

You didn’t know if it made you weak or foolish, but some desperate part of you believed him. Because you had nothing else left to believe in.

But reality broke harder.

Your throat burned as another sob clawed its way out of you, your whole-body trembling under the weight of everything you’d carried — everything you were still carrying. You met his eyes, those shattered, pleading eyes, and for a moment, you saw the man you loved in them.

And then you remembered the silence. The betrayal. The way five days had gone by. How jealousy, pride, and his own demons had left you alone in a room with a monster.

“I don’t believe you,” you choked, your voice raw and breaking. The words tasted like blood.

His face crumpled like you’d hit him, his jaw quivering, but you didn’t stop.

“You say I got you? Where the hell were you when I needed you the most? When I was… when he—” your voice cracked, and you covered your face with shaking hands as sobs wrecked you. “I begged for you. I called for you until I couldn’t speak but all this was because of you.”

“I know,” Joel rasped, a tear slipping down his cheek. “God, baby, I know. And I ain’t ever gonna forgive myself for it.”

You dropped your hands just enough to meet his gaze again, your eyes burning.

“I want you out of my life, Joel.” The words felt like a knife in your own chest, but you forced them out.

Joel’s face crumbled, he leaned to touch you, carefully. His touch was soft, trembling, when he brushed the hair from your face. His lips grazed your temple, and you felt it like a brand, like it might scorch what little was left of you.

And you shattered.

“No,” you choked, a sob bursting from your throat. “No—don’t you fucking touch me, Joel.”

Your voice cracked and broke, your chest heaving as you shoved weakly at him. He didn’t pull back, not yet, his forehead pressing to yours like he could will you back to him if he stayed close enough.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice thick and broken.

“Don’t say that,” you hissed, your hands trembling where they gripped the blanket. Your throat ached, your whole body trembling so hard it hurt. “Don’t you fucking say that to me.”

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes wet and wrecked. “I love you.”

That was it. That was the last thread, the last brittle, frayed string holding your heart together.

“I don’t want you,” you sobbed, shaking your head, the words tearing through you like glass. “I don’t want you in my life, Joel.”

His face crumpled. A tear slipped down his cheek.

“You say you love me?” your voice rose, thick with grief and rage, your hands fisting in the sheets. “You showed me what warm felt like. You made me believe in daylight. And then you left me in the darkest place I’ve ever been. You… you broke me.”

He staggered like you’d struck him. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“Loving you hurts, Joel,” you whispered, a sob hitching in your chest. “It hurts so bad I can’t fucking stand it. I can’t breathe with it. And I won’t carry it anymore.”

Joel leaned in one last time, his lips barely brushing your temple. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so goddamn sorry.”

“Get out,” you begged, voice small and wrecked and shaking. “Please, Joel… just go.”

But he still lingered there. His hand lingered a second longer over your face because he knew the moment he pulled away from you he would break.

“I don’t want you!” you sobbed, shaking so hard it rattled the bed. “I don’t fucking want you in my life, Joel. I don’t want to see your face, I don’t want your name in my head—I want you gone. Do you hear me?”

And still, still, he leaned down and pressed another kiss to your temple, one trembling hand holding your face like you were something fragile. “I’ll love you ‘til my last breath,” he murmured against your skin.

“Leave!” you screamed, sobbing so violently the heart monitor started to beep faster. “Get the fuck out of here! Get out!”

Joel's breath hitched, his hand still cradling your face as you sobbed beneath him. He was breaking — shattering right there in front of you, in the dim flicker of the hospital room light.

“I’ll go,” he rasped, voice torn and low. “I’ll go, baby. But listen to me, just this once… one more thing.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, the tears burning so hot they felt like they might scar. “Don’t—” you begged, but he pressed his forehead to yours, and you were too weak to fight it.

“I’ll love you until the stars burn out in the sky, until this world forgets our names, until the sun quits the sky,” Joel whispered, his voice breaking around every word, his thumb trembling against your cheek. “And if it’s the last goddamn thing I do in this life… I’ll find a way to fix what I broke in you.”

Your sob caught, a sharp, painful sound in your throat, because no matter how much you told yourself you didn’t want him, some part of you still did — some part of you always would. And that made it worse. So much worse.

“Please, Joel,” you whispered, your voice splintered glass. “I can’t… I can’t survive loving you.”

He swallowed hard, eyes shining. “I know,” he whispered. “But you’re gonna survive without me. You’re stronger than this hurt. And I swear to you… you’ll find your way back to the light.”

Then, so gently it felt cruel, he pressed one last kiss to your hairline, breathing you in like a dying man.

And he left.

The click of the door behind him felt like a gunshot. And just like that, your heart cracked open all over again.

And then he was out the door.

Carmen stepped back inside the room and gathered you up in seconds, holding you against her as your body heaved with sobs so violent it felt like your heart might stop.

“I’m here,” she whispered, over and over. “I’ve got you. I swear to God, I’ve got you.”

But you couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop hearing his voice. Couldn’t stop feeling those ghost touches on your skin.

And somewhere deep down, where the blood and the marrow lived, you knew it would never be the same again.

“I will leave this town, Carmen.”

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[dannyriccsystem]

ok on the topic of lando and tate songs… 2 hands x lando 🫣 i would totally love to see you write it AAAHHHHH

NEED A LITTLE LESS TALK, AND A LOT MORE TOUCH!

FORMULA ONE DRIVER X READER

SUMMARY: Lando fic inspired by Tate McRae’s 2 Hands!

WARNINGS: Suggestive, touch starved reader, slightly angsty w happy ending, Y/N usage, not proofread

FEATURING: Lando Norris x Ex!Reader

NOTE: I’ve never actually listened to Tate before the other request I got 😭 Her music is actually really good! But anyway this is request #32!

lando

liked by mclaren and others

lando Work lately 🤩

—

username1 - LAANNDOO 😍😍

username2 - God he’s so fine and he knows it 😩

username3 - Hello handsome

username4 - On everyone’s soul, Norris is winning the 2025 WDC

username5 - WHEWWWW

mclaren - Sleeping on the job?! Fired!

♥︎ by author

lando - Oh no!!!

username6 - please 😂 get this crybaby off your team

> username7 - Shut the fuck up you miserable idiot

> username8 - clocked

username9 - Out here posting thirst traps while everyone else is working hard 😬

username10 - “thirst traps” and they’re regular pictures 💔 jobs bro, jobs.

> username11 - Afraid to admit Lando is objectively attractive

username12 - Y/N doesn’t know what she’s lost 💔

username13 - She knows babes. She just doesn’t care

You hated parties, which is why you didn’t know exactly why you were here now. The house had been packed with dancing, sweaty bodies that cheered and shouted out lyrics to raunchy songs, and spilt their drinks stored in red solo cups all over the hard wood flooring. The lights were so bright, the voices were so loud, and the music was shaking you.

You could still hear it seeping out as you stood on the back deck, leaning against the railing. Fairy lights twinkled against the black blanket of the night sky, scattered with diamond-like stars, shimmering so softly. Laughter and rap songs echoed within the thin walls of whoever’s house it was— You couldn’t even remember— making it hard to focus.

For a moment, it got louder as you heard the sliding glass door swiftly open, and then a soft suction sound as it was shut once more. You froze up, blinking in surprise. You weren’t expecting company. Not when there was fun to be had elsewhere.

“You still do this,” That voice sent a shiver down your spine. You unconsciously squeezed your drink that had remained untouched throughout the night. The ice had fully melted by now, turning the red liquid into a soft pink color.

Lando settled in beside you, leaving a comfortable distance that you yearned to shut. He looked so good— So comfortable, like he was free from the shackles of your relationship. You looked away, out towards the view of the moon reflected on shifting waters backdropped with rolling hills. “Do what?” You could barely hear yourself.

“You leave parties to sulk outside by yourself, like the world’s too loud for you.” He looked directly at you, paralleling the way you avoided his entrancing eyes. A soft laugh left your lips as you looked down, your lips twitching into a half assed smile.

“Sometimes it is,” You replied, fidgeting with the ring on your right hand. “You’re still paying attention to me,” You pointed out as a rebuttal.

“It’s hard not to.” You didn’t know what to say to that, because his words felt uncomfortably intimate, just like they did when you were dating. It should have been fine, but he could never match such sweet words with his actions.

A silence washed over you two. He stared at you for what felt like hours before eventually looking away, and what used to be comfortable started to feel… Awkward. It was jagged, a silence coated in spikes that grew with every second.

“I didn’t think you’d show up.” He finally filled the quiet air, helping to drown out all the background noise. You were surprised nobody came to look for him yet; Lando was always the life of the party. You were told you usually killed it off.

“I wasn’t planning on it, originally.” You looked over to him, your eyes locked onto his. When he matched your gaze, he seemed to let his eyes wander, giving you a once over that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You found yourself swooning internally, and that made you feel ill simultaneously.

“You look nice.” You hummed as a reply. It seemed like silence was on the brink of taking over once more, but Lando was insistent on taking the wheel. “You always show up when I’m just starting to forget about you, and then I have to start over.”

“Well, sorry.” You said rather dramatically. You stood up, pushing yourself off the railing with a sigh. His gaze followed you, his body still hunched over to rest against it. “I should go.”

“Why?” He wasted no time in replying, brows just slightly furrowed. If you looked for too long, you could see his bottom lip jutted out in the softest of pouts— So you looked away.

“Because you’re hard to resist, but I know you can’t give me the love I want.” When you turned around, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you back, his fingers drifting away when your attention was redirected. You turned your head fast, shooting him a glare.

He met you with a determined expression, hands retracting back into his jacket’s pockets. “And what would that be?”

It was frustrating how he suddenly pretended to care, especially now that it didn’t matter. You reeled your hands back away from him, shaking it off as if you were shaking his touch away. You crossed your arms over your chest. “I told you I needed more. I told you I needed to feel wanted-”

“I did want you.” He cut you off with a firm expression, his lips drawn into a tight line. “I do want you.” Fuck, that stung a lot.

“Then why did it feel like I had to earn your touch?” His fists clenched in his pockets. You were so close, about a foot away, but you felt galaxies apart from him. It was like trying to push two positive ends of a magnet together— You kept slowly drifting away from him.

He watched the goosebumps appear along your arms, your hairs standing on end. Without a second thought, he began to shed his jacket. You recognized it, of course. It was the one you always stole. “I’m not wired the same as you, Y/N. I didn’t know that was something you needed.”

Your expression softened as he slowly reached around you, carefully draping his jacket over your shoulders. His hands lingered for a moment, enjoying the warmth of your skin against his. Your eyes drifted down, heart pounding in your chest. You hated this. You hated how bad you loved him.

“I did want to touch you.” He breathed out, his eyes drifting down to take you in like you were the most beautiful piece of art. “I just didn’t know you needed it to believe I loved you.” He appreciated the sight of you in his clothes. It was a familiar feeling.

Your throat burned, and your eyes filled with tears. Your shaky voice replied with a question, “And now?” He looked back up— He really looked at you, his expression matching the look of a man in love.

“I’d touch you every minute of our lives if it meant you’d give me a second chance.” He spoke sincerely, taking a small step forward.

You nearly melted, leaning forward to press your forehead against his. It was a moment of vulnerability, finally letting yourself give in. You should be allowed to be happy, and you should be allowed to have what you want.

You wanted him.

“You’re late,” You whispered as you shut your eyes, enjoying the warmth that radiated from him.

“Yeah,” He murmured. “But I’m here.” Finally, he cupped your face with two hands.

your.username

🎵 Tate McRae • 2 Hands

liked by lando and others

your.username Respectfully I have something crazy to say

tagged lando

—

username14 - Oh she knew what she was doing

username15 - New LandHand pics unlocked

username16 - Speak your truth Y/N

♥︎ by author

mclaren - let’s not

♥︎ by author

> your.username - What happened to Free Speech

username17 - WOAHHH THE DADDY BRACELET?

username18 - Mmmmmm 🤤

The soft pitter patter of rain against your apartment roof began around halfway through the movie. Lando had insisted the two of you watch it, but you couldn’t tell what was going on. If someone asked you any questions about the plot, you’d have no clue how to respond.

Your head was resting on Lando’s lap, his shorts riding up just slightly to let you press your cheek against his thigh, the skin warm. His fingers were tangled in your hair, gently brushing through the strands in a way that nearly lulled you to sleep.

You rolled onto your back, looking up at him, only to find your boyfriend staring down at you already. That would explain why your skin felt so tingly— Someone had been peeping at you. With a teasing smile, you mused, “You’re not even watching.”

“Neither are you,” He pointed out.

“I’m not the one who was begging to watch this movie.” You closed your eyes, enjoying his fingers massaging your scalp. “Besides, I was trying to watch, but it’s hard with someone playing with my hair. You tryna hypnotize me or something?”

“Maybe I am,” He grinned. “Is it working?”

You opened your eyes, playfully rolling them before giving him a stern look. “Depends. What are you trying to make me do?”

“Stay right where you are,” He murmured, eyes looking down at you as if you hung the stars and the moon. You felt your heart flutter as he leaned down to gently kiss your jawline, leaving a trail of kisses there.

“Hmm,” You hummed, reaching up to cup his cheek with one hand, your thumb brushing over his jawline. “You’re getting better at this.”

He nosed at her hand, nudging her palm with a soft kiss that left her giggling. “I’ve had the best teacher,” He grabbed her palm gently, turning it over to kiss along her knuckles. “Could use some work with not snogging her students, though.”

You scoffed, “You’re lucky you’re cute, Norris.”

He feigned faux offense, pulling back to give you an awed expression. “Cute? Too bad. I was looking for devastatingly handsome. Or devilishly sexy.”

You pulled yourself up, situated in a spot on his lap with your thighs straddling his. It wasn’t inherently sexual, and neither of you made it out to be. “You are handsome, but when you look at me like that…” You brushed a curl away from his face, and his gaze softened so sweetly. “It’s cute.”

He leaned in, eyes slowly drifting shut as your lips met for a kiss. Slow, teasing, and yet so beautiful. You smirked against his lips, sinking against him while his hands found your thighs, his grip digging into you.

“You’re getting good at this,” You murmured between soft kisses. When you pulled away, he chased you for another before his eyes opened, staring at you in a way nobody ever had before.

He suddenly grinned. “I’ve had practice in my own imagination.”

You lightly smacked his chest. “Idiot.”

[mariasont]

this is sick and twisted and perfect. denise when i catch u. like i need u to understand that i had to pause. multiple times. to just sit in silence.

THIS IS WHAT THE WRITTEN WORD WAS MADE FOR !!!! SAY IT WITH ME !!!!!!

He suddenly imagines what he would do to you if he was there—leaving marks on your neck until you were whimpering or laving and playing with your nipples until you begged him for more. He imagines pocketing your panties for later, forgetting about them until he reaches into his pocket while at the office and still detecting your slick on the fabric, and having to bite his bottom lip in the bathroom stall as he brought himself off with your panties wrapped around his aching cock.

this is filth of the highest order. i am foaming. i need a minute. or twelve. lemme say it again — denise when i catch u.

drinking in the way you’d pick at your nails and the methodical way you applied your chapstick nearly every hour.

u were thinking ab me writing this line, huh? (debbie ryan emoji)

not the desperate type

pairing: aaron hotchner/neighbor!reader genre: smut!! w.c. 5.7k a/n: ty to @minswriting for not only enabling me, but also being so supportive, ily <3

summary: The apartment across from Hotch's has been empty for as long as he can remember. And then you move in, and you always seem to forget to close your blinds.

c.w.: 18+ MDNI, porn no plot, perv!hotch so kinda creepy, voyeurism/exhibitionism, m & f masturbation, sex toys, hotch pov, jack mention

It was a warm spring day when Hotch glances out his bedroom window and spots you in the apartment across from his.

You’ve clearly just moved in, as you were struggling with a large cardboard box in your arms and had sweat dripping down the side of your face that he could see even from here.

He didn’t pay you any mind, instead just closing the blinds so he could catch up on some well-deserved sleep after a week-long case.

The next day, when he comes home close to midnight and Jack was already asleep, he had forgotten about you completely. When he closed his bedroom door to get ready for bed and noticed your light was on from the window, he felt a ripple of surprise.

The apartment across from his has been empty for as long as he’s lived there, which was why he always left the blinds partially open because he knew there was a slim chance of someone peering in. He’s gotten used to opening his bedroom window and seeing nothing but the brick wall of the neighboring apartment complex and plastic shutters.

He makes a mental note to make sure he shuts his blinds before he leaves for work every day, and when he approaches his window to do just that, he frowns.

You have your bedroom strangely laid out, which Hotch only notices because your bed was placed right in the middle of the room facing the window, thus in his direct eyeline. He wonders why you chose to do that and how impractical it was, but then he notices you.

You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop splayed out on your lap, the blue screen illuminating your features. You’re pretty, at least 20 years younger than him, and you’re wearing pajama shorts that were riding up your thighs, disappearing in between your legs from where Hotch was standing, and a thin tank top. He wonders whether his optometrist was lying about him needing glasses because he could clearly see your nipples poking through the fabric, pebbling from your air-conditioned room.

Something unfamiliar stirs in the pit of Hotch’s stomach, causing him to clench his jaw, nearly grinding his teeth into nothing at the fierce intensity of it. His gaze doesn’t stray from your figure, memorizing the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with a delicate touch and the way your smile transforms your face into something softer, more innocent.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until he hears a ding from his phone, most likely Garcia miserably informing him of a new case via text laden with colorful emojis and frowny faces. When he reaches over to pick up his suit jacket that he had just tossed haphazardly onto a dresser, he ignores the uncomfortable tightening of his slacks, his half-hard dick pressing against the zipper.

He spares another glance out his window and through yours and is rattled with disappointment when your blinds are closed, only allowing shreds of your golden bedroom lamp to cut through the darkness of the alley.

Hotch frowns, frustration curling up his spine, before he reaches over to finally close his own blinds and head back to the office.

He can’t stop thinking about the peak of your cleavage he caught or the huff of a laugh he could almost imagine the entire flight to Kansas.

-

The first time he actually meets you, face to face, was less than a five-minute interaction.

Not only was it pouring rain, thus increasing his commute time to the office by at least 20 minutes, but his coffee machine broke on him this morning, dying with a pathetic spluttering noise. He wasn’t going to have time to stop somewhere so he’s going to have to put up with the shitty office coffee and he ran out of clean socks because he hadn’t had the chance to do laundry yet.

So, he’s annoyed—frustration blooming hot in his chest and causing him to grind his molars, a horrible habit he’s been trying to quit.

When he steps out of his apartment complex to head around the building to the garage, he sees you.

You’re standing under the awning in front of your building. You’re dressed professionally in a pencil skirt and a white blouse, hair and makeup impeccably done. You’re chewing on your lip, glancing up at the street and down at your phone intermittently. He assumes you’re about to head out to your job or, most likely, a job interview since you’ve just only moved here, and you’re waiting for your ride.

His legs move of his own accord, drawn in by the soft drape of your hair across your shoulder and ignoring the nagging text from Rossi, until he’s standing a respectable 3 feet away from you.

“Do you need a ride?”

You jump, startled, and when you meet his gaze, Hotch can detect the faint swirl of recognition.

From this distance, he can smell the light and sweet notes of your perfume. He can see the swell of your breasts under your blouse, even a peak of a modest nude bra that has him clenching his fist around his umbrella. The pencil skirt clings to you, showcasing your curves and the long line of your legs. There’s a stay droplet of rain on your collarbone that you haven’t noticed yet and Hotch quickly tucks away the urge to swipe it away for you.

“Oh,” you blink at him, eyes wide. “No thank you, I’m just waiting for my Lyft.”

Hotch nods, about to turn away with the memory of that water droplet traveling between the valley of your breasts, when you surprise him.

“You live in the other building, right? Window facing mine with a cute little boy with blonde hair?”

The mention of Jack should raise alarms for him, yet instead, he’s only a little curious, mostly just pleased that he’s able to continue talking to you and learn more about you. Who cares if he was a little late?

“Yes, that’s my son, Jack. You can’t hear him yelling all the way from your apartment, can you?”

You laugh, a light tinkling noise, and it does nothing to quell the sudden burst of affection and want in Hotch’s chest. Your eyes crinkle, one of your hands lifting to cover your mouth, and he resists the urge to frown at not being able to see the full radiant display of your smile. “No, no, I’ve just seen him running around during the day when your blinds are open.”

A subtle thrill runs up Hotch’s spine at that, realizing that you’ve been able to peer into his room and into his home the same way that he has been doing to you. He wonders whether you’ve been checking out your window throughout the day, hoping to get a glimpse of him like he does before he leaves for the day or comes back home.

He gets a better chance at seeing you once he gets home, the earlier the better. Half of the time, your blinds are closed, and Hotch has to go to bed with disappointment sunken deep into his bones.

Hotch huffs a laugh, secretly glad that he hasn’t been caught yet. “I’m sorry if he’s distracting. I should probably close the blinds before I leave anyway.”

“That’s okay, I don’t mind.” You smile, soft and warm and definitely not something Hotch necessarily believes he deserves. All the stress and hurriedness from this morning melts away, leaving him with a distinctive feeling of possessiveness in his chest.

Before Hotch can even formulate a response, one that did not expose the way his thoughts fixate on you nearly every waking second, a car pulls up to the curb.

You give him another smile, smaller and nearly regretful, but he doesn’t miss the slow onceover you give him or the spark of intrigue in your gaze. “That’s my ride. See you around.”

Heat runs through Hotch’s body at that, something wild clawing its way up his throat that he had been trying to suppress for years. He clenches his fist where he’s still holding his umbrella over himself, as if foolishly hopeful that you were going to take him up on his offer to drive you to wherever you needed to go, maybe even taking the long way since you were likely new to the city just so your perfume could take it’s time to seep into the upholstery.

He hasn’t been with another woman in months, but he likes to think he knows when another woman was flirting with him, even someone as young and ambitious as you.

He watches the way your skirt rides up your thigh when you climb into the car, the polite smile you give to the driver, and the little wave you give Hotch before you shut the door.

There was something fascinating about you, piquing his interest in a way that had him itching for the day to be over, just so he could get a glimpse of you through his window before bed.

-

The next few weeks pass slowly. At least, when it comes to you.

There had been back-to-back cases, all local and blending together where Hotch wasn’t even sure when he had slept. It had felt like he was coming home to his bed, closing his eyes for three seconds, and then back on his feet and back at the office. He had to deal with the local cops being horribly ignorant, the unsub being frustratingly smarter than expected, and the precinct coffee being decidedly lukewarm.

The only reprieve he had was coming home late, exhaustion grinding down on his bones, and catching you across the way through his window.

Sometimes your blinds would already be drawn, golden light filtering through the slats, and raw disappointment would make him frown and keep him from falling asleep right away. He’d wonder if you were getting ready for bed or if you had fallen asleep with the TV on, hair splayed out on your pillow and the strap of your tank top slipping down your shoulders.

Most of the time, when he does catch you, you’re on your bed, similar to the very first time he had saw you. Laptop placed in your lap or off to the side, you’d be fiddling on your phone and not paying attention to whatever was on the screen. Sometimes, you’d be sitting at your desk, placed by your bed, so Hotch was able to see the way you swung your legs from your pink desk chair and the furrow in your brow as you chewed on a pencil while pouring over a notebook. Maybe you were in school? Or this was something related to your job, or even something you did for fun?

Hotch thinks he would be able to watch you all day and not get bored; drinking in the way you’d pick at your nails and the methodical way you applied your chapstick nearly every hour. You liked to wear baggy clothes in the comfort of your apartment, several sizes too large and muted in color. You liked to have a cup of tea before bed and you always left the mug until the morning, too comfortable to get out of bed.

Tonight, however, you were decidedly not home.

Hotch furrows his brow, checking his watch again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It was late, past midnight, and you still weren’t home yet.

He tries not to let it bother him—you were a grown woman with a career and it was a Friday night. Maybe you were still at work, doing something that he still hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.

Maybe you were out on a date.

That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, has annoyance and molten jealousy flaring in his chest. It’s unreasonable, he knows it’s unreasonable, because he barely knows you. He’s lived across from you for several months now and you’ve only exchanged a handful of words.

He somehow has been able to run into you at least twice a week while he’s heading out in the morning. You’re always standing out in front of your building, waiting for your ride, and the way your smile lights up your face whenever you catch him out the door has Hotch nearly begging for you to let him drive you to work every time.

He never had the chance to talk to you besides a quick “Good morning,” to which you always cheerily responded with “Hope you have a good day!” and a little wave.

He barely knows you, but the possibility that you were on a date with someone else was almost unbearable.

Your date wouldn’t know that you liked to fold yourself up in your desk chair to get comfortable, or that you always made sure to pat what looked like a childhood stuffed bear on your nightstand before turning off your lamp, or even that you liked to lay in bed for 15 minutes after getting home from work to do nothing besides stare at the ceiling.

Hotch attempts to continue his nightly routine, hoping the annoying weight of his jealousy would eventually dissipate before he went to bed.

He’s debating staying up a bit later to catch up on some paperwork, the adrenaline and the coffee he had earlier this evening still thrumming through his veins, when your bedroom light comes on.

Eyes immediately drawn through his blinds and into the familiar gold light of your bedroom, that jealousy flares hot again when he notices you kicking off your heels, wearing a short dress that seemed to hug every soft curve of your body.

So you were on a date.

Not a very good date, Hotch assumes, by the way you toss your heels aside a little harder than necessary or the way your bare shoulders are tense, barely relaxing as you heave out a sigh that he can almost hear from here.

Hotch pauses from where he was about to grab his stack of files he threw on his bed, frozen on the spot as he watches you mutter to yourself. You’re rolling your eyes, throwing your hands up and shaking your head, starting to take out your earrings.

Your hair is carefully done and makeup absolutely pristine, visible even from Hotch’s place at his window. Hotch can tell you’re annoyed that it’s all gone to waste as you pull your hair up, fidgeting in your tight dress.

And then you’re shimmying out of it, exposing a delicate lavender bra and matching panties. They’re lacey, hugging your hips and the slopes of your breasts, nearly sheer and at risk of exposing the peak of your nipples. The sudden exposure of your thighs and your stomach has Hotch reeling, breath hitching and reaching out to grasp at the edge of the windowsill as he’s hit with an onslaught of all-consuming desire while all the blood in his head travels south.

You bend over to pick your dress up from the floor and throw it in the overflowing hamper in the corner of the room. His gaze is immediately drawn to your ass, suddenly imagining having you bent over while he grabs at your hips to pull you on and off his cock, and his slacks tighten impossibly more.

Hotch, realizing that he may be staring for too long and too obviously, tears his gaze away from your window to fixate on the pile of papers on his bed. The sound of blood rushing through his ears is deafening as he tries to count backwards from 100 or imagine the details of the crime scene from the other day—anything in an effort to drive away the image of your tits spilling out of your bra that’s somehow already been seared into his brain.

He has to squeeze his eyes shut to ignore the alluring glow of your light spilling into his bedroom, pinching at the bridge of his nose, before his breathing has steadied, his pants significantly more comfortable than before.

He swallows, throat dry, and hopes that working through his case notes for the next two hours and examining crime scene photos will bury the sinful thoughts he has of you.

When he peeks out of the corner of his eye out his window before stepping out of his bedroom, he notices your blinds have been drawn and the light was off. Hotch ignores the flare of exhilaration at not getting caught once again.

There’s no harm in looking, right?

-

The next time he catches you, he’s not so lucky.

Another draining case and another night of Hotch coming home late into the evening, it was too late to pick Jack up from Jessica’s house.

There was a pounding headache digging behind his eyes, causing him to clench his jaw harder with each step he took as he unlocks his front door. His stomach growled, mouth feeling spectacularly dry, and Hotch wants nothing more than to crawl into bed with his clothes still on, if it meant that he could get two more minutes of sleep.

The visceral image of you in that matching lingerie set that you so cleverly hid underneath your dress and the soft expanse of your thighs has been imprinted behind his eyelids for weeks. The swell of your tits encased in your lacey bra and the curve of your throat just begging to be marked had been haunting him nearly every second.

He had tried so hard to resist when his thoughts wandered to you while he showered or before falling asleep, cock swelling just at the thought of you peering up at him from his bed.

It only took one day for him to give in—wrapping a reluctant hand around his throbbing cock and fucking into his fist until he came embarrassingly fast with a choked groan, watching the way his come swirled down the drain while something akin to shame snaked its way into his brain.

What you don’t know won’t hurt you.

He hadn’t had the chance to see you since then, not even outside the front of your building in the mornings. Hotch tried not to let it affect his day, his routine that he didn’t even realize he had been thrown off, but he found himself imagining your soft smile and sweet perfume to tide him over until he came home.

He’s sliding off his suit jacket to throw over his dresser and glances out his window, now as much of an instinct as breathing.

He heaves a sigh of relief, the stress headache prodding into his temple gradually simmering away, when he notices you already tucked into bed, book in hand. The golden glow from your lamp illuminates your features and Hotch is able to discern the sleepy droop of your eyes and the stifled yawn from this distance.

He doesn’t recognize the cover and can’t read the title despite it being blazed in bold letters; however, he assumes that it wasn’t very riveting based on the way you’ve been stuck on the same page for the past two minutes. Hotch could tell that you were about to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, and the possibility of seeing you asleep, unguarded so he could watch you without risk of being caught, has something warm settling in his chest.

He briefly turns away to lock his gun and badge in the closet safe, and when he glances out his window into yours, the sight before him has all the air rushing out of his lungs in an instant.

You’ve tossed your novel aside, placed haphazardly on your nightstand, and you’ve thrown the covers back, baring your entire body to him while your hand gropes at your breast through your tank top, the other fidgeting with the waistband of your panties, having had forgone shorts this late into the night.

From where Hotch was standing, he had a clear view of the way your blush pink panties melded to your pussy, a wet spot already forming in the center. Your head was thrown back, lips parted as you let out a noise, and Hotch swears he could almost hear the breathy moan you make if he strains his ears hard enough.

He should look away—he needs to look away. You don’t know he’s watching you pinch your nipple, letting it harden through the fabric underneath your fumbling fingers, while his slacks grow inexplicably tighter and his breath stutters.

But you’re just so pretty—eyelashes fluttering as you move to your other breast to continue the same motions, brows furrowed as you try to chase that pleasure undoubtedly thrumming up your spine.

Hotch lets out a shaky exhale, clenching his fists at his sides in an effort to keep himself from giving in and wrapping a hand around himself, despite the fact that watching you touch yourself was a wet dream come true.

Were you reading a dirty novel and got too worked up? Or were you watching something on your phone earlier and needed some overdue relief?

He watches your chest dip and rise, breath growing heavier, as both of your hands trace light patterns down your sides before hooking into the waistband of your panties and sliding them down your legs, tossing them randomly on the floor.

He suddenly imagines what he would do to you if he was there—leaving marks on your neck until you were whimpering or laving and playing with your nipples until you begged him for more. He imagines pocketing your panties for later, forgetting about them until he reaches into his pocket while at the office and still detecting your slick on the fabric, and having to bite his bottom lip in the bathroom stall as he brought himself off with your panties wrapped around his aching cock.

You don’t even bother taking your top off, instead sliding the straps off your shoulders and tugging them down until your breasts were freed, fabric pooling around your abdomen.

And now you’re completely bare for Hotch to see—nipples tugged into stiff peaks, stomach tensing underneath your hand as you trail down to squeeze at the flesh of your thigh, seemingly avoiding the easy temptation of your glistening cunt.

“Fuck…” he mutters, heaving a frustrated sigh as he reluctantly palms his erection through his slacks. He groans at the instant relief, hoping that it would tide him over until later tonight, when you’re done touching yourself so he can take care of himself in the shower.

The front of his slacks is already damp, precum leaking from his head and seeping through the fabric, and the rough glide against the tip of his cock has his chest feeling hollowed out as he imagines your hand. You’d be on your knees, peering up at him underneath those long eyelashes, mouth parted and begging to taste him.

Hotch watches intently as your fingers leave the apex of your thighs where you were raking your nails down your skin to finally your aching pussy. You’re wet, incredibly so, and your lips part around a soft moan as you spread your own slick around, making sure to avoid your puffy clit.

He licks his lips, mouth suddenly watering, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a pussy as pretty as yours, begging to be kissed and worshipped the way it deserves.

He could give you that—sucking on your clit and tonguing at your entrance until your fingers card through his hair to tug him closer, grinding against his face and nose until you squeeze your thighs around his head and come over and over with a strangled cry. He thinks he could be content living between your thighs, letting you use him whenever you wanted.

He knows you’d taste delicious, heavenly, just by admiring the shine of your fingers as you dip into your entrance and start rubbing slow and tight circles around your clit. Your hips cant up then, no doubt sensitive from your brief teasing, while your free hand comes up to squeeze your breast.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, focusing on the familiar ecstasy that only your own fingers could elicit, and Hotch feels a little less guilty when he hesitantly undoes his belt and unbuttons his slacks to slide a warm hand to wrap around his aching cock, balls heavy at the lack of relief. He lets out a throaty groan, heart racing, as he starts up a lazy rhythm up and down his cock, the leaking head continuing to rub against the damp fabric of his boxers.

He has to squeeze the base, arousal thrumming hot and rampant at the base of his spine, when your fingers increase their pace against your swollen clit and you writhe against your sheets. He suddenly feels as if he’s there in the room with you—able to discern the light sheen of sweat that’s started to form over your supple skin and the continuous slick leaking out of your entrance.

When you trail your fingers down to gather your wetness and push a finger inside, Hotch swears he can almost hear your sudden gasp, as if surprised. He leans his forehead against the wall, the coolness doing nothing to subdue the fire burning underneath his skin, the heat of his heavy cock in his own hand.

It would be nearly impossible, unbearable, to stop watching you now as you pump your index finger in and out of your pussy. Hotch makes a strangled noise as he hurriedly frees his cock from the confines of his slacks, letting the fabric hang crudely around his waist, as the cool air provides a miniscule amount of relief to the head of his cock. He starts a steady pace now, no longer restrained due to his pants, jerking his cock as he imagines splitting you open himself, watching your pretty pussy swallowing up his fingers.

He can almost feel the softness of your skin as he would grasp your hip as you attempt to thrust down to meet his fingers, tears pooling at the corners of your eyes as you begged for his fat cock.

I have to make sure you’re ready for it, sweetheart. How else is it going to fit in this tight little pussy?

Suddenly, you’re pulling your finger out, and Hotch nearly comes from the sight of the pearly white trail of your slick still connected to your folds. He’s tightening his grip around the base of his cock, toes nearly curling into the carpet, as he watches with bated breath as you sit up slightly to twist your body to reach for something in the drawer of your nightstand.

He drinks in the curve of your ass, the dip of your spine, and grunts when he notices the pool of your own arousal having had dripped down onto your bedsheets.

When you’ve resituated yourself on your back, Hotch nearly passes out at the sight of a bright purple dildo— slender, easily 8 inches, and curved inwards with a separate add-on to press against your clit.

A rabbit toy, Hotch faintly discerns, nearly dizzy at the fact that he’s lucky and pathetic enough to watch you get yourself off with it.  

He’s fallen off the deep end, completely consumed by you, he realizes, as he watches you drag the head of the dildo between the seam of your pussy, spreading your slick around and onto the silicone. You must be impatient, needy, because you then notch the head against your weeping entrance and begin to press the dildo in.

Your hips still, thighs tensing as you get used to the stretch, but you throw your head back so beautifully, mouth falling open on a broken moan. Hotch’s heated gaze fixates between your thighs, where he can see the way your pussy opens up for the toy, can almost feel the way your walls would flutter around his own aching cock.

You push the toy all the way in and your eyes roll into the back of your head, your mouth forming a stuttered curse while your free hand slides up to grab at your breast, running your fingers along your pebbled nipple.

You pause for a moment, chest rising and falling as the toy bottoms out in you, the clit stimulator flush against you, and Hotch wonders if this is how you would act if he was fucking your tight cunt instead. Would you squirm just as much as you are now, hips fidgeting from how restless and needy you were? Or would you prefer if his rough hands pressed you into the mattress, making you lay there and take it?

When you start moving the toy out of you to push it back in, finally fucking yourself with it, Hotch finds his own hand has moved of their own accord, starting a pace similar to yours.

Precum leaks steadily over his cock and Hotch uses his palm to spread the wetness down, making the glide of his hand smoother and filling him with the desire to close his eyes and savor it.

But he can’t—not when you were laying in your messy bed, the glow of your lamp softening your features in a heady haze.

His gaze follows the movement of the toy as your thrusts increase in speed, making sure you were fucking yourself all the way to the hilt before out again. Your slick was spread all over the toy, the soft inner skin of your thighs, your fingers, and Hotch licks his lips as he imagines the lewd squelching sounds of his cock fucking his hand filling his ears was your pussy instead.

You’d be so fucking wet for him as he splits you open, fucking you deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. He can almost imagine the breathy whines and the strangled groans you’d be making, your nails raking down his biceps as he held you down by your hips or pressed your knees into your chest.

And then your grip on the toy wavers as your fingers fumble around the handle before finding and pressing a button on the side. It must have been the vibration setting because your eyes roll back, spine nearly arching up as you increase the intensity with every click.

He watches your mouth open and close, possibly shouting out expletives, as you push the toy deeper so the vibration of the toy hits your clit dead on.

His hand is a blur on his shaft, squeezing at the head, breath coming out in stutters. He grunts, sensing the pressure building in his abdomen threatening to burst, and its a near Herculean effort to slow himself down and not come at the thought of how tightly your pussy would squeeze around him from the overwhelming stimulation of a vibrator.

Hotch curses out loud, nearly growling in his throat, as he watches your mouth falling open on a ragged moan, brows furrowing. He can tell you were close—thighs shaking, your hips switching between canting up to meet the faltering rhythm of the toy’s thrusts and stilling so it presses against your clit.

He starts up his own relentless pace, stroking his hard cock and squeezing on the upstroke at the same time you grinded the toy into yourself, desperately imagining how you’d soak him until you were dripping all over his thighs and onto the sheets.

When you finally come, Hotch doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so beautiful. He stares as if in a trance, as your face scrunches up in pleasure, pretty mouth opening on a silent scream as your entire body stills besides the desperate stuttered rolls of your hips against the toy, the clitoral stimulator pressed so hard against you he wonders if it hurts.

When you come down from your orgasm, still panting into the air, something unfamiliar curls in Hotch’s chest, nestling itself in with the heat of his arousal, when you weakly smile to yourself. Your eyes are still shut, as if relishing in the syrupy weakness of your bones, and you giggle breathlessly.

Hotch lets out a shuddering breath, resting his forehead against the wall, and begins tugging at his rock-hard cock frantically, the nearly continuous stream of precum aiding him. The filthy sounds of him fucking his fist and his loud breathing fills the room, the pressure in his stomach threatening to snap. He lets his eyes drift close, now content knowing he wasn’t going to miss another second of your show.

He imagines staring down at you while your pussy swallowed his cock, the way your tits would bounce with each deep thrust, the way your eyes would be glossed over, so fucked out from his fat cock that you’d be whining unabashedly. He imagines you begging for him to come inside of you with that sweet, honeyed voice of yours, mewling about how you need him to fill you up and feel it drip out of your needy cunt.

The pressure finally fractures and he’s coming with a deep groan, thighs tensing, while hot spurts of his release coat his hand as he slows down his fist. He doesn’t stop, not when this was possibly the best orgasm he’s ever had, and the full-body twitch when his thumb catches on the sensitive slit of his cock has his knees weak.

He tries to catch his breath, his pulse gradually slowing in his ears. Exhilaration and guilt swirls together at the pit of his stomach, quickly replacing the heated arousal that’s made a near permanent residence. He was content watching you every once in a while, able to brush it off as being a curious neighbor, but now he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to meet your gaze again without remembering the way your hips stuttered as you came.

It was a one time thing. He won’t ever watch you like that again.

When he finally opens his eyes, back aching from how long he’s been standing by the window and his hand sticky with his release, he instinctually glances out the window.

You’re not on your bed, most likely having gone to your bathroom to clean up and leaving behind a stain on your bedsheets. What catches his eye is the scrap of notebook paper taped onto the window, words written large enough for you to read, as well as the unmistakable ten digits of your phone number.

If you want to join me next time ;)

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★ ﾟ๑ I'D DO ANTHING JUST FOR ME TO SEE YOU AGAIN ୧ ⊹ ࣪

ᡴꪫ which yeon sieun sees you visiting him ୧ ⊹ ࣪ first part ／ party on you ୧ ⊹ ࣪ second part ／console me, and then i'll leave without a trace ──⠀ angst to fluff , set on ep7 of s2 , depictions of self harm , bullying , graphic scenes ⸝⸝ ◜◡◝ i got sick ... so i couldn't finish writing yesterday. please do make some requests <3

reader will be called dokja ／ because in reader in korean is dokja

For an entire year, she had tried everything to make herself feel whole again.

For someone, so bright — her smile had become rare, something she stored away in a locked box, fearing it would shatter if she opened it.

The fluorescent lights in the hallway buzzed above her, and the cold linoleum floor echoed each step as if the empty school itself whispered her name. Every corner held eyes that whispered behind tilted heads; every passing shoulder carried a story she used to be part of. She walked through that river of eyes like a stone sinking silently, carrying the weight of whispers in her chest.

She remembered how it felt at first, when the quiet ache had swelled like a balloon inside her ribs. She had tried to stretch it with excuses – busying herself with homework until her hands cramped, munching down snacks until her stomach ached, even jogging until her legs turned to jelly – anything to squeeze out a little satisfaction.

But nothing made the emptiness truly leave. It was like trying to fill a black hole with water; every drop vanished before it could make a ripple. In class, she doodled nothing except the back of her mind on the margins of her notebook: a heart that wouldn’t fill, a mouth that wouldn’t smile.

During lunch, while others crowded around tables trading jokes and laughter, she found a quiet corner.

The cafeteria lights and clatter of trays felt distant, as if she watched it happen in someone else’s dream. She chewed slowly on her rice, its dull flavor on her tongue.

She wondered if they were wondering why she ate so slowly, or thought she must eat quickly to stay strong. In her head, she counted the seconds between bites, hoping to feel any sensation more than the gnawing void inside.

She would glance on the table near her, It was the table they used to sat on. But she quickly disregard the gnawing pain of memories her brain kept locked in.

She heard the rumors.

Kids at her locker thinking she couldn’t hear, imagining her knuckles bruised from something they didn’t understand, lips curling into cruel stories.

She was the shadow stretching long across the hallway’s bright walls – not quite human, not quite monster. Some were scared to approach, afraid she might lash out with hands that had, one time, raised to defend something small and precious.

Each morning felt like climbing a hill she could never reach the top of. Even the sun casting light through her kitchen window failed to warm her insides. Her reflection in the mirror as she put on her uniform was a girl with tired eyes, the kind that quiet mornings and too many secrets give you.

She wondered if the corners of her mouth had forgotten how to go up. On some mornings, she pinched her palm with her nails just to feel a flash of anything real, a proof that she was still there and not just an echo.

She often thought about who she used to be, or who she wanted to be.

Sometimes, in rare moments alone in the afternoon, she would hum a tune she once loved, and for a breath she’d almost believe everything would be okay again.

But when the bell rang and the hurried footsteps as the hallway became empty, reality clung to her again like a cold coat. She straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, tried to make herself small and unnoticeable so she could disappear into the background.

It was easier this way – so people wouldn't come closer anymore.

As the year dragged on, she built a quiet routine of coping.

Some days, after the final bell, she would find a hidden corner of the library and bury her face in a book, leaning into the paper and print so she could hold a whisper of someone else’s story.

Other days, she walked home along side streets, feet crunching on gravel, head down so that the roofs of houses blurred her vision and no one would say her name.

At night, before sleep stole her away, she sometimes imagined a dinner table where just once someone passed her plate without a warning glance. Those dreams faded by dawn, leaving only the morning ache.

She watched the other students as if from behind glass. They passed her in the halls—heads held high, friends jabbering shoulder-to-shoulder. They worried about tests, cram schools, summer vacation or going out.

Sometimes at night, late when everything was dark and the house was empty, she touched the scars she kept hidden on her wrist. They were faint lines, as if she had cut herself just enough to feel. Enough to remember that I’m here.

The ache in her stomach and heart became the same longing, and she ached to feel anything but hollow. Yet morning would come, as it always did, and she would tuck those memories back inside her ribcage and wear her uniform once more.

She was careful now.

Careful to walk in the center of the corridors so no one had reason to crowd her. Careful to keep her voice low if a teacher asked her a question.

She preferred to blend into the pattern of her desk in class or the gray cement wall outside the school, so that anyone might forget she was there at all. She told herself that being invisible was the least she could offer the world.

Sometimes when she passed a reflection in a store window, she stared at the girl who looked back with hungry eyes and wondered if that was her, really, or just another stranger pulling a cart alongside the frozen aisles of life. She envied how warm and bright her classmates appeared in her imagination, as if they wore their warmth and hunger on their tongues without any effort.

She started learning how to ride Suho’s motorcycle a month after everything happened. Not because she had a reason. Just because sitting still made her feel like she’d disappear.

It wasn’t easy. Her hands weren’t made for handlebars or throttle grips, and the engine always roared too loud for her quiet head. But she kept practicing. Around the block, then across the neighborhood, then down the same roads Suho used to ride when he was still—

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She just keeps riding.

Sometimes she visits his grandmother first, carrying grocery bags that dig red marks into her palms. They don’t talk much—just share the silence like old friends do. She helps clean, picks up the mail, waters the plants that Suho forgot to before everything fell apart. And then, like ritual, she visits the hospital.

She doesn’t bring flowers anymore. That stopped after the fifth week. Now it’s just her, a quiet chair, and Suho’s breathing. She talks sometimes, about nothing. About school. About how the vending machine’s been out of her favorite drink for a week straight. About the bike.

She took the job to keep her mind busy. A delivery service. Something that paid just enough and asked for nothing back. Using Suho's helmet that's too big on her because she couldn't used the pink helmet he brought for her, a schedule, and a willingness to keep going even when you’re tired.

She took the job because she wanted to make up for what she didn’t do—what she should’ve done back then. Maybe if she earned enough, it could at least cover Suho’s expenses for a few months. So when he woke up, he wouldn’t have to think about wasting time trying to make money again. He could just rest, catch up with everything he missed.

That was the idea. That was a brilliant plan.

Oh, how wrong she was.

It was hard to juggle everything—school during the day, taekwondo classes after, then deliveries until late. Her body ached more often now. Sleep became something borrowed, not earned. And sometimes, when she stared too long at her schedule, she wondered how Suho managed to do it all.

Then she let out a bitter chuckle.

Right. He didn’t study much.

He tried—she remembered that. Showing up to class with tired eyes, scribbling half-hearted notes, pretending to care when the teacher called on him. But studying was never the plan for him. He wasn’t built for libraries or lecture halls. He was planning to survive. To make a living. To take care of the people he loved, even if that meant running himself to the ground.

Now here she was, retracing his steps. As if mimicking his life could somehow bring him back. As if it could undo what happened.

But the truth was, she wasn’t doing this because it was right.

She was doing it because she didn’t know how else to grieve.

She was doing it to remember that she still lived for him—the only one.

It wasn’t like she suddenly believed in responsibility or wanted to prove something to her parents—they didn’t care either way. They nagged her about it at first, asking why she had to deliver food like some desperate kid. She told them she was trying to live like an adult now.

That was a lie.

What she really meant was: I need to do something that hurts a little. Something that makes me feel like I’m still here.

She picked up the helmet, looked at the old bike, and thought, If I could ride it well enough, maybe it would feel like Suho was still beside me.

At times, when she was in the saddle delivering food, her route veered past Sieun’s old neighborhood before she could stop herself. The engine’s hum would carry her right to the curb beneath that familiar streetlamp where they once sheltered from rain.

She’d cut the engine and sit in silence, remembering how he held the umbrella too high—as if standing close was its own kind of risk. She’d force a small, aching smile, tell herself it was only a shortcut on the map.

Other days, she’d pull up behind a low brick wall, park the bike with a screech, and leap off, ready to startle him. But in her memory, his voice would reach her first: “Too loud,” he’d said, never bothering to turn around.

So she’d shake off the pain, clip her helmet on again, and push forward—deliveries waiting, regret left to catch up on its own.

Most of all, she rode just like Suho used to—late into the evening, weaving between streetlights and memories. Each package she carried was fuel for her guilt, her promise to cover weeks of missed chores and unspoken goodbyes.

She was learning to ride the weight of her grief as surely as she learned to handle the throttle: both made her body ache, but at least it meant she was still moving.

She remembered, when she smiled at the mirror for the first time in a long while.

It wasn’t a triumphant smile—more like a small, crooked thing, half-formed and unsure, but there nonetheless. The bathroom was filled with the sharp scent of drugstore dye, gloves stained with streaks of artificial chestnut. She worked in silence, dragging the brush through her hair, clumsily but with care, as if repainting herself would somehow peel away the weight she carried on her shoulders.

When she finished drying it, the strands fanned out like paper—too soft, too light, the color warmer than she imagined. Under the cheap lighting, it almost looked orange. She stared at her reflection, blinked once, and let out a short, surprised laugh.

She looked like she was wearing a wig. Like a stranger trying on someone else’s softness.

She remembered when the three would glance at her when she questioned them if she would look good in a light brown haired color. The two nodded and Beomseok complimented her with a thought, then Suho—that bitch.

Said, "If you ever dyed your hair. You would look like wearing a wig"

She chuckled to herself that a kick was met on his face after he made a comment.

And yet... something about it made her pause. Not in shame. Not in regret. But in that fleeting, suspended moment where grief and girlhood blur.

It didn’t fix anything. But it made her feel like maybe she could try again.

Even if it was just hair.

Even if it was just for a second.

Then, it started.

The bullying.

The girls started again, their voices high and biting, a chorus of yapping dogs circling, teeth bared but too afraid to bite. Each word they threw at her was a stone, meant to make her crack. But the cracks were inside. The outside? The outside was numb, cold—so cold it almost felt like she wasn't even there. Not until the bathroom, cornered between the walls, did she feel the heat of her own anger rising.

Not at them.

No, not at them.

At herself.

She hated how she'd let it get to this point. How had she become this quiet thing—this thing that let them talk, let them push? If it were the old her, she'd have torn them apart by now. Fists flying, voice roaring. She would’ve been the storm they couldn't handle. She would’ve shown them what it meant to not be afraid.

A year ago, she would have struck first—fists flying before thought. She would have tasted the shock in their eyes as blood bloomed on her knuckles. But that girl was gone. Now she stood still, back pressed to cool porcelain, heart hammering a fierce rhythm against her ribs.

But not now.

Now, silence was all she could afford them. Giving them her attention, her energy—it felt like losing, like handing them the power to keep dragging her back into their pit. So, she waited. Let them bark, let them jeer.

She was waiting for the one to make a move. She could feel it coming. The sharpness of her breath, the way her lip trembled under the weight of what she wanted to do.

The fluorescent light hummed overhead, and the walls felt too close, as if they meant to press her in. She looked at them—low laughs, the scrape of heels on tile. Shadows swept across the stalls, narrowing in on her.

They surrounded her: girls with cigarettes dangling from their lips, eyes bright with cruelty. Their words stung—whispers of psycho, freak, worse. Each insult landed in her chest like a stone.

Her lips were dry, chapped beneath the heavy lipstick, so bright it almost hurt to see. She imagined, for a moment, what it would look like—if that lipstick were smeared with blood. Her blood or theirs, it didn’t matter. The thought of wiping it off with their mocking laughter, of seeing them eat their own arrogance, was a sickening sort of satisfaction.

The laughter, the cigarette smoke curling around their words—it all burned her. She didn’t need to move, didn’t need to react. But the fantasy? The fantasy was enough. They'd never know the rage coiled inside her like a snake, waiting for the right moment to strike.

But that moment never came. And she realized, standing there, that maybe it never would. She was a prisoner of her own calm.

She paused, breath steadying, and Suho’s voice cut through the noise in her head. “If they corner you, don’t let them control the space. Use anything around you. Make them intimidate you.” Not her teacher’s drills—Suho’s words, like a lifeline.

She straightened her spine. Every inch of her stood tall: shoulders back, chin up, eyes locked on the ring leader. The others fell silent, startled by the sudden shift in the air. She moved forward, step by deliberate step, until she was toe-to-toe with the girl who’d cornered her.

Her voice was low, rough from disuse—but clear.

" You done spouting bullshit? "

The hallway seemed to hold its breath. The girl’s smirk faltered as a tremor of hesitation rippled through the circle. And for the first time that day, She felt something bloom behind her ribs—not fear, but a fierce, electric calm. The world had tilted back into place. She owned this moment. And they knew it.

The girl scoffed, a bitter sound curling from her lips like smoke. Her voice trembled, mechanical and unsure, stuttering as if caught between fury and fear. “What did you say?” she asked, trying to hold the edges of control, to wear confidence like armor—though it barely clung to her.

“You just keep talking,” she spat. “Saying things you don’t even understand. You’ve got the ego of a man compensating for something small—so small. Always acting like you're above everyone, but you’re nothing more than a coward in a mask.”

Her anger was wildfire now, unchecked and consuming. She moved fast—too fast—reaching out to strike, to make the moment hers again. But the other girl was faster. Calm. Cold. She caught her wrist mid-air, twisted it hard.

There was a snap—sharp, sickening.

A breath caught in the girl’s throat.

She screamed in pain then came the kick, swift and brutal, sending her stumbling backward, wounded pride trailing behind her like a torn ribbon. She hurled in pain clutching her hand as she lay on the ground.

And then—silence.

She had the space she needed. A clear path to run, to disappear, to let this be over.

But she didn’t move.

Not yet, she isn't done.

They circled her like wolves, four against one, grinning with the kind of confidence that came in packs. Cheap perfume, chewing gum, and bad intentions hung thick in the air.

The first came charging, wild and loud. She sidestepped, smooth as water, and swept a leg out low. The girl hit the ground with a thud, her pride landing harder than her body. As another was baffled but lunged—fists swinging, rage without form. She caught her wrist mid-swing, twisted, and sent an elbow into her ribs. The sound that followed was breathless, raw.

The third tried to out-think her. She went low, hands reaching for ankles, but didn’t see the spin. A heel cracked across her jaw with the grace of violence learned in silence. She folded, crumpled, still.

The last girl hesitated.

She could’ve run. Could’ve walked away with just a bruise to her ego.

“Don’t,” she warned, softly. Like mercy.

But pride struck first, than being humble.

She attacked—and in seconds, she was face-down, her wrist bent behind her back, the ground cold and unforgiving. Her face met with the cold disgusting floor where many student stepped in.

She exhaled.

She looked at them with no compassion, she knelt and plucked a crumpled cigarette pack from one of their jackets. Held it up between two fingers like something dead.

“Pick them up,” she said.

No one answered, nor moved.

She exhaled with a look of annoyance.

She stood over them, still as a statue, the echo of violence humming in her bones. Around her, the bathroom was silent save for their ragged breathing—tile cold beneath scraped palms, smoke clinging to the walls like ghosts.

“PICKED THEM UP!” she shouted, voice cracking through the air like a whip.

It boomed off the tiled walls, reverberating through the stillness. The room swallowed the sound, but it stayed there, vibrating in the bones of those crouched on the floor.

They moved slowly, heads bowed like scolded children, fingers fumbling for the torn paper and crushed filters. One by one, they gathered the pieces.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

"Eat it." she commanded at them, as the other stare at her in fear. Others obeyed too quickly afraid to have more blooming bruises on their faces.

But the one who had confronted her—the first to strike, the first to fall—didn’t look away.

She sat against the tiled wall, cradling her broken wrist with the other hand, eyes burning with fury. It wasn’t fear in her face—it was defiance. Pride refusing to kneel, even in defeat.

Blood at the corner of her lip. Breathing sharp. Hate alive in her throat.

She walked toward her—not rushed, not cruel, just deliberate. Controlled. Her knees bent with a soft thud against the tile as she knelt before the girl. A single cigarette still burned on the floor, its ember a fading eye. She picked it up between her fingers, unflinching as the heat kissed her skin.

“Still holding onto that pride?” she asked, almost gently.

She caught her face in one hand, fingers gripping her cheeks, steady and strong. Thumb pried her mouth open.

“No more talking.” She murmured at her, and smiled at her. Sickingly.

The cigarette went in.

Smoke. Ash. Pained gasped. Burning tongue. Silence.

She watched her chew it—eyes wet, teeth grinding through heat and paper and humiliation. The taste of defiance turned to ash on her tongue.

She held her gaze the whole time at her. Chewing at her own pride.

Then she let go.

Her fingers slipped from the girl's face like a dying breeze. And then, without fury—only finality—she slapped her. A clean, echoing sound that cracked through the heavy stillness like a gunshot in a chapel. No rage in it. Just closure. She rose to her feet, slow and composed, the chaos behind her shrinking as if it had never touched her.

At the door, she paused.

The air in the bathroom was thick—smoke curling like ghosts above the flickering light, blood and ash staining silence. The girls were curled inward, pain folding their bodies like paper. Eyes wide, throats dry. Beaten, but still watching.

She turned to face them one last time.

“Tell a teacher,” she said, voice low but thunderous, coiled with quiet venom. “And it won’t just be my fists or my feet kneeling to your faces.” Her eyes swept over them—each one trembling, pride shattered and stinging beneath the skin.

“I’ll make sure you can’t even look in the mirror without choking on what you see.”

A breath.

“I will kill you.”

No screams. No theatrics. Just that promise—quiet and unshakeable.

Then she stepped through the doorway and disappeared. The door slammed behind her with the force of a verdict. The lock clicked shut, sealing the room like a tomb.

She walked slowly, each step measured, as though the weight of her own actions had yet to fully settle. Her heartbeat still echoed in her chest, a steady drum beneath the skin. The rush, that surge of power, still coursed through her veins like fire, bright and consuming.

But she remained composed.

Her breath, though quick, was steady, like the calm after a storm. The chaos of the bathroom—those faces crumpled in pain, the smell of smoke and defeat—was already fading into the periphery of her mind.

Her fingers, still tingling from the force of the slap, brushed against the cold metal of the doorframe as she passed. Her body knew what it had done, but her mind? Her mind was already someplace else, already turning over the pieces like a puzzle that had just been solved.

She didn't regret it. Not in that moment.

She didn’t need to look back.

She just have to keep moving forward.

Its been a year.

After endless of orders, knocking on doors, she fell asleep face-down on a half-finished worksheet, the highlighter uncapped and bleeding neon yellow into the page.

When she slept, she was impossible to wake—like the world could end outside her window and she’d sleep through the fire. It had become her escape, her only silence. But not tonight.

Her phone rang loud and sharp, slicing through the quiet like panic often does. She stirred, groggy and annoyed, until her eyes caught the caller ID: Hospital.

She blinked.

Hospital

Her heart didn’t stop—it collapsed.

She answered without thinking, her voice breathless, the fear already creeping up her spine. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was formal, wrapped in professional indifference. “Hello. Is this Dokja-ssi’s phone?”

Her breath hitched. Something about the tone felt wrong. Off. Too careful. “Yes—yes, this is her. I’m Dokja. Why? What’s going on?” she asked, already standing, legs shaky, the panic flooding her veins.

“There’s been a complication,” the voice replied, each word like a crack in her chest. "Patient Anh Suho, is in a critical condition, Unfortunately, Sieun-ssi responded but he didn't came. Are you able to come?" The nurse voice replied.

For a second, time slowed. Then it shattered.

She didn’t respond. The call had ended. Or maybe she had ended it. She couldn’t remember. Her limbs moved on instinct. She didn’t change clothes. She didn’t think. She just ran.

She ran like she did the night everything fell apart.

She ran like apologies could catch up to prayers.

She ran like her heart would stop before she made it.

She ran even if her tears wouldn't stop streaming until her eyes became blurry at the sight.

She called and called Suho’s grandmother, but the line rang endlessly. The silence on the other end pressed against her ears like grief.

When she burst through the hospital entrance, breathless and wild-eyed, she was met with chaos—blurred voices, sharp lights, the dull smell of antiseptic, and somewhere behind it all, fear.

A nurse met her halfway, calm hands reaching to steady her. "Dokja-ssi? "she asked gently, guiding her to a seat. She nodded, unable to speak.

Then everything came too fast— loud shouts, jarring footsteps.

Too real.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. She just stood there, rooted to the floor as the world blurred into chaos.

Through the small square of glass, her eyes locked onto the scene like it might disappear if she looked away. Suho’s body, too still on the stretcher, wires snaking across his chest. The defibrillator pads were already in place. The sound of machines echoed even through the door, shrill and unrelenting.

She saw the moment his heart flatlined.

The jagged spike of the monitor became a flat line.

"He's in cardiac arrest!"

Doctors shouted orders she couldn’t understand, but her body translated their panic anyway. Hands moved fast, efficient and desperate, as if time could be bribed to give them more.

His chest lifted—once, twice—under compressions, and she could barely hear the nurse behind her asking her to sit down.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

All she could do was stare at the blinking lights, watching as they flickered like dying stars in a collapsing sky. He had always burned so bright. And now—Now he was fighting to stay lit.

Tears clung to her lashes, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. Not when he was still in there. Not when he might still wake up.

She placed a hand against the glass.

“Suho,” she whispered like it was a promise. Like her voice could reach him where machines couldn’t.

She didn’t know how long she stood there. Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been forever. Time twisted itself into knots.

All she knew was that she had never felt so helpless.

Inside, the doctor called for another round. The paddles pressed to his chest.

Clear.

His body jolted.

She flinched.

Her knees gave out before she even realized she was falling. The cold linoleum kissed her skin, and her fingers clawed at the base of the emergency room door—desperate, aching, as if she could tear through it and pull him back with her own bare hands.

“Suho,” she choked out, once, then again—until his name was no longer a name, but a prayer dragged through broken sobs.

Her body folded in on itself. Shoulders shaking, forehead pressed against the wood like it could listen. Like maybe if she stayed close enough, he’d hear her crying and come back just to scold her for it.

She wailed quietly at first, then louder, all the grief she had buried beneath discipline and duty unspooling in the rawest of ways. She gripped the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth, nails digging in until her knuckles turned white.

Her voice cracked, mouth trembling as she whispered, “Please… please don’t go.”

No one answered.

Only the muffled chaos of the emergency room beyond the door. The soft buzz of machines still fighting to keep him here. The frantic shuffle of shoes and fabric and sterile urgency.

She quickly kneeled, blood in her throat and prayers in her lungs. Asking the universe, begging God, “If you're here, save him.”

Not long after, the noise settled. The beeping of machines, the shouting of doctors, the chaos in the emergency room all blurred into a dull hum as Suho’s heart slowly found its rhythm again.

She sat there, knees still trembling beneath her, as a nurse gently approached her. She had no words to offer, no comfort to give, but the way she placed a steady hand on her shoulder said enough. It was an anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

“Suho’s stable now,” the nurse said softly, but her voice was still kind, despite the exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin. “He’s in critical care, but the immediate danger has passed.”

“His vitals are steady. We’ll monitor him, of course.” The nurse’s tone was reassuring, but she couldn’t shake the cold dread that clung to her, the fear that, at any moment, everything could tip back into the unknown.

The doctor stepped in next, his presence steady but brisk, offering the facts as they were. “His heart stopped for a few moments, but we were able to stabilize him,” he said, glancing at the monitor and then at her. “We’ll continue monitoring him closely for the next few hours. He’s strong. He’ll pull through. But it’s too early to say much more.”

She nodded, the weight of his words settling into her bones. But her mind couldn’t quite rest on the relief; it was tangled in the knots of everything she had felt before this moment, the panic, the helplessness, the feeling of losing him before she even had the chance to understand what he truly meant to her.

She managed to speak, though her voice felt foreign. “Can I see him?”

The nurse and doctor exchanged glances. The doctor nodded. “Just for a moment. He’s sedated, but we’ll allow a brief visit.”

As they led her to Suho’s room, She felt her legs heavy, like she was walking through water. When she reached the threshold of his room, she stopped, standing there in the doorway for a moment, watching him. The sight of him—his face pale but familiar, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the monitors—was almost too much to bear.

But she stepped inside. Slowly. Quietly. As if afraid that if she moved too fast, she would wake from this nightmare too soon.

There, in the quiet hum of the hospital room, she sat by his bed, her hand carefully brushing through his hair.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

All she could do was stay. And wait.

"You scared the shit out of me, you bastard." Her voice cracked, soft but heavy with the weight of everything she had felt in the past few hours.

A bitter chuckle escaped her lips, her fingers trembling as they lingered on his hand, still warm, still steady. The tears she had held back now fell freely, pooling on the edges of her lashes before they slipped down her cheeks.

"I thought... I thought I was going to lose you," she whispered, the words raw and honest, the fear she hadn’t known how to voice finally spilling from her. "I didn't know what I'd do without you."

"You always make me worry, don’t you?" she said, her voice quieter now, almost a fond reproach, as if she was talking to herself more than to him.

The sterile room felt colder now, quieter, but her presence by his side warmed the space. She could almost pretend that things were normal, that this moment was just one of those fleeting, quiet moments they used to have—when everything felt right, when there was nothing but them, no chaos, no questions. Just the quiet hum of being together.

"If you scared me like that again, i will kill you." she murmured, her hand brushing over the cool fabric of his hospital gown. "Please, wake up."

But silence was the loud answer.

Soon, she would hear his voice.

Again.

Soon she left the room, as the doctor checked his vitals.

She stepped away from the cold, sterile walls of the waiting room, seeking solace in a quiet corner where she could break without being seen. Her breath caught in her throat as her body trembled, each sob a sharp, painful release of everything she had held back.

She pressed her hand against her mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but it was useless. The grief, the fear, the desperate prayer to some higher power—she couldn’t contain it any longer.

"Please," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please, don’t take him too."

She was lost in her own panic, until her gaze lifted, and through blurred eyes, she saw them.

Three figures in the distance, standing near the entrance of the waiting area.

Their presence felt like a strange disruption, their calm demeanor a stark contrast to the storm inside her. She quickly wiped her tears away, forcing herself to steady her breathing, her chest still tight, aching from the earlier rush of emotion.

She couldn’t show them the cracks. Not now. Not here.

Her eyes darted to the sound of heels clicking against the floor, the sound sharp and confident as it drew closer. Without even looking, she knew.

She recognized the familiar cadence, the polished, poised steps of someone who had a presence that filled the room. And when she heard the words, soft yet piercing, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing over.

“Sieun,” his mother’s voice echoed, a quiet, clipped tone that made her blood run cold.

Her heart stopped for a moment, suspended in time. She didn’t move. She didn’t dare.

She had to stay still. To breathe. To keep herself from trembling at the sight of his mother, at the thought of Sieun.

As the woman turned, disappearing into the hallway, the rest of them—those familiar figures from long ago—remained.

She heard those words again, echoing in her chest like a cracked bell, "Don't worry. He's stable now."

But “stable” felt hollow—an empty promise carved from glass. It pressed against her ribs until she could hardly breathe. Stable meant he had already teetered on the edge.

Stable meant the world had nearly slipped him away once, and could do so again.

In that moment, the corridor’s light blurred into silver dust, and every step she took felt haunted by the question: What had broken him, and could she piece him back together?

Her legs moved before her mind could catch up, standing up as the need to know, to understand, burned through her chest. She walked toward them, each step hesitant but determined, her feet carrying her forward as if they knew the path she needed to take.

When she reached them, her voice was steady, but the question she asked felt like it came from someone else, someone too broken to stop herself.

“What happened to Sieun?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, though she hoped it didn’t sound as fragile as it felt.

Her eyes caught theirs, scanning each face, searching for a truth that had eluded her. And for a split second, in that fleeting moment, she realized how deeply she had missed them, how much she had needed to see them. But all she could focus on was Sieun. Where was he? Was he okay?

They met her gaze, each face shifting with something—pity? Worry? It was hard to tell, but she needed to know. She had to know.

The first met her gaze for an instant—his head shaved close, eyes hard—before he looked away. The second hunched forward, hood drawn tight, fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against his knee. The third leaned back, arms crossed, but his glance flickered to her like a startled bird.

“Who are you?” the one wearing a blazer asked, voice cautious.

Her throat constricted. “I—” She forced the words out. “I’m just asking if he’s okay.”

“Why do you care?” the first boy challenged, sharp eyes narrowing.

“I was his friend,” she whispered, voice thin as spun glass. “Please… just tell me.” They exchanged hesitant looks, the silence stretching between them like a wound.

“We weren’t there,” the boy with folded arms finally said, each word weighed by uncertainty. “Someone brought him in. He… hasn’t woken up yet.” She bowed her head, letting the news settle like snow in her chest.

The boy with a fur jacket on as his voice softened, almost a murmur: “You close to him, then?” She blinked at him, She didn’t know how to answer him. Are you close to him? — the question wasn’t cruel, just curious. Simple. But it rattled something. She would've said we are, once. It would’ve been easy. Natural.

But they weren’t.

Not anymore.

So the silence stretched for a second too long, and she could feel it waiting — the question, the boys, even the fluorescent lights buzzing above. “I was,” she said. Quiet. Honest. Maybe too honest. She didn’t know what else to say. Nothing she could say would explain it anyway.

The words hung in the air behind her as she walked, not really expecting them to understand.

The three boys watched her go, but none of them tried to stop her. It wasn’t like they could.

As she neared the hallway where Sieun’s mother had disappeared, the heels clicking sharply on the tile floor were unmistakable. The woman, tall and dressed in black, walked with a certain kind of authority, but there was something fragile about the way she moved — like even the weight of her own footsteps might be too much for her.

She didn't hesitate. Her legs carried her forward, and before she could second-guess herself, she was standing at the door where his mother had entered.

By the time she reached the door — the same one his mother had disappeared through — her hand was already on the frame, fingers trembling.

She leaned in.

The glass was small, but clear enough to steal her breath.

There he was.

Sieun. Still. Pale. Wires crawling across his skin like questions with no answers. Machines blinking quietly beside him, a soundless rhythm of worry. Her stomach turned. Something inside her dropped.

Her breathe hitched.

Him too?

And she didn't even know.

Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes before she could blink them back, stinging sharp and sudden. Not just because of the sight. But because it felt like some invisible thread had snapped — and she hadn't even realized it was still there until now.

It hit her like a quiet betrayal.

She used to pride herself on noticing things—on knowing when people were hurting even if they didn’t say it out loud. But this?

She hadn’t known a damn thing.

She didn't know what happened.

There was no warning. No signs. Just a body behind glass. A boy who once walked beside her now laid out like a question without an answer.

Her chest ached. Not sharp, just hollow.

She wondered if he tried to reach out. If he hesitated before deleting her number. If he thought about her at all.

Would it have changed anything?

Would she have come running sooner, if she knew?

She didn’t even know what floor he was on until she heard his name from someone else's mouth. And now here she was, heart pressed against glass, breathing in grief like it was her fault she didn’t notice him slipping.

She didn’t notice the door open. Not until a voice sliced through the haze, sharp and clean like a blade pressed too close to skin. “What is it?” The woman’s tone was brisk—businesslike, wrapped in steel—but not cruel. Not yet.

And for a moment, she couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. She stood there, breath caught halfway, spine tense like she’d been caught somewhere she shouldn’t be.

What was she supposed to say? That she was standing outside the room of a boy she hadn’t seen in months, one who used to walk beside her like a shadow, now lying still behind glass like a stranger? That she didn’t know why she was here, only that her feet wouldn’t let her go anywhere else?

But none of that would sound right. None of that would explain the tears she hadn’t wiped away, the guilt tightening her chest, the ache of realizing she was too late.

“…What happened to Sieun?” She asked the question again, but it felt heavier this time. More desperate.

The woman paused.

Sieun’s mother glanced at her, with a mask of recognition.

“You...” Sieun’s mother said softly, her voice filled with the weight of years of distance. “You’re the girl who visited us... a year ago?”

She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

“I was,” she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper.

The woman paused, studying her carefully. There was something in her gaze—concern, perhaps, or understanding—something that made her feel exposed in a way she hadn’t expected.

Sieun’s mother’s eyes softened for just a moment, her expression unreadable, but there was a kindness in the way she spoke next.

But at her first question, her jaw tensed — a small, silent betrayal of everything she refused to let slip. There was a flicker in her eyes, something restrained and quiet, like a dam holding back too much water. She gave a slow shake of her head — not dismissive, not angry — just tired. The kind of tired that lived in the bones, not the muscles. The kind that grief makes permanent.

For a moment, the hallway felt too still. The soft mechanical murmurs behind the walls seemed distant, unimportant. Time hung suspended in fluorescent light and stale air.

Then, finally, Sieun’s mother exhaled — low, controlled, as if she could force herself to stay composed with nothing but breath.

“He’s in a bad state,” she said, and the words landed with the weight of something half-buried. “Unconscious when they brought him in. He got hit by a bus, thankfully it wasn't that critical. But the doctors are trying. They’re doing what they can.”

The ache hit without warning — a sharp, invisible thing that cracked down her spine like lightning. She didn’t know when she started shaking. Only that it hurt to stand still, and it hurt more to listen.

She wanted to ask more. A thousand questions pressed behind her teeth, begging for air. But none of them mattered. Not right now.

“Do you... want to see him?” Sieun’s mother asked, her voice softer now, like she understood what it meant to be left behind by someone still breathing.

“Yes.” Her voice came out too fast, too fragile. “Please. I— I need to.” The older woman gave a quiet nod and turned, her steps slow and heavy. And the girl followed, unsure if her knees were steady enough to carry her through the weight of the moment.

Behind every step was a memory. Behind every breath was something she wished she’d said.

But ahead… ahead was the hope of seeing him again — and maybe, just maybe, a chance to fix what time and silence had fractured.

“Are... are you a friend of Sieun’s?” Sieun’s mother asked, her voice faltering slightly. “I always believed something must have happened... between the two of you.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut, a sharp reminder of the distance she had put between them, a distance that had been as much her doing as anyone else’s.

“I used to be his friend,” she replied, her voice faltering, unsure of what else to say. Sieun’s mother’s eyes softened for just a moment, her expression unreadable, but there was a kindness in the way she spoke next.

She steps slowly toward Sieun's room, her heart racing in her chest, and each step feels heavier than the last. The guilt still lingers, but she pushes it aside, forcing herself to focus on the present. She can’t afford to think about the past anymore. Not now.

The reality of what’s happening hits her—she’s finally facing Sieun after all this time, after everything that’s happened. She doesn’t know what she’s going to say, or if she’ll even be able to say anything at all.

But she knows one thing for certain: she has to be there for him, even if it’s just in silence.

The sterile smell of the hospital room fills her senses. The sound of beeping machines and the soft rustle of sheets are the only noises that break the stillness of the room. She looks at him, lying unconscious in the hospital bed. His face is peaceful, but his body is marked with signs of his struggle.

It’s hard to look at him—he looks so fragile, so far from the boy she used to know. She’s reminded of all the things left unsaid, of the friendship that was lost, and the connection that never truly faded, even when she thought it had.

His mother gave a small nod, saying nothing, only shifting slightly to offer the empty seat beside her.

She sat down, the chair cold beneath her, the air colder still.

Silence erupted in the room—not hollow, but thick. The kind that fills your lungs until it’s hard to breathe. Machines hummed gently, steady and indifferent. But everything else felt still, like the world had paused just outside these walls.

She didn’t look at him right away. She couldn’t. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers laced tightly together, as if they were the only thing keeping her grounded.

She heard sieun's mother sighed softly, a mix of relief and lingering worry in her voice. “The doctor says it wasn’t critical, but his nervous system was affected. He’s been having trouble...” Her voice falters a bit.

“...trouble sleeping.” Her voice barely above a whisper, heart racing at the realization. As she finished Sieun's mother sentence. Her eyes widen in surprise, as if a flash of recognition crosses her mind. “Did Sieun tell you this?”

She shakes her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips, though it’s drowned in the ache of regret. “No, I haven’t talked to him... not since he switched schools.” She glanced at her lap, fiddling at the edge of her t-shirt, afraid to look at her.

A pause, her gaze softening, yet heavy with understanding. Her voice becomes quiet but firm, almost as if she’s been waiting to say this. “The moment I saw you standing at our door... I knew you had a connection with him. I don’t know what happened between you two, but I could tell you meant a lot to him.”

She is struck by her words, her heart sinking in guilt. She bows her head into her lap, the tears threatening to spill over. She couldn’t hold it back anymore, not with all the emotions swirling inside her, not after everything she wished she’d done differently.

Her voice lowers with empathy, a soft sadness in her words, as she takes a cautious step closer. “Sieun’s always been reserved... He’s never been good at opening up, especially when it matters the most. That’s how he is... always locking everything inside.” She paused as she glanced at the girl's appearance.

She trembled, shoulders tight, voice barely holding beneath the weight that had sat on her chest for far too long.

“I... I let my pride get in the way,” she whispered, each word splintering against the silence. “I didn’t talk to him when I had the chance... I should’ve, but I didn’t. I thought he’d be fine—like he always is. I told myself he’d figure it out. But now—” her breath hitched, “now he’s in here, like this. And I wasn’t there. I wasn’t even close.”

Her hands lifted, covering her face as the tears finally broke through, warm and merciless.

She hated herself for waiting. For hesitating. For thinking there would always be more time.

The silence they once shared now felt like punishment. A distance she could’ve closed, but didn’t. And now the air between them was filled with wires and machines and too many what-ifs.

If only she’d said something. If only she hadn’t let fear speak louder than her heart.

Now, it might be too late to say any of it at all.

Her voice was calm—steady in a way that only someone who had learned how to carry pain without letting it break them could manage. It reached her like a soft touch, like the kind of comfort that doesn’t need to be loud to be heard.

“It’s not your fault,” she said, not accusing, not dismissive—just honest. A breath left her lips, weary but full of knowing. “You can’t predict everything. Especially with someone like Sieun.”

She paused, as if weighing her next words with care.

“Sometimes... people need to fall a little. Walk into the dark by themselves before they can find their way back. That’s not on you. You can’t carry that alone.”

The words lingered in the quiet, gentle but undeniable. A truth that she hadn’t let herself believe. She had been so sure it was her failure, her silence, her pride that led to this—but maybe... it wasn’t all hers to hold.

Then, softer now, almost like an offering:

“If you were once his friend... maybe you still are. Maybe that hasn’t changed. It’s not too late. He’s been through more than we know, but maybe—just maybe—seeing you now will remind him... that he’s not alone. That someone still cares.”

And in that moment, the she felt something shift—not the ache, not the guilt, but the helplessness. It didn’t fade completely. But it loosened just enough to let hope slip in.

She feels a sudden rush of uncertainty—an ache that rises to her throat and threatens to pull her under. Should she stay? Should she leave? What right did she have to be here, after everything?

Her pride claws at her, whispering that it’s too late. That she should walk away quietly, like she always did. But something deeper—something older and softer—fights back. The part of her that still remembers his tired eyes, his rare half-smiles, the way he tried even when no one else saw it.

Regret crashes against her chest like a wave, but it’s no longer paralyzing. It’s a reminder. Of time wasted. Of words left unsaid. Of the cost of silence.

She glances at Sieun’s mother, who doesn’t speak—just waits with that patient, knowing gaze. Her breath stutters, but her feet don’t move. Something has shifted. The guilt is still there, heavy and sharp, but now it’s tethered to something else—resolve.

She can’t go back. She can’t undo the past.

But maybe... she can be here now.

Maybe this is the moment that matters.

For a moment, the room is silent again. The machines continue to beep steadily, and the she wonders if Sieun can hear her. Wondering if maybe, deep down, he knows that she’s here, that she’s trying. Her eyes start to blur with tears, but she blinks them away.

She stands by his bed, her hands shaking slightly as she places them on the edge of the bed, as she closed her eyes and whispered.

"I'm sorry, Sieun-ah"

The next day felt like a blur.

She quietly steps into the sterile hospital room where Suho still lies, unmoving. She finds solace in the mundane, almost as if speaking about ordinary things could bridge the chasm of everything that had happened recently.

She talks to him, her words flowing easily, the way they used to when everything was simple. She tells him about her day—how the schoolwork felt heavier than usual, how his grandmother seemed well despite the worries she had about him. And she mentions Sieun too, his mother, how strange it felt to walk that line between regret and the need to reconnect.

“I saw his mom yesterday,” she continues, her voice softer now. “She said he’s not critical... but his nervous system’s been hit harder than I expected. He’s having trouble... sleeping. I didn’t know, Suho... I thought I was the one to blame for everything.”

She doesn’t expect an answer, but the words feel like they needed to be said.

She pauses, blinking away a few tears, but laughs softly to herself as she recalls the comforting words of Sieun’s mother. “She said I wasn’t the cause of it... that people sometimes have to go through things alone before they come back. I guess... I didn’t think it would be like this.”

The quiet hum of the machines fills the silence as she sighs, her shoulders slumping as though the weight of it all is settling in. She leans back, taking a long breath, her exhaustion creeping in after days of emotional strain.

Her eyes flutter closed, and before she knows it, the chair becomes a quiet refuge, the steady beeping from Suho’s side becoming the lullaby she never thought she’d need.

Her hand, instinctively, rests on Suho’s, and in the quiet of the night, she falls asleep. It’s not the restful sleep of peace, but the kind that brings temporary relief—a brief escape from the chaos of everything around her.

And even if it’s just for a moment, she finds some comfort in the familiarity of the space, the stillness, and the softness of hope that maybe, just maybe, things will begin to heal.

She stirred awake slowly, but didn’t move. The heaviness in her limbs wasn’t from sleep—it was from everything else. Her head remained rested against the hospital bed, her hand still loosely curled near Suho’s.

The room was dim, still caught between the fading night and the gentle glow of morning.

The door creaked open quietly. She heard it but didn’t open her eyes. Part of her wanted to turn, to see—but she stayed still. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was both.

Then, his voice.

“Suho… I’m sorry I’m late.”

Her breath caught in her throat. That voice, distant yet achingly familiar, dragged her right back to every moment she spent waiting—for answers, for closure, for him.

She felt like she couldn’t breathe. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, her fingers twitching slightly.

And then, the second wound.

“I’m sorry, Dokja-ah.”

It was said softer, like a ghost brushing past her.

She heard the shuffling of shoes, the sound of someone about to leave. Her pride could’ve let him walk. Her anger, too. But grief, time, and the ache of everything unspoken pushed her forward.

She sat up slowly, eyes still fixed ahead, and her voice—tired but sharp—cut through the sterile room, as the machine beeping echoed.

“Took you a year to say that?”

The footsteps paused. Silence stretched—long enough for her heart to pound in her ears.

He froze.

The sound of her voice—raspy, fragile, but laced with something unmistakably raw—stopped him in his tracks. He faced her, still seating on the chair faced forward. She didn’t look at him.

Not yet.

Her eyes stayed on Suho, like she was still guarding something, or maybe just trying to keep herself from unraveling.

A long silence passed before she finally turned her head, just slightly. Enough to see the outline of him in the soft light.

Her gaze didn’t soften, but it didn’t harden either. It just held.

“I waited,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Not for an apology. Just… something. Anything.”

Her hand brushed lightly against Suho’s, grounding her. She didn’t want to cry. Not again. Not in front of him.

“But you disappeared,” she continued. “Like none of it mattered. Like we didn’t matter.” Her voice wavered, but her words stayed steady. “You don’t get to walk in and say sorry like that’s enough.”

She wasn’t yelling.

She didn’t need to.

Her silence hurts the both of them.

She looked at him then, fully—and for a moment, he looked like the boy she used to know. And someone else entirely.

Still, her next words weren’t bitter. Just… tired.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Sieun.”

And beneath it all, she meant it.

Do you even know what you left behind?

He stood there, caught in the doorway like someone who didn’t belong in the scene he'd wandered into. His hands twitched at his sides, empty. Always empty when it came to her. And yet, somehow, this felt heavier than any fight he’d ever taken.

Her words didn’t cut—they lingered.

Hung in the space between them like mist over a lake he was too afraid to step into.

He wanted to speak.

He wanted to explain.

What could he say that wouldn’t sound like an excuse?

So he just looked at her.

The way her shoulders curved inward now. The way her voice cracked like a fault line trying to stay closed. The way she kept glancing at Suho—as if he were the bridge between them. As if he was the only one allowed to still believe in them both.

He swallowed the guilt, thick and sharp. “I didn’t know how to come back,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And when I finally did… I wasn’t sure I deserved to.”

She didn’t respond—not right away.

But her looked says it all, "You didn't even try?"

So he took a step closer.

“I didn’t stop caring,” he murmured. “I just… didn’t know how to carry it without breaking.”

"You think I didn’t notice, but I did," she said, her voice low, not shaking, not angry—just tired. The kind of tired that sits deep in your bones, where no sleep can reach.

She let out a breath, almost a laugh, but it was hollow.

"I just didn’t want to believe it. So I made excuses. I told myself you were busy, or overwhelmed, or just... thinking things through. I waited. I gave you space. And you took it—so much space there was nothing left of you. No message. No call. Not even a goodbye. Just... absence. You left, and I stayed behind trying to stitch something back together that I didn’t even break." Her hands were still clenched at her sides, but her shoulders had slumped slightly, the weight of it all pulling her down again.

"Do you know what that feels like?" she asked, not looking at him now. "To lose everyone, one by one, and then have you—you—just disappear like you were never part of any of it? Suho ended up in a hospital bed. Beomseok vanished like smoke. Yeong-i stopped answering. And then there was just me. Alone. And you were supposed to be the one who stayed." She turned her head toward him, finally meeting his eyes again.

"I waited for you. I waited so long, and it got quiet. So quiet that it hurt. I’d stare at my phone for hours. I'd start typing something to you and delete it before I sent it. I’d run out of reasons to pretend like it was okay, like you were coming back. But I still hoped. Isn’t that sad? I still hoped." Her voice wavered now, just a little. But she didn’t let it fall apart.

"I kept asking myself, what did I do wrong? Was it something I said? Something I didn’t say? Should I have asked more questions, held on tighter, yelled, cried, anything? I was folding myself into pieces trying to find the version of me you wouldn’t walk away from." Her breath caught, but she blinked it back.

She didn’t cry.

She didn't want to anymore.

"And now you're here, and you look sorry, but sorry isn’t a time machine. Sorry doesn’t put things back where they were. Sorry doesn’t tell me why you thought I couldn’t handle the truth when I was already surviving the wreckage you left behind." She took a step back.

"You left. You made that choice. And I lived with the silence. Don’t come back now and act like you were the one hurting."

She stood now, walking past the bed until she was closer to him—arms still at her side, fists clenched.

She shook her head, a bitter laugh slipping past her lips before she could stop it. It sounded smaller than she expected. Tired, too.

“I waited,” she said, the words sitting heavy in her throat. “Every day, I waited for you to come back. And when you didn’t… I started to hate you. But worse than that—I hated myself.”

Her voice thinned, the way it does when something old and buried rises too fast, too sharp. Like the weight of it had finally lodged in her chest and was pressing, hard.

“Because I kept thinking—if I’d just opened my mouth. If I hadn’t let my pride win. If I’d said anything instead of staying silent... maybe we wouldn’t be here. Standing like strangers, pretending we used to be something more.”

Sieun looked pale, like the guilt in his chest had found its way to his face. He looked like he wanted to reach for her, but didn’t. Couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Softer now. Like he meant it, but didn’t believe it was enough.

She looked at him, hollow-eyed.

“I don’t need your sorry,” she said. “I needed you.”

The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt deafening—like the aftermath of a scream. Like the room itself was holding its breath.

She turned away and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket, pretending the motion was casual. It wasn’t.

“If you’re going to leave again,” she said quietly, “just go now.”

“I’m not—” he stated.

“Don’t promise me things,” she snapped, too fast. “You’re not good at keeping them.”

That stopped him. His gaze dropped for a second, shame flickering across his face. But when he looked up again, something had changed. His eyes weren’t defensive or desperate. Just steady. Heavy with everything he hadn’t said until now.

“I know,” he said. “I know you did. You waited.”

He stepped away from the door, not closer to her—but toward the weight between them. Like he was choosing, finally, not to run.

“You think I didn’t want to come back?” he said, his voice quiet. “I did. Every day I told myself—just one message. Just one call. But then I’d remember the way you looked at me the last time. Like I’d already broken something important.”

She opened her mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to agree—but he kept going.

“I couldn’t face Suho. Or you. Or who I used to be. Because after everything fell apart, I thought it was my fault. I thought I ruined everything. And maybe I did.”

There was no anger in his voice. Just weariness.

“I told myself staying away was cleaner. That I wouldn’t hurt you more by showing up broken. But the truth is... I was just scared. Scared of being the one who couldn’t fix what he shattered.”

She didn’t speak. She just stared, hands clenched at her sides, like letting them relax might make all of this too real.

“I thought forgetting would be easier if I stayed gone. But I didn’t forget,” he said. “I just kept losing parts of myself, until there was nothing left that felt like enough.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His words came steady, quiet—but sharp enough to cut.

“I couldn’t face it. I told myself I was protecting you, giving you space, whatever lie made it easier to breathe. But the truth is—I was a coward. Not the dramatic kind, not the ones who run screaming. The quiet kind. The kind that slips out the back door and convinces themselves it’s mercy.”

He looked at her then, really looked—like maybe it had taken this long to let himself.

“I thought if I stayed away long enough, you’d stop needing me. That you’d forget whatever version of me you used to count on. That you’d move on, and I could pretend I didn’t break anything.”

She didn’t say a word. Her jaw was tight. Her eyes were red. But she listened.

“I saw Suho in that bed,” he went on, softer now. “I saw you next to him. And I realized how much I missed. How much I left you to carry. Alone. You always carried everything so quietly—I think I convinced myself you’d be okay without me. But you weren’t. And I wasn’t okay without you either.”

He took a step forward, not asking permission. Just letting her see that maybe—for once—he wasn’t hiding behind silence.

“I’m not going to make promises. I don’t think I have the right to anymore. But I will say this: I never stopped thinking about you. And I was wrong. You didn’t deserve that kind of silence. You didn’t deserve to feel like you were the one left behind.”

“I’m not here to undo it,” he said, voice low, steady. “I know I can’t. I know showing up now doesn’t erase anything.”

His gaze lingered on her—the shine in her eyes that wasn’t light, but tears; the shadows beneath them carved by sleepless nights; the way her hair had grown longer, falling like silence across her shoulders.

She looked heartbreakingly beautiful. Not in the way the world defines it, but in the way sorrow shapes someone who kept going anyway.

And it killed him—

That he was the reason her eyes were wet.

That her sadness wore his name.

She stood there, shoulders tight, something trembling at the edges of her expression. She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or fall into his chest and tell him to hold her like nothing ever broke. But all she could say was, “Then don’t leave again.”

He looked at her, really looked—no flinching, no turning away.

“I won’t,” he said. “Not if you want me to stay.”

The moment his words settled between them, she didn’t think—she moved.

Two steps. Three.

She crashed into him.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders with a desperation that trembled. He froze at first, caught in the sheer force of her pain, then slowly—gently—his arms came up, holding her like she might disappear again if he let go.

Her voice broke between sobs against his shoulder. “I hate you… for disappearing from me.” Her fists curled into his jacket like she wanted to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.

“I hate that you left without a word. I hate that I waited. That I made excuses. That I let you take everything with you.” Sieun didn’t flinch. He just held her tighter, his chin resting lightly against the top of her head, grounding her in the way she didn’t know she still craved.

"I know" he whispered into her ear, as his hands rested carefully on her waist, "I hate myself too."

Her crying wasn’t loud—but it hurt. It was the kind of crying that sounded like years of swallowed grief cracking open in the arms of someone who once knew her heart.

And in that hospital room, with the beep of Suho’s monitors humming steady in the background, it was the most honest they’d ever been.

No more pride.

No more what ifs.

No more sleepless nights.

No more wondering.

No more pretending.

Just them.

The two of them.

And maybe Suho too.

Just them—tired, broken, but finally, finally not alone.

The sobs had quieted into soft sniffles. She didn’t let go at first—but Sieun gently pulled back, just enough to meet her eyes. His voice still low from everything that had been said. "I have to go."

She didn’t flinch. She just blinked, slow and steady, like she was trying to brace herself for something she already knew. “They’re waiting for you, aren't they.” she said to him.

That made him pause. His brow pulled in, confused. “Have you met them?” She nodded once, wiping gently under her eye with the edge of her thumb. Her voice softened, raw at the edges. “They remind me of Suho, Yeong-I and...Beomseok before.” She whispered like a broken tale.

There it was—the way his shoulders dipped, almost imperceptibly. Something in him shifted. A ghost passed between them. And for the briefest second, something rare flickered across his face: a smile. Small, hesitant. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it curled faintly at the corners, like it was trying.

Like it still hurt.

“You want to meet them?”

The question sat between them like glass. Fragile. Waiting.

She looked down, flexed her fingers once, then met his eyes again.

“Do you want me to?”

The air shifted—just slightly. It was still thick with history, but the weight of it wasn’t unbearable anymore. Something in it had softened. And for once, there was no panic in his silence.

He didn’t rush to answer. He just breathed.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “I think I do.”

She took a breath of her own, the kind that comes from choosing to stay, even when the past clings to your ribs. Then she stepped forward—close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, not quite touching, but near enough that warmth moved between them again.

“Then let’s go,” she said.

So they did. No grand declarations. No clean endings. Just two people walking slowly through the quiet, side by side, carrying what couldn’t be fixed—but not alone this time.

They stepped into the lobby, their fingers still loosely threaded—barely holding, but not letting go. The world outside the hospital buzzed with fluorescent hums and distant footsteps, louder now, clearer somehow. And yet, the quiet between them was no longer something sharp. It was calm. Steady. A kind of peace.

Sieun’s pace faltered when he saw them.

Jun-tae stood with a gaze filled with worry. Go Tak was next to him—always alert, the crease between his brows softening the moment his eyes landed on Sieun. Baku sat on the bench, knee bouncing restlessly like he’d been trying not to bounce off the walls entirely.

Jun-tae noticed first.

“Sieun,” he said simply.

Go Tak straightened, the edge in his posture lifting slightly. “You okay?”

Sieun gave a small nod. His voice was low, but there was something solid in it now.

“Yeah. I'm pretty sure.”

He didn’t elaborate, but none of them needed more than that.

Jun-tae gave a tearful confession, she smiled at him. He was a nice kid. Then this guy—stands up and pats him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Saying that he doesn't need to worry about Sieun at all. Go Tak offered a small nod, concern folding quietly into relief.

“Took you long enough,” he said, voice just above a murmur.

This guy, Baku.

He stood with all the dramatic energy of someone who’d been holding back a performance, like the entire hospital lobby was his stage and he’d just found his cue. With a flourish only Baku could pull off, he patted Jun-tae’s shoulder—a casual gesture that somehow still managed to be loud—and then turned, eyes narrowing like he’d spotted something scandalous.

His gaze dropped to their hands—still loosely laced, still warm from all the unspoken things they hadn’t let go of yet. Baku’s eyes darted between them, growing comically wide. He pointed, slowly, accusingly, like he’d uncovered a government secret.

“WAIT—SIEUN—YOU—SHE—YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?!”

Sieun blinked.

She blinked.

The hand-holding, still soft between them, hadn’t quite registered until that exact moment.

Sieun looked down at their hands like he was just now remembering he’d been holding hers. She didn’t let go, though. Neither did he.

Go Tak rolled his eyes with a sigh. Jun-tae chuckled softly even with tears brimming his eyes.

But Baku was already mid-spin, arms out, voice raised dramatically.

“Can we just take a moment to appreciate this development? Sieun! With a hand-holding—a hand-holding!—in public!”

Sieun groaned under his breath.

“It’s not like that.”

She lifted her chin a little, trying not to smile.

“We’re just close.”

Baku gave them both a slow, skeptical once-over before the corners of his mouth curled up into a knowing grin.

“It’s like the confession scene in Slam Dunk,” he said, voice dipped in exaggerated awe, clutching his chest as if overcome by the sheer romance of it all. “You know—when Rukawa says nothing but it’s everything? The hands, the silence, the undeniable tension—ah, iconic.”

She laughed at him, “…Rukawa never confessed.”

“That’s the point!” Baku cried, throwing his arms up. “The beauty is in the restraint! In the mutual understanding! In the unspoken emotions shimerring beneath the surface!”

Go Tak sighed, clearly done with this.

No one bothered correcting him again.

The group moved on, steps falling into rhythm. The jokes kept coming, the teasing never quite biting. And between all of it, their hands stayed where they were—still laced, still sure.

She smiled as she watched them—three boys tangled in their usual chaos, laughter sparking like old warmth in a place too quiet for too long. Her voice came low, almost a sigh dressed in fondness.

“Wah… he really is like Suho.” She murmured quietly but enough for Sieun to hear. At the sound of her, Sieun turned. His gaze found hers, lingering—not with surprise, but something quieter. Something like recognition. “You’re leaving?”

She nodded, the edges of her smile softening. “I should. I’ve been here too long… and you’ve got company now.” But he was already moving before she finished, closing the distance like a reflex he hadn’t forgotten.

“I’ll walk you out.”

The three looked at them, and just let them be.

They stepped into the hall together, silence pressing gently between them—not heavy, not awkward, just full of all the things neither of them had the courage to name.

Then, from behind them—

“YEAH, SIEUN—TAKE CARE OF YOUR GIRLFRIEND!” Baku’s voice rang out, unfiltered and obnoxiously proud.

Sieun didn’t miss a beat.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

He stated, but his eyes glint at him. "Back off"

Baku grinned wider, unbothered. “So I can ask her out?” A sharp thwack cracked through the air as Go Tak smacked the back of Baku’s head, exasperated. “You idiot.”

She laughed, quietly.

And Sieun, for a moment, almost smiled too. He grasped tightly to her hand as they walked side by side.

The automatic doors slid open in front of them. The cold outside air kissed her cheeks, sharp and sobering. Sieun stepped out beside her, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes cast toward the horizon like he was searching for something that hadn’t quite arrived yet.

They walked a few steps in silence, their shoulders not quite touching, but close enough to feel the presence of one another.

“I wasn’t planning to stay long,” she said quietly, watching her breath curl in the air like smoke. “But it felt hard to leave.”

Sieun looked at her. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

She nodded, eyes fixed on the ground. “I didn’t know what I wanted to say when I saw you again,” she admitted. “But it was never about the words, was it?”

“No,” he murmured. “It was about showing up.”

The silence this time wasn’t heavy. It hung between them like a thread, soft and delicate, but strong enough to hold something unspoken.

She paused near the curb, the edge of where she had to go. He stopped with her.

“Text me,” she said again, barely above a whisper. “Even if it’s just one word.”

“I will.” This time, she smiled—not wide, but real. She took a step backward, eyes still on him.

“Take care of them, okay?” He nodded. “I will.”

And when she turned to leave, he didn’t stop her—not out of apathy, but trust. Trust that she would turn around if she ever needed to, and he’d be there.

Sieun stood beneath the washed-out glow of the awning, the light pooling softly at his feet. He didn’t call her name. Didn’t move. Just watched as she walked into the night, her figure slowly swallowed by shadows and streetlight.

She didn’t look back. Not at first.

But a few steps before the crosswalk, she stopped. The kind of pause that wasn’t hesitation—it was decision.

Then she turned.

Her eyes weren’t bright with tears, and her expression held no drama. Just a kind of quiet knowing. She walked back toward him, deliberate, steady. When she stopped again, it wasn’t hesitation—it was declaration.

From her pocket, she pulled something small.

Then—flick—the arc of motion was smooth, unceremonious. It landed in his hand with the soft clink of metal.

A black punch ring.

Sieun blinked down at it, the cool weight settling into his palm. He didn’t need to ask why. Her voice came low and firm, laced with something fiercer than sadness. “You can’t possibly win with just a ballpen, Sieun-ah. I don’t know what you’re fighting for… but you better win.”

And just like that, she turned.

No goodbye. No glance over her shoulder.

Only the echo of her footsteps and the charged silence she left behind.

Sieun stared at the ring, the hard curve of it pressing into his lifeline.

And then—just barely—a smile found its way to his face.

Not joy. Not hope.

But the kind saying that he was ready.

Ready for her.

Reay to face it all.

After all, he is a hero. A weak one.

♡ note ───── I'd do anything just for you to be mines again. I felt sadness pour into me. When you became a stranger, I knew that you'd be leaving me. Then you became a danger, I felt sadness pour into me.

♡ note ── hope you enjoy it, this would be the last part <3 Probably there would be another one but in S3

───── ★ requested by : @heeknow @alwaysgenerousvoid @snowflakemoon3 @yeon103 @kellystyles18 @littlebluebird2000 @hollxe1 @dripoftheseus @enhajungwonheart @energydrinkstastegood @zuwizy @trasshy-artist @cassieeelim @myouiwp @dutifullyannoyingstrawberrie @rexxiiia @aple-piie @sarangs-world-02 @enhacolor

[rosierin]

she used to love me | suna rintarou

synopsis; suna muses about his feelings towards (y/n), from childhood to current day.

(y/n)'s pov here

a/n; oh to be as positive and vibrant as y/n. also thank you to my lovely bf for proof reading this and helping me write in a guy's voice cause this shit was hard af

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

She used to love me.

Never in that dramatic, sappy, rom-com kind of way. Her love wasn’t loud, or complicated. Not really. It was just... there. Quiet, constant—like background noise I never really noticed until it stopped.

I think it started around when we were ten, back in elementary school—when our biggest problems were our times tables and whether we could eat two snacks before dinner without our mums noticing.

I was always a quiet kid.

Still am, honestly.

Didn’t talk much. Didn’t stand out much. Back then, I think people called me the weird kid, which was fine. I didn’t care. I liked it better that way, anyway.

Then there was her.

Bright. Loud. My polar opposite in every way. Always running toward something, while the rest of us followed. She'd probably deny it now, but she was always kind of a leader—even when she didn't notice it. She just had this... energy. One that pulled you in without you realising.

Sounds kind of annoying, actually. But it never was. Not her. Never her.

Looking back, I don’t even remember when we became friends. I don't think many people do. When you're kids stuff like that just sort of happens.

If I had to guess though, I'd say out friendship started the day I bought Pokémon Platinum for my DS. I planned on playing it right after class and shoved it in my backpack, not thinking anyone would notice.

She did.

She pointed it out during our lunch break, started talking my ear off—about how it was her favourite, why the Sinnoh region was the best, which starters were underrated.

I barely said two words. Just nodded. Listened. Most people would’ve taken the hint and gotten bored.

She didn’t.

Guess she decided I was worth the effort, because after that, she just... kept showing up. At school. At my house.

Some weekends, she’d appear in my bedroom, sit down next to me without asking and load up her own game like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I didn’t stop her, though. Never really wanted to.

She wasn't someone I expected to get along with. She was the embodiment of Little Miss Chatterbox—you know, that pink cartoon character with the blonde pigtails?

Yeah. That was (y/n).

Still, my awkward, moody teenage self must’ve seen the appeal, because I never told her to leave. And even now, she still talks my ear off about things I normally couldn’t care less about.

She was just... different. Just her.

Bright. Stubborn. Impossible to shake.

She was like glue. Or chewing gum. Clingy in a way I probably should’ve hated, but never did.

I remember calling her that once—chewing gum. Meant it as an insult.

She just grinned—big, gap-toothed, proud of herself—and asked me what flavour she’d be.

Back then, I didn’t know how to answer. I probably called her a weirdo, brushed her off while she probably scolded me for being mean.

If she asked me again, I’d probably say strawberry.

Summery. Bright. Liked by everyone. A real crowd pleaser. The kind of sweetness that sticks around even after it’s gone.

Yeah.

(Y/n) would be strawberry.

I should've known that Little Miss Strawberry had a crush on me when she would wait for me at the school gates every day.

Even if I was late.

Especially if I was late.

I remember being sick one morning and she waited outside for almost an hour, determined that I'd show up. It was only when one of the teachers spotted her outside and told her I caught the flu that she actually went inside.

She sat next to me during every lesson—got us told off more times than I can count. She was the type to miss it when teachers were shooting death glares at us. The type to laugh harder when we were specifically told not to laugh.

A royal pain in the ass.

But one I'd never dream of trading my seat with.

I remember how she'd always lend me her green highlighter. Said it didn’t suit her "aesthetic" anyway. Said that it matched my eyes.

(Teenage me did not get the hint.)

When we got older, people started calling us a duo. Not in a teasing way—more like we were inevitable. I guess, to everyone else, we looked like a story waiting to happen. Joint at the hip, or whatever they used to say.

As corny as it is, she was almost like gravity.

I didn’t have to reach for her. She was just always... there.

She had this laugh that cracked the corners of her serious little face. Always a little louder than the rest—like she was living everything in brighter colours than the rest of us.

And she smiled at me like I was important, like I mattered more than I ever realized.

Back then, I didn’t know how to name that kind of affection.

Maybe I still don’t.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

I think I started noticing it more around age thirteen, when we hit middle school.

The way she got quieter around me. The way she’d fidget with the hem of her sleeves when we talked. The blush that spread across her face when our hands touched. The way she always remembered the things I didn’t even know I’d said: what food I liked, what game I was waiting for, what songs I listened to—and then showing up with these little gifts.

A new playlist burned onto a CD.

A keychain of a character I said I liked once.

A melon pan that she'd shyly hand me after practice. God, she was so terrible at playing it cool.

"Here," she'd said, "was passing by the bakery anyway."

I didn't find it particularly funny at the time. But I think if she ever tried lying like that to me again, I'd laugh straight in her face.

There was no bakery anywhere near her walk home. She must’ve known I’d figure that out.

Thirteen-year-old me didn't call her out for it. Just accepted it all with a nod, or a smirk if I was feeling particularly self-aware that day.

But the real kicker?

She stopped calling me by my dumb nicknames.

No more RinRin.

No more Rinnie.

Just Rintarou, or Rin on days she was feeling bolder. Careful. Formal. Like she was scared of being too much.

I didn't think much of it at first.

But eventually, it clicked.

She liked me.

And I didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

I wasn’t into her like that. Not then.

She was still just... her. (Y/n). Little Miss Chatterbox. Little Miss Strawberry and still the royal pain-but-not in my ass.

Still the girl who beat me at Mario Kart by sabotaging my controller and laughed like it was the funniest prank in the world.

I didn’t want to lose that.

Didn’t want to lose her.

So I ignored it.

Pretended I didn’t notice when she started dressing different—fixing her hair in ways she never used to, wearing little accessories that didn’t feel like her.

I even caught the faint smell of perfume once when she sat down beside me, way stronger than anything she ever wore before.

It was the same scent I once said I liked. On some other girl.

I wasn’t stupid. I've always been pretty self-aware. I put it together.

And yeah—in a shitty, selfish, teenage boy way... sometimes I liked it. Liked knowing she thought I was worth trying for. Liked the way her eyes lingered when she thought I wouldn’t catch it. Liked the way she tried a little harder around me.

But I never said anything. Never did anything. Never entertained it, past maybe a small smile I didn’t bother hiding.

But she never confessed—never made it weird. She just kept loving me quietly like she'd been doing since we were nine, without ever asking for anything back.

I figured it’d fade. Eventually.

And I guess... it did.

But sometimes—sometimes I think about how carefully she used to look at me. And how careless I was with it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Her feelings began fading after that. Not all at once. Not dramatically. It happened in shifts—like seasons changing when you’re too distracted to notice.

It started when we started high school. We must've been fifteen, then.

She told me once, back in middle school, that she’d follow me wherever I went. And to be honest, I thought she was joking.

(She wasn’t.)

So when I got scouted to play for Inarizaki, she just shrugged and said, "cool. I'll go there too," like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And she did.

I joined the team in our first year.

I’d always been good at volleyball—not to brag, but it came easy. Movement. Instinct. Precision. All things I was good at and enjoyed.

She came to a few practices at first, hanging out on the bleachers, cheering like nobody else was watching. I guess some people might have found it embarrassing—but me? Nah. Actually, it was… kinda nice. Familiar.

It was a brand new school, away from home, away from everything we knew. We had to stay in dorms, surrounded by people with funny accents and different hobbies—so having (y/n) was a comfort I most definitely took for granted.

After practice, she’d wait for me by the gates. We’d walk to our dorms together, eat lunch together like always.

She was still my person—still the one who refilled my water bottle without me asking, still the one who yelled at me when I forgot to do my homework.

Thing is, we weren’t the only ones anymore. There were teammates now. Locker rooms. New people. New jokes.

But she was still right there. Still mine—in a way I didn’t have a name for yet.

It was her idea that I introduce her to the team. I figured why not. I spent most of my time there, anyway. The team was pretty chill.

Well... most of them.

That's when the Miya twins entered the picture.

Or rather, tore the pen from our hands and wrote themselves into our story.

Loud. Ridiculous. Annoyingly talented. That's how I'd have described them back then. (Well, actually... They haven't changed much.)

She wasn’t keen on Atsumu at first—can’t blame her. Said he talked too much. Said he moved like he knew people were watching. Not that she was wrong.

Osamu was more tolerable—calmer, more polite. She liked him better.

Sometimes, I'd catch her laughing at something he said and—well, it made sense. Osamu and I were pretty similar—same energy, same dry humour, same vacant expression.

Hypothetically, if she were gonna have a crush on anyone, Osamu seemed like the obvious choice.

Not that it bothered me.

(Not really.)

(Not enough to think about it for more than a second.)

Why would I?

She still sat beside me at lunch. Still poked my side when I zoned out. Still smiled that smile that made everything else a little quieter.

We were still a duo. Still unshakable.

Sure, there was the twins.

But me? I was still her anchor, and things were still good.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

By the time we were sixteen, somewhere in the middle of high school, things had officially changed.

She just... stopped waiting for me after class.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. Figured she was just busy—making new friends, expanding her orbit a little.

It was good, I told myself. Healthy, even.

She wasn’t supposed to stay glued to me forever.

Still—it threw me off. More than I wanted to admit.

I’d catch her across the courtyard sometimes, sitting with Osamu, bickering with Atsumu, then laughing harder than I'd heard in a while. Not the quiet laugh she used to save just for me. Louder. Freer. A little wilder.

At first, I was glad since I thought it meant we could just be normal again. No tension. No careful glances. No aching silences.

But then something started to ache anyway. And I didn’t understand why.

The twins pulled her in like a tide. They were loud, chaotic, overwhelming—but she still held her own.

She never let Atsumu win an argument. Never. She matched his volume, his fire, his rhythm like she was built for it.

And I watched—quietly, stubbornly—as something bloomed between them. Something she and I never had.

And the thing is… she didn’t fall for him right away.

She actually hated him at first. It took her months to actually warm up to him. She told me she thought he was a self-absorbed loudmouth. Which, yeah. He was. Still is.

And it was funny, honestly—watching them argue like an old married couple.

I’d smirk behind my water bottle, listen to her roast him without missing a beat, listen to Atsumu get all red-faced and defensive.

She always won. Always.

And it was good—good to see her like that. Confident. Sharp. Untouchable.

Except... sometimes, I'd catch the way her smile lingered when he said something stupid. The way her face lit up when she teased him.

At first, I brushed it off, because there was no way, right? Atsumu and (y/n)?

Yeah. Nah.

(Y/n) liked quiet guys. Chill guys. Guys who didn’t need to be the centre of attention.

Guys like—

...

Well. Never mind.

If she was gonna fall for anyone, it would’ve been Osamu. That made sense. That was safe.

But Atsumu?

No.

'Least that's what I thought.

But something changed. I don’t know when. I don’t even think she noticed.

But I did.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

There was a time I was the one she looked for first in a room. Didn’t matter where we were—class, a crowded gym. Her eyes would always find mine first, like it was automatic.

By the time we were seventeen, I think I’d already lost that.

And then came graduation. We were eighteen when the four of us moved in together—me, the twins, and her. A decision that felt inevitable, like we were just continuing the story we started as kids.

New city. New school. New everything.

But her? She was still familiar. Still safe.

And then came that winter.

New Year’s Eve.

We'd gone back home for the holidays. My house was empty, the twins back home in Hyogo. (Y/n) was around, like she always was back then. And it just... happened.

I kissed her. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was messy, selfish—hungry in a way I hate admitting now.

I’d like to say it was love that made me do it. That I knew what I was feeling. But honestly? It was lust.

It was late. It was quiet. She was sitting on my bed, wearing my old hoodie, looking at me with those eyes she probably didn’t even realize were still full of hope.

And maybe it finally hit me how much she’d grown into herself. Not that she wasn’t always pretty—she was.

But now? Sitting there, close enough to touch, close enough to ruin—

Yeah. I wanted her.

Not in the right way. Not in the way she probably used to hope for.

I just... wanted her.

And because I was a dumb, horny teenager with the emotional range of a teaspoon, I gave in. I leaned in. I kissed her.

And the worst part?

She kissed me back.

Like she’d been waiting for it.

Like we were still kids and this was the ending everyone saw coming.

I let it get heated—too heated. Hands, breath, weight shifting—

I was ready to take it further.

I didn’t even stop to think if I should.

But she did. Thank God she did.

She pulled back. Said she couldn't go through with it. And I knew—I knew—it was because she had more sense than I did. That she wasn't looking for a casual hook-up.

And I was stupid to think for even a second that I was okay with that.

She didn’t look at me for the rest of the night—not because we were cuddling, but because she probably felt as conflicted as I did.

And that's how I knew I'd fucked up. Whatever she’d felt for me—the crush, the hope, the stupid, innocent dream of us—

I think that was the moment it died.

And I didn’t try to fix it.

Didn’t say sorry.

I just... pretended it never happened. Acted like it didn’t mean anything.

And she let me.

She kissed me like she’d always wanted to.

Then stopped like she’d never feel that way again.

And after that… she got closer to Atsumu.

And I pretended not to notice.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

I think that’s when I started to fall for her. Like, really fall.

Not for the version of her that used to sit beside me with strawberry pocky in her backpack and stars in her eyes. Not the kid who used to wait for me at the gates. But for the woman she was becoming—sharper, warmer, fiercer. Still soft in all the best ways. Still kind. Still sweet. Still hers.

But no longer mine.

And sometimes—more often than I’d like to admit—I still think about that kiss.

It’s stupid, probably. It’s been years. And we never talked about it. Not once. But the memory’s still there. Lodged under my ribs like a splinter I never pulled out.

I don’t regret it. Not even for a second.

Looking back, it was stupid timing. And probably selfish of me to make a move on her the way I did. But for one second, I knew what it felt like to have her want me. And I’d take that over pretending it never happened.

Sometimes, I wonder what would've happened if she hadn't pulled away. If I’d kissed her like I meant it—for more than just a moment. If I’d been a little braver. A little less stupid. If I’d grown up a little faster.

Maybe she would've stayed. Maybe she would've looked at me the way she used to.

But I didn’t. And neither did she. And now we just pretend it never happened.

I don’t bring it up. I don’t want to make things weird. Don’t want her to feel uncomfortable.

She’s moved on. I know she has. She’s got her heart set on someone else now.

She probably doesn’t even think about that night anymore.

…But I do.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

We were nineteen when I first realized I was in love with her. Maybe I always was, in some far-off version of the timeline where I didn’t take her for granted.

Now we're almost about to graduate college and nothing’s changed.

She and Atsumu aren’t together, not officially. But they move like magnets now. They have their own inside jokes—the kind I’m not a part of. They cook together. Tease each other. Argue like it’s foreplay.

He’s softer around her. She’s brighter around him.

And it's not like I hate it. I like seeing her happy—I do. I just… miss being the one who got that version of her—miss being the one she used to look at like that.

And maybe that’s the part that’s hardest to explain. Because it's not just watching her fall for someone else. It’s watching her fall for someone I know.

Atsumu's one of my closest friends. And it’s not weird, exactly. Just… conflicting. Hard to explain.

It’s strange to see the way he looks at her when he thinks no one’s watching. Stranger still to think it’s the same way she used to look at me.

And I don’t think he even realizes it half the time. Or maybe he does and he just doesn’t know what to do with it. Because I know how Atsumu thinks. I know what scares him.

He’s terrified of commitment. Of getting it wrong. Of ruining something that matters. His pride gets in the way. I bet his career does, too.

He’s all or nothing, and he doesn’t know how to be subtle about it.

And maybe I’m not mad at him for that. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish he’d just get his shit together.

Say the damn words. Stop dancing around it. Stop wasting time she won’t ask him to hurry.

Because she won’t.

(Y/n) is soft. That’s just who she is. Too soft if you ask me. Too soft in a way that means she'll never ask for more. Never protect herself from hurt until it's too late.

She feels things deeply. Hopelessly. Quietly.

And I know that—because I experienced it first-hand.

I know how careful she can be with her love. How she shows it in the small things, like a green highlighter or a slice of melon pan. She doesn’t ask to be seen—not outright.

So yeah. Watching someone like her love someone like him?

It scares me a little. Because I know what it’s like to hold her feelings and not know what to do with them.

And I know what it’s like to lose them.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

She sits across the living room now, reading her little romance novel while Atsumu rants about something stupid from the kitchen. Osamu’s half-asleep on the couch. I’m pretending to scroll on my phone.

But I’m not really paying attention—hard to when she's sitting right there.

She glances up—sensing it, like she always does. Catches me in the act.

Smiles.

And it still hits me in the gut. Every. Single. Time.

Because I remember a time when that smile was mine first. When I was the one she waited for after class. When I was the one who knew all her little routines and inside jokes and favourite types of endings in books.

She used to love me.

And I let it pass me by.

Now I love her.

Quietly. Constantly.

And I don’t know if she’ll ever look back.

But if she ever does…

This time, I’ll be ready.