#is left with the guilt of everything he's done

[pomelace]

everything but us

pairing: frank langdon x afab!reader

content warnings: angst, panic attack, emotional distress, patient death, grief, cheating, alcohol mention, kissing, guilt, medical trauma, no physical descriptiors used for reader, let me know if I missed anything!

magui speaks! : I don’t know where I wanted this to go, I started writing and couldn’t stop. it’s heavily inspired by all the tweets I keep seeing of people saying they want frank x mel cheating trop next season. hope you enjoy it and please send me ideas you have. I'm happy to write anything! 

word count: 2,485

The restroom door clicked shut behind you, sealing you in with the sound of your own unraveling. 

The fluorescent lights above flickered, harsh, and sterile, casting distorted shadows on the white tile walls. You clutched the edge of the sink, knuckles white, breath stuttering in short, ragged bursts. Your reflection in the mirror stared back like a stranger — eyes red-rimmed and wide, cheeks streaked with tears you couldn't recall starting.

You tried to breathe— in, out, in, out—but your chest felt caved in, lungs refusing to expand. Your scrubs were soaked under your arms, clinging to your trembling structure. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if you could block out the world, the hospital, the soft flatline that still echoed in your ears.

It happened so fast, there was no time to think—no time to figure out why.

The patient came in alert, smiling, laughing. She looked fine. You’d done everything right. Every test, every consult, every careful step. She was young. Healthy. Talking your ear off about her upcoming trip to Europe.

And then she wasn’t.

One moment her eyes were alive, full of light, full of plans, and then she went out like a candle. Her heart just… stopped. You reacted before the shock hit you. Gloves on. Code called. Epi drawn. You started compressions, fast and hard, trying to push life back into her.

It was all too much. Your hands didn't even feel like your own anymore; they were tingling, numbing at the fingertips, the sensation coming and going like a flickering static. You couldn’t catch your breath. Couldn’t stop the spiral. Patient after patient, life after life, slipping through your fingers. It felt like death clung to you, like you were cursed. Tainted. Everyone you touched seemed to fade. 

As if you carried a quiet plague you couldn’t shake.

You clung to the sink like it was the only thing anchoring you, your chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Head bowed; eyes shut tight. If you kept them closed long enough, you’d disappear, you’d fall into a place where none of this was real. 

Somewhere better. Somewhere safer.

But then, the soft creak of the door broke through the silence, and your eyes fluttered open. You didn’t need to turn around. Didn’t need to look in the mirror to know who it was.

Frank.

He had followed you. Of course he had. After you left in a blur, he stayed outside the restroom door, caught in hesitation. Weighing the moment. Debating whether to come in, whether to cross that invisible line.

But now, he’d made the choice.

His footsteps were quiet, deliberate—careful, like he was approaching something fragile. 

Frank’s brows knit together the moment he sees you—like he already knows. Like he felt it. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay; he knows you’re not. Instead, he stands next to you, shoulder brushing yours in a way that makes you ache and calm at the same time.

He lets the silence hang for a moment, heavy but bearable. You feel him glance sideways, like he’s waiting for you to say something, but also ready to just stand there with you if that’s what you need.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says gently.

It was like he could read your mind; knew everything you were thinking in that moment. He knows you too well.

You hated him for it.

You shake your head, eyes still fixed on the small crack on the tile beneath your foot.

“I did everything right,” you whisper, voice cracking. “And it still wasn’t enough. I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I—I made a mistake.”

Frank exhales, and it’s not frustration—it’s empathy. He leans forward; hands clasped like he’s holding something fragile between them.

“You didn’t make a mistake,” he says quietly, turning his head just enough to meet your eyes. 

“You’re one of the best damn residents I’ve ever seen come through these doors.” And not because you always get it right—but because you care. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you real.”

You want to believe him. God, you want to. But all you can think about is the weight in your chest and the way his presence both soothes and burns.

“And what if caring is the thing that breaks me?” you ask, voice barely audible.

He turns toward you now, fully. His eyes search yours, and there’s something in them that feels too raw, too sincere. 

“Then I’ll be there to help pick up the pieces.”

The words linger in the air like a secret he wasn’t supposed to tell. And suddenly, you're not sure if the ache in your chest is from grief—or from him.

You almost hate the way the words make you feel better so soon, as you feel some of the tension in your shoulders release. Although your eyes are aligned on the tile, you can feel his eyes on you, and for some reason that thought makes something in your stomach swell. Your mouth works to say something, but no words come out, and you think he can sense your internal struggles, as he hesitantly reaches a hand to rest on your back, rubbing it in a way meant to soothe. It does make it better, though you’re left with a different type of ache in its place.

You swallow hard, your throat dry and tight. The warmth of his hand on your back is gentle, steady—and completely undoing. You hate how your body leans into it before your mind can stop you. How your breath stutters in your chest. How much you want something you can’t have.

No matter what you said, no matter how much you pushed him away, you always ended up here letting him comfort you, letting him in, even when you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t. 

You lifted your eyes from the floor, catching the reflection in the mirror. There he was, watching you, and for a moment, he saw what you saw: red, swollen eyes, a sniffing nose, and a pale, drained face. You hated being seen like this, hated that it was him seeing you like this.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and pulled you into his arms. He wrapped you up without asking, pressing your head to his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. And that was the moment you broke. The tears came fast and hard, no longer quiet or hidden, and you sobbed into him with all the weight you’d been carrying. 

He didn’t flinch. He held you firmly, gently, like he’d been waiting for this, and he didn’t let go.

It felt warm. Too warm. Comforting in a way that made your chest ache. It was suffocating and soft, all at once. And you didn’t want it. 

You didn’t want to fall back into this—into him. 

You had told yourself last time would be the last, that you’d never let yourself crawl back into his arms, or worse, his bed. You swore you’d never kiss a married man again, never let his hands on you, even if the world would call this nothing more than a friendly embrace. But you knew better. You both did. This wasn’t casual. This was vulnerable. This was stripped bare, and you hated that it still felt like home.

And yet, you didn’t move.

You didn’t push him away, didn’t tell him to stop. You let his hands stay on you, let the silence stretch between you like thread pulling tighter and tighter. Your body betrayed everything your mind was screaming. Because despite everything, despite the guilt, the shame, the promises, you felt safe here. Held. Known.

You closed your eyes and let yourself breathe in, just once, just long enough to remember how it used to feel when things were simpler. When the lines were blurrier, and consequences felt far away.

But they weren’t far now. They were pressing in on you from every angle. His wife. Your career. The hollow ache in your chest that never really went away.

You opened your eyes and pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at him. His expression didn’t change—steady, unreadable, like always. But you saw the flicker behind his eyes. The guilt. The want. The knowing.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “We can’t.”

But even as you said it, your fingers were still tangled in his shirt, knuckles white, like you didn’t believe yourself.

“We aren’t doing anything,” he said.

His voice was calm, too calm, like he wanted to turn the moment into something innocent. Like if he said it softly enough, it would make it true. But it wasn’t. You know better. You weren’t imagining things—you could feel it in the way his hands lingered just a second too long, in the way his eyes dropped to your lips before finding your gaze again. You could feel it in the ache between you, the silence that hummed louder than any excuse ever could.

“Don’t do that,” you said, barely above a whisper. “Don’t make me feel crazy.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just looked at you like he was trying to figure out what the right answer was—what version of the truth would hurt the least.

But there was no version of this that didn’t hurt.

“We can’t,” you said, your voice shaking.

Still, he didn’t move. Still, you didn’t let go.

It was maddening—this closeness, this tension wrapped in denial. He wanted to pretend. You couldn’t. You were already bleeding from the truth.

“We can’t? Or you can’t?” he asked, like all of it—this mess, this weight—rested on your shoulders. Like the choice was only yours to make. But it wasn’t. He had started it, and now here he was, acting like this was normal. Like it didn’t mean anything.

Before, it had been simple. You hated each other. You pushed each other’s buttons, pulled loose threads until something snapped. Everything between you was a challenge of words, of pride. You walked all over each other, tore into each other’s work.

But he changed it.

One kiss. One stupid, drunken kiss behind closed doors. One moment where the fire between you flipped into something dangerous. That night ended with him in your bed, your bodies tangled together like you were trying to erase everything you’d ever said to each other. Since then, it hadn’t stopped. It hadn’t slowed. And now the rules were gone. Burned to ash.

And still, he looked at you like this was nothing. Like the lines he crossed didn’t matter unless you said they did.

“Don’t put this on me,” you said sharply, your voice cracking as you finally stepped back, out of his arms, out of the heat of him. Your body ached at the distance, but your pride demanded it. 

“You don’t get to make this my fault.”

He followed, closing the gap just enough to steal your breath again. 

“Why?” he asked, his tone low, edged in something sharp and bitter. 

“Because you don’t want to admit you’re wrong too?”

You scoffed, shaking your head. 

“This isn’t about being right or wrong, Frank. This isn’t a damn competition.”

He leaned in closer, eyes locked on yours, taking your space like he always did—slow, deliberate, like he knew how hard it was for you to hold your ground when he got this close. 

“Don’t act like you don’t want this.”

That hit something raw inside you. Your jaw clenched, your fingers curling at your sides. 

“I don’t want this,” you snapped, though the words felt like lies the moment they left your mouth. 

“I want peace. I want to walk into work without wondering if I’ll crumble the second you look at me like that.”

“And yet,” he said, voice softer now, “you always come back.”

You looked at him, blinking hard. 

“So do you.”

“But I don’t deny it,” he said, voice low as he took another step forward, closing the space, boxing you in until your back hit the wall.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Call me sick,” he murmured, eyes burning into yours, “but I don’t regret an inch of it.”

The words landed like a blow. You flinched—not visibly, not enough for him to see—but inside, something cracked. Because part of you wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe the ache meant something. That this wasn’t just recklessness but need. That you weren’t the only one waking up every morning with the guilt still clinging to your skin.

But hearing him say it aloud—so bold, so unapologetic—made it real. And it made it worse.

Guilt surged up in you, thick and heavy. It filled every hollow place, pressing against your ribs until you felt like you might choke on it. You didn’t know what you hated more: the fact that he didn’t regret it… or the fact that a piece of you didn’t either.

He was close now—too close—and every inch of your body screamed to move, to escape, to walk away. But the part of you that had been holding on, the part that had wanted this even when you swore you wouldn’t… didn’t want to. And it terrified you.

His breath fanned across your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine, and you felt the tension in his body, the storm building just under the surface.

For a second, everything froze. His gaze flickered to your lips; the air thick with the weight of it. You wanted to pull back, wanted to say something, anything, to stop him from reading the way your chest was rising and falling too quickly, stop him from seeing how desperate your heart was to tear down the walls between you.

But then his hand was at your cheek, fingers gently brushing against your skin, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. It was a touch that felt too familiar, too intimate. And before you could think, before you could stop yourself, his lips were on yours.

The kiss was soft at first, almost tentative, like he was testing the waters. But that didn’t last. It deepened, the urgency behind it undeniable. His mouth moved against yours, warm, insistent, as if he were starving for this—starving for you. 

And you? You didn’t pull away. You didn’t stop him.

Instead, you kissed him back, the guilt slipping away in the heat of it, the noise in your head drowned out by the frantic beating of your heart.

When the kiss finally broke, you were both left breathless, your hands trembling at your sides. His forehead rested against yours, both of you silently grappling with what you let happen again, what you had just allowed.

And that was the moment you realized there was no going back anymore.

pomelace 2025

[plushieni]

you tried. you really did. it’s not like you didn’t know what you were signing up for—you knew his goal from the very beginning. but of course, being who you were, you couldn’t help yourself. god, why did you have to love him? why did your heart choose him when it was already clear that he was doomed?

every mission he came back from, it was like another piece of him had been carved away. slowly, quietly, he was destroying himself, inch by inch, until nothing would be left but the end. and it killed you inside—watching, helpless, as he unraveled.

your quirk could only do so much. you could take the pain for a while, absorb it, carry it for him—but it never undid the damage. never reversed the scars, the missing pieces, the trauma etched into his mind. and you did everything. you begged, pleaded, insisted there was another way. that maybe, just maybe, the two of you could run—could find something beyond revenge, beyond bloodshed.

but you knew him. too well.

you knew he’d never let go of the hatred that burned in his veins. the fire that would never be extinguished. not when it had lived inside him for so long it felt like breathing. he never looked back. never even tried to heal. he just kept moving forward, fueled by vengeance, becoming the very monster his father created. doing what he believed must be done.

and it wasn’t like he didn’t love you. because he did. in the only way he could. but in the end, that love wasn’t enough. not compared to the weight of everything else. not when it was smothered by the weight of all his pain, all his rage, all his guilt.

and when it all came crashing down—the big finale—you watched it happen. watching, helpless, as he slipped further and further into the abyss. watched the horror bloom in the eyes of his family, in your own reflection, as he let it consume him. letting the darkness swallow him whole, hollowing him out, leaving only a ghost in his place. and just like that… he was gone.

you wanted so desperately pretend it wasn’t real. that maybe there was still some way to bring him back. but you knew better. you’d always known.

maybe in another universe, things would’ve been different. maybe you’d meet under softer skies, without the ghosts, without the blood, without the everlasting pain and guilt. maybe he’d be happy. maybe you’d get to see that smile—the real one. the one you so desperately craved. maybe you'd hear him laugh, feel what it’s like to be loved without all that pain trailing behind it.

maybe you’d build something together. a life. a family. one filled with strength and love instead of pain. something that wasn’t built on destruction, on ruin. maybe you’d get to hold him just one last time. to tell him how much you loved him, how perfect he was to you.

maybe.

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[goooofy-goooober1121]

TWST Boys And Their Love Languages

It’s late and I can’t sleep so onto headcanons I go!!! These are pretty general because love languages are for everyone, not just romantic interests :P

My ask box is open!!! Pls pls pls request!! (Just read my guidelines first!!!)

Heartslabyul

Riddle Rosehearts

- Acts of Service

- Riddle grew up in a shitty household

- I wrote a lot about it here but his experiences with his mother in short left him emotionally stunted

- Therefore I don’t imagine words or open expressions of affection to be easy for him

- Also I believe that the way he was raised greatly impacted his idea of what love— in any form— should be

- Riddle was only ever shown warmth and affection when his actions reflected positively — this made him see affection as only ever expressed/earned through actions, not words or anything else

- I’d imagine that ingrained itself in him very deeply

- Also there’s this one part where at the start of Book 2 he straighten’s MC’s tie and I imagine that’s how he shows he cares for someone (post Overblot at least)

- Quiet moments where he does something that shows he’s paying attention to whoever he’s focusing on

Trey Clover

- Trey tends to take a lot of responsibility for his loved ones

- We see it a lot in Riddle’s overblot, where he laments that he should have done something to stop him or help him before it was too late (it was something like that, forgive me if I’m a little off lol but I’m pretty sure he felt guilt for being unable to help him despite having kept an eye on him for so long)

- This leads me to believe that his love language is expressed through either quality time or acts of service

- Quality Time because he just comes off as the type of dude to enjoy being around those he cares for and sees it as a moment in itself, whether it be at unbirthday parties or just baking something with others

- Acts of Service because like… everything in his character says so?? He spent so long taking care of Riddle (even if it was from a distance)— he definitely feels like responsibility for others is a way of support/affection and service is how he expresses that value

Cater Diamond

- Words of Affirmation!!!

- Sure he’ll say it like he’s reading out an Instagram caption

- but I can for sure see words as his primary love language!!!

- throughout the game we for sure see him to be very affectionate with his words

- but then we also think about what’s underneath him being all cheery and stuff and I think that he may also appreciate Quality Time

- I think he would find appreciation in moments of silence or just times where he gets to spend time with people

- but he won’t be very vulnerable if it’s someone he doesn’t know or trust all that well

Ace Trappola

- Are petty insults a love language

- I feel like he’s a dick but like in an affectionate way

- I mean if I had to choose a serious one tho…

- we know that Ace for sure has a strong sense of justice

- Even if sometimes not for himself but for others

- Like he skipped out on the MC in the prologue but also stood up to Riddle both on his own behalf and the behalf of his dorm mates

- But I also get the impression that Ace really doesn’t like to be alone?

- Like how often do we see him hanging out by himself? I feel like whenever he pops up in the story he’s either with someone or on his way to come see the MC

- Therefore he comes off to me like a Physical Touch/Quality Time type of guy

Deuce Spade (Spoilers for Book 6)

- I’m basing this off the interactions he had with Epel when Epel earned his signature spell

- Idk I feel like Deuce was mad supportive like yasss Words of Affirmation!!!

- He’s also just always been a hype man lowkey

- plus I’m putting Acts of Service for him because he devotes a lot of time to acting better than he was to show his love and appreciation for his mom

- Pro tip: if he treats his mom right he’ll treat you right

Savanaclaw

Leona Kingscholar

- Physical touch and Quality Time

- Leona’s a pretty closed off guy, so I wouldn’t say that he would so openly express himself with words

- But I don’t doubt that he shows others that he cares for them by hanging around them all quiet like

- Don’t mention it to him he’ll get pissy at you for pointing it out

- BUT

- here’s where we get to look into lion patterns

- a lion’s main form of expressing affection is through mutual grooming, cuddling, and resting together!

- therefore… me personally…. I think he’s a cuddle bug at heart

Ruggie Bucchi

- Now I could say Acts of Service for him but not for the reasons you think

- I know that a lot of people would say “oh duh because he does everything for Leona”

- And it’s true that a lot of Ruggie’s actions are done because he’s getting something out of it (as seen with his relationship with Leona)

- But love of any kind should not be transactional. If it is transactional, then it isn’t love. That’s just a pattern of behavior

- That being said if we look at his backstories we see that he’s big on taking care of the kids in his neighborhood + his grandma

- So that’s why I’ll give him Acts of Service

- If we want to add a factor congruent with his beastman side, this also sort of makes sense

- Hyenas tend to be more submissive towards their possible mates so if he were to be crushing on someone I’d see it as him doing things for them consistently and then retreating to his own little bubble like nothing happened

- Male hyenas do tend to have this ‘approach-avoid’ style of behavior where they’ll get close/do things to show interest in their mate and then back off so

- Blud would sprint out of there in an instant

Jack Howl

- Another strong/silent type

- we do see that he gets pretty outspoken with words when he’s passionate but he’s also see he’s pretty shy with his vocabulary

- and he also has that whole tough guy thing going on where he acts like he doesn’t gaf (he really really really gaf)

- Wolves on an instinctual level show affection by licking and grooming each other

- But obviously he’s not just a wolf lol

- I’m thinkiiiiiing Quality Time primarily then!! Maybe a dash of Physical Touch

Octavinelle

Azul Ashengrotto

- Entrapment

- lol jk (unless?)

- No but seriously. His love language would be gift giving

- I was reading the vignette for his Maquillaville card (idk if I spelled that right) and he had this whole thing where he wanted to choose this antique tea set because he knew it would be a high quality item to provide for his customers

- I believe it would be the same for those he cared about

- And I believe he would also like to show off his success and what he’s earned (it’s an ego thing let him have his moment) especially after all the bullying he endured as a kid

- even if he might be a little stingy

Jade Leech

- Acts of Service

- Like idk he just has the vibes

- He usually looks after Floyd iirc

- and often times is regarded as the more responsible one

- I just think Acts of Service fits him very well

- Even if he’s just as unhinged as Floyd is

Floyd Leech

- Physical touch

- Listen bro he really likes to squeeze

- I think physical touch is a major love language for him, especially with his frequent mood swings

- as someone who also experiences emotions very powerfully sometimes it’s easier to find comfort in touch rather than anything else

- but if he’s in a good mood I think quality time would be pretty valid too!

- would probably drag you along with him to be silly (that means anything from acting stupid or committing several crimes)

Scarabia

Kalim Al-Asim

- Ohhhh boy do I have a bit to say about this

- we could really easily say gift giving and move on cause he’s a rich boy

- but that would be ignoring his actual character lol

- even if he definitely is a fan of giving gifts

- I wrote a little drabble about it here

- Because let’s think about it— Kalim was super sheltered! His only friend was literally Jamil. Like he knew that he could never trust just anyone and was made to accept it all

- Which is why I think the reason he’s so enamored with parties is because he gets to be around people and feel like he’s part of something

- Leading me to believe that at his core, Kalim’s greatest love language is Quality Time

- oh and also physical touch don’t ask why he just has the vibes

Jamil Viper

- Again we could say ‘acts of service’ and move on

- But like is that fair to his character?

- Like Riddle, Jamil was sort of conditioned into a specific way of showing care (even if in Jamil’s case it isn’t genuine) through acts of service

- I can’t help but wonder where that fabricated expression ends and where the real thing begins

- I recall somewhere that his dream, if he were not trapped in servitude, would be to travel the world and study ruins

- And I think that would pair nicely with Quality Time as his love language

- I think that if he were to be close to someone it wouldn’t really be conducive to show his affections through acts of service— especially since most of his exhibitions of this trait are portrayed mostly as obligations rather than nature to him

- So I think that being able to spend time with them instead would be more enjoyable for him

Pomefiore

Vil Schoenheit

- I think he’s between Words of Affirmation and Quality Time

- We see that he minces no words at all ever

- I think that if he truly cared for someone he would definitely show it through what he says

- Again in his Maquillaville event, I remember him bringing up that him and his dad have designated days to spend time together so they don’t grow apart

- side note that’s really sweet

- anyways

- Since he is so busy being an actor/influencer/housewarden, Quality Time would be a very important love language to him

Rook Hunt

- Stalking.

- oh and Acts of Service I guess

- Rook does things for others when he finds them worth acting for

- therefore he most definitely shows his affection through his actions

- and of course words of affirmation

- he also doesn’t hold back on expressing verbally how much he cares/admires someone so like

- careful he might build a shrine of you

Epel Felmier

- Acts of Service

- Like Ace he has a strong sense of justice

- And he really really wants to prove himself on his own terms

- therefore I think Acts of Service would be best fitted, along with Gift Giving

- like how when someone (I don’t remember who) complimented his apple carving, he was like “oh but I can make you one!!! I can teach you!!!”

- also him bringing all the great stuff from his hometown during the VDC arc

- simply makes sense

Ignihyde

Idia Shroud

- He calls you his kitten

- /hj

- I think with Idia he’s pretty shy. So Words of Affirmation might not work with him

- And gift giving may not be super in character for him

- Also he never leaves his room so tf kind of acts of service is he giving anyone?

- If anything I would say Quality Time (he’s in the board game club, so hanging out with people is at least somewhat enjoyable for him + he has Ortho to be near him all the time)

- but I’m 50/50 on physical touch. I feel like he’d either love it or hate it

- Maybe he’s like a cat? Only likes to be touched when he decides he will like to be touched at the moment

Ortho Shroud (strictly platonic)

- Acts of Service

- Hello??? I read this one vignette and two guys insulted Idia in it

- you know what he did???

- HE SHOT A LASER BEAM AT THEM

- AND GOT SAD THAT HE MISSED

- Ortho’s a real one

- No. 1 ride or die

- Definitely an Acts of Service dude

Diasomnia

Malleus Draconia

- Malleus knows his loved ones will fade away before he does

- Even if it doesn’t fully set in for him until Book 7

- therefore I think he’s Quality Time.

- don’t get me wrong, he would raze entire kingdoms for the people he loves

- but I think that after being lonely for so long and on top of that understanding that everyone he loves doesn’t have as much time as he does, I think he’d want to spend as much time as possible beside them

Lilia Vanrouge (Book 7 Spoilers)

- He’s an old man

- he knows a lot of things

- he’s seen a lot of things

- I think that his style is Acts of Service (he’s willing to do anything, like how he promises he’ll protect Malleus for Maleanora before she died)

- and like Malleus, Quality Time

- he knows he has more time than his human son but less time than his fae son

- so he wants to be around as much as he can before he retreats and lives the rest of his days out by himself

Silver Vanrouge

- I think he most definitely is a physical touch type of guy

- literally there is no other way to describe it than narcolepsy, and that takes away a lot of experiences with loved ones

- therefore I think his love language is Physical Touch because it’s kinda like something you can always do, even when you’re asleep

- I love him :(

Sebek Zigvolt

- yelling

- jk acts of service

- another shy guy

- I think he prefers to show affection through actions

- we see it a lot with how he acts around Malleus

- very devoted

[74thcookie]

Wait what happned between Fount and Fortune?

(I have bad reading skills sorry)

It’s okay, my writing skills are bad so it makes sense but I’ll do my best to explain those two.

Fount was the headmaster of the school Fortune and the other Vanilla/Smilks used to study from.

There was a classmate of Fortune that got overwhelmed with schoolwork. In the brainrot post it mention that the school only accepts the students who are willing or honest about their choices in learning a ton of knowledge. Unfortunately this student manage to pass and yet he already got overwhelmed.

The student plan to kill themselves but wants to take someone with them. They target Fortune due to him being the ideal student of the school and the class.

Before the student their hands on Fortune, Fount manage to took the blow for Fortune and was sliced in the neck. (Hence why Fount hides his neck).

The end of that event is Fount giving the students wish of killing them but with only Fortune being the only witness and his hand on the receiving end of the students death. People thought he killed the student.

Fount and Sage manage to calm the suspicion on them but Fount knows the damage has been done and if he remains any longer, whatever good reputation they have left will slowly corrupt. So he vanish.

Fortune overwhelmed with guilt with what happened and he didn’t even try to either help Fount save the trouble student nor did he defend and let the people know Fount killed the student to save him. He was left frozen, he only snap out of his state once everything has been calmed down and the Fount vanish.

For years Fortune look for the Fount and Fount was busy erasing his existence from the public.

Fortune found Founts where about via Ms./Mama Berrys stream. He heard a man’s gentle voice and pinpointed that not only he sound familiar but it’s literally Fount.

Fortune is curious about Fount even more and not only is it confirm he ain’t dead but how on earth did he not find him so easily.

With a ton of investigation and Fortune manage to find how Fount erases his existence and his past, his old colleagues, his old victims and how to survive Fount if he become the next part of his cook list if he decides to dig deeper to know more about him.

One night Fortune was caught trespassing in Shamil’s studyhub in where Fount works at. Fount almost killed him, literally got some stab wounds here and there but when Fount recognize Fortune as the child who he saved. He stop his rampage a little.

Fortune took that as an opportunity to make a deal with the fount. Him sparing his life in exchange for medical check up every Friday.

Fount can tell that was Fortunes plan from the get go. Fortune wanted to know Fount so he can check on the old man’s well being. Fount agrees since he is trying to not go back in the public, let alone get a record that his alive.

But Fortune ain’t off the hook yet, Fount wants to play around with him before he earns his freedom out of his territory. They play a game of cards and whoever wins get to receive a reward.

For Fortune if he wins he can get anything from Fount and if Fount wins.. who knows.

That night Fortune won.

They do their usual check up and games every Friday night.

[qualitynightmarelove]

♡ Warnings : age gap (college student x professor), explicit content (18+), heavy tension, possessive behavior, semi-public setting, morally grey dynamics, obsessive thoughts, slight degradation, power imbalance, praise kink, fem reader, dom professor.

Words : 1,851k

♡ A/N : this is my first fanfic on this platform so please bear with me and sorry for any typos.

♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡

I shouldn't be thinking about him like this. Not here, not now not during a physics lecture. But the way he looks when he leans over the desk his thick black framed glasses perched at the tip of his nose, that quiet confidence in his velvety voice when he explains an equation, the way his sleeves are always rolled up just enough to show the veins in his forearms—it drives me insane.

And somehow, in the blur between boredom and longing, my mind slips into places it shouldn’t.

In my daydream, he’s no longer standing by the whiteboard. He’s on his knees. Devoted. Starving.

He starts slow—teasing, like he knows he has all the time in the world. His hands grip my thighs like I'm something sacred, and his mouth... his mouth is sin incarnate. Each stroke of his tongue sends heat spiraling through me, and I can practically feel his breath against my skin, feel his groan reverberating where it matters most.

My fingers tangle in his thick chestnut hair, tugging just enough to make him groan again—and he doesn't stop. Not even when my thighs tremble around him. Not when I gasp his name like it’s the only one I remember.

By the time I reach the edge and fall over it, I imagine him ruined.

My hand is buried in his hair, still clinging to the remnants of pleasure. His lips are slick, glistening with my essence, the taste of me dripping slowly down his chin. His breathing is heavy, uneven, and his eyes—God, those eyes—glazed over, pupils blown wide, like he's high on the taste of me.

And the worst part?

I blink back to reality, still sitting in that hard plastic chair as he scribbles equations on the board. Completely unaware. Innocent. And I’m left burning, hand clenched around my pen, trying to look normal while my imagination begs me to go back.

 

I’m still recovering from the daydream when it happens.

He turns. Looks right at me.

Not a passing glance. Not a quick scan of the room. His eyes lock with mine like he felt it—the shift in the air, the way my thoughts wrapped around him just moments ago. My breath catches. His expression doesn’t change, not fully, but there’s something different in his gaze now. Something knowing.

Did I stare too long? Did he see it on my face? The heat? The guilt?

The hunger?

“Everything alright?” he asks, voice low and smooth, just for me.

I nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

His brow lifts, just slightly. “About?”

God. If only he knew.

Or maybe he does.

His steps are quiet as he moves down the aisle between desks, but somehow, each one echoes in my chest. He stops just beside mine, leaning in to glance at my page, but he’s too close. That cologne—something clean and warm—hits me first. Then the sound of his voice, a soft murmur right beside my ear.

“You’ve been zoning out a lot today.”

His words are innocent. But the way he says them? Loaded.

I swallow. “Didn’t sleep much.”

He hums, low and thoughtful, still far too close. “You look flushed,” he says, almost like an afterthought.

I don't dare meet his eyes.

Instead, I focus on the paper in front of me, pretending like my pulse isn’t going wild, like I’m not reliving every second of that daydream—my essence dripping from his lips, the way he looked up at me, addicted.

He pulls away slowly, giving me one last glance before walking back to the front. And this time, when he speaks, he doesn’t look at the class.

He looks at me.

“Let’s try something a little more... stimulating.”

And I know I’m done for.

    ______________________________________

The bell rings, but I don’t move. I can’t.

My fingers twitch with the memory of his voice—low, teasing, almost like a challenge. I need to get out of here before I melt into the seat, but I can't tear my eyes away from him. Not when he’s standing there, flipping through the papers on his desk with that casual grace.

I’m the last one left.

He notices me immediately, his lips curving just slightly as he glances over his shoulder.

“Need help with something?” His tone is smooth, but there's an undercurrent I can't quite place. Like he knows.

I swallow hard, trying to steady myself. “Uh... yeah. A little confused on the last question.”

He stands, straightening his tie, and moves toward me. I feel the air shift with every step, his presence getting closer, overwhelming.

He stops just beside me, too close. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, the intensity of his gaze burning through me even though I’m looking at my notebook, pretending to focus on the problem I don’t even care about anymore.

His hand slides onto the desk next to mine, fingertips brushing against the paper. It’s casual. It’s innocent.

But it's not.

“Let’s take a look.” He leans over, the scent of him drowning out everything else. His breath brushes the side of my neck as he points to the problem, and for a moment, I can’t even hear the words he’s saying. I’m too lost in the feel of him, in the thudding of my heart, in the way he’s so close I could reach out and touch him, feel his skin, his warmth.

And then, like he’s testing me, his hand moves slightly closer. Just enough to make my breath catch.

“I think you missed a step,” he says softly, but his voice drops, something darker lurking beneath the surface. “It’s okay. I’ll show you.”

His fingers brush over mine, just a touch, but it sends a jolt straight through me. I can’t stop the shiver that runs down my spine.

He notices.

His eyes flicker to mine, the teasing smile playing on his lips, but this time, there’s no hiding what’s there. The desire. The tension.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he murmurs,his hand running through his slicked-back hair leaving it disheveled, leaning in even closer, his lips just inches from my ear. “I think you’ve worked hard enough today.”

I don’t trust myself to speak. My lips part, but no sound comes out. My body is on fire, and every instinct screams to pull him closer, to give in to the heat, to the chemistry sizzling between us.

But I can’t.

Not yet.

    _____________________________________

I don’t even remember how I got here. One second I was asking about math... the next, I was gasping, spine arched, seated right on the edge of his desk—legs parted, skirt pushed up, breath hitched.

And he?

He was on his knees, right where I imagined him. Right where I needed him, his eyes no longer obscured by his glasses they were narrowed focused, but pooled with lust.

His hands gripped my thighs like they were made to fit in his palms, thumbs digging into soft skin as he pulled me closer to the edge. My legs instinctively wrapped around his shoulders, then locked behind his neck, my thighs clenching around him when his tongue finally met me—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every taste, every reaction.

I was soaked. And he loved it.

The sound—his soft groan, half-muffled against me—sent heat flooding through me. His lips were wet, slick with my desire, and every movement of his tongue made me tremble harder. My head tilted back, one hand gripping the edge of the desk, the other tangled deep in his thick chestnut hair.

I tugged.

Hard.

And he moaned in response, like he wanted the roughness. Like he wanted me to ruin him.

“God—” I breathed out, barely a whisper, eyes fluttering shut as he lapped at me, devouring like a man starved. “You’re... you’re so good at this...”

His pace didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened. Grew more intense. More possessive.

My thighs trembled again, instinctively clenching tighter around his head as another wave hit me, my fingers fisting his hair as if I could pull him even closer. My hips rolled against his mouth—helpless, needy—chasing every flick of his tongue, every sinful glide.

When I came, it was like falling.

My whole body tensed, mouth falling open in a silent cry, and I felt it. All of it. The heat. The release. The satisfaction. And the mess—my essence dripping down onto his lips, his chin, his tongue.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept going, riding out every aftershock, licking me clean like I was something divine.

And when I finally opened my eyes, breathless and dazed, I saw him looking up at me—mouth wet, eyes narrowed as he looks at me with a dark desire almost possessive, lips parted like he wanted more.

Like he wasn’t done

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

Girls Night #3

[massive tw for this issue dealing with trauma recovery, and SA]

Babs sat alone in the Clock Tower. Reflecting. She couldn’t believe what Harley had done. She couldn’t believe she tried lending her a hand after everything she’s done in the past. She thought she was getting better. Barbara was always more forgiving than she should be, but for once, she was a brick wall.

// I remember the night Jason died. Bruce and I were a block away, fighting Harley like hell. Her laugh. Piercing my skull. Her hammer smashed into me and Bruce. Just a block away, poor Jason was tied up, having a crowbar repeatedly slammed into his ribs, a J carved into his lip, bones smashing under rusted steel. She kept us from saving him, and by the time we had taken her out… we heard it. BOOM!

 Jason was gone in a fiery blaze. It was as much her fault as it was that psychos. 

Not long after, she was with the Joker that day. The day he shot me and I still haven’t healed. She and two goons stole my father from our apartment, and while they were gone… while they were gone… while… her pudding laughed at my suffering as I bled there. He photographed himself… he photographed himself… There was no way she couldn’t have known. I remember his and her laughs twisting together just before she left, just before I heard the… I heard the ‘zip’… 

There was no way she didn’t know… why did I try to forgive her… why did I think she had any capacity to change… why did I try?

She didn’t deserve my forgiveness, and I offered it to her! I offered it to her, I gave it to her, I let her know I was proud of her taking a step in the right direction, that she was seeking help for what the Joker did to her. 

She returned the favor by spitting in me and my sister's faces. She returned it by betraying every ounce of trust I put in her.

After being with that maniac for 8 years… even if it was just him changing her… she became a monster just as horrific… am I being too hard on her…

She doesn’t deserve that kindness. After what she did. Of course, I’m not being too hard on her.

She was making progress… if she wasn’t, then it would have been more than just jokes… right?

Does that really matter after what she did that night, after everything she did before?

I don’t want to believe her again. I don’t want to believe she could change//

And at the same time, Harley was having a similar crisis back at her apartment.

Ivy was gone at work, which usually meant Harley was off causing minor mischief, but that wasn’t the case today. Today, she couldn’t escape her thoughts. She just sat there in the dark, fiddling with a potted plant.

// I’m just like him… he molded me to be like him… he made me this way… he transformed Dr. Quinzel into Harley Quinn, my name isn’t even mine.

He tricked me into being his… he used me… that doesn’t excuse how many people died because of me… the pain I caused as a hired goon when I got out, that wasn’t him, that was me. What I said… they shouldn’t forgive me, I don’t deserve forgiveness, all I do is hurt people

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME!

He killed Harleen Quinzel… am I all that's left?

…

…

Harley. You’re a psychologist. You know this voice.

You’re catastrophizing.

That doesn’t make what you did okay. But it doesn’t mean you’re beyond repair.

Guilt is the price of healing. Shame’s what he left behind.

I can know right. I can still mess up. But I can still try again. 

I am not a monster, I can get better. I will get better.

I’ve been through every type of pain for the last 10 years. 

He melded our minds, he hit me, he made me hurt others, he… 

touched me. 

I’m not him.

I will never do the things he made me do again. 

Even my skin. It’s a reminder of what he did to me.

I will never be the same as before, but I will never be what I was back then again.

…

…

…

I’ve killed so many people… I’ve hurt so many more… what if I am irredeemable…

What if I am a monster//

The pot shattered, soil spilling like a wound. She stared at it for a long moment, like the mess could answer her.

// I am worthy enough to get better, Harley, I am.//

On opposite sides of the city, the two spiraled in very different ways. Mutual trauma connects them and tears them apart, not knowing what will happen next.

If their friendship would ever be repaired. Harley typed in the Girls Night GC.

“I’m sorry

I’m trying to get better

None of you deserved that

I wish I was better 

But all I can do is keep trying

Love y'all”

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

this isnt a poll submission thingie i just needed to make sure you (the mod of this blog) knew about the only good reylo fic https://archiveofourown.org/works/5457191

okay that made me snort

[angy-grrr]

I don’t get why ppl keep saying bkdk is dead or Horikoshi broke off bkdk. If that were true, this extra would look very different as you pointed out multiple times. The extra was still heavily focused on them and I hate how ppl are letting one no dictate the entire relationship. Izuku asks him to be a special lecturer too. I think the no just needs more clarification but other than that it is mostly fine. If a ship were to be shut down by the creator, it would look very different. Same logic for if a ship were to be canon, it would look different than what we got in the end for izu///ocha. This extra was bad in different ways from ships. It was just a whole lot of nothing that doesn’t meaningfully add anything to the story but I guess we shouldn’t be surprised since it is an extra. It is still an ambiguous ending that can be pretty fixable by one shots by Horikoshi in the future or even better by fanfiction lol. Except for the Toga part. That is just inexcusable

himiko-chan :(

and yeah! like even tho 431 is terrible not only for pairs but also for the whole story, it only confirmed Katsuki feels something really strong for deku and he doesnt notice bc he doesnt consider himself to be that great; they keep talking, and they keep being in each other's lives with no problem -they also imply they will work on communicating their feelings, as the special lecture is about this topic and deku also thinks katsuki doesnt see himself in a high regard. This is actually something that could be used in the future, as their relationship and arc isnt completely finished -in the way that they arent at a point of no miscommunication, no yearning, etc. They still need something to work with in regards to themselves and each other in the process. When it comes to midoriya and uraraka, idk what exactly could develop from what 431 tell us -seems to be mostly about paying attention to the ppl in your life instead of just letting life happen I guess? But idk what conversation or arc they could have together that wasn't resolved already, it was a really weird choice to focus on them as if there needs to be more explored -which is why choosing to not make them talk to each other nor think of the other in these years is potentially interesting, like the only way they could actually need to talk things up or have a separated special moment is if they just stop being friends and want to talk more from now on. Like, if they kept their friendship these years and were part of the other's life, there wouldnt be a moment like this at all.

I think it hurt mostly ochako -and deku if we interpret it as "deku just wants to be teacher, he is super happy about it, and loveeees so much his ex bestie after 8 years of no contact and never thinking about her"-, more than the bkdk relationship.

It would be interesting to see those one shots, if he does them -I know he said he wanted to do more things and little drawings and content for it, but idk if he will do something elaborate or just one page of something silly. I think he still has to opportunity of working with the material and make something at least not this bad -or completely ignore 431 and just continue with their adventures like 430 implies lol If he wants to double down with the "romance" I have no idea how he could do it with what he has tbh, unless he just ignores the plot and their personalities.

[penisbilt]

the bittersweet but absolute flood of relief that comes from admitting defeat at living independently, to have to move back in with parents. we tried! we gave it our best shot for almost 3 years! but living like this (being on our own) is just not possible for us at this time of our lives. we've finally proved it to ourselves that we can't do it. it'll be okay to let ourselves rest now

[ivyues]

Laptop Delivery - Bang Chan

Practice got a little more eventful thanks to an forgotten laptop.

It was a peaceful morning. Fresh from your shower, you padded into your kitchen, planning to grab a quick breakfast before heading to uni. But something on the counter stopped you in your tracks – Chris' laptop.  

Your heart sank. He’d stayed over last night but had to leave early for dance practice. The sight of his laptop sitting on the counter screamed trouble. Normally, he wouldn’t bring it over – it was too precious, filled with tracks, demos, and other vital material for the group. You knew his schedule was packed, and forgetting something this important could only mean bad news.

You snapped a picture of it and sent it to him with the caption:

"Forgot something?"

Still, you couldn’t shake the thought that it might be much more important. Without hesitation, you called him, even though you knew he was at practice.  

After a few rings, he picked up, slightly breathless. "Hey, baby. I’m… kinda at practice right now – what’s up?"  

"Did you leave your laptop here on purpose?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.  

"What?" His voice was sharp with confusion. "No, I thought I— wait, let me check the picture you send me."  

A muffled curse followed as realization hit. "Oh shit, no. I’ve got a meeting with some producers right after practice. I can’t believe I left it there." His tone was laced with stress.  

Chris hesitated. "I—" he started, then stopped himself. You could almost hear the gears turning in his head. He was probably considering rushing back to your place after practice, which would make him late for the meeting. Worse, you wouldn’t even be there to open the door since you'd already be at uni by then.

"I… could… bring it to you," you offered cautiously, knowing what value the device had to the group.  

"Really? Would that be possible?" His voice softened, a mixture of relief and guilt.  

"Yeah, but I’d have to leave now. I still have uni today," you said, already moving to grab your things.  

"Ah, that's amazing. You're an angel," he said warmly. "I’ll text you the room number."  

Skipping breakfast, you grabbed his laptop and headed out. On the way, you planned to stop by a bakery for something quick after the delivery, before heading straight to class.  

-----

At the JYP building, you knocked lightly on the practice room door, despite Chris’ text saying you could walk right in. The door opened to reveal Felix, his face lighting up with a grin.  

"Hey!" he greeted, pulling you into a quick hug.  

"Hi, Lix," you replied with a small smile. From across the room, Chris’ head shot up, his eyes locking on you. Relief and affection softened his expression as he quickly made his way towards you.  

"Hey," he murmured, stopping just in front of you.  

"Hi," you replied, reaching into your bag to pull out his laptop. As soon as the sleek silver device emerged, the room fell silent.  

The members froze, eyes wide. It wasn’t just a laptop to them; they knew what was inside – tracks, demos, lyrics, everything. The fact that you were holding it was proof of something bigger: the trust Chris had in you.

But before anyone could speak, Chris gently pulled you into the room, his fingers brushing your cheeks as he softly pulled your mask down.  

And then, he kissed you.  

It was natural, familia – something the two of you had done countless times before. But here, in the quiet practice room, with – unbeknownst to you – all eyes on you, it felt different. His lips were warm and soft, a silent expression of gratitude and love.  

The members didn’t move, still processing what they were seeing. None of them had expected this. Sure, they knew how much Chris cared about you, but seeing it displayed so openly caught them off guard.  

When he finally pulled back, his ears burned red, and he muttered a sheepish "I’ll call you later, okay? Thanks again", as he took the laptop from your hands.  

You, cheeks blazing, barely managed a nod as you stepped back. The silence lingered for a beat longer before you mumbled, "Y-yeah. Bye, everyone."

You turned and left, closing the door behind you.  

The moment the door clicked shut, chaos erupted.  

"YAH, HYUNG!"  

"I can't believe you just did that!"

"PDA MUCH?!”

"Channie hyung, what was that?!"

"Wow, so smooth. Too bad your ears give you away."  

Outside, you heard the screaming teasing very clearly and couldn’t help but smile, your cheeks still burning as you walked down the hallway. Chris could handle the teasing – he brought it upon himself after all.  

masterlist

[sttoru]

·.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. thinking about true form!sukuna having a huge size kink (+ corruption kink).

word count. 2.6k

note. super self-indulgent. cant rlly blame me for creating this. also do you see those big ass hands in the header i used? yeah.. says enough (this sucks ass)

tags. dom heian era!sukuna x concubine!female reader. smut. porn with plot. size kink / size difference (reader gets referred to as ��short’ & ‘small’). p in v -> unprotected. degradation. corruption kink (reader gets referred to as ‘naive’, 'shy' & innocent’-looking). tummy bulging. loss of virginity mention. hymen breaking mention. cervix fucking, ouch. lots of teasing. tiny bit of choking. tiny mention of blood tasting ? idk. hint at anal / double penetration. dirty talk. sukuna has two of everything btw mehehe. reader get called ‘woman, brat, slut, little'.

sukuna is intrigued by you. he’s always been, since the moment he’s laid his eyes upon you. your loyalty and devotion to him are two aspects that the king of curses likes most about you. .

. . after your innocence.

it nearly irked him. every time he saw you hanging around the estate without a single care in the world. sukuna would attempt to intimidate you with serious threats. he’d loom over your short stature and look down at you with a malicious glint in his eyes. though, none of it seemed to work.

you'd only bow your head at him and apologise if you’ve caused him any possible inconveniences. it annoyed the sorcerer. you weren’t trembling in fear like all the others would — it was like there was nothing going on in that head of yours. especially when you smile at him. which no one actually dares to do.

sukuna could crush you. with no effort. one big hand would be enough to pick your entire body up, lift you in the air and throw you around like a ragdoll. you don’t seem to fear the possibility of that happening, even when being faced with a pissed off sukuna.

it’s truly intriguing and amusing. that’s why sukuna kept you around every day — as a form of entertainment, he called it. one thing led to the other and you eventually ended up as one of his concubines. the king of curses himself decided to grant you that promotion.

why? because not only does your fragile body, reserved and polite personality and innocence secretly fascinate him — it also makes him crave you. crave to shatter that naivety of yours. to take that small body of yours and make it feel what it means to be overpowered by a man twice your size.

sukuna does not regret his decision to make you his concubine. the first night you spent together was one of the best nights he had ever had. in all his many years of living. not a single woman had ever succeeded in blowing his mind when it came to sex.

it was usually boring and repetitive for the sorcerer. he felt nothing for those women he’s had in bed before — it was solely for the fact of satisfying himself. though, that changed on the day you had given him your virginity.

he remembers every detail; from your little noises of both pain and pleasure, your tight and untouched pussy that bled faintly when the fat tip of his lower cock pushed through, your nails that dug into his arms and back, your thighs that he held to your chest, his large hands that could easily wrap around the fat of them, your aching cunt that was left spasming around air as it tried to keep his sticky cum stored in place.

sukuna didn’t think your tears would affect him as much. when he took your virginity and you whimpered in pain — he did feel a twinge of guilt. it was strange; he hadn’t felt that emotion before. he had stopped and wiped your tears away. roughly whispered some words of encouragement too.

he had never done so before. never. he had never told anyone how ‘good’ they were for him. how he’d be ‘careful’ to not make it hurt any more. the king of curses recalls vividly how slow he started with you. slow sex. instead of rough like he’s used to.

sukuna wasn’t chasing after his own pleasure in that moment like he’d usually have. his main priority was to make sure the girl below him was comfortable enough to continue. you’re strange. the things you make him do, say and feel are strange. and yet. . .

it was an amazing night. the best. however sukuna was left behind with an insatiable hunger for you. more, more, more. he can’t grasp it yet; why he longs for you. for those feelings he’s suddenly capable of experiencing during intimate moments.

it’s why he calls for you every night. no other concubine was needed after you were made one. the king of curses couldn’t care less about those other women. they are boring to him.

unlike you. the one he’s sure that he won’t ever get bored of.

“you can take me so well now,” sukuna breathes out. one of his cocks was inches deep inside you, bulbous tip painfully hitting your cervix. over the past few weeks, your body had learnt to adjust to him, your pussy molded to fit the shape of his dick.

sukuna looks down at you and his cocks twitch with the urge to release already. his heavy balls clenching. your fucked out state is adorable. you seemed so.. vulnerable underneath the big man, “what a fragile little thing.”

it almost sounded condescending. degrading. especially with sukuna’s lips being curled up into a mean grin, his sharp canines showing. there was a puddle of your cum forming underneath your hips — staining the sheets that the poor servants have to clean by tomorrow morning.

“p-please, fngh, ‘s too big,” you sputter out. no matter how many times you took sukuna in, your smaller body couldn’t quite fully accommodate to the girth of him. every time he hits your deepest parts, you let out a painful whimper.

sukuna kisses his teeth, though slows his thrusts a bit. the wet sounds of his cum and yours getting pushed in and out of your cunt with each move was too addicting. what sukuna loves most is the view of the skin of your lower abdomen swelling and stretching each time he pushes forward.

“i thought you said you’d take both of my cocks today, yet it seems like you can’t even handle one,” the king of curses sighs whilst belittling you. one set of hands is holding you down by your hips, the other set is fondling your stiff nipples and circling your sensitive clit, “what a pity. a real pity.”

you almost choke on your spit as all your sensitive spots were being fondled. sukuna’s thick fingers leave no place untouched as he increases the tempo again—his cock plunging in and out of your stretched hole. the upper one was twitching, rubbing against your clit and lower abdomen.

sukuna harshly grabs your jaw and makes you look up at him after he hears you apologise for making empty promises. he seems satisfied with you staying so polite. even when he’s practically rearranging your guts. the way you talk through your soft sobs and cries is endearing. makes him grin wickedly.

“i don’t want to break my favourite little concubine yet, you see,” sukuna continues. he lets out a grunt of pleasure when your pussy clenches around his thick cock. no matter how many times he fucks you dumb, you still remain as tight as the first time.

he takes in a deep breath. he’s trying his best not to pound you into the mattress. he’d fold you in half and probably break you like the fragile thing you are. he could snap you like a twig if he wasn’t careful, “. . .but you’re making it very difficult for me.”

you respond by apologising again. oh, how cute it was to see you babble and make up excuses. sukuna grits his teeth, jaw clenching as he resists the urge to go harder on you. you’re already squirming and moaning loudly just because he’s fucking you hard and deep—bruising your cervix and forcing your walls to open up to him.

“‘m sorry, wanna take both.” you hiccup and sniffle. tears ran down your cheeks from overstimulation. it felt so good yet so painful to be taken by the person you admire most. you didn’t want to displease him, so you uttered those hopeless yet needy sentences again.

sukuna stops his movements when you weakly ask him to use both of his cocks on you. he scoffs, not knowing where you gained the confidence from. he pulls out of your dripping cunt, leaving a trail of cum connecting both your genitalia.

“‘wanna take both,’ she says,” sukuna mocks you under his breath. it’s getting worse; he’s nearing the point of no return. especially with your desperate whines that were like music to his ears, “you’ll break, woman.”

two of his hands move to stroke along his lengths, smearing the mixture of body fluids all over them. his eyes glare down at your small form—already fucked out, yet aching to continue. needing the full experience for once.

you always turn from a shy girl to a complete slut whenever he has you in bed. sukuna loves it.

“i want to try at the very least,” you mutter. it’s true that you’re exhausted. you’re catching your breath now that you got the chance, tired eyes glancing up at sukuna’s enormous stature between your legs, his defined muscles and the tattoos on them glistening under the faint light of the oil lamp.

it got your pussy throbbing and clamping down around air. you felt a bit light headed and your head lolls back against the pillow, eyes glazed over as you try to seem determined. but your body was tired.

“yeah? how. . . cute,” sukuna grins. he knows you can’t. not today at least. he doesn’t mind if you aren’t capable of taking him fully since you’ve already pleased him well enough for now. though, he still can’t help but tease you—make it seem like he’s going to give you what you want, “all right. don’t say i didn’t warn you.”

your eyes widen and your fingers curl around the silky bedsheets beneath you in anticipation. your heart is pounding in your chest as you watch sukuna pump his two cocks a bit faster, squeezing the base a bit, leaking some pre.

it’s all just for show.

“i’m not stopping. even if you scream.” the king of curses warns you with a dangerous glint in his eyes. you gulp at the terrifying aura sukuna was emitting. one of his tips teases your entrance whilst the other probes and circles around your anus.

he threatens you again, testing if you’ll back down, “last chance. i’m not pulling out once i’m in, do y’hear me?”

you keep being stubborn until the very last second. sukuna’s deep voice that shook you to your core was not enough to make you change your mind. you were so desperate to fulfill his every need and make sure that he was satisfied. it made you the perfect woman in his eyes.

the king of curses is completely amused. he decides to take it up a notch. he pushes his lower cock against the tight ring of muscles, pressing and nearly allowing the tip to move in. the sudden increase in pressure is torturous. you surely wouldn’t be able to withstand the entire thing.

“w-wait!” you squeal in surprise and pain. the sting you felt made you snap back into reality. it’s when you realised that maybe you needed more time and experience to take both of sukuna’s dicks. you squirm your hips away, “can’t. i can’t.. hurts too much.”

sukuna nearly rolls his eyes once you finally give in. he shakes his head with a sigh, feigning disapproval and annoyance. he pulls his entire body away from yours—a ominous shadow casted over his eyes. it makes you think that he’s pissed off at you; for being unable to please him.

you panic a little. even if you are sure sukuna wouldn’t ever hurt you. you know he favours you over the other concubines. you don’t want to lose that position.

“i’m sorry.” you apologise before the sorcerer could say anything. he lets out a sharp breath, rough hands back on your body, kneading your flesh gently yet firmly. his eyes take in the view of you trembling.

it’s unreal. you are half his size—completely vulnerable underneath him. he’d normally call people like you weak and useless. wouldn’t feel a thing for them. but your naked body below his is a sight he wishes to see every night.

it turns sukuna on so much. the fact that you are helpless and don’t complain when you’re struggling to take one of his cocks gets him going each time.

“tsk. what’d i tell you?” sukuna grumbles. he slaps his lower cock firmly against your clit. your body responds by closing your thighs together, though the king of curses pries them apart again, “stop overestimating yourself, brat.”

he isn’t actually mad. it was expected—of course you couldn’t take both at once. he didn’t even prep your other hole enough. plus you are clearly still exhausted from the previous rounds. sukuna just likes to. . . test and take advantage of your devotion to him. your obedience and desires to please him.

it’s fascinating to see you squirm and apologise in that whiny voice of yours. it makes him grin from ear to ear. and it keeps things fun.

before you could mutter excuses again, sukuna stops you by leaning in. just when you thought you’d finally get to kiss him, he goes to bite down on your bottom lip. a moan slips out of your mouth which only spurs him on to bite down harder.

you could feel the devilish smirk on sukuna against your lip. his wet tongue cleans up the tiny drop of blood that escaped the wound. he lets out a low hum in approval at the taste. delicious as always.

“now, how should i punish my little concubine for being unable to keep her word?” sukuna whispers in a serious tone. it sends shivers down your spine, his hot breath traveling from your jaw to your right ear. he slowly licks your earlobe, “what do you say? any ideas?”

the tension in the room was palpable. your heart was stammering in your throat from the proximity between the two of you. you gather the courage to answer as sukuna’s fingers curl around your neck, squeezing your throat as if forcing the answer out of you.

“i-i’ll do anything, sir.” you reply through a shaky breath. the king of curses pulls back after he’s got a response from you. your eyes meet his and that’s when you know that you’ve either greatly pleased him or have given him the chance to go all out on you.

it’s probably both.

“anything, you say?” sukuna repeats slowly. without a warning, he effortlessly flips you over on your stomach, a set of hands pulling your ass up by your hips whilst the other set holds your upper body down on the mattress.

a harsh grip on the back of your head results into you whimpering. your face was mushed into a pillow, almost leaving no place to breathe. your back is placed in the perfect arch with your plump ass facing up. it’s one of sukuna’s favourite positions to do with you — especially because it makes you seem smaller than you already are.

“heh. i’ll make you regret saying that.” sukuna chuckles. a low, evil and wicked chuckle. that’s enough to make you realise that he was not going easy on you. your submission had greatly impressed the king of curses and he's taking advantage of it. again.

what would come next could be a reward for that said submission. he’s going to fuck your brains out and make you forget about everything else except for his dick. a night you won’t ever forget as long as you live—that’s a possibility.

or perhaps you’re going to be crying and begging him to go easy on you. a punishment for not being able to keep your promise. that could also happen.

anyway, you’re about to find out which one it is.

[brokenbarnes]

Echos

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky's worst nightmare comes true. You come back to him after taking a turn in Hydra's electric chair.

Warnings: mentions of canon level violence. Memory loss.

A/N: Probably the longest fic I've posted to date. Send me ideas!!

Read part two here: Convergent

There are very few things in his life that Bucky holds near and dear to his heart. His backpack of possessions, including a notebook of scattered memories and pamphlets from the Smithsonian, his dog tags that were returned to him after his pardon, Steve; his best friend in the universe, and you.

The word girlfriend doesn’t even begin to describe what you mean to him. What started out as shy romantic intentions has blossomed into what one would not dare to call codependency; but an unyielding show of love that has kept you both out of the madhouse.

You’re his partner in everything, sparring, ping pong tournaments, missions and most importantly in life. It is rare to find one of you without the other.

So when he watched in horror as you, gagged, handcuffed and unconscious, were stuffed into the trunk of a car and all he could was watch. His body was temporarily paralyzed by electrical cattle prods, the enemy left him laying in the wet gravel and took you instead.

He tried to yell, to call out but all that could come out of his mouth was a weak moan. He watched in horror as the car peeled out of the parking lot, spraying gravel and taking his heart with them.

It wasn’t until Steve found him a few minutes later and through awful gasps in his voice, that he explained what happened. Steve had him sit, pushed his head between his knees until he was breathing evenly again. He promised his best friend that he would find you.

It took a month to even figure out a possible location of where the car could have taken you. A month of sleepless nights, intense meetings and trying to keep his hopes up as search and rescue missions turned up empty. Bucky could barely step foot in the bedroom you shared with him without feeling like he got sucker punched in the gut, doubling over with yearning and guilt.

It didn’t help his hopes that he insisted on going on every search and rescue operation. Clearing warehouses, abandoned Hydra facilities only to go home to an empty bed where the nightmares of his past found him.

The day that he found you will forever be seared in his scarred memory. A Hydra base, his head pounding with what he thought was déjà vu but was probably former memories trying to find the correct keyhole in his mind.

Together, him and Natasha cleared rooms in effective silence. They’ve done this countless times over the course of the month. Both of your best friends wouldn’t stop until they found you.

“Barnes, we got a heat signature in the next room,” she murmured, pressing the small earpiece. Most likely getting the information from Sam and Redwing. “There’s no way to tell who it is.”

He nodded, staring at the heavy duty door in front of him. His mind was already calculating the best way to access whoever was inside. Should he hit it with the arm? Shoot a few bullets into the lock?

Natasha reached over and tried the handle, finding it unlocked with only a shrug of her shoulders; she forged ahead.

Bucky blinked, regaining his senses. He followed Nat into the room only to stop suddenly in his steps.

He had been in this room before, many times in fact. He knew that because of the chair, the electrodes attached, the metal tables and equipment scattered around the room. This is where they wiped his memories.

So when he saw you slumped in the chair, his heart stopped.

“No,” he whispered, surging forward. He dropped his weapon, sinking to his knees in front of you. “Y/N?”

You looked asleep, knees pulled up to your chest, too thin arms wrapped around your shins, head pressed towards your lap.

“Y/N, Doll,” he whispered, reaching out to lay a hand on your arm. As soon as you felt his touch, you jolted as if he was the one who had been administering the electricity. You raised your head quickly, scooting back as far as you could in the chair, arms gripping the arm rest. Fear had blown your eyes wide, staring into the face of your long-term boyfriend.

Bucky’s stomach twisted, from your reaction, from the blood drying in splotches on your face, from the burn marks pressed into your temples.

“Hey, you’re okay,” he tried reaching out again, but you shifted farther away. “It’s okay.”

He turned to look back at Nat, who was radioing to the team that you had been located and to send in a medical team.

“Y/N,” he whispered, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “We’re going to get you home.”

You were shaking, fear still in your eyes as you continued to blanch at him. Bucky watched your whole body tremble violently, a question he didn’t want to ask on the tip of his tongue.

“Y/N, do you know who I am?” His voice was soft, understanding.

You shook your head, pressing yourself as far back in the leather chair as you could. Nat approached slowly, making your eyes flicker over to her, Bucky could see your pulse beating wildly in your neck.

“Nat, let’s give her some space,” Bucky whispered, rising on shaky legs. He turned away from you, pressing his flesh hand over his eyes to hide the tears prickling in his tear ducts.

Nat took a step back, pressing her hand into Bucky’s shoulder but keeping an eye on you. You had shrunk into yourself again, curled up into a ball and shivering against the dark leather.

“This isn’t your fault, Barnes,” Nat murmured to him as he struggled to keep his composure. “She’s going to be alright.”

He took a deep shuddering breath and straightened his shoulders. Nat looked over at him once more before stepping into the hallway to lead the medical team in.

Bucky turned to look at you, you were watching him with wide, careful eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he shook his head. “I’ll never hurt you.”

Your eyes were skeptical, body language extremely closed off. You had never once looked at him like this in your life and it felt like someone had punched through his chest and ripped out his heart.

You screamed when the medical team got close to you, a horrible, blood curdling scream that Bucky had only heard one other time in his life. Sam and Nat had to hold Bucky back as they pressed a needle to your arm full of enough sedatives to knock out a super soldier. You slumped in the chair soon after, eyes closed, lashes brushing against bruised skin.

“Let me carry her,” Bucky said firmly as the medical team prepped to transfer you to a gurney. “Please.”

Reluctantly, they let Bucky scoop you up in his arms and led the way back to the sunlight. He cradled you close to his chest, concern ripping through his chest at how light you felt, bones and joints instead of plush flesh he usually felt.

In the Quinjet, he laid you down on the gurney and took a step back to let the medics work. He didn’t stray very far, hovering over shoulders, trying to stay out of the way as they assessed you for injuries.

Nat eventually grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to a seat, handing him a bottle of water. He dropped his head into his hands and tried to focus on taking deep breaths.

You didn’t remember him. You didn’t remember anyone. Hydra wiped your memory like they did his.

When the landing gear touched the tarmac, Nat held him back as the medical team rushed you to the infirmary. Sam squeezed his shoulder before brushing past him, following you into the building.

“Barnes, you gotta listen to me,” Nat spoke in a firm voice. “She’s going to be confused when she wakes up. She’s not going to remember a whole lot. You gotta get her to trust you.”

“Nat, they… they…” he trailed off, eyes faraway.

“I know,” she nodded. “We’re going to get her back, it’s just going to take some time.”

He nodded, bending his head to wipe his eyes. The redhead pulled him in for a hug, patting his back over the layers of Kevlar he wore. She pulled away, he schooled his features into a little emotion as possible before heading down the ramp to find you.

It was some hours later before you finally woke. You had been cleared of any major physical injuries, just some minor cuts and bruises; everyone’s main concern was the mental damage that Hydra had done.

Bucky hadn’t left your side since you had been admitted, still in his tac suit, sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair that had been shoved next to your bed. Your hand looked so small in his, knuckles carrying fading bruises that made him smile knowing you didn’t go easily.

Despite the sedation, you weren’t sleeping easily. Shifting and mumbling in your sleep, expression pinched into an unpleasant expression Bucky has only seen once in a blue moon.

He watched your eyes flutter open, hazy and confused; most likely from the amount of drugs being filtered through your IV.

“Hey Doll,” he murmured, setting your hand gently on the sheets covering your legs. “Welcome back.”

Your eyes attempted to concentrate on him, blinking and shaking your head to try and getting the lens of your eye to focus. When they did, panic pumped through your veins and you jerked away from him.

“It’s okay,” he said in a gentle voice. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Your eyes scanned the room in a hazy sweep, taking in the medical equipment and the different environment. You scrambled away, throwing your legs over the side of the bed and pressing yourself into the corner; tripping over the legs of medical equipment and various cords.

“S-stay away,” you stammered, holding out your hands in front of me. “I can’t do it anymore.”

Bucky didn’t move from his spot in the car, despite his heart pounding in his chest. “Y/N, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Please,” the whimper broke his heart. “Please, I want to go home.”

“Where’s home, Honey?” He asked, tilting his head at you, trying to hide the hurt in his voice.

You faltered, confused by his question. The wheels started spinning in your mind when you realized what you had said; the uncertainty on how to answer sent your head spinning.

The door opened, a team of medical professionals entered which sent you sideways again. Bucky locked eyes with Dr. Cho as she held a syringe loaded with sedative.

“No,” you sobbed. “No, please!”

“Y/N, this will just help you sleep,” Cho moved forward with the needle, cap still on.

Bucky stood as you started to scream, the same as when you were found. An ear splitting shriek that turned his stomach.

You were extremely combative, taking the entire staff to restrain you as Cho administered another fast acting sedative. They tucked your limp form back into bed, fixed your IV and other external monitors before leaving.

A hand on his shoulder startled him, he turned to find Sam standing behind him. He gave the soldier a sympathetic smile before handing him a backpack full of fresh clothes and toiletries.

“Get changed, she’s not going to remember you smelling like that,” Sam tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

When you slept, Bucky let himself hold your hand. He’d press your knuckles to his lips, fighting back tears as he remembers the confusion and panic that comes with memory loss.

You wake a few more times, less confused each time as your surroundings stay consistent. Including the big bulky man sitting in the chair beside your bed.

“Who are you?” You whispered, staring up at the ceiling.

Bucky blinked his tired eyes open, setting your hand back down on the bed from where he had it pressed against his cheek.

“My name is Bucky.”

“Why do you stay?” Your voice was weak.

He bit his lip, holding back a response that might confuse or overwhelm you. “Because I understand.”

“What do you mean?” You swiped a hand across your damp eyes, trying to focus on his face.

“What they did to you, they did to me too,” he whispered. Without thinking, he reached out to the bandages on your temples, where the electrodes had zapped you without enough voltage to burn your skin; and wipe your memories.

As he leaned close to you, you were able to focus on his face. A headache formed behind your eyes, making you squeeze your eyes shut and press your hand to the bridge of your nose.

“What is it?” He pulled his hand back, cursing internally for forgetting himself.

“My head,” you gasp, sitting up. “It hurts.”

“I know,” the soldier nodded sadly. He still gets that same headache sometimes, when he can feel the memory rattling around inside his brain but it doesn’t know how to file it. “It will pass.”

You let him rub your back as you sit with your head between your knees. He allows himself to enjoy pressing his palm between your shoulder blades, pretending that this is any other day and you remember all the love he has given.

Eventually, you raise your head and look sideways at him, cheek resting on your forearms. “They’ve done this to you?”

He nodded, placing his hand back in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” your eyes water again.

“It’s okay, it was a long time ago.” He murmured, then after a breath twists his fingers together. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

You lay back down, covering yourself up with the thin blankets. “’s not your fault, Bucky.”

He blinks back tears as you drift off to sleep.

Eventually Nat strong-armed Bucky into taking his place for a while, she sat in his chair while he went upstairs with instructions to shower and eat before coming back down.

After throwing together a quick sandwich to eat and downing a bottle of water, he finds himself in the bedroom you share.

It hasn’t looked the same in the month you’ve been gone. He’s tried to keep it neat, but it’s losing it’s touch. The way you fold a knit blanket over the end of the bed, the multiple drink cups that clutter the bedside table, the messy bookcase you continuously arrange and rearrange based on an order inside your mind.

The shower is too hot, but it keeps his mind off you. His skin is bright red and raw by the time he turns the water off, wrapping a towel around his waist.

The closet brings a tidal wave of emotions he wasn’t expecting. He realizes that you might want some clothes of your own, that might help you feel home in the echo that is your mind.

After getting dressed, he picks out a few pairs of clothes for you. Some of your favorite comfortable clothes, a worn t-shirt, a stretchy pair of leggings, slipper socks in case your feet get cold. He packed them up in a tote bag with some local bookstore’s logo printed across the front and slung it over his metal shoulder.

When he returns, Nat is talking to you in a soft voice that trails off when he steps through the door. He tries to smile at you, but you turn to hide your face in the hospital pillow. He feels as if someone has reached inside his chest and squeezed his heart in a vice grip.

“I brought you some clothes,” he set the tote down on the end of your bed.

You waited until he backed away before reaching into the bag. He watched as you tentatively reached into the bag and pulled out the t-shirt out. With a start, he realized that it was once his. A SHIELD-issue grey t-shirt, he had somehow ripped a hole in the sleeve and had retired it to the back of the closet. You picked it up out of the laundry and claimed it as your own.

You closed your eyes, pressing the fabric of the shirt to your sheet, turning your nose into the collar to breathe in the scent. His heart stuttered.

“This is mine,” you murmured, making him crack a smile.

“It is, Sweetheart,” he breathed.

Nat squeezed his shoulder before making her exit. He moved without noise to sit in the chair, resting his forearms on his knees.

You moved carefully off the bed toward the small en-suite bathroom with the bag in your arms. Fearful eyes caught Bucky’s, making him sit up straight.

“What is it, Sweetheart?” He tried to keep his voice calm.

“Can… can you keep watch?” Your voice trembled and his heart broke.

He nodded, standing up to follow you in the direction of the bathroom. You slid the door shut, but kept it open just a crack. Bucky put his back to the door, remembering the feeling all too well.

The vulnerability Hydra forces out of you is something he is still working to break. You never want to turn your back, to undress, to be unguarded in case they made their next move.

When the door opens next, you seem a little less on edge. Dressed in the grey t-shirt and a pair of dark leggings, you almost look like who he once knew.

You tuck yourself back into bed, pulling your knees up to your chest. Bucky settled back into the chair, scrubbing a hand across his eyes.

“Bucky?” You ask so softly, he’s not sure he heard you at first.

He lifted his head, smiling at you. “Yeah, Honey?”

“I told you I wanted to go home,” your voice shook, picking at the seam of the fuzzy socks.

He nodded.

“And… and I didn’t know where home is,” your voice cracked and his heart splinter even further.

He nodded, trying his hardest not to speak in order for you to continue.

“Can you show me where home is?” Tears were in your eyes now, chin wobbling with the effort to contain it.

“Of course, Honey,” he nodded. “You wanna go right now?”

You nodded.

He stood up and held out his hand to you, you took it to help you off the bed. You had been unhooked from all your monitors earlier in the day so there was nothing to worry about with the nurses.

Physically you were fine, but he was still holding out hope that your memory would return. You never lost hope with his recovery, he could only offer you the same curtesy.

He felt already better with your hand in his, leading you out of the infirmary and into the elevator. You don’t let go of his hand in the enclosed space, in fact stepping closer as the floor rises.

Bucky fights the urge to hook his arm over your shoulder, tug you in close against his chest. You’re standing in his space, leaning on his ability to protect you from whatever comes through the door.

You’re quiet as the doors open, eyes quickly taking in your new surroundings. Bucky tugs on your hand, leading you out into the space you’ve shared with him for quite some time now.

“I live here?” You whisper, taking in the foyer and kitchen area. Too many shoes scattered by the door, umbrella leaning against the linen closet door. A whiteboard calendar holding onto the drywall for dear life with two command strips and a thumbtack.

“You do,” Bucky confirms, toeing off his shoes and leaving them by the door. “Are you hungry? I can make you something.”

You shake your head, which concerns him because you haven’t exactly eaten since you returned. You go into the kitchen anyway, leaving Bucky behind in the foyer; he mourns the loss of your hand.

He finds you staring at the mug left by the coffee maker. You had left it there that morning you disappeared, drank half before running out the door. He looked around the messy kitchen and feels a hint of shame that he should have cleaned up before bringing you in.

You press your hand to your eyes, the way you do when your brain is lost. You grip the edge of the counter, he moves quickly to your side.

“It’s all familiar,” you grit your teeth through the pain. “But I can’t… I can’t…”

“It’s okay,” he sooths a hand over your shoulder blades. “Don’t push it. It will come back.”

From the kitchen, you wander into the living room like an echo of your former self. Bucky watches from the doorway, letting you take your time.

A paper back novel placed face down on the coffee table. Slippers, half jammed under the couch from where he had carried you to bed per your pleading request. A half-drunk mug of tea, the contents separated and half evaporated that makes you wrinkle your nose as you peer inside.

Your fingers dance over the knitted throw that is draped over the back of the sofa. Countless hours you’ve spent with it thrown over your lap, pulled up to your chin or pressed under your cheek.

Bucky follows you in silence, never wanting to overstep, to allow you to remember the comfort of your own home at your own pace.

Your eye catches the framed picture beside the tv. You shuffle forward, maneuvering around the furniture with ease despite your eyes being focused ahead.

The picture is one of your favorites. A beach trip sometime last year, the two of you huddled around the bonfire Sam built, a blanket draped over your shoulders. Bucky’s first big smile he allowed others to see, rather than just you. The smile could be contributed to the burnt marshmallow on the end of the roasting stick, how he warned you to just keep it by the coals.

You reached out and rested your fingers on the glass of the thrifted frame, he remembers when you found it in a hidden thrift shop somewhere in the city. He dutifully carried all the bags for you, loaded with hidden treasures.

“You and I…?” You murmured, wrapping your arms around yourself. When he didn’t respond, you glanced over your shoulder at him.

He nodded slowly, avoiding your eye contact by hovering his gaze over your shoulder.

Your expression wavered; taking a hesitant step toward him. “I’m sorry, Bucky. This must be so hard for you.”

He didn’t speak, just swallowed hard and watched your socked feet approach. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Another slow step forward, keeping your arms wrapped around yourself. Chipped nails digging into the bare skin of your under arm.

“Anything look familiar?” He asked, mirroring your posture.

You press your palm between your eyes, unsure if it hurts or maybe thinking it will help you remember. “A little, maybe.”

“C’mere, let’s try this,” he tried to smile, but you watched the sadness return to his eyes. It set an uncomfortable feeling in your chest, you felt like you needed to do something to change that.

You reached out and slipped your hand into his, he stopped in surprise before smiling down at you. Better.

He led you down the hallway, past the spare bedroom, the half bath that you spent Memorial Day weekend completely redecorating.

Pushing open the bedroom door, you’re hit with a tidal wave of emotions. The rumpled duvet cover, squashed pillows, Bucky’s pillow always has half the pillow case on no matter how many times you fix it.

Your soldier pauses in the doorway as you walk the perimeter of the room. Pausing at each framed picture, art you purchased from the little gallery in Brooklyn that you fell in love with, the tiffany lamp you begged Bucky to come with you to pick up that was found on Facebook marketplace.

You picked up a tube of Carmex chapstick that lay on the crowded bedside table, smiling. “I love it in here.”

Bucky smiled sadly, from this angle he couldn’t see the awful healing burn wounds on your head and he could pretend this is any other day.

“You put a lot of time into making this place a home,” he offered, voice gentle.

Your fingertips traced the duvet, moving as you sat down, head hurting again. You winced, squeezing your eyes shut.

Bucky was quick, kneeling in front of you, his hands went to your hips before he could stop himself.

Twisted over in pain, you pressed your forehead to Bucky’s, eyes still shut. “Bucky I want to remember… I… I.”

He shushed you softly, curling his hands around your waist, bringing you closer. “It’s okay, Doll. They’ll come back, I promise.”

You straightened up and wiped your eyes. Bucky took his hands away which brought a feeling to you that you couldn’t categorize. “Can we do something normal? Something I would usually do?”

He smiled, scooting back with a nod. “Sure, Honey. We can do that.”

Bucky told you to get comfortable under the covers while he disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes. You pulled back the duvet and settled back against the pillows, looking around the room while you waited. Although you were alone for a few moments, you still felt at ease in this environment.

He returned with two mugs, both filled to the brim with steaming tea of your favorite brew. Handing one to you, he squatted down in front of the bookshelf and found your favorite book. It took him a moment to locate it, you had some down time the week before you disappeared and rearranged it again.

Climbing into bed next to you, he watched as you flipped open the cover and smiled at your handwriting in the corner of the title page. He took a cautious sip from his mug and set it his bedside table.

He hadn’t pick up his own book since you disappeared from his life for a month. So it took him a moment to reorient himself in the chapter and what was happening.

He watched you start to get absorbed into the book, eventually you leaned over and rested your head on his shoulder; curling your knees in toward him. Just how you always do.

He blinked tears out of his eyes, watching the words on the page grow blurry. Despite the missing memories, you were mirroring your own self unconsciously. Every once in a while, he would see echos, proof that you were still there and would come back to him.

Hydra thought they could wipe you away completely, erase the person you once were. They had failed once again, you would come back to him just as the two of you always do.

[abbotjack]

Don't Make Me Someone You Can't Have

pairing : dr. jack abbot x resident!reader (afab!reader)

summary : The fallout didn’t start the day of Pitt Fest—it started when you told Jack Abbot how you felt and he told you he didn’t want you. A week later, grief, jealousy, and everything unsaid ignite into something impossible to bury. (Lowkey inspired by Big Love by Fleetwood Mac—because obviously.)

warnings/content : trauma aftermath (mass casualty event), hospital setting, attending x resident dynamic, mutual pining, emotional repression, angst, jealousy, possessive behavior, verbal rejection, explicit sexual content (f!receiving, protected sex), semi-public/backseat sex, emotionally loaded dialogue, swearing

word count : 4,212

18+ ONLY, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : I am just so obsessed with Abbot, like oml I do not need a new hyperfixation at this point of the semester but here we are. Hope you guys enjoy this!

There’s blood on your forearms.

Not a lot—just the dried trace of a life you couldn’t save, stuck to your skin even after the first scrub. You’ve already changed out of your soiled gloves and gown. You sanitized twice. But still, you scrub again, because your hands won’t stop shaking and focusing on the motion keeps you upright.

The shooting at Pitt Fest has left the trauma bay soaked with the sound of screams you can’t forget. The floors were slick. Supplies ran out faster than anyone could track. You can still hear the rhythmic buzz of the trauma pager, the overhead call for more gurneys, the shrill monitor that never quieted until it did.

Your white coat is somewhere in the hallway—discarded and stained, a casualty of triage. There’s a bruise blossoming on your cheekbone, just beneath your eye. It’s from when the mother of the boy thrashed in panic, her elbow colliding with your face. You didn’t notice it at first, not until someone pointed it out with a grimace. Said it was turning purple, already swelling. Said you should ice it. You didn’t.

You press harder on your hands.

Jack Abbot hasn’t spoken to you since he snapped orders across the gurney three hours ago, voice razor-sharp, eyes like flint. He’d taken over compressions without blinking. His personal protection gear streaked in blood. His shoulders set like stone. His voice—steady, calm, cold.

You’d hesitated.

Just a second. Maybe less. But he’d seen it.

“You’re too shallow—switch out. Now.”

He hadn’t looked at you when he said it. Just stepped in, hands already moving, chest compressing with the precision of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. Because he has.

He moves like he did on the field. You’ve heard stories—Jack the soldier, desert heat in his lungs, fingers suturing flesh with a kind of brutal grace. You’ve seen glimpses of it before, but tonight? Tonight, it wasn’t a glimpse. It was a full transformation.

You backed away, stunned into silence. Not because he took over. But because of how he did it. Like you were a liability. Like you didn’t belong.

You told yourself it was adrenaline. It wasn’t.

The door creaks open behind you, and you don’t have to turn to know it’s him.

You keep your eyes on the mirror—don’t move, don’t breathe—until his reflection comes into focus beside yours.

His eyes go straight to your cheek.

The bruise.

His posture changes. Shoulders tense, mouth tightening. He doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of something behind his eyes is unmistakable. Not surprise. Not guilt.

Anger. Not at you—but at the fact that you’re hurt.

He doesn’t speak. Just leans against the counter. His eyes flick to your cheekbone again. The bruise is deeper now, ugly in the fluorescent light.

“You paused,” he says finally, voice low.

You dry your hands slowly. The paper towel crinkles between your fingers.

You turn, sharp. “I froze because I’ve never had to treat a gunshot wound in a fifteen-year-old while their mother screamed in my ear.”

You don’t stop.

“She was grabbing my sleeves, pulling at my hands, sobbing and shouting his name—over and over. She kept trying to touch his face. I could barely see where the blood was coming from. I wasn’t even sure where to start.”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “That’s what the job is.”

You laugh, and it sounds like it’s clawing its way out of your chest. “Don’t lecture me on what the job is, Jack. I’ve been here three years. I know what this place does to people.”

His jaw tightens. There’s something in his eyes—anger, maybe. Or guilt. You can’t tell with him. You never can.

He pushes off the counter.

“You think I don’t know what it does to people?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he steps closer, the air between you tight enough to snap.

“You think I wanted you in the bay?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

Jack’s voice dips lower. “I saw your name on the call sheet. I almost pulled you off rotation.”

Your breath hitches. “You don’t get to do that.”

He’s close now—too close. He smells like hospital soap and something else beneath it—deep, expensive cologne that cuts through the sterile air. Teakwood. Mahogany. That warm, slightly spiced scent that always lingers a second too long after he leaves a room. Clean. Controlled. Intentionally chosen. Just like him.

“I don’t want to watch you fall apart,” he says.

Your heart slams. The words hit harder than they should, because they’re the first ones he’s offered that sound like anything real. Not just protocol. Not just war-worn discipline.

“I already have,” you whisper. “And you didn’t notice. Not when I told you how I felt. Not when you shut me down like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.”

He swallows hard. His posture stiffens.

“You didn’t even look at me after that,” you say, voice shaking. “I told you I had feelings for you, and you acted like I’d crossed some unspoken line. Like caring about you was a mistake I should be embarrassed by.”

Jack doesn’t say anything.

You shake your head, eyes burning. “For you, it’s easier to pretend this thing—whatever it is between us—doesn’t exist than admit you’re scared of something real.”

You don’t have to spell it out. You’ve seen the way he distances himself—the way he locks things down before anyone even gets close. You’ve felt it.

The silence now is a living thing. Loud. Brutal. The air is laced with too many unsaid things.

You can feel it—beneath the calm, beneath the scrub shirt and military precision—Jack is burning.

But he still doesn’t reach for you.

So you do what you always do.

You leave before he can stop you.

You don’t get far.

The trauma bay doors hiss shut behind you and the night air hits your face like a slap—cool, sharp, soaked in hospital exhaust and rain-soaked concrete. You pace once. Twice. You don’t cry.

You breathe. You think you might scream. Instead, you lean back against the cold exterior wall of the hospital and close your eyes. And there it is—the echo of his voice, thick with something too raw to name.

“I don’t want to watch you fall apart.”

But it wasn’t just tonight that gutted you. It started before. When you said too much and he gave you nothing.

It was three days ago. Late enough that the hospital had gone quiet—the kind of quiet where your thoughts get too loud, and nothing feels safe to admit.

You were both at the nurses’ station. Jack sat at one of the desktops, the screen glowing pale blue in front of him, his fingers motionless on the trackpad. You were across from him, one hand hovering over the keyboard, the other absently toying with a pen.

You’d been circling it for weeks—maybe longer. This thing between you. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It lived in the quiet, in the unspoken, in the almosts. In the way your skin prickled when he entered a room. The way air shifted when he stood behind you—close, but never touching.

It was in the way his gaze found you during rounds, lingering just a heartbeat too long. The way his voice dipped when he said your name, soft and unreadable—like a secret slipping between his teeth. The way your breath caught when he brushed past you in the hallway, the fabric of his scrubs grazing yours, sending a bolt of something electric down your spine.

It was professional. It had to be. But it never felt neutral.

Every look felt like contact. Every silence, a dare.

The tension wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t need to be. It sat just under the surface—constant, quiet, undeniable. Like gravity. Like something pulling you toward him whether you wanted it or not.

But it wasn’t just you.

Jack watched you, too. Carefully. Deliberately. Like he was trying not to want you and failing anyway. He always looked away too slowly. Cleared his throat when your laugh caught him off guard. Said your name differently than everyone else—lower, rougher, like he was holding it in his mouth too long.

There were moments you caught him looking at you like he was already sorry for it.

Like he knew what it would cost if he gave in.

There were nights you couldn’t sleep without replaying the way his hand brushed yours, or the heat of his body behind you in the elevator, or the flicker of something in his eyes before he shut it down again.

You weren’t supposed to notice.

He wasn’t supposed to let you.

But you did.

And he did.

And both of you kept pretending it wasn’t real—even as it took up more and more space inside your chest.

You hadn’t planned to say anything. You hadn’t rehearsed it. It just… happened.

“I care about you,” you’d said, voice soft but steady. “I’m not trying to ruin anything. I just need you to know.”

Jack didn’t look up. Not at first. He just sat there, shoulders stiff, jaw set like someone had flipped a switch inside him. When he did meet your eyes, it wasn’t with warmth. It was with something colder. Sharper. Like he was bracing for impact.

“This can’t happen,” he’d said. Quiet. Controlled. Like he was reciting a rule he’d memorized a long time ago. “You’re a resident. I’m your attending. You know that.”

You’d nodded, tried to smile, tried to make it easy for him. Tried to act like it didn’t sting.

But he kept going.

“And even if you weren’t… it’s not a good idea.”

He hesitated. Just a second. But enough.

"You don’t know me," he added, eyes hard. "You think you do, but you don’t. You see what I let you see. And that version of me—that's not real."

And then, like he needed to twist the knife just to make sure it stuck :

“Whatever you think this is—I don’t want it. I don’t want you.”

You knew, even as he said it—he didn’t mean it. Not like that. But he wanted it to hurt. Needed it to. Like if he made you hate him, it would make walking away easier. That was the part that stayed with you.

You hadn’t cried then. Not in front of him. You nodded again, eyes dry, throat burning, and told him you understood. But you hadn’t said anything else. Didn’t argue. Didn’t ask him why.

And he hadn’t offered.

Not an apology. Not an explanation.

He hadn’t said a single word to you since—not until today, when his voice finally cut through the chaos to order you off the boy’s chest. Cold. Clinical. Like nothing had ever passed between you at all. Like you were just another resident.

But you’d felt it. In the way he walked into a room and wouldn’t look at you. In the way his voice would hitch when you brushed past. In the way his fists curled tight at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but refused to let himself.

He was trying to be cold. Trying to keep the line drawn.

And still—still—he’d almost pulled you from trauma rotation tonight.

You open your eyes. The ache in your chest feels ancient. Familiar.

Big love. That’s what it was. The kind that never had a chance to grow, but still bloomed under your skin like it owned you.

And Jack? Jack let it die before it ever had the chance to live.

It’s been a week since Pitt Fest.

The hospital has started to settle into something like normal, but you haven’t. You still flinch when a trauma page comes over the comms. Still hear that mother’s voice, shrill and ragged. Still feel the ghost of Jack’s hand brushing yours when he took over compressions. That wasn’t the moment you broke, but it was the moment you knew you couldn’t pretend anymore.

So tonight, you go out. Against your better judgment.

Whitaker begged you. Santos threatened to show up at your apartment with a bottle of tequila. King and Mohan promised only one drink, just one, come on, you need it. Javadi was supposed to come too, but she bailed last minute—something about studying for boards and not wanting to get caught at another bar underage.

So now it’s the five of you crammed into a booth at this dive bar near the hospital in downtown Pittsburgh, the one with sticky floors and pool tables missing half the balls. The music is too loud, but the company is easy. Whitaker is doing some elaborate retelling of a patient who tried to fake a heart attack to get out of paying his copay. Mohan is crying from laughter. You’re sipping something sweet and strong and trying to let it all melt away.

It’s working.

Until you see him.

Jack.

He’s across the bar, half-shadowed under the neon sign, nursing a beer like he doesn’t want to be seen. But he’s not alone.

Robby’s with him. Of course he is.

They’re leaned in close, not talking much. Just sitting. Watching.

No—he’s watching.

You.

Your drink stills halfway to your mouth. Your stomach twists, not violently, but enough to knock the wind out of you. Jack doesn’t look away. Not immediately. Just holds your gaze like it hurts him. Like it should.

You force yourself to blink, to laugh at something Whitaker says. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking. You pretend you don’t feel your entire body tuning itself to the sound of his silence.

He rejected you. You know that.

But the way he’s looking at you now? It doesn’t feel like rejection.

It feels like longing.

And maybe that’s worse.

You down the rest of your drink in one go. It burns less than it should.

There’s a man at the bar. Mid-forties, maybe older. Salt-and-pepper beard. Expensive watch. He catches your glance and offers a smile that’s a little too polished, a little too practiced—but you return it anyway. Because he’s older. Because he’s sharp-eyed. Because he reminds you, in all the wrong ways, of someone else.

You excuse yourself from the table before anyone can stop you.

You take your drink, your heels, and your broken pride, and you slide onto the stool next to him.

Jack sees. Of course he does.

You make sure he does.

“Can I buy you another?” the man asks, nodding to your empty glass.

You smile. “Yeah. Why not?”

You laugh too easily. Let your shoulder brush his as he leans in. He says something you don’t hear because your pulse is thundering in your ears.

Across the bar, Jack’s jaw is tight. His hand clenches around his beer bottle, the label peeling beneath his thumb.

You tilt your head back and laugh again—this time louder, brighter, crueler.

Because if you’re going to hurt, you want him to feel it too.

And he does.

You can see it in the way he breaks eye contact first.

You can see it in the way Robby says something and Jack doesn’t respond.

You can see it in the way he stands up a minute later, like he can’t stand to watch anymore.

But he doesn’t leave.

He moves.

Across the bar. Slow, deliberate. Controlled rage in every step.

Robby calls after him, eyebrows lifted, confused—but Jack doesn’t answer.

He stops a foot away from you, the stranger mid-sentence, and you feel it before you even look up—heat rolling off of him like a storm about to break.

“Can I talk to you?” Jack says. Voice low. Measured. Barely held together.

You arch an eyebrow, take a long sip of your drink. “Busy.”

The man beside you glances between the two of you, sensing something sharp in the air. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

Jack’s eyes are locked on yours. Not the stranger’s. Not anyone else’s.

“You need to come with me,” he says, lower now. “Now.”

And it’s not a command. It’s not even a plea. It’s desperation wrapped in control, fraying at the edges.

You consider refusing. You want to.

But you rise anyway.

And follow him out the door.

The air outside is colder than you expected. Or maybe that’s just him.

Jack doesn’t speak right away. He walks fast—toward the lot behind the bar, where his car is parked beneath a crooked streetlamp. When he finally stops, it’s with his back to you. One hand on his hip, the other raking through his hair. The kind of stillness that comes right before something breaks.

You follow, heart hammering. He turns.

“What the hell was that?”

Your arms fold across your chest. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

His eyes flash. “The guy. The flirting. You were trying to—”

“Trying to what?” you snap. “Move on? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Jack exhales, sharp and uneven. “You don’t get it.”

“No, Jack. I really don’t. You said this couldn’t happen. You told me to forget it, forget you. And then you stare at me like that? Like you’ve got any right to be angry?”

“I’m not angry,” he bites out. “I’m—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Silence stretches. You can hear the distant music from inside, laughter spilling through the front entrance. But here? It’s just you and him, and everything you haven’t said.

“I didn’t want to do that to you,” he says finally, voice frayed. “Push you away. I just… I didn’t know how else to make it stop.”

Your voice lowers. “Why would you want it to stop?”

He steps forward once. Close, but not touching. His hands stay at his sides like he’s afraid of what will happen if he reaches for you.

“Because it scares the shit out of me,” Jack says. “Because you matter more than you should. And because I don’t trust myself not to fuck that up.”

Your heart twists. “So instead you say things to make me hate you?”

“I thought if you hated me, it would be easier for both of us.”

You laugh—soft, bitter. “It’s not.”

His voice breaks. “I know.”

You look at him. Really look at him. There’s pain there—old and festering. The kind that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever he’s been dragging behind him since the war, since before.

You take a breath. “So what now?”

Jack steps even closer. You can feel the heat of him again. His eyes drop to your mouth, then snap back up like he’s furious with himself for even looking.

“You came out here,” you say.

“I didn’t want to watch someone else touch you,” he admits.

“Then don’t make me someone you can’t have.”

There’s a beat.

And then he’s kissing you.

Rough. Desperate. Like he’s been holding it in for years and it’s finally breaking loose. You answer it without hesitation, fisting your hands in his shirt, dragging him down like you’re daring him to finally stop pretending.

He presses you back against the car, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His mouth is on yours—hungry, ragged—like if he slows down, this will disappear.

“Back seat,” he growls. His voice scrapes through your chest.

He opens the rear door behind you, hand never leaving your hip, guiding you with him. You climb in first, crawling across the backseat with your heart in your throat. By the time you turn, he’s already sliding in after you, pulling the door shut behind him with a solid, final thud.

He grabs your face with both hands and kisses you again, harder this time, like his life depends on it. You climb into his lap, straddling him now, knees on either side of his thighs, your bodies pressed close and flushed with heat. He shoves your coat off your shoulders, pushes your shirt up. You tug his top over his head and toss it somewhere in the car.

“God,” he mutters, eyes raking over you. “You’ve been driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it.”

He does.

He unhooks your bra with one hand—like muscle memory—his mouth already on your chest, teeth and tongue working in tandem. His other hand splays across your lower back, holding you close as your hips grind down into his.

You’re panting. He’s shaking.

You reach between you, working open his belt, and feel him throb beneath the fabric. Jack shudders when your hand slips inside, groaning low into your skin.

“Wallet,” he mutters against your neck, voice breathless. “Inside pocket.”

You grab it. Your fingers move fast, practiced by adrenaline. You find the condom tucked there, tear it open, and hand it to him. His eyes meet yours as he rolls it on—slow, deliberate. Controlled, even now.

You brace yourself on his shoulders and lower down onto him, taking him inch by inch until he’s seated fully inside you.

The stretch burns in the best way. You gasp. He swears.

You don’t move. Not yet.

He kisses your jaw, your collarbone. Holds your hips steady with both hands like he’s savoring the feel of you. And when you start to move—hips rolling slow and deep—he leans his head back and groans your name like it’s the only word he knows.

“You feel—fuck, you feel like heaven,” he breathes.

You ride him hard, your rhythm building, mouths colliding again and again between moans. His grip bruises your thighs as he thrusts up to meet every movement, his control slipping with every second you stay on top of him.

Then suddenly—he shifts.

His arms wrap under your thighs, and in one smooth, powerful motion, he lifts you.

You gasp as he turns, guiding you onto your back across the seat. He stays inside you the whole time, never letting go, until your back hits the cool leather and he’s towering over you, braced between your legs.

“You okay?” he asks, breath ragged.

You nod, already whining for more.

Then he starts to move again—deep, relentless, rocking the car with every thrust.

He shifts, bracing one hand beneath your thigh to push your leg higher, opening you up to take him deeper. The angle hits something devastating—you cry out, fingers clutching at his shoulders.

Jack leans down, mouth hot at your neck, breath ragged.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice cracked and raw. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Jack.”

His hand slides down your side, gripping your hip for leverage—then slips between your bodies. His fingers find your clit and start to circle, firm and focused, his pace never faltering.

It sends you over the edge.

You break apart beneath him—back arching, thighs trembling, his name ripped from your mouth like a prayer you didn’t know you were saying.

You’re still shaking when he comes—groaning into your shoulder, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep one last time and lets go.

Afterward, you don’t speak right away.

You’re tangled together. His chest is against yours. His arms still hold you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. Your heartbeat stutters beneath his palm. The windows are fogged, the car soaked in heat and the weight of everything that just happened.

You stroke a hand through the back of his hair, calming him more than you.

Finally, he shifts, settling beside you, your body still half-curled on top of him.

And quietly, you say:

“I followed you out because I thought you were going to leave again.”

He freezes.

You feel his breath catch against your shoulder.

“You left once,” you say. “After I told you how I felt. You didn’t look at me. Didn’t say anything. Just made it clear I’d imagined all of it. And tonight? I thought you were about to do it again.”

His voice is tight when he finally speaks.

“I almost did.”

You nod slowly. “Why didn’t you?”

Jack exhales hard. “Because I saw you with him, and I knew—if I walked away again, I wouldn’t just lose you. I’d be choosing to.”

He turns your face toward him.

“And I couldn’t live with that.”

You search his expression. His hand brushes a strand of hair from your face, and then settles on your cheek.

“I tried to kill it,” he says. “Tried to convince myself it wasn’t real. But it is. And it’s too big to ignore.”

“Big love,” you whisper.

He nods. “Yeah. The kind that burns everything else down.”

You press your forehead to his.

“I waited. Through all of it—every time you pretended you didn’t feel this, too.”

His eyes close. Like the truth hurts more than anything else tonight.

“I don’t know how to want you without wanting all of it,” he admits.

And you don’t need him to explain what all of it means.

The chaos. The risk. The weight.

You nod. “Good. Because I don’t want halfway.”

He leans in—presses a kiss to your cheek, then your lips, soft now. Careful.

And finally—finally—he says, “Then I won’t run anymore.”

You believe him.

But only because Big Love doesn’t let you run.

It lives. Loud. Messy. Permanent.

And tonight, in the heat of a parked car, Jack finally lets it have him.

[player042]

HEARTBEAT | kang dae-ho.

pairing: kang dae-ho (player 388) x reader

summary: during the third game you reunite with dae-ho who is everything but thrilled to have his pregnant girlfriend surrounded by death. requested here.

warning: pregnant!reader, established relationship, hot baby daddy dae-ho 😫 angsty and emotional, mention of financial struggles, survival themes, please enjoy ♥️

word count: 2.8k

The door slammed shut behind you, the loud clank of the mechanism sealing you and Dae-ho inside the small, dimly lit room just as the timer hit zero. For a moment, the air felt charged, thick with all the words left unspoken. You stood frozen near the wall, your hands instinctively cradling your belly, while Dae-ho's tall frame loomed near the door. His jaw was clenched tight as you heard gunshots and screaming coming from the other side of the door, his eyes were fixated on the floor as if forcing himself to maintain composure.

Neither of you had so much as exchanged a meaningful glance in front of the others, too scared of what even a flicker of familiarity might invite in this place where alliances were fragile, and vulnerability was a target. But here, in this room, with no one else watching...

"Dae-ho," you breathed, the sound of his name cracking the tension like a dam breaking.

His head snapped up, and within seconds, he crossed the distance between you, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you fiercely, desperately. It wasn't soft or tender, it was raw, like he'd been holding his breath for days and could finally exhale. His lips moved against yours as if trying to drink in everything he'd been forced to repress since seeing you again.

"You're here," he murmured against your lips, his voice trembling as he pulled back just enough to look at you. His hands slid to your shoulders, down your arms, as though reassuring himself that you were real. "God, you're really here."

Your breath hitched, your chest tightening as the weight of his words hit you. "I didn't want you to know," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

"That's obvious," he said bitterly, his thumb brushing over your cheek. His gaze softened, his worry bleeding through the anger. "You shouldn't be here. What the hell were you thinking? You're pregnant. And you joined this… this hell?"

Tears stung your eyes as you turned your head away, breaking his gaze. "What choice did I have?" you said, your voice cracking. "We're drowning in debt, Dae-ho. The baby needs a future. What else was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to rely on me," he snapped, his hands dropping to his sides, his frustration spilling over. "I would've-" He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair as he paced the small room. "I would've done something. Anything. But you just- You didn't even tell me. You just left me out of this."

"I didn't want to drag you down," you said, your voice trembling. "You've already done so much for us, Dae-ho. I couldn't-"

"Don't," he interrupted, his voice low but sharp. "Don't give me that. You didn't drag me down. You're the one thing in my life that kept me sane." He stopped pacing and turned back to you, his gaze piercing. "And now you're here, risking not just your life but our child's. Do you have any idea what it felt like seeing you out there? Pretending I didn't know you? Pretending I didn't care?"

"I didn't want to need you," you confessed, "Because needing you… it scared me. It still does."

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he looked away, his hands balled to fists before he relaxed them again. "You can need me, damn it," he said softly, his voice low but fierce. "You think I don't need you just as much?"

You pressed a hand to your stomach, the guilt and fear twisting inside you, whispering,"If they know we're connected, they could-"

"I don't care what they do to me," he cut in quickly, his voice rising. "You should've thought about what it would do to me if something happens to you. If something happens to our baby."

The silence that followed was heavy, the air between you thick with regrets. Finally, Dae-ho took a deep breath and stepped closer, his hands finding your shoulders again. His voice softened, though the edge of desperation still lingered. "We'll figure this out, okay? We'll keep our distance in front of the others, but I need you to promise me something."

You looked up at him, your heart aching at the vulnerability in his eyes. "What?"

"You don't take unnecessary risks," he said firmly. "You stick to the safest options. You stay out of the way whenever you can. And if there's even a hint of danger, you let me handle it. Got it?"

You hesitated, the weight of his words pressing down on you. "I'll try," you said finally, knowing it was the best promise you could give.

He exhaled, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "That's not good enough," he murmured. "But it'll have to do."

For a moment, the two of you just stood there, holding onto each other as the reality of your situation loomed over you. His arms wrapped around you gently, one hand resting protectively over your belly.

"I'll get you out of here," he said softly, his voice full of conviction. "You and the baby. I swear it."

Dae-ho held you close for a moment longer before stepping back, his hands still lingering around your waist. His gaze softened, though the worry didn't leave his eyes.

"You should stick to Jun-hee," he said, his voice firm but kind.

You blinked at him, confused. "What?"

"She's part of my team and she's pregnant too," he explained. "If you two stick together, it'll make it easier for me to keep an eye on you. I know I can't be obvious about us, but at least this way, I'll know you're not alone. And I can look out for both of you without drawing attention."

You opened your mouth to argue, but something about the way he looked at you, pleading, almost desperate, made you pause. "You're really planning to take care of two pregnant women in a place like this?"

He huffed a humorless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's just… what I do. I can't not try to help. You know that about me."

"That's not an excuse," you said back, your frustration bubbling to the surface. "You're acting like this is all on me, but what about you? Why are you even here, Dae-ho? You didn't exactly tell me you were planning on joining these games either!"

His expression faltered, guilt flashing across his face. "I was trying to protect you," he admitted quietly. "I didn't want you to know. I thought I could-"

"Could what?" you interrupted, "Fix everything? Take on the world by yourself? You think that's what I wanted? You think I wouldn't have tried to stop you if I knew?"

"I didn't want you to stop me," his shoulders slumped, "I thought if I could win… I could pay off everything. For both of us. For the baby. I didn't want you to worry about anything anymore."

You stared at him, your heart aching at the sincerity in his voice, but the frustration didn't subside entirely. "So you thought it was okay to risk your life without telling me but not okay if I want to do the same? That's not protecting me, Dae-ho. That's keeping me in the dark."

"I know," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But when I saw you here…" He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. "I didn't know whether to be furious or terrified. And now we're both in this mess."

The silence stretched between you, heavy and tense. Finally, you sighed, the fight draining out of you. "As you said, we're in this together now," you said, your voice quieter. "Whether we like it or not."

He nodded, his eyes locking with yours. "And as I said, I'll make sure you make it out of here," he said firmly. "You and the baby. No matter what."

"And what about you?" you asked, your voice trembling. "What happens to you, Dae-ho?"

"That doesn't matter," he said without hesitation. "What matters is that you survive."

The conviction in his voice made your chest tighten, and you shook your head. "I'm not letting you sacrifice yourself for me. Not again."

"We'll figure it out," he assured softly, reaching out to take your hand. "One game at a time. But for now, promise me you'll stick with Jun-hee. Please."

You hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. Finally, you nodded. "Fine. But promise me something too."

"Anything," he said without missing a beat.

"You don't do anything reckless," you said, your voice firm. "No heroics, no self-sacrificing. If we're getting out of here, we're doing it together."

His lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. "Deal."

For the first time since joining these games and for the first time for a very long time, you felt a flicker of hope, fragile, but real. Whatever came next, at least you weren't alone.

Dae-ho let out a shaky breath, and before you could say another word, he sank to his knees in front of you. The sudden movement caught you off guard, but it wasn't until his arms wrapped gently around your waist that your breath hitched. He rested his forehead lightly against your stomach, his large hands cradling your sides with the utmost care, as though you might break.

"Dae-ho," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

He didn't respond immediately, just stayed there, holding you as if you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world. After a moment, he tilted his head slightly, his cheek pressing against your belly. His warm breath fanned through the fabric of your shirt, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, tender, almost reverent.

"I can't believe it," he murmured, his gaze softening as it dropped to your stomach. He placed a hand there, his palm warm and loving. "There's a piece of us right here." You couldn't help but smile.

His voice was quiet when he spoke again, the words almost a prayer.

"Hey, little one," he murmured, his words directed at the life growing inside you. "It's me… your dad."

Your hands moved instinctively, threading through his hair. The soft strands slipped between your fingers, grounding you in this surreal moment. Dae-ho closed his eyes at your touch, leaning into it like a man starved for comfort.

"You probably can't hear me yet, but…," he continued, his voice trembling slightly, "I need you to be strong, okay? Just like your mom. And I promise,  I'm going to do everything I can to keep you two safe. You're my whole world now, you know that? Both of you."

A lump formed in your throat as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You hadn't expected this, this unfiltered love pouring from him. It made the weight of your circumstances feel both heavier and lighter at the same time.

"I bet you're going to be just like her," he said with a small chuckle, his hand gently rubbing your side. "Strong, smart, way too stubborn for your own good."

You let out a teary laugh, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Hey, don't encourage that."

He tilted his head back slightly, looking up at you with a crooked grin that melted your heart. "Can't help it. It's in the genes."

His gaze softened as he looked back at your stomach, and he pressed a gentle kiss to the fabric of your shirt, his lips lingering for a long moment. The action was so tender, so full of love, that it nearly brought you to your knees as well. He rested his forehead there again, his arms tightening around you.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "For everything. For not being there when you needed me. For making you feel like you had to do this alone."

"Dae-ho," you whispered, your own voice cracking as you cupped his face, guiding him to look up at you. "You're with us. That's all that matters."

He swallowed hard, nodding as his hands slid down to hold yours. "I swear to you, I'm not going anywhere. I'll fight through hell if I have to. I'll keep you safe, no matter what it takes."

The tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over, and you knelt down with him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pressed your forehead against his. 

"We'll survive this," he repeated softly, his breath warm against your temple. "And when we get out… we'll make a real life together. The three of us."

You hesitated, your heart hammering as you realized it was the moment to tell him. "Four," you said softly, your hand covering his where it rested protectively over your stomach.

His body stiffened slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Four?" His voice was cautious, almost as if he were afraid to hope.

You nodded, your throat tightening as emotion swelled. "Before I came here, I had a doctor's appointment, and… we're having twins, Dae-ho."

The silence that followed was deafening, his stillness unnerving. For a moment, you worried you'd broken him, but then he slightly leaned back on his knees, his eyes wide and glassy as they searched yours.

"Twins?" he repeated, the word barely audible. His hand shifted, trembling slightly as it moved to cradle your stomach. He said nothing for a while, just staring at you as if trying to comprehend what you'd just revealed. His lips parted, a shaky exhale escaping as his thumb traced over the fabric covering your belly.

"Twins," he repeated again, this time with a mix of wonder and disbelief. "We're having twins?"

A small smile tugged at your lips, despite the tears streaming down your face. "Yes. I wasn't sure how to tell you… or when. But yeah. Two little ones."

His head dropped, forehead again pressing gently against your stomach as he let out a quiet, shaky laugh. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. "Two," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't know whether to cry or laugh."

Your fingers softly tucked a strand of hair away from his beautiful face, "You can do both," you said gently, "I did."

He tilted his head up to look at you, and the raw emotion in his eyes took your breath away. His lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn't quite hide the tears slipping down his cheeks. "Twins," he said again, shaking his head slightly. "I didn't even know how I was going to handle one. Now there are two of them. Two little… us."

The way he said it, so in awe, so full of wonder, made your chest ache. "I wasn't planning on telling you here," you admitted, "Not in this nightmare. But I couldn't… I couldn't keep it to myself anymore."

"I'm glad you didn't," he said, his voice steadying. He cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears you didn't even realize had fallen. "No matter what happens in this hellhole, no matter how dark it gets, knowing they're waiting for us? It's everything."

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Dae-ho, we can't let this place take us."

"It won't," he said firmly, his jaw tightening. "I won't let it. We'll make it. I'll make damn sure of it."

His hands slipped back down to your waist, his fingers splaying over your belly as though he could somehow shield the life growing inside you from the horrors outside. "Two little heartbeats," he murmured, his voice softening. "Do you know what that means?"

You tilted your head, a small smile playing on your lips. "What?"

"It means we're going to need twice the strength," his gaze locked with yours, "But it also means we've got twice the reason to fight. Twice the reason to win."

You leaned forward, your noses almost touching, your hands covering his on your stomach. "We'll do it together," you assured quietly. "The four of us."

"The four of us," he echoed, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss so tender it left you breathless. "You're stuck with me now. Forever."

You let out another teary laugh, the sound mingling with his soft chuckle. "I've been stuck with you for years, Dae-ho. And I wouldn't have it any other way."

For a moment, the world outside that room, the horrors of the games, didn't exist. It was just two lovers holding onto each other and the heartwarming hope bound on a fragile string of the future that was worth fighting for. You allowed yourselves to feel it, this unwavering love, this promising hope that had been buried beneath the fear. It wasn't much, but it was enough to remind you both why you were fighting, to survive, to protect, and to make it out of this nightmare as a family.

And whatever came next, you knew you wouldn't face it alone.

[homeofthelonelywriter]

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2

John silently cursed at his stupidity as he watched you disappear into the waves. During the last few days, all of them had realized what they all had been missing and needing. And it was you. While you were around, they could forget about their job, about the horrors plaguing their minds. The way your eyes sparkled when you smiled at them, made them realize that all they wanted, was to keep you close. To be able to look into your eyes forever. Just the night before, John had decided that it was finally time to retire. When he told the others, even though they were younger, they echoed his choice and the very same day they had called Kate and told her what they had decided.

She wasn’t surprised, and John couldn’t help but wonder if she knew about the little secret hidden beneath the surface. If she knew that by sending them there, it would make them realize what life was about. At the same time, he didn’t care. All he and the others could focus on, were you.

He caught Kyle sitting by the window, staring out at the waters, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. He noticed how Johnny suddenly was an early riser just so he could head out and meet you halfway on your way to them. Or how Simon walked with a straighter back when he left the house to go and meet you. How the load that usually pressed down upon his shoulders seemed to lift whenever you were around. And how you got him to laugh. It wasn’t loud, or boisterous, but it was a laugh nonetheless. And John adored you even more because of the relief you brought to his team.

So, watching you fleeing brought guilt to his mind. If he had now spooked you away for good, taken you from his men, he would never forgive himself. “Where is our Ariel?” It was Johnny, carrying a tray with sliced fruit, who pulled John from his stupor. As he watched the Sergeant walk up to him, he considered lying. But the genuine joy in Johnny's eyes stopped him. “She ah…she left.” His shoulders dropped, a frown pulling at his brows. “Why?”

Before John answered, he waited for Simon and Kyle to join them. He didn’t want to confess his mistake three times. While recounting the events, he didn’t dare look into his men's eyes, afraid of the disappointment in them. But when he was done and looked up, they were filled with understanding, hope, and resolve. “’s fine cap. She’ll come back, I know it.”

And Johnny was right. You came back. You didn’t even make it back to your home before you turned around and swam in the direction you came from. Not for a single moment, did that tiny voice inside you shut up. It kept nagging, spinning you pictures of your future with these men. What was there to lose anyway? You didn’t have anyone down here, no one who would wonder where you were or would be worried.

So, you turned around, exhausting yourself to get to them as quickly as you could and when you breached the surface, you felt four pairs of eyes on you. Immediately, you found the one you had the strongest bond with and reached out to him. Without hesitation, he came to you and when you wrapped your arms around his neck, lifting yourself partway out of the water, his arms supporting you, and whispered, “Kiss me.”, he didn’t hesitate. How could he? How could he when it had been everything he had been thinking about since he met you?

As his lips slotted against yours, your body melting against his as if you had been made for him, you felt your fin melt away and part as it turned into a pair of legs. You couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, as you felt the water splash around your toes, the sensation ticklish in a way you had never experienced before.

The splashing of water, as three pairs of feet rushed toward you, pulled you from your bliss, as your lips parted. Before you knew it, the others reached for you, lips finding every part of you, as you giggled in their arms. “You’re our now, love.” You grinned at John, whose arms were wrapped around you at that moment, and nodded. “All yours.”

A/N: Again, inspired by @beloveds-embrace. A little shorter this time and I tried to keep it vague, who kissed and turned you, so you all could pick your favorite! Let me know who you picked! 🥰 Also, I think I have one more part in me, something cute where you learn how to human. And maybe a bit of spice. 😉 (Also, would ya'll be interested in constant tag lists? Like, whenever I post smth Ghost, I'll tag you, etc.?)

@totalapathy @soniiyi @littleindulgences @harmonysonata @dotmistbird @z-wantstowrite @small-mean-dwarf @kthehoeforfictionalmen @limeleag @terrifiedanimegirl @herefor-tojis-tits @armycaratlover @enfppuff @thychuvaluswife @theoreticalfreak @mxtokko @moonstruks @littleindulgences @aneternallyexhaustedpigeon @kawaii-michealmyers @starlightkitten19 @glitteryarcadefart @sw33tsnow @stargirl-mo @dravenskye

[catchastarorten]

—Hey, brother.

Pairing: Hwang In-ho x Hwang Jun-ho x sister!reader

Summary: after your father went through a second marriage, there was suddenly a new brother in your life, Jun-ho. While In-ho gave up so much of himself to save the ones he loved, like Jun-ho, you couldn’t help the one that In-ho loved the most, his wife. In-ho disappeared after that, but you couldn’t give up searching for him.

Warnings: angst, use of y/n, grief/loss, guilt/self-blame, mentions of illness, mentions of death, mentions of organ donation, if you watched the show you should be fine, English is not my first language, mistakes should be present, not proofread, sorry!

Word count: ~ 1.6k

The air in the house always felt heavy when you thought about In-ho. But It wasn’t always like that. You used to laugh here. You used to sit around the dinner table, teasing Jun-ho about his crushes or arguing over who’d do the dishes. Back then, your family had found ways to stay intact despite all its flaws. You, In-ho, and Jun-ho were bound by something stronger than blood.

But things had changed. They had fractured slowly, piece by piece, until you were left holding jagged shards of what once was.

You still remember when your father remarried. You were young, barely old enough to understand what it meant to have a “stepmother” and a “stepbrother.” Jun-ho had come into your life like a soft, hesitant breeze, unsure of his place. You’d been unsure too, unsure if you were supposed to treat him like a stranger or a brother. But then one day, he got sick—a fever so high you thought he might burn away entirely.

In-ho didn’t hesitate. He had been younger back then, but he was the oldest of the three of you, the protector, the one who had to shoulder responsibility, he thought.

He gave one of his kidneys to Jun-ho to save him. You found out later when your stepmother sobbed into his shoulder, thanking him over and over again.

“I’m just doing what needs to be done,” he had said quietly, as if it were no big deal. But to you, it was everything. In-ho was your hero, the glue that held your world together.

In-ho gave away a piece of himself so your stepbrother could live. It had been an act of selflessness that cemented something unspoken between the three of you: you were family, no matter the circumstances.

Things were good for a while after that. The three of you had your arguments, your moments of distance, but there was love. You and Jun-ho grew closer, and there was always this warmth when he smiled at you, it felt like he had been there your whole life—his little sister.

In-ho watched over the both of you with the quiet patience of someone who had put it on himself to take on too much responsibility, as if he was you and Jun-ho’s guardian, you two always teased him about it.

And then, In-ho met her. The love of his life. She was sweet, with a laugh that filled any room she entered. You adored her immediately. You still remembered the way she blushed when she first came over, how In-ho’s eyes softened whenever she spoke. He was happier than you’d ever seen him, and it made your heart swell.

When they got married, it felt like a new chapter. They talked about building a family, about all the dreams they had for the future. For once, things seemed solid.

But life wasn’t kind. Not to you, not to your family, and certainly not to In-ho.

When she got sick, it was like a storm cloud had settled over everything. You could see it in the way In-ho’s hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, in the dark circles under his eyes from sleepless nights spent worrying.

You wanted to help. You needed to help. Watching him crumble under the weight of helplessness was unbearable. Selling a kidney seemed like the only logical choice, right? Then you could get the money and pay for the treatment that would save her. It wasn’t a question of whether or not you should do it… it was a question of when.

But Jun-ho stopped you.

“Y/n, no.” he had said, grabbing your shoulders and shaking his head, his voice low with concern. “You can’t do this.”

“She’s dying, Jun-ho,” you shot back, your voice breaking. “And they’re having a baby. How can you just stand there and—”

“We’ll find the money another way,” he interrupted, his voice firm but filled with desperation. “Please, Y/N. Don’t do this.”

You didn’t want to listen. You wanted to storm out, to prove that you could save her, that you could do something. You had slipped away one night, signed the papers yourself, you were a grown adult who could make your own decisions, and you decided that you weren’t going to let the one good thing in In-ho’s life leave just like that. But before you could, before the surgery could start, it was too late.

She passed away, along with the baby in her stomach.

The day she died, the house felt emptier than ever. In-ho didn’t say a word. He just sat there, staring at nothing, his hands clenched into fists on his lap. You didn’t know what to say to him. No one did. Your stepmother tried, but he brushed her off. Jun-ho tried, but In-ho wouldn’t even look at him.

You tried.

“In-ho, I’m so sorry,” you whispered one night, standing in the doorway to his room.

He didn’t answer.

“I should’ve done more,” you said, your voice trembling. “I could’ve—”

“Stop.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a knife. He turned to look at you, his eyes hollow. “It’s over. She’s gone.”

The bitterness in his voice stung, and you didn’t know if it was directed at you, at himself, or at the world. You wanted to say something, anything, to bring him back to you. But the words wouldn’t come.

In-ho disappeared a week later.

You woke up to find his room empty, his things still scattered where he’d left them. There was no note, no explanation, just an aching void where he used to be.

Panic set in immediately. You called his friends, the hospitals, anyone who might’ve seen him. But no one had.

Days turned into weeks, and the silence stretched on, suffocating. You blamed yourself. You replayed every moment in your head, searching for where you had gone wrong.

“If I’d just gone through with it,” you told Jun-ho one night, your voice barely above a whisper. “If I’d just been a little faster, she might still be here. He might still be here.”

Jun-ho didn’t say anything at first. He just pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly like he could keep you from shattering completely. His hand stroked your back, his fingers threading through your hair as he whispered, “It’s not your fault, y/n. None of this is your fault.”

But the guilt didn’t go away. It clung to you, a constant reminder of what you hadn’t done.

You started dreaming about In-ho. In your dreams, he was smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners like they used to. You were kids again, running through the park near your old house, your laughter echoing into the night.

“Do you think we’ll always be like this?” you asked him in one dream, just like you had when you were younger.

“Like what?” he replied, his voice soft and warm.

“Together.”

He didn’t answer this time. He just smiled that bittersweet smile of his and walked away, leaving you alone.

You always woke up out of breath after those dreams, your eyes welled up in tears but they never fell, the ache in your chest sharper than ever.

Jun-ho tried to keep you grounded. He was your anchor, the only thing keeping you from spiraling completely. He spent hours searching for In-ho with you, combing through any lead, no matter how small.

“We’ll find him,” he said one night as you sat together on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder.

“What if we don’t?” you asked, your voice barely audible.

“We will,” he insisted, his tone firm. “He’s out there. And when we find him, we’ll bring him home.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that In-ho was somewhere, waiting for you to find him. But as the days turned into months, hope became harder to hold onto.

The memories were what kept you going. You held onto them like lifelines, replaying every moment you’d shared with In-ho.

You remembered the time he taught you how to ride a bike, running alongside you and laughing as you wobbled down the street.

“You’re doing it!” he’d shouted, his voice full of pride. “Don’t stop!”

You remembered how he used to sneak you extra snacks when your father wasn’t looking, smiling at you as he handed them over.

You remembered the way he’d held you when you cried after your first heartbreak, whispering that anyone who didn’t see how amazing you were wasn’t worth your tears.

Those memories were all you had left of him now. And no matter how much it hurt, you clung to them.

One night, you sat in In-ho’s old room, running your fingers over the things he’d left behind. A worn-out baseball glove. A stack of books he’d never finished reading. A photograph of the three of you, taken on a rare day when everything felt right.

“I miss you,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Please come back.”

The silence was deafening.

You didn’t stop looking for him. Even when the hope felt too small to hold, even when Jun-ho begged you to take a break, you kept searching. Because In-ho was your brother. He was the one who had always been there for you, who had given so much of himself to protect the people he loved, but you couldn’t give a piece of yourself to save what he loved the most, and you blamed yourself every day for that.

But still, you couldn’t give up on him. Not now.