#oh the pain of wanting to talk to someone about this but not wanting to spoil the story in case i actually write it someday......

[hottiesforhockey]

deal with the devil ⎜j.hughes

pairings: jack hughes x afab!reader genre: teammates sister⎜ friends with benefits ⎜secret relationship ⎜ warnings: vaginismus rep ⎜ fingering ⎜ fighting amongst friends :( ⎜ protective older brother curtis ⎜painful sex ⎜p in v ⎜public sex (...kinda) ⎜spitting ⎜curtis says some mean things about jack ⎜why do my jack fics always have him getting in a fight ⎜jack really is the kind to talk you through it ⎜ jack being oh so careful and gentle ⎜ synopsis: some things are private not secret - but your relationship with jack…oh that's definitely a secret. word count: 10k authors note: four nations jack has me feeling some type of way...this fic has some vaginismus rep in the smut scene with some mentions of painful sex so I hope everyone enjoys and let me know what you think!

(unedited)

You never pictured yourself as someone with a fuck buddy. 

You never pictured yourself having quickies in a supply closet. 

To be honest you never really pictured yourself doing anything other than sitting in a library studying … but here you are. 

 “You need to get up.” You hiss, smacking you pillow against the bare back in the bed next to you. You sigh, hitting the back one more time, before slumping against the mattress. “You’re insufferable.” 

“And yet you call me every weekend anyway.” The voice chuckles back, finally rolling onto his side facing you with a teasing grin on his face, his body lifting slightly as he reaches over you, turning off the alarm ringing on his phone. 

“Just admit that you like me.” He teases, his smile only growing as you shoot him a sharp glare. 

“I don’t like you, I just happen to get some satisfaction from your dick.” You mumble, finally smiling as his own expression drops. You’re not prepared to protect yourself and he launches forwards his arms wrapping around your waist pulling you down to a lying position as he wrestles to kneel above you, his hands gripping your arms as he pushes you into the bed. 

“Do you want to say that again, pretty girl?” He questions, his eyebrow quirked as you try to squirm in his hold. His grasp doesn’t falter for even a moment as you thrash beneath him, letting out soft chuckles every time you struggle a little too hard. 

“Fine, you win.” You whine, your body relaxing into the mattress as you stop your movements gazing up at the half naked man above you. “You look very handsome like this.” You comment, your eyes wandering over the man above you. His hair tousled, sharp eyes, his lips pulled back in a grin. His cheeks flush with heat and he watches you, watching him. 

You take the faltering in his grip to rip your arms from his hands, your thighs gripping onto his torso as you roll the two of you over, your hands taking the position his were in pushing his forearms into the mattress. His eyes trained on yours as you make yourself comfortable on his pelvis. 

“You win.” He mimics. You flash him a quick grin before leaning down to capture his lips with yours. It takes no more than five seconds for him to break free from your grip, his arms lifting off the mattress, his hands cupping either side of your jaw as he pulls you closer to him, one hand leaving your face to pull your hips down onto his. 

“Jack…” You mumble against his lips as you feel him smile against your lips, his own slowly trailing down your jaw as you drop your head to the side with a long sigh - Jacks hands making teasing motions against the edge of your panties, as the loud knock on your door startles you both. 

“Jack, dude we have to leave for practice in like fifteen minutes.” The voice of his roommate carries through the door, another sharp knock on the white wood pulling you away from the man below you. 

“You didn’t tell me he was here.” You hiss as quietly as possible, you’re quick to slide off the bed, reaching to the floor pulling your leggings on as quickly as possible before reaching over to Jack’s desk pulling on his hoodie. 

“I didn’t know he was.” Jack hisses back, making quick work of pulling on his own t-shirt just as the doorknob turns the two of you barely managing to get dressed as Jack’s brother steps into the room. 

“Dude, we have to leave — oh, sorry I didn’t know you were here.” Luke pushes open the door his gaze shooting to yours in surprise, you let your head fall in shame, the room falls silent as Luke looks between half naked Jack on the bed and then back to you - Luke had been the first one on the team to meet you through your older brother, when the youngest Hughes found himself abandoned to stay in jersey for all star weekend on his own - Curtis inviting him over for dinner so the young player would eat at least one home cooked meal that week. Luke had eventually introduced you to the rest of the team at events, insisting on you coming anytime your brother brought up inviting you, hence the awkward position you and Jack find yourself in now - Luke just sighs, shooting Jack a stern glare, “Look, I don’t even want to know.” Luke sighs, looking at both of you against with a shake of his head, “Curtis is gonna kill you, you know.” He remarks as he slips back out of the room, closing the door softly behind himself. 

This is not how things were meant to go. 

The silence that follows Luke’s departure is thick enough to suffocate. Jack runs a hand through his already messy hair, exhaling sharply as he swings off the side of his bed. “Well,” He says finally, dragging the word out as he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, tucking it away into his pocket. “That went well.” Jack lets out an ‘oof’ as you shove at his shoulder, rolling your eyes as you gather your stuff into your tote bag. 

“I can’t believe we got caught like that.” Your voice is a harsh whispers, your hands gripping your bag in frustration as you frown - you should’ve never let your guard down - of course Luke would be here, this is his house too. Jack just grins, unfazed as ever as he walks towards you, his hands landing on your hips as he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. 

“I mean I’m surprised we didn’t get caught earlier if he was here the whole time,” Jack starts, and you shove him off you as you realise where his words are about to go. 

“Don’t say it.” 

“You were pretty loud last night, if I do say so myself.” 

“You said it.” You huff as his teasing words, unable to ignore the burning rising up your neck, you shoot him a glance over your shoulder, shoving the rest of your stuff into your bag before turning to face him - Jack still looking like he wants to do nothing more then drag you back into his bed - an easy smile on his face.  You scoff at his bright smile, shoving him again before spinning toward the door, your heart still pounding from the close call. “I need to leave before my brother finds out and buries your body under the ice at the rink.” Jack chuckles, but there’s a flicker of something else in his expression—something that makes you pause for half a second. 

Before you can place it, he speaks again, his voice softer than before. “You know, I wouldn’t mind if he knew— maybe we should tell him before things get out of hand.”

Your stomach tightens.

You shake your head, refusing to acknowledge the weight behind those words. That’s not what this is. This isn’t supposed to be complicated. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement, nothing more.

“Tell him what,” you finally say, forcing a casual tone as you reach for the doorknob. “‘Hey curtis I’ve been fucking your sister for months and thought I should just let you know because I want to keep doing it just not in secret’.” You drop your voice in a bad impression of Jack, letting out a long sigh as you dismiss the idea, “It’s not going to happen, Jack.” Jack’s eyes darken slightly, but you don’t give him the chance to respond. You slip out of the room as quietly as possible, your pulse racing as you make your way down the hallway.

You send a quick nod to Luke who is perched by the kitchen counter sipping from his water bottle - “You’re continued silence is much appreciated.” You coo towards him as you slide into your shoes, the youngest Hughes brother shrugging. 

“He’d kill me too if he knew I knew - consider it for my own protection.” Luke hums, giving you a small wave as you slip out of the apartment. You let out an exhausted sigh as you get into the empty hallway - you shouldn’t be feeling like this—like you just barely escaped something dangerous. It’s just Jack. Just an ongoing mistake you keep making because, well…

You can’t seem to stop yourself. Something about Jack pulls you back each and every time you think of finishing things. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out, already knowing who it’ll be.

The Devil 😈: Next time, you should stay till I get back. We could ‘discuss’ things more

You roll your eyes, but your fingers hesitate over the keyboard.

Stay till I get back. 

Like it’s normal. 

Like everything about this is normal. 

You shove your phone back into your pocket without replying, picking up your pace as you head toward your car.

This has to end.

But deep down, you already know the truth: It won’t.

You don’t text him back.

Not that day. 

Not the next. 

Not for an entire week.

You tell yourself it’s for the best. That if you give yourself enough space, enough time, the pull toward him will lessen. That the way he makes you feel—like you’re skidding too close to the edge of something dangerous—will eventually fade.

But then Friday night rolls around, and you’re sitting on your bed, staring at your phone like an idiot, pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re waiting for.

“Are you coming over after the game tonight, pretty girl?”  You mimic, your same bad impression coming to the surface as you glare at your blank home screen. 

“Hey, are you coming to the game tonight? Renee can’t make it any more and I have that ticket.” Your brother knocks on the door the your room - well the spare room - poking his head in as he takes in your body sprawled across the bed, your gaze shooting up at him in surprise, as you body jumps a little, your hands automatically tucking your phone under your pillow as he lets out a soft chuckle. 

“I assume she didn’t get a chance to ask you.” He jokes, he already has his game day suit on - making you look so much worse in your pizza stained pyjamas. 

“I haven’t seen her all day.” You respond, confirming his suspicions that his wife never got the chance to ask if you want to go. “But I’m down if you can wait fifteen minutes to give me a ride?’ You say hopefully, a smile lighting up your face to mimic your brothers, his head nodding quickly as he shoots you an unsure glance. 

“I’ll give you twenty - you look like a mess.” He says with a grimace. 

“Ha Ha, very funny Curtis.” You sneer, sliding off the bed and shutting the door in his face as you glance around the room at any available clothing that might be lying around, “I knew I should’ve done laundry.” You manage to find some relatively clean jeans, and a cozy red hoodie, tugging them both on as you comb your fingers through your hair before securing it to the back of your head with a claw clip just as Curtis calls for you by the front door. 

“Are you coming or should I just assume you’ve died in your own filth?” He calls, your eyes rolling as you yank your purse of the back of the door, bolting down the stairs to meet your brother by the car. 

“My filth has not overcome me, as you can see.” You hiss as you slide into the passenger seat, your brother sending you an amused glance before pulling out of the driveway - the ride to the arena being relatively silent aside from the kids bop covers Curtis refused to turn off - you’ve never been more glad to get out a car then you were as he pulled into his spot at the prudential centre. 

“You know Luke was asking about you earlier today…” Curtis starts as you both slide out of the car, your brows furrowing as you look towards him, “Yeah, he was asking if you were coming today - said there was something he wanted to talk to you about.” Curtis continues, a knowing grin spreading on his face. 

“I don’t know why.” You say quickly, hiking your bag further up your shoulder as you glance over at him, the two of you making your way into the building. 

“Neither, but he’s a good kid.” Curtis starts, “Wouldn’t be mad if there was something going on between you two.” He adds, your brows raising in surprise jack’s words slicing through your head. 

I wouldn’t mind if he knew. 

“At least he’s nothing like his brother Jack, god he’s a piece of work.” Curtis cuts through your thoughts, “Don’t get me wrong, I love the kid but don’t even bother with someone like him — all he’ll do is break your heart.” He says quickly, your thoughts deflating quickly as you just nod along. 

After your joyous heart to heart with your brother, you find yourself standing outside the locker room, shifting on your feet as you wait. The hallway is buzzing with players walking in and out, staff moving quickly through the space, and the occasional fan sneaking glances inside. You’re distracted, lost in thought, when a passing player jostles you, your feet losing their place as you stumble, trying to catch yourself before ultimately giving up and just bracing for impact. 

“Woah, gotcha.” a pair of large hands grip your waist, steadying you. You blink up at Luke holding you upright, his hands firm against your sides. His expression is amused as you steady yourself, your fingers lightly gripping his forearm for balance. 

“Timo you gotta be more careful, we’ve got precious cargo over here.” Luke shouts down the hallway - a murmured ’sorry’ shot your way as the large Swiss player continues on his way. 

“Thanks, I really thought I was gonna eat shit for a second there.” You joke, Luke’s hands still firm on your waist until he’s sure you’ve caught your balance again and quickly releases you. 

“No problem - I swear you’re clumsier than me.” 

“Only when hockey players shove past me like I’m invisible.” you reply dryly, Luke chuckles as he helps you dust of the invisible dirt all over your clothes, “So, my brother said you were asking about me today?” You start, crossing your arms over your chest as you raise a brow towards the youngest Hughes brother. 

“Oh, yeah.” Luke starts slowly, rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh, “It’s just were trying to plan this congratulations party for Jack for making team USA and I was hoping you’d be able to make an appearance?” Luke explains, your eyes widening in surprise as your gaze shoots over where you are to look for signs of your brother - you grab hold of Lukes arm dragging him closer to the wall as you whisper. 

“I can’t go if Curtis is going to be there - it’s going to be too suspicious.” Luke lowers his head as the two of you continue your oh so secret conversation, not noticing the ever darkening presence coming up the hallway - their focus trained entirely on you and his younger brother huddled in the corner. 

“Curtis isn’t going - that’s the best part.” Luke starts, “He said he’s never support his teammates betrayal of Canda and to count him out.” He expands, your head nodding - it does sound exactly like something your brother would say - “Besides do you think I’m dumb enough to invite you and your brother, I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed but I know how to keep a secret.” You nod again, your grip releasing on Luke’s sleeve as you glance around the hallway, your eyes locking with Jack’s glaring blue ones as you step away from his brother. 

“Send me the details.” You say quickly, as you motion for Luke to glance over his shoulder, the boy jumping as his older brother slides up besides him. Jack’s grip on his duffel bag flexes before he steps forward, his movements deliberate. 

“You ready for the game?” Jack asks Luke, his voice even, but there’s a rough edge to it that wasn’t there before.

“Yeah, man, almost,” Luke replies casually, but even he seems to pick up on the change in Jack’s demeanour. Jack doesn’t acknowledge you at first, his gaze lingering on Luke for a second too long. Then, finally, his eyes flick to you, filled with something unreadable. “Just catching up with the littlest Lazar before the game.” He jokes, slinging his arm over your shoulder, definitely not catching the tension simmering off his older brother. 

Jack glances between the two of you again before marching off towards the locker rooms, Luke letting out a deep exhale as you push his arm off your shoulder. “Do you think he heard?” 

“Luke, I don’t think that’s your biggest problem.” 

+

+

The energy in the arena is electric. The crowd roars as the players hit the ice, the sharp scrape of skates against the surface sending a thrill through your spine. The Devils are locked in an intense battle against their rivals, the game fast and aggressive. You try not to focus too hard on Jack, but it’s impossible. Every time he’s on the ice, your eyes are drawn to him like a magnet.

He plays with the same recklessness he carries everywhere else in his life—fearless, fast, and a maybe little too confident. And for a while, it’s working. He’s everywhere, setting up plays, taking shots, chirping at the other team like he was born for it.

But then it happens.

It’s late in the second period when Jack takes a bad hit. You see it the second it unfolds—his body angled just slightly off balance when he gets checked hard into the boards, his body crumpling to the ice as he holds onto his side, his head pressing against the floor as he pulls himself on his knees. 

Your stomach lurches.

Jack stays down longer than he should, and the entire arena holds its breath. He shifts, attempting to push himself up, but it’s clear something’s off. Trainers rush onto the ice, helping him upright as he tries to shake them off, but you can tell from your seat—he’s rattled.

“Shit,” Nico mutters beside you - the captain still on the injury reserve after his own set back on the ice a few weeks ago - his jaw tight as he watches his teammate get escorted off the ice. You feel his eyes flick toward you, and you force yourself to stay still, to not react too obviously.

It doesn’t matter though, your pulse is hammering and all you can think about is whether Jack is okay. Everyone watches as Jack disappears down the tunnel, and you’re on your feet before you can think twice about it. “I’m gonna go grab some water,” you tell Nico hastily, ignoring the way his eyes narrow slightly at you.

You don’t give him a chance to question it before you slip into the crowd, heading straight for the hallway leading to the locker rooms. Security is tight, but you know enough people, recognise enough faces, that nobody stops you as you weave through the chaos. When you push past the door leading into the medical area, Jack is sitting on the exam table, his head down as a trainer checks him over. His jersey is half off, revealing the sheen of sweat on his skin, deep bruising already forming along his ribs. His hair is damp with sweat, and there’s a frustrated set to his jaw that tells you he’s pissed—at the hit, at himself, at the entire situation.

He doesn’t notice you at first, too focused on whatever the trainer is saying. But when the door clicks shut behind you, his head snaps up, eyes locking onto yours. Something flickers across his face—surprise, then something softer, something unreadable.

“You checking in on me, pretty girl?” Jack’s voice is slightly hoarse, his usual cockiness tempered by the clear ache he’s feeling. You roll your eyes, stepping further into the room, ignoring the way your heart clenches at the sight of him like this. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, arms crossing over your chest. “Just making sure you’re not dead. Luke would be devastated.” Jack huffs out a laugh, wincing slightly as the trainer adjusts the ice pack. 

“Yeah, Luke would be torn up.” He tilts his head slightly, looking at you from under damp lashes. “But what about you?”

You scoff, shifting on your feet, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze. “I’d be mildly inconvenienced.”

Jack grins, and despite the swelling starting on his cheek, he still somehow looks impossibly good. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

The trainer clears his throat, looking between the two of you before stepping back. “You need to sit out the rest of the game,” he tells Jack firmly. “I’ll let Coach know.” Jack groans but doesn’t argue, his gaze never leaving you. The trainer slips out, leaving you alone with him. The silence that settles is thick, charged with something you don’t want to acknowledge.

“You didn’t text me back.” Jack’s voice is quieter now, more serious.

“I panicked.” You shift your weight, your pulse quickening. “And I didn’t think there was anything to say.”

Jack studies you for a moment before shaking his head with a small, humourless chuckle. “Bullshit.”

Your stomach tightens. “Jack—”

“No,” he cuts you off, pushing himself up slightly, wincing but ignoring it. “You keep acting like this is just some stupid game, like none of this means anything, but we both know that’s not true.”

Your breath catches, your fingers curling into fists at your sides. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”

Jack lets out a sharp exhale, his frustration evident. “Or maybe you’re making things easier then they actually are.”

“This has to end eventually, right?” you whisper, more to yourself than him.

Jack’s gaze darkens, his fingers flexing against his knee. “Do you want it to?” You don’t answer immediately, because the truth is, you don’t know. “Is this because of Luke?” His question surprises you, your head tilting in confusion as he shakes his head slowly, “Never mind.” He shifts slightly, wincing as he moves, but his eyes stay locked onto yours. “You can keep pretending you can’t feel what’s right in front of your face, you can keep telling yourself it’s just a mistake,” he says, voice low, steady. “But we both know you’ll be back.”

Your stomach twists because he’s right.

He always is.

+

+

The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive - a chorus of cheers as you step through the door, each of the boys giving you a slight nod as you walk by them and into the Hughes brothers kitchen, the bottle of water in the cooler calling your name. 

“Oh, hey you made it.” Lukes voice carries through the kitchen, the lankiest Hughes shoving his way over to you, moving his teammates out of the way as he grabs his own drink from the cooler, leaning a hip against the counter as he smiles down at you. “I wasn’t sure you’d still come, Jack said it’s been a week or two since you two—” Luke hesitates, pursing his lip as he thinks for the right word, “talked.” He finishes, smiling as he takes a sip from his drink as you let out a low groan. 

“It felt wrong not to at least show my face.” You agree, rolling your eyes at looks teasing glance, his eyes locking on something over your shoulder, his face dropping quickly as he clears his throat. 

“Oh Curtis, what’re you doing here? I thought Canadians had no place in a team USA party.” Luke’s voice sends a shot of panic down your spine, a fake smile plastered on your face as you turn to face your older brother, who in return looks at you in confusion. 

“I wasn’t going to come to a filthy USA party but what kind of teammate would that make me?” Curtis teases, his arm slinging on your shoulder as he turns his attention down to you, questions in his gaze, “and it looks like I’m not the only Canadian here.” You let out a soft chuckle as you shuck your brothers arm off your shoulder, sending a pleading glance towards Luke. 

You hadn’t expected him to be here, and judging by the way Luke suddenly finds his drink fascinating, neither had he.

“Yeah, well,” you say, shrugging off his arm as casually as possible, “someone’s gotta get the inside scoop.” Curtis chuckles, but his gaze lingers on you a second too long, like he’s trying to piece something together. You don’t give him the chance, instead you decide that water’s just not going to cut it and reach to grab another drink from the cooler and twist the cap off, taking a slow sip as you scan the room.

You shouldn’t have.

Jack’s already looking at you.

He’s leaning against the far wall, a beer dangling from his fingertips, his darkened gaze locked on you with an intensity that makes your skin heat. He doesn’t move, doesn’t break eye contact, and for a moment, everything else—the music, the bodies pressed together in the living room, the weight of your brother standing too close—fades away.

You swallow hard, willing your pulse to settle, but the way Jack’s lips twitch, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, only makes it worse.

“Hey, you good?” Curtis’ voice pulls you back, his brows drawn together in concern. “You disappeared for a second there.” 

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look away. “Yeah, just tired from all my spying.” He doesn’t look convinced, but before he can push, a few of his teammates call his name, giving you the perfect excuse to step back. “I’m gonna grab some air,” you say, already moving. The night air is cool against your skin as you step outside onto the back deck, inhaling deeply as you press your palms against the railing. The music inside is muffled, just a low thrum beneath the distant hum of traffic and the occasional burst of laughter from the party still raging inside. But out here, it’s quieter—easier to breathe.

At least, it should be.

You can still feel the weight of Jack’s gaze from across the room, the way he looked at you like he already knew you’d end up here. Like he knew you’d run.

You close your eyes for a moment, tilting your head back as you exhale slowly, trying to shake the tension coiling in your chest. You shouldn’t have come tonight. You knew that coming would make things so much harder to avoid, to pretend like nothing was going on and yet here you were, standing outside during the congratulations for your achievement party of your fuck buddy.The door creaks open behind you, your thought spiral pausing as you take a long sip for your drink and even before he speaks, you know who it is.

“What are you doing here?” Jack’s voice is rough, edged with something you can’t quite place.

“It was too noisy in there.” You comment, not missing the way Jack lets out a soft chuckle. 

“You know that’s not what I meant.” 

You straighten but don’t turn around, keeping your hands braced against the railing. “I was invited.”

“That’s still not what I meant, I know you were invited. ” His footsteps are slow, deliberate, and then he’s next to you, close enough that the heat of his body seeps into yours despite the cool air. “So why did you come?”

You huff out a breath, finally turning to face him. “Does it matter?” Jack lets out a quiet, humourless laugh, shaking his head as he drags a hand through his already-messy hair. He looks frustrated, but more than that—he looks desperate.

“It matters,” he says, voice quieter now, like he’s afraid of what you might say. “It fucking matters to me.”

Your stomach twists, fingers tightening against the railing as you force yourself to hold his gaze. “Jack, don’t do this.”

His jaw flexes, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Do what?”

“I didn’t come here to fight with you.” You can’t help the sigh that falls from your lips, “don’t make this into something it’s not meant to be.” 

Jack exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

You stiffen. “Excuse me?”

“Bullshit,” he repeats, stepping closer. “You’re acting like you didn’t come here for the same reason I asked Luke to invite you—you think you can just pretend like there is nothing between us and I can tell that it’s killing you inside” He scoffs, his eyes flashing in the dim light. “You really think we can just go back to pretending like we were nothing after this?”

You swallow hard, your pulse pounding against your ribs. “I never thought we were nothing.” Jack’s expression falters for a split second before he recovers, stepping in even closer until there’s barely any space left between you. 

“Then what are we?” You don’t answer, because you don’t know how. Because if you say it out loud, it becomes real. Jack studies you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, looking for something—anything. And then, so quietly you almost don’t hear it—

“I want us to be something real.”

Your breath catches, your fingers digging into the railing behind you.

Jack takes a shaky breath, his voice lower now, raw. “I know what we agreed to in the beginning but—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t want to be just some guy you used to sleep with. I don’t want to be the mistake you try to forget.”

Your throat feels tight, your chest aching with something you don’t know how to name. “Jack—”

“No,” he interrupts, his hands flexing at his sides like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he’s allowed to. “Just tell me. If you really don’t feel anything—if this really was just some casual thing to you—tell me, and I’ll walk away.”His voice drops even lower, barely more than a whisper. “But if there’s even a chance—” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “If there’s even a part of you that feels the same way, just—don’t lie to me.” You look away, staring at the ground, because it’s easier than looking at him. 

Because if you meet his eyes, you’ll break.

Jack lets out a slow breath, nodding like he’s already bracing for the worst. “Okay,” he murmurs, barely audible. “I get it.”

He turns like he’s about to walk away, and something in you panics. Before you can stop yourself, your fingers curl around his wrist. Jack freezes. His breath is uneven when he turns back to you, his gaze darting from your hand on his skin to your face. Your heart is in your throat, pounding so hard you think he might be able to hear it.

And then, finally— “I don’t want you to walk away.” Jack exhales, his eyes closing for a brief moment, like he’s trying to keep himself together. When he opens them again, they’re filled with something so intense, so devastatingly real, it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

He steps closer, his free hand hesitating for only a second before he cups your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek.

“Then don’t make me.” His voice is barely a whisper now, his forehead nearly resting against yours. “Just let me in.” Jack’s breath hitches when you don’t pull away. His fingers tighten slightly where they rest against your jaw, like he’s grounding himself, like he can’t quite believe you’re here, letting this happen. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, your hand still curled around his wrist, keeping him close. For once, you don’t have the energy to fight it—to fight him. Jack shifts slightly, tilting his head just enough that his nose brushes against yours. His lips part, his breath warm against your skin. He’s so close.

 Just a little more and—

“What the fuck is this?” The sharp voice shatters the moment like glass. You jolt back, your pulse spiking as your head snaps toward the open doorway.

Curtis.

Your brother stands just inside the threshold, arms crossed over his chest, his expression a mixture of shock and pure, unfiltered anger. His dark eyes are locked onto Jack, his posture stiff, radiating hostility.

Shit.

Jack straightens but doesn’t step away from you. His jaw clenches as he meets Curtis’ glare, his whole body suddenly tense, like he’s already preparing for whatever’s coming — his body covering most of you as he lets out a soft groan.

“Curtis,” you start, stepping around Jack, but he shakes his head sharply, his lips curling into a bitter smile.

“Oh, don’t fucking ‘Curtis’ me,” he snaps, his gaze flicking between you and Jack. “What the hell is going on here?” You swallow hard, feeling like a kid caught doing something they shouldn’t. 

“It’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Curtis’ voice is tight, low with barely restrained anger. His eyes burn into yours, waiting for an answer, for some kind of explanation that won’t make him want to deck Jack right here and now.

Jack exhales sharply, finally turning to face your brother, stepping forwards and putting himself slightly in front of you. “It’s not exactly what you think.”

Curtis scoffs, his expression twisting. “Oh, really? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like you’re messing around with my sister.”

Jack’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back down. “It’s not like that.”

Curtis lets out a cold laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Because you’re such a committed guy, huh, Hughes? Never had a casual thing in your life?” He takes a step forward, his body language shifting from disbelief to outright anger. “Are you fucking serious?My sister?”

“Curtis—” you try, but he barely even spares you a glance.

“This is what you’ve been sneaking around for?” His voice rises, his gaze locked on you now, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Jack fucking Hughes?” He shakes his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Jesus Christ.”

Jack takes another step closer, his voice firm. “Neither of us is sneaking around.”

Curtis’ head snaps toward him, his expression thunderous. “No? Then what the fuck do you call this?”

Jack doesn’t flinch. “I care about her.”

Curtis lets out a sharp, humourless laugh. “You care about her?” He gestures between the two of you, his voice laced with disbelief. “What, like you care about all the other girls you’ve been with?”

Jack’s nostrils flare, his whole body going rigid. “That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” Curtis glares at him, stepping in close enough that they’re nearly chest to chest. “What’s not fair is you treating my little sister like she’s just another one of your hookups.”

Jack’s eyes darken, his fingers twitching at his sides like he’s forcing himself to stay still. His voice is low when he speaks, steady but sharp. “She’s not.”

Curtis scoffs. “Yeah? Then what the hell is she?”

Jack doesn’t hesitate. “She’s everything.” The air between them crackles with tension.

Curtis’ expression falters for half a second before his hands curl into fists, his whole body coiled like a spring. His gaze flickers to you, his jaw tight. “You actually believe this shit?”

You exhale slowly, meeting his eyes. “I—” You hesitate, your throat tightening. “It’s not that simple.” 

Curtis barks out a laugh, taking a step back and raking a hand through his hair. “Not that simple,” he repeats, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Jack shakes his head, his voice edged with frustration. “Look, man, I know this isn’t what you wanted—”

“No, you don’t know,” Curtis snaps, turning back toward him. “You don’t get it, Jack. She’s not—” He cuts himself off, his eyes flickering toward you for the briefest moment before he shakes his head. “She’s not one of them.���

Jack’s expression hardens. “I know that.”

Curtis lets out a bitter laugh. “Do you?”

Jack steps closer again, his voice rough, his whole body radiating tension. “I’m not playing games with her.”

Curtis narrows his eyes. “You really think you’re good enough for her?”

Jack’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t back down. “I don’t know,” he admits, voice tight. “But I know I’m not gonna walk away just because you don’t like it.”

Curtis stares at him, something unreadable flashing across his face. Then, suddenly, his shoulders shift, and before you can react, he’s moving.

“Curtis—!” you shout, but it’s too late.

His fist flies before either of you can stop it. It connects with Jack’s jaw with a sickening crack, sending his head whipping to the side, Jack barely reacting beyond a sharp inhale. He exhales, his jaw tightening as he lifts a hand to his face, his fingers brushing over the fresh bruise forming just below his cheekbone, a small cut on his cheek from Curtis’s wedding band.

He lets out a slow, steady breath before straightening.

He doesn’t hit back.

Curtis shakes out his hand, his breaths heavy. “Stay the fuck away from her,” he grits out.

Jack wipes at his lip, where a small bead of blood is forming, then lifts his gaze to Curtis—calm, steady. “That’s not your call to make.”

Curtis’ jaw clenches, his nostrils flaring. His gaze flicks toward you, his expression still tight with anger. “Come on. We’re leaving.” You hesitate, glancing at Jack. He’s already looking at you, his eyes soft despite the tension still simmering in the air. And that’s when you realise—he’s waiting for you to decide.

Curtis sees it, too.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “You can’t be serious.” Your pulse pounds. Jack doesn’t say anything, just watches you, his face unreadable but open, waiting, he wants you to make the choice. 

Leave now with your brother and this whole thing is over or stay. 

“You should go, Curtis.” You finally say, a glare focused on your brother as you slip your hand into Jacks, his fingers gripping yours for dear life, “You’ve done enough damage for one day, we can talk about this later.” You conclude tugging Jack behind you as you both slip inside, your hand guiding him through the crowd as you avoid his teammates questioning stares as you shove open the bathroom door slamming it behind the both of you with a click of the lock. 

Jack leans against the bathroom door, exhaling sharply, his fingers still wrapped tightly around yours, his jaw tight. His chest rises and falls with controlled breaths, though the slight tremor in his hands betrays just how hard he’s trying to keep himself together.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

You shake your head, your heart still pounding against your ribs. “Yes, I did.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable before he exhales, running a hand through his constantly messy hair. “Curtis might actually fucking kill me.”

You huff out a short, humourless laugh. “Well, considering he already got one good shot in, I’d say he’s off to a great start.” Jack winces as he touches his jaw, the skin already bruising from the hit. You step closer without thinking, your fingers reaching out before you can stop yourself. Jack stills, his gaze locking onto yours as your fingertips ghost over the tender skin.

“You should put some ice on it,” you murmur.

Jack doesn’t move. His breath is warm against your skin, his body still tense but rooted in place. “You don’t have to do this,” he says again, but this time, there’s something else in his voice. Something almost vulnerable.

“I know.” Your fingers trace lightly along the forming bruise, and Jack exhales, his eyes fluttering shut for half a second before they snap open again, pinning you in place.

A beat of silence stretches between you, heavy and electric.

Then, suddenly, he moves. One second, he’s standing there, looking at you like he’s fighting every instinct screaming at him to touch you, and the next, his hands are on your waist, his fingers gripping you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath fanning over your skin. “Please tell me to stop.”

You don’t. You can’t. Instead, you reach up, your fingers threading through the soft strands of his hair as you tug him down to you. Jack doesn’t hesitate. He crashes into you, his lips slanting over yours with a desperation that makes your knees weak.

The kiss is anything but gentle. It’s raw, urgent—like he’s been holding himself back for too long and he can’t anymore. His hands slide up your sides, pressing you against the door, pinning you between him and the cool wood as his lips move against yours like he’s trying to memorise the way you taste, the way you feel beneath his hands.

You gasp against his mouth, and Jack takes full advantage, his tongue sliding against yours, deepening the kiss until you feel dizzy from it. One of his hands moves up, fingers tangling in your hair as he tilts your head just right, devouring every sound you make like it’s the only thing keeping him breathing.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, his voice hoarse, almost wrecked. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted you.”

You do. Because you’ve wanted him just as much.

Jack groans softly as you tug at his shirt, your fingers slipping beneath the hem, pressing against the warm skin of his stomach.

His muscles flex under your touch, and he leans into you more, like he can’t get close enough.

Someone bangs on the door. “Occupied,” Jack snaps, barely breaking away from your lips before kissing you again, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, lifting you slightly as he presses you tighter against the door.

Your head is spinning, your skin buzzing, and you know you should stop—should at least slow down—but then Jack pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours.

“Tell me this is real,” he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming out in uneven pants. “Tell me I’m not making a fucking idiot of myself here.”

Your chest tightens. “Jack—”

“Tell me you want this as much as I do.” His voice is barely a whisper now, but the weight of it crashes into you like a tidal wave.

You reach up, cupping his face gently, your thumbs brushing over the bruise already forming on his cheekbone.

“I do,” you admit, your voice steady despite the way your heart hammers in your chest. “I do, Jack.”

The relief that washes over his face is immediate. He lets out a breath he must have been holding, his grip on you softening just slightly before he kisses you again—slower this time, but just as intense, just as desperate. Like he’s trying to make up for all the time you’ve wasted pretending this wasn’t inevitable. 

Jack’s hands move lower, fingers brushing the hem of your dress before slipping beneath, calloused fingertips dragging along the sensitive skin of your thighs. The touch is light at first, almost hesitant, but when you let out a soft gasp, pressing closer, he groans.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his lips trailing down your jaw, nipping at the skin just beneath your ear. “You’re gonna kill me.”

His hand slides higher, knuckles teasing along the crease where your thigh meets your hip, and you shudder at the contact. Jack tilts his head, watching your face as his fingers move, testing, teasing, until he finally slips them beneath the fabric of your underwear.

You suck in a sharp breath, your fingers digging into his shoulders, and he groans at the feeling. “Already so wet for me,” he murmurs, his voice rough, full of something that makes heat pool low in your stomach. “God, you’re perfect.”

His fingers find your clit, circling in slow, deliberate strokes, sending sparks of pleasure racing through you. Your head tips back against the door, a soft moan slipping from your lips, and Jack swallows the sound with a heated kiss, his movements never stopping, never slowing.

He presses against you, his free hand gripping your waist to keep you steady as he works against your clit, firmer this time. “We don’t have our supplies.” He whispers against the skin of your neck, pulling his fingers away as you let out a whine at the loss of sensation. 

“Jack—” Your voice is breathless, needy, and he shushes you with another kiss, his lips curling into a smirk against yours.

“I know, but it’s going to hurt you.” He grumbles, distracting you by sucking on your neck, sliding your underwear back into place as you shake your head. 

“It’s okay.” You coo, pulling his face away from your skin to look in his eyes. “It’ll only hurt for a little bit.” 

Jack’s expression shifts the moment the words leave your lips. That heat, that hunger—it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface—but something softer overtakes it. Concern. His fingers trace slow, absentminded circles on your thigh, grounding you.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice gentler now, “I know you’re saying that, but I don’t want you hurting just to give me something.” Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat. He knows. Of course he does. You’d told him before, in hushed conversations that never felt like they mattered as much as they do now.

“I want this, Jack,” you say, and it’s the truth. But still, your body hums with the familiar tension of anticipation—of wanting and fearing in equal measure.

Jack tilts his head, watching you like he’s searching for something. Then, slowly, he leans in, pressing the softest of kisses to your lips. “Let me help, okay?” Your breath shudders out of you as he kisses a slow path down your jaw, his hands shifting—one pressing against the small of your back, the other slipping between your thighs again, fingers teasing along the damp fabric of your underwear.

“You’re already so wet for me,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint, but there’s no rush in his movements now. “That’s good, baby. That’s gonna help.”

You nod, exhaling shakily. Jack hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down carefully, like he’s giving you time to change your mind. When you don’t, he kneels slightly, lifting one of your thighs over his so he can settle between your legs.

Then you watch as he brings his fingers to his lips, tongue flicking out to wet them before lowering his hand back down, dragging the slick digits along your entrance. The difference is immediate. Where tension had been bracing you for pain, Jack’s touch eases the worst of it, slick warmth helping him slide against you with more ease.

You whimper as his fingers stroke slow, deliberate circles around your entrance, never pushing, never rushing. Jack groans softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “That feel better?”

You nod, breathless.

“Good,” he rasps, lips brushing against yours as he moves again, teasing at your opening until, finally, he slides one finger inside. The stretch is there—but it’s different this time. Less sting, more pressure, more of the sweet, aching fullness you’d always wanted to enjoy without the pain. Jack watches your face the entire time, eyes dark and careful, his free hand stroking soothingly over your side. 

“That’s it, baby. Just like that.” You exhale, body relaxing a little more, and Jack presses a kiss to your temple. 

“We don’t have to rush,” he murmurs. “I just want to make you feel good. You tell me if anything doesn’t.” His words pull a soft laugh from your throat as you glance around the small bathroom, the sound of music playing just outside reminding you exactly where you are.  Jack keeps his pace slow, his touch deliberate. He watches every shift in your expression, every shudder of your breath, like you’re the most important thing in the world.

And to him, maybe you are.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth as he moves his finger inside you, testing, gauging your reaction. “You’re doing so good for me.”

The praise sends a different kind of warmth through you, pooling in your stomach. You exhale shakily, fingers curling into his shoulders. “Jack…”

He groans at the way you say his name, tilting his head to capture your lips again. This kiss is different—deeper, slower, laced with the same patience he’s giving the rest of you. His free hand strokes up your side, grounding you in the warmth of his touch. After a moment, his movements pause. “Can I try another?” His voice is hushed, full of care, and he doesn’t move until you give him a small nod. Jack swears under his breath when he slides another finger in, moving with even more caution now, waiting for any sign of discomfort. There’s a stretch, a pressure—but not the sharp, stinging pain you were bracing for.

“Still okay?” he asks, his forehead pressed to yours.

You nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “Mhm.” Jack exhales like he’s been holding his breath, kissing you again, his fingers moving in slow, careful strokes, coaxing pleasure from you with practiced patience.

 “That’s my girl,” he breathes against your lips. The words make your stomach tighten, pleasure curling low as he works you open, his touch easing some of the tension you didn’t realise you were still holding. Jack shifts, dragging his fingers back just enough to tease at your entrance before pushing in again, curling just right, and a soft moan escapes you before you can stop it.

His lips curl into a smirk against your skin. “There we go,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with approval. “That’s what I wanna hear.” Your cheeks burn, but Jack just kisses you again, deeper this time, like he wants to pull every sound from your lips.

“See?” he whispers, his breath warm against your cheek. “We’ll take our time. I’ll take care of you.” And with the way he’s touching you, the way he’s watching you so intently, so carefully—

You believe him.

Jack’s fingers work you open with slow, careful precision, never pushing too far, never rushing. His lips brush against your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—small, grounding touches that keep you from slipping too far into your own head.

And it’s working.

The usual tension, the worry that pain will creep in and ruin the moment, is fading. Replaced by something warmer, something sweeter. Pleasure unfurls in slow, steady waves as Jack curls his fingers inside you just right, stroking against that sensitive spot that has your breath catching in your throat.

“Jack—” His name slips out, breathless, needy, and he groans like the sound alone could undo him.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, his thumb circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. “You feel okay?”

You nod, your fingers digging into his shoulders, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of him. “Better then okay.” You hum.

Jack smiles, tilting his head so his nose brushes yours. “I want you to let go for me,” he whispers. “Don’t hold back.” You exhale shakily, thighs trembling as the pleasure builds, coiling tight in your stomach. Jack keeps his pace steady, keeps his lips moving against yours, swallowing every little gasp, every whimper, every soft moan like they belong to him.

“You’re so perfect,” he breathes, his voice rough with want. “So beautiful when you fall apart for me.” His words, his touch, the way he’s looking at you—it’s too much. The coil in your stomach snaps, pleasure crashing over you in warm, shuddering waves. Jack groans as he feels you tighten around his fingers, his movements slowing but never stopping, working you through it, letting you ride out every last pulse of pleasure.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, kissing you slow, deep, reverent. “Such a pretty girl.” Your body trembles against him, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as the aftershocks leave you warm, pliant in his arms. Jack pulls his fingers from you carefully, bringing them to his lips without breaking eye contact, sucking them clean with a low groan.

The sight sends another shiver through you.

Jack smirks, kissing you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “Told you I’d take care of you.” Jack doesn’t let go of you. Even as you tremble, breathless from the high he just pulled from you, he keeps his hands on your hips, grounding you, stroking soft, soothing circles into your skin.

“You still with me, baby?” His voice is rough, but there’s nothing but tenderness in the way he presses a kiss to the side of your neck.

You nod, exhaling shakily. “Yeah.”

Jack hums in approval, his lips curling into a grin against your skin. “Good.” His hands skim down, gripping your thighs, your waist, pulling you flush against him so you can feel exactly how hard he still is.

Your breath catches.

Jack groans at the way your body reacts, his fingers flexing on your skin. “Fuck,” he mutters. “We need to leave— I don’t want to do anything you’re not ready for.” He mumbles, his pupils blown as he looks down at you, the anxiety in your chest easing as you place your hands gently on the sides of his face, shooting him the most reassuring smile you can muster. 

“I want you inside of me.” You almost laugh at the way Jack chokes a little, his mouth falling open as he tries to shake his head, “I’m serious, Jack. I trust you.” His mouth opens and closes, the words failing him as he moves to pull away, your hands holding him steadily, “Please fuck me, Jack.” He doesn’t need you to say anything else before he’s positioning you in front of the mirror with practiced ease. He stands behind you, his body pressed against yours, his hands roaming slow and deliberate.

“Look at yourself,” he murmurs, dragging his lips over the shell of your ear. “Look how perfect you are for me.”

Your cheeks burn, but Jack doesn’t let you turn away. His hands slip beneath the hem of your dress, pushing it up inch by inch until he can pull it over your head, leaving you bare.

“Fuck,” he groans, eyes raking over you in the reflection. His hands slide over your stomach, your thighs, possessive and reverent all at once. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

One hand drifts lower, between your legs, teasing, testing. His breath shudders as he feels how wet you still are.

“You still want this?” His voice is hoarse, strained with restraint.

You meet his gaze in the mirror, your own breath coming in uneven pants. “Yes.” Jack lets out a shaky exhale, his forehead pressing against yours for a moment before he steps back just enough to push his jeans down, kicking them aside. Then, he does something that has your stomach twisting with anticipation.

He lifts his hand, palm up, and looks at you through the mirror, his lips curving into a lazy, knowing smirk. “Spit in my hand, baby.” Heat floods through you at the request, at the rasp of his voice, dark and needy. You hesitate for only a second before doing as he asks, watching as your spit pools in his palm. Jack groans, eyes darkening as he brings his hand down, slicking himself up with slow, teasing strokes. “Fuck, that’s hot,” he mutters, squeezing the base of his cock before lining himself up behind you.

His free hand returns to your waist, gripping you firmly as he leans in, lips brushing against your ear. “Keep watching,” he murmurs, voice thick with need.

Then, he pushes in.

The stretch is slow, careful, but still enough to steal the breath from your lungs, your eyes squeezing shut as he rubs a soft hand over your back. Jack groans, his fingers tightening on your waist as he sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated inside you.

“Fuck, I’m sorry” he breathes, forehead pressing to the back of your shoulder.  You whimper, fingers gripping the edge of the counter as your body adjusts, the fullness almost overwhelming. Jack stills, holding himself back, his other hand continuing to rub slow, soothing circles against your skin.

“You okay?” His voice is softer now, laced with patience, with care.

You swallow, exhaling a shaky breath before nodding. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Move, Jack.” 

Jack pulls back slightly before thrusting in again, setting a slow, deliberate pace, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror. “That’s it, baby,” he groans. “Look at how good you take me.” And when you do—when you see the way your bodies fit together, the way he holds you so tightly, like he never wants to let go—

Jack's thrusts become deeper, more urgent, his fingers digging into your hips as he chases his own release, and you can feel the tension building again—an undeniable pull, something that tells you this is where everything is supposed to fall into place. Your breath quickens, your hands gripping the counter so tightly you think your knuckles might crack, but you don’t care. It’s all heat and friction, and the way he fills you, the way his body presses against yours—it’s all so perfect, so desperate.

And then, suddenly, a sharp knock on the door breaks through the haze of desire.

"Hey," a voice calls from the other side, cutting through the charged silence like a knife. "Can you guys not fuck in the bathroom?"

Your body freezes, Jack’s movements halting just as quickly. You both stare at the door, eyes wide, hearts still racing, but now, a mix of embarrassment and disbelief swirling inside you.

"Luke," Jack groans, his voice thick with frustration, his forehead resting against the back of your shoulder. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

The voice on the other side of the door doesn't sound particularly concerned. "I’m just saying," Luke continues, "there’s a whole party out here. The bathroom's not your private fuck zone."

You can't help it. You burst into a laugh, your body shaking with the absurdity of it all. Jack lets out a low groan, pulling out slowly and backing away from you, frustration and amusement both warring on his face.

"Alright," Jack says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "We’ll wrap it up, Luke, just give us a damn second." You turn to face Jack, both of you still catching your breath, and you share a look, the tension from the moment still hanging thick in the air—but now, at least, it’s softened by the ridiculousness of Luke’s timing.

"Can you believe that?" you laugh, wiping a tear from your eye.

Jack shakes his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Only you and I would get interrupted in the middle of something like this."

Another knock.

"Seriously, guys! The party’s waiting. Come on!"

You both laugh again, the situation breaking the heavy atmosphere as you gather yourselves, still breathless but with a grin. “Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, reaching for your clothes. “We’ll be out in a minute, Luke. Don’t start a riot.”

As you both adjust yourselves, Jack leans in for one last kiss, soft and full of promise.

"I guess we’ll just have to finish this later," he murmurs against your lips.

You smile, a playful glint in your eyes. "You better believe it." Jack pauses for a moment his eyes catching his own reflection in the mirror as he winces lightly. 

“I really hope your brother isn’t still here.” 

[kwondotcom]

hana— in our first ever conversation, i divulged to you that i've thought of elevatory at least once a week since i first read it. the reason why it took me a bit of time to do a proper rb is because i had annotated it on my second read, needed to take a min to breathe, and ended up only revisiting it now while clearing drafts/my tbr. so, here it is now on read #3!!! THIS WILL NOT BE THE LAST READ (THREAT)

tl;dr one of my favorite pieces of soonyoung writing. the premise in itself is probably the most unique i've seen in a long time, and it just drives me so insane to see such a well-done exes plot. spoilers under the cut. <3

WHAT A KILLER FIRST LINE. an actual art form, really, to have u hook line and sinker in the first sentence!

knew as early as this part that i'd be in for a wild ride. it's very telling of a post-break up sentiment, and it's a stellar set up for the MC's mindset.

there's a lot to love here. the touch of "nine now, but who's counting", the call back of "God hates you" and just. soonyoung's trying to make the most of it. oomf. because of course kwon soony would jump at this opportunity, would try to make small talk w/someone he's been no contact with. it's just his style, and it leads in well to the rest of the story. the next paragraph is actual pure gold: "- sad puppy, you've nicknamed it," following the description of soony as an open book. vicious and accurate read. goes really well with the descriptiveness of this:

(aha. i'm on to you, MC. you can say what you want, but at the end of the day, you can still read him. you still know him.)

i'm more than a little obsessed at a tactless soony + jeonghan, of course, inadvertently being the one at the crime scene.

the first part is already a punch in the gut in itself— the acknowledgement of their differences, serving as a bit of a gravity that explains how the two have acted so far. think the wrong side of magnets clinking against e/o lol. but what amazes me is how hana manages to manifest is a couple of sentences later. soony who winces, who is still obviously pained by his ala-taylor swift the moment i knew moment (i don't even want to think too much of the forgotten birthday scene or i will cry) vs. mc who's 'not sure why [you're] trying to reassure him'.

i said i don't want of the birthday flashback, but it must be said. this fucking line? shot to the chest and i'm in love with the shooter (hana). sighs.

[CAR CRASH] [GLASS SHATTERING] [EXPLOSION] “OH MY GOD” [BABY CRYING] “WAAAHH WAHH” [YELLING] “HELP MEE” [POLICE SIRENS] WEE WOO WEE WOEOO [YELLING] [HELICOPTERS] ‘WE’RE REPORTING LIVE-‘ [EXPLOSION] ‘MY LEG… MY LEG!!’ [BABY CRYING] “AHFUCKK SOMEONE HELP US” [REPORTER REPORTING] oh, this got got me. something about the intimacy of a name, so deceptively simple, and soony feeling the weight of the moment :") man.

this is my favorite flashback scene (and the eventual conclusion 'tried so hard/neither of you tried hard enough) for a lot of reasons. on one hand, there's something my friends and i call the burden of knowledge, which is something i feel jeonghan is vouchsafed in this scene. he's the one who hears out why MC wants to break up with soony, who talks her through it. "little things add up." my god, what a simple truth. part of why i adore elevatory so much— aside from being a study of form, an entire story told in a one-act that no one else besides hana could pull off— is because of the way it aches. it doesn't cut, like some stories might. it doesn't scar. it's just... a dull, familiar sort of throb. like a phantom pain. i think that's the best way to put it. cuts scab over. scars heal. but aches are forever, and this is exactly what that fic does. some old forgotten breakup, some bitterness at the circumstances, some truths packaged in a kwon soonyoung fanfic that remind you right, my pain of that-time-we-don't-talk-about is somewhat universal. it's comforting, in the same way that it's damning, to realize that there are people who know y/our pain that same way. to read it back, though— to have it glaring up at you— is just. a one-of-a-kind experience.

the lead-in to the breakup is devastating, because it really is that, sometimes. you realize love in the tender mundane, which means you can also loss love on a random weekday. "... after realising you had no idea where he kept his cereal bowls" is just an absolute gut-punch. like, ah. this is a life we're supposed to be sharing, a small fact i would know if it weren't for all the distance and time apart (what kind of girlfriend doesn't know where their boyfriend keeps their cereal bowls?!) and it just. little things, as jeonghan had said. also: something so cruel in the breakup starting, and consisting, of MC just saying soonyoung. this, after present-day soony is jolted when MC says his name? yeah. abso-fucking-lutely brutal, man.

won't even try to act like i can be coherent about this when i started crying actual tears the first time i read this passage. even now, my eyes are skipping over the words in an attempt to guard my heart against that impending pain. like, hey, hana. what the fuck! reminds me of a poem, which i'm attaching here. "but i remember our kindness that day, / when it longer mattered."

i can tell you exactly when i first read this (second week of january -ish) and when i read it a second time (earlier this month; the aborted annotation attempt), and i just wish you could've seen the look on my fucking face/the gasp i gusped when it ended with this. i rate about it a lot already in this little post, but it bears repeating: pulling off a one-act/one-setting piece is no easy feat, and you do it with such finesse. the un-chronological order of the flashbacks, the glimpses of their present selves and how they've changed/how they're still like their past versions, and this ending. absolutely bowls me over. hana, you have talent that bursts at the seams. elevatory is living, breathing proof.

You were once deeply and irrevocably in love with Kwon Soonyoung, and it’s incredibly hard to avoid that fact when he works literally two offices down from you. It’s even harder to avoid when you’re stuck in a broken elevator with him for hours, and he seems determined to dissect everything that went wrong three years ago.

⇢ pairing: kwon soonyoung x f!reader

⇢ genre: angst, fluff, exes!au, lawyer!au

⇢ wc: 5.6k

⇢ warnings: minor alcohol consumption, lots of flashbacks

⇢ a/n: early happy new year!! this is my gift to u all <3 thank u to @haologram for hosting this collab and for just being alive. and thank you SOO much to ally @lovetaroandtaemin and em @gyuswhore for beta'ing i appreciate u both endlessly 💗

as part of the don’t hate, litigate! collab hosted by the wonderful @haologram

SOMETIMES IT TRULY feels like God, or the stars in your skies, or whatever the hell is controlling your fate down on this measly earth, hates you.

Sometimes it truly feels like this indefinite being is determined to deal you the worst set of cards, and this – this trumps all. Being stuck in an elevator with your ex-boyfriend sounds like the beginning of a shitty romcom, except it’s not. It’s your life, and it’s been your life for the past eight minutes, since the metal box you stepped in ground to a creaky, noisy halt halfway between the sixth and seventh floor. 

And it takes eight minutes before Soonyoung sighs resignedly. “Are you just going to ignore me forever?” 

Forever, you think, is your least favourite word. There were a lot of things you thought you’d have forever, and one of them is standing right next to you.

You swallow thickly. Your reply comes measured and clipped. “For as long as possible.”

When he speaks next, you can hear the attempt at a forced smile in his tone. “Well, you kinda just failed.”

You stay silent. If anyone had told you five years ago that Kwon Soonyoung would be begging to talk to you and you’d be ignoring him, you would have called them crazy; and yet, here you are. Ignoring him like your sanity depends on it, because actually, it does. So for the past eight minutes – nine now, but who’s counting? – you’ve barely spoken a word. You’re both stuck; the recovery team can’t make it for two hours at least; and God hates you, basically.

Soonyoung’s trying to make the most of it, and you’re not letting him.

He says your name, ever so softly. “Really, though. How – how have you been?”

It’s weird, going from years of no contact to working together. It’s been a year since Soonyoung joined your company, but it hasn’t become any easier. Not when he’s such an open book, so fucking easy for you to read. Every time you cross paths, he gets this look in his eyes – sad puppy, you’ve nicknamed it. Now is no different.

“I’ve been okay,” you say finally, stiltedly. You’ve never been able to resist that face, and you’re pretty sure he knows it too. “What about you?”

The silence is painful, but the way he says fine stings a little bit more. You know when he’s lying, and he never used to do that to you.

“So…” He shifts his weight awkwardly, huffing out an uncomfortable laugh as he gazes intently at his shoes. “This is weird, right?”

You match him with an equally uncomfortable smile. “The weirdest.”

“Our longest conversation after forever,” he says. “But I wasn’t expecting it to go like this.”

You cock your head to the side, fixing him with a questioning gaze. All hopes of ignoring him are sailing out the hypothetical window. “How were you expecting it to go?”

Soonyoung looks up at you with one of those embarrassed, endearing smiles. “Better.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and then – “You know, Jeonghan calls you the one that got away.” 

He’s always had a habit of dropping things like that on you; things that leave you a little winded.

“That makes it sound like I escaped,” you say, with an ease you don’t feel.

Clearly, Soonyoung doesn’t feel it either — he exhales heavily. “Maybe you did. Escape, I mean.”

You snap your head towards him, eyes almost owlish in your surprise; “You’re not serious.” When he doesn’t say anything, you continue haphazardly, “Soonyoung, that’s not — there wasn’t anything to escape from.” 

Your ex-boyfriend looks miserable. Avoids eye contact, staring fixedly at his shoes with a dejected expression he can’t properly disguise; even throughout the three years of your relationship, you rarely saw him like this. He looks…

Heartbroken, your mind suggests.

“I’m serious,” you insist again, pushing the thought out of your mind. “You weren’t a bad boyfriend, Soonyoung.”

He snorts then. “Okay, we both know that isn’t true.”

“It is!” 

“If we had, like, a counter of who fucked up however many times, I would leave you in the dust.”

You don’t know how to tell him this might even be half of it. This weird pedestal he puts you on – it’s not even guilt-tripping. You’ve seen that, but never from him; Soonyoung just truly, sincerely feels bad. Whenever you look back on your relationship, which is more often than you’d care to admit, it’s plain as day. He truly, sincerely feels that he has never deserved you. Like you’re something out of this world, out of his world. 

“Wow.” Soonyoung huffs out the one word, and it’s half a laugh, half admiration. “You are so out of my league.”

“Stop,” you whine, pushing his shoulder lightly. “Don’t say stupid things like that.”

“Well, not everyone gets to date the prettiest girl in law school,” he retorts quickly, lifting his brows. “Not sure why I of all people get to, but thank you.”

“Stop it,” you repeat, rolling your eyes and fixing the tie he’s wearing. “You’re gorgeous and you know it. You should know it, at least.”

“Not just that!” he protests quickly. “I just mean… you’re so smart. And good. And kind, and funny, and — ”

“Ah, yes! Of course, Kwon Soonyoung, known famously for being mean and horrible and extremely unfunny,” you say sarcastically, before tugging his tie and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “I choose my league, and you’re the only one in it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he murmurs, slightly breathless.

“Oh, shut up and kiss me.”

There were a lot of things that went wrong with you and Soonyoung. You’d started off wonderful: both of you bright, flaming, drawn to each other like magnets. You managed the stresses of law school, graduated together, and lined up jobs – jobs that were miles and miles from each other.`

There were lots of things that went wrong with you and Soonyoung, but if you had to pick one, it would be long distance.

“When did we stop trying?”

The question makes you snort. “What, you want a date and a time?”

Soonyoung smiles ruefully, but there’s nothing happy about it. It’s more of a painful grimace. That’s always been the way with you both: you deflect, he feels. He doesn’t hide the way you do, not from anyone. And for a few years, he was the only one who you didn’t hide from. 

Maybe that’s what has you opening your mouth again. “I could probably give you one. A date, I mean.”

Soonyoung hugs his knees to his chest, eyes searching your face. You can read him so well it physically makes you ache. The hint of uncertainty in his eyes, the twitching of his fingers – he’s nervous. He’s torn between wanting to know what you have to say and the strong sneaking premonition that it might hurt. “Go on,” he says finally, just as you knew he would. 

Honestly, you don’t have an exact date. Things fell apart slowly, and then all at once. A toppling tower – leaning, leaning, leaning, until it crashed. 

“There were probably a few things,” you say, softly. “My birthday, for a start.”

He winces reflexively. “That…” he begins, and then breathes out, shutting his eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make up for that.”

“I mean, in the end, it wasn’t that big of a deal.” You’re not sure why you’re trying to reassure him, even if it's true. You forgave him almost immediately.

“Shit.” 

Soonyoung’s first eloquent word when he walks into the apartment only means you become sure of what you already suspected. He takes in the half-eaten cake on the table, candles blown out and tossed to the side, the scraps of wrapping paper littering the floor, the cards; you take in his face. And you know, as quick and as simple as that – he forgot. 

Some small part of you had been holding a sneaking hope that maybe this was just an elaborate attempt at a surprise. You’d told him once, months and months ago, that you didn’t think ignoring people on their birthday to surprise them later was a very nice thing to do. But you’d rather he forgot that than your entire birthday.

His eyes meet yours, both of you frozen to your places. Him at the doorway, you at the table. The distance between you isn’t more than a few metres, but suddenly it feels like an engulfing abyss. Still, even from the other side, you can feel the guilt pouring out of him. 

“Shit,” he says again, before rushing his words out. “Shit, baby, I’m so sorry.”

You haven’t cried all day. You haven’t let yourself, but this has your eyes brimming over before you can control it.

“I’m going to bed,” you say finally, hugging yourself tightly, making yourself smaller. The apartment is warm, but you suddenly feel freezing. And despite your best efforts, there’s a waver in your voice, verging on a crack. “I’m tired.” 

You glance over the remains of your birthday party, one that you plastered a fake, painful smile on the whole way through, and then you turn to leave. 

“Baby, wait,” he implores quickly, and takes a step towards you — you mirror it immediately with a step back, and it makes him pause, his expression falling even further. “Baby.”

“You’re not allowed to call me that.” Your voice is obviously shaking now. “Not today. Maybe — maybe tomorrow.”

Maybe tomorrow you’ll be able to hear his excuses, his promises, but today, you’re allowed to be upset. You’ll let yourself have today, at the very least.

He’d driven hours to see you that day, but he’d still forgotten why he was there. You hadn’t really celebrated your birthday before you met him. Soonyoung was the one who made it a big deal, back when you first started dating, and even now, there’s a sharp pang in your chest when you remember how hurt you were that day.

“You made up for it tenfold,” you remind him now, because it’s true. He made the rest of the week practically a utopia, once you banned him from apologising. And he’d been so busy at work, so incredibly tired the whole month before, and you could understand. Both that he upset you, and that it was an innocent mistake. And you’ve never seen more sincere apologies than those that came from Soonyoung.

He looks grim, shakes his head, but doesn’t say any more. Probably because you’ve had this conversation a few times already, both of you too stubborn to give in. 

“Keep going,” he says, then, looking at you head on. “What else?”

All of a sudden, you don’t want to talk about what else. All of a sudden, you’re annoyed with him, his stupid face, this stupid elevator. “Do we have to do this?” Your voice has switched from somewhat reassuring to harsh – for want of a better word, angry. It makes his brown eyes a little round with surprise, his mouth parting a little.

“What?”

“What else and what if have been on my mind for three years, Soonyoung,” you say acidly. “Forgive me if I don’t really want to talk about it to your face.”

Again, his mouth opens a little bit, stays open as he tries to form words. Until he gives up, seals his lips and nods. “Alright. Okay. That’s fine.”

“I know it’s fine!” you cry out, only more angry that he won’t argue back. You’re lawyers, it’s what you do. And just to be petty, you add — “Besides, I bet your girlfriend wouldn’t be happy about this anyway.”

Finally, his passive poker face drops, and he looks a little confused. “My what?”

Immediately, you regret opening your mouth, but it’s too late to back down. “Your girlfriend. You know, that girl from accounting.”

“The girl fr— You mean Rachel?” Soonyoung gapes at you, and something in you bridles, until he continues. “Mrs Choi, who's married to her wife and adopting a kid next year?”

Well, now you feel stupid as fuck.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he continues, and if you weren’t afraid to look at him right now, you’d swear he was hiding a smirk.

“Whatever. I don’t care. Why are we even talking about this?” you snap, irritated and embarrassed.

He still sounds smug. “You brought it up.”

“You sit with her every lunch hour,” you mutter, heat creeping up your neck. “I just assumed.”

“Well, there’s nothing there. So don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried! I don’t care who you date, Soonyoung!”

He looks a little taken aback, blinking once or twice, cockiness gone without a trace. “Wow,” he says, finally. If you didn’t know him as well as you did, you wouldn’t notice the slight tremble in his voice. “That’s the first time you’ve said my name since — ”

He cuts himself off, but you complete the sentence in your head — three years ago. Three years since you packed up and walked out of his life. It feels like a decade ago; it feels like last week. You’d been so sure that you wouldn’t see his face again after that, that it was a decided end of a full four years of your life. Until last year, when he’d waltzed straight back into your life, this time at your workplace.

“This is the new hire.” Your boss is speaking, but you’re still finishing up the last sentence on the document you’re working on, and you listen absently as he fires a couple instructions — “Jeon, you’ll show him around. Filing system, get him logged on, the works.”

You look up then, to cast Wonwoo a knowing smile, because he always gets lumped with showing around the newbies, but halfway to making eye contact with your friend, you catch the familiar tilt of a jaw, the soft lines of a nose you know so well.

You’ve seen Soonyoung in a hundred people since you left him. You’re always looking over your shoulder at the bus stop, at the grocery store, at the library, finding a tiny piece of him in everyone and everything, a tiny piece that lodges itself tight and sharp into your throat until you take a second look, until you see unfamiliar eyes or too dark hair or shorter legs. Until you find something to make you swallow, exhale, and keep walking.

Now, your second look doesn’t yield anything unfamiliar. Except maybe his hair, gone from blonde to black, but everything else — everything else. It’s him, and he looks just as shocked to see you as you are to see him. There’s a heavy moment that seems only heavy to the two of you, everyone else still talking, the boss still giving instructions, but you and Soonyoung are looking at each other, dumbfounded, and all you can think about is the distinct taste of bile in your throat and the tie he’s wearing is the one you got him for his birthday.

Your initial plan is to avoid him. He foils that plan within two hours, cornering you in the break room, whispering urgently, “I had no idea you worked here, I swear I’m not, like, following you or – ”

The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind, and you just pin him with a blank stare. 

“I could quit.”

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish the sentence. “I’m not so butthurt that I can’t be a professional.”

“Right,” Soonyoung nods, breathing out a little. His lips are chapped. He never used to wear lip balm, just used to borrow yours. You hate yourself a little for remembering that.

The memory almost makes your lips twist with an sardonic smile. “I was so pissed when you showed up here.”

You can see his half smile, rueful and charming, through your peripheral vision. “I felt so bad about it, you know. But you just seemed annoyed when I saw you in the break room, so I figured you weren’t… mad or upset or anything.”

“I went straight from the break room to cry in the bathroom for fifteen minutes,” you admit truthfully. “I had to tell Wonwoo I had curry for breakfast.”

“You cried?”

You scowl. “I’m not saying it to be pitied, Soonyoung. I’m just saying, I’m not, like, some heartless jerk with no feelings. Of course I was upset.”

“I know that,” he says quickly, vehemently. “Of course I know that.” He hesitates, and then continues, words practically inching out of him. “It’s not really my place to ask, but… you and Wonwoo… are you guys…?”

“You’re right,” you say, and press your cheek onto your knees to fix him with your eyes. “It’s not your business. But that’d be hypocritical of me, so… no. No, we’re just friends. I’m friends with his girlfriend too, Cam, she works at the plant shop down the road.”

Soonyoung tilts his head back, lets out one of those breathy laughs that aren’t really laughs. “It’s so weird that you have new friends now.”

“Thanks,” you say, dripping with sarcasm.

“Not like that! I just mean I’m so used to – like, it used to be our friends, you know what I mean?”

“Not since three years ago,” you say with false lightness, because when you lost Soonyoung, you lost the friends he brought you too. You catch the glint of pity in his eyes again, and scoff. “It’s not a big deal. They were your friends first.”

Frowning, he speaks again. “First doesn’t matter. It didn’t matter to them either. Seungkwan said you were the one who stopped answering their calls.”

It’s true, and the feeling still burns a little, because Seungkwan and Jeonghan had called so many times. Even Vernon called a couple times, and you weren’t even that close to him, but Soonyoung has always attracted good people. Like calls to like. Maybe that’s why you ended up leaving.

“I was trying to make it easier,” you say bluntly., “for them to choose you.”

Your ex-boyfriend clicks his tongue, rakes a hand through his dark hair. “It’s not about sides, ___, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, it felt like it at the time, alright?” Your words come out louder than you mean them to, and you pause, trying to quell your defensiveness. 

Soonyoung raises his hands in half-hearted surrender. “Alright. Alright.”

Something in your stomach feels acidic. Leaning your head back against the cool wall of the elevator, you manage to meet his eyes apologetically. “How – how are they, though? Seungkwan and everyone?”

Graciously, he ignores your quick show of temper. “They’re good. Seungkwan’s working freelance photography now. Jeonghan still hates his job, but keeps getting promoted anyway.”

Jeonghan. You told him you thought you were going to break up before you even told Soonyoung. You wonder if he remembers it, because that night is seared into your memory – New Year’s Eve, three years ago.

You’re much drunker than you ever intended to be when you finally find a place to sit in the cramped apartment, waved over by a sympathetic looking Jeonghan. He pats your head affectionately as you groan. 

“Feeling alright?”

“No,” you say elaborately.

Jeonghan never pries, which is probably what makes people tell him everything. He only raises his eyebrows at you, a hint of scepticism toying with his smile.

You look away, eyes drawn immediately to your boyfriend, laughing in the middle of the kitchen. Throwing his head back, squeezing his eyes shut, looking so fucking happy; when you see him like this, your heart always feels so incredibly warm and so incredibly full. 

Except today, there’s something else intertwining it, something similar to dread, and it causes the faint smile on your face to fade a little.

Jeonghan sees it, of course, and when you look back at him, his eyebrows only raise higher. 

You sink further into that horrible, looming feeling. “Jeonghan.”

“___.”

“I think I’m going to break up with him this year.”

If you didn’t know Jeonghan as well as you do, you’d think the information hadn’t affected him at all; his features remain completely impassive, but you catch the flash of surprise in his eyes. He stays quiet for a long time, the silence between you filled with thumping bass and indistinct conversation, until finally, he asks the only question there is to ask. “Why?”

It’s ridiculous, how one word can bring you to the verge of tears. But that one word holds so much weight – why would you break up with him? Why would you, when you’ve pictured a future with him a thousand times over? 

Why would you leave the best thing that ever happened to you?

You blink back the tears, and Jeonghan waits.

His voice is soft, but you still hear him under the din of the party. “Is this about your birthday?”

You shake your head quickly. “No.” You stop. “Maybe. It’s – there’s just – little stupid things.”

“Little things add up,” Jeonghan says gently. You hate how he’s already understanding.

“Sometimes – ” You swallow thickly. “Sometimes I just feel so far away from him.”

You don’t have to explain that you don’t mean physically. Because that’s part of it, but it’s not all of it, but without you saying that, Jeonghan knows. You barely notice when he takes your plastic red cup from your hands, setting it on the table next to him. “And I know he loves me, and he’d never hurt me on purpose, and – he’s been so good to me, Jeonghan.”

Jeonghan only hums, waits for you to continue. And you do, the alcohol only pushing more words out of your mouth. “The distance,” you say, “is killing us.” You rub furiously at your eyes. “No matter how hard we try, Jeonghan, it’s not working, and I feel like – I’m the only one who can see that. He’s ignoring it, but we can’t keep going like this.”

Jeonghan hesitates for a second, looking torn, more torn than you’ve ever seen him look. “Do you still love him?”

Tears blur your vision again, but don’t quite escape this time. “I don’t know how to stop.”

When you kiss Soonyoung after the countdown, your cheeks are wet.

“Long distance.”

“What?”

“You asked what else,” you say, picking at your nails. “I think it was the distance. I think that’s what – you know. Broke us up.”

Soonyoung has that look in his eyes, the one where he wants to argue but knows he’s going to lose, knows that you’re right. He breathes out, licks his lips and tries to speak. “We tried so hard.”

It’s not even a counter-argument. You agree with him, even. The two of you were brilliant at long distance, until you weren’t. Hours-long video calls, surprise weekend visits, staying over for the holidays, until it all started collapsing. Weekly movie nights kept getting postponed. Visits had to decrease in number. You were missing each other’s calls – if one of you wasn’t working late, the other always was. It was like the entire universe was working against you both, and suddenly, you felt like a burden rather than a lover, and Soonyoung would probably say the same. It’s hard not to feel that way, when you’re celebrating your anniversary over FaceTime and both of you keep dozing off while the other talks.

In a way, Soonyoung is right: you both tried so hard. In a way, he’s so wrong: neither of you tried hard enough.

Towards the end of it all, you were too tired to fight. Both of you were. The breakup was a quiet affair, mostly. You brought it up first, standing in the kitchen of Soonyoung’s apartment after realising you had no idea where he kept his cereal bowls.

“Soonyoung?”

“Babe, I told you, it’s the third cupboard from the left,” he calls, but he’s rounding the corner to his kitchen anyway. He stops in his tracks when he sees your face, smile fading, and for a second, time freezes.

“Soonyoung,” you say again, quieter.

And he knows. “Don’t,” he says, faintly, but there’s no weight behind it, because he knows.

Tears are already brimming your eyes, and you’re wrapping your arms around yourself, shaking your head. “I can’t,” you say, and you’re not sure what you mean. I can’t end it. I can’t keep going.

The picture before him is enough for Soonyoung, and any defence, any fight he still had in him (because he’s always been the more tenacious) drains. He gives in, same as you. 

“Okay,” he says, in a voice that’ll haunt you for years to come, a clashing harmony of gentle and damning. “Okay.”

You try to formulate words. You fail. All that you can say is “Soonyoung.” before you trail off. 

You don’t finish. He gives you a tired, forced smile, says something about, “We had a good run, didn’t we?”, but you’re too busy trying to wrench the tears back into your eyes to focus properly. Your efforts are in vain, of course, tears slipping down your cheeks hot and heavy, no matter how much you try to stop.

“I’m sorry,” you say tearfully, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t be sorry.”

After that, he only helps you load your bags into your car and says thank you when you give him the house keys. He does everything so quietly, so methodically, so defeatedly. It’s like he’s just lost a war he’s been fighting for far too long.

It turns out that in the end, four years can be reduced down to this: two cardboard boxes, three bin bags, and two broken hearts.

It’s your fault, in technical terms. You finished this. You’re the one who said the words, or almost said them, the one who spelled out what was so obviously ignored. More than once, because you’d tried this before, six months ago. Soonyoung was the one who fought back. He’d said no, of course, that first time. He’d said no with tears in his eyes, like it was a surprise to him, like he couldn’t see it the way you saw it — that you were on two very different paths. 

Soonyoung didn’t believe in following diverging paths, he believed in forcing yourself straight ahead hand-in-hand, come hell or high water. He believed in it, until he didn’t, and then he let you go.

When it’s time for you to leave, he accepts the hug you can’t help but fling on him just before you step in the car. Both of your arms around each other, fitting into place like you have a hundred times before, but so much tighter and so much briefer this time. Soonyoung clings to you like he’s never going to see you again, because he isn’t. You cling to him like this is the last time you’ll ever hug him, because it is.

And then both of you are pulling away, laughing awkwardly at the wet patch you’ve left on his shirt, and then you’re getting in your car and he’s waving you off and it’s over, just like that.

“It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?” There’s an acerbic quality to Soonyoung’s laugh as he continues. “We broke up because of distance, and here we fucking are.”

There’s a metre and a half between you two.

“Maybe it was a dumb reason,” you say. Voicing the thought that’s tormented you since the day you drove away. Because maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was a temporary rough patch, and if you’d stayed, if you’d fought a little more and a little longer, you’d still have Soonyoung.

But you didn’t, and you don’t.

There’s a heavy expression on Soonyoung’s face, a strange mix of anger and confusion and guilt. “Maybe,” he says, at last. There’s the vaguest trace of bitterness, the little tiny sting that reminds you again that you’re the one who called it quits. 

“It felt like the weight of the world at the time,” you say ashamedly, squeezing your eyes shut for a second.

Soonyoung takes the chance and scoots closer to you, sitting against the wall with you, shoulder-to-shoulder. (How easy it would be to just rest your head there, as you’ve done a thousand times before.) “It can’t have been easy,” he says, patting your hand with his own. Warm and familiar in its unfamiliarity, which is when you realise you’ve misread him, for once – he’s not bitter. He’s empathetic.

“It wasn’t stupid,” Soonyoung continues softly, rubbing his eyes, “but God, I wish you’d just talked to me. Actually — I wish we’d talked to each other.”

“Yes, well,” you say dryly, wondering if he’s going to catch your reference, “I’ve always had a problem with communication.”

He catches it; it makes him pause, lift up his head, give you a tiny smile.

It takes you a minute to register that the seat across from you has been occupied. When you do look up, you realise Soonyoung’s mouth has been moving since he sat down, and you haven’t heard a word of it. Also, somewhere between the class you guys shared two days ago and his presence in the library this morning, his hair’s gone from a discreet dark brown to a particularly indiscreet blond.

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, taking out your earphones and setting down your pen. “What?”

“I said – do you have a problem with communication or something?” Despite the nature of his words, he’s practically beaming at you.

You blink at him, bewildered. “I mean… maybe? But — what?”

He holds up his phone. “Project,” he explains elaborately. “I’ve been texting, and I didn’t get a reply, and then I saw you over here, so I thought I’d ask.”

You frown, grabbing your phone. “I didn’t get any texts.”

Soonyoung mirrors your expression, tapping at his screen, and you’re struck by how much the blond suits him. As did the brown. As did the black he had a semester ago. Not that you’ve been keeping track, but it’s hard to not notice someone like Soonyoung. Even if the first time you talked to him was two days ago to organise the project you’ve been paired up for — you know him. Of him, at least.

He swivels his screen round to face you, showing you a contact with your name and what you quickly realise is almost your number. You smile a little awkwardly, tapping the last digit. “That’s meant to be a seven. You’ve got an eight.”

“Fuck,” he exhales, “that explains it. Who the hell have I been texting about litigation then?”

Something about his expression and his tone is so comical it makes you laugh, which surprises him a little – he glances up at you with a blatantly admiring smile, and he taps the edge of the desk. “Your eyes light up when you laugh, did you know?” And as quickly as he says it, he moves on, gesturing to your phone. “I’ll text you about the project, okay?”

He’s like a hurricane, and you’re trying your best to keep up. “Okay,” you agree confusedly, still hot-faced from the sudden compliment. “Yes. That’s — yes.”

As he gets up to leave again, he shoots you another one of those blinding, dazzling smiles, and sticks his hand out. “We’re friends now, right?”

His question sounds childishly sweet, and you can’t find it in yourself to do anything other than agree. 

Your one little reference sets you both off. You spend the next two hours talking and talking and talking, every other sentence beginning with “Remember when…”, as the two of you dredge up the long-buried memories of four long years spent together.

Soonyoung talks about the massive crush he had on you before you even got paired up for the project. You talk about how you never believed him, even when he did ask you out – it took three tries before you understood how serious he was. And then you remember the time Soonyoung sprinted from campus to his accommodation and back just to get you the calculator you forgot for your exam – and the time you both went to a frat party and ended up playing the most intense game of UNO in the bathroom with Vernon, which ended in a drunk Soonyoung trying to flush the cards down the toilet. 

He talks about the surprise party you threw for his birthday, and you talk about the time he tried to make you pancakes for National Girlfriend Day and failed horribly. You ate them anyway.

You don’t, however, talk about other things, even if you remember them. You remember Soonyoung kissing your forehead every morning he woke up next to you. You remember him buying your favourite flowers for your favourite vase every week. You remember coming home after a long day to food already delivered and paid for when he was working hours and hours away. You remember being so incredibly in love that it made you giddy and so in love it made you calm. And you don’t talk about it, just store it away somewhere as a reminder of what love is meant to feel like. If four years with Soonyoung brought you anything, it’s that: it taught you how to love and be loved.

When the recovery team finally arrives, you leave the elevator feeling like a new person. It doesn’t hurt when you look at Soonyoung anymore, there’s only a vague, warm fondness. And he can look you in the eye now, which he does. He smiles at you, sticks out his hand the same way he did all those years ago.

“We’re friends now, right?”

an / AHHH!!!!!! i know this fic is only like 5k but it took a lot out of me so i’d love to hear your thoughts. literally any thoughts. i wanted this fic to be longer but it happened this way and. what can i do. i may be the author but im NOT in control. it’s not a fic i’m 100% proud of but i think it’ll still hold a special place in my heart!!!! i love an angsty exes au.

anyway — this will be my last fic this year!!! see you all in 2025 and thank you so much for all the notes and all the reblogs and all the wonderful conversations this year i love you

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[jinxvex]

hiii!! i love ur abby hcs 😭😭😭

pleasee write abt abby and like the reader touching herself when shes not supposed to and abby has to punish her 🙏

♱ numb. ♱

mm!! yes me thinks!!

syp: abby punishing that p***y wbk...!!

cw: nsfw content!!, daddy kink (oops!), mean!dom abby, sub!reader, lots of degradation and rough treatment (yummy), finger-fucking, vulgar language/dirty talk, bdsm-ish elements, squirting, cunt slapping, slight choking!!

to put things simply, abby anderson owns you; every aspect of you. your heart, mind, body, and soul belong to her and you quite like it that way. you like the control of it all—the feeling of your brain shutting down and having someone who loves and cares about you take the reins. she lifts the weight off of your shoulders and holds it up whilst she plunges her cock into the deepest parts of you to awaken something so pleasurable that you melt away.

not to mention the other times she uses her tongue to lick the stress away—her fingers to press the negative thoughts and energy from your body forcing orgasm after orgasm out of your poor, achy little cunt. although, there is a layer of gentleness.

she’s holding back.

at times, you want her to fuck you until you’re numb. you want her to fuck you until the only thing spilling from your mouth are incoherent little pleads and moans for her to slow down and take it easy on you.

nevertheless, she doesn’t have many serious rules regarding your sex life. but! there is one that she’s been extremely adamant about from the start of the sexual part of your relationship which, hadn’t begun until fairly recently. her only rule as of late:

“don’t touch yourself without my permission, got it?”

knowing the extent of her rules or lack thereof, sparked some sort of disobedience within you—a craving to be ravished and punished and to push her so far beyond her limits that she has no choice but to punish you and ruin your pussy for anyone else.

oh! how you’d come to just slightly regret your approach to that… (you love it)!!

…

“f-fuhh-ck!! oh fuck, please! daddy, please ‘m- i can’t!” you plead to abby with shiny, tearful eyes.

right now, she’s resting her back against the headboard whilst she has your back pressed against her front. you can feel the swell of her warm breasts and the heat of her clothed pussy on your rear as she takes you apart. your legs are spread apart by hers. she’s got your legs locked under her strong, muscular ones—forcing you to take everything she’s giving you. her fingers that is.

her other hand is placed firmly on your throat not squeezing but holding you there for one sole reason.

so you can’t escape.

“nuh-uh. shut the fuck up. take it—take this shit. you’re gonna take everything i give this slutty little pussy since you wanted it so fuckin’ bad. you were begging f'me as soon as i walked through the door.”

the room smells strongly of sex, sweat, and your own sweet desperation, it’s almost painful the way abby’s fucking your pussy open on her fingers—you feel yourself going numb. at this point, your cunt has perfectly molded around her middle and ring finger, sucking her in to compensate for the intrusive way she bullied herself into you with no prep. the sounds being produced from you are downright sinful—loud squelches and creamy pussy noises.

not that it wasn’t easy, breaking you in. you were already awfully wet before she walked in on you. you’d been rubbing your clit to one of her ab pictures for an unprecedented amount of time, waiting for her to just walk into your open apartment to pick you up for the dinner date you’d scheduled. she’d walked in on you touching yourself in skimpy black lingerie—loud porno-sounding moans coming from your lips and filling up the entirety of the space around you.

she was furious. and still is from the way she’s handling you.

“‘m so sorry, baby! ‘m sorry, please. it hurts, ‘s too much, i already came twice!” you sob.

“thought this is what you wanted? huh?” she tuts disapprovingly. she pulls her fingers out of you to whack your cunt with the palm of her hand. that motion causes your wetness from your previous orgasms to splatter on her upper arm and your inner thighs. you can’t see her face at this angle, but you can hear the anger seeping from her tone.

“didn’t you want me to stretch this little pussy out? so i could break you open ‘n loosen you up for daddy's cock?”

you moan but make no orderly response.

she slaps your cunt once again, and from the force of her strike, you knew she wouldn’t ask again. “mm, f-fuck! i- i don’t know, i just—yes. i wanted it, daddy. wanted you to punish me. wanted it.” you babble.

she laughs out and whispers an octave quieter into your ear, her tone dripping sex, “i know, sweetheart, i know. you jus' needed to get this pussy fucked up for being so needy, hm?”

“who’s pussy is this, huh?” she asks you, unwavering.

“‘s yours! ‘s yours, promise!” you respond.

“yeah, it is. good girl. ‘s my fuckin’ cunt and i get to decide who touches it. even you, baby.”

her fingers then slam right back into your heat and they seem to reach deeper into you, hitting your g-spot so good that your pussy squirts out violently all over the bed and all over you both, soaking you in your own juices and creating a creamy white ring around her pruney digits. she’s fucking you through your high at the same pace she’s had the whole time, unrelenting.

slow and steady—yet rough and deep.

“don’t worry. i’m not stopping. 'm not gonna stop fucking this cunt until you pass the fuck out.”

you’d be lying if you said her comments didn’t cause your eyes to cross so far into each other that your vision spots—her words cause you to moan so loud that you’re bound to get a noise complaint. you need this. you need for her to be so mean and rough that it’s borderline psychotic, masochistic.

‘fuck.’ you curse yourself internally.

and as if she could hear your inner thoughts, “yeah, babe. you should be happy, though. you wanted to get fucked so bad,

— and now you’re gonna get it ‘til you’re numb.”

...

[fancyfeathers]

If you don’t mind me asking what does Serial Killer/Ringmaster! Dick Grayson do with reader after kidnapping them in a romantic and platonic ways? Like does he just keep them to himself or does he show them off?

Have a nice day!!!!

Yandere!Batboys as Villains with Robin!Darlings AU Masterlist

When Dick kidnaps his darling he needs to get the hell out of Gotham before a very angry Batman shows up to rescue her, even then he has a month tops before gets caught and sent off to Arkham Asylum.

But in that month he does do… quite a few things with her.

Majority of the time she is gagged and bound, he can’t have her running away or calling for help, well both are kinda pointless anyway since the performers at the circus are loyal to him.

Dick is normally helping take care for rehearsals during a good chunk of the day so during that time she is stuffed into one of those traveling trunks. Normally he wraps her up in a blanket like a baby and puts a pillow in there for her, but sometimes it gets really hot in there so that when Dick comes back she is an overheated mess. He’ll coo at her and pick her up before running her a cold bath which is such whiplash between the temperatures and afterwards Dick will carry her to bed and hold her while he talks about his day to her. He’ll ask her about her day, but her answer will never change because her days are almost always the same and also she can’t talk because she is gagged.

Then at night she shares a bed with Dick, still all tied up. He clings to her like a stuffed animal and he thinks it is romantic to see her waking up in the morning, he wonders if this is what it felt like for his parents.

Sometimes the things he talks about scares her, well everything he tells her is scary. Like he started rambling about how they were meant to be together because she understands the pain of seeing her parents get murdered in front her and how the world has been far too cruel to both of them. He looks manic when talking, wide eyed and that unsettling laughter.

Or there are the times he starts talking about people’s body parts and disturbing ways to kill someone, like it only takes a few pounds of force to push someone’s nose into their skull or how the heart can continue to beat a few minutes after a head is severed from the body and therefore the body is still living. Even though his darling was Robin, she looks terrified when he starts talking like that…

“Oh baby, hey, hey, hey, don’t give me that face, I’ll never do that to you, I’ll only hurt you if you try to run, you know that right?”

He says that sort of thing but then he’ll come back to her and it is terrifying to look up and see him, absolutely trenched in blood, opening the truck she is hidden in, smiling down at her, telling her how pretty she is.

But then there are other disturbing times after certain activities that he will be laying down next to her and he’ll just say something like…

“You taste so good down there… I wonder what the rest of you taste like.”

But he immediately stops talking like that when she tells him that scares her, the last thing her wants is her being scared of him.

Then when she is finally rescued, either by the police or by Batman, she immediately runs up the the first person she recognizes which is most likely Commissioner Gordon and he just holds her as she cries and watches as the members of the circus being arrested for compliance in her kidnapping and the murders of over a hundred people. The only reason she can’t run to Bruce is because he is personally taking Dick to Arkham Asylum, especially after what he did to his eldest daughter. Commissioner Gordon drives her back to Wayne Manor where Alfred will be waiting at the door and has a warm meal waiting for her and she can eat while Alfred and Gordon talk about what exactly happened and then she heads up to bed once Bruce gets home just so her can make sure she is okay before taking to Gordon.

Life goes back to normal for her… well that is until there was a break out at Arkham Asylum…

[helvegen-s]

among all the people, always you

a Carlos Sainz one-shot

Summary: they always knew their love wasn’t enough to keep them on the same path. Over the years, they find and lose each other in an endless cycle of nostalgia, love, and goodbyes. There’s no resentment, only the pain of knowing that even the purest love may never be enough. But among all the people, they were always each other's.

Word count: 8.4k

Warnings: emotional neglect, unrequited love, breakup, grief

A/N: some might say that I'm not capable of writing beautiful things, but the truth is, I LOVE angst. I cried while writing this—I hope you give it the love it deserves and appreciate it a lot. Like and reblog!! Lots of kisses <3 I PROMISE IT HAS A HAPPY ENDING

masterlist

The first memory she had of Carlos Sainz wasn’t particularly grand. It wasn’t of a rising Formula 1 driver, nor of a young man carrying the weight of a last name that already resonated in motorsport. It was, simply, of a guy who had walked into a café in Madrid with messy hair and exhaustion in his eyes, ordering a black coffee with the deep voice of someone who hadn’t slept enough.

She didn’t know him personally, but she knew his name. She had seen him on TV, in sports articles, in interviews where he smiled with the same expression he had now—a little distracted, as if his mind were somewhere else. On another track, in another country, in another time.

It was a mutual friend who introduced them, almost as an afterthought. A simple, “Oh, by the way, this is my friend,” as if he weren’t about to change the course of their lives.

Carlos shook her hand and smiled.

“Nice to meet you.”

It wasn’t a spectacular moment. There was no spark of electricity, no instant certainty that they were destined for something more. But when they sat at the table and he looked at her with a hint of curiosity, she knew she was in trouble.

The conversation started effortlessly, with the ease of two people who, though they came from different worlds, shared the same language in humor and irony.

“So… you’re the one who wants to be world champion?” she teased, resting her chin on her hand.

Carlos set his coffee down on the table and held her gaze with a smile that didn’t hide his pride.

“I don’t want to. I’m going to be.”

He didn’t say it with arrogance, but with the certainty of someone who had spent his life preparing for it. There was no doubt in his voice, not a hint of false modesty. And in that instant, she understood that this was not a man who knew how to love halfway. That if he gave his life to something, he did so completely.

“And what if you don’t?”

Carlos looked at her as if the question didn’t make sense.

“That’s not an option.”

There was nothing more to say on the matter.

Outside, Madrid carried on at its usual pace, but inside the café, time seemed to slow down. They talked about everything and nothing, losing track of time until Carlos checked his phone and frowned.

“Are you in a hurry?”

“No,” he replied, but slid his phone back into his pocket with a hint of discomfort.

She understood the signal. She smiled, leaning back in her chair.

“Do you have a flight?”

Carlos let out a low chuckle, scratching the back of his neck.

“Tomorrow.”

“And today?”

“Today I have training. Then the simulator. And after that, probably a call with the team.”

“Ah.”

There was no reproach in her voice. Just the acknowledgment of a truth she didn’t yet know would weigh so much.

Carlos noticed her expression and tilted his head with an amused smile.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of person who says ‘nothing’ when clearly thinking about something.”

She let out a sigh, playing with the napkin between her fingers.

“I was just thinking that if this were a date, it’d be pretty depressing to know I have to share you with a race car.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, feigning indignation.

“Hey, it’s a very beautiful car.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And fast.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And it’s my job.”

She smiled, unsurprised.

“I know.”

He studied her for a moment, as if weighing the meaning of her words. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and looked at her intently.

“And if this were a date?”

She tilted her head, amused.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Carlos held her gaze for another moment before letting out a short laugh and shaking his head.

“If this were a date,” he said, picking up his coffee, “I’d probably do something stupid like try to impress you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. I’d tell you something exaggerated about my job, like that my heart rate never goes above 80 beats per minute while driving at over 300 kilometers per hour.”

“That sounds like a lie.”

“It’s completely true.”

She set the napkin down on the table, crossing her arms.

“And how would I know you’re not saying the same thing to everyone?”

Carlos rested an arm on the table and leaned slightly toward her.

“Because if this were a date, I would’ve already asked you to have dinner with me tonight.”

She felt a flutter in her stomach, but didn’t let it show.

“And if it weren’t a date?”

Carlos held her gaze for another second before smiling, resigned.

“Then we stick with coffee.”

She nodded, smiling too.

"Then coffee it is."

And it was. For weeks, months. They saw each other whenever flights and schedules allowed. They shared late nights in airports, brief calls between meetings, messages sent across time zones.

They didn’t rush to put a label on it because they both knew the truth from the start: she wasn’t competing against another person.

She was competing against the one love Carlos would never sacrifice.

And the worst part was that he never made her feel like she had to.

The problem with Carlos Sainz was that loving him felt like the easiest thing in the world.

She hadn’t looked for it, hadn’t planned it. It just happened. A quick call that stretched into the early hours. A message between flights that made her smile before she even realized it. A conversation that started with “Have you eaten?” and ended with her staring at him through a screen, feeling both closer and further away at the same time.

They weren’t together in the traditional sense of the word. No promises, no unrealistic expectations. No grand declarations, no ultimatums. Just him and her, finding each other in whatever gaps the calendar allowed, in every city where their paths happened to cross.

Sometimes, that meant a quiet dinner in a tucked-away corner of Barcelona. Other times, it was a fleeting visit to his hotel room after a race, where she would find him exhausted, the marks from his helmet still pressed into his skin—but his eyes lit up when he saw her.

“Come here,” he’d say, reaching for her.

And she would.

She’d sit next to him on the bed, the TV humming softly in the background, while he talked about tires and strategies, blind corners and missed opportunities.

Sometimes, he would fall asleep mid-sentence, his head resting against her shoulder.

She never woke him.

The first time she realized she had crossed an invisible line was at Silverstone.

It wasn’t because of a fight. It wasn’t because of a misunderstanding. It was because of how she felt when Carlos crossed the finish line, arms raised, his team’s cheers echoing through the radio.

She was in the stands, lost in the sea of people celebrating his victory, and yet, in the middle of all that euphoria, she felt something unexpected: emptiness.

Because when he stood on that podium, adrenaline rushing through his veins, the anthem playing, the flag waving above him—she knew she wasn’t there.

Not because she didn’t want to be.

But because, in that moment, he didn’t need her to be.

And it didn’t hurt. It didn’t make her feel small. It only reminded her of what she had always known: in Carlos’ life, she wasn’t the main character.

She was a pause.

A beautiful, warm, fleeting pause. But a pause, nonetheless.

And that day, as she watched him celebrate with his team, arms wrapped around his people, she understood that she couldn’t compete with something that had been his whole life long before she ever came along.

So she didn’t try.

She simply loved him.

She loved him the way you love something ephemeral, the way you love a summer sunset you know won’t last.

She loved him without asking for more than what he could give.

And Carlos never promised more than he knew he could offer.

That was the cruelest part of it all.

He never lied to her.

He never misled her.

He never asked her to stay.

But he never let her go, either.

With time, she learned to read the signs.

The way his voice sounded when he was exhausted. The way his gaze shifted when something frustrated him. How his laughter changed depending on whether he was truly happy or just covering the weight of a loss.

She also learned to recognize when he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—reach out to her.

Not because he didn’t care. Not because he didn’t miss her. But because sometimes, his world was too loud, too demanding, and there simply wasn’t room for anything else.

She never complained.

Never asked why his replies sometimes took hours. Never mentioned that, during the busiest weeks of the season, the calls became fewer, the messages shorter. Never admitted that there were nights she fell asleep with her phone in her hand, rereading their last conversation, wishing it had lasted a little longer.

And Carlos, somehow, knew.

Because when he finally had a moment to breathe, he sought her out.

Not with apologies, not with excuses.

Just with his voice, with that quiet laughter through the phone, with an “I miss you” whispered between sighs, as if the words slipped out before he could stop them.

She always answered with the same softness.

But one day, without knowing exactly when it had started happening, she stopped feeling like that was enough.

The first and only time she thought about leaving was in Abu Dhabi.

The end of the season always carried a mix of exhaustion and celebration. Carlos had finished the race with a solid performance, and though he hadn’t made the podium, his team was satisfied.

At the closing party, he was surrounded by his people, a glass of champagne in hand, his smile easy, relaxed. She watched from a quiet corner, the same tenderness in her gaze, the same admiration.

But something inside her felt different.

It wasn’t jealousy.

It wasn’t anger.

Carlos would have celebrated just the same. He would have laughed just the same. He would have woken up the next day with the same determination as always, ready for the next season, ready to keep chasing the dream that had been his long before she came into his life.

And for the first time, she allowed herself to ask:

What’s in all of this for me?

She didn’t have an answer.

But she did have a ticket back home.

And that night, while he kept celebrating with his team, she decided she wouldn’t wait until the end of the party to use it.

When Carlos saw the message on his phone, his smile faded.

I love you. I’ve always loved you. But in this story, the protagonist has always been F1. And I’m just someone passing through.

There was no reproach.

She hadn’t asked him to stop her.

Just a truth that, deep down, he had always known.

The noise of the party continued—the toasts, the laughter, the camera flashes—but to him, it all became a distant echo.

For a second, he convinced himself that she was still there, somewhere in the room, with her quiet smile and patient gaze, waiting for the moment he would realize he had neglected her once again.

But no.

She was gone.

Not in anger. Not with accusations. Just with the certainty that he couldn’t give her more than he already had.

And the cruelest part of all was that she was right.

She always had been.

Carlos doesn’t remember leaving the party. He doesn’t remember crossing the hotel lobby or the way his footsteps echoed in the hallways when he reached his room’s door.

He finds it just as he left it: closed. Untouched. As if she had never been there.

But when he turns the handle, what he sees tells him otherwise.

There’s a coffee cup on the table, still bearing the imprint of her lipstick on the rim. Her jacket is draped over the chair, as if she had hesitated for a moment before deciding not to take it.

And on the bed, perfectly folded, is the sweater he had lent her the last time they saw each other.

Carlos stares at it for too long.

He doesn’t touch it.

He doesn’t move.

Because in that moment, he finally understands.

She never wanted him to choose between her and Formula 1. She never asked him to.

But the problem was that even if she had, Carlos wouldn’t have been able to give her the answer she deserved.

It had always been her who adjusted to his life.

It had always been her who found the gaps between races, between commitments, between flights and hotels.

It had always been her who waited for him.

It had always been her.

And now, for the first time, she had stopped waiting.

For the first time, she had decided she didn’t want to be just the space between his priorities.

Carlos sits on the edge of the bed.

He closes his eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, he feels what it’s like to lose something without ever meaning to let it go.

The airport was almost empty at that hour of the night.

Cold lights illuminated the polished floor, reflecting the silhouettes of the few passengers dragging their suitcases with tired steps.

Carlos found her by the boarding gate, sitting with her back straight, hands clasped in her lap.

For a moment, he just watched her.

He wanted to memorize her like this, before she saw him. The serene profile of her face, her hair falling over one shoulder, the way her lips pressed together softly, as if holding back a thought she wouldn’t say out loud.

He didn’t realize how much time had passed until she lifted her head and saw him.

And then, she smiled.

Sweet. Calm. As if his presence didn’t surprise her at all.

As if she had known he would come.

“You came,” was all she said.

Carlos exhaled, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he walked toward her.

“Of course I did.”

He didn’t ask why she hadn’t told him she was leaving.

He didn’t ask why their last conversation had been a message instead of a goodbye in person.

Because deep down, he knew.

If she had told him earlier, he would have tried to convince her to stay.

And she had never wanted to force him into that.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the runway through the window.

The murmur of flight announcements filled the space between them, blending with the muffled voice of a child playing with a toy plane a few seats away.

“I didn’t want it to end like this,” he said at some point, without looking at her.

She turned her face toward him but didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t have something to say, but because she was choosing her words carefully.

“It was never about how it would end,” she finally replied. “It was about everything it meant while it lasted.”

Carlos clenched his jaw.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair how calm she sounded, how at peace she was, while he felt like something inside him was slowly breaking.

Because he loved her.

He loved her with a certainty he had rarely felt in his life.

But love wasn’t enough.

Not when she had always been the one who waited.

Not when he had never put her first.

Not when, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, his world would always revolve around one thing: Formula 1.

She smiled at him, as if she could hear his thoughts.

"I know you, Carlos. I don’t want you to promise me something you can’t keep."

He closed his eyes.

Because that was the hardest part of all this.

That even if he loved her with everything he was capable of, he couldn’t promise her that he would change.

He couldn’t give her a different story.

And she knew that.

That was why she was leaving.

That was why, this time, she wasn’t going to wait for him.

Carlos didn’t know when he started crying.

It wasn’t when he saw her pick up her bag. It wasn’t when he heard the final boarding call for her flight.

It was when he truly understood that there was nothing he could say to make her stay.

He wouldn’t lose her because he didn’t love her.

He would lose her because he had never known how to make room for her in his life.

And that truth, so brutal and definitive, shattered him.

She watched him break.

And yet, she didn’t walk away.

Instead, she came back to him. Without hesitation. Without thinking. She hugged him as if it hurt to let him go, as if she loved him with every part of herself but knew that love wasn’t enough to stay.

"I can’t do this," he murmured against her shoulder, his voice broken in a way he had never let anyone hear before. "I can’t…"

She shut her eyes tightly, feeling his tears soak through the fabric of her coat, but she didn’t let go.

"Carlos…" she whispered, and the way she said his name—filled with both sweetness and sorrow—made him tremble.

He held onto her tighter, desperately, as if some part of him still believed that if he held her long enough, she wouldn’t leave.

But she couldn’t stay.

Not when he had never asked her to.

"Tell me what I have to do," Carlos's voice broke into a plea he never thought would leave his lips. "Tell me how to fix this."

She let go just enough to take his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her.

And the image of her tears sliding down her cheeks burned into his mind like a wound that would never heal.

"You don’t have to fix anything," she said, her voice softer and more broken than he had ever heard it. "I never asked you to change for me."

"But I want to," he insisted, and his voice cracked at the end, because now he understood, now he saw everything clearly, and goddamn it, why did it have to be now? Why so late? "I want to, for you."

She shook her head, with a tenderness that tore him in two.

"You can’t. You don’t know how."

And she was right.

Because she never wanted him to give up anything.

And he didn’t know how to love in a way that wasn’t defined by Formula 1.

Carlos swallowed hard, feeling the anguish burn in his throat.

"I need you."

She smiled—a sad, beautiful smile that shattered what little was left of him.

"No," she whispered. "You want me. That’s different."

Carlos closed his eyes as if that could contain the pain, as if not seeing her could make it hurt a little less.

It didn’t work.

Because when he opened them again, she was still there.

Beautiful. Steady. Determined to leave him.

And yet, with trembling hands, she wiped the tears from his face with her thumbs.

"You don’t know how much this hurts me," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

"Of course I do," she replied, and a single tear rolled silently down her cheek. "Because it hurts me too."

He shook his head, as if he couldn’t accept that this was the end. As if there was still something he could do to stop her.

"How do I go on without you?"

She let her hands drop to her sides, as if she no longer had the strength to hold him.

"You will. You always have."

And that was what finally destroyed him.

Because he knew she was right.

Life would go on. The engines wouldn’t stop. The next flight would be waiting for him, and then another, and another, and another…

But she wouldn’t be there.

And when she took a step back, Carlos felt every part of him screaming for him to stop her. To do something, anything.

But he didn’t.

Because he no longer had the right to ask her to stay.

"I don’t want you to go," he whispered, his voice raw and broken.

She closed her eyes.

Because she knew.

Because if she had heard those words before, if he had said them at any other moment, maybe everything would be different.

But he didn’t.

And now, it was too late.

"I know," she whispered against his hair. "I don’t want to go either."

Carlos swallowed hard.

She looked into his eyes one last time.

And with the same tenderness she had always spoken to him, with the same sweetness with which she had loved him, she said:

"I’m glad I loved you."

Carlos felt his throat close up.

But he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t try to stop her.

He didn’t reach for her when she turned and walked toward the gate.

He just stood there, watching her leave.

Watching as, for the first time, she took a path that didn’t include him.

And when the last image he had of her was her silhouette fading beyond the gate, Carlos knew that no matter how much he had loved her, he had always been too late.

The first reunion

Airports had never meant anything to Carlos.

They were nothing more than transit points, impersonal spaces where life moved too fast to leave a trace. Arrivals, departures, goodbyes, reunions… everything happened in a rush, leaving no time to process anything.

But that wasn’t true.

Because there was one airport that had marked him forever.

And now, so many years later, in another airport, he sees her.

Just a few meters away.

His heart lurches in his chest, strong enough to make him stop in his tracks.

She hasn’t changed. Or maybe she has, but not in the ways that matter.

She still has that natural elegance, that quiet air of someone who doesn’t need to draw attention to fill a space. Her hair is a little longer, her movements a little more measured. Life has passed.

But not enough to erase what they once were.

She looks up.

And sees him.

Carlos doesn’t know if one, two, or five seconds pass before a smile curves her lips.

It’s a warm smile, but soft. No surprise, no hesitation, as if finding him here were the most natural thing in the world.

"Hello, Carlos."

God.

Her voice.

He hadn’t expected hearing her voice after so long would do this to him.

Carlos feels a tightness in his chest. It’s not sadness. It’s not regret.

It’s just… affection.

A deep, unwavering affection that time hasn’t managed to wear down.

He smiles too. He couldn’t not.

"Hello."

She lowers her gaze for a second, as if processing something, before looking at him again.

"I wasn’t expecting to see you here."

"Me neither."

And yet, here they are.

They are no longer the same people. Life went on, the choices they made led them down different paths, but…

But they haven’t forgotten.

And maybe that’s enough.

There are no promises, no expectations. Just two people who once meant everything to each other, meeting again in the one place where they had always said goodbye.

"Do you have time for a coffee?" she asks, with the same sweetness with which she once offered him her love.

Carlos nods, feeling that, even though he’s no longer part of her life, he still likes the idea of sharing a little time with her.

Because love doesn’t disappear.

It just changes shape.

And this time, instead of hurting, it feels like a beautiful memory that still breathes.

The coffee between them is a clumsy attempt at normalcy, a shared routine that feels foreign after so much time. Sitting across from each other at a small table, they play with their cups in their hands.

"You still take it the same way," he murmurs, breaking the silence.

She nods with a tense smile. She doesn’t dare tell him she’s spent years waiting to hear his voice this close.

"So do you."

Carlos lets out a soft laugh, but neither of them finds the conversation funny. Another silence settles between them, heavier this time, more suffocating.

"How did we end up in the same airport, on the same day, at the same time?" she asks, her tone light, almost amused.

"I don’t know." He plays with the handle of his cup. "Probably the universe deciding we haven’t had enough."

She smiles, but it’s a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

"It always did have a twisted sense of humor."

"I couldn’t agree more."

They remain silent for a few seconds, but this time, she is the one who breaks it.

"Do you still not know how to pack properly?"

Carlos bursts into genuine laughter, remembering all the times his suitcase looked like it had been packed by someone with their eyes closed.

"I’ve gotten a little better, but I still don’t know how to fold shirts properly."

"I always found it incredible that you could drive a car at 300 km/h but couldn’t fold a T-shirt without it looking like crumpled paper."

"Everyone has their talents."

She smiles, lowering her gaze to her coffee, stirring it unnecessarily.

"And you?" he asks, resting his arms on the table. "Do you still carry a library in your suitcase?"

"Of course," she laughs softly. "You never know when you’ll need to kill time."

Carlos nods, vividly remembering all the times she pulled out a book in the middle of the chaos of a paddock, as if the world around her didn’t exist.

"What are you reading now?"

"Something on Stoic philosophy," she replies. "I bought it out of curiosity, but I think I’m getting more out of it than I expected."

"Sounds deep."

"It is. It’s basically about accepting what you can’t control."

Carlos sets his cup down on the table, watching her intently.

"That sounds pretty convenient."

She shrugs, offering a half-smile.

"I guess at some point, we all need to learn how to do that."

Silence creeps between them again. They don’t ask because they fear the answers. They don’t talk about the important things because they know it will hurt.

He doesn’t ask if she’s been happy without him.

She doesn’t ask if he still thinks of her before falling asleep.

He doesn’t ask if she ever loved someone else.

She doesn’t ask if, at any point, he wanted to find her.

Instead, they keep talking about trivial things, as if they were strangers. As if they didn’t know how the other kisses, how their laughter sounds intertwined in a dark room.

"Well..." she checks the time. "My flight leaves soon."

Carlos nods but doesn’t move.

"Yeah, of course."

She stands, and he follows, walking together toward the boarding gate. They stop a few steps apart, looking at each other.

"I’m glad I saw you," she says, and it’s the first truth they dare to admit.

"Me too."

She hesitates for a moment before smiling at him, as if the goodbye doesn’t hurt.

"See you around."

Carlos holds her gaze, watches her walk away, and feels like he’s losing her all over again.

The second reunion

Carlos wasn’t expecting to see her.

Not here, not tonight.

But fate, with its twisted sense of humor, has brought her to the same wedding he’s attending.

When he sees her, something inside him stops.

It’s a mutual old friend who’s getting married—someone with whom they once shared memories of another time, back when they were still a couple, when life seemed a little less complicated. Carlos wonders if she knew he would be here, if she saw his name on the guest list and decided to come anyway.

Or if, just like him, she simply went along with the invitation, without thinking too much about what she might find.

She hasn’t changed.

Or maybe she has, but not in the ways that matter.

The dress she wears falls elegantly over her figure, and her smile is still the kind that lights up a room without effort. She’s talking to someone, a glass of wine in hand, tilting her head with interest—the same way she used to listen to him when he told her stories that didn’t really matter.

He wonders if she still bites the inside of her cheek when she’s nervous.

If she still falls asleep on planes before takeoff.

If she ever thinks of him when she hears about Ferrari.

She notices him after.

Their eyes meet across the crowd, and it’s as if time contracts. As if all the times they’ve avoided each other, all the efforts to stay apart, are erased in this single moment.

And yet, they don’t move closer.

Not yet.

But the entire night revolves around them in ways neither wants to admit.

Mutual friends glance at them with nostalgia—some with knowing smiles, others with a hint of sadness in their voices when they remember what they once were.

"Do you remember them? How good they were together…"

"They were perfect."

"Such a shame it didn’t work out."

She smiles politely. Carlos merely takes a sip from his glass.

They don’t say anything.

Because what could they say?

That yes, they were happy, but they were also not enough.

That love is not always enough when time and priorities are working against you.

The night goes on.

And stolen glances become inevitable.

Carlos looks for her in the crowd, only to find her already watching him.

She finds him when he’s at the bar, when he laughs at someone’s joke, when his expression softens for a fleeting moment.

They both look away, but never for too long.

Then comes the accidental brush of their hands when they cross paths on the dance floor.

She’s spinning with someone else, and he’s passing through the crowd.

It’s just a second, a fleeting touch of her skin against his.

But they both feel it.

Like an echo of everything they once were.

A moment that lingers longer than it should, though neither says it out loud.

And the respect.

That silent respect, that invisible space they’ve learned to keep—as if getting too close might wake something that has only ever been asleep, never truly gone.

Carlos watches her as she dances with others, laughing, her hair falling down her back, the golden light reflecting off her skin.

She watches him when he stops to talk to old friends, when his laughter rings through the warm night air.

They have never been strangers.

But they can’t be what they were either.

And that truth weighs as heavily as the music filling the room.

The music changes.

From the lively, upbeat songs that have dominated the dance floor, the DJ slows things down with a soft melody—one of those that invite bodies to draw closer, to sway gently, as if time might pause just for a little while.

Carlos looks at her.

"Dance with me," his voice is low, barely audible over the wedding’s hum.

She looks at him, surprised.

For a moment, Carlos thinks she’s going to refuse. That she’ll smile kindly and say no, that it’s better not to tempt fate.

But then she nods.

"Okay."

And she lets him take her hand.

They move through the crowd with the same ease with which they once sought each other out in any room. But there’s a chasm between them, one that time and choices have carved with ruthless precision.

They dance.

They move with a familiarity neither dares to acknowledge. Hands on waist and shoulder, fingers brushing with painful tenderness. They’re not pressed together—not like before—but the space between them is filled with what they were and what they still feel.

It’s the perfect balance between nostalgia and restraint.

Between the love still burning in their eyes and the certainty that they can do nothing about it.

They dance in silence.

No words. Just slow movements, the careful touch of their bodies, the feeling that this is the last time they’ll be like this—in each other’s arms, pretending for a few minutes that life didn’t get in the way.

Carlos takes a deep breath.

He wants to say something, anything.

But what can he say when she already knows everything?

When she has always known?

She is the one who breaks the silence.

"You still dance the same," she murmurs, a sad smile on her lips.

Carlos lowers his gaze to hers, to her eyes that are still the same as always.

"And you still fit here just the same," he answers quietly.

She looks away for a second, but she doesn’t pull back.

Around them, their friends watch in silence. There’s no need for words to see the obvious—the way they look at each other, the gentleness in their movements, the way neither seems willing to let go. There is no tension, no resentment, only love wrapped in the careful restraint of what can no longer be.

"It was always them," someone whispers, with a hint of melancholy.

"It still is. They just… can’t be anymore."

"Look at them. If you didn’t know their story, you’d think they were still together."

"No, if you knew their story, you’d understand why it’s so heartbreaking to see them like this."

The murmurs reach their ears, but neither of them says anything. They simply keep moving, letting the music be the only one to speak.

Because, in the end, what else is there left to say?

As the song ends, their hands slip away slowly, as if letting go of each other is the hardest thing in the world.

And maybe it is.

The Third Reunion

She has a few days free from traveling and decides to seek peace where she once found it: a small coastal town in northern Spain. She walks through the same plazas as years ago, the same streets, the same ports. The restaurant is the same, but everything seems smaller now.

The last time she was here, it was with Carlos, and it was warm. It was summer, and he had made her promise not to work or think about the future—only about the days they had together. Now it’s winter, and the sea breeze drifting through the empty streets carries a feeling of emptiness, of something that once was and is now gone.

The restaurant remains a forgotten corner, with its dim lighting and the same wooden chairs that creak when you sit. She orders a glass of wine and lets herself be enveloped by nostalgia, by memories that shouldn’t hurt this much.

And then, she sees him.

Carlos is standing at the door, still wearing his coat, looking at her as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. As if time has played a cruel trick on them again.

“It can’t be…” he says, with a disbelieving laugh.

She blinks, shakes her head, and laughs too. There’s no other possible reaction. The coincidence is absurd, cruel, inevitable.

Carlos shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the rack before sitting across from her, without asking for permission. As if this place, this moment, still belonged to them and no one else.

“How long has it been since you were here?” he asks, resting his elbows on the table.

“Since the last time. With you.”

Carlos nods, and the silence between them is dense, heavy. They order their food without thinking, as if they were still the same as before. She still asks for the sauce on the side. He still orders the same glass of wine. Small habits that haven’t changed, even though everything else has.

“How have you been?” she finally asks.

Carlos looks at her, and in his expression, there are a thousand answers he will never say out loud.

“Good. Racing. Traveling. The same as always.”

“The same as always,” she repeats with a broken smile. “I figured.”

She doesn’t say it with resentment, only with a certainty that aches. Because she always knew Formula 1 was his life. She was only a stop along the way.

Carlos places his glass down and looks away.

“And you?”

She takes a moment to answer.

“Trying to live.”

Carlos looks back at her. It’s a simple response, but there’s something else beneath it. Something he doesn’t want to analyze too much.

“Are you happy?”

She holds his gaze, as if daring him to hear the truth.

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Are you?”

Carlos wets his lips, hesitates.

“I don’t know.”

She gives him a sad smile.

“How ironic.”

Carlos wants to say something more, but instead, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through it until he finds something. He sets it down on the table.

“Do you remember this?”

She frowns and picks it up. It’s a photo. The last one they took here, years ago. They’re sitting together at a table—the same table where they’re sitting now. She has her head resting on his shoulder, and Carlos is looking at her instead of the camera.

The love is evident.

She runs her finger over the screen delicately, as if doing so could bring her back to that moment.

“I never realized you looked at me like that.”

“I always looked at you like that.”

She lifts her gaze. Carlos doesn’t look away. It’s a punch to the chest.

“Why are you showing me this, Carlos?” she asks softly.

Carlos lowers his head, exhaling.

“Because sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision.”

She tenses. She sets the phone down carefully and pushes it away.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“No. It’s not. The truth is, you did what you had to do. What we always knew you would do.”

Carlos clenches his jaw.

“And what if I was wrong?”

She sighs and leans back in her chair.

“You weren’t. I never would have asked you to choose. And you never would have.”

Carlos feels like he’s been punched in the chest.

“I loved you.”

She smiles sadly.

“I loved you too.”

“Then why are we here and not together?”

She leans toward him, resting her elbows on the table, and says with devastating calm:

“Because love isn’t enough when there’s always something more important.”

Carlos says nothing.

She shakes her head with a soft, trembling laugh.

“How am I supposed to forget you, Carlos? How am I supposed to move on when every turn I take, you’re there?”

Carlos closes his eyes for a moment.

“I can’t change the past.”

“No. And I can’t change how I feel.”

Carlos swallows hard.

“You were never my second choice.”

“Then why wasn’t I the first?”

Silence.

She smiles bitterly, running a hand through her hair.

“Tell me something. If you could go back, would you do anything differently?”

Carlos looks at her. The answer is in his eyes, in the way his fingers tighten around the edge of the table.

She nods before he can say anything.

“I thought so.”

And that’s when Carlos understands. This is the end.

Not because they don’t love each other. Not because they don’t want to be together.

But because he never would have chosen differently.

She stands up, leaving money for the bill on the table.

“Fate is cruel, isn’t it?” she whispers, with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

Carlos watches as she walks away. It’s like that day at the airport, but worse.

Because now, he knows he has lost her for good.

For the first time in years, he feels like the world is collapsing around him.

The Atlantic air is sharp, cutting.

She walks without looking back. But Carlos follows her. Because he can’t let it end like this. Not again.

The night is dark, and the waves crash against the rocks with fury. The wind hits them with the same intensity as the feelings they have repressed. There’s no one else in the street. Only them.

“Are you going to keep running from me forever?” His voice reaches her before she can walk any further.

She stops dead in her tracks. She doesn’t turn around.

“Running?” she lets out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Don’t make me laugh, Carlos. If anyone has run away here, it’s always been you.”

He clenches his fists, walking until he’s standing right in front of her. The sea roars behind him, the wind pushes them, but the distance between them remains the worst storm of all.

“I didn’t run.”

She lifts her gaze, and her expression is filled with a sorrow that hurts more than any shout ever could.

“No. You just left me behind.”

Carlos feels like a dagger has been driven into his chest.

“You knew…”

“Of course I knew!” she bursts out, raising her voice for the first time all night. “I always knew. From the very first day, from the first time you said you loved me. From the moment you looked at me, and I believed we could find a way.”

Carlos takes a deep breath, the wind whipping against his face.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

She laughs again, without joy. Her eyes shine with a mix of fury and unbearable sadness.

“That’s the worst part, you know? That you didn’t want to. That you never meant to. But you did it anyway. And you keep doing it!”

Carlos takes a step forward, but she steps back.

“Do you want to know why I’m here?” she asks, her voice trembling. “Because I tried to move on. I tried. But here I am, standing in front of you, and I still feel the same. I still love you the same way, I still look at you as if you’re the only thing in this world.”

Carlos closes his eyes tightly, as if doing so could keep out the pain of hearing her words.

“Don’t say this…”

“Why not?” she whispers. “Because it hurts you?”

Carlos clenches his jaw.

“You have no idea how much it hurts.”

She looks at him, the wind tangling her hair, the waves roaring behind her.

“Oh, don’t I? Do you have any idea what it feels like to always be the one left behind? The one who watches you go, who’s left with memories that are too heavy to carry?”

Carlos feels something inside him shatter.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth. It always has been!”

“I loved you!” he yells, desperation burning his throat. “God, how I loved you. Do you know how many times I tried to forget you?” His voice breaks on the last word. “How many times I wanted to hate you? But I can’t. I can’t, because I love you with every fiber of my being, and that’s the cruelest thing of all.”

She laughs, a hollow sound.

“Fuck, it’s so fucking unfair.”

Carlos swallows hard.

“It is.”

She lifts her gaze, her eyes burning.

“You know what’s worse? That all this time, I’ve tried to convince myself I was wrong. That maybe I didn’t love you that much. But every time I see you, I know I was lying to myself.”

Carlos holds her gaze.

“I never stopped loving you.”

She smiles, and it’s a sad smile.

“I know.”

A silence falls between them, heavy, suffocating.

She wipes her tears away with the palm of her hand.

“But loving me was never enough for you.”

Carlos feels something inside him tear apart.

She takes a step back.

“I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep seeing you and pretending I don’t still love you.”

Carlos looks at her, desperation in his eyes.

“Please…”

She shakes her head.

“Tell me how to move on. Tell me, Carlos.”

Carlos clenches his fists.

She laughs again, her laughter broken by sobs.

“You can’t, can you? Because you haven’t done it either.”

Carlos feels his throat close up.

She looks at him for a long moment, memorizing every detail.

“I loved you with everything I had. And I’d do it all over again. But I can’t keep choosing you if you never chose me.”

Carlos feels a knot in his stomach.

She walks away, her footsteps echoing against the wet stone of the promenade.

Carlos watches her go. And once again, he doesn’t stop her.

The Last Reunion

There is no noise in his head when he crosses the finish line for the last time.

No shouts, no euphoria, no deafening roar of the engine drilling into his ears.

Just calm.

The kind of calm he never imagined feeling in a moment like this—the kind of serenity one finds when, after years of fighting against the current, they stop rowing and simply let themselves drift.

He expected nostalgia. He expected emptiness. He expected fear. But he feels none of those things.

He feels peace.

The peace of someone who has given every last piece of himself to something and, for the first time, doesn’t feel like he’s leaving anything behind. He has given it all, with no regrets and no reservations.

He removes his helmet with steady hands, no hesitation. He hears his name chanted from the grandstands, feels the pats on his back from his team, the embrace of his engineer, the flashes of cameras capturing the end of an era.

But inside, everything is silent.

Carlos Sainz is no longer a Formula 1 driver, and the world keeps turning.

That night, while the echoes of celebration still hum through the streets, he is alone in his hotel room, staring at the open suitcase on his bed. For years, his entire life has fit into a single piece of luggage—race suits, boots, headsets, caps with the logos of Ferrari, Red Bull, McLaren, Renault, Williams. The stickers on his passport are the only proof that, for more than a decade, he never truly belonged anywhere.

Until now.

Carlos has never been one to hesitate, but still, when he books the flight, his fingers tremble slightly over the screen.

He doesn’t know what he expects to find on the other side.

He doesn’t know if she will want to see him, if she still feels the same, if she still thinks of him when a song plays on the radio or when she watches a race on a quiet Sunday.

He doesn’t know anything.

Carlos stands in front of her door, his heart pounding in his throat, and one unshakable certainty in his chest: he can’t spend the rest of his life without trying.

When she opens the door and sees him, her expression freezes.

And then, slowly, it crumbles.

Carlos doesn’t speak at first. He just looks at her. Just feels her.

Years have passed.

Years of trying with other people, of unintentionally searching for each other in different eyes, of accepting that what they had would never be repeated with anyone else.

Years of remembering.

But now they’re here. In the same time, in the same place.

And Carlos has never wanted anything more than this.

“Hi,” he says, with a tired smile.

She blinks, as if unsure whether to laugh or cry.

“Carlos…”

His name is a whisper. A plea.

He takes a deep breath.

“I didn’t come to ask for your forgiveness.”

She looks at him, saying nothing.

Carlos swallows, his voice softer than ever.

“I didn’t come to make promises either.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, as if the weight of everything unspoken is crushing her.

Carlos steps forward.

“I just want to tell you the truth.”

She trembles.

“Carlos…”

He shakes his head.

“Let me say it.”

Their eyes meet, and it’s like being back in that airport, at that wedding, in that small town where they unknowingly broke each other.

“If you ever thought you weren’t enough for me,” his voice cracks, “that I didn’t choose you, that you were always second place…”

He pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“You were so, so wrong.”

Her eyes shine with tears.

Carlos smiles sadly.

“You were always the only one that mattered.”

She exhales a shaky breath, as if the air has been stolen from her lungs.

Carlos takes one last step—without touching her, without forcing anything.

“But I chose you too late.”

His words land like a blow, an open wound.

She looks away, unable to hold his gaze any longer.

Carlos runs a hand through his hair, letting out a bitter laugh.

“God… I spent so much time running from this. Believing I had all the time in the world. That loving you was enough, even if I always left you waiting.”

She looks at him.

And in a low, wounded voice, she says:

“But it never was.”

Carlos nods, his eyes glassy.

“It never was.”

Silence engulfs them. Everything they are, everything they were, hanging between them.

Until she, lips trembling, asks:

“What are you doing here, Carlos?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if gathering every last ounce of courage he has left.

“I left Formula 1.”

Her brows furrow, surprised.

“Why?”

Carlos takes a deep breath.

“Because I don’t want my life to keep racing past without you in it.”

She loses her breath.

Carlos continues.

“Because after all this time, after every goodbye and every reunion… I still love you.”

Her lips tremble harder.

“Carlos…”

He gives her a small, sad smile, holding her gaze.

“And this time, I’m not letting you go.”

The silence that follows is dense, heavy, filled with promises and fears and years of restrained love.

She doesn't answer right away.

Because this is real. This is everything.

When she finally speaks, her voice is a broken whisper.

"I don't know if I can go through this again."

Carlos nods. "I know."

"I don't know if I can trust that this time you'll stay."

"I know."

She blinks, a single tear falling.

Carlos steps closer, his eyes burning with contained emotion.

"But I want to find out with you."

She looks at him, searching his face for something that will tell her this is just a fantasy.

But all she finds is truth.

Truth and love.

A love untouched. A love that never ceased to exist.

She closes her eyes and lets out a sob.

Carlos smiles softly.

"For the first time in my life, I don’t know what comes next."

She watches him, her heart pounding.

Carlos takes a breath, and with more sincerity than ever, he murmurs:

"But if you let me… I want to find out by your side."

She laughs through her tears.

And this time, when Carlos takes another step closer… she doesn’t pull away.

She stays.

The way she was always meant to.

@smoooothoperator

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[konjiang]

Cumplane AU Sqh fell asleep on the bus on SY shoulder, causing Sy to miss his stop. SQH offered him to stay at his apt because it's snowing

inspired by a Destial fanfic Strangers on a Bus by Terene

-

SY felt nervous and jumpy; it was his first time on a bus. He fought with his family over their overprotectiveness and ran onto the bus leaving the station. He had no clue where this bus goes, when, and how to get off?

The bus grew busier as the seats filled up within a couple of stops, leaving SY shoulder-to-shoulder with the guy next to him. The guy had messy brown wavy hair, a baggy hoodie, and sweatpants. Overall, he looked very comfy compared to the button-up SY was wearing. It made SY want to reach over and squish his cheeks together, which would be inappropriate to do to a stranger on a bus.

In the meantime, he searched the bus and its route to see if there was a stop near his apartment; his phone was blowing up with text messages and calls. There was a high chance that his whole family might already be waiting for him at his apartment. At least the bus did stop near his apartment in 10 more stops, but with the bus stopping at almost every stop, he should get comfortable.

He started planning and thinking of every response and question he needed to prepare for with his family. This was not the first time they fought about this topic, but it was the first time SY stormed off like this. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, trying to calm himself down. 6 stops left to go, and SY did not want to go.

The loud bus could not even distract SY from his frantic planning, it wasn't until he felt an impact on his shoulder that he noticed that the cute guy next to him had fallen asleep.

"Hey," SY said while shaking him slightly. His attempts at escaping the situation were not working. He couldn't move because the bus was crowded, and the dude was dead to the world. SY had no choice but to sit there until the guy woke up.

5 stops. 4 stops. 3 stops. 2 stops. 1 stops. And 0

He watched as his apartment building slowly disappeared out of sight. In a way, he was relieved. There was an excuse to delay the inevitable talk with his parents. He tilted his head to look at the guy more clearly; now that he was close to the guy, he could see the freckles and eye bags this guy had. He reckoned that with proper self-care, this guy would get scouted by so many different companies.

"Orange Road Apartments." The guy's eyes snapped open, and he made eye contact with SY for a couple of moments before he realized that he was, in fact, resting his head on someone else's shoulder while staring at them.

"Oh my god..." The guy said as he threw his head off SY's shoulder at an uncomfortable speed, causing the guy to yelp in pain while holding his neck.

"I'm so sorry, uh, ah, I didn't- I didn't mean to do that." Now that the guy was awake, SY could tell that he was really tired with the way his eyes still slowly closed before opening again.

"It's fine," SY said.

"I'm sorry, I didn't cause any trouble for you, right?" Well, in trouble could be used to describe SY's current situation. He could just call a taxi back, but at this point, he felt rebellious, and a couple more hours out wouldn't hurt.

"I did miss my stop."

"Oh fuck, I'm so sorry man, uh, this bus is the last bus on this route.." The guy informed him, and SY immediately checked the bus app he downloaded 20 minutes ago.

"Ah...I see"

"But there are other buses at the next stop, so you can transfer to a different bus that does run. I get off at the next stop, so I'll help you figure out the bus you need to go on. I'm so sorry." The bus stopped after the guy pressed the button next to the window. They walked off, thanking the bus driver.

SY didn't notice this, but it was sprinkling outside. Just tiny drops that he could barely feel through his jacket. Then like the world hated SY, it started pouring.

"Shit!" The guy cursed, pulling SY into the apartment building next to the bus stop.

[marshmallowgoop]

My @heishinvalentineexchange2025 gift for the immensely kind and patient @caliowl333, who graciously allowed me to participate with a video instead of fic or art! (And wrote me a 20,000+-word piece in exchange?! Oh my goodness!)

Song is the SadBois & NIO Remix of "Other Side" by ILLENIUM, featuring Vera Blue, which you can listen to in full here. Ramblings under the cut!

When I first began seriously video editing, I didn't think much about composition or how well clips flowed together—lyric sync was arguably my main goal, and anime pieces were thrown onto the timeline pretty much purely based on that.

Now, I put much more care into the very visual elements—the effects, the match cuts, the dazzle. But in the process, I fear that I'm losing what audiences found engaging about my early videos: the actual ideas.

So, for this AMV, I aimed to put the most effort into a strong concept. The titular "other side" is a world without the Black Organization, where Shinichi can freely be himself. Heiji is waiting for that world, where he no longer has to lie and pat Conan's head and pretend that they're not peers, and Shinichi is dreaming of that world because he's always dreamed of working with somebody just like him. The thought of meeting Heiji someday, when he first learns of his existence (Episode 490), fills Shinichi with excitement. He does a lot on his own, but he also loves working on a team—and doing so, being with people, sharing his enthusiasm with others—is what he wants more than anything.

(Heck, there's even a piece of official art called "Conan's Dream Vacation" where he dreams of playing beach volleyball with Heiji and Ran and Kazuha—as himself.)

Sure, you could argue that Shinichi simply enjoys working with Heiji as Conan because Heiji treats him as he truly is. But the times he spends as Shinichi with Heiji point to the fact that no, he just really likes deducting with Heiji. Eagerness, big smiles—in "The Scarlet School Trip" (Episodes 927-928), involving Heiji in the case of the day takes precedence over solving it himself, as he immediately shares what he knows and even jostles Heiji awake when he learns more, before doing anything else, because there's no way he's going to solve it alone. He doesn't want to.

But as things are, being Shinichi is pain. He takes an antidote, but it's poison. Being Conan is what's become "normal" and "comfortable," but Conan can't be what Shinichi is to Heiji. Conan isn't strong enough to catch Heiji when he's falling. Conan can't save him from bullets. Conan can't even talk to him naturally without hiding and secrets. His dreams have become nightmares.

And it can't be easy for Heiji, either. To see someone you care about suffering. To know that Shinichi is in a dangerous situation—and involving himself in it applies that same danger to himself. It'd make sense for Heiji to walk away and wash his hands of it... but Shinichi really wants him to stay. Despite everything, he wants Heiji to stay. For that someday when they can be true partners "on the other side."

I tried to say other things in here, too. Shinichi cementing himself as a precious person to Heiji by countering his insecurities with a one truth prevails and this isn't a competition and you don't have to prove yourself to me. Heiji finding Shinichi even after becoming Conan because he'll always find Shinichi, no matter what, because he's dreaming of being "on the other side," too (even if he didn't know it initially). Shinichi pushing Heiji away with coldness because maybe it's selfish to want him to stay, maybe it's cruelty to involve him, but he can't deny that he cares, that he wants Heiji with him, that he doesn't want to do this on his own.

And while I maybe still went a little ham on the effects, I do hope my ideas are the strongest of all! "No effects" versus effects comparison can be found here!

Thank you again for all your hard work organizing this event, Cali!!

[nowimjustastranger]

What is this, a crossover episode?

Oh please, I'm not that cliché–

Part 2

(Art by @tearosepedall 🥰)

It started with a wanted poster.

Ford had been exploring a promising alien market in the Dirzan Quadrant when he saw it, displayed on a large board cluttered with other wanted posters. The fact that this particular wanted poster was made out of paper was what ultimately drew him closer. Paper was a bit too old-fashioned for this particular galaxy because hologram technology had been invented nearly eight decades ago.

The wanted poster was for a ‘Jerk Ford’ from Dimension PJC311 and promised a substantial reward to anyone who killed him. And, although the wanted poster was clearly photocopied, the word 'Jerk' was fully capitalised and heavily underlined, almost like someone had nearly torn through the original paper in their vehemence.

Well, a little side quest wouldn’t hurt so long as he was home for dinner. Lee was slow-cooking a chuck roast with vegetables in a crockpot and Ford would have to be a cooling corpse to miss out on such a lovely meal prepared by his equally lovely brother. And, if Jerk Ford was truly as much of a bastard as the people who put the bounty on his head claimed, then Ford would put the funds he got in return for his… services to good use.

Although, for a wanted man, Ford-PJC311 hadn’t been all that difficult to find.

Not everyone had the abilities or technology that Ford did though. He repressed a shudder at the unpleasant memories that tried to stir at the reminder that his prescience was highly sought after in the multiverse even now that he had made a name for himself. Ford had learned to be more cautious of who he trusted through betrayal and captivity and pain– so much pain. The only thing that had kept him sane was his white-hot rage and the unshakable belief that he deserved every bit of it.

“Tell Bezos he'll get his shipment from the Cannibal Department when he proves he has the permits to store human kidneys.”

Ford blinked down at his target from his perch, ripped out of his thoughts and back to the task at hand. His target was in the alley below, slumped against the wall with what looked to be a cellphone pressed against his ear. There was a spotty trail of blood behind him, indicating that he was seriously injured. It seemed that someone had gotten to ‘Jerk Ford’ before him, but that only gave him an edge.

According to his sources, this Ford was very good at evading those who intended to maim or kill him.

Basically, he was a runner, and slippery on top of that. Ford would have to box him in first, make it harder for him to get away before Ford could catch him. Ford was confident that he could restrain Jerk Ford if he could manage to get a hand on him, Ford’s custom-made gloves reinforced his grip to the point that it was nearly impossible to break free once he got his hands on his target.

"Hey, I know you're there. What do you want? If you wanted to kill me you would have done it five minutes ago.” Jerk Ford lazily tipped his head back to look right at him as he spoke, his eyes a little hazy from blood loss but otherwise lucid.

Shit. How long had he known? Had the call been some sort of SOS signal? Jerk Ford had only one known ally: Anti-Ford. Even so, Ford could subdue them both if need be, especially considering that Jerk Ford was wounded and would soon be out of commission once the blood loss caught up to him. The only downside was that Ford couldn’t interrogate him if he wasn’t awake and aware.

"You're that Batman-Punisher-Die Hard version of us right?” Jerk Ford asked when the silence dragged on. Ford figured he either liked the sound of his own voice or that he was masking his nervousness by talking. Perhaps it was even a combination of both. "Are you about to give me a speech about how you have a very particular set of skills?”

“You are Ford-PJC311, correct?” Ford demanded, uninterested in indulging Jerk Ford’s attempts to offend him. Ford shifted forward to gracefully drop down from his perch so he could loom properly, landing on his feet only a handful of meters from Jerk Ford’s position. Since his initial plan to take his counterpart by surprise was no longer a viable option, Ford kept his distance to avoid spooking his target; he’d rather not have to hunt him down again.

"Ah, you did your research. I thought that would have been scrubbed out of spite by now.” Jerk Ford huffed, still leaning the majority of his weight against the wall. He appeared unaffected by Ford’s proximity at first glance, but there were cracks in his composure. Had Ford been less observant, he might’ve missed the tells.

Ford had to admit, Jerk Ford had an impeccable poker face. Easily the best that Ford had ever come across in any of his counterparts.

However, Jerk Ford’s unwavering stare gave him away, his unwillingness to blink a clear indication of his wariness. Jerk Ford had already established that he knew who Ford was –or was at least aware of his reputation– so Jerk Ford had obviously realized that things weren’t looking good for him considering his clear disadvantage.

He was injured prey watching a predator circle, anticipating the lunge.

“It seems that you're aware that you've garnered quite a bit of negative attention.” Ford said mildly, his helmet scanning Jerk Ford now that he was within range in order to identify where all the blood was coming from. And the results were grim, to say the least. There were five holes littering his torso, four of which were caused by lasers but the fifth was a bullet. Likely a 9 millimeter.

"That's nothing new– for a lot of us, actually.” Jerk Ford said dismissively, adjusting his posture in increments, probably to avoid drawing Ford's attention to his movement. Unfortunately for him, the system in Ford's helmet picked up on it and alerted him to the change. His target was preparing to bolt at the slightest provocation, that much was obvious.

“No, I suppose it's not.” Ford said agreeably, the tension steadily mounting as they both waited for the other to make the first move. After a few seconds of strained silence passed, Ford spoke again, gesturing to Jerk Ford’s torso. “Although it appears as if the negative attention has caught up to you.”

"Oh, this? I got shot five times this morning. I think one of those shots were a real bullet, the rest were lasers. I prefer the lasers, they self-cauterize. Hate Club again, they really think they'll get the drop on me. Maybe they would if they would stop forgetting that we're The Same Guy, with the same intelligence.” Jerk Ford scoffed with a pointed look, a subtle reminder that they were also the same.

“And why exactly are you the target of a hate club?” Ford asked, his head tilting. Something about this wasn’t adding up. Jerk Ford was on edge, and rightly so, but he wasn’t openly hostile. If Jerk Ford were a threat, he would’ve tried something by now; and yet he hadn’t even attempted to run. Of course, that could be due to his injuries, but somehow Ford doubted that was the case.

"Overall or recently?” Jerk Ford grunted, moving his hand away from the actively leaking hole in his side, hand coated in blood. He glanced down at his own appendage and wrinkled his nose, though it came off as more annoyed than disgusted. Ford could certainly relate, wounds –grievous or otherwise– tended to be more irritating than repulsive or even alarming.

“This instance in particular, if you would.” Ford clarified, mouth pressing into a thin line as his brows furrowed. Thankfully the helmet visor’s dark tint ensured that Jerk Ford wouldn’t notice his inner turmoil, as his indecision could be used against him. He needed more data before he settled on how exactly to proceed.

“I heard Ford 46'\ became the King of the Finger Dimension, so I found a guy with seven fingers and took him there to usurp him." Jerk Ford scoffed and Ford was suddenly struck with the desire to pinch the bridge of his nose, his hand twitching at his side as he repressed the urge.

"Why bother?” Ford asked, genuinely confused as to why Jerk Ford would go out of his way.

"Do you really want any version of us to be the king of anything? Just look at what happened with Megalomaniac Ford.” Jerk Ford bit out with a roll of his eyes, implementing a clever way to take stock of his surroundings. It confirmed that this Ford was not only intelligent, but cunning as well. A dangerous combination.

"That… is a valid point. But it still doesn't explain why you interfered with another Ford in the first place.” Ford huffed, though he wasn’t entirely surprised. Fords were egotistical and self-absorbed, so of course they’d take issue with another Ford bringing them down a few pegs. With that said, Ford failed to see how this made Jerk Ford so terrible. It was somewhat childish and equally harmless.

"I'm the 'Jerk' version of us, everything I do is to be petty. Depth is just a word to me." Jerk Ford stated with a half-shrug, his body still poised to bolt but visibly less tense. Ford wondered if the shift was caused by fatigue or he just no longer viewed Ford as an active threat. "Also I thought it would be funny.”

"I'm certainly amused.” Ford admitted, mouth and tongue shaping the words without his say-so. He was usually more disciplined than this, unused to simply blurting things out. What a novel experience, though he wasn’t entirely sure he liked it. Any loss of control could spell disaster or even death. He couldn’t afford the reins he had on his emotions to slip from his hands.

And yet Ford’s eyes flicked down to Jerk Ford’s blood-soaked hoodie.

"Would you like assistance with your injuries? I have an extensive first aid kit.” Ford offered after a quiet moment of contemplation, mouth pressed into a thin line. It wasn’t his business. He was here to assess the Ford, do what needed to be done, and move on. He rationalized that he couldn’t properly question Jerk Ford in his current state, it would be better to address his wounds and then pry while his guard is down.

"I had expected Anti-Ford to be here by now to help me out because my own supplies are low… do you have something to do with that?" Jerk Ford asked, narrowed eyes scrutinizing Ford, clearly searching for some indication that he was indeed the culprit.

“No. I didn’t interfere with your communication device.” Ford retorted flatly, taking Jerk Ford’s lack of protest as permission to assist. Ford’s hands moved to his utility belt, collecting two serums and several medical supplies from the pouches with practiced ease. “Although in hindsight I should have.”

"How'd you find me anyways? I have to try really hard to stay on the down-low, so I wanna know what blindspot you were able to exploit.” Jerk Ford grumbled with an almost mulish frown, his sharp gaze following Ford as he closed the distance between them.

"If I tell you then it would no longer be an advantage that I can utilize.” Ford hummed as he reached for the bottom hem of Jerk Ford’s hoodie, the man twitching away. Ford’s hands drew back as he glanced at Jerk Ford, a quick scan revealed that his heart rate was elevated, indicating nervousness.

"Oooh you're so cryptic, do you stay up all night practicing those dramatic lines in a mirror?” Jerk Ford drawled, appearing unaffected even though his instinctual retreat and heart gave him away. Jerk Ford was stalling, but Ford hadn’t the faintest idea as to why. Jerk Ford needed help and Ford was offering it, simple as that.

"Your chances of survival become more and more abysmal the longer you procrastinate.” Ford huffed, scanning Jerk Ford again to get an update on his vitals, which appeared to finally be wavering. He needed medical attention, and soon.

"I've survived worse." Jerk Ford said dismissively, though the effect was unceremoniously ruined when the man made a wet, choked noise a moment before blood gushed from his mouth. His clothes were not spared, though a good cupful managed to splatter onto the ground between their feet, speckling Ford’s boots due to their current proximity to one another. "...Alright, I'll accept your help if you're offering.”

Jerk Ford spit in a vain attempt to clear the lingering blood out of his mouth, scowling at the new patch of red on his hoodie. He didn’t seem to be in pain, implying that he had a high pain tolerance like Ford himself did. Though Ford could say with certainty that if he was riddled with holes, he would be feeling it a little more, so this particular Ford clearly had an advantage over him in that regard.

"Be still." Ford sighed, making a mental note to use one of his sanitation grenades to clean up, it wouldn’t do to leave any trace of his presence behind. Ford grabbed Jerk Ford’s shoulder to gently but firmly guide him to lean back against the grimy wall, the man moving without any resistance. Once Jerk Ford was settled, Ford got to work. He moved slower this time, telegraphing what he was going to do before he actually did it, and the tense line of Jerk Ford’s shoulders eased some.

[highway-143]

back then <3

(my first time posting a work of my own, so dont come at me hehe. idk how to use tumblr well so bear [bare? idk at this point] with me)

genere: fluff, smut (MDNI) friends to lovers <3

pairing: childhood friend sunghoon x female reader, reader is presumed to be a few inches shorter than him. sunghoon is an idol (fellow delulus where you at!?) and his members make cameos (jake, heeseung, and sunoo) your friend, hannah, is also mentioned but doesnt actually appear

smut warnings: (unprotected sex, [DONT, ITS NOT WORTH IT] fingering, creampie, breast sucking, size kink, buncha crap really) its just straight up porn towards the end, you've been warned (hey, at least its got plot) i will say it is more public sex (while the guys are over) there is also swearing :D oh yeah, sunghoon has a big dick too.

word count: also not willing to figure that one out, but its a medium sized oneshot, probably about a 5-10 minute read?

(not fully proofread, but i did scan)

synopsis: you and park sunghoon have been best friends since you were in third grade, but what happens when the line of friendship and romance is danced across too often for feelings to allow?

(this is a work of fiction. all scenarios are fake)

song: paranormal- enhypen

back then:

"ow ow ow! ow!" you shouted as you covered you bleeding knee with your hand, the other grabbing your back like an old lady, something a nine year old shouldnt be experiencing.

turns out, falling off the firemans pole on the school playground hurts. your scraped up knee was looking rough as you clutched it. your lower back ached with a duller pain, definitely less piercing as your poor knee.

you saw a shadow cover your spot on the woodchips. "are you okay?" said the squeaky voice of a boy your age.

you looked up at him, the sun making your eyes glitch while you tried to see his face.

once your vision was cleared, you saw a short boy with dimples and a cute bowl cut standing over you and looking at your busted knee. "do you need a band aid?" he asked, pointing a thin finger at the bloody skin.

"yes please." you said, tears forming in your eyes. you couldnt cry, not now, not with a boy standing right in front of you.

he ran to the first aid station by the bathrooms and fumbled for a bandage. when he hurried back over to you and knelt down, you tried to grab the band aid, but he wouldnt allow it.

"I'll do it, your hand looks scraped up too." he said while peeling apart the wrapper. you pulled your hands off of your leg and back and looked at them. both were bruised and the skin was dented from the failed attempt at catching your fall. just wonderful.

"im sunghoon," he put the large bandage over your knee and patted it with his hand. "who are you?"

"im y/n," you say, timidly walking into a conversation. "who's class are you in? i haven't seen you before."

"im in mr. jung's class, i just moved here last week." he crouched to sit on the pokey woodchips across from you, beding his knees to his chest.

"oh cool! im in mrs. lee's, we're right next door!"

he smiled and looked around the playground, searching the other children's faces. "do you have any friends?" he asked, wanting to get to know more people.

school had been rough for sunghoon so far. he couldve chalked it up to the fact that he was new, or that the kids needed time to get to know him, but the truth was that he was just an introvert. so were you, in a way. that's why you assumed he was talking to you, because you reminded him of himself, whether consciously or not.

"not really," you mutter, blushing and picking at a funny-looking woodchip. "i dont talk to people very much, i just do my own thing"

he grinned at your words, happy to find a new friend that was like him.

now:

"SUNGHOON!" you called from the kitchen, staring at the dishes in the sink, piled up like someone was trying to recreate the leaning tower of piza out of ceramic plates and silver cutlery. "HOW THE FUCK DO YOU DO THIS?"

he slinked into the room, a suppressed grin teasing his lips. he knew exactly what he was doing.

every time you come to hang out at his house, there are either dishes in the sink, clothes on the floor, or socks on the lamps. you honestly dont know how he does it.

"im just magical" he said, taking the plate out of your hand and opening the dishwasher. "you do know its my house, right?"

"you do know that if i never came over, it would be an absolute crime scene, right?" you retorted, earning a laugh from sunghoon.

you couldnt help but stare when his forearms flexed, the veins in his hands showing very well as warm water flowed over them. the brush in his hand didnt make it better. you sat back and leaned against the marble counter, watching him clean up.

he glanced over his shoulder to catch your attention. "what are you doing tomorrow night?"

"probably gonna get dinner with hannah," you say while giving him a quizzical look. "why?"

"do you want to hang out with me and some of the guys? we're doing a movie night and they said i should invite you."

"why not? i just wont ask hannah then!" you say, laughing. you only ask hannah to hang out when sunghoon is busy and you need a friend, which is kind of rude, but you two arent as close as you and sunghoon.

he laughs along and flicks you with water from his long fingers, and you shriek in shock. "sunghoon! dont you dare, or i swear-" but you were cut off with another flick of hot water and a smirk

the water soaked into your oversized tee, clinging to your skin as sunghoon continued to pelt you with droplets. you ran to the couch and covered yourself with a blanket, and he tackled you onto the plush cushioning, his legs tangling with yours and his hair sweeping over your nose.

when you realized that your best friend was currently lying on top of you, his hips pressed against yours and his lips only inches away, you scrambled to push him off of you, huffing "youre too heavyyy!" and "get off you weirdo"

your heart hurt when he pulled away, the knife twisting a little bit more.

you knew that any romantic relationship with sunghoon was destined to fail, that being with him was practically impossible. the fandom would go absolutely insane and sunghoon would be in too much turmoil to fix it. just rumors of dating could ruin a career in k-pop, let alone actual relationships.

so you kept your distance, or at least as much as you could. you shut down any romantic feelings because you loved sunghoon too much to jeopardize his job. sometimes, all you could hope for was a crack in the kpop world, one where "fans" wouldn't try to hurt someone for finding happiness.

"i should head to work. lock the door when you leave" said sunghoon while standing from the couch.

"sounds good! i'll finish those dishes i guess." you mutter, rolling your eyes out of a mixture of amusement and annoyance. you stand up and go into the kitchen to get to work.

back then:

sunghoon pushed his legs back and forth on the swing next to you. it had been almost two months since you two became best friends, and you were practically inseperable. every morning, you would walk to class together and talk about your soccer practice or his figure skating or whatever you thought of. it was great being able to finally have a friend to talk with and share things with.

you hand him a bag of kimchi, chewing on a piece of your own while slowly rocking back and forth on the swing.

sunghoon turned to you, opening his mouth to say something, but he stopped himself.

"what is it?" you asked, wondering what he was going to say.

"do you want to come to my competition this weekend?" his cheeks flushed when he asked you, and you laughed at his embarrassment.

"sure i'll come! i wanna see you on the ice!" you beamed at him and he grinned back, thrilled to have a friend that he could share his interests with.

now:

"hey sunoo!" you said as he stepped into the house, kicking his shoes off and giving you a hug.

"hey y/n!" he started to walk to the couch, where jake, heeseung, and sunghoon were already sitting at. sunghoon was flipping through movies, pausing at a few to see if they looked interesting.

"what do you guys want to watch?" he asked, looking at everyone.

"i personally vote rom com, but thats just me" you said, laughing when everyone rolled thir eyes in an 'as usual' way.

"im feeling that too," said jake. "theres a good one on netflix that my mom liked"

"me three," said heeseung.

"its looking like rom com, you good with that sunoo?" asked sunghoon.

"i was hoping for avengers, but that works too," he laughed when you looked at him, confused. sunoo has never once expressed interest in any action film ever.

"im kidding!" he says, and you all burst into an insane laughter.

once the movie started, you and sunghoon went to make popcorn in the kitchen.

he pulled a packet of kernels out, handing it to you. "so, feeling romantic lately?"

you scoffed. "what makes you say that?"

"come on, we both know you only watch romantic movies when youre either on your period, or have a crush. and your period was last week, so im hoping its a new crush."

you smack his bicep and roll your eyes. "number one, no, i dont have a crush. number two, youre wrong, im ovulating. youre gonna have to deal with the rom coms i guess."

his face went blank, a lost in thought look that he had on a lot these days. you wished you could see into his brain, what he was thinking, what he was plotting.

"so, youre ovulating, hmm?" he whispered, pressing his chest against your back and putting his hands on your waist. the touch made your cheeks flush. "i can think of a way to cure the... excitement."

you leaned into his touch, soaking in his warmth. you let out a small gasp when he runs his hands in between your thighs. he cups your mound, gently stroking at your sweatpant-clad skin. the intimate touch sends your nervous system into a frenzy, scrambling to make sense of what you were feeling.

your best friend of over 15 years was finally touching you where you needed him most. however, as soon as he started, he pulled away.

"not here. ten minutes." and he walked back to the couch with a slight swagger to his step and a smirk on his face.

when ten minutes had passed, you "went to use the bathroom," but really snuck into sunghoon's room, taking a seat on his bed and twiddling your thumbs nervously. what were you doing? this was not best friend behavior.

sunghoon walked in, shutting the door quietly behind him and turning to you. "before we do anything, theres something i want to tell you"

your heart was beating faster by the second, almoat loud enough to the point where you couldnt hear him talking.

"i love you, y/n. ive loved you ever since that day on the playground. you have always been my best friend, but now i want you to be more. please tell me you feel the same." his voice trembled as he laid his feelings out.

"hoonie.... of course i love you. you are the sweetest, funniest, and most amazing person i know. i want more too."

you stand up and stand in front of him, grabbing and holding his hands. you look him in the eyes and kiss him, softly, tenderly.

he moans against your mouth and grabs your hips, pulling your knee up to his waist and deepening the kiss past the territory of "tender". your cunt throbbed while waiting for him, the pressure was too much.

he brought his hand down to your sweatpants and hooked a finger under them and your panties. he slowly pulled them down your legs and went straight for your slit with his nimble fingers, sliding them in while he continued to kiss you.

you whimpered as he thrust his digits in and out of you, hitting deeper than you ever could have yourself.

you felt your insides tighten, muscles clenching and your breathing becoming labored as he continued to flick his fingers inside you.

he grinned against your mouth when you let a soft "hoonie, im gonna come" slip out. and the band in your stomach loosened as you poured all over his hands, head rolling back and legs giving out. he held you up with one arm, the other hand still in you and feeling your flow.

sunghoon pushed you onto the bed and climbed over you, licking his fingers in the sexiest way possible, then sliding them in your mouth. you tasted yourself on his fingers, an impossibly arousing sensation coursing through your body.

he pulled his fingers out of your mouth and worked at the button of his jeans. you could see his erection pressing at the zipper. deciding this was as good a time as any, you tore off your shirt and bra and leaned back down.

sunghoon came back over you and kissed you again, putting a hand on your bare breast while the other arm held him up. he slid his tounge into your waiting mouth and let his tounge circle yours. you groan against his lips as he fondles your tender flesh, pinching and rolling your hard nipple.

"h-hoon... in me... please" you whine, pleading for him to finally enter you. you felt his length hard against your stomach.

he pulled away slowly, leaving your lips hungry for more while he lifted your legs. he moved your knees over his shoulders, a position that had you leaking, your cunt insanely wet.

"tell me if i hurt you, please" he says, his breathing labored.

"unh-" you moan as he slowly enters you. his tip was so large, he just barely fit it in. you squirm, the pain both pleasing and slightly uncomforatable.

sunghoon placed his hands on your hips, holding you steady. "you got this baby, so good... so good..." he groaned when your walls clenched around his slowly furthering length.

once many sounds had come from both mouths, as well as the point of your connection, sunghoon bottomed out, his large cock fully sheathed in your aching pussy. your head lolls to the side of your pillow as he leans forward, kissing your breast.

"h-hoon... i need... go... plea- ugh!" you let a loud whine slip out as sunghoon pulls out and slides back in harshly. you hear the squelches of your pussy against his cock and blush, feeling embarrased for the unholy sounds.

sunghoon only laughs at your shyness, grinning up from your chest. he looked so beautiful, your legs around his neck, his dick buried deep in you, his hair messy and his lips swollen and red.

he continues to thrust in and out of you, whimpers escaping your mouth as he repeatedly hit that spot deep inside of you.

sunghoon placed a hand on your abdomen, feeling the bulge of his cock pounding into you. he smirked in satisfaction, his size perfectly fitting you.

your eyes roll back as you feel the band in your stomach tightening again. it felt wonderful, your sweat falling down your neck, sunghoon panting against your breasts and his tounge licking up the dew forming between your mounds. it was everything you had wanted for the last 10 years, and yet... everything felt so different. in a good way, but different.

sunghoon let his head roll back as he pumped harder into you, your pussy in so much pain, the stretch so wonderful, yet too much at the same time.

"y/n... please tell me youre close.... i need to come... with you..." he pleaded with you, and that was all it took to tip you over the edge.

"sunghoon- ohhh" you whimpered his name, strings of curses coming out of your mouth as your cum spilled over his dick and eventually the bed.

he gripped your hips tightly as ropes of his cum filled you to the brim, pouring out of you only to be desperately fucked right back in by sunghoon's still thrusting cock.

your back arched with the orgasm coursing through you, your legs slumping to the sides, the strength to hold them on sungoon's too much.

"baby.... oh my god, that was fucking wonderful," sunghoon said as he slumped over you. his chest pressed against yours, his legs tangled around you.

"mmmh- it was.... i love you so much hoon." you kiss his cheek, slowly pushing him off of you. "we should get back to the others now. theyre going to wonder where we went."

"yeah," he said, smiling at you. "but once theyre gone.... we're gonna stay up all night"

copyright- highway-143, 2025

DO NOT plagiarize, but reposting is welcome (credit is appreciated)

authors note: feel free to comment with recommendations! i need ideas hehe. im open to writing about anyone from skz, txt, enha, ateez, p1h..... basically any bg lol. please give me inspo :D

also- i hope yall enjoyed it!

[thezombieprostitute]

Tech Tuesday: Mike

Summary: A new intern is assigned to your department.

A/N: Mike is from Hellraiser: Hellworld. If you need an idea as to what his character is like, I highly recommend this gif set.

Warnings: Age gap (Reader is 10+years older than Mike). Power imbalance.

Previous

Tech Tuesday Masterlist

As soon as you're out of the meeting, you're looking for some aspirin. The monthly managers meeting was always a real pain in the ass. It's become a little less hostile since Lloyd must have found himself a new toy to play with, but he's still Lloyd. To his credit, he can be pretty damn creative at insulting people without getting in trouble with HR. But it's still over an hour with a bunch of people arguing over resources and timelines and other boring things. All you can do is take your notes, go to bat for your team, and chug your coffee.

On your way to your office, where you know you have some Excedrin, you detour through the break room and get yourself something sweet from the vending machines. You know you should watch your blood sugar or whatever, but meeting days are always rough and you deserve that boston cream snack pie with a side of coffee.

Finally at your desk you let yourself take some deep breaths before reaching for the Excedrin. A couple of pills, some coffee and follow it up with a bite of the calorie bomb, sugar dense, definitely-bad-for-you creamy treat. You let out a soft moan and relax into your chair.

Until a second later when there's a loud knock on your door followed by Mike walking in, "hey Boss Lady, you got a minute?"

You rush to swallow the bite in your mouth and chug some more coffee to help it down but wind up choking a bit in the process.

"Oh, shit! I'm so sorry!" Mike exclaims running behind your desk to start smacking your back, likely thinking there's something stuck in your throat. You try to wave him away and while he does stop hitting you, he stays nearby, his eyes wide with worry. He's shaking so much you'd laugh if you could catch your breath.

When you finally regain your composure, you let out a breath and gesture for Mike to sit. He does so hesitantly.

"You're sure you're okay?"

"I am," you nod with a smile. "You'd think, at my age, I'd be past making a fool of myself but, let's face it, there's no age limit on that." He smiles back at you. "Now, what is it you wanted to talk about?"

"Oh, right!" His eyes go wide and he grabs his notebook. You've noticed he's always carrying one ever since your talk about taking notes. "So, I've got some preliminary things figured out, some user design basics, but I was wondering if I could spend some time with Steve and Bucky in the IT department? They work on accessibility stuff and I'd like to incorporate some of those."

"What kind of features are you thinking?"

"Well, no one in the department's mentioned it, but I'd like to include some features for like, colorblindness. I'm hoping to learn a bit about adding things like that. Just in case someone is colorblind but maybe doesn't know it, or it's mild but still annoying?"

"Alright, I'll talk to Jonathan about getting you some time with them," you say as you write yourself a note. "I make no promises, of course."

"Of course," he smiles. You swear if you were just 10 years younger you'd be swooning over his boyish charm.

"Anything else?"

Mike looks over his notes, "um...I know there was something. No. Wrong page. Ah! There it is!" You fight the urge to chuckle as he rereads his notes. "Right, so there are some tables that seem to have different names depending on who you're talking to. And none of them seem to be the tables' actual names! What should I do?"

"How about you bring that up at the next meeting? Do a little demonstration showing everyone that these different names apply to the same table and we can see about a vote or a naming compromise for the interface."

Mike writes down everything you say and you give a genuine smile. Not a lot of interns would take advice so easily. That first meeting really must have melted his brain.

As you're making a note to yourself to add Mike to the next meeting agenda you notice he's looking uncomfortable.

"Are you okay, Mike?"

"I just...um...How do I put this?" he mumbles as he runs his hand through his hair. "My parents are going to be in town next week for, um, Parents' Weekend at the college. They, um, they'd like to meet you." Your eyebrows raise at that and he's quick to put up both of his hands, " you don't have to, of course! I'll absolutely understand if you'd rather not! They just...they want to see where I'm working."

"If you can give me more details on a day and time I'll see what I can do," you promise. "It's not every day we get an Intern's parents visiting, but I'm sure Jonathan would be happy to help make it happen."

"You really don't have to." Mike almost sounds disappointed.

"Would you like me to say it can't happen?" He hesitates at that. "Do you need me to be the bad guy for you?" His face drops but you swear you see his cheeks turn a little pink when you say that. "Look, family can be very complicated. You will receive no judgment from me if you'd rather your parents didn't know about your work place, okay?"

"Thank you," he murmurs.

"And I promise, no follow up questions on the family."

He relaxes at that. "Thank you so much, Boss!"

You give a soft chuckle instead of asking him not to call you that. It's clearly something he'll never listen to you about. And, to be honest, you don't mind it so much.

"So, if your family asks, you can tell them we simply don't do tours for family members. They can visit the building, but they're not allowed past the lobby."

His smile grows and he gets animated again. "Thank you, so very much!" His smile drops as he remembers something. "Oh! Also, I'm gonna need next week off from work for their visit."

You make a note, "shouldn't be a problem. I'll push your agenda item to the meeting in two weeks instead of next week's."

"Thanks, Boss! You're the best!"

He practically jumps out of his chair and runs out of your office leaving you smiling, shaking your head and wondering if you ever had that level of energy.

Next

Tech Tuesday Masterlist

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @kingliam2019; @kmc1989; @late-to-the-party-81; @lokislady82; @ozwriterchick; @ronearoundblindly; @thecrandle

[trulydeep]

My friend M is a lot of fun. She’s also completely ‘Type A,’ very intelligent and *exceptionally* strong minded. Today, as we usually do, we took a few minutes to chat at the studio and I asked how her leg was feeling. She answered that it was about the same but that she was more concerned about Q’s injury.

M wanted to know what I thought he should do about the injury. I think Q is a grown man, capable of taking care of himself, but I didn’t want to offend M so I told her that someone (I think either his physical therapist or doctor) had suggested completely immobilizing and isolating the injury for another three weeks, or possibly pursuing an alternative treatment Q had mentioned to us.

M called me later this evening, all wound up about Q, with a wild scheme she and her partner dreamed up, trying to convince me to participate. Oh dear… I know M has a caring, good heart and intention, and their idea is kindly meant. However, as much as all of us in this community want to help him, it’s not anyone’s place to tell Q what to do.

M has actually done something like this before and it ended badly. I tried several times to reason with her and explain my position but it was like talking to a brick wall.

Finally, I told M I’d sleep on it and we could talk more tomorrow, but I have no intention of participating or of telling Q what to do. M is on her own in this one.

Update…

M called me again this morning and I told her that although I wish *very much* to be able to do something to help Q, I was not comfortable with her idea. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings but I think M and her partner would be meddling in Q’s business.

M sounded annoyed on the phone. I’m afraid she’s upset with me now and that it might hurt our friendship, but I needed to stand firm on not interfering in Q’s medical decisions.

Q will figure it out. And I’m here for him if he needs anything. But I have to admit that it tears at my heart to see him in pain and not be able to help him.

February 2025

[cangrellesteponme]

i don't think wonderland is ready for those alices

[akuma-tenshi]

one more post before bed

[random-autie-fangirl]

I drew another Chara- living with the Dreemurrs edition

"The King and Queen treated the human child as their own. The underground was filled with hope."

I don't like this as much as the last one but oh well... I ended up rambling a huge amount in the tag, so if you want details and headcanons about the actual drawing again, you'll have to look pretty far down this time, sorry (Also, I ran out of tags after a while. Tumblr is tired of me, lol. I might reblog this more tags later if I remember what I was going to say.)

[rapidhighway]

Ahahaaaa oh my goddd can you not make "ADHD undereating" and "ADHD overeating" into a competition of who has it worse and who has nothing to complain about, that'd be awesome

[masterfuldoodler]

girlbossed too hard.... unless...