☆ important: there is a possibility this account will go up in a “burning glory” do not become attached. I follow/like from umikawa | pfp is Intak from p1h
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☆ written for; top gun maverick, bloodhounds, weak hero class (the drama), d.p, arcane, and twisters
a/n: crazy how one rewatch and suddenly he's crawling back into my head. #earworm . old draft #recycling
jake seresin x gn!reader | 1289 wc | no major warnings, quick-tempered couple, 4yr mutal pining but hangman hid it better ig. reader is called sweetheart & darlin. lots of dialogue as per usual
Cool, calm, and collected. Those were the three most common words people used to describe Jake Seresin. Though you’re sure you’ve heard; Jackass, prick, and dickwad more than half the time.
It was surprising, to say the least, when Jake faltered in his place of formation the moment your name was announced—that you would be flying in the mission even he was afraid of.
He tried to brush it off afterward, saying that his step back was because he was falling asleep from Maverick's speech, but everyone knew him well enough to see behind his lies.
“Just talk to them.” He spared a glance at Natasha, rolling his eyes when she’d stood with crossed arms— great, he’ll get lectured if he doesn’t. “Seriously, everyone can tell you want to say something to them– hell, even they’re waiting for you.”
“If I talk to them now, they’ll think about it all night.” Jake snorts at his words. He’s hiding, “Not that they don’t think about me every night.”
“Jake, seriously.” He shakes his head at the sound of his first name, smiling into the beer spout as he takes a long drink. “They’re sitting out in their truck. Go talk to them.”
Natasha walks off with a shake of her head, leaving Jake looking out the window of the hard deck to catch a glimpse of you sitting in the bed of your truck— parked right next to his.
He heaves out a long sigh; it’s not that he didn’t want to talk to you. Jake’s always afraid of saying the wrong thing and screwing everything up. And now that the thought is in his head, it’s even more likely to happen.
He pays his tab, nothing more than two beers and a pop, and walks slowly outside to the parking lot of the hard deck.
Your truck’s in his sight within seconds of stepping out, and like you hear him coming, your head turns to the side the moment he lifts his hand to knock his fist against your door.
“Hey, cowboy.” You smile at him, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Been waitin’ for you.”
“Yeah?” Jake presses, lifting himself onto the truck beside you. “You know what they say about me, I like to leave ’em hanging.” A quick slap to his chest has him biting his tongue. “You scared for tomorrow, darlin’?”
“Jake.” You mutter, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Let's not talk about that, please.”
He shakes his head, “M’sorry, sweetheart, but for my sake, I gotta know. Are you ready for this kinda mission?”
Jake didn’t want to call himself a prescient person, but the moment he heard something snap in your mind, he knew he’d just utterly fucked up.
“Do you think I can’t do this mission?”
“That’s not what I’m saying-” he tries, but your quick temper cuts him right off.
“Then what are you trying to say? Help me understand.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a real problem?” Jake snaps. You wonder why it’s taken him four years to finally reach a breaking point with you. “Seriously, all I’m doing is looking out for you, and you just ignore it because you can handle it yourself!”
“So I’m acting like you!” You shout back, pushing yourself off your truck bed. “Ain’t that right, Seresin?” You challenged, looking him square in the eye. “You’ve avoided my help for the past four years, and suddenly when I avoid yours, it’s wrong?”
“That ain’t fair, sweetheart,” Jake says, licking his lips as his throat runs dry. He liked to banter with you, pick clean fights, but god did he hate arguing with you. “It’s not fair, and you know it.”
“I don’t know what you want from me, Jake!” You shout in near hysterics. “I cared about you so damn much for four years and got pushed off like dirt because you could handle yourself. Why is it the moment I get chosen for a mission instead of you, you just– suddenly care.”
Jake hops off, with hands resting on his waist, a typical scolding pose; you think he’s had just about enough of you. “You aren’t hearing yourself, are you?” He shakes his head as he looks at you, “You got selected for this mission. The one where they repeated hundreds of times we might not make it out of. All those other ones we’ve flown— nothin’ compared to this one.”
“And don’t even dare think for a second that I didn’t care about you back then too.” He whispered, taking a step back from you, whilst pointing a finger to your chest. “I may not have shown it, but I did– I do.”
The silence hung heavy around you, it wasn’t serene or comfortable, but the kind that made you aware of just how far this got blown out of proportion. Jake doesn’t look at you, you don’t think he can.
You climb back onto your truck, watching him do the same seconds later. You don’t say a word, neither does he.
“We’ve been flying together for almost five years, only a handful of ‘em being solo ones where we couldn’t even know how the other was doing.” You start, picking at the links on your sleeve. “Every time you flew out without me, I would think about whatever it was I said to you last, that if anything were to happen to you– I’d be okay with what I left you with.”
Jake takes in your words slowly, all those times you’d send a joke his way, then add a quick word of encouragement or hope before he could get too far. Every time you did that, you wondered if it would be the last thing you said to him?
“I’m scared.” He says suddenly. He doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes focused on the crashing waves along the shore. “You know, hearing everything about this mission, seeing how much it takes– knowing how much you’re going to go through and not being able to be with you during it?” He looks at you, turning away when your eyes dart along his face. “It scares me to death.”
“Now I know those guys have got your back, but damn darlin’” he laughs, clasping a hand over your knee. “I wish it were me flying up there with you tomorrow.”
“You are with me.” You say, and it was true. Tucked safely in your flight suit before takeoff, pinned neatly on your jet's panel, a photo of him you’d taken one night. “Every flight, every mission, and every training. You’ve always been with me.”
Jake gives you a look. The same one in the photo you keep close to your heart. One filled with love, the kind that makes you believe you’re the only person ever in his sights. While he leans in, your chest tightens at the thought of this being it. That this kiss will be the last thing you have to remember him by— the last thing he’ll have of you.
Time stops there when his lips are firm against yours. You would’ve figured he’d been an experienced kisser, but as his lips lay flat and still against yours– you’ve never been more wrong. You turn your head, pushing forward lightly as your hand snakes up to his cheek. His fingers hang loosely around your wrist, and when you peek at his face, you smile at the way he screwed his eyes shut.
He’s different like this, no displays of arrogance or pride. Though he’d never shown that full side of himself when he was with you.
“You come back to me, darlin,” he says, voice strained. “Cause I don’t know what I’d do without ya.”
and every photograph that's taken here is from the summer (the house that i grew up in) | Jake Seresin
SUMMARY In which, Jake Seresin refuses to have his picture taken and no one knows why.
CONTENT SECRET WIFE TROPE (I love this shit and I will not apologize), fem reader (no use of Y/N), use of pet names (lovely), reader calls Jake 'Stanley' and the book Flat Stanley is symbolism now idk, I gave Jake family problems are we surprised but nothing too in detail his family is just toxic, Javy lives with Jake and reader, back flashes are in italics, some angst, mostly fluff, barely edited
WC 4.5k
A/N another reupload from my old account, I'm actually kinda proud of this one so enjoy! (also I am just now realizing the amount of fics I title using song titles/lyrics lol)
There’s a house on a street at the end of a block with a picket white fence and one gray sedan parked in the driveway.
The lawn is kept neat, trimmed and green, with a sprinkler system that goes off once a day. Along the front of the house are bunches of flowers in various sizes and colors. Chrysanthemums and carnations. Irises and tulips. They’re well cared for, bright and vibrant, not a single weed among them.
One would think this prestigious lawn would reflect a love of gardening—perhaps a far too strict HOA. In actuality, it’s to hide the peeling light yellow paint on this house on a street at the end of the block.
If you go inside—and take off your shoes because the floors were just cleaned—you’ll see a living room with a grand fireplace. Not one, but two throw blankets on a large beige couch. The whole room smells like pine and you’ll wonder to yourself where that’s coming from because there doesn’t seem to be so much as a candle anywhere.
(It’s an air freshener plugged into the wall, hidden behind a short shelf on the left side of the room. It’s a pain to replace when it runs out, but it’s never been moved.)
If you keep walking though, past the 18 inch television and dog bed in the corner, and make a right, you’ll end up in the kitchen. There’s high oak cupboards and countertops that complement the coloring. There’s a cupboard for dishes. A cupboard for cups. A drawer for cutlery. There’s a tall wooden cabinet with glass doors that holds all the china tableware that’s only used when guests are over.
But if you look past all of that, the grandeur and slightly intimidating refurbishments of this house, you’ll see a large steel fridge. And stuck to that fridge is a photograph printed on fancy photograph paper that you don’t want to touch because you’ll get your fingerprints all over it. It’s of a younger Jake Seresin, happy and smiling, at his graduation from TOPGUN.
Jacob Seresin. TOPGUN graduate, top of his class.
And you can scale and search every square inch of this house on a street at the end of a block, but you won’t find a newer picture of Jake Seresin. You’ll find baby pictures, family portraits, a whole photo album. Jake Seresin will never get older than he was on that day of graduation, with a toothy grin and excitement in his eyes.
Because, in that photograph, he is a frozen moment of success. There he’s never been touched by failure. There he’s perfect, the kind of son you brag to the neighborhood about. But Jake Seresin is not Jake Seresin on graduation day anymore.
Now he’s the second choice. The “almost good enough but not quite”. The fight instigator. The pilot everyone trusts about as far as they can throw. So his parents love that picture on the fridge more than they love him. They don’t want him anymore. They only want that picture on the fridge.
There’s a fridge in a house on a street at the end of a block with a picket white fence and one gray sedan parked in the driveway. And it’s the reason Jake Seresin refuses to have his picture taken.
“I’ll take it.” Jake holds his hand out for the camera, the energy in the air electric as Rooster ropes Mav in for a photo.
“But,” Natasha furrows her brows. “You won’t be in it?”
Jake smiles good-naturedly, curling his fingers around the camera placed in his palm. “You’re welcome.”
“Come on! I wanna drink!”
Fanboy’s outcry breaks Natasha’s resolve and she just nods slowly, heading over to where the other pilots are gathered together and posing. Though she was waiting for him to, Coyote doesn’t voice any argument about Jake’s position behind the camera—in fact, he doesn’t even seem all that surprised.
“If you wanna go so bad, stop blinking,” Jake argues, pulling the camera away from his face as he finally takes a picture he’s happy with.
The gang disperses, the smiles captured in their picture don’t disappear, large and bright and real. Jake hands Natasha her camera back with a small smile, turning to find Coyote before they also head out.
“Hey.” Her voice stops him and he turns around questioningly.
“Do you, um, do you want a picture with Coyote?” Natasha holds up her camera awkwardly. “I can take one.”
Confusing her further, Jake laughs. Not entirely real, not entirely like he means it. But Jake laughs. He shakes his head, “Nah, save your storage.”
“Okay…” Natasha trails off, looking down at the black metallic camera in her hands. “I’ll see you around, Hangman.”
And, like she conjured him up by name, a confident vibrato overtakes him and he smirks. “If you’re lucky.”
Jake’s aware that most people don’t think the way he does. He’s aware that most people—especially if they were in his profession—would want to have as many pictures of themself as possible. Most of all, he’s aware that most people would assume he’d want as many pictures of himself as possible, permanent reminders of everything he does that makes him better than everybody else.
But Jake doesn’t. He doesn’t even keep a single high school yearbook. Because people only take pictures of the good stuff. Pictures mean they only remember the good stuff. And remembering the good stuff means that they’ll forget that Jake’s all bad stuff. That there’s nothing good about him.
A picture of Jake Seresin is worth more than Jake Seresin could ever be. And because he’s selfish, and attention-seeking, and jealous, Jake doesn’t want there to be any pictures of Jake Seresin. Nothing can replace him if it never existed in the first place. No one can remember him as better than he is, and then decide to love that version of him more.
“Honey, I’m home!”
Jake scoffs, shouldering his best friend as they both shuffle through the front door. “She’s not your honey.”
“Javy!” Bare feet pad against the hardwood floors, soft arms wrapping around the aforementioned man before they’re thrown around Jake’s neck. “Stanley!”
Jake shakes his head with a laugh, continuing his way inside as you cling to him with your legs around his waist. He kicks his shoes off, doing his best to line them up with nudges from his sock-clad toes. Moving forward to give Javy room to do the same, Jake drops his duffel bag by one of the dining room chairs.
“You planning on letting go anytime soon?” He looks down at what he can see of the top of your head with a smile.
“Not particularly,” you respond from the crook of his neck. “Do you want me to?”
“Well, I don’t know. My wife did greet my best friend before me,” Jake sighs dramatically. “Always a bridesmaid…”
You pull away with a laugh to look at him. “Fine, I’ll just go hug Javy then.”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Jake’s hands finally wrap around you, keeping you from jumping down and scampering off to his best friend who would 100% reciprocate without question, if only just to tease him.
He walks you to the living room, plopping down on the couch with a sigh. Jake’s grateful he decided to shower before he came home as there isn’t a single part of him that wants to move from this position. Not when he’s so comfortable and you’re so warm.
“Hey, lovey,” he squeezes you just a little tighter, a content smile on his face.
“Hey, Stanley,” you shift slightly, wriggling on his chest for a moment before finally stilling, and Jake allows his eyes to flutter closed. “Say ‘cheese’.”
Jake peeks his eyes open. Your cheek is almost entirely squished against his own, your mouth a giddy smile as you look at your reflection on your phone. He shifts you both so that you're not at quite such an awkward angle, pressing a kiss to your temple before posing himself.
“Ooh, I’m gonna print this one,” you bring your phone closer to check it and Jake nods against your shoulder. You go back to the camera app, holding your phone out again. “Javy get over here, we’re taking a picture!”
“Coming!”
There have only been three times in his life that Bradley Bradshaw has gotten his ass handed to him. Once, when he was twelve and fumbled his team’s win in flag football. Carter Cleveland came up to him seething, asking him where he learned “to throw like a fucking girl”. And maybe Bradley shouldn’t have responded with “Ask your sister”, but he came home to his mom with scraped up knees and a tampon the school nurse had stuck in his nose to stop the bleeding. Being pummeled by Carter tasted like turf, vulcanized rubber, and—though Bradley wouldn’t be able to actually place it until he was 16—Jennifer Cleveland’s lipgloss.
The second time was after he found out Maverick had pulled his papers. Bradley raided his dad’s old liquor cabinet, got piss drunk, and wallowed in the bullshit that was his life. His friends came to check on him after he stopped responding. Like he always does when he’s mad, Bradley said something he shouldn’t have and was drunk enough to throw a punch, but too drunk to stand a fighting chance. That time tasted like whiskey, regret, and the salt of his own tears.
And the third time is right now.
“What the fuck, Hangman? Another bullseye?”
It tastes like beer, peanuts, and mild embarrassment.
Jake grins, weirdly quiet for a man who’s just landed his 10th bullseye in a row. But Bradley realizes that he’s doing that on purpose. That Jake being a gracious winner after kicking his ass would be more embarrassing than gloating.
“Do you want me to do it with my eyes closed? Standing on one leg? I’m just trying to give you a chance here, Bradshaw.”
Okay, somewhat gracious winner.
“Oh my god, please someone take a picture of his face!” Payback cackles pointing at, what Bradley’s sure is, his disgruntled expression.
Phoenix hops up, an almost normal look on her face, though Bradley can tell she’s trying to figure something out. “Yeah, Hangman. Let’s get a picture of you with your score too.”
“Me?” Jake furrows his brows. “I thought you wanted a picture of Rooster’s ugly, fucking mug.”
Phoenix turns her phone quickly, snapping a picture of Bradley—that has him blinking slightly dazed because her flash is still on—before turning back to Jake. “There. Now, don’t you want a picture of your score?”
“Sure.” Jake steps out of the way, giving Phoenix a clear view of the whiteboard Bob had been keeping track of points on.
The group shares a glance.
“You don’t want to be in the picture, Hangman?”
Though there’s a smile on his face, Jake appears somewhat nervous. He shrugs, opening and closing his mouth a few times, and Bradley doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jake like that before. Speechless. Nervous.
“Hey, why doesn’t Rooster stand by it?” Coyote suggests suddenly. “Ya know, since he’s the one who lost and all?”
Bradley could only sigh tiredly when a somewhat blurry photo of him looking entirely bamboozled and a picture of him standing next to Jake’s embarrassingly high darts score made their way onto Mav’s wall collage.
“Hey, Stanley.”
Jake smiles. “Hey, lovey.”
You look up from your book, sticking the bookmark in and letting it fall to the bed. “How was your night?”
“Good,” Jake moves to the dresser, rifling through clothes until he finds some pajamas he’s happy with. “I kicked Rooster’s ass in darts.”
“Yeah? You real proud of yourself?”
Jake turns around, his arms resting in the gathered fabric of his shirt, to see you wiggling your brows at him. His mouth drops open in mock offense. “What happened to our wedding vows, lovey? What happened to ‘in sickness and in health, when my husband loses darts and when he kicks his co-worker’s ass’?”
You’re giggling and Jake speeds up changing his clothes. “I don’t remember that being how it went.”
“Well, I do,” Jake tosses his dirty clothes into the hamper on the far left side of the room. “That’s exactly how it went.”
Your book is entirely forgotten, not even on the backburner of your mind as Jake climbs into bed. You curl comfortably into his side, yawning as his arm wraps around you to trace shapes on the bare skin of your thigh.
“What did you vow, then? If you remember it so much better than me?”
“Hmm,” Jake pretends to think, kissing the crown of your head. “I vowed ‘in sickness and in health, when my wife is mean to me and when she is nice to me’.”
You let out a noise of protest. “I’m not mean to you!”
“Oh yes you are, lovey. You wound my right here,” he throws his hand that isn’t occupied with playing with the hem of your pajama shorts over his heart.
A yawn interrupts you before you can respond and Jake nudges you lightly. “C’mon, I know you’re tired from waiting up for me.”
You nod, wiping at one of your eyes as you reach for your phone off the nightstand.
“You have to actually smile this time, Stanley,” you say, unlocking it and going to the camera app. “Because you always smile like I’m holding you hostage.”
Jake chuckles, waiting for you to set up an angle you’re happy with. “I’ll smile,” he promises.
“Did you just lick me?!”
Bob’s shoes tap against the linoleum floors and he stuffs his hands into his pockets. He walks wordlessly through the maze-like hallway. Right. Left. Right. Right. Bob knows everything about this repurposed office building where he often meets the others for coffee. He memorized the floor plan once when he was bored.
If he goes right, right, left, he’ll end up at some insurance firm. It’s tiny, closer to the size of a cubicle than an entire office space. The people that work there look exactly how Bob imagined them to—checkered shirts buttoned all the way to the collar, little glasses with frames far too tiny to hold their prescriptions, hair slicked over flat, stringy and greasy. They talk like Bob expected too, nasally and quiet and almost purposefully confusing.
Left, right, left takes him to a small health clinic. It’s bigger than the insurance firm and Bob’s sure it goes farther than what he can see through the waiting room window. Sometimes, if he has time, Bob watches the smiling receptionist, the kids who come out with a lollipop and a sticker, the comforting hand a man puts on his partner's knee to stop it from bouncing. Mostly he just watches how no one’s sitting in that waiting room alone.
Left, left, left takes him to a woman who does massage and waxing. Bob’s met her only a few times, their arrivals to the front door coincide sometimes. Her name is Tammy. She has a dog, three kids, and thinks Bob’s holding too much tension in his shoulders. “You can always stop by, Robert. It might do you some good.” She calls him Robert. Bob likes that.
Tammy’s space is dimly lit, with yellow lamps emanating low light. She has a diffuser too, and a speaker that plays soft classical music. There’s a poster of a cat on the wall, one of its paws hooked over a tree branch. The cat looks at him. “Hang in there!” it says.
But Bob isn’t going to any of those places. He’s going right, left, right, right. Coffee.
He’s late, he knows that, which is unusual for Bob Floyd, but nobody hassles him too much when arrives. They are all far too focused on something else.
“No, because I started thinking about it,” Phoenix starts and Bob notes, as he sips his black coffee, that Jake isn’t at the table. “We don’t have any photos with him.”
Fanboy cocks his head. “You want photos with him?”
“I’m just saying it’s weird. It’s Hangman, don’t you think he’d be, like, obsessed with his own face or something?” Phoenix defends.
Bob’s slightly confused why no one is trying to bring Coyote into the conversation. On top of being his roommate and best friend, he knows Jake better than anyone. In fact, he seems to be very actively disengaging from the conversation, fiddling with something on his phone.
Bob wets his lips. “Have you ever taken Hangman’s picture, Coyote?”
“Please, the only person I’ve met who could ever get him to take a picture is his wife,” Javy freezes, his head snapping up and his eyes widening as he and the rest of the group take in his words. “Shit.”
“Wife?!”
Jake’s returning from the bathroom before Javy can say anything, his own eyes widening as the rest of the Dagger Crew pounce on him. “Wife?!”
Javy’s mouthing the words “I’m sorry” when Jake glances at him and, after a moment, Jake simply sighs.
“Well, you gave it your best shot, buddy,” he claps Javy on the shoulder. “Lasted longer than we thought you would.”
Rooster looks between the two of them. “Wait, so you’re actually married? There’s no fucking way.”
“Believe what you want, Rooster. It’s not like it’s gonna make me unmarried,” Jake shrugs and Bob’s pretty sure he just witnessed all five stages of grief overtake Rooster’s face in a little under two seconds.
“Oh my god, he’s married. He’d be fighting me about this if he wasn’t married. Phoenix—!”
“Would you shut up?” She rolls her eyes at the brunet before pointing an accusatory finger at Jake. “You mean to tell me, you’ve had a girl this whole time and you forced me to hangout with you asshats?”
Payback raises his eyebrows. “What makes you think she’s better than us?”
“If she married Hangman?” Phoenix scoffs. “She’s got to be the closest thing to an angel there is.”
Bob watches Jake carefully. Bob noticed a lot of things about his friends, he found it interesting. And helpful. He always had a better understanding of what they were thinking. Bob had seen Hangman smirk, Bob had seen Hangman grin. Bob had never seen Jake smile.
“She is.” And Jake smiles.
“Knock it off.” Jake doesn’t even have to look up from his crossword to know you’re trying to sneak a photo of him.
You hold your hands up, dropping your phone in your lap. “What? I’m not doing anything!”
That grants you a look, Jake’s eyes looking unamused from behind his reading glasses. “Right. What’s a four letter word for ‘spice cookie ingredient’?”
“...Spice?”
Though he bites his lip to fight it, a smile grows on Jake’s face and he shakes his head with a chuckle. “That’s five letters, lovey.”
“Oh,” you nod entirely unconvincingly. “I knew that.”
Jake laughs, dropping the newspaper and holding his hands out for you. “Just c’mere already.”
You frown slightly, getting up from the couch and making your way over to where Jake is resting in the living room armchair. His arms wrap around you as you sit down, loose at your hips as you get comfortable.
After a moment of silence, Jake’s own expression falters. “What?”
“How come you never let me take your picture, Jake?”
Jake freezes and, though you just sat down, you move right back to the couch again. He lets you.
“You don’t want any picture of me,” Jake shakes his head.
“Yes, I do,” your brows furrow as you try to understand. “Yes, I do.”
Jake’s jaw clenches. “No, you don’t. Believe me.”
“Jake—,”
“Why do you even want pictures of me anyway?” Jake looks up accusingly.
“Well, I don’t know,” you shrug slightly. “I just like having them to look back on.”
You’re not sure if you’ve said something wrong because Jake just nods, taking off his reading glasses and wiping a tired hand over his face. “You don’t want pictures with me.”
“And why is that, Jake? Why should I not want to have pictures of you? You take pictures of me all the time!” You stand up in frustration.
“That’s different,” Jake grunts.
“How is it—?”
“Because taking pictures of you is—It’s nice and I can look at them and think ‘wow, how did I get so lucky’ because that’s just the way you are all the time. You’re the type of picture people hang up on their bulletin boards. Taking pictures of me is just a reminder of how awful I am. That I can only be good enough in snapshot seconds. The only thing you’ll get out of a picture of me is realizing how much of a failure I am and wishing you could go back to the brief second that I wasn’t,” Jake swallows, unable to meet your eye as he continues. “So you don’t want a picture of me, they’re so heavy they’ll… they’ll just take the bulletin board down with them.”
You don’t say anything, in fact you storm out of the room, and Jake presses his palms into his eye sockets. He lets out a shaky breath. And then another. Because this was what he was waiting for, wasn't it? The moment that you finally realized that you were too good for him. The moment that you finally realized he’s the second choice. The “almost good enough but not quite”. The fight instigator. The pilot everyone trusts about as far as they can throw.
The moment you finally realized you don’t want him anymore.
You come marching back out of the hall suddenly, tossing a book at him as you cross your arms. Jake can only look surprised as he catches a copy of Flat Stanley in his hand.
“You said that the only things you offer are pictures so heavy they’ll fall off the wall. And I could tell you how I don’t think that’s true at all. How I could never look at you as anything less than the entirely vibrant and wonderful person that you are. But even if you don’t believe that, even if you think that this is all you can offer me,” you tap your finger on the cover of the Flat Stanley book in his grip. “I want it anyway. I just—God Jake, I just want you. So… so you can crush me and that’s okay because we could just do what Flat Stanley does. And I’m pretty sure they blew him back up with a bike pump so we could just get a bike pump and—,”
Jake’s arms wrap around you suddenly, Flat Stanley dropping to the floor behind you. His face is buried in your neck, his shoulders shaking, and you wrap your arms around him quickly. You don’t say anything—you don’t know if you could if you were forced—gripping on to Jake long enough for both of you to stop crying.
You clear your throat. “You gonna let me take your picture now?”
Jake nods against the nape of your neck.
“Good.” And it is. “I wanna take one every day we can, okay?”
“Okay.” Jake allows himself one last sniffle before he pulls away, keeping you in his embrace so he can look at you.
“Hey, lovey.”
You smile, a hand coming up to cup his cheek. “Hey, Stanley.”
There’s a house on a street at the end of a block with a sturdy wooden fence and two cars parked in the driveway.
No one ever really looked twice at it, maybe only seeing it when Coyote’s car was in the shop or he and Jake drank too much after a night at the Hard Deck. No one ever really notices the painted rocks that littered the small garden or the floral wreath that hangs on the front door.
When they go inside—and take off their shoes because Jake and Javy told them it was fine but they’re taking their shoes off so it would be weird if they didn’t—they see a small dining room. There’s three chairs around a table, with enough room for just a couple more and a large window that has a sweet-looking view of the beach.
On the left wall is a picture of Jake and Javy at the Grand Canyon. They’ve got big hiking backpacks on and caps secured to their head. Jake’s not quite looking at the camera, but he’s smiling anyway. The picture is framed with light wood.
They keep walking though, and make a right, and end up in the kitchen. There’s wood cupboards painted white and countertops that compliment it because everything compliments white. And there’s a cupboard for dishes. A cupboard for cups. A drawer for cutlery. But there’s a tall wooden cabinet with glass doors that holds all the china. Javy laughs that one time, he and Jake were left alone while you were on a business trip and you came back to them eating off of frisbees—which was an idea they may or may not have gotten from Parks and Rec.
But when they look past all of that, the quaint and homey refurbishments of this house, they see a large steel fridge. Or they assume it’s steel. They can’t really see from all the pictures stuck to its doors. There’s selfies of you and Jake and Javy too. Pictures from late night snack runs. Or road trips. Or picnics to the park.
There’s pictures where Jake is pulling faces the others didn’t even know he was capable of making. Like one, Bradley points out, where you’re at Disneyland beaming into the camera, but Jake can’t seem to take his eyes off you, looking completely and utterly lovesick. But as they keep looking through all of that—through Jake and Javy in face masks and a picture of you looking disgruntled after a very long plane ride—they find a photograph printed on fancy photograph paper of a younger Jake Seresin, happy and smiling, at his graduation from TOPGUN.
And they could scale and search every square inch of this house on a street at the end of a block, but they won’t find any other picture of Jake Seresin. They’ll find wedding photos, pictures you, Jake, and Javy got done professionally at Macy’s as a joke but ended up liking too much not to hang up, a whole photo album. Jake Seresin will never appear in any other photo than that day of graduation, with a toothy grin and excitement in his eyes. Because every other photo is of Stanley.
There’s a fridge in a house on a street at the end of a block with a sturdy wooden fence and two cars parked in the driveway. And Jake has never once worried it will ever make you not want him anymore.
please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!
✸request: can i make a request for jun-ho (d.p.) where the reader is the sister of a deserter that he and hoyeol are looking for, they go to her seeking information, and it's like 'love at first sight” (that's how i felt when i watched d.p. for the first time lmfao), but he realizes that she is somehow familiar to him and discovers that they studied together as children, and she was like his “first girlfriend” that he never forgot about?
✸synopsis: jun-ho and ho-yeol knock on your door searching for your deserter brother, but jun-ho is shaken by an instant, inexplicable pull toward you. as duty forces him closer, he realizes you are the childhood “girlfriend” he lost at five years old — the first love he never forgot, now standing on the wrong side of his uniform.
✸genre: one-shot, canon adjacent, childhood friends-to-lovers, second chance love, angst to fluff
✸pairing: an jun-ho x reader
✸content warnings: n/a
✸wc: 4.1k
✸an: lower case intended, no use of y/n, fem!reader / ugh, this man!!!! his performance in this drama is spectacular
[now playing: isimo — bleachers]
m.list
─────
the file lands on the desk with a dull thud.
jun-ho barely looks up at first. another deserter. another name, another set of dates, another thin paper life reduced to ink and margins. he’s learned not to linger. if he lingers, the faces follow him home. if he lingers, he starts imagining reasons.
han ho-yeol flips the folder open with careless confidence, skimming aloud. “twenty-two years old. infantry. went missing three days ago.” he pauses, squinting. “family listed. one sibling.”
jun-ho reaches for his coffee and stops halfway. the address catches his eye. it’s nothing special — just a string of numbers, a neighborhood he hasn’t thought about in years. and yet something tightens in his chest, sharp and sudden, like his body has recognized it before his mind can.
he leans closer. “let me see that.”
ho-yeol slides the file toward him, curiosity flickering across his face. jun-ho scans the page more carefully now, fingers brushing the paper as if it might disappear. the name doesn’t ring any bells. the photo doesn’t either — just a young man with tired eyes and a stiff, forced expression.
then he sees the family section again. one younger sister.
jun-ho swallows. a memory stirs — unformed and incomplete. a flash of sunlight through classroom windows. the smell of chalk. a laugh, high and bright, belonging to someone he can’t quite see. his heart starts to beat faster for no logical reason.
“you good?” ho-yeol asks.
jun-ho straightens, forcing his expression into neutrality. “yeah. just… didn’t sleep well.”
ho-yeol snorts. “welcome to the deserter pursuit.”
they gather their things, slipping into routine like armor. boots on. jackets zipped. faces set. as they step out into the corridor, jun-ho casts one last glance at the file, at the address he now knows by heart without trying.
he tells himself it’s nothing. that nerves do strange things. that every case feels heavier at first. but as they walk toward the vehicle, a strange certainty settles deep in his bones — quiet, unsettling, impossible to shake.
this case is different. somewhere, a door is waiting to be knocked on. and behind it, something jun-ho lost long before he ever put on a uniform is about to look back at him.
─────
the knock is firm, measured, the kind that carries intention. you know what it means before you reach the door. you’ve been waiting.
when you open it, two soldiers stand in the hallway, framed by flickering fluorescent light and the faint smell of rain. their uniforms are crisp, their posture precise. one of them — broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed — meets your gaze immediately, already assessing, already working.
the other one stops. not dramatically. not obvious. just enough that time seems to catch on him for half a second. his hand pauses near his side. his eyes lift to your face — and something in him breaks open.
jun-ho doesn’t understand it. he only knows that his chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts. that the world narrows to the space between your eyes and his. that the feeling hits him with the weight of something long-buried being unearthed all at once.
love at first sight is too small a phrase for it. this feels older. heavier. like recognition without memory.
you blink first. “yes?”
your voice snaps him back into his body. he straightens reflexively, training kicking in where his mind fails him. “military police,” he says, forcing steadiness into his tone. “private first class an hun-ho. This is corporal han ho-yeol.”
ho-yeol bows his head slightly, polite, already clocking jun-ho’s unusual silence. he nudges the conversation forward smoothly, like he’s done this a hundred times.
they say your brother’s name. your expression barely changes — but jun-ho notices the microsecond it takes for you to brace yourself. the way your shoulders draw inward just slightly, like you’re preparing for impact.
you step aside to let them in. “come in.”
the apartment is small, neat in the way of someone who doesn’t have the luxury of mess. jun-ho takes it all in without meaning to — the shoes by the door, the faint hum of an old refrigerator, the sense that this space has absorbed too many quiet worries.
you sit across from them, hands folded, posture polite but guarded. you answer their questions calmly, efficiently. this isn’t your first time doing this. jun-ho can tell. there’s no surprise left in you — only weariness.
he tries not to stare; he fails. there’s something about your eyes. the shape of them. the way they hold sadness without spilling it. they tug at him insistently, like a word on the tip of his tongue he can’t quite say.
ho-yeol clears his throat when jun-ho goes too quiet. “you’re the sister?”
you nod. “yes.”
jun-ho watches your mouth when you speak. the way you enunciate carefully, like you’ve learned that words can be used against you. the way your voice stays steady even when the subject clearly hurts.
you tell them everything you can. not excuses. not accusations. just facts, laid out carefully, like glass pieces you’re afraid to mishandle. your brother had been tired. withdrawn. he stopped answering calls. he said less and less each time you spoke.
you don’t say he was scared. you don’t say you were too.
jun-ho listens differently than the others you’ve met. he doesn’t interrupt. he doesn’t rush you. when your voice falters, he doesn’t fill the silence — he lets it breathe. it’s subtle, but it makes something in your chest ache.
the exhaustion shows eventually. it always does. in the way you rub your fingers together absentmindedly. in the faint dark circles beneath your eyes. being related to a deserter means living in a constant state of half-blame, half-fear. you carry it like a second skin.
ho-yeol presses for specifics. locations. names. dates. he’s not unkind, but he’s direct. the job demands it.
jun-ho notices how you tug lightly at the sleeve of your sweater when the questions get harder. over and over again, like an unconscious anchor. he notices the rhythm of your speech, too — the way you soften statements with pauses, the way you choose careful wording, like someone who learned young that speaking too boldly had consequences.
something stirs in him — a classroom, small desks. a voice beside him, gentle and steady. the image vanishes as quickly as it comes. he leans forward slightly without realizing it.
“you’re not responsible for his choices,” he says, quietly. ho-yeol shoots him a look. that’s not protocol.
you glance up, surprised. jun-ho doesn’t look away. his expression is earnest, open, almost painfully so. like he means it — not as a soldier, but as a person.
“i know,” you say after a moment. “but knowing and feeling aren’t the same.”
for a second, he looks like he might say something else. something personal. instead, he nods, jaw tightening as he swallows it back.
when they leave, the apartment feels emptier than before, as if the very walls have absorbed their presence and now echo with silence.
outside, ho-yeol exhales, the cool air swirling around him.
“you went easy on her,” he remarks, a hint of reverence in his voice. jun-ho stares at the closed door, his brow furrowed in thought.
“she’s already carrying enough,” he replies, his tone heavy with concern. ho-yeol studies him for a beat, then smirks faintly, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“you couldn’t stop looking at her,” he observes, noting the way jun-ho’s gaze lingered. jun-ho finally looks away, unsettled, as if caught in a moment he didn’t want to acknowledge. in his mind, something keeps circling just out of reach — a laugh that once filled the air, a promise whispered in the dark, a pair of small hands clasped together, warm and reassuring. a memory that refuses to surface, teasing him with its familiarity.
inside, you sit alone, fingers still curled in your sleeve, heart heavier than before — but threaded now with something unfamiliar, a mix of hope and uncertainty. a sense that this isn’t the last time you’ll see him lingers in the air, wrapping around you like a fragile thread, binding your fates together in ways you can’t yet comprehend.
─────
the drive back is quiet.
not the comfortable kind — no music, no idle conversation — just the low hum of the engine and the sound of jun-ho’s thoughts crowding in too close. the city blurs past the window, streetlights smearing into pale lines, but his focus never leaves the image of you standing in your doorway. the careful way you spoke. the tired steadiness in your eyes.
it makes no sense how deeply you’ve lodged yourself into him.
ho-yeol glances over from the passenger seat, squinting. “you don’t look at people like that.”
jun-ho blinks. “like what?”
“like you’re trying to remember them from a past life.” ho-yeol scoffs. “you were gone back there. i could’ve asked for your social security number, and you wouldn’t have noticed.”
jun-ho exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “she just… feels familiar.”
ho-yeol raises an eyebrow. “everyone feels familiar if you stare long enough.”
“that’s not it.” jun-ho hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “it felt immediate. like something clicked.”
the car hits a bump, jolting him — and with it comes a flash. a playground, sun-warmed and loud. gravel under sneakers. laughter ringing too high, too bright. small fingers slipping into his without hesitation. a girl’s head tipped toward him, a pink hair clip catching the light.
jun-ho sucks in a sharp breath. his grip tightens on the door handle. the memory dissolves before he can grab onto it, leaving behind only the echo of warmth and something unbearably gentle.
ho-yeol watches him from the corner of his eye. “you okay?”
jun-ho nods too quickly. “just tired.”
they pull into the lot. routine takes over — engine off, doors shut, keys clipped into place. but the feeling doesn’t fade. if anything, it grows heavier, more insistent.
at his desk later that night, jun-ho opens his notebook to log the case. he writes the basics automatically — date, location, name of the deserter.
then he pauses. below it, he writes your name. he stares at the ink for a long moment, heart thudding for reasons he refuses to examine too closely. it’s ridiculous, he tells himself. coincidence. fatigue. a mind looking for comfort where it doesn’t belong.
he closes the notebook. still, long after lights-out, when the barracks settle into silence, jun-ho lies awake with his eyes open, seeing only a pink hair clip and a promise he can’t remember making.
and a name he can’t bring himself to erase.
─────
you recognize the knock before you open the door.
not by the sound — by the feeling. it settles low in your chest, familiar and unwelcome, curling through you before your mind can catch up. when you open the door, they’re there again. same faces. same purpose. and yet, something about this visit feels different. quieter. less sharp around the edges.
jun-ho meets your eyes and doesn’t look away.
there’s no uniform this time. just a dark jacket, sleeves pushed up slightly, his posture still careful but less rigid. ho-yeol offers you a quick, easy smile, already stepping out of the way as if to say we won’t stay long.
you let them in. the apartment feels lived-in in a way it didn’t before — maybe because you’re not trying to keep it together quite as tightly. you offer tea without thinking. jun-ho thanks you like it matters. when he slips his shoes off, he lines them up neatly beside the others, toe to heel, precise and quiet. the small domesticity of it makes your throat tighten unexpectedly.
you sit at the table again. steam curls from the mugs between you. ho-yeol opens his notebook, but the questions come slower this time, gentler. there’s more space between them. jun-ho fills the silences not with pressure, but with presence. you notice how he listens — chin dipped slightly, eyes attentive, like every word you say deserves to be held carefully.
at one point, he asks, almost offhand, “did you grow up here?”
you shake your head. “no. we moved a lot when i was young.”
his gaze sharpens — not in suspicion, but interest. “military family?”
“no,” you say softly. “just… circumstances.”
you hesitate, then add, “different schools. different classrooms. i didn’t stay anywhere long.”
jun-ho nods slowly, like he’s filing the information away. “did you have friends?”
you smile faintly. “one. for a while.”
something twists behind his ribs. you stare into your tea, the surface trembling slightly. “there was a boy I used to sit next to. we were… five, maybe six.” you laugh quietly, embarrassed by the memory. “he said he’d marry me.”
the world tilts. jun-ho’s breath catches so sharply it hurts. the room seems to narrow, sound draining away until all he can hear is the rush of blood in his ears. five years old. sitting side by side. a promise made with absolute seriousness.
a pink hair clip.
he stares at you, heart pounding, and suddenly your face overlays another — smaller, brighter, smiling up at him with unshakable certainty.
ho-yeol clears his throat, oblivious. “kids say all kinds of things.”
you nod. “i know. but i remember it anyway.”
jun-ho can’t speak. his fingers curl slowly against his mug, grounding himself in the heat. he forces a breath, then another, afraid that if he lets go, the truth will spill out too fast, too raw.
he doesn’t say it. not yet. but as he watches you across the table — tired, kind, achingly familiar — jun-ho knows with terrifying certainty that the girl he never forgot is sitting right in front of him.
and he doesn’t know how to survive that.
─────
the tension grows before it even reaches your door.
every call, every message, every knock carries more weight than the last. your brother’s name moves through the system, bouncing from department to department, leaving traces, questions, and scrutiny in its wake. jun-ho and ho-yeol are no longer just visitors — they are the living reminder that the search is closing in.
you feel it in every corner of your apartment. the walls seem lower, your chest tighter, and the faint hum of fear is constant beneath your ribs. you’re ashamed for the worry you can’t hide, angry at a brother who left you behind, and scared of what consequences might come for both of you. each day, you brace yourself, knowing someone will always ask more than you can answer.
jun-ho sees it. not just the surface weariness, but the trembling under your polite composure. the hesitation in your movements. the way your eyes dart to the window or the door like you’re always expecting judgment. he wants to ease it. wants to tell you you’re not responsible. but rules, procedures, and a sense of duty tie his hands.
still, he finds ways.
he softens his tone when he asks questions. he pauses when the inquiry edges too close to your guilt. he reframes questions for ho-yeol, subtly steering them away from the sharp edges. he leaves out details in his reports that could paint you as complicit, balancing truth with care. every gesture is small but deliberate, a shield built quietly around you without your asking.
ho-yeol notices — he always notices.
“you’re bending too much,” he says one night after a briefing. his voice is low, but firm. “you can’t save her from the system. don’t get attached.”
jun-ho clenches his jaw, eyes narrowing. “i’m not bending.”
ho-yeol smirks, unconvinced. “you’re protecting her. and you’ll regret it if you let it go too far.”
jun-ho doesn’t answer, letting the warning hang in the air. inside, he knows ho-yeol is right. but the thought of letting you carry this weight alone, of leaving you exposed to every judgment and inquiry, is unbearable.
you continue your quiet endurance, unaware of the surrounding shield he builds for you. and jun-ho continues to hold his professional mask firmly in place while letting compassion guide his hands in silence.
somewhere in the distance, your brother’s shadow looms larger every day. and while you bear the brunt of it, jun-ho bears a different kind of burden — the one that grows heavier every time he sees you tremble and does nothing but stand beside you.
─────
the rain taps steadily against the window, a soft, relentless rhythm. the power is out, leaving the room bathed in the muted gray of streetlights and the occasional flash of lightning. the hum of the city outside feels distant, as if the storm has created a small, separate world where only the two of you exist.
you sit at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of lukewarm tea, trying to steady the nervous energy in your chest. jun-ho stands near the window, the soft drizzle casting streaks across his face, highlighting features you suddenly notice in startling detail — the curve of his jaw, the way his eyes catch the dim light, the way he seems to hesitate in the silence as if he’s testing it, feeling its weight before speaking.
finally, he breaks it. his voice is quiet, hesitant, almost afraid. “do you… do you remember a boy who cried when you moved?”
the question hangs in the air, fragile and tentative, like it could shatter if handled too roughly. you freeze, then slowly, memories rise unbidden. a small classroom, sunlight falling across desks. tiny hands grasped tightly, clumsy promises whispered with absolute seriousness. a pink hair clip, a scraped knee, a tearful goodbye you thought you’d never remember.
you laugh softly, the sound breaking like glass, tinged with disbelief. then the tears come, silent and warm, sliding freely down your cheeks, tension spilling over. “i… i remember,” you whisper.
jun-ho exhales, almost in relief, almost in wonder. his eyes soften, gaze fixed on yours, and for the first time in years, the distance between past and present collapses. “it was me,” he admits, voice raw and small. “i never forgot you.”
the weight of years settles between you, thick and unspoken. everything — the lost time, the distance, the absence of goodbyes — presses down, heavy but not crushing.
you reach out instinctively. he hesitates, then lets your hands brush. the contact is feather-light, trembling, electric. fingers graze, linger, but do not grasp. no words are needed. no kiss. just presence. recognition. just the fragile acknowledgment that something once lost has, somehow, been found again.
outside the windows, the rain continues to fall, and the storm carries the sound of beginnings hidden in endings. in that quiet, powerless room, two hearts remember themselves to each other.
─────
the tension has been building for days, tightening in your chest until it feels like it will crush you. every knock at the door, every question, every glance from jun-ho carries the weight of your brother’s absence — and your own guilt.
you can’t keep it in any longer. not the half-truths, not the deflections, not the careful omissions you’ve been using like armor. one evening, after the city has grown quiet and ho-yeol is off on other duties, you finally let yourself speak.
jun-ho sits across from you, hands resting on the edge of the table, eyes steady, patient. you take a deep breath. “i know where he’s been hiding,” you admit, voice low. “i can tell you, but… you have to promise me something first.”
jun-ho leans forward. “anything.”
“this isn’t betrayal,” you whisper. “it’s… desperation. i can’t lose him completely, but i can’t protect him alone either.”
he nods slowly, understanding threading through his expression. “i promise i’ll handle it carefully. i can’t promise outcomes. but i promise you honesty. every step of the way.”
you study his face, searching for deceit, for hesitation, for any sign that he would let the truth harm him — or you. but all you find is the same unwavering gaze that has haunted your thoughts since the first knock on your door.
with a trembling hand, you give him the information — names, locations, patterns, the threads of your brother’s desperation woven together so he can’t be missed. jun-ho listens, committing every word to memory, his face betraying neither judgment nor anger. only focus. only a determination that, for the first time in years, makes you feel like someone is truly on your side.
when you finish, the room is still. the rain outside taps against the window in soft, relentless rhythm, and the tension doesn’t leave — but it shifts. shared now.
jun-ho leans back slightly, fingers brushing the edge of the table. “thank you,” he says quietly. “i won’t let this go to waste.”
you nod, exhaling, letting some of the burden fall away. you don’t know what will happen next, and fear still sits in the pit of your stomach — but for the first time, you feel the smallest flicker of hope.
and jun-ho? he feels it too — the weight of duty balanced by a quiet, unspoken promise. one that doesn’t erase the danger, the fear, or the consequences — but reassures him that, for once, honesty is enough.
─────
the news comes without ceremony.
your brother has been found. not captured in the dramatic, movie-style way you imagined, but quietly, painfully, by the hands of people following procedure. the relief is immediate, sharp, and hollow. the consequences follow swiftly — paperwork, interrogations, reprimands. painful, but human. no one gets away untouched, not your brother, not you, not jun-ho.
jun-ho is quiet through it all. he stays by your side as much as his duty allows, offering calm explanations when questions come, shielding you from some of the harsher truths. yet guilt gnaws at him constantly. could he have found him sooner? could he have done more? could he have prevented the storm that brought your family to this point? every time he glances at you, the weight tightens.
you, too, wrestle with conflicting emotions. relief floods through you, followed almost immediately by loss — the loss of innocence, of trust, of the life you imagined you could have had with your brother. it’s strange to feel both grief and gratitude at the same time. the emotional whiplash leaves you dizzy, exhausted, trembling.
through shared silence and quiet acknowledgment, your bond with jun-ho deepens. no words are necessary at first; grief speaks in glances, in the way your hands brush accidentally, in the steadiness of his presence beside you. in the chaos of duty and consequence, you both discover something fragile but unbreakable — a connection forged in care, empathy, and shared sorrow.
outside, the world continues to move, indifferent and relentless. inside, however, the storm has settled into a calm. two people sit side by side, not speaking, and yet understanding. through loss and relief, fear and guilt, they find each other — again, quietly, without fanfare, but with a certainty that neither of them can ignore.
─────
time passes quietly, stretching like a slow river. days blend into weeks. weeks into months. and yet some things remain constant — the memory of a small hand in his, the echo of your laughter, the pull that never really fades.
jun-ho visits again, this time without uniforms, without badges, without authority pressing down on every word. he steps into your apartment like a guest, carrying only himself and the faint weight of the man he has become. you greet him not as a soldier, not as an investigator, but as the boy you once knew.
the room is soft with light, empty of tension. you sit across from each other at the table, tea steaming between you, hands resting on laps. for a long moment, nothing is said. then, slowly, he leans forward, and his voice is quiet, almost shy.
“i always thought about you,” he admits.
your breath catches. the words have been years in the making. you reach out instinctively. hands brush. fingers curl around yours naturally, like time has simply paused and waited for this moment.
this time, there is a kiss. gentle. earned. real. not hurried. not desperate. but full of everything you both have carried silently — memory, longing, hope, and the fragile courage to trust again.
─────
life settles into small, perfect rhythms.
shared meals at the kitchen table, laughter spilling quietly over misremembered stories and clumsy attempts at cooking. words are fewer now, but they carry more weight. glances linger longer. touches are intentional and tender.
the war inside him — the ghosts of duty, guilt, and loss — doesn’t disappear. nor does your pain, the echo of years spent worrying, waiting, surviving.
but love stays. it stays in the quiet brush of hands. in the soft smile over steaming mugs. in the gentle agreement that life, no matter how fractured, has brought you both back together.
Hii how are u?? I read ur fic about bloodhounds. Andd theey aree masterpiece. Especially BAEKJEONG is related to Please continue Please continue🌷 I want to read stories about BAEKJEONG. 🪷🌸🌸
Hiii thank you so much for reading my works 🩵🩵 I’m not sure when I’ll write again but I’ll keep him in mind since everyone loves him so much 😊
can you make something suggestive about woojeong (bloodhounds)? <3
a/n: bro he’s so fine UGH wanna climb him like a tree 😝
lee woojeong x gn!reader | 508 wc | no major warnings, established relationship.
There’s an ache in Woojeong’s chest.
As of late, he’s only seen you for a couple of hours a day. An hour in the morning before he leaves for work, a brief call during lunch, and an hour past midnight when you’re half asleep.
It wasn’t enough for him at all.
Frustration had already been eating at him with everything going on with Kim Geonwoo’s situation, with each day that seemed to be worse than the last– he was slowly unraveling.
He comes home one night, shoulders heavy with irritation, and mind repeating the line, “our beliefs aren’t aligned with yours.” Even if it wasn’t meant that way, the betrayal still weighed heavily in Woojeong's mind.
“You’re home later than usual.”
Woojeong picks his head up at your voice, groggy and slurred, telling him that you’d just woken up. “Hey,” he greets softly, setting his things on the table near the door. “You should’ve stayed in bed.”
With a sigh, your head falls against him, arms looping over his shoulders, “I missed you.”
A light chuckle comes out as his arms come up to rest against your waist, drawing you closer. “I missed you more.”
For a moment, it’s still. Calm, silent, Woojeong feels himself relaxing just by being with you. But the ache in his chest becomes present again when he becomes aware of your breath fanning against his neck.
Slowly, his hands roam until he makes contact with the hem of your shirt, and his fingers slip inside to feel your skin. He traces along your skin gently, listening to your breath, smiling to himself at the hitch when he grips onto you suddenly.
“Are you okay?” He asks quietly, tilting his head to look at you.
When your eyes flick to his, Woojeong feels that all too familiar pull in his chest. “Are you teasing me right now?” A smile creeps onto his face, guilty and playful. “You missed me that much?”
With a nod, he lowers his hands back to your waist, leaning his head closer to yours until his eyes are leveled with yours.
First, a long kiss to your forehead, long enough for you to protest about a potential mark, and silly enough to make you both giggle at his antics.
Next, peppered kisses to both cheeks. A blown raspberry to your right one, while his fingers pinched the left one, again, quiet giggles filled the dimly lit hallway.
Then slowly, almost hesitantly, his lips pressed against your own. His hand comes up to your chin, holding it with his thumb and forefinger, gently angling your head when he presses deeper.
A swipe of tongue against your bottom lip shifts the mood completely, and as he’s guiding you backward until you hit the wall, his lips leave yours to attach to your neck.
Woojeong takes his time with you, mapping out where his kisses have you tugging on his hair. Where to touch to have your breath stutter. Where to bite to have your body curl against his and whine his name.
yes!! you’ve got to watch more of his dramas / movies. he’s great! although I’m kinda bummed because I don’t think he wants to play another bad guy (his words) again. he said it was pretty harsh and tiring. he’s sooo good with romance dramas 💘
My bad I thought I replied to this earlier 😭
BUT ! If you have any recommendations or if you wanna leave your fav work of his I would love to watch 🙏 action anything is my usual go to but I have a soft spot for romance as well!!!
I only like him because it’s rain lol. the character was absolutely awful (he did an amazing job at making me hate him) which is what actors should do. I’m a huge fan of rain and all of his work. he’s a phenomenal actor and performer.
Truuuuth!! I’m not too well versed on him since I only knew him as a singer but I didn’t know he had sooo much filmography under his belt 🙀 his acting was so so good !!
I’m baekjeong anon and I’ll request a lil something even though I’m a bit shy—anyways!! jealous baekjeong, let’s say he gets super jealous when gf reader gets a little too close with alan. 🫢
a/n: went a diff route to the jealousy thing. so NO he's not yelling, he's expressing his emotions like a #goodboy reader got him on a leash. (is that weird?)
im beakjeong x gn!reader | 627 wc | no major warnings, cursing, reader humbles him.
Im Baekjeong tried not to let trivial things bother him.
He was not very good at that.
The second he caught sight of you sitting next to Alan on the couch, too close for his liking, his ‘good’ mood had been wiped entirely and was instantly replaced with annoyance.
“What the fuck are you two doing?” Baekjeong’s voice cuts through yours and Alan’s combined laughter like a bullet, silence quickly taking over the room alongside the heavy pressure that came with Baekjeong’s glare.
You share a glance with Alan, looking back at Baekjeong when he cleared his throat. “He was just showing me this new game he downloaded.” You explained warily, setting the controller down. “It’s pretty fun, actually. I think you’d be good at it.”
His eyes flicker to the console propped up on the table, then flick back to you, then to the space between you two– or the lack thereof– and he gets pissed all over again.
“I don’t pay you two to sit around and play games, do some fucking work.” He scoffs, walking away to the other room.
You blink at the now shut door, furrowing your brows in confusion, staring at Alan, who mimicked your expression. “Should I go talk to him?”
“Do you think I should?” He snorts, pausing the game that was now an afterthought. “Talk about an overreaction.” He mumbles under his breath.
When you get up to move, you shove Alan’s head lightly. “You’re not wrong, but watch your mouth.” You get an annoyed scoff in return.
You don’t bother knocking when you get to the door; he knows well enough that it’s you, and you don’t bother keeping up with his rules when he acts like this.
“Anything you want to talk about?” You ask, leaning against the door, watching him turn further away from you. “Do I have to guess what’s got you bothered?”
“What else could it be other than wanting you two to work instead of slacking off?”
A scoff escapes before you could keep it at bay, “What kind of work are you doing right now? All you’re doing is scolding us and throwing a tantrum.”
At your words, his head whips around. If you weren’t upset with him, you’d be worried about his neck. “You should watch your mouth.”
“And you should learn how to use yours.” You retort, moving to sit beside him on the bed. He doesn’t turn away when you rest your head against his shoulder, and doesn’t draw back when your fingers lace with his. “I know you’re upset about something, so just tell me.”
For a moment, it’s silent– it’s an obvious tell that whatever’s bothering him would be a giant blow to his ego to admit. But Baekjeong knows by now that you wouldn’t let up until you knew what was wrong.
“You were sitting too close.” He says, rolling his eyes when you’d pick your head up immediately. “Are you happy now?”
“You’re such a dork.”
Baekjeong blinks, a look of confusion passing over his face. He’s been called ruthless, violent, bloodthirsty, and money hungry, but a dork?
“Do you know how possessive you are?” He nods, ignoring the rhetoric behind your question. “Alan would rather…” You look up in thought. “Well, do anything but make a move on me because he knows I'm yours, okay?”
He rolls his eyes again, huffing as he shoves you off of him. “Stop making me seem like a child.”
You let out a quiet laugh at his dismissal, turning over on the bed to stare at him with your chin resting on your palm. “Keep acting like this,” you smile, grin widening when he turns to look at you. “It shows me how much you love me.”
No dw I get it.. he’s definitely attractive and all but DAMN bro chill 💀 you do not gotta be doing all that just to get one guy. Major yearning potential tbh 😭 like im not gonna lie, one of his scenes that stuck with me was when taegeom said his daughter was hurt and he GENUINELY looked empathetic towards him like was that just me that thought that??
a/n: gonna be so honest and admit that i haven't written something suggestive in a minute... so this made me nervous lowkey. and tbh it barely is lmao my bad fr, i'll redeem myself later
im baekjeong x gn!reader | 654 wc | no major warnings, reader works for baekjeong as a medic. reads a bit scary partway but pls don't take it that way, not proofread
You’ve always noticed it.
The way Im Baekjeong looked at you after every fight, with eyes that pierced like knives, that felt like standing by the fire too close; not hot enough to burn, but enough to feel like you had to run away.
At first, you’d brushed it off as a silent order to get to work. To clean his wounds and run away before you could piss him off– nothing more.
But as time passed, his gaze felt more intense– with an unknown purpose beneath it. From across rooms, down hallways, even when you pulled into the parking lot, to the penthouse. You always felt him.
The day you decided to ask him about it, coincidentally, had been the same day Alan had pissed him off about their 400 million deal.
The moment you stepped inside and called for his name, he’d pinned your arms above your head with one hand, while the other held your waist with a bruising grip. Im Baekjeong was definitely not happy.
“If you’ve come to ask me some stupid fucking question, I’d rethink it now.”
“It can wait.” You say, looking away when his eyes snapped towards you. “It’s not important.”
With a low hum, he leans his head closer to yours, “Is that so?” He presses, tauntingly squeezing your pinned wrists. “You came all this way to say nothing?” Baekjeong’s eye twitches in annoyance when you don’t say anything, and not to mention, you’re actively avoiding eye contact.
Swiftly, the hand on your waist comes up to your jaw, tilting your head until you look him in the eye. “You never talk when you’re working, now suddenly you come down here to talk and won’t say shit? Don’t get me excited.”
“Why would my speaking excite you?” You blurt, sucking in a sharp breath when he pushes you against the wall. “When you stare at me all day, is it because you want me to talk to you?”
With a scoff, the hand on your jaw pushes your head to the side. “So that’s what you came here to ask? Why do I stare so much?” Baekjeong can’t help but laugh at your hesitant nod, letting his eyes wander. “You really want to know?”
“It’s distracting.”
“So you want to quit?”
“That’s not what I’m trying to say.” You huff, looking to the side in frustration.
But with your neck now exposed, Baekjeong suddenly realizes it’s this that he was waiting for. All that annoying staring he did was to see how long it’d take for you to become frustrated with him, to find him and finally talk.
When he steps closer, your head whips back to him in shock. His chest is pressed against yours, a presence that feels too intimate— too risky.
“This is against my contract.” You whisper hastily, breath stuttering when his breath fans against your skin. He's way too close.
“I’m your boss,” he laughs, nudging his knee between your legs. “Fuck your contract.”
A beat passes after his words, the low hum of the refrigerator alongside his breathing filling your ears. The air is too thick, too suffocating, and right now, with Baekjeong pinning you against the wall, it’s too hot.
“You want me to stop?” Your mouth falls open at his words, and Baekjeong looks down bitterly. “I’m not a monster, you know.”
He doesn’t elaborate, but you pick up on what he means.
His grip loosens until your arms are being held by nothing but yourself, and to his surprise, they fall gently around his shoulders.
“I came here because I wanted to know if it meant anything. The staring.” Embarrassment clouds over you at his blank stare, a sheepish chuckle escaping before you say, “It was driving me insane, not knowing the reason behind it.”
And once again, Baekjeong’s hands find your waist with an unforgiving grip, catching your attention instantly. “Should I show you then?”
was also gonna request for baekjeong 💔 it’s no diff than other villains being asked for 😭
You can totally request for him I just thought it was funny at the time 😭 I’m writing that request atm but I’m also having to go back and rewatch his scenes to not make him too ooc 😣
