#//sips my own tears.....

[starlightoath]

*sips tea* Do y'all see and hear that? No one's storming the capital. No one's inciting an insurrection in the midst of a tantrum. No one's claiming they didn't lose in spite of the official vote counting. Unlike MAGA, who did all of those things!

Just a graceful loss! Because unlike the child that won by 1.5%(it wasn't a landslide), Kamala had the dignity and maturity to concede and accept her defeat with dignity. *takes another sip* Crazy how it was the shortest campaign in history and 48.4% of American voters voted for her. Imagine what she would have done with a whole year.

Ah Ah! I was only 49.9%. Not 50%. We're definitely not rounding. Even then, a lot of citizens abstained. *pours another cup of tea* So, let's see. Unqualified cabinet members based on how popular they are. Restrictions on bodily autonomy of women now, intentions of placing restrictions on all people. Transphobia that's dealing direct damage to reproductive healthcare and mental healthcare. Denial of Healthcare to people who need it in direct violation of "Do no harm" under penalty of arrest. Not to mention dismantling of government paid insurance with only "concepts of a plan" to replace it(which is just another way of saying it won't be replaced). Intentions to delegalize same sex marriage. The person who put America even further into debt, who we know is in bed with Putin and China, is back into office. The same man that was convicted and found guilty of 34 felonies including multiple cases of Sexual assault. The very same man who's throwing a tantrum because one of our greatest presidents died and flags will still be at half mast during hus inauguration. Racism, sexism, and bigotry "backed" by the government. Oh! And those terrorists, sorry, that's bad optics, right? "Christian Nationalists" having government positions in direct opposition to the Founding Fathers Direct intent of "Separation of Church and State." Also cultists, whoops again, "The MAGA Party," having even higher influence because they're in central government positions! Oh! The price of living will increase too! Trump also said that his promise to decrease egg prices was a lie.

But hey. At least Trump voters are happy that they can be hateful in public. At least they can feel justified in attacking marginalized groups knowing Trump is in the office! At least they know no more—Oh wait! Immigrants are cheaper labor than native citizens, so immigrants will still be coming to their country!

*sips tea*

Ladies, Gentlemen, and Others!

Guys, Gals, and Nonbinary Pals!

Presenting Act 2 of Trump's America: The Burning Shit Show in the Midst of a Dumpster Fire!

Don't worry, Folks! I'll be enjoying the show from a safe distance!

[gojonanami]

content: drunk!gojo, clingy gojo, infinity acting up, pre-established relationship, down bad for you, mentions of having kids, poor Ijichi

“Hic— where’s my wife?”

You rub your temples, as you watch your husband whine, “how much did you let him drink?”

“Let him? He was a force of his own, he—“ Ijichi cuts off when he sees your glare, balking as he panics, she’s even scarier than Gojo when she’s mad! “I’m so sorry!”

You shake your head, “it’s fine, Ijichi,” and he scurried away quickly, leaving you with your very inebriated husband. The one who had drank one sip of alcohol too many and was probably liable to misfire a hollow purple any second, “Satoru,”

You approached him and were met with the resistance of his infinity, as he sat slumped over on the booth table, “Satoru, put down your infinity—“

“No,”

“Satoru, come on, you have to stop or I can’t take you home,” and he’s shaking his head, cheeks flushed.

“No, I mean I don’t know how to,” he sighs, “the infinity is all messed up, I can’t do it,” he rubs his eyes, and you’re sighing again.

“It’s just because of the alcohol, Toru,” you sit beside him, “you can do it

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, dead weight on his two feet, as he pulled you even closer, cheeks flushed and warm from the alcohol, “why didn’t you come? You told me you were gonna pick me up,”

“No, I didn’t, you said Ijichi was going to—“ you manage to say before he’s whipping his head up, eyes sparking with blue, but lips curled in a pout, as if he wasn’t two seconds from obliterating you and the entire block.

“Do you hate me?” And his eyes nearly glow in the dark of the night, infinity flickering as you drew closer, “do you not want me to have your kids?”

Your hand finally reaches him, as you are the only one who can pierce through his defenses, “first of all l, I would be the one having your kids, weirdo,” your fingers cup his cheek, thumbing away his tears, “and how could I ever hate my husband?”

He blinks at you, “You’re married?” And you have to bite back your laugh at his affronted expression, “to who? I’ll hollow purple them!”

You snort, “Well he has light hair, blue eyes, and is drunk off his ass,”

He blinks, furrowing his brow, “Nanami?” And you laugh, before kissing him hard. You can taste the alcohol on his lips still, mixed with the aftertaste of sugar and chocolate he had at the bar most likely.

“Get it now?” And he grins, nodding, as he hangs all over you as you get him into the car with you, leaning against you as you drive home.

“So you’re gonna leave your husband for me?”

“…I might, if you ever drink again.”

[humanjarvis]

wasting your honor

synopsis: at akso hospital’s charity gala, you realize how smart zayne is. how much smarter he is than you.

tags: fluff to angst to fluff/comfort, reader is insecure about their intelligence, reader thinks zayne deserves better, references to socioeconomic differences, potentially inaccurate references to medical terminology and protocore stuff, misunderstanding, reader ghosts zayne for a week, he comes to find her, reader tears up, love confessions, happy ending pairing: zayne x fem!reader (referred to as “she” one time), reader doesn't have to be mc word count: 2.4k

a/n: i’m rly rly proud of this it may be my favorite thing i’ve written so far please read it

“Are you sure I should be going to this?” you ask, the hesitation clear in your voice. 

“Why shouldn’t you? Plenty of other attendees will be bringing their partners as plus-ones,” Zayne says matter-of-factly. “Of course, if you’re feeling unwell, it’s best to stay behind and rest. I'm sure I'll be able to manage on my own.”

“No, no, I feel fine,” you reply, chewing your bottom lip nervously. “It’s just…I've never been surrounded by so many highly educated people. I’m afraid I'll slip up, or say something wrong, or embarrass you, or…”

Before you can ramble on, he walks up to you and squishes your cheeks between his large scarred hands. “Darling,” he begins, a soft smile on his face, “none of that matters. Just be yourself, and I’m sure you’ll be the most refined person there by a mile.” 

Akso Hospital’s annual charity gala was the topic of his impromptu pep talk. Each year, the event made front-page news from drawing in hundreds of world-renowned physicians to support a pressing medical cause. Tonight’s gala would be hosted by a team of legendary neurologists, and the venue—a prestigious museum of anthropology—was equally celebrated.

Zayne, who usually struggled at such events, had invited you as his plus-one with youthful hope in his hazel eyes, and there was no way you could have rejected his offer. At first, you’d been thrilled at the prospect of making an official outing together—you rarely got the chance due to his busy schedule—but as the days passed by, the anxiety of being average in a room of geniuses had caught up to you.

So as you pace back and forth before the full-length mirror, fidgeting with your dress at every turn, you can only hope that he’s right.

As Zayne puts the car in park, your stomach lurches with dread.

In the few seconds you have to panic to yourself while he walks around to open your door, the way your mind formulates last-minute escape plans would put a supercomputer to shame. Maybe you could fake sick—no, you’d told him you felt fine—or maybe with enough pressure you could lightly sprain your ankle in your hee—

The door swings open. 

Fuck.

He takes your hand and guides you out of the car, and as you walk toward the museum entrance, you’re too focused on trying not to trip over your flowing gown to take in the scenery. The lights twinkling in the foggy night, the verdant plants lining the entryway in carefully arranged rows, the opulent fountain flowing over small hills of bronze coins. It’s a lovely setup, really. If only your brain would allow you to enjoy it. 

After passing through the lavish front hall, decorated with colorful displays of ancient artifacts, you’re greeted by a grand ballroom layout. Round banquet tables with crystal centerpieces are scattered throughout the space, and the upscale alcohol behind the bar could probably bankrupt you with one sip. 

All around you, people clad in gold watches and diamond necklaces mingle with thinly veiled scrutiny, and you silently bless Zayne for personally sponsoring your event attire. 

As you head further into the room, a striking brunette woman in her 40s saunters up to you. “Zayne!” she gushes, “It’s so nice to see you could make it! With how antisocial you are, I was afraid you’d find a reason not to come. Oh, and who’s this?” she asks, eyes passing over you dismissively. “I’ve never seen you working with Zayne before—perhaps you’re in nephrology or gastroenterology?” 

You have no idea what either of those words mean.

Luckily, like always, Zayne saves the day. “Actually, this is my partner. She’s accompanying me tonight.”

“Partner,” the woman repeats, her voice raising an octave in disbelief. “…What a surprise! I didn’t realize the aloof Dr. Zayne was seeing someone. How lucky you are to have him,” she finishes with a stiff smile. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it, then. Enjoy your evening!” she calls as she flags down a waiter and scoops up two glasses of wine. 

“That was our chief of staff,” Zayne says flatly. “Surely you can understand how she scored the position with such a charming personality.” 

You chat with—or Zayne chats with, while you stand off awkwardly to the side—a few more guests before the main portion of the event begins.

Dr. Greyson had roped him into a conversation about a thrilling surgery from the day before, and an intern who’d somehow managed to get on the invite list had bombarded him with questions while you watched with a blank smile.

When the lights gradually dim and you’re directed to your seats, you let out a sigh of relief. Finally, a moment to breathe, you think. 

The hours pass. Speech after speech travels in and out of your ear, the jargon too advanced for you to process before the next utterly alien word comes along. 

Flipping open your program in restlessness, you realize you’ve reached the final segment of the gala just as the next speaker takes the stage. 

“Again, thank you all so much for your attendance tonight,” he starts. “I’m proud to announce that we’ve raised a record-breaking amount for medical research involving Protocores—what a historic feat. Each of you should be immensely proud of your contributions.”

Your claps seem too loud in the polite applause. Shifting your gaze to the guests around you, you match their enthusiasm—or lack thereof—with an inward grimace. 

“Now, before the night ends, we do have one more achievement to celebrate. Dr. Zayne Li, who I believe is here with us tonight, has recently passed an extraordinary milestone—in his time with Akso, our chief cardiac surgeon has successfully completed over 800 surgeries. To show our gratitude, we’d like to present him with the Medical Impact Award. Dr. Li, if you’re in the audience, won’t you come up and celebrate this accomplishment?” 

This time, you don’t hold back your applause. As Zayne rises from his seat, an endearing look of bewilderment on his face, your heart swells with admiration. Lucky, was what that woman had called you earlier. You suppose she’d been right.

As Zayne climbs up the steps, the presenter hands him a polished wooden plaque. Saying a brief thanks, he struts to the mic, a practiced look of confidence on his face now that the surprise has worn off.

“Thank you for this honor,” he begins steadily. “It’s with immense privilege that I can stand here before you today, but I’d like to take this time to commend our fundraising efforts tonight. The millions of dollars we’ve raised will be dedicated to investigating the nature of pathological conditions that originate in Protocore exposure. This will allow hundreds of medical personnel in and outside of Linkon to treat previously unsolvable cases. In regards to my own work, I’m particularly grateful—with the generosity you’ve all shown tonight, you’ve made me incredibly optimistic for the future of treating Cardiac Protocore Syndrome. I’ll keep that in mind every day—so the next 800 surgeries can go smoothly and with quick recoveries.”

As his speech ends, your look of admiration melts into a resigned, defeated smile. 

For the first time that night, the room breaks out into thunderous applause. And for the hundredth time that night, you feel like you don’t deserve to stand by his side.

You’d hope that he’d chalked up your silence on the ride home to sleepiness. When he’d walked you to your apartment door and leaned in to kiss you goodnight, you’d merely stood there in indecision, afraid to taint his brilliance with your mediocrity. And then, with a strained smile, you’d shut the door in his face.

That was the last time you’d seen him for the rest of the week. And for half of the next. 

For six days, you’d been completely ghosting him, too wrapped up in your insecurities to respond to his numerous messages. 

Thank you for accompanying me last night. I had a wonderful time, he’d texted on the first day. 

One of the nurses came up to me and gushed over your dress. She asked where you bought it from, but I told her we got it custom-ordered, he’d said on the second. 

The fourth day. Would you like to join me for a meal later? We’ve had to reschedule a surgery. I’ll be getting home earlier than usual tonight.

Last night. Please respond to me when you get a chance.

And no matter how badly you wanted to, each time your fingers hovered over the keyboard, they froze in paralyzing shame. 

You’d passed the time like you had before you met him—hiding from the sun, rewatching comfort movies, and wallowing in bed with gloomy ballads in the background.

But on the seventh day, your doorbell rings.

Thinking it’s the package of pastries you’d ordered from the bakery near Zayne’s house—you always got a box when you were sad—you hastily swing open the door.

And then fight the urge to shut it right back. 

Because standing on your doorstep is a tired-looking Zayne, frowning in hurt and confusion. 

“Hello. Is your phone broken?” he asks worriedly, checking your body for signs of illness. 

“Um…no,” you mutter, suddenly fixated on your navy blue slippers. “Why don’t you come in? If you want to.”

With an infinitesimal squint, he crosses the threshold of your apartment. All things considered, it’s a good thing he’s here, given the way your heart is beating out of your chest.

“You haven’t been responding to my calls or messages since the gala,” he begins carefully. “I was afraid something was wrong. There were so many people present—maybe you’d caught a virus. But,” he continues, taking in your disheveled yet healthy appearance, “it seems I was incorrect.”

The guilt that’s been eating at you for days suddenly devours your insides whole, and your emotional dam bursts open. 

“I-I’m glad you got to go, and that you got your award—your speech was great, by the way,” you sniffle. “But while we were there, the whole time I was thinking how much more successful you are than me. How much more intelligent. I mean, that lady asked me if I was an entomologist, or whatever, and I didn’t even know what she meant! At the end of it I just…thought you’d be better off without me. That you deserve better. Smarter. That’s why I’ve been quiet the last few days,” you finish, eyes downcast.

His puzzled frown deepens at your revelation.

“Why would I expect you to possess medical knowledge when that’s not your field of study?”

Oh.

Oh.

You really were stupid, weren’t you.

“You…don’t think I’m too…average for you?”

“No, have I ever indicated that I do? If so, I apologize for making you feel that way. It’s the complete opposite of how I view you,” he reveals, stepping closer. “I’m also terribly sorry I didn’t notice you were so uncomfortab—”

“No,” you interrupt him shakily. “I tried to hide it. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

Zayne gives you a sympathetic grin before starting over. “Regardless, I regret not being able to take care of you like I should have. And as much as I wish you hadn’t, I understand why you took the time to process your feelings. But to make one thing clear,” he asserts, voice deepening in emphasis. “I’m the one who’s lucky to have you.”

As you look up at him through glassy eyes, your breath hitches. “What?” you croak, voice hoarse from built-up tears.

“Darling,” he begins gently. “Did you ever consider whether I like socializing with those types of people?”

Mouth parting in a small ‘o,’ you shake your head meekly. 

He smiles wryly. “After every previous one of those events, I’ve gone home with an ear-splitting headache. Last week was the first time I’ve ever enjoyed going,” he chuckles. “Not because of that award—which was flattering but unnecessary considering I was only doing my job,” he quips, “but because you were there beside me.” 

“No amount of medical knowledge can compare to the peace you make me feel. The comfort. I asked you to be my plus-one for one reason only: the person I love makes me happy.”

At the confession, your battered heart soars and your cheeks burn so hot you think they’ll melt off. Timidly, you inch closer to him, instinctually unsure if he’ll welcome you back into his arms. 

He answers your unvoiced question almost immediately, pulling you to him by the waist before he speaks again. “Although,” he pauses, giving you a concerned once-over, “if you were truly in so much distress over attending, you could have just refused. At the expense of my own happiness, I would’ve preferred you had.”

“But you seemed so excited to go,” you groan, laying your head against his chest. You shiver at the contact—you must’ve missed him more than you realized. “I guess I was wrong.” 

“Not entirely. I was excited to go with you.”

At his response, you bury yourself impossibly further into him, and he strokes your back tenderly. “Well, that was one reason I agreed—you looked so cute when you asked, I just couldn’t say no,” you grumble, lightly pinching his waist. “But the other part was…with all the hours you spend at the hospital—800 surgeries and all—we never really get to go to big events as a couple. I just wanted to take the opportunity, I guess. I thought it would feel nice.”

Zayne sighs deeply and presses a light kiss to your hair. “And it felt bad instead,” he surmises. “How can I make it up to you? I’ll ask Greyson to trade shifts with me if I need to, just say the word.”

“Well,” you start, peering up at him shyly. “There is an office party next week that I’ve been dreading going to. All alone,” you pout. “If he comes with me, the illustrious Dr. Zayne will get to see how we regular people socialize.” 

Chuckling softly, he kisses your forehead. “He wouldn’t dare miss out on that. He’ll be there,” he promises, squeezing your hip in confirmation. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, I believe the bakery van just dropped something off at your door. Shall we open it?”

In an instant, you peel yourself off of him and sprint for the door before freezing in your tracks. You were forgetting something. 

“Wait!” you exclaim, turning back around to face him. With a nervous gulp, you say the words you think you’ve known for a long time.

“I asked you to come with me, Zayne,” you breathe, “because the person I love makes me happy, too.”

[ryoflix]

sukuna as a canvas for your twin kids | f. reader, s/h prns., crack 'n fluff, estb. rl ؛ ଓ

sunday, again. too quiet.

sukuna’s stretched out on the living room floor, half-asleep, one massive hand pillowing his head, the other draped loosely over his chest. he's shirtless, obviously — because, in his words, “what the hell do i need clothes for in my own house?” and because the twins insisted.

“we can’t paint the tattoos if you’re wearing a shirt, daddy,” your daughter had explained, laying out the tiny brush set like she was about to perform surgery.

“‘s for art,” your son added, already squatting over sukuna’s ribs, brows furrowed like a tiny warlord.

he hadn’t thought much of it at first. watercolor, skin-safe, barely left a mark. it was supposed to be ten minutes tops. instead—

“stop mixing the pink with the black!” your daughter scolds, flicking her brother’s hand with dainty precision.

“it’s not pink! it’s blood!” your son grunts, shoving her brush away. “and this part looks like it’s supposed to be bleeding.”

“that’s not what daddy’s tattoo is doing! this line here is pretty and has to be gold.”

“it’s a cool mark, not a princess tiara!”

“he’s MY daddy too!”

sukuna groans like he’s being crucified. “can you both just—” he lifts his head slightly, blinking one eye open. “choose a damn theme, already.”

his entire torso is covered. the dark ink of his real tattoos is now lined with jagged blue lightning bolts, gold filigree, sparkly purple flowers, and what suspiciously looks like a dinosaur bleeding from its mouth. his daughter is perched on his thigh with the poise of a royal court painter, hair pulled into a neat bun, dabbing glitter onto his collarbone. his son is half-straddling his chest like a barbarian, using bold strokes of red and black like he’s preparing his father for war.

they’re both shaking.

“you ruined it,” your daughter sniffles.

“you made it look dumb!”

sukuna props himself up on one elbow. “i am right here. you’re fighting over a man like he’s a coloring book.”

“but i wanted you to look beautiful!” she wails.

“and i wanted you to look COOL!” your son howls back.

and just like that — absolute meltdown. tears, dramatic gasps, brushes tossed like weapons. your daughter curls into herself and sobs delicately into the hem of sukuna’s pants. your son punches a nearby pillow, then bursts into loud, guttural wails.

“oh my god,” sukuna mutters, looking like a soldier returning from the trenches. you peek in from the hallway, take one look at the chaos, and wisely retreat back into the kitchen. you’ll offer tea later.

“okay,” sukuna sighs, sitting up fully now, both twins clinging to opposite sides of his torso. “we’re gonna do this the smart way.”

“there isn’t a smart way,” your daughter hiccups.

“shhh. listen.” sukuna cups her tiny face in one massive hand. “you paint the top half. pretty. shiny shit. got it?”

she nods, sniffling.

then he turns to your son. “you. bottom half. fire. blood. maybe a monster eating someone. deal?”

your son sniffles and wipes his nose on sukuna’s shoulder. “yeah. okay.”

“good,” sukuna grumbles, laying back down like a giant defeated beast. “now, make me cool. or whatever.”

and like clockwork, the twins get back to work, quieter and more focused now. your daughter hums as she paints a crown above one tattoo. your son adds fangs to another. you finally return with a cup of tea, setting it by sukuna’s head. he gives you a look, deadpan. “if you laugh, i’ll throw the cup through a wall.”

you sip calmly. “you look so cool, babe.”

his chest rises, falls. he closes his eyes again, one arm settling around the twins like armor.

“...next time,” he mutters, “you’re the canvas.”

you just smile, and start taking pictures.

[hoonsluvr]

CHERRY

박성훈 ꒰ park sunghoon ꒱ — genre; summer au, best friend’s older brother, forbidden romance, smut, a bit of fluff, angst ୨ৎ cw; p in v, unprotected sex, spit, choking, gagging, oral f.rec, mating press, edging MDNI. ⟡ synopsis; you never thought that an unexpected obsession formed during your trip to southern italy would teach you one life’s cruelest lessons — never fuck your bestfriend’s brother ୨ৎ wc; 4.8k — library ⭑.ᐟ

inspired by; cherry - lana del rey

isla yaps; hii, this is my first work so i’m a bit nervous!! lmk what you think of the layout and feedback in general is appreciated! :)

Was it wrong that you felt happy when your parents announced they wanted to take a vacation alone this year?

You sit opposite them at the dining table, your mom explaining herself for the hundredth time over. Clearly she felt guilty about it but you didn't mind. “You know its our anniversary during that time darling and I hope you understand that we love having you with us, of course we do, but 50th anniversaries are rather special and we’re booking a honeymoon resort.”

You feign a look of sadness to act like you’re listening but your mind is already elsewhere. It wasn’t that you didn’t like spending time with your parents, that wasn’t the problem at all, but now that a family vacation was out of the picture, joining Stella’s family in Italy was back in the conversation.

Soojin, or Stella as she liked to be called was your best friend, your ride or die. Years ago, when you moved to a new town, the Park family were your next door neighbours and you and Stella quickly became close, bonding over your hatred for the town and its people. You two had always felt suffocated in its environment, the way everyone knew everyone’s drama, everyone’s problems, everyone’s secrets. You promised each other that one day you would escape and explore the world together for that very reason.

You were over at her house so much that you were basically a part of the family. You had your thumbprint on their security system, the password to the garage door, and even your own designated chair at the dining table. Her mom used to jokingly call you two sisters, but honestly, that didn’t feel far off. You and Stella had grown up together, seen all of each other’s phases too. The cringe phase, the boy-obsessed phase, oh god- the emo phase, and yet your friendship was still going strong. From weekend sleepovers where you giggled and gossiped all night long to crying on each other’s shoulders after not feeling accepted in school, to smoking your first blunt together, you two had been through every whirlwind experience together. After all these years, you still struggled to express just how much admiration you held for her.

And now, it had come. This was the last summer you had left with her. In 3 months you were going to head North to New York City, to pursue a degree in arts while Stella would remain in your hometown. When you broke the news, you expected her to be angry at you because of the promise you made to travel together forever, but she simply smiled and told you she was proud of you and that she always knew you would make it far.

You felt a pit in your stomach thinking about being apart, you had never really imagined life without her, so imagine your relief and excitement when she proposed that you join her family on their vacation to Italy this summer. One last chance to have the time of your life with your best friend while you were both still young? No one could catch you dead saying no.

-

“Mom, please.” You beg, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from frustration. You sit across from her on the kitchen island, sipping on a mango smoothie as she prepped dinner for tonight. At this point, the conversation had been going on for far too long and both of you were running thin on patience. “I just don’t understand why you won’t let me go.” You huffed, used to getting your way.

Your mother sighs. “Sweetie, I’ve explained this to you. The Parks have done so much for you, your entire life! I just don’t want you to be a burden on them when they’re trying to have a family vacation. They're extremely sweet for offering but it’s a tough situation.”

“Ugh!” You exclaim and your mother shoots you a don’t-be-so-dramatic look. “They offered to have me! And besides, with you and daddy going to Mexico and Stella going to Italy, I’m going to be alone this summer. My last summer before college is going to be spent wasting away. It’ll be years before I see Stella again!” You pout, your eyes sparkling with hope as you see her expression soften, triumphant that you clearly struck a soft spot.

“We’ll see about it darling.” She sighs.

Even with her weary expression, all the tell-tale signs were there. She had been convinced. You stand up, satisfied as you go to text Stella the news.

And that’s how you find yourself going to the South of Italy for three weeks with the Parks: Stella, her mother and father, and her older brother Sunghoon.

Sunghoon had always been a little shy and introverted making him hard to talk to, your four year age gap not doing much to help create a relationship either. Despite that, Sunghoon had always tried being sweet to you. After many attempts of trying to talk to him over the years, you finally managed to break his shell the one time he rescued your prized possession, a teddy bear plush named Ben, from a tree branch. You still remember the warm hug he gave you when you cried over Ben’s stitching being torn and ever since that day, although you wouldn’t call yourself friends, the relationship shifted. It changed from nods of acknowledgement to smiles, from waves of greeting to hugs.

During your last years of middle school, you even developed a small crush on him but you never once told Stella, knowing she would have killed you. Once you turned fourteen, Sunghoon left to go for college and you hadn’t seen him since then. You had no idea what he was like now, his personality, his likes and dislikes, his interests. Honestly, the thought worried you a little. You just decided you would try sticking to Stella on the trip, hoping that things wouldn’t be awkward.

Only if you knew. Only if you knew what was about to happen, you never would’ve chosen to go on that godforsaken trip.

-

The last minute nature of your decision to join the vacation meant that tickets weren’t available on the same flight as the Parks, so you booked one for a flight that arrived in Italy just two days later. You didn’t mind however, you were just excited to spend time with Stella.

And so you arrive in the quaint beach town of Taormina, located on the shorelines of the island of Sicily. The drive from the airport to your location spans over rugged hills overlooking the Loian sea. You maintain small talk with the barely english speaking driver, chatting about what to do in town and what beaches to visit. A gasp leaves your mouth as the taxi comes to a halt outside a stunning Italian villa style Airbnb. You know the Parks aren’t exactly middle class, neither were you, but you weren’t expecting this much grandeur.

Cobblestone bricks line the pathway to the house, leaning up against the ivy covered walls. Heaps of colorful potted flowers are placed at the entrance and a wooden gazebo in the corner catches your eye. Stella is sitting in the gazebo, sipping tea. When she sees you, she jumps up in excitement and rushes over.

“You’re here!” She squeals and twirls you around as you both laugh excitedly. You hear claps of joy from the back as Shin-ah, Stella’s mom steps out of the front door, her husband, Ji-hun in close pursuit. You quickly wish the driver goodbye and thank him before hugging them both fondly.

“Gosh, we only just saw you a month ago and you’ve already become prettier!” Shin-ah exclaims, making you blush and immediately resort to your usual ‘humble’ deflections that you recited out like a poem whenever she complimented you.

You lean to the side, getting up onto your tip-toes to get a glimpse of the dark haired boy who just stepped out of the door. Sunghoon. His short black hair was now grown out into a mullet and he no longer held the smiley expression that his face once always used to carry. You glance at his arms, his thin tank top showing off his muscles, a striking difference to his previously scrawny build. He looks so different. He’s grown now and more confident, no longer the sweet, shy boy you used to crush on. Theres no doubt, Sunghoon Park has matured. He’s a man now. A fucking gorgeous man, that too.

Sunghoon murmurs a half-hearted greeting towards you, reminiscent of the way he used to speak to you before you two became comfortable. You’re not surprised-it had been years since you’d seen him. Traces of your previous dynamics were long gone by now. You return the soft greeting as Shin-ah ushers you into the house, Stella following behind, wheeling your luggage in.

“You must be hungry, come, we’ve already set the table.” And sure enough, the intricately carved wooden dining table was all set up with dishes, cutlery and a large pizza in the centre. Dinner with the Parks is comfortable as you go back and forth with them, discussing the trip’s itinerary, recent stories and more.

Shin-ah glances at Sunghoon before turning back to you. “So, you and Sunghoon haven’t seen each other in a while. He’s been asking what you’ve been up to.” It was horribly obvious that Sunghoon couldn’t care less about what you’d been up to. His mouth opens in annoyance at his mother’s words. “What? No I—" But he’s cut off by a sharp nudge from his father who scowls at him. Embarrassment pools inside of you and you laugh awkwardly before Shin-ah nods encouragingly for you to continue.

“Well uh— I’m going to NYU after this summer. I’m going to be studying art history and I’m hoping to get an internship with a local gallery this summer, after the trip of course. But yeah…” You trail off awkwardly as Sunghoon pretends to be interested. An awkward atmosphere settles over the table and you finish in silence.

After dinner, you head up to your room that you’ll be sharing with Stella. You’re sitting on the floor, unpacking your suitcase while she removes her makeup.

“Hey,” she turns to you, “I’m sorry about what happened with Hoon earlier. I don’t know why he’s acting like that.”

You wave it off. “No, don’t worry about it at all, it’s all good. I’m sure it’ll settle down in a while.”

She nods comfortingly but deep down you feel a little hurt. You knew that it wasn’t going to be the same but you didn’t expect him to be so cold.

-

After a few chaotic days of what felt like never-ending sightseeing and cold shoulders from Sunghoon, you finally collapse onto a picnic blanket out in the back-garden, your white sundress pooling around your knees. You roll over onto your stomach, kicking your legs into the air as you grab your book, the pages soft between your hands as you slowly flip through, trying to find where you left off. Pop. The sound of plastic popping as you open the box of glowing red cherries next to you. Your favorite.

You're a few pages in when a soft voice calls from behind you. “Hey.” You glance behind to see him standing there in a loose white shirt and khaki shorts, holding a book. He laughs softly as you scramble to straighten yourself. “No need for that, you can sit however you want.”

“No, no it's okay,” you shake your head, sitting up straight now, confused at his cheerful demeanour “what do you need?”

“I was wondering if I could join you,” he tilted his head, “you seem to be having fun.”

You squeeze internally. Something about Sunghoon was making you nervous right now but you plaster on a sweet smile nonetheless, “of course.”

You’re hyperaware of his every movement as he approaches and sits down next to you on the blanket. He holds up the book he had and it takes you a second to realise that both of you had gotten the same book to read, ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’. You smile at him, “that’s funny.”

“It is, isn’t it?” He hums. “How’s Ben doing?”

You laugh, the anxious feeling in your stomach fading a little. There’s no need to be nervous in the first place, it’s just Sunghoon. “He’s doing okay. No more accidents since the last.”

The two of you fall into silence. He coughs. "Listen... I uh— I didn't mean to act that way when you first came."

You nod almost immediately. "You don't have to explain yourself, I get it, it's fine."

"No, I was acting like a jerk for no reason. I mean- you know how I am with people at first and I hadn't seen you in a while, it just took me a while to get used to. That's not an excuse for how I acted though, I'm sorry."

You peer at him. "I get it, I figured that's the reason you were acting distant. It's okay. I'm glad we can be pause normal again." You both look at each other and for a second you feel him glance at your lips but his eyes move away so fast, it's impossible to tell. He smiles softly at you.

-

Your legs are crossed as you lounge lazily on a chair on the balcony, taking in the view of the salty sea, waves lapping against the rocks. Once again, a box of perfectly round Italian cherries lay on the table behind you. You couldn't seem to get enough of them.

“You must really like these.” Sunghoon murmurs from behind you, pointing at the box of the sweet fruit. You smile lazily at him, not surprised by his interruption. Somehow, he had been finding you in all sorts of odd places recently, almost as if he was looking for you from the second you disappeared from view. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Sunghoon thought you were pretty. You realised fairly quickly from the way his eyes flicked up and down whenever he saw you, resting on your tits for just a second more.

“They’re my favorite.” You nod, grabbing one and popping it into your mouth as he watches. Maybe it's the way he’s staring at you hungrily but a newfound confidence takes over you. You reach for another cherry but this time, you make sure to hold eye contact with him, looking up with big bambi eyes as your tongue swirls around the sweet fruit. You bite into it and the red juice dribbles down your chin, your eyes glinting. His finger instinctively reaches down, a millimetre away from your chin before you nod to give him permission.

He swipes at the juice on your chin, before pulling his finger back, licking it slowly. Your throat suddenly feels like it’s constricting. You should not be doing this— holy shit you should not be doing this. You stand abruptly, coughing slightly. He doesn’t react much but a slight smirk plays on his face. Pause. “I should go,” you stutter as you rush into the house, heart hammering in your chest.

You try your best to ignore him for the next few days because you had no idea what possessed you to do that. Your mind constantly replayed the moment. The way he stared at you. The way he touched you. The way he licked his finger. God you were so fucked. Every time you saw Stella, you couldn’t help but feel guilty but then you tried comforting yourself. It wasn’t like you had done anything wrong, nothing actually happened.

You didn’t even notice what you were doing at first, your actions seemingly innocent in your mind. You just wanted to make the most of the summer clothes you owned and the heat in Taormina was intense, right? But your skirts were growing shorter and shorter by the day, your bikinis became skimpier and skimpier. That, accompanied by the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when he came around, batted your eyelashes at him, knowing it made him crazy-you hadn’t even realised but that little incident between the two of you had made you develop a little obsession with Sunghoon Park, just like the one you had all those years ago. And you were desperate for his attention now.

Right from your shiny olive skin that glistened in the Italian sun to your long hair that swayed as you walked, Sunghoon Park knew you were gorgeous, even more so now that you were making it painfully obvious. He knew. He knew you were doing all of this entirely on purpose but that didn’t mask his staring as you lather on sunscreen, resting beside him in the sand in a floral pink bikini.

You know you have him.

"Hey can you help me with this?" You ask softly, holding out the bottle of sunscreen towards him. His jaw ticks but he takes the bottle from your hand.

"Actually," you smile sweetly, "on second thought, I think I'm done, what do you think?"

If looks could kill, you would strike dead at this very moment from the way he was looking at you. “What’s your game?”

You stare at him, not expecting him to say those words so soon. “What do you mean?” You pout, pretending to be oblivious, a little upset that you didn't get to have that much fun with him before he called you out.

He scoffs. “You know exactly what I mean. Don’t play dumb. You like teasing me and then pulling away at the last moment, don’t you?” When you don’t respond, his expression hardens. “You’re trying to win a game you don’t even know how to play.”

Before you get the chance to respond, the two of you are interrupted as Stella runs to you, laughing.

“Hey are you having fun?” Stella smiles down at you.

“I’m having a great time, thanks.”

She nods as she moves to sit down on the sand, between you and Sunghoon.

Theres a moment of silence before you speak. “Hey Stells, thank you for letting me come. I appreciate it a lot. I would’ve had a terrible summer without you and I’m just really glad we get to spend time together before … you know …”

She smiles at you again. A genuine smile. “I’m gonna miss you. A lot. And I know you’re worried but i’m not, because I know we’ll always be friends. We’ve been through everything together and stupid New York isn’t going to change that.” As she pulls you in for a hug, you feel a pang in your heart. You love your friend and the last thing you want is for her older brother to come between you. But you just can’t help yourself.

You glance up at Sunghoon who's watching you two hug with an emotion in his eyes that you can't quite place. He meets your eyes and you shut yours, unable to look at him any longer. You hold onto Stella tighter, suddenly feeling disgusted with yourself. You're sickening. Sickening and selfish.

-

Your phone screen shows 4:36AM and sleep wasn’t coming. You sit up, rubbing your eyes as you glance at Stella snoring beside you. You get out of bed slowly, the wood creaking beneath you. You desperately needed a walk to clear your mind. Stepping into your fuzzy slippers, you leave the room, entering the narrow corridor outside. Sunghoon’s door stands tall in front of your face, which you would have normally ignored, except today, streaks of light peek out of the crack at the bottom. Why is he awake?

You know you shouldn’t. You know you really shouldn’t but you do it anyways. You knock softly. A few moments pass and you think he might not come. Right as you’re about to leave, the door clicks open and he stands there in grey sweats, shirtless. You choke a little but he doesn’t notice, neither does he seem surprised to see you.

He looks you up and down and you realise what you’re wearing—a tiny pink lace-trim nightgown, barely covering anything. He’s smirking now. “Come in.”

“Uh I—“ You start to say as you begin to regret your decision but you’re cut off by his harsh tone, his smirk now faded, replaced with a hardened expression.

“That wasn't a question. Come. In.”

You swallow nervously as you follow him into the room and shut the door behind you. Sunghoon sits on the edge of the bed, motioning for you to stand in front of him. You do as he asks and now you're staring down at his face, your silky hair hanging loosely, brushing against his cheeks. He starts to grab harshly at your waist and you gasp slightly.

"You think this is funny huh? Playing all these games? Do you have any idea what you're doing at all?" When you don't respond he starts again. “What? Cat got your tongue? Are you all nervous now? Don't be, you started this after all."

You breathe out shakily, hands finding his neck. "Please—"

"Please what?" His smirk is back, he likes that he's finally the one in control. "Say you want me."

"God I want you, I do." You whine pathetically. And whatever little power you may have had over him was gone, he had claimed it back. His dark eyes glint sinisterly as he stands, picking you up by the waist and placing you down onto the bed. Your legs are raised, being held up by his hands as he presses kisses on your left ankle. He slowly makes his way down, nuzzling his nose into your inner thighs. His teeth lock onto your panties and you gasp as he drags them off, discarding them on the floor, leaving you exposed.

"Fuck you're beautiful."

He dives in again, his nose pressing against your clit as he laps harshly at your folds. You throw your head back, a jerk reaction to the sudden sensitivity. You cry out and feel him immediately stop what he was doing. You whine softly in annoyance. "Wow baby, it seems like you really want my sister to know I'm fucking you right now." You swallow harshly as his eyes shoot daggers at you. "Keep. Quiet."

He's looking at your pussy now. You wait, burning to see what he would do. And he spits on it. You gasp, biting your lip to stop the moan. He spits right on your pussy, using his fingers to spread his saliva around your messy area. He begins to lick up your folds again, pressing his tongue down on your clit.

You can't handle it. It's pathetic but you already feel a knot building up in your stomach. "Hoon— I'm going to—"

"Not yet," he spits out, coming up.

You moan weakly in protest but he doesn't seem to care. "You don't deserve to cum yet. You've not been a very good girl have you?" You shake your head.

His hands reach for his pants now, pulling them down in one quick move and you could see how painfully hard he is. Your eyes widen as he pulls out his cock. It was big. Too big. Bigger than you'd ever had before and you didn't know if you would be able to handle it. He laughs, looking at your expression. "Don't worry baby, we'll make it fit."

He pushes your legs up all the way and you were practically bent in half in front of him, your knees blurrily shifting in and out of your peripheral vision. He lines his cock up with your entrance and rubs the tip across your wet folds, groaning softly as his eyes shut. Without warning, he pushes it in and you shriek in surprise, causing him to shove his fingers into your throat. You're choking around his fingers now as he thrusts into you, quickening the pace. Tears stream down your face as you gag, you're close again, you can feel it, but so can he. Just as you're about to reach your high, he stops his motion again and you lean back into the bed, panting hard. You're desperate for release now but as you stare up at his fucked out face through your lashes, smirking down at you, you know he's not going to give you that release anytime soon.

So you go four more rounds. Four more rounds of chasing that desperate high that he pulls away from you at the last moment. You're fucked up now, sweating and panting, your hair splayed across your face as you cried and cried, begging him. The sun had risen now and it pooled in through the window, enveloping you in a warm glow, making your tan skin look golden.

"God baby, you look so fucking sexy right now." Sunghoon reaches an arm towards the desk nearby, where a small pile of digital cameras lay. Stella's digital cameras. The one's she had excitedly bought for the trip, wanting to capture every memory. He points the lens of one of them at you and you don't even have enough energy to protest. Click. And just like that, a picture of you in one of your most fucked up moments was captured forever. He tosses the camera aside, turning his attention back to you.

"You up for one more?"

Strings of gibberish come out from your mouth and he chuckles as he pushes into you once again. He thrusts in and out and you're moaning loudly this time but neither of you cared anymore. You're so sensitive at this point that it doesn't take long for that familiar feeling to arise again. This time, Sunghoon lets you have it. You let out a strangled moan as you feel your orgasm wash over you. Pure fucking euphoria. He collapses on top of you after cumming as well. You reach out, your hands tangling in his hair, stroking his face gently.

You realise you haven't kissed yet. You lean down, placing a gentle kiss on his pink lips. He kisses you back immediately but there is no lust behind it. "You're a goddess, you know that?" He speaks, muffled against your arm. You laugh this time, reaching for the camera next to you. Click. Another picture. But this one is much cuter, the two of you staring into the camera, laughing as your arms are wrapped around him. Click. And another. He's kissing you and you just want to stay in this moment forever.

-

The remainder of the vacation is spent stealing glances and kisses with Sunghoon as you two sneak away at random times together. You visited his room every night, sometimes it was sex and sometimes you just wanted to cuddle.

If there was one thing you were sure of by the end of the vacation, it's that you were madly, madly in love with him. And he was in love with you too.

-

1 month later

You step into your room, flopping onto the bed, exhausted from your shift at the gallery. You pull out your phone to texts from both Stella and Sunghoon. Sunghoon's reads 'see you tomorrow :)' while Stella had texted to cancel your bar plans for the night, wanting to hang out at home instead. You almost feel relieved, too tired to even think of going to the bar. Instead, you quickly change your clothes and head over to the house next door. Shin-ah opens the door and she's delighted to see you as ever.

After exchanging some small talk, you head upstairs to Stella's room, briefly glancing at Sunghoon's door.

"Hey Ste—“ You stop. She isn't there.

You look around, confused for a moment before realising she's sitting outside on the balcony.

"Hey, what's up?" You smile at her as you take the seat beside her.

She doesn't respond, staring straight ahead into the pink sky. She's holding an envelope, nothing too special, just a plain white envelope.

"Do you know what this is?" She speaks for the first time, holding the envelope up, still refusing to look at you.

Your eyebrows furrow. "No?"

She breathes out, finally turning to meet your eyes. You recoil slightly when you see the wild anger looking straight at you. She opens the envelope slowly, almost teasingly. "You know..." She trails, "I recently sent in the film from the trip to be developed."

Your stomach drops.

She knows.

The envelope is finally open and she pulls out three photos. The first one of you laid down on the bed, fucked out with his cock still inside you, then you and Sunghoon are hugging naked, then you're kissing.

You're going to throw up.

"Look at me." She speaks softly, gently, but her voice is full of venom.

You look up to meet her eyes but you just can't do it. Your world is spinning.

"I want you to go to New York," her voice drops to a whisper, "and never come back. I never want to see you again. I never want you to see my brother ever again. Do you understand?"

You're nodding now, pleading silently, tears streaming down your face but you know it's not going to do anything.

She takes your nod as a yes. "Good, then we're clear."

[youthguk]

✦ Encore | jjk (m) ✦

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: You loved him before the lights, before the headlines, before he learned how to disappear.Now he’s back — older, hotter, famous — and this time, you’re the one calling the shots. But Jeon Jungkook doesn’t do endings. Only encores.

w.c: 10k

author's note: writing and creating stories takes a lot of time, and no matter how much i love doing this and jungkook, i would love your support and feedback 🖤

You’ve always known how to keep secrets. It’s a requirement—the requirement—of survival in an industry that trades on whispers, scandals, and carefully curated lies. Fashion is ruthless, a pretty monster wearing designer heels, and no one understands that better than you.

Two years of blood, sweat, and designer tears later, you've earned your throne at Vogue Korea. A glass-walled office overlooking Seoul's constellation of lights, your name etched in gold next to campaigns that make lesser editors weep with envy. You didn't just climb the ladder; you conquered it in six-inch heels.

They call you the Ice Queen of Editorial. Untouchable. Unshakeable. The woman who can stare down Korea's biggest idols without so much as a flutter of mascara-coated lashes. Your boundaries aren't just lines in the sand—they're walls of steel and glass, keeping your personal life locked away where it belongs.

You’ve been handed the crown jewel of assignments: the exclusive BTS cover story.

The kind of story that turns editors into legends. Or ruins them completely.

“You must be feeling the pressure,” Hyerin teases, nudging your elbow as you both stand by the studio coffee station. “If I had to face seven of the most beautiful men on Earth, I’d probably collapse.”

You smile lightly, perfectly controlled. “Luckily, fainting isn’t part of my job description.”

Hyerin laughs, tossing her silky hair back. “You’re seriously not nervous? Not even a little?”

Before you can respond, another voice cuts in—cool and sharp as glass.

“Y/N’s never nervous,” Kara says smoothly, sidling up with a carefully constructed smile. Her eyes skim over your perfectly ironed blouse, searching for any flaw she can exploit. “Even when she probably should be.”

You meet her stare evenly. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just another day at work.”

“Oh, sure,” Kara shrugs, delicately adjusting her blazer. “Just the biggest magazine cover of the year. With the biggest K-pop group in history. But you’re right—no pressure at all.”

You hold your tongue, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. Kara’s smile widens, eyes glittering dangerously.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “We’re all rooting for you.”

As she walks away, Hyerin gives you a sympathetic glance. “Ignore her. She’s just mad they picked you.”

“She’ll get over it,” you say calmly, taking a sip of coffee. But privately, you wonder if she ever will. Kara’s eyes feel permanently locked on your back, waiting for you to slip—and she’d love nothing more than to watch you fall.

You inhale slowly, forcing the tension from your shoulders as you remind yourself that Kara isn’t your concern today. No — your concern just stepped through the studio doors like he owned the light that followed.

So you lift your chin, smooth the edges of your expression, and bury the frantic thrum of your heart beneath that practiced, glassy calm you’ve spent years perfecting.

You feel Jungkook’s presence before you see him. Hear the chatter ripple across the set, feel the shift in the air. Turning slowly, you catch sight of him walking toward makeup, tTattooed fingers, midnight hair, confident smile charming everyone in his orbit.

He hasn’t noticed you yet, but your pulse already quickens. You haven’t been face-to-face since he vanished from your life years ago, choosing fame over what you once shared. Not even your closest colleagues know about your past—not Hyerin, certainly not Kara. To them, you’re the girl who can handle any celebrity without batting an eye.

But Jungkook isn’t just any celebrity. He’s your first heartbreak. Your only weakness.

And the moment his eyes find yours across the room, his casual smile fading into something raw and hungry, you realize secrets never stay hidden forever.

Not when every glance he sends your way feels like a promise—Encore. We’re not done yet.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat, stomach twisting into a knot so tight it leaves you dizzy. For all your polished composure, the sight of Jungkook still manages to unravel you like loose threads on a designer gown.

Seeing him again feels like reopening a wound you spent years pretending had healed. It floods you with memories you'd promised yourself to forget—quiet nights tangled in sheets, whispered promises that felt unbreakable, how he used to hold you as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

But then came the silence. Slow at first, then deafening. A text left unread, calls unanswered. You waited like a fool, convinced something must've happened, sure he’d reach out again and say everything was fine. But days turned into weeks, then months, and eventually you stopped counting—stopped waiting.

He'd left you in a silence louder than any goodbye could've been.

It still haunts you, that hollow uncertainty. All those unanswered questions, the ache of wondering why you hadn't been enough—why something that had been your entire world had apparently meant so little to him.

Even now, standing across a crowded room from him, you feel nineteen again, confused and heartbroken, questioning yourself: Was it you? Was it fame? Or was he just that good at faking forever?

Your hands tremble slightly, and you quickly clasp them behind your back, steadying your breath, forcing your expression back into neutrality. You are not that girl anymore. You're not nineteen, naive and waiting.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

Yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you realize you might not have a choice.

Your hands tremble slightly, and you quickly clasp them behind your back, steadying your breath, forcing your expression back into neutrality. You are not that girl anymore. You're not nineteen, naive and waiting.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

You grit your teeth, straightening your posture defiantly. No, you're not going to fall apart because he decided to show up now, years later. It doesn’t matter how familiar his gaze still feels, or how your stomach flips traitorously when his eyes linger a second too long. It’s just shock, you reason. The surprise of seeing someone from your past. He means nothing now. He can’t mean anything—not after he left you drowning in unanswered questions.

And yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you shove down the dangerous impulse fluttering inside you.

Because you won’t allow it. Not today. Not ever.

But Jungkook tilts his head slightly, eyes darkening with an intensity you know too well, and you feel your carefully constructed resolve begin to tremble at the edges.

It doesn’t matter, you remind yourself harshly. You’ll never make the same mistake twice. Not for Jungkook. Not for anyone.

Still, the moment he takes a step toward you, your heart skips—just once. And you hate yourself for it.

And it’s terrifying how much your body still reacts, how tightly your stomach knots, how you feel yourself leaning backward without meaning to. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing.

But just before he can get closer—

“Jungkook! Manager wants you in the briefing room, now!”

The shout cuts across the set, snapping him back to reality. He hesitates. A small shift of weight. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he turns, walking toward the exit without another glance.

You make yourself go still, expression smooth, breath finally releasing. He’s gone again. And you hate how that emptiness still lingers in the space he almost crossed.

✦

The studio smelled like caffeine, expensive cologne, and urgency.

Light rigs hummed above, shifting shadows across white backdrops. Stylists darted like bees between racks of designer coats and racks of idols. The floor was a mosaic of garment bags, wires, coffee cups, and carefully controlled chaos.

And you were in the eye of the storm.

Clipboards. Checklists. The shoot brief folded neatly in your tote, annotated with sharp red edits. You’d been here since seven. Confirming the team, adjusting the timeline after a last-minute delivery delay, nodding politely through the photographer’s temper tantrum over lighting angles.

Professional. Polished. In control. Just like always.

Hyerin only nodded, already lifting her phone to send the message.

And then a shift. Subtle, at first. Not a sound, not a movement, but something in the air tightening, thickening — the kind of change you feel against your skin before your mind can name it. Like the slow drop in pressure that happens before thunder splits the sky.

You didn’t need to turn. You already knew.

BTS had arrived. This time, all of them. Fully, unmistakably, overwhelmingly present.

Voices lifted across the space. Polite bows, excited murmurs, stylists practically vibrating. You focused on your clipboard, eyes locked on the line that read: Group cover, final set — standing profile + seated variation.

You could feel it before you saw him. Like a magnet realigning in your chest.

Jeon Jungkook. The name alone was supposed to mean nothing now. Not here. Not in this room. Not in this life you built without him.

But your gaze lifted—just once, just for a breath—and there he was.

Dark hair, slightly damp. A black oversized tee clinging to his frame like it had no choice. Tattoos curling down his arm like vines. He was talking to one of the stylists, something easy in his body, but then—

His eyes found yours. Again. 

And froze. As if the moment before seemed unbelievable to him, and now he got a confirmation that it was truly you who he saw before.

For one suspended moment, the studio blurred. Sound dulled. All you could hear was the low pulse in your ears, thudding like memory. His gaze didn’t flicker. Didn’t flinch.

It lingered. You turned away first. Professional, you reminded yourself. You could breathe later.

Behind you, a quiet voice laced with syrup and venom sliced through the air. “Well, don’t you look composed.”

Kara.

You didn’t bother turning. Her heels clicked as she approached, each step full of intention.

“I’d be shaking,” she continued, feigning casual amusement. “If he looked at me like that.”

Your clipboard didn’t move.

“I don’t mix work with fantasy,” you said coolly.

Kara laughed, bright and biting. “Right. Of course. You’re very composed.”

Before you could answer, the studio door opened wider, and the rest of the crew flooded in behind the members. Lights adjusted. Cables plugged. The moment passed.

But your stomach? Still twisted.

You didn’t have time for this. Not the memories. Not the questions. Not the way your breath still stumbled just because he was in the same room.

You crossed the set in brisk, deliberate strides, addressing the camera assistant without once glancing his way — you didn’t have to.

The air shifted again, electric with movement, and you felt it before you saw it. He was walking toward you. He wore that perfect, easy smile — all charm, all textbook idol — as if the cameras had never stopped rolling. But his steps were purposeful, and they were headed straight for you.

Still, you didn’t move. Behind him, Taehyung watched with a slight tilt of his head, a flicker of something unreadable tightening his brow.

“Where’s he going?” he murmured to Jimin, his voice low enough not to carry.

Jimin looked up from his water bottle, following the path of Jungkook’s steps.

“Who is that—” He paused. Squinted. His expression shifted slowly. “No way,” he muttered. “Is that… Y/N?”

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed as he got a better look. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “She really changed.”

“She doesn’t look like a college student anymore,” Jimin added, then whistled low. “She looks like she’d step on your throat for blinking at the wrong moment.”

Taehyung snorted. “And Jungkook’s walking straight toward her like it’s nothing.”

Jimin’s smile faltered, just slightly. “It’s not nothing,” he said, softer now.

The glance he shared with Taehyung was brief, but loaded — a silent recognition passing between them that didn’t need words to say what they already knew: this was going to get complicated.

Jungkook stopped just close enough for it to be plausible. Two colleagues. Two professionals. A friendly exchange in the middle of a crowded set.

But you felt the heat of him at your side. The static in the air between your bodies. The weight of five years in the space between his next breath and your silence.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. His voice was lower now. Smooth, familiar. Dangerous.

You kept your eyes on the call sheet in your hands. “Then maybe you should’ve read your shoot brief.”

He let out a quiet, amused exhale. “Guess I was distracted.”

You finally turned to face him, slow and deliberate. He looked at you like you were a memory he wanted to taste again. And you hated how much you felt it in your knees.

“Still pretending I don’t exist?” he asked softly.

You smiled—polite, cold. “You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He tilted his head, amused. “You used to say I was impossible to forget.”

You didn’t blink. “People change.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. The smile dimmed, only slightly. And you hated that it made your chest ache.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “They do.”

You stepped back first. Not because you were retreating—but because if you stayed, you’d say something you’d regret.

“We’re about to start,” you said, voice crisp. “Please get into wardrobe.”

He didn’t argue. But his gaze lingered like the brush of fingers on skin—something remembered. Something unfinished.

You turned on your heel and walked away. And behind you, Jungkook watched like he was seeing something he thought he'd lost forever.

You walk with your back straight, spine stiff, each click of your heels against the polished floor louder than the last. The studio spins in a blur around you—shutters firing, stylists buzzing, interns darting past—but your body moves like it’s on autopilot.

You don’t need to see him to feel the weight of his stare still pressing into your skin, hot and searching. Your lungs burn quietly, your heart hammering beneath the silk of your blouse in a rhythm that doesn’t belong to a woman in control.

You handled that well, you tell yourself. He didn’t rattle you. Not really. It was nothing—just a greeting. Just a ghost in designer boots. You didn’t flinch.

But your fingers still tremble as you slide the clipboard into your bag. And his scent—faint on the air, sandalwood and heat—lingers like a bruise. That voice you used to fall asleep to.

He said so little, but it was too much. Too soft. Too knowing. Too close to the edge of the past you buried under ambition and late-night edits and deadlines that couldn’t be missed. A past that still knows exactly how to make your mouth dry and your pulse quicken.

You exhale through your nose, slow and tight, pressing your thumb into your palm until it stings.

This isn’t college. This isn’t your bedroom at 3 a.m. waiting for his text. You are not that girl anymore. And he doesn’t get to reach into your life now just because he remembered how to say your name.

Across the studio, a pair of eyes followed your every step.

Kara leaned against a lighting rig, one arm crossed lazily over her chest, a paper cup of overpriced coffee in hand. She wasn’t watching the shoot, not really. Her gaze was fixed on you—your clenched jaw, your too-smooth posture, the slight tremble in your fingers as you adjusted your sleeve.

Her lips curled just barely at the edges. She didn’t say anything just sipped her coffee and tilted her head thoughtfully, like a girl already collecting dots to connect.

And when her eyes flicked over to Jungkook, now slipping into wardrobe, and then back to you. Something in her expression sharpened. She had nothing solid. Not yet. But Kara had always known how to smell blood long before the wound appeared.

✦

The shoot was already in full swing by the time you were called in.

High-key lighting flared against the matte white backdrop as the photographer directed the rest of the group into place. Jungkook hadn’t shot his solos yet — he’d been saved for last, as if they all knew the best tension builds slowly.

You were reviewing proofs on a monitor when the stylist approached you, breathless and mid-hustle.

“Sorry, Y/N—can you approve the jewelry for Jungkook’s third look? We’ve got the options prepped, but he wants to wear the chain without layering.” She didn't wait for a full answer, already turning back. “He’s in the fitting room.”

You don’t hesitate. Don’t sigh. You just nod once and follow, clipboard in hand, pulse tucked neatly beneath your professionalism.

It’s just another detail. Another decision. You’ve approved a hundred accessories today already but you haven’t approved him.

The fitting area isn’t private. Just a curtained nook off the main set, half-lit by dressing bulbs and cluttered with half-dressed mannequins and hangers heavy with sponsored silk.

And he’s there when you slip inside. Shirtless, silver chain dangling from his fingers, tattoos curling down his arm like they belong to a different man than the boy you once knew.

He looks over his shoulder the moment he hears you enter. His lips curve slowly, like this is a scene he’s played in his head a thousand times already.

“Oh,” he says. “They sent you.”

You don’t react. You’re too tired for games and too exposed for softness.

“Only because the chain needs editorial sign-off,” you say coolly.

He turns to face you fully, unhurried. Like the air between you isn’t thick enough to choke on.

“Then by all means,” he murmurs, offering the necklace like a dare, “approve me.”

You step forward without flinching, though every part of you wants to be somewhere—anywhere—else. The chain is cool in your palm. His hand is warm. The heat of his body radiates as you move into his space, standing just close enough to clasp the piece around his bare neck.

His skin smells like cologne and memory. Like summer and sweat and one a.m. phone calls you’ll never get back.

You keep your eyes down. Your fingers are steady as you drape the chain across his collarbones, lock it into place behind his neck. He watches you in the mirror and doesn’t blink.

“Still pretending I don’t affect you?” he asks, low enough that no one outside this curtain will ever hear.

You don’t look at him. Don’t let him win.

“You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He laughs, soft and sharp. It brushes the side of your cheek like smoke. “Liar.”

You step back; one clean motion with no hesitation. Your eyes scan the chain against his chest. Simple. Effective. Professional.

“It works,” you say.

He’s still looking at you. Not with smugness now, but something quieter. Studying the way your arms stay crossed. The way your voice never shakes, even when your throat does.

“You always liked this one,” he says, tapping the charm. “You said it made me look dangerous.”

“That was a long time ago.”

His smile shifts. “You still look at me like it’s not.”

You leave before you can answer. Let the curtain fall shut behind you like a closing door.

And you don’t breathe again until you’re halfway down the hallway.

The bathroom is cold and sterile and mercifully empty.

You close the door behind you, flip the lock, and let your clipboard fall to the counter with a dull clatter.

It’s only then—only then—that your shoulders drop.

Your hands brace against the sink, breath coming out in one sharp exhale like it’s been trapped under your ribs since you walked into that fitting room. Your reflection in the mirror is still composed, still precise… but your eyes are too bright, and your skin is too warm, and the chain you touched is still clinging to your fingertips like a memory you can’t scrub off.

The cold water against your wrists and temples helps clear your mind as you gather yourself in the bathroom. This is just another work assignment - he's just another subject to photograph. You've dealt with far more challenging situations than being near someone who once made you believe in forever.

With practiced efficiency, you touch up your lipstick and straighten your blouse. When you emerge into the hallway, your composure is flawless, your expression revealing nothing of the storm beneath. The studio has quieted now, with only essential crew remaining.

Light rigs now buzz on low. Laptops closed, garment bags zipped, coffee cups abandoned on carts. A few stylists linger in quiet conversations by the exit, voices hushed with the kind of fatigue that only comes after a perfect shot.

The hallway outside the dressing area is empty except for you and the steady hum of the hard drive transferring the final export. Metal and stale sweat linger in the air, a reminder of the day's shoot. You've maintained your composure perfectly throughout, every interaction calculated and professional.

But when you hear those footsteps approaching - measured, purposeful, unmistakable - your carefully constructed facade threatens to crack. You don't need to look to know who it is.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Jungkook says, voice low behind you.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s out of wardrobe now, in a simple hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from styling. His tattoos are half-hidden under the sleeves, but his eyes are all sharp edge and unfinished business.

You straighten. "Waiting on a drive."

He moves closer, maintaining a careful distance. "They left in a rush. Didn't even say goodbye." The words carry a weight you both understand - he's not talking about the crew.

"It was a long day," you reply, your voice measured.

"You always were good at making things efficient," he observes, a hint of something unspoken in his tone.

You turn to face him with your perfected expression - the unflappable editor no one dares to question. "Did you need something, Jungkook?"

His composure shifts, tongue pressed against his cheek. "I need to know why you're acting like we didn't matter."

The words land with the weight of years unspoken. You meet his gaze steadily. "Because you acted like we didn't."

The silence stretches between you as the truth of it settles. He doesn't deny it. "I didn't know how to end it back then. I was selfish."

"You were a coward," you reply, voice steady despite the burning in your throat. "A call, a text - anything would have been better than disappearing."

"I thought it would be easier if I let you hate me."

A bitter laugh escapes you. "Easier for who?"

He closes the distance between you until you can feel the heat radiating from his body, his familiar scent mixing with the dim emergency lights that line the floors. "I still remember everything," he murmurs. "Your old apartment with the mattress on the floor. How you'd cry over unfinished articles. The way you'd fall asleep against my chest like you belonged there."

You remain frozen, breath caught somewhere beneath your ribs as he leans in slightly, the air between you crackling with tension. "Do you remember any of it?" he whispers.

The memories flood back unbidden, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you tilt your head and deliver the words with practiced indifference. "You're five years too late."

You walk away before he can notice your trembling hands, and he remains rooted in place, torn between the urge to follow and the knowledge that he lost that right long ago.

✦

The suite smells like charcoal-grilled meat and takeout beer. The shoot’s over. The glamor is gone.

They’ve all crammed into Namjoon’s apartment for a late dinner, half-unwinding, half-rehashing the chaos of the day. Yoongi’s in the corner scrolling on his phone. Jin’s talking over everyone about how the lighting made him look “unfairly youthful.” But Jungkook hasn’t touched his food.

He’s nursing a beer. And he hasn’t said more than a few words all night.

Taehyung notices first.

“You good?” he asks, lazily tossing a cushion at him from across the couch.

Jungkook doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

Jimin lifts an eyebrow. “You’ve been zoning out since we left the studio.”

There’s a beat of silence then Jungkook exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “She was really there.”

Jin, mid-chew, frowns. “Who?”

Jungkook glances at the ceiling, leans back, eyes unfocused. “Y/N.”

The name still tastes strange in his mouth. “She’s… she was our editorial lead. For the cover.”

Yoongi finally looks up. “Seriously?”

“She didn’t even flinch,” Jungkook mutters. “Like I never existed.”

Namjoon gives him a long look. “You expected a welcome hug?”

“No,” Jungkook says, quieter. “I don’t know what I expected. But not… that.”

He thinks of the way she stood—straight-backed, calm, like she’d stripped him from her system entirely. He thinks of her voice. How carefully detached it was. You’re five years too late.The line replays in his chest like a lyric.

“She looked good,” Jungkook says after a pause. “Better than before.”

“Better without you,” Yoongi says flatly.

Jungkook doesn’t reply. Taehyung sighs, sitting up. “It’s insane that you’re surprised. You ghosted her while fucking your way through rookie girl groups.”

“I didn’t—” Jungkook winces. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”

“But it did,” Namjoon says, voice firm. “You left her. And you never gave her a real goodbye. You just vanished.”

Jimin shifts, arms crossed. “You think she forgot? That she sat around waiting while you made headlines with girls you didn’t even text back?”

“I was overwhelmed,” Jungkook snaps, frustration leaking out. “We were finally being notice, I was twenty, the world was on fire—”

“And she was in the middle of it with you,” Taehyung cuts in. “Until you acted like she was a phase you could leave behind.”

That shuts him up. Jungkook stares at the label on his bottle. His jaw ticks.

“She looked right through me today,” he says quietly. “Like I never touched her. Like she doesn’t still exist in my head every fucking day.”

Silence falls over the room. Then Jin sighs and pats his shoulder. “Well. Maybe now you know how it felt.”

✦

You hold the final print like it owes you something.

Not just a paycheck. Not just another spread to fill your portfolio. But proof that you belong here.

Vogue Korea – October Issue. The one everyone wanted to work on. And you got it.

The paper stock is matte heavyweight — no gloss, no gimmick. The cover design minimal: just the group’s name in clean serif and the issue title in metallic foil, whispering luxury. Echoes of the Future.

You flip through the pages like you haven’t already memorized the entire layout. But it still hits. The gravity. The precision. The power of it.

Each editorial frame is stripped to its bones — no backdrops, no props, no distractions. Just symmetry, shadowplay, and seven of the most photographed men in the world, captured like you’ve never seen them before.

Jimin in sharp Céline tailoring, wet hair pushed off his forehead, lips parted like he’s about to ruin someone.

Namjoon in a crisp Ferragamo overcoat and nothing underneath. Minimal styling. Maximum command.

Taehyung draped in silk Givenchy, silver rings on every finger, a single brow arched like a dare. Yoongi — Gucci and attitude. Seated. Unbothered. A king tired of his throne. Jin in a Bottega turtleneck with sculptural shoulders, the kind of silhouette only he could make feel warm. Hoseok’s frame wrapped in a monochrome Rick Owens layered set, gaze tilted away from camera — like he knows you’re looking. And Jungkook. Front and center. Mugler suit. Bare chest. One silver chain. Wet strands falling over his brow, a half-smirk caught between innocence and provocation.

You chose that shot. Pushed for it. It’s not about sex. It’s about control. Power. Presence.

There’s no overstyling. No theatrics. Just tension. The kind that doesn’t need words.

When you close the issue and step into the elevator of the JW Marriott rooftop lounge, your reflection catches in the mirror: off-the-shoulder Alaïa column dress in black crepe, Louboutin heels, lips painted the exact shade of silent danger. You look expensive. Untouchable. Editorial. Exactly how you planned it.

The party has already started by the time you arrive — hosted in the private event wing, high above Seoul’s skyline. Dim, golden lighting. Smooth jazz threaded with ambient house. Crystal glasses passed by silent staff in Tom Ford uniforms. Everyone here is someone.

Vogue doesn���t just launch a cover — it celebrates it. Especially one this anticipated. Especially when the entire campaign broke engagement records before it hit print.

And when the subject is BTS? The fashion world watches. So tonight isn’t just a party. It’s an affirmation. For the magazine. For the editorial team. For you.

You float through it with your usual ease — nodding to the creative director from Boucheron, chatting with the head of marketing from Dior Beauty, accepting compliments on the issue from half the room without blinking.

Until someone mentions it. “Did you hear BTS might actually show tonight?”

You maintain your composure, letting the champagne brush your lips as you smile with practiced nonchalance. The air in the room shifts subtly, and with the slightest turn of your head, you see him.

Jeon Jungkook. Walking in through the side entrance, flanked by two staffers and dressed in black-on-black: a Saint Laurent suit jacket left open over a silk shirt, sheer enough to tease the curve of his chest. No tie. Just skin, chain, stare.

He looks different tonight - transformed from both the idol whose image you curated and the ghost who haunted your hallway last week. There's something raw and deliberate in his presence now, a man who arrived with clear intent. His eyes find you immediately across the room, heavy with purpose, and you notice with a start that he came alone.

Namjoon had RSVP’d but sent a polite decline. You’d caught wind of Jimin flying out for a brand shoot in Tokyo. The rest were likely busy or deliberately laying low — as expected.

But he showed up, of all people, leaving you unsure whether to laugh at his audacity or grip your glass tighter.

Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Not at first. You feel his gaze like pressure behind your bare shoulder. But he moves slowly through the room — greets the Vogue team with a bow, gives the photographer a brief, easy hug. Accepts a drink from a server. Ends up near the bar with a woman you vaguely recognize from the Seoul fashion circuit — a model with collarbones sharp enough to cut glass, her dress barely skimming the line of decency.

She leans in when she speaks to him. Laughs too brightly. Touches his forearm once, casually.

He barely acknowledges the model's attention, his gaze fixed elsewhere in the room - on you. Through the evening, his eyes find you repeatedly, not with desire but with careful observation, like he's memorizing every detail. The looks fall into a steady rhythm, yet he maintains his distance while others gravitate toward you.

You’re halfway through your second glass when two men — suits, handsome, not strangers to the room — flank you near the edge of the terrace. One is from an ad agency you’ve worked with before. The other’s from an international menswear brand.

They talk shop. Compliment your dress. One of them offers you another drink before you can say no. The other leans in when he speaks, a little too close to your ear, and you catch the ghost of his cologne mixed with something slightly sour.

You offer your practiced, polite smile  But you're aware of how their eyes follow the dip of your neckline like they’ve been given permission. One of them lets his fingers rest too long against your elbow. The other jokes, "Are all editors this pretty or are you the exception?" and doesn’t seem to care that you don’t laugh.

Your eyes drift across the room unbidden to find him exactly where he's been all evening, his steady gaze never having left you.

Jungkook’s grip on his glass is tighter now. The model beside him keeps talking, oblivious. He’s not listening. You know that jaw too well. The tension behind it. The twitch when he’s about to break.

You take another sip. Feel the flush of alcohol under your skin. Your vision gets softer at the edges, but the awareness sharpens. You know how this ends. You feel it humming beneath your ribs, hot and inevitable.

And when the man beside you brushes your wrist again — subtle, casual, entitled — you don’t pull away fast enough.

Without warning or spectacle, Jungkook materializes beside you with the practiced grace of someone who's spent years in the spotlight. His movement is fluid, deliberate - sliding between you and your unwanted admirers with a hand ghosting the small of your back. His body creates a subtle barrier, the gesture so smoothly executed that it appears almost accidental, yet the message is unmistakably clear.

“Didn’t realize I was late to this conversation,” he says smoothly.

You catch the flicker of recognition on the men’s faces. One of them steps back half a pace, suddenly less charming. The other adjusts his collar and offers a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Jeon Jungkook,” the taller one says, offering a hand. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Jungkook shakes it. Calm. Collected. “Figured I’d say hello to the team who made the shoot happen.”

His eyes flick toward you, then back. “Though it looks like I should’ve come earlier.”

It’s almost nothing. Just a hint. A slip beneath the surface. But you hear it. Feel it in the weight of his voice. The way his hand stays just a fraction too close to yours.

Possessive. And yet — perfectly palatable for a crowd.

No one would question this display of protectiveness - the touch, the timing, or the implications. The men's faces fell as their evening plans crumbled, replaced by hasty excuses about drivers and text messages from L'Officiel. They melted into the crowd, leaving as quickly as they had appeared.

Jungkook watches them disappear into the crowd with that unreadable expression you remember from his early idol days. When he didn’t know how to speak with words yet — just stares.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice quiet, cutting.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He shrugs. Still watching the crowd. “Didn’t like how they were touching you.”

“That’s not your concern anymore.”

He turns to face you then. Full. Real. And the look in his eyes is darker than the mood lighting.

“It never stopped being my concern.”

That does something to your throat. Tightens it.

You want to roll your eyes. Push him away. Instead, you take a half-step back and fix your dress strap.

“You can go now,” you say, coolly.

But his jaw tightens. That’s when you know you’ve hit something.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He says it so quietly. But it doesn’t feel soft. It feels like something pulled from the center of his chest.

You scan the room out of instinct. Too many eyes. Too much potential noise.

Jungkook notices. And he moves.He doesn’t ask.His hand brushes your wrist—light, guiding—and then he’s walking. Confident. Unbothered. Heading toward the side hallway just past the lounge bar, near the VIP exit where only staff and talent are allowed to pass.

You should stop him but instead you follow.

The hallway is quiet, dimmer than the rest of the event. A velvet rope keeps guests from entering, and a private elevator tucked at the end promises anonymity to anyone important enough to use it. You’ve seen it before. Watched stylists hustle idols through that door like ghosts, like secrets.

Jungkook stops just out of view.

The corner of the hall is shadowed, walls covered in gold-veined marble and muted hotel art. The muffled bass from the party barely reaches here. His back is to you.

He turns when you stop. And then he steps in.

Close. Too close. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t raise his voice. But he towers.

The heat from his body sears into yours. His jaw clenches once before relaxing, like he’s trying to hold back a thousand versions of the same mistake.

“You know what they wanted from you,” he says, voice low. “And you were going to let them?”

“I wasn’t going to let them do anything.”

“You let them touch you.”

“You fucked half the industry,” you snap, too fast. Too exposed. “Don’t start pretending I’m the one who crossed lines.”

That lands. Sharp. But he doesn’t retreat.

“I haven’t loved anyone except for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat as the weight of his words sinks in, leaving you dizzy and unsteady.

You want to argue. You want to scream liar.But he’s looking at you like it’s gospel. Like the weight of that confession has been killing him slowly every night since. And god, he’s close.

You feel your body respond before your brain can stop it. The heat between your legs. The flush rising beneath your skin. The sharp, brutal ache that coils low in your stomach just from the way he’s standing there — like he’d throw himself between you and the world all over again.

You glance down — mistake. The open collar of his shirt frames his chest like it was designed for your hands. The chain you once clasped glints against his skin, half-damp from heat. You remember how he tastes. Wonder if he still does.

Your thighs press together instinctively as his gaze drops to notice the movement. The knowledge that he can still read your body's reactions makes your stomach twist with loathing.

“You have no right to be jealous,” you say, voice barely a whisper.

“I know.”

“You left me.”

“I know.”

Your heart is pounding. Your mouth is dry. And when he leans in just a little closer — breath brushing your ear, his voice raw and unfiltered — it takes every ounce of strength not to melt against the wall.

“You can hate me all you want,” he says. “But I still know how to make you come apart.”

Jungkook’s stare is heavy. Focused. Unflinching.

He says nothing for a long, charged second, and you hate how your body reacts to that silence — like it remembers something your brain is still trying to forget.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you say, and it comes out sharp, acidic. “You don’t get to touch me now and pretend it means anything.”

His jaw tenses, but his voice stays level. Quiet. Deadly calm.

“I’m not pretending.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, shifting your weight — and that’s when he does it.

His hand slides down with deliberate intent, finding its target. He squeezes your ass with possessive familiarity, the firm pressure making your breath catch. Though you maintain your composure, your body betrays you - skin flushing hot, thighs pressing together as desire coils in your stomach.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter through your teeth.

But he leans in, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“You didn’t stop me.”

You shove at his chest, but there’s no real strength in it. Not when your knees feel like static and your pulse is hammering between your legs. Not when your own body is already betraying you, flooding with heat from the base of your spine to the ache you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

“You’re the one who fucked other people the second you got famous,” you snap. “Don’t come near me like we have unfinished business.”

“You think I don’t remember how you taste?” he breathes, low and lethal. “How your thighs shake when I—”

“Shut up.” You cut him off, voice breaking around the edge. “You’re pathetic.”

But his hand is still on you. Still burning through the fabric of your dress.

And now he's walking.

You're not sure when his hand left yours. You're not sure when your legs decided to follow. But you're moving. Toward the private elevator at the end of the hallway. It dings as it opens — discreet, slow, waiting for no one else.

“Don’t,” you say, half-hearted, hovering just outside the doors.

He steps inside the elevator and glances back, waiting with an unspoken challenge in his eyes.

“Unless you're scared,” he murmurs.

You could slap him. You should, but instead you step into the elevator with feigned composure, despite your trembling heels.

The doors close with a soft click, leaving you enveloped in thick, electric silence. His presence looms behind you, coiled and simmering, while you maintain your dignity - chin raised, gaze fixed steadily on the elevator doors.

Your mind races as the floors tick by, but you've already surrendered to whatever destination he has in mind.

You tell yourself it’s just physical. You’re tired. Your bones are tired. You've been carrying ambition like armor for too long and you want — god, you want — to feel something. Something that doesn’t require you to smile, or pose, or win.

You want to stop being the calculated editor, the polished image, the embodiment of perfection - if only for one night. And if it has to be Jungkook, the only man who ever witnessed you come undone, then so be it. After all, if he's determined to shatter your composure again, you'll make sure he crumbles right alongside you.

The car ride settles into a weighty silence, charged with unspoken tension that fills the space between you.

A stretch of velvet air between you, thick with all the things neither of you are brave or stupid enough to say.

Jungkook’s limo is absurd. Sleek black leather, blue LED trim humming at your feet. A built-in bar you ignore. Curtains drawn. City lights blur past the tinted glass as if the world outside has nothing to do with what’s about to happen inside.

You sit rigid, legs crossed. The dress has ridden up just slightly — the soft part of your thigh kissing cool air — and he notices.

He notices immediately. His hand moves with quiet confidence, as if remembering a familiar path. Fingertips rest briefly on your knee before sliding upward, his thumb drawing lazy circles where silk meets flesh.

Though you avoid his gaze, busying yourself by twisting your hair between your fingers, your body betrays you - thighs pressing together as his touch ventures into dangerous territory. The corner of his mouth lifts in a knowing smirk.

“I forgot how stubborn you are.”

You glare. “You forgot a lot of things.”

His fingers don’t retreat. He slides them just a breath higher, pulling the hem of your dress with them.

“You can say stop,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “You know I’ll listen.”

You hate the truth of it, hate even more that you don't want to stop him. Your thighs remain locked together as heat builds between them, as if friction alone could erase what's about to happen.

He stays perfectly still, his touch a gentle reminder on your skin. Patient. Waiting. Your body responds to his presence with a familiar ache, your pulse quickening as it remembers his touch.

Through the window, city lights blur past while you try to steady your breathing. There's no denying what's about to happen - you knew it from the moment you followed him from that party.

Tonight, you’re not Vogue Korea’s untouchable ice queen. You’re just a woman.

Lonely. Starving. So fucking tired of pretending she doesn’t want to be ruined.

✦

The car stops in front of La Premiere, one of Seoul’s most exclusive residential towers — all glass, obsidian stone, gold accents that shimmer even at midnight. You’re not surprised. This is the kind of place you only enter if your name is a brand.

The lobby's marble floors echo beneath your heels as you follow him to the private elevator, where a thumbprint grants access to the upper floors. The doorman's familiar greeting only amplifies the tension crackling between you.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as the elevator climbs to the penthouse. The space unfolds before you - a stunning expanse of high ceilings and concrete walls, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Seoul's glittering skyline. But you barely register the luxurious details.

The moment the door clicks shut behind you, he presses you against the wall, his mouth capturing yours with desperate intensity. 

He kisses you like a man starved, like he's been haunted by the memory of your taste. His hands roam possessively over your body while his tongue claims yours in a heated dance of desire. When an involuntary moan escapes your lips, his mouth curves into a knowing grin against yours.

“Still pretending you don’t want this?”

You shove at his chest, breathless.

“Still pretending you don’t want to be fucked?”

His laugh is dark. “You want to feel me inside you, don’t you?”

You don’t answer and he takes it as a yes.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carrying you down the hallway. You catch glimpses of modern art, black marble floors, absurdly expensive furniture you could write articles about.

But then...His bedroom.

Of course it’s massive. King-sized bed draped in jet-black sheets, one wall entirely glass, Seoul glittering behind it like a crown.

He lays you down. Stares at you for a second. Then bends. Presses a kiss to your shin. Your knee. Your inner thigh. You arch.

“You’re not going to tease me,” you spit, breath shaky.

“Oh no?” His voice is warm silk wrapped around something feral. “I think you’ve been begging to be teased.”

And then he’s peeling your dress up, up, over your hips, dragging it slowly, deliberately, like he’s unwrapping a sin he’s already claimed.

His hands never stop moving.

He spreads your legs with ease, dress bunched high at your waist now, the cold kiss of air meeting warm skin. You feel obscenely exposed and utterly alive — laid out against his sheets in nothing but a paper-thin pair of black lace underwear that does nothing to hide the heat soaking through.

And when his eyes land there, dark and molten, his breath catches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You’ve always been unreal.”

You watch his throat move, swallowing thickly. His fingers trail from your calf to the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your heat like he’s watching a meal he’s about to ruin. “You’ll forget how to hate me.”

You don’t have time to snarl back before his mouth is on you again — dragging up your body, lips trailing over your stomach, your ribs, your bra. He finds your breast with one hand, slipping beneath the delicate cup, warm palm cupping it, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. Then his tongue is there, licking over your nipple through the lace, wetting it until the fabric turns transparent and your back lifts off the bed.

You whimper. Loud. And you hate that it sounds like relief.

His other hand finds your ass, gripping it with the kind of pressure that says mine, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed as he grinds down against you, clothed cock heavy and hot against your inner thigh.

He nips at your breast, tongue flicking, eyes on your face.

“Still pretending you don’t remember what this feels like?”

You pant, fingers buried in his hair. “Just fuck me already.”

But he’s not done teasing. He slides lower again, mouth kissing a path down your torso, tongue tasting your skin like it’s his.

When he reaches your panties, he pauses. Licks his lips.

“These need to come off.”

You lift your hips. He slides them down your legs, slow and smooth, like he’s savoring every inch of skin revealed.

And then he groans.

“Fuck, baby…” His thumb brushes over your slit. “You’re soaked.”

You glare. “You’re not special.”

He chuckles. “We’ll see.”

Then he kisses you again, deep and dirty, hand slipping between your thighs, two fingers sliding through your folds with ease, coating themselves in everything your pride is trying to hide.

He presses in — just one finger, shallow and slow — and you gasp into his mouth.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he breathes against your lips. “You really haven’t let anyone else stretch you like this?”

You don’t answer.

But your moan says enough.

He adds another finger. Curling them. Moving them just right.

“This is me preparing you,” he murmurs, voice all silk and sin. “I’m gonna make it good. Gonna make you cum on my fingers before I even fuck you.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “God, Jungkook—”

“I love when you beg,” he growls, “but not yet.”

You reach for him then, desperate, fingers tugging at his open shirt — sheer and slippery beneath your grip. You want to see him. Need to.

He feels it. “Patience,” he smirks, but he lets you undress him anyway.

Jacket drops first. Then that ridiculous silk shirt that slides off his arms like water. You make a sound low in your throat when you see him again, bare and sculpted and dangerous. Then he pushes his pants down, black slacks pooling on the floor, and all that’s left is his boxers — stretched tight over his cock, which is very obviously hard.

And huge. Your mouth parts. He sees it. Smirks again.

“Don’t act surprised,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You’ve had it before.”

His body covers yours, the warmth of his skin burning against you, his cock pressing hot and heavy between your thighs. He grinds once, slow, and you gasp — the length of him perfectly aligned against your soaked slit, dragging between your folds like he’s memorizing the shape of your desperation.

He doesn't push in yet.

Just teases. Rubs the head against your clit. Circles it. Slips down, catches your entrance, then pulls back again.

You bite your lip so hard it stings.

“Jungkook,” you pant, voice breaking.

He kisses your jaw, your neck, his voice low and smug and maddening.

“You’re gonna say please.”

You don’t say please.Not with your mouth.

But when you look down and see him reach for the nightstand drawer, tear open the foil packet with steady fingers, and roll the condom down his thick, veined length...Your mouth parts on instinct.

God.

You forgot what he looked like like this. Not just big — devastating. Long, hard, flushed dark at the tip, heavy in his own hand. Your core clenches around nothing, heat flooding your stomach.

You don’t mean to moan. But you do. His smirk falters for a split second.

“You’re still so easy to ruin,” he murmurs, fisting his cock, stroking once, lining himself up between your thighs. “I barely touched you.”

“You’ve been talking too much,” you whisper, chest heaving. “Shut up and—”

But the words die the second he starts to push in.

You gasp — your whole body tensing — and your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in hard.

He groans above you. “Shit—you’re tight.”

You feel the stretch like it’s the first time. A slow, thick pressure as he sinks in inch by inch. Every muscle in your body coils, thighs trembling, breath catching.

His mouth finds yours again — wet, open, filthy — kissing you through it, licking into your whimper like he’s feeding off your pleasure.

“Just breathe,” he whispers, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist. “I’ve got you.”

You do. You let him in.

And god, you hate how good it feels — to have him deep inside, to feel the way your body opens around him like it remembers exactly where he belongs.

When he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, he groans into your throat.

You’re both panting. Stunned. Then you move. Your legs wrap around his waist. Tight. Holding him there. His back arches into it, and he nearly chokes on his breath.

“F-fuck,” he stutters, voice cracking. “You’re gonna make me cum just like that.”

You grin, delirious. “Control yourself.”

“Impossible,” he groans, but he stays still, grinding his hips in slow, rolling circles, letting you feel all of him, the friction igniting fire where your nerves used to be.

Your hands slide down his back — hot, damp with sweat — and you whisper between shaky breaths:

“You feel so good, Jungkook… so fucking good—”

That does it. He starts to move. Slow at first. Deep. Letting you feel every inch drag through you, the way your walls flutter around him. He groans again — long and low — kisses you like he’s starving.

Then he leans back just enough to slip a hand between your bodies, tugging at your bra strap.

“Off,” he pants. “I want to feel all of you.”

You arch for him, and he peels the lace away, throws it somewhere behind him without a second glance. His mouth latches onto your breast immediately, tongue circling your nipple while he thrusts deeper now, rhythm gaining speed.

Your moan rips from your throat — helpless.

The room is filled with slick, obscene sounds. Wet kisses. The slap of skin against skin. His name. Your name. Every broken breath in between.

He fucks you like he never stopped wanting you. Like every other girl was just a placeholder. Like this is what he’s been chasing for years.

You meet him thrust for thrust, body to body, every part of you singing from the friction and the fullness.

“Jungkook—” you gasp, legs shaking around him.

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight.

“I’m close—fuck—I’m gonna—”

Your nails dig into his back. Your mouth finds his. Hot. Messy. Breathless.

And you both fall.

You cum around him with a strangled cry, legs locking, mouth open, his name your only word. He follows seconds later — hips jerking, body shaking, groaning into your mouth as he spills into the condom, both of you swallowed in heat and noise and everything you said you’d never feel again.

The room goes still except your breathing. And the heartbeat pounding between your ribs like a warning.

Your body is still shaking when he collapses beside you, skin damp and breath ragged, his palm pressed flat against your stomach like he needs to anchor himself to something that’s real.

Neither of you speak. Your lungs are too full of what just happened — of the heat still lingering between your thighs, of his scent on your skin, of the kiss still wet on your mouth.

And then he moves again.

You feel it before you see it — the subtle shift of his body behind yours, the press of his chest against your back, the way his hand slides down your stomach, lower, lower, fingers brushing over your still-sensitive slit with the softest, filthiest reverence.

Your legs twitch.

“Jungkook…” your voice is nothing more than a broken breath.

But he’s already hard again. His cock slides against your ass, hot and ready, nestling in the curve of your body like it belongs there. Like it never stopped belonging there.

“I can’t stop,” he whispers, voice husky and wrecked. “Not yet. I need more.”

You don’t argue because the truth is, so do you.

You feel the crinkle of another condom. The soft hiss of him rolling it on. And then he pushes in from behind.

This angle — lying on your side, body curled into his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist — it’s too much. Too deep. Too intimate.

You cry out softly as he fills you again, slower this time, his hips moving in lazy, grinding rolls that feel like velvet dragging through your core.

He groans low into your neck.

“Still so fucking tight. So warm,” he pants. “You’re made for me.”

Your hands scramble behind you, reaching for anything to hold. You find his hair, his neck, your fingers threading through damp strands and pulling him closer. His mouth finds yours again — messy, hot, upside down, your teeth clashing a little before they part.

The kiss is deeper than it should be. Slower. Desperate in a different way.

Like neither of you are trying to cum anymore. Like you’re just trying to stay here.

He fucks you like he’s drunk on you — like your body is a drug he’s been forced to quit and now can’t get enough of. His hand slides over your breasts, then down again, gripping your thigh to tilt your hips back, opening you wider.

You whimper into the pillow, moaning his name over and over, helpless.

“Feel so good, baby,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop.”

You don’t want him to, you’re shaking. Sweat-slick. Eyes wet.

You twist your neck just enough to kiss him again — messy, slow, tongues tangling mid-thrust, like your mouths can’t stay apart even now. His pace stutters.

You feel him start to lose it, his rhythm breaking as you clench around him, your walls pulling him deeper with every snap of his hips.

And when you cum again — this time quieter, slower, your body trembling as you squeeze your eyes shut — he goes with you.

He groans your name into your skin as he spills into you again, the rhythm fading into soft, tired rolls of his hips, your bodies still locked together under the sheets.

For a long while, neither of you move.

You just lay there. Breathing. Tangled. Spent.

He kisses your shoulder once. Light. Almost careful.

And then sleep pulls you both under — not out of comfort, but out of collapse. Because neither of you came here looking for peace.

You just needed an escape.

And you found it in each other’s ruin.

✦

Your eyes snap open before your alarm ever has the chance.

The room is quiet. Dim gray light filters through blackout curtains. The sheets smell like sex and sweat and a mistake you swore you'd never make again.

Slowly opening your eyes, you feel the weight of memories flood back.

The kisses. The way he moaned your name. His hands, his mouth, the sound of skin slapping skin. The taste of him on your lips. The way he said you’re mine without ever needing the words.

“Fuck,” you breathe, pressing your hand over your eyes.

You sit up slowly.

Your body aches in all the right ways and all the wrong ones — thighs sore, lips bruised, a pulsing between your legs that still flutters when you shift.

Next to you, Jungkook sleeps facedown. Bare, sprawled, shamelessly beautiful. The sheets only just cover his waist, one arm bent beneath the pillow, the muscles in his back stretching in long, carved lines.

Your gaze lingers on his sleeping form. He looks peaceful and unguarded, making him all the more dangerous in his vulnerability.

You bite your lip hard, fighting back unwanted feelings.

Your fingers twitch with the urge to trace the curve of his spine, but you stop yourself. Because you don’t have time for softness. You have work. You always have work.

Dragging yourself out of the bed, you start collecting your clothes — your dress crumpled in the corner, your heels under the chaise, your bra on the floor beside the door like a monument to your downfall.

When you catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you wince.

Mascara smudged. Lips bitten raw. Hair wrecked. You look like a woman who had a night.

And in less than an hour, you need to look like a woman in charge of the most powerful editorial campaign of the year.

You move fast. Cold water. Concealer. Lip balm. Breath mints. You finger-comb your hair and twist it into something sleek. But the problem isn’t the face — it’s the clothes.

Your dress is a dead giveaway. Wrinkled, short, undeniably last night.

You move to Jungkook’s closet. Rows of Saint Laurent, Givenchy, Alexander McQueen. Racks of custom suits and silky button-downs. Not a single item designed for discretion.

But then — a structured black blazer. Boxy, masculine, clean-cut enough to pass.

You slide it on. It swallows your frame. The hem falls past your thighs, hiding your dress completely. You roll the sleeves once. Twice. Pair it with quiet confidence and a pair of sunglasses from the entryway table.

You almost look like a Vogue editor again. You don’t let yourself look at him again.

You just close the door behind you, call a taxi, and vanish into morning traffic with nothing but your pride duct-taped together inside that blazer.

The office pulses with energy when you arrive, as your colleagues look up with warm, welcoming smiles.

“Y/N! Congrats again on the October issue—” “That cover is insane, seriously, you killed it—” “You must be exhausted after last night’s party!”

With a practiced smile, you offer polite thanks to your colleagues while trying to ignore how your skin still carries traces of last night - a mix of sex and his signature cologne. When an intern approaches with coffee, you accept it with silent gratitude, thinking you've almost made it through unscathed.

Until Kara appears.

“Wow,” she says, voice honeyed and loud. “You look… rough.”

The conversation halts like a car crash. A beat of awkward silence. Someone clears their throat.

Meeting her gaze, you watch as Kara's smile spreads across her face, predatory and sharp.

“Late night?” she adds, mock-innocent. “Or should I say… early morning?”

Without a word, you lift your coffee and stride forward, but she trails behind you through the main office hallway. As you approach the glass-walled door of your boss's office, it swings open to reveal your editor-in-chief - a vision of authority in sharp heels and an immaculate outfit, her penetrating gaze already assessing the situation.

Kara laughs softly and says, “She probably didn’t even go home. Just look — same dress as last night’s party. Slept over somewhere fancy, though. That’s not hers.”

Time seems to slow as your muscles tense. Your boss's calculating gaze sweeps over you, her expression as impenetrable as marble and twice as cold.

“Y/N,” she says. “My office. Now.”

Your stomach plummets as you head toward her office, acutely aware of Kara's self-satisfied smirk and the way she bites her thumb, savoring her apparent victory.

Your phone buzzes in your palm.

Unknown Number: That blazer suits you. But you’ll have to pay me back eventually. Preferably not in cash.

Your pulse quickens at the message, and you don't need to guess who sent it, you slip the phone into your pocket before knocking on your boss's door.

part 2

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an: you can get access to early chapter and exclusive content to my stories here 🖤

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[angelicsoka]

THE HAT RULE, t. owens

word count | 1.7k words

pairings | tyler owens x meteorologist!fem!reader

summary | where tyler owens decides to show the reader what the hat rule is. 

warnings | MINORS DNI!! 18+ ONLY!! HEAVY smut! reader doesn’t know the hat rule. not proofread. lowercase intended. 

a/n | first of all, sorry for disappearing, i've had NO motivation to write on here, but i saw twisters yesterday and seeing glen powell in a cowboy hat changed me as a person, and also gave me motivation to write. i’ve never written a full smut so i apologize if this sucks, i've stepped out of my comfort zone for this one.

the first time you had ever encountered a tornado was a memory you were sure to never forget. growing up in new york meant rain and snow but no tornadoes. so when traveling to nebraska on a field trip in high school, you were unprepared when the sirens sounded, sending everyone into a frenzy. you had watched as the rain pelted from the sky, a funnel forming up above. you were mesmerized as your teacher pulled you to safety, a sort of thrill tearing through  your body. from that moment on, you knew what you wanted to do. you went to college for meteorology, graduating near top of your class before going onto to work at a local news station. but it never quite settled the feeling that something was missing, until you stumbled across tyler owens’ youtube channel. 

tyler owens had become a sensation, a daredevil who did more than just chase the storms, he rode into them. and that seemed to heighten that need of a thrill. so, you hit him up and to your surprise, he replied. and what had started out as a week off of work to storm chase with the daredevil, turned to going part time at your job and joining him on the road.

that was a season ago, and now you were sat at a dingy bar, sipping a beer with tyler and the team. the man himself was sat on the stool next to you, nursing his own beer and listening to lily speak. you ignored the slight butterflies that entered your stomach as he laughed. you had learned to never mix work and love, but something about tyler had you questioning that lesson. he looked mighty fine in his blue jeans and button up, supporting a cowboy’s hat on his head. you noticed your beer was gone, standing up you turned to your crew.

“i'm gonna get another beer, can i get anyone anything?” no’s were murmured around the group except for one.

“i could use another, how ‘bout i come with ya?” you shrugged, tyler getting up to walk with you. lily let out a low whistle, stopping at your glare. 

“be my guest.” you two walked over to the bar top, signaling the busy bartender. “can we get two more, when you get a sec?” the bartender nodded, going to make a few drinks before he could grab their bottles. 

“so, miss city girl, how you likin’ riding with us? ready to go back to the big apple yet?” tyler questioned, turning to look down at you slightly. damn the height difference.

“don’t think you’re getting rid of me that quick, i have a lot more storm chasing left in me, cowboy.” you winked, tyler laughing. you debated for just a moment before reaching up and taking the cowboy hat from his head.

“the hell you think you’re doing?” tyler questioned as you placed the hat on your own head, admiring your reflection on your phone.

“you wear this hat all the damn time, i just wanted to see if there was something special about it? maybe it has some magical powers or something.” the bartender came back around, beer bottles in hand. you thanked him, handing him some cash before turning back to tyler, who had an odd look in his eye. you quickly took off the hat, worried you had pissed him. you went to hand it back to him, when tyler shook his head:

“keep it on, it suits you.” tyler picked up his beer, beginning back to the table. the comment caused a light blush to dust your cheeks. shaking your head, you hoped it didn't show too much as you followed him back. you sat in your seat, confused by the odd looks you received from the crew. nobody said anything about the hat as the night went on, but that didn’t stop the odd looks.

by last call, it was you and tyler left of the crew. thankfully the bar was across the street from the motel, tyler paying the tab much to your protest, before setting off back to the motel. you had forgotten you still wore tyler’s hat upon your head, only remembering when you went to brush your hair from your eyes, your hand bumping the rim. “hey, do you know why everyone kept giving me weird looks after i put your hat on? and why boone and dani wouldn’t stop snickering?” tyler looked over to you as you climbed the stairs of the motel.

“you don't know?” you shook your head in response, tyler holding a bewildered look. “you don't know the hat rule?”

“there’s a hat rule?” tyler stopped at his door, which neighbors your’s and lily’s. “what?”

“you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.” he deadpanned, your eyes widening and a heavy blush coating your cheeks. 

“oh my god! i promise i wasn’t trying to imply that or anything. not there’s anything wrong with you, because you’re– well you’re you, and–”  you fumbled over your words, stopping mid sentence when tyler laughed.

“hey, it's fine. if you weren’t trying to insinuate that, that’s fine. but if you were, well, now's your chance. and i’d be more than happy to show you how that rule works.” tyler walked closer, a minimal amount of space between you, just enough to allow you to choose whether you close that gap or leave. 

you stood there for a moment, stunned at his offer. and without much thought, you closed the gap, hands going to grip his face and pull him closer to you. his hands moved to your hips, fingers digging into the fabric of your shorts. the kiss was feverish, all unspoken feelings surfacing. tyler began to pull away much to your dismay, one hand leaving your hip to fish out his keys from his pocket as he moved his other arm to hold your waist. he unlocked the door with ease, pulling you inside and shutting the door before pushing you up against it, the hat falling as he did so. he went to town on your neck, enticing soft moans and whimpers from your lips. the way he sucked at your neck and how he had previously handled you had conjured up a pool of wetness in your panties. 

your arm wrapped around his neck, holding him to your throat, as your fingers tugged at his hair. he groaned against your skin, biting down ever so softly when you tugged on his hair. he gripped at your leg, pulling it up to give him better access to your cunt. he rubbed his clothed cock along you covered cunt, pleased with the moans that escaped your mouth.

“god, keep moaning like that and i might have to take you right here.” you blushed once more, pulling tyler to meet your lips once more. you pushed off the door, lips still connected to tyler’s as you blindly pushed him back to the bed. his legs hit the edge of the bed, tyler breaking the kiss as he pulled off your shirt, both of you kicking off your shoes and socks before lips were reattached once more. 

you pulled back, tyler unbutton his shirt as you began to work on his belt buckle. “woah, easy, pretty girl. you’ll get a taste, don’t worry. the night’s still young. but for now, i gotta show ya what happens when ya wear the hat.” tyler pulled off his shirt, walking to pick up the forgotten hat, placing it on your head. “this stays on.” you nodded, eyes hooded as tyler pulled your shorts and panties down. “you’re even more perfect than i had imagined.” before you could question him, tyler pulled his jeans off, his boxers next as his cock sprung up. tossing them to the side tyler pulled you onto his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed, “you sure ‘bout this? i don’t have any condoms.” tyler asked, different from how he just was. you nodded, kissing him softly.

“i’m on the pill, and i trust you.” tyler nodded, holding over his cock as he slowly guided it along your pussy. you held yourself up as tyler’s thumb rubbing your clit, enjoying your whimpers. “please, tyler.” you begged, tyler aligning his cock with your entrance before guiding you down. you hand went your hat as your head rested on tyler’s shoulder, almost pornographic moans escaping from your lips. “oh my god.” he slowly eased himself into you, whispering praises as he did so.

“god, feels like you were made for me.” your cunt hugged his cock beautifully. when his cock was fully in, he allowed you to get used to the stretch, “tell me when you're ready.” you stilled for a moment, adjusting to his size. you kissed and sucked on his neck, slowly beginning to rock your hips. “fuck, let’s get this off of ya.” tyler’s hands skillfully unclipped your bra, tossing it to the side, fingers ghosting over your perky nipples. you pulled off his shoulder, giving him better access to your tits. “you’re fuckin’ beautiful, darlin’.” tyler attached his mouth to one of your nipples, enticing a soft moan. you continued to ride him, hips moving faster as you chased your incoming orgasm. your left hand gripped tyler’s shoulder, fingernails digging into his bare skin as your right hand held onto the hat that adorned your head. 

as your orgasm inched closer and closer, your movements became more erratic, chasing your high. tyler moaned, whispering praises as your walls clenched around his cock. he knew you were close, mouth moving to your pulse point as he pounded into you, taking over. tyler clapped a hand over your mouth as your orgasm hit, muffling your screams so you didn't wake up your neighbors. his movements however did not slow as he worked you through your orgasm, chasing his own high. your legs trembled as he continued to pound into you, your second orgasm of the night approaching quickly. “fuck! fuck, ty-” you cut yourself off, body shaking as you hit your climax once more. tyler began to huff and moan, pulling you impossibly closer as he reached his own high. you blubbered, unable to form actual words as tyler’s hands roamed your body. you pulled back, kissing him roughly.

“goddamn,” he helped you off his cock, helping guide you onto the bed, “think you’ll be able to handle a round two?”

“don’t go thinking you can get rid of me that easily.” 

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ how they react to your simping

ᨳ♡₊➳ feat. gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: request from this ask!

₊⊹. Satoru Gojo

It starts as a bit.

A joke.

A funny little thing you do to pass the time.

"Satoru," you say one day, dropping into the seat across from him, locking eyes with the intensity of a protagonist about to deliver a monologue that changes the trajectory of the plot. "You're the most stunning man I've ever laid eyes on. A masterpiece sculpted by the gods. A celestial being walking among mortals."

Gojo, already grinning, slurps his sugar-laden monstrosity of a drink. "Keep going."

"And your eyes," you continue solemnly. "If I stare too long, I think I might ascend. Transcend, even. Witness the birth of a new universe."

"Mmhm, mhm," Gojo hums, nodding. "I am quite pretty."

You squint. "That was supposed to be my bit."

"Hey, I can't help it if you're spitting facts," he says, flipping an imaginary strand of long hair behind his shoulder.

You let it go. But only because you have a mission.

The mission? Spoiling Gojo so hard he actually malfunctions.

Gojo is used to being worshiped. Adored. Gawked at. What he's not used to is someone actually putting in effort beyond the usual "oh my god satoru, you're sooo hot!" routine.

So later that day when you casually drop a bouquet of fresh flowers onto his desk, he blinks. Once. Twice.

"What's this?" he asks, twirling a rose between his fingers.

"A bouquet, obviously," you say. "They reminded me of you."

He preens. "Because they're beautiful?"

"Because they're high-maintenance and will die if left unattended for too long."

He chokes on his own spit.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Gojo is not prepared for the sheer level of simping you unleash upon him.

You leave handwritten love notes in his coat pockets.

You text him daily affirmations like "Rise and shine, my shining deity of a man. May your day be filled with adoration befitting a being of your grandeur."

You make a whole PowerPoint presentation titled "Top 10 Reasons Satoru Gojo is the Pinnacle of Human Evolution", complete with graphs, transitions, and a Q&A section at the end.

Gojo is thriving.

Nanami, witnessing this firsthand, is suffering.

"You're just encouraging him," Nanami says one afternoon as Gojo dramatically rereads a love poem you wrote on parchment paper.

"He's thriving under my care," you say, flipping through a list of future compliments to deploy. "It's called nourishment."

"It's called enabling," Nanami corrects, watching Gojo dramatically place a hand over his heart.

"I AM LOVED," Gojo wails, pretending to faint into his chair.

"What you are is insufferable," Nanami mutters, sipping his black coffee like it's the only thing tethering him to sanity.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You decide to go all in.

You book a fancy restaurant.

You show up with flowers, dressed like you're about to propose.

Gojo, seeing the setup, vibrates with excitement. "Oh my god, am I finally being courted properly?!"

"You deserve nothing less," you say smoothly, pulling out his chair like a true gentleperson.

"You shouldn't have," he fake-swoons, placing a delicate hand on his chest.

"No, you shouldn't have been going on for this long without experiencing the true depths of my affection."

The waiter arrives. You order the most expensive dish for Gojo before he even gets a chance to speak. "He'll have the filet mignon, medium-rare, with truffle butter. And your finest wine."

Gojo grips your hand across the table. "I am beside myself with emotion right now."

"You are a treasure, Satoru," you whisper. "A rare jewel. A divine gift."

Gojo wipes away a single imaginary tear.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

At this point, you've given Gojo too much power.

He now EXPECTS this level of treatment.

"Where's my daily compliment?" he pouts one morning when you forget to text him.

You stare at him. "Satoru. It's 6 AM."

"And yet I am here. Unloved. Unworshipped. Unadored."

"You are a grown man."

"A king should not have to remind his subjects of their duties," he grumbles.

Nanami groans in the background.

You rub your temples. "Satoru."

"Yes, my love?"

"You are—" You take a deep breath. "The sun that lights up my world. The radiant deity upon whom my mortal existence depends."

He beams. "Thank you, beloved."

Nanami leaves the room.

₊⊹. Suguru Geto

You had decided enough was enough. Suguru Geto had been prancing around with his stupidly silky hair, his deep, philosophical musings, and his unfairly attractive smirk for too long. It was time to strike.

And by strike, you meant overwhelm him with unhinged romance until he had no choice but to fall for you.

You found him meditating under a tree, all calm and ethereal, probably contemplating the moral complexities of the Jujutsu world or something equally dramatic. You, however, had more important things to discuss.

Like how down bad you were.

"Geto," you declared, standing before him like a medieval knight about to swear fealty, "I offer you this token of my undying admiration."

Then, with a flourish, you revealed—

Chocolates.

Not just any chocolates. You had gone full simp mode and gotten a heart-shaped box.

Geto looked at it. Then at you. "...Should I be concerned?"

"Only about how much I love you," you replied dramatically, shoving the chocolates into his hands.

There was a pause. A long, heavily judgmental pause.

"Are you trying to court me like some kind of high school rom-com protagonist?"

"YES."

Another pause.

"Is it working?" you asked.

Geto opened the box, picked up a chocolate, and took a bite. He chewed slowly, considering. Then—

"...Maybe."

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Now, Geto was a cool, composed, and deadly sorcerer.

Which meant it was your job to ruin his life with affection.

So, naturally, you initiated the next phase by hugging him out of nowhere.

This man had fought dangerous curses, but nothing—nothing—could prepare him for the sheer force of your affection.

You launched yourself at him like an affectionate gremlin, wrapping your arms around his waist with the force of a hungry raccoon finding a trash can full of McDonald’s fries.

Geto froze.

"...Are you okay?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Never," you mumbled into his robe. "But that’s not the point."

"...And the point is?"

"I just think you deserve love and appreciation. And I wanna be the one to give it to you."

Silence.

Then, after a long moment, he sighed, resting a hand on your head.

"...You are ridiculous," he muttered.

"You love it."

"...Perhaps."

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

By the end of the week, Geto had officially accepted your nonsense.

You’d catch him hoarding the chocolates like some kind of dragon. You saw him smiling to himself after one of your many, many dramatic compliments.

And when you finally mustered the courage to ask, "So, does this mean we’re dating now?"

Geto, ever the enigma, smirked and patted your head.

"...I suppose I should accept my fate."

₊⊹. Kento Nanami

Nanami is a serious man. A man who, if given the choice, would rather be doing his taxes than engaging in anything even remotely resembling romance. Not because he doesn’t want romance, but because romance requires effort, and effort is, unfortunately, time-consuming.

Which is why you have taken it upon yourself to court this man like a medieval suitor with a crush so strong it could level a small village.

You decide today is the day. The day you finally ask Nanami out. The plan is simple:

1. Find Nanami.

2. Say, "Hey, I like you, wanna go out?"

3. Win.

It’s foolproof. You are a genius.

Nanami, as per usual, is dressed like the world's most exhausted salaryman, sipping a coffee that he is holding like it’s the only thing tethering him to existence.

"Nanami," you say, feeling the confidence of a thousand mediocre fuckboys online.

He looks at you. His gaze is neutral. Calculating. As if he can already sense that whatever is about to come out of your mouth will disrupt the fragile equilibrium of his sanity.

You inhale deeply. Go for it.

"Would you like to engage in a mutually agreed-upon romantic outing with me where I attempt to woo you with my sheer charisma and a potentially expensive dinner?"

Silence.

Nanami blinks. Once. Twice.

Then he takes an excruciatingly slow sip of his coffee, as if using the liquid as a buffer to process the sheer absurdity of your phrasing.

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"That depends," you say, doubling down. "Did it work?"

Nanami stares at you. Then sighs.

"Sure."

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Since you have decided to be the biggest simp for Nanami, you have prepared a gift to give him at the beginning of your date. Something that says I am a responsible adult capable of mature affection while also saying I would die for you, sir.

Which is how you find yourself handing Nanami a loaf of bread from his favorite bakery.

Nanami, a man who has spent years perfecting the art of keeping a neutral expression, visibly falters.

Nanami stares at the bread. Then at you. Then at the bread again, as if he is trying to determine whether or not you are a figment of his own overworked imagination.

Finally, he says, "Thank you."

Which, in Nanami Language, translates roughly to: I have never been more emotionally moved in my life.

You, being the proactive, aggressive simp that you are, have decided to push boundaries. Specifically, physical affection boundaries.

So later on the date, you do the unthinkable. You hold his hand.

Nanami, a grown man who has fought literal curses and experienced horrors beyond human comprehension, immediately short-circuits.

His posture stiffens like he’s just been accused of tax fraud. His grip tightens slightly, as if he’s afraid you might just evaporate if he doesn’t hold on properly.

"This is fine," he says, in the tone of someone who is very much not fine.

You squeeze his hand. "I could kiss you, you know."

Nanami exhales so hard it could power a wind turbine.

"Please do not say such things in public."

"You want me to save it for when we're alone?"

Nanami looks at you like he is considering whether it would be socially acceptable to walk into the ocean and never return.

You grin. You have won.

And Nanami, though he will never admit it, likes losing to you.

₊⊹. Choso Kamo

You had a plan.

A stupid, possibly catastrophic plan.

But you were going to ask Choso out.

The issue? Choso was built different.

Not in the "cool, gym-rat, grinds at 4 AM" way. Not even in the "mysterious loner with a dark past" way. No. Choso was built different in the "has absolutely no understanding of normal social cues" way. He had the emotional intelligence of a Roomba. He walked like an NPC. He stared at inanimate objects like they had personally wronged him.

And, worst of all, he had no idea you were trying to make moves.

You had flirted. You had winked at him. You had complimented his little pigtails. You had even touched his arm, which, in romance language, was basically a marriage proposal.

Nothing.

Choso was simply not getting it.

So now, you were taking a more direct approach. You were going to spoil him until he physically had to acknowledge your affection.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You waited until Choso was comfortably seated at your usual hangout spot—a little café that had tolerated your nonsense for far too long.

You slammed a neatly wrapped box onto the table with the intensity of someone presenting a sacred artifact to the gods.

Choso blinked. Slowly. Then looked at you.

“...Am I being arrested?”

“What? No!”

He looked down at the box again. Then back at you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Choso. Open it.”

Choso stared at the box like it might explode. Then, with all the hesitance of a man defusing a bomb, he started unwrapping it.

Inside was a custom hoodie—black with deep purple accents, soft as hell, and embroidered on the sleeve with “Best Big Bro” in delicate script.

Because if there was one thing Choso loved more than you (debatable), it was being a big brother.

Choso stared at it. Completely frozen.

You waited. And waited. And—

“…Do you not like it?” you asked, anxiety creeping in.

Choso lifted his head, and you almost gasped.

He looked emotionally compromised.

Like, full processing error. His eyes had slightly widened, and his mouth opened just a little, like he was trying to form words but had temporarily forgotten how human speech worked.

He lifted the hoodie like it was the most valuable thing he had ever received.

“You got this… for me?”

Your heart lurched. “Yeah, dude. It’s literally yours.”

Choso gently set the hoodie down, stood up, and left the café.

…

HE LEFT THE CAFÉ.

You sat there, dumbfounded, watching the door swing shut behind him. You did not know how to feel.

What the hell just happened?

Did he hate it? Was he rejecting your affection?

But just as you were about to spiral into a crisis, the door slammed open again.

Choso returned, looking like he had gone outside to scream into the sky.

He stopped in front of you, took a deep breath, and said, “I did not know how to process that.”

“…The hoodie?”

Choso nodded, completely serious.

“It was too much.” He exhaled deeply, as if he had just lived through a traumatic event. “I had to step outside. It was the nicest thing anyone has ever given me.”

Before you could even respond, Choso dropped into the chair across from you, locked eyes, and grabbed your hands.

“You are important to me,” he said, voice dead serious. “I don’t know how to handle being… doted on. But I will try.”

“…So you like it?” you managed to choke out.

Choso nodded. Solemn. Deeply sincere.

“I will cherish it forever.”

He paused.

“Do I have to pay you back?”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Despite the initial trauma, Choso wore that hoodie everywhere.

And you mean everywhere.

Grocery shopping? Hoodie. Training? Hoodie. A formal event? He debated wearing the hoodie.

Every time you saw him in it, your heart grew three sizes.

And the best part? Choso finally got the hint.

Or rather, he returned the favor in his own extremely weird way.

One day, he solemnly presents you with a tiny, perfectly round rock.

“This is for you.”

You stare at it. “…Choso. Is this just... A rock?”

Choso nods, his expression grave and intense. “It reminded me of you.”

You don’t know what that means, but you’re keeping the rock forever.

₊⊹. Toji Fushiguro

So, you’ve decided to ask Toji Fushiguro out. Bold of you. Statistically speaking, your chances of success are equivalent to trying to microwave a Hot Pocket evenly—low but not impossible.

You approach him, full of misplaced confidence, and hit him with:

"Hey, I think you’re hot. Want to go out?"

Toji stares at you. For the first time in his life, he is the one being objectified, and he does not know how to cope.

“...You serious?” he asks, popping a toothpick into his mouth like he’s the protagonist of a Western movie.

You nod, mostly because you’ve already committed and retreating would be embarrassing.

Toji, a man who survives off hitman money and food bribery, strokes his chin as if he’s considering a very important life decision. "Eh. You payin’?"

Ah, yes. Romance.

You, a modern working-class citizen barely scraping by, sigh deeply. “Sure.”

He grins. "Alright, babe. As long as I get fed, I’m yours."

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Most people might play it cool. You, however, are about to hit Toji with full-throttle, maximum-effort simping.

You start hyping him up like a Twitch chat during a speedrun:

"Oh, wow, you lifted that entire sofa by yourself? That’s crazy, I didn’t know Greek gods were still around."

"Bro, your arms? Jail. Straight to jail."

"You look like you commit tax fraud in a really attractive way."

Toji, completely unused to someone simping this hard for him, just stares at you. "The hell is wrong with you?"

But he doesn’t tell you to stop.

No, instead, he starts getting visibly cocky. His smirks get more frequent. He starts cracking his neck more, flexing just because. At one point, he lifts an entire vending machine with one hand just to “see if you’d react.”

(You do. You react violently. Your soul momentarily leaves your body. He finds this hilarious.)

"Man, this is fun," he mutters, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s now just performing feats of strength for your entertainment like a circus strongman.

Eventually you decide it’s time to go full simp mode. You present him with The Ultimate Romantic Gift™—a custom, high-quality, weighted blanket.

Yes. A weighted blanket.

Toji blinks at it. "The hell is this?"

"It’s a weighted blanket. It helps with sleeping. It’s supposed to feel like a hug."

Toji, a man who absolutely does not get enough proper sleep, picks it up and frowns at the heft of it. "Why would I want my blanket to hug me?"

"Because you have unresolved trauma, and I love you."

Toji pauses. Stares at you. Stares at the blanket. Stares back at you. His grip tightens like you just handed him a weapon of mass destruction.

"Holy shit," he mutters under his breath. He looks almost…emotional? No, wait. You think he’s malfunctioning. His brain is short-circuiting from the sheer thought of someone giving him something that doesn’t explode.

Toji does not say thank you (because he’s emotionally repressed), but that night, he's completely KO’d under the blanket, snoring like a bear hibernating for the winter.

He has never slept so well in his life.

The next morning, he casually throws an arm around your shoulder and mutters, "Aight, I’ll keep ya."

[emacrow]

Tim doesn't know how he got here.

Sitting in Aquarium's office, holding a sniffling 4 year old little girl named ellen Nightingale on his lap with her head snuggling against his chest, nibbling on a Whale shaped cookie after all they both got lost.

He only looked away for a moment, and Bruce and the batfam dissappear on him while he was anazyling the heavier coffee choices at one of the Aquarium's coffee places.

Only to come out with a combination coffee that cost him 18 dollars more and nearly instinctly kick a teary eyed 4 year old Ellen that lost her mommy and mistook him as him, clinging to his leg out of the blue.

Apparently, Ellen got distracted by a cart vendor holding cute whale cookies while her mommy was talking to her big brother danta about not biting the birthday girl's older sister even if she being rude and now she lost, and she thought he was mummy and she doesn't know what do than the tears came.

Apparently, mommy looked like Tim only mommy had a bunch of pretty white fluffy in her hair and a lighting dancing on her face, but she extremely pretty and single to was Ellen's babbling about.

8 minutes in, a frantic pretty boy with mainly pepper flowing down salt like short hair came in, a 6 year old boy that look like him but white hair coated mainly piggybacking him that spotted him and Ellen, pointing at her.

"I found her first, i get to have The Death Pepper ice cream now!" Shriek out the 6 year old danta.

"Mommy!"

"Oh, thank ancients! Thank you for bringing her to the office here, mister..?" The supposedly Mummy glance his greenish blue baby-doll eyes at Tim, a strain of Lichtenberg figure spread upward from his neck to the forehead of his face as Ellen leaped into the arms of her mummy.

"Um- Tim Drake, and you are..?" Tim felt his face flush a bit as he stood up to shake hands with him.

"He is mummy, you dumb low-life bottom feeder!" Tiny fist waving as Danta imploded at him.

"Oh, biological speaking, yes. It's hard enough to get them to switch to Daddy, but it stuck onto me. My name is Danny Nightingale, and I appreciate that you found my little girl before I ranshake the entire aquarium like a pirate for buried treasure for her." Danny spoke softly, joking at the end, carefully holding Ellen, who snuggled her face against his chest like she did earlier with Tim.

"Yeah, she cling onto me harder than the octopus from Finding Dory when she thought I was you after I lost my own group." Tim said back, softly joking back while he sipped and choked his coffee as Ellen beamed about how Mister Tim got her two whale cookies with the blue eyes she wanted earlier and quietly failed at mumbling on can they keep him?

"Interesting.. well, she seemed attached to you, and you seem to be reliable enough to distract her from causing mayham. If you ever wanted to babysit for me, you can have my number?" Danny said, pulling out clownfish theme napkin and taking a pen from the office free pen jar.

'Wait, what?' Is what Tim thought to himself after Danny said his goodbyes, Danta sticking his tongue out, and Ellen cutely waving bye-bye as they left.

The napkin he was holding in his hand had an apartment address and a number contact along with a winking face and clumsily childish doodle of snowflakes, fire, and Dory fish next to it.

Bruce and the batfam came in the office seconds later after Tim pocket the contact info.

Might end up with a part 2. Idk yet

[kitkatscabinet]

VIRAL VIBES

requested by anon:

summary: you're constantly in the spotlight, is it really a surprise you're a viral sensation?

pairings: platonic batfamily x batsis! reader. mentions of roy, wally, conner, kyle x batsis

a/n: crackish

[You and Duke are seated at a table, a bottle of water in front of you, Bruce stands behind, holding a piece of paper]

"Slay?… Slay what?" He stares deadpan, already concerned for the mental state of his giggling kids.

"That’s it. That’s the word." Duke explains.

"Slay is not a complete thought."

"No," you agree, nodding sagely, "it’s a lifestyle."

You're mid-sip when Bruce decides to drop the following words, "Mama... a girl is behind you." Duke spits his water all over your face, rendering you temporarily blind while you accidentally inhale water up your nose.

"Is this some kind of warning? Is it a threat?" It hurts to breathe, it hurts to exist. You make an odd gargling noise that sends Duke into another spiral.

Bruce never gets an answer to his question, painstakingly watching his hysterically giggling children.

"Skib-" you see Bruce mouth the word incredulously as if questioning what his eyes are seeing, "skibidi... toilet rizz? I feel like I'm being punked, I only recognise one of those words." Neither you nor Duke can answer him, too busy choking on laughter and water.

Tears stream down your cheeks, your palm thumping against the table, and Bruce becomes legitimately concerned you're about to choke to death.

"Be fr."

"What does the fr stand for. Is it supposed to be ‘be… free?’"

"No." You gasp, trying to maintain your composure. "No, it means ‘Be for real.’ Like when someone says something unhinged and you’re begging them to actually tell the truth."

"You know. Like when Jason said he’d start a podcast." Duke snickers as you hold up a hand for a high five.

"Be fr." Bruce nods, his monotone delivery sending you over the edge as you laugh so hard you slip off the chair, accidentally knocking the phone over.

[Steph's voice comes from behind the camera focused on you and Dick slumped on the couch, it's clear she's holding back a giggle]

"He’s a 10, but he once fell off the treadmill in public because he was distracted by his own reflection."

The words register in Dick's head, his mouth falling open in offence. He throws his phone down on the couch, suddenly paying attention to Steph's shenanigans.

"Oh yeah, solid 4, sounds like an idiot." You chime in, not looking up from your phone.

"The mirror snuck up on me!" He huffs, pouting at Steph as he prepares his comeback.

"She’s a 10, but she once pretended not to know me at a farmer’s market because I said ‘slay’ unironically."

"You said it to a zucchini, Dick!"

"Weak." You snort. "Minus 3 points for flirting with the shittest vegetable."

Steph spins the camera enough to show her thumbs up.

"Fine. She’s a 10, but she has a ‘funeral playlist’ and refers to it as her final slay."

"I don't think you understand this trend Dickhead. Besides, it’s an awesome fucking playlist. ACDC into Billie Eilish? The drama, the emotional whiplash. That’s the arc."

"10/10. No notes." Steph chirps.

Dick scowls. "She’s a 10, but trauma dumps during the brunch and ruins the vibe."

"Who hasn't?" Steph scoffed, determined to back you up.

"Excuse you, the trauma dump is the vibe. That mimosa knew what it signed up for." You barely skip a beat before firing back at your brother.

"He's a 10, but he's fumbled every baddie he somehow managed to bag in the first place." Steph shrieks with laughter as Dick looks close to tears.

"I mean, how you gonna fumble four separate redheads, couldn't be me." You deadpan.

The camera shakes with the force of Steph's laughter, the video cutting off right after you hear Dick's whine in the background. "Why are you being so mean to me? Wait 4?"

[You're behind the camera, which is focused on a tired-looking Tim walking on the pavement.]

"Hey, have you ever met my friend George?"

"George?" Tim mumbles, turning to look at you, "Wait, why are you filming-" His suspicion is warranted, but comes far too late for him to react as your hand enters the frame, shoving him into the hedge.

"George Bush!"

[She's such a good big sister🥹 ]

Video 1: Damian's dressed in a suit, standing beside a piece of artwork and looking small against all the other patrons. You suddenly sneak up behind him, catching him in a hug as you proudly brag to the nearby art show guests about your little brother's art.

Video 2: You and Duke are seated in a Batburger in your pyjamas at 2am. You look exhausted, blinking repeatedly and threatening to fall asleep in your fries, but you still let Duke ramble at you as you pay for his food and give him your milkshake.

Video 3: You're holding Tim's hand as you cross the road, tugging him along gently and him trusting you enough to barely watch where he's walking.

Video 4: You giving Cass a bouquet of flowers after her dance performance. You're eyes are a little red and puffy as you animatedly tell her how beautiful she is.

Video 5: Jason looking uncomfortable at a gala event as an older woman talks at him, only for you to suddenly sweep in dramatically, tugging him away without so much as a by your leave.

[A video posted on Bart's TikTok of you and Wally captioned: bro stand up!!]

The video:

You're scowling at an enamoured-looking Wally, gesticulating wildly as you clearly scold him about something. From the look on his face, it's clear Wally's not absorbing a single thing, staring at you like he's mentally planning your wedding.

The comments:

@dickgraysonsgrayson: Wally West falling for her is SO funny because he talks a mile a minute and she just stares at him like he’s background noise. AND HE LOVES IT.

@tiddiesinsincity: She calls him ‘annoying’ with the most affectionate tone ever. They're in love ur honour!!!

@westnwayne4eva: That man is down so horrendously bad I'm nearly embarrassed for him.

@lexluthorscheapasswig: They give off golden retriever x black cat ENERGY in all caps.

@nightwingschikenwing: He’d absolutely be the type to send ‘thinking about u’ memes every hour, and she responds once a day with ‘ok.’ AND HE SAVES IT.

@:iranoutofusernameideas: She says ‘Wally, no’ at least five times a day. He hears it like it’s ‘I love you.’

[You're doing an interview at a gala, Roy appears from behind, resting a hand on your waist as you jump]

The video:

"Hey trouble." Roy grins wickedly, ignoring the sudden flashes of cameras.

"Roy! I almost punched you." You whine, but still relax in his hold, smiling back. "What are you even doing here? You hate these things."

"What can I say? Maybe I wanted to see you."

The comments:

@whydidothistomyself: “That one clip where Roy pulls her away from the paparazzi with that stupid smug grin?? Yeah, I rewatch it daily and this is going in the folder right next to it.

@ireallyneedanewhobby: rolling her eyes while Roy winks at her like the menace he is…that’s love.

@booktokmorelikewaynetok: He calls her trouble?? JUST KISS ALREADY.

@royharpersgianttiddies: Their dynamic is: she threatens to throw him off a rooftop and he calls it flirting.

@olimcqueen: Them side-eyeing each other at events? Her smirking after he leaves a snarky comment? chef's kiss

@just-iceleagueee: The way Roy softens around her though. Like he’s all charm and sass but when she’s upset? He listens. I’m ruined.

[another video posted on Bart's account captioned: getting sick of this shit fr]

The video:

You're running away from a soaking wet Tim, ducking behind Conner, who grins, letting you use him as a human shield. Freezing when you wrap your arms around him from behind and poke your head out to mock Tim. Only to squeal in laughter when Conner hauls you into his arms, taking off in a run away from a still yelling Tim.

The comments:

@lexluthersucks: no because he LOOKS at her like she’s the only person who matters

@actualwayneteagirl: petition for her to date literally any of her brother’s friends

@batgirlburnbook: he goes feral if she’s mildly inconvenienced. like sir?? get a grip (never change).

@superboyslutclub: she could be wearing literally anything and conner looks like he’s ready to propose on the spot.

@no.1ship: ok but him manhandling her like she weighs nothing?? how do i get me one of those??

@idontevenlikeDCfr: her being completely unfazed by him while he’s just… standing there, breathing heavy. i get it.

[The comments from a video of you laughing at something said off-screen, presumably from the man who's arm was in frame]

@batkinnie: she smiled and i KNOW it was at wally. #WayneWest supremacy!!

@connrified: nah bc conner was RIGHT THERE. you can see his reflection. they are ENDGAME.

@royharperzgun: that laugh was for ROY and ROY ONLY.

@kryptonianluvr02: imagine thinking she’d choose roy when conner breathes like that near her.

@bruciewayne420: if you think anyone makes her laugh like wally does, you’re delulu. LMAO.

@lovewinsssss: she likes redheads with issues so YES roy is winning.

@aquamanswife: y’all are colorblind bc that’s clearly wally in her peripheral vision.

[A slightly shaky video of you sitting across from an unknown man in a cozy little cafe]

The comments:

@connerscurlz: WHO. IS. THAT. MAN. AND WHY IS HE BREATHING HER AIR.

@arsenalxwife: blink twice if you’re being held against your will queen

@jsontoddslefttit: not to be dramatic but this just ruined my entire week.

@glowylanternz: he looks like he reads poetry and draws her while she sleeps. i’m scared.

@wayneupdates: sources say his name is Kyle something?? art guy? lover boy coded?? HELP.

@arsenalsarmtattoo: we lost her to a man with ring jewelry. how do we recover from this.

@batdaddddy: conner nation is in mourning.

@wallywestsupremacy: she giggled. SHE GIGGLED. we’ve lost her for real this time.

@batgirlfandom: let her have her sexy sad artist boyfriend in peace.

@timstarlightsss: this is worse than the time Dick started dating that yoga instructor

[kashverse]

gojo lives to make you laugh. literally. he wakes up in the morning and chooses chaos, dedicating his entire existence to seeing you wheeze, cry, and gasp for air because he's an absolute menace. he'll do anything—stupid impressions, fake injuries, borderline illegal pranks—just to see you fold. you’re not even safe when you’re eating because he'll time his worst jokes right as you take a sip of water, watching in delight as you choke. he calls it a win if you snort, a jackpot if you end up in tears.

nanami, on the other hand, is not actively trying to be funny. but that’s what makes it funnier. you’ll catch him muttering complaints about how “dish soap should not smell like fruit,” or see him standing there, stiff as a board as he folds laundry. sometimes he’ll turn around too fast and smack his forehead on the cabinet door he left open. you giggle. he sighs. mission accomplished.

toji is a menace in his own right, except his approach is pure teasing. he’ll poke fun at you, steal your snacks, hold things above your head just to watch you struggle, and laugh when you get all huffy about it. but then you pout. and toji, for all his bravado, cannot handle you pouting. so suddenly, he's like, "man, maybe i am a washed-up loser. what am i even doing with my life? thirty-something years old and all i have is my devilish charm and incredible good looks. pathetic." he says it with such a straight face that you burst out laughing. mission accomplished. again.

geto doesn’t have time to make you laugh. he’s busy. he’s stressed. but somehow, in the middle of telling you about how he had to break up a ridiculous argument between gojo and shoko about whether cereal is soup, he makes you laugh anyway. or when he gives you the latest gossip, complete with dramatic reenactments, you end up in stitches. he’s not even trying. he’s just naturally entertaining.

choso is trying. way too hard. and it’s adorable. he’ll send you the most outdated memes like exercise? i thought you meant extra fries! with absolute confidence. he’ll stare at you expectantly, waiting for you to laugh. and you do—not because the meme is funny, but because he is funny. the effort, the sincerity, the fact that he has no idea he’s a whole decade late to the joke. you can’t break his heart and tell him. so you let him think he’s a comedy genius.

sukuna? yeah, no. he does not make jokes. he does not entertain foolishness. he does not degrade himself to the level of plebeian humor. but god forbid you laugh at someone else’s joke. suddenly, he’s in the worst mood of his entire existence. sulking, throwing insults, acting like you’ve personally betrayed him. "oh, so that idiot is funny, huh? maybe you should go be with him instead. tch. whatever. laugh it up, brat." and that? that right there? the way he gets all dramatic over it? that’s what actually makes you laugh. and now he’s even more mad.

[jungwnies]

f1 grid | comforting them

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : comforting your driver boyfriend after they had a bad race </3

୨ৎ : genre : romance & fluff (angsty if you SQUINT) ୨ৎ : tws : some are suggestive ୨ৎ : word count : 3902

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : a monday post cus.. why tf NOT

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

acts like everything is fine, but you can tell by how quiet he is.

you guide him past media without a word, shielding him physically and emotionally.

cuts everyone off with a clipped “it’s fine,” but lets you stay close.

doesn’t speak much until you’re alone—just sits beside you, jaw clenched.

eventually murmurs, “it was shit today,” without looking at you.

you just nod and take his hand, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.

you order food, dim the lights, and make him lay down while you run your fingers through his hair.

he melts slowly, letting the tension fall out of his body.

“you’re like my therapist,” he mutters.

“you’re like my emotional tax return,” you shoot back, and he actually laughs.

yuki tsunoda

starts off convincing himself it’s fine. “it’s okay, just racing. it happens.”

tries to brush it off with humor, but his eyes are a little too glossy.

sits stiffly, arms crossed, forcing himself not to cry in front of anyone.

when you ask if he’s alright, he shakes his head and says, “i don’t wanna talk about it,” voice tight.

but as soon as you wrap your arms around him, he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.

“i tried so hard today,” he mumbles into your shoulder, and that’s when the tears come.

buries his face in your chest, completely silent except for the way his arms tighten around your waist.

you stroke his back and whisper, “i know. i saw. you did everything you could.”

he doesn’t let go for a long time, just holds you like he needs you to hold the world together.

later, sniffling into your hoodie, he mutters, “don’t tell anyone i cried. but don’t go anywhere either.”

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

“well, that was a masterclass in how not to have a race,” he says, throwing his gloves on the table like he’s commentating his own downfall.

acts unbothered, sipping his water like it’s champagne. “at least i didn’t crash into a wall. small victories.”

makes a passive-aggressive joke about his strategy call, then follows it with “but it’s fine. i love character development.”

when you ask how he really feels, he smirks. “emotionally bankrupt, but thanks for checking.”

keeps pretending he’s over it, but you catch him zoning out mid-shower, forehead against the tile, just breathing.

when you hand him a towel and a soft “you don’t have to keep it together right now,” he just shrugs. “if i let go, i might not get back up.”

you sit with him on the couch, and he rests his head on your lap, finally letting you card your fingers through his hair.

“you make this day slightly less shit,” he mutters, then adds with a cheeky grin, “wanna really take my mind off it?”

you raise a brow. “that subtle, huh?”

he just smirks, pulling you down for a kiss. “come on. don’t make me beg. i’ve had a really bad day.”

kimi antonelli

throws his helmet a little too hard, then immediately panics like "oh shit did i just break it," while storming into the motorhome.

tries to act cool but ends up rage-snacking on chips mid-rant. "why the f—why do i even try?! i’m literally doing everything and the car’s like, ‘no ❤️’"

paces back and forth while voice-cracking through sentences like, "no, it’s fine. it’s cool. it’s just… my whole career. no big deal."

you sit there trying not to laugh because he’s got one sock halfway off and crumbs on his shirt but is fully spiraling like it’s the end of the world.

“am i washed at 18?! is that even possible?”

you calmly hand him a juice box and say, “you’re not washed. you’re dramatic.”

he glares, sucks on the straw aggressively, then slumps down next to you with a loud sigh.

“i hate being a prodigy. too much pressure. should’ve been mediocre and mysterious.”

you rub his back and say, “you’re allowed to have a bad day, baby genius.”

he blinks up at you, lip jutted out. “if i win next weekend can we get matching crocs?”

you nod. he grins. “sick. emotional support footwear incoming.”

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

comes home way too quiet. keys in the bowl, shoes off, straight to the bathroom without a word.

you find him staring at the sink, toothbrush in hand, not even brushing—just zoning out.

“i don’t know what i’m doing wrong,” he says, voice low. “i keep trying and i still mess it up.”

you hug him from behind and rest your chin on his shoulder. he doesn’t flinch, just leans into it with a sigh.

“maybe i’m not good enough anymore,” he mumbles. “maybe they’re right.”

you turn him around gently. “you are good enough. more than enough. stop speaking to yourself like that.”

he blinks fast like he’s trying not to cry, then rests his forehead against yours.

“i just… hate letting you down. even if you say you’re not disappointed.”

you guide him to bed, tug off his hoodie, pull the sheets over both of you. he curls into you instantly like a kid.

“you’re the only part of the day that feels good,” he whispers against your skin.

then, quietly, a little mischievously, “maybe we can end it with something else that feels good?”

you laugh into his hair. “if you’re asking me to kiss it better, just say that.”

“i am. in a poetic way.”

lewis hamilton

he doesn’t storm in. he’s not loud. he just walks through the door a little slower, like the weight of the day is still sitting on his shoulders.

takes his time taking off his shoes, hangs up his coat carefully—like staying in control might keep the emotions at bay.

sits on the edge of the couch with his hands clasped between his knees, eyes distant. “you ever give everything and still feel like it’s not enough?”

you sit beside him without saying a word, letting him talk when he’s ready.

“i don’t mind the criticism. i’ve been through worse. but sometimes it’s like… no one lets you just be human anymore.”

he looks at you with tired eyes, soft but heavy. “i’m not asking to win all the time. i just want to feel like i did something right.”

you lace your fingers with his and lean your head against his shoulder. ��you do so much right. more than most ever could.”

he hums low in his chest, squeezes your hand. “you always know what to say.”

eventually pulls you into his lap, buries his face in the crook of your neck like he’s finally letting himself rest.

“just stay close tonight,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. “you’re the one thing that still feels steady.”

“you’re the one thing that feels like peace.”

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

kicks his shoes off a little too aggressively when he gets home. “don’t ask,” he mutters before you even say hi.

slumps on the couch, arms crossed, hoodie up, eyes on the ceiling. “today was great. crashed my hopes, ran over my self-esteem, 10/10.”

you offer to talk and he just grumbles, “nope. don’t wanna. gonna repress it. very healthy coping strategy.”

pretends he's fine, scrolls on his phone like he’s not one second away from crumbling. keeps sighing dramatically every five minutes for attention.

refuses to cuddle at first. “i’m mad at the world. leave me in my hoodie cave.” but then two seconds later: “okay but like… you can sit near me. just not touching. but like… close.”

eventually ends up curled into your side, face hidden in your neck. mumbles, “today sucked. i sucked. everything sucked.”

you stroke his hair and he softens immediately. “you don’t suck. you’re just tired. burnt out. you need rest, not punishment.”

“you’re being all soft and wise, it’s disgusting,” he grumbles—but his hand’s gripping your shirt like you might float away.

you kiss his temple. “still want me to leave you in your hoodie cave?”

he pulls the blanket over both of you and whispers, “shut up. you live here now.”

oscar piastri

walks into the room and doesn’t say much. just nods once, drops his bag, and disappears into the bathroom.

you hear the water running—ice cold. he always showers when he’s overwhelmed. said it helps him “reset.”

when he comes out, hair wet, hoodie half-zipped, eyes tired—he looks a little more like himself again. still quiet. still distant. but thawing.

sits next to you on the bed without saying anything, just slowly reaches for your hand and starts tracing circles on your palm.

“i didn’t know how to talk about it without getting angry,” he admits softly. “so i didn’t.”

you nod and lean your head on his shoulder. “you don’t need to explain everything right away. i’ll wait.”

he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “thanks for not pushing me. i just… hate not being enough.”

turns to you with red-tinted eyes. “it’s stupid. it’s just racing. but when it goes wrong, it feels like i’m failing you too.”

you hold his face and say, “you never have to earn being loved. not from me.”

he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, “can i just stay here with you for a while?”

then, a small smile. “also i might’ve left my sanity in the ice bath, but at least you’re here.”

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

he comes home calm, like always. keys on the counter, jacket folded neatly. but there’s a tightness in his smile when he kisses your cheek.

“today was… different,” he says. not dramatic, not upset. just honest. “did everything right. still fell short.”

you know when it hits him—it’s in the way he lingers at the window, watching the sky like it has answers.

“some days you feel time catching up with you,” he says quietly. “not just in racing. in everything.”

he doesn’t need you to fix it. he doesn’t even need a pep talk. just presence.

you sit beside him on the couch, thigh to thigh, and rest your hand on his. he doesn’t speak for a while.

then, softly, “i think it just hurts more when you still want it this badly.”

you turn to face him. “it’s not weakness to want. it means you’re still alive in it.”

he smiles a little, shakes his head. “you’re too poetic for me.” but he leans in, rests his head against yours anyway.

“you help me breathe on days like this,” he murmurs. “even if i don’t say it.”

then after a pause, he smirks. “also… i might require some very specific stress relief later. for mental health reasons.”

you laugh. “is that what we’re calling it now?”

“doctor’s orders.”

lance stroll

walks in without a word, drops his stuff, and immediately faceplants onto the bed—fully dressed, shoes still on.

groans into the mattress. “everything sucks. i suck. the car sucks. media sucks. people suck.”

doesn’t want to talk at first, just grunts when you ask if he’s hungry. “no. actually, yes. but i don’t wanna move.”

you bring him snacks and he eats them off your plate like a sleepy gremlin, mumbling, “you’re the only good thing today.”

flops his head into your lap and finally breathes properly for the first time all day. “i hate how drained i get. everyone wants something. i just wanna be here.”

you run your fingers through his hair and he closes his eyes, murmuring, “i think i used my entire personality quota at the track.”

“can we just stay in here forever? like… disappear? change our names? move to a mountain town?”

you smile and nod. “sure. i’ll pack the stuff.”

he grins sleepily, then pulls your hand to his chest. “you make everything feel less loud.”

then, quietly: “you’re my safe place.”

five minutes later, fully under the blanket, eyes half-closed: “also. i’d like to make out now. for comfort purposes.”

ʚ・williams

alex albon

walks in already scrolling tiktok, earbuds in, nodding like he’s totally unbothered.

plops onto the couch, legs across your lap, and shows you cat videos like he didn’t just get roasted by strategy and a five-place penalty.

laughs too loud at dumb memes. “this is healing. this is therapy.”

you let him vibe, let him chill, until you see that slight pause mid-scroll. his thumb hovers. brows knit. he doesn’t show you this one.

“people are brutal today,” he mutters, still staring at the screen. “like… i know i joke about it, but sometimes i wonder if they’re actually right.”

you take his phone gently, set it down, and crawl into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. “hey. you know they’re not.”

he exhales slowly, voice quieter now. “i wish it didn’t get to me, but some days it does. just a little more than i’d like to admit.”

you press your forehead to his. “you don’t have to be funny about everything. you’re allowed to feel it too.”

he nods, lips pressed together. then, soft as ever: “can you just… hold me for a bit? like properly?”

“always,” you whisper. and he lets himself be still. no jokes. just you.

carlos sainz

he comes in with that tired-but-trying smile, tossing his bag down gently like even that feels heavy.

“it wasn’t… great. but i learned something. that’s always the takeaway, no?” he says, already slipping off his jacket.

he talks himself through it out loud, mostly to you but partly to himself. “maybe i pushed too hard. maybe the strategy wasn’t perfect. but i didn’t give up. that matters.”

you nod and hum and let him vent until he runs out of words and just stares at the wall in thoughtful silence.

“can i have a hug now?” he asks suddenly, already walking over like he knows the answer.

wraps his arms around your waist and buries his face in your shoulder. “you’re the only place i feel like i can breathe after a day like this.”

you guide him to the couch and he pulls you into his lap, burying his face into your neck like it recharges him.

“even if i’m okay… i still need this. i think everyone does, sometimes.”

he starts to drift off mid-cuddle, fingers tracing your spine lazily, voice getting slower.

“i should just speak spanish. english is too much work when i’m tired,” he mumbles against your skin.

then whispers, “gracias por amarme incluso cuando me siento roto.” (thank you for loving me even when i feel broken.)

you press a kiss to his forehead. “always.”

“te juro que voy a mejorar. para ti. para mí.” (i swear i’m going to get better. for you. for me.)

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

bursts into the room like he just won the race. “alright! that was a trainwreck. who wants to start the post-race roast?”

keeps making jokes like, “honestly, i think i invented new ways to mess up today. f1 history books: written by me.”

you raise an eyebrow and say nothing, just letting him go off while he rants about strategy, traffic, “and my stupid left foot that forgot how to brake.”

finally crashes onto the couch, staring at the ceiling with a dramatic sigh. “do you think i peaked at 17?”

you crawl into his lap and cup his face gently. “no. i think you haven’t even scratched the surface of what you’re capable of.”

he blinks up at you, smile faltering for just a second. “yeah? even after… whatever that was today?”

“especially after that,” you say, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “you care. you fight for it. that’s what makes you special.”

he exhales, the tension leaving his body all at once as he buries his face in your chest. “okay, now i’m gonna cry like a little baby, hope you’re ready.”

you kiss the top of his head. “already holding you. already proud.”

he peeks up with a grin. “can you say that again but like, with sparkles and dramatic background music?”

you laugh. “ollie bearman, you are a legend in the making.”

“that’s the energy. now kiss me before i start doing self-deprecating tiktoks.”

esteban ocon

comes home calm, too calm, like he’s holding everything in with white knuckles and discipline.

doesn’t speak until he’s showered, changed, and had a full 20 minutes of silence. then sits beside you and says softly, “he was better today. i saw it.”

you know he means another driver—someone younger, someone faster today—and you can hear the frustration in his restraint.

“maybe i’m not doing enough,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “maybe i’m the weak point.”

you try to stop him, but he just shakes his head. “i’m not fishing. i just… feel it. and i hate it.”

he’s not angry. he’s just disappointed in himself. his brows stay pinched even when you’re stroking his hand.

“i’m scared that if i don’t prove it now, no one will believe in me later.”

you climb into his lap and hold his face gently, forcing him to look you in the eye. “you don’t need to prove anything to be worthy of love. or respect.”

he leans into your touch, eyes closed. “i want to believe that. i do.”

you kiss his cheek. “then start here. start with me. i’ve always believed in you.”

he lets out a shaky breath and whispers, “merci…” then rests his forehead against yours like he’s anchoring himself back to solid ground.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

walks in tossing his hat onto the kitchen counter and mutters, “well that was a steaming pile of absolute crap.”

jokes about it in that dry way. “should’ve just driven a shopping trolley. might’ve gotten better results.”

he’s pacing while he talks, voice calm but clipped. “not even mad at anyone specifically. just… the whole bloody universe.”

you lean on the doorframe, arms crossed. “want me to fight the universe?”

he smirks, shaking his head. “nah. that’s my job. but i appreciate the backup.”

doesn’t take it out on you at all—in fact, he’s more affectionate. keeps reaching for your hand while he vents.

“i know it’s just one race. i do. but it builds up, y’know? starts to feel like you’re yelling into a void and it’s all echo.”

you guide him to the couch and let him rest his head in your lap. “you’re allowed to yell. i’ll hear it. even if the world doesn’t.”

he sighs and looks up at you with that soft, slightly crooked smile. “you’re dangerously good at this, you know that?” “at what?”

“loving me out of a bad mood.”

then he tilts his head and adds, completely casual, “might need a little… extra cheering up later though.”

you roll your eyes. “that what you’re calling it now?”

he grins. “what can i say? i’m a man of simple needs.”

isack hadjar

bursts through the door like a tornado. “I AM RETIRING. I’M QUITTING. I’M GOING TO OPEN A BAKERY. OR JOIN A CULT. SOMETHING PEACEFUL.”

flings his bag across the room, misses the couch, and nearly knocks over a lamp. doesn’t even blink.

“do you know how humiliating it is to be passed like that? i was driving my heart out and the car was like, ‘no...NOPE..NOOOO.’”

keeps fake-dramatizing it like a one-man soap opera. “isack hadjar: the fall from grace – coming soon to a streaming platform near you.”

you play along for a bit until he finally plops onto the floor at your feet and just… sits. quietly.

“i was actually trying today,” he mumbles, not looking at you. “like properly trying. and it still went to shit.”

you sit down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and he leans into you slowly like he’s deflating.

“sometimes i feel like people are just waiting for me to fail so they can say they knew it.”

you turn to him gently. “they’re not. and even if they were… you’ve already proven them wrong just by showing up the way you do.”

he rests his head on your shoulder with a sigh. “you’re annoyingly good at this whole ‘being nice to me’ thing.”

you grin. “want me to stop?”

“no,” he mutters, snuggling closer. “never. might need it tattooed on me actually. in comic sans.”

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

slams the door just a little too hard. doesn't say anything at first—just kicks off his shoes, throws his phone on the table, and heads straight to the kitchen for water like it personally wronged him.

“they don’t listen. doesn’t matter what i say. it’s like talking to a fucking wall,” he mutters, pacing like he’s ready to punch a pillow.

you try to say something gentle and he snaps a little too fast—“i’m fine, okay?” but it’s not sharp. it’s exhausted.

he keeps moving around the room, hands on his hips, jaw clenched. “maybe i should stop caring. maybe that’s the trick.”

you don’t respond—you just walk over and wrap your arms around him from behind. he tenses for half a second. then sighs.

“you always do that,” he mumbles, not pulling away. “just… hug me until i stop being mad.”

you press your cheek to his back. “because i know you’re not really mad. you’re tired. and hurt.”

he turns around and buries his face in your neck like it’s the only safe place he knows. “i hate that they make me feel like this. like i’m not enough.”

you kiss his hair. “you are. always have been.”

he holds you tighter, breath shaky. “i don’t say it enough, but… i need you. especially on days like this.”

then, muffled: “also if you kiss me again i’ll probably forget what i was mad about. just sayin’.”

jack doohan

in front of the team? stone-faced. cool. collected. “yeah, not the best day. we’ll move on. it’s fine.”

comes home? immediately sighs the second the door closes. rests his forehead against the wall for a solid ten seconds before moving.

tries to act chill around you too. “it’s just one of those days. happens. i’m fine.”

he is not fine. but he’s doing that thing where he says he’s okay while avoiding eye contact and changing the subject every 3.2 seconds.

“you hungry?” he asks, even though he’s barely eaten since breakfast. “we could order something. or not. i don’t care.”

you eventually pull him onto the couch, and he lets himself flop next to you, arms crossed like a sulky cat.

he won’t say it outright, but his knee is bouncing, his fingers are twitching, and he keeps glancing at you like he wants permission to crack.

“i just hate looking like i don’t belong here,” he finally mumbles, voice low. “like i’ve got something to prove every second.”

you crawl into his lap and cup his jaw, making him look at you. “you belong. you’re not failing. you’re learning. that’s what makes you good.”

his lips part like he wants to argue, but then he just exhales and wraps his arms around you like you’re the only thing holding him up.

“it’s stupid,” he whispers. “i didn’t want to need comfort today. but here i am.”

you smile. “i don’t mind. i like being the person you let your guard down with.”

he looks at you with soft eyes and the tiniest grin. “well… if i’m already emotionally vulnerable and pathetic… might as well make out about it?”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[lifeasadorkwithnolife]

Jealousy (Azriel x Reader)

Word count: 3200

Mor and the reader have a plan in place to make Azriel jealous, but it backfires instead.

               You sighed, resting your elbows on the kitchen counter and placing your face into your hands. “Mor- please, don’t start this.”

               “I’m not starting anything, Y/N.” Mor disagreed, stirring the tear in her mug with a spoon. “I think I’m finally ending this pining game that you are putting yourself through.”

               “I don’t pine.” You mumbled, hesitating before peeking through your fingers. Mor rolled her eyes, taking a sip. “Fine, fine. Maybe I do, but can you blame me? He is the perfect male.”

               “I don’t blame you, but I also don’t know what you see in him besides his looks.” Mor teased, reaching out and pulling your hand from your face. “I’m just kidding, and you’re beautiful, Y/N. Any male would be lucky to have you.”

               You gave her a small smile, feeling the blush start from your chest and snake its way to your cheeks. She laughed, grabbing your cheek and giving it a squeeze. “But seriously, my plan is perfect. Watch this.”

               “What do you mean?” You asked, but she gave you a look and leaned back down on the counter, stirring her tea.

               “I just really think you should shoot your shot.” Mor giggled, and Azriel walked into the room, not even looking between the two of you. “Maybe you should do it at Rita’s tonight, you know we always see him there.”

               “Mor-stop!” you blushed harder, slapping her and looking down. Azriel didn’t even stop as he strolled through the room and out the other door. “See I told you, he wouldn’t care.”

               Mor gave you a devious smile, “this plan has multiple parts my dear, planting the seed of jealously is only part one.”

               “I am not wearing this!” You screeched, looking in the mirror. You were wearing one of Mors signature red dresses, but the slit went so far up the leg you couldn’t even wear proper undergarments. “Seriously-no.”   

               “Seriously, yes.” Mor sat on her bed, her own dress on and hair done. “We are going to go out, have a good time, and maybe find you a new male to flirt with.”            

               You stared at yourself in the mirror, feeling ridiculous but also… hot. You turned, looking at yourself over your shoulder as Mor smiled from behind you, leaning back and crossing her long legs. “Are you sure?”   

               “Duh, lets go!” Mor grinned, hopping off the bed and grabbing her clutch and your arm. You tried to keep up with her quick pace, but in your heels that was never going to happen. You nearly fell, but caught yourself just in time for Azriel and Cassian to walk into the hallway.

               Their gazes landed on you, Cassians eyes grew wide and both males physically stopped in their tracks.  “Boys- don’t wait up for us, the adults are going out.”

               “Y/n!” Cassian whistled, causing you to turn a deep scarlet. “Have fun out there, where are you going?”

               “None of your business, this is a girls only event.” Mor teased, grabbing you and pushing past the two large males. Azriel’s eyes locked on yours for only a second before glancing away, no expression on his face. “But if you need to know- we’re going to Ritas!”

               You two arrived at Rita’s not too long after, grabbing a drink and sitting in a booth. You watched everyone dance around you, you never really did this with Mor, you were more of a reader, not a dancer. You sipped your drink, your eyes darting around nervously. “Soooo…is this a part of your plan too?”

               Mor sipped from her drink, finishing it off and setting it down. “Come on, lets dance!”

               “I don’t dance.” You argued, regretting leaving the house. This was so silly, this was not your scene.

               “Look who just showed up.” Mor grinned at you, raising an eyebrow. You turned, watching the dark figure walk in through the door. You were surprised, Azriel was here without being forced? That was a first. You smiled, going to wave at him but then realizing that he… someone was grabbing his arm, pulling him away and towards the bar. Not just someone, a beautiful fae with long blonde hair and a huge smile.

               Your heart fell into the pit of your stomach as you watched Azriel give her a small smile back, not pushing her away but instead following her to the bar. Your smile fell and you could feel a wave of nausea flowing through you. “Mor, he’s with someone.”

               She frowned, eyes squinting at the pair at the bar. She quickly picked up her drink and put the straw to your lips. “Take a drink and lets get your mind off him. He’ll be out of here before we know it.”

               You nodded, numbly grabbing the straw and sipping the rest of your drink and setting it down on the table. You followed Mor out to the dance floor, and after a few minutes of awkward swaying, you could feel the alcohol kick in and your nerves give way.

               “See, aren’t you having fun?” Mor laughed over the loud music and crowd, grabbing your hand and giving you a twirl. You spun easily, laughing as you felt the dizziness wash over you. You grabbed the clip from your hair, shaking out the loose waves that you had done before.

               “I think I am having fun actually.” You smiled at her, twirling her back. “Let’s get another drink!”

               You two made your way over to the bar, and you gave a big smile to the bartender as he poured you another drink. He slid it across the bar, leaning over and placing his hand on yours. “You come around here often?”

               “No, I definitely do not.” You laughed, not pulling your hand away and instead brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. “What about you?”       

               “I do work here, so I would say so.” He retorted, a smirk on his face. You looked down in embarrassment, but his warm finger reached under your chin, forcing you to look up into his brown eyes. “What’s your name?”

               “Isn’t that a little personal?” You teased him, pushing his hand away playfully and grabbing your drink. You took a sip, looking up at him through your lashes. As you did so, your eyes drifted to the left, where you spotted Azriel and the girl sitting next to him.

               Azriel’s hands were clenched at the bar, his drink untouched. The girl next to him was still talking, but Azriel gave no inclination he was listening, his eyes boring into yours. Dark, dazzling, angry. “It’s just your name, doll.” The bartender stepped into your view of Azriel, giving you another dazzling smile. You physically had to shake your head, trying to get the thought of Azriel out of your mind. You were here to get over him!

               “Y/N.” You smiled, “I’m going to go dance, but I’ll be back.”

               “You better be.” The male winked at you, making you smile again as you found Mor again on the dance floor.

               You danced your heart out with Mor, swinging your hair around until you were covered in a light sheen of sweat. You laughed so hard your abs hurt, but your heart still felt a pang every time you saw her sitting at the bar with Az.

               Eventually the night came to an end, and you walked up the bar, Azriel and the girl had both left, you wonder if you would see her at home. The thought made you sick to your stomach. “It was nice meeting you.” You smiled at the male; he smiled back as you sat in one of the stools. He took a rag and was cleaning the inside of a glass when you spoke again. “I…I think you’re very attractive, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think I am ready for any type of relationship, even one for the night.”

               He looked at you, nodding in understanding as he placed one glass down and picked up another. “I admire your honesty.” He answered, “I don’t know if I’m in the right place either for that type of relationship, Mor got me this job to help me move on from my past life…including my ex. I’ve been trying to do things the right way.”

               You nodded, and he sighed, looking around. “Speaking of her- where is she?”

               “I think she left.” You replied, “She was talking to someone, and I think I saw them walk out only a few minutes ago.”           

               “Figures.” He snorted, placing down the last glass and looking around. “I can’t let you go home alone, grab your coat, I’ll Walk you.”

               “I’m really fine.” You laughed, grabbing your coat and putting it on. “I can defend myself pretty alright.”

               “Oh I’m sure.” The male chucked, grabbing his coat from under the bar and shrugging it on. “I’ve heard the stories about you, I heard a rumor that you once killed someone with just one finger.”

               You laughed out loud, bending over to contain to hold your stomach. He turned off the light, chuckling to himself as you both made your way to the door. “I totally did not do that.”

               “I don’t know- It did sound like a pretty convincing rumor.” He teased, you were met with the cold blast of air outside and the earliest signs of dawn in the sky. You heard the door lock, and he turned back to look at you. “I heard one minute the guy was standing, and the next, you were standing over him, finger in the air.”

               “Oh shush!” You pushed him, laughing again. “What finger was it? I need to know.”

               “That’s the best part.” He grinned down at you. He leaned down towards you, his lips coming close to your ear. “Your pinky.”

               You pushed him away, smiling and blushing. “No way!” you pushed your hair back from your face again, a grin on your face as you looked up at the male. In the light, you could see his sharp cheekbones and pointed ears, and the boyish blonde hair that was neatly combed on his head. “Thank you, for tonight. The drinks were great, and I had a lot of fun.”

               “I can seriously walk you home.” He offered, pointing in either direction. “What way are you?”

               “Seriously- I can do it.”  

               “I can’t let you walk home alone.” He wrapped his arm around your shoulder, “now are we going left or right?”

               “That won’t be necessary.” A gruff voice replied, you jumped, turning and watching Azriel come out the alleyway.

               The male immediately took three steps back from you, looking between you and the shadowsinger. “Got it, I’ll…I’ll see you next time, Y/N?”

               “Of course.” You smiled at him, giving the male a small wave as he quickly walked down the alley. Once he was out of eyesight, your eyes turned to glare at Azriel. “What was that for?”

               “You said no, he didn’t respect that.” Azriel said flatly, “Let’s go home.”

               “I don’t need to be walked home!” You angrily stomped, arms flying to your chest in annoyance. “And why did you have to be so mean? He was nice and just wanted to make sure I got home safe!”

               “I can make sure you get home safe, Y/N.” Azriel rolled his eyes, his shadows moving around his frame. His wings were tall and spread, blocking the view of the alley behind him. “And, let’s be honest Y/N, you would be protecting him more than him protecting you. That male was useless.”

               “Us-Useless?” You raised your eyebrows, “Okay Mr. Judgemental, thank you for your opinion that I did not ask for. He was fine, he was great actually, thank you.”

               “Oh really?” Azriel’s eyebrow rose, “You met him while he was bartending at Ritas, what do you know about him that makes him great?”

               “He makes good drinks!” You shouted, angrily balling up your fists and bringing them to your side. “And…And he was nice! And honest!”

               “Oh honest hm?” Azriel rolled his eyes again. “let’s go home Y/N.”

               “I’m not walking home with you.” You seethed, trying to walk past him but he held out his arm. “Get out of my way.”

               “He wasn’t the type of male you want, Y/N.” Azriel moved, stepping in front of you and looking down. “His family has a history of being abusive towards females, you could do better.”

               You froze, eyes narrowing as you looked up at him. “How would you know that? And how is that any of your business?”

               “I make it my business to know the males that you make company with.” Azriel’s eyes grew darker, and he moved out of your way. “Let’s go home.”

               “What type of male should I look for then?” You countered, crossing your arms again and leaning, one hip out. You could feel the cold air on the slit on your dress, but maybe it was your anger, but you didn’t care. “Tell me, what kind of male should I look for?”

               “Not someone like him!” Azriel’s hand flew in the direction that the other male had walked off, “You need someone who can protect you at the very least!”

               “Oh protect me?” You laughed, you started to walk past him, slightly pushing him. “Get a hold of yourself, I can protect myself just fine.”

               “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should have to!” Azriel countered, grabbing your arm and pulling you back to look at him. “You need someone that has your back, someone that will always take your side.”

               “or maybe I need someone nice.” You replied, trying to rip your grasp from him. “Nice and honest.”

               “You don’t want nice, you don’t care about nice.” Azriel’s eye darkened, you could feel his shadows moving around his arms.

               “Tell me what I need then.” You ripped your arm away from him. “Since you seem to know it all, just spit it out already.”

               “You need someone that will fight for you, someone that would wait for you, someone that would kill for you or do anything you wished. Someone who would fly across the the fucking courts just to be able to see you.” Azriel seemed out of breath, his eyes boring into yours with intensity.

               You stared back at him, eyes narrowing and a frown forming on your lips. You thought of the girl he was with, at the bar, and felt your heart drop back into your stomach. “So you’re saying I need someone like Cassian?”

               Azriel’s eyes went wide, and he backed up a few steps, running his hands through his hair. “Do you…do you feel for Cassian like that?”

               “Of course not!” You shouted, crossing your arms. “I just have no idea who else you could be referring to-“

               “Me!” Azriel shouted, pointing towards himself. “I am referring to me!”

               “You don’t mean that.” You whispered, your hands started to shake slightly.

               “I do mean that.” Azriel replied, his scarred hands coming back to his sides as he stared at you. “I had a hard enough time watching you with that useless male, please do not make me watch you and Cassian.”

               You stared at him, a million thoughts racing through your head at once. There was no way, Azriel..Azriel was with that girl.         “Who were you with tonight?” You placed your hand on your hip, trying to ease the shake. “You two seemed awfully close.”

               “I don’t even know who she was.” Azriel rolled his eyes, “I was outside Rita’s for nearly an hour before she grabbed my arm and told me that she was a friend of Mors and brought me inside.”

               “Why did you go to Ritas?” You countered, and he looked around, shrugging almost like he was embarrassed.

               “I…fuck Y/N.” Azriel grabbed the bridge of his nose again, “Mor had told you to shoot your shot, then you’re putting on this scrap of fabric and telling everyone you’re going to Rita’s, of course I’m going to go.”

               You stared at him, the sun was beginning to rise behind him, casting him in a glow. “You… you were jealous?”

               “Yes, I was jealous.” Azriel growled, “I wanted to rip that males hands off when he touched you.” Your heart pounded in your chest as Azriel glared at you, he still seemed angry. “When you first came out here, I thought you were going to go home with him. I think I might have actually killed him.”

“I was jealous too.” You admitted, slowly walking the few steps over to him so you could look up at him. “When I saw you with that that girl… and she was touching you, and she was so beautiful, I thought I would be sick.”

               His eyes shone with honesty and a bit of emotion that you had never seen from him before, vulnerability. “I don’t think I looked at her.” He whispered, his hand slowly moving to tuck the piece of hair that fell in front of your ear. “I just spent the whole night wishing I could dance with you like Mor was, or flirting with you as easily as that male was.”

               You grabbed his hand, feeling his calloused one under your own. “I don’t ever want to feel that way again Az.” You whispered, and he nodded. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted another male, I compare- I compare them all to you.”

               “As do I.” He replied, leaning his head down slowly. You could feel the words he spoke on your lips, “You were the only one made for me.”

               His lips met yours, slowly and deliberately, and you didn’t pull away from the kiss until you needed to get some air. Your heart was hammering in your chest, and you couldn’t help the blush that spread from your neck to your face.

               “I’ve been waiting for you to blush like that for me.” Azriel teased, using a thumb and stroking your face. “Now, let me walk you home.”

               While you and Azriel spent the day making up for lost time, Mor got out of the house and went back to Ritas. She smiled at her old friend Jason, who placed a water in front of her and smiled back.

               “That little plan of yours almost got me killed, you know.” Jason grabbed a towel, cleaning a glass as he normally did when making conversation. “Who was the girl you had come in with Azriel?”

               “Someone else who owed me a favor.” Mor smiled, sipping on her drink.

               “Well…did the plan work?” Jason asked, setting the cup down.   

               “Unfortunately, I think it worked too well.” Mor scrunched up her face in disgust. “They were at it all night long.”

[alohajix]

𝐍𝐨 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬… 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

Description: it was supposed to be one night—just sex, no feelings, no consequences. But the second Harry touched me, I knew I was lying. He’s my brother’s best friend. Off-limits. Dangerous. But he fucks me like he owns me, whispers things I’m not supposed to hear, and looks at me like I’m already his.

We said no strings. But we’re tangled in every way that matters.

Warnings: explicit sex, unprotected sex, brother’s best friend, possessiveness, praise, jealousy, choking, roughness, creampie, soft dom!Harry, emotional tension, and getting very caught. Readers +18.

Words: TBD.

*****

PART ONE – Just This Once.

Description: after a brutal breakup, I turn to the one person I shouldn’t: my brother’s best friend. It was supposed to be one night—no strings, no feelings. But the way Harry touches me? There’s no coming back from that.

Warnings: 18+, unprotected sex (don’t do that), praise, roughness, possessive soft dom!Harry, creampie, tension, and denial.

Words: 10K.

*****

I didn’t plan on crying tonight. Didn’t plan on getting drunk, either. But here I was—curled up on the worn-down couch in my brother’s living room, wrapped in a hoodie that wasn’t mine, tears drying on my cheeks as the taste of vodka lingered on my tongue. And Harry Styles—my brother’s best friend, the one I probably shouldn’t have called—was sitting beside me, quiet, warm, and entirely too close.

“You want me to beat him up?” he asked, voice calm, eyes dark.

I huffed a laugh through my nose and wiped under my eyes with the sleeve of the hoodie. “You’d lose.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re sweet, Harry, but Alex is built like a linebacker.”

Harry smirked. “Doesn’t mean he deserves to keep all his teeth.”

I shot him a look, but he just raised his brows like he was dead serious, and the tiniest bubble of warmth settled in my chest. I wasn’t used to that. Not lately.

“You didn’t have to come,” I murmured. “I was just… emotional.”

“You called me crying. Of course I had to come.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning my face. “He cheated on you, yeah?” I nodded once, jaw tightening. “Fuckin’ idiot.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just heavy. Safe. He handed me the water bottle he’d brought and I sipped it reluctantly, not because I didn’t want it, but because I didn’t want to cry again. Or worse—do something reckless.

“Your brother home?” he asked casually, glancing down the hallway.

“Nope. Work trip. Won’t be back till Sunday.”

He nodded. “That’s why you called me.”

“You’re his best friend. You always pick up.”

Harry’s gaze lingered a little too long. “You really think that’s the only reason I show up?”

My heart stuttered. I blinked, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was. How his thigh was brushing mine. How good he smelled—soap and something warm beneath it. He had no right to smell that good.

“I think you’re just decent,” I said quietly. “Rare breed.”

He chuckled, low and rough. “That’s not the word people usually use.”

“No?”

“Dangerous. That’s more like it.”

His voice dropped at the end, and my breath hitched. For a second, neither of us moved. The silence stretched, thinned, then snapped when I turned my head—too fast, too close. My nose grazed his. Barely. But it was enough. I don’t know who kissed who first. I just know I was kissing him.

His lips were soft at first. Careful. But when I pressed harder, he groaned. Deep. Guttural. One hand found my waist, and the other cupped my jaw, fingers spreading across my cheek as he kissed me like he’d been waiting for this—like he knew it was wrong, but didn’t give a fuck.

I broke the kiss with a shaky breath. “This is stupid.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice strained. “Tell me to stop.”

I should have. I didn’t. Instead, I whispered, “Bedroom’s that way.”

He stared at me for one long second. Then he stood, held out his hand, and I took it. The moment the door clicked shut, everything changed.

Harry didn’t waste time. He pinned me gently against the wall, lips dragging along my neck, hands under the hoodie. “You sure about this?”

“Not at all,” I breathed. “But I want it.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

He kissed me again—messy, possessive, hot. His hand slipped under my panties like he already knew I was dripping. And fuck, I was.

He groaned. “So fuckin’ wet. That for me, sweetheart?”

I nodded, breathless. “All for you.”

He dropped to his knees like a man starved and pulled my panties down slowly, watching the way I trembled. “Gonna make you forget his name.”

“Already have.”

His tongue was hot and greedy, lips wrapped around my clit as two fingers slid inside me with expert precision. I cried out, fingers gripping his curls, legs trembling. I came fast—too fast. It was embarrassing. But he didn’t stop. Didn’t stop until I was panting, shaking, begging.

When he finally stood, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking. “Told you I’d take care of you.” And then he undid his jeans. Holy. Fuck.

I gasped. “Harry…”

“Want you to see what you’re taking, baby.” He gripped the base of his cock, thick and hard. “You think you can handle it?” I nodded. Too quickly. Too needy. “Then get on the bed.”

I climbed onto the bed like I was in a trance, heart pounding so loud it muffled everything else. The room felt hotter. Smaller. Every nerve in my body lit up when the mattress dipped behind me and Harry’s hands came down to grip my thighs, spreading them apart like he owned them.

“Lie back,” he murmured, his voice low, coaxing. “Wanna see you laid out for me.”

I did as he said, bare beneath his hoodie, flushed and dripping and aching for him. He leaned over me, kissing my neck, dragging his lips down to my collarbone, then lower, until he was pressing kisses just beneath the hem of the hoodie that still clung to my body.

“You look so good in my clothes,” he whispered, dragging his knuckles across my hip. “But I wanna see all of you.”

I started to pull it off, but he stopped me.

“No. I’ll do it.” Slow. He was going slow on purpose.

He peeled the hoodie up inch by inch, eyes dark with hunger, dragging it over my head and tossing it somewhere behind him. His gaze swept over my bare chest, then lower. I saw something shift in him. Something darker.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’re fucking perfect.”

He leaned down to suck a nipple into his mouth, and I gasped—back arching into him, thighs clenching around his waist. He pinned them down again, using his hips, then pulled back just enough to meet my eyes.

“You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?”

My breath caught. “Yes.”

“Need to hear it.”

“I want you to fuck me, Harry. Please.”

His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile—but the tension in his jaw told me he was barely holding back.

He lined himself up, teasing my entrance with the head of his cock, and murmured, “Not gonna be gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.” And with that, he pushed inside.

I gasped—legs spreading wider, fingers fisting the sheets. He filled me slowly, letting me feel all of it, dragging it out until I was whimpering.

“Fuck, baby. You’re so tight,” he groaned. “Grippin’ me like you’ve been waiting for this.”

“Maybe I have.”

That broke him. He started thrusting harder, rougher, one hand gripping my hip while the other pressed against the mattress beside my head. His mouth hovered near my ear, voice ragged. “You gonna let me ruin you a little? Hmm?”

I nodded frantically. “Yes—fuck, yes, Harry.”

He pulled out almost all the way and slammed back in, making me cry out.

“I’m not gonna stop until you forget every other man that’s ever touched you,” he said through clenched teeth. “Especially him.”

His jealousy was thick in the air—but it didn’t scare me. It turned me on. Made me crave more.

I dragged my nails down his back and whispered, “Then fuck me like I’m yours.”

That did it. He flipped me onto my stomach, pulled my hips up, and slammed back in. The sound of skin on skin echoed in the room. I was moaning uncontrollably, gripping the sheets, face pressed into the mattress as he drove into me over and over, deeper, rougher, filthier.

“You like that?” he growled, fingers digging into my hips. “You like bein’ fucked like this?”

“Yes—yes—fuck, don’t stop—”

“Say my name.”

“Harry.”

“Again.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry—”

“Good girl.”

He reached under and rubbed my clit in tight circles, and my whole body shuddered. I was close. So fucking close.

“Come for me,” he growled in my ear. “Come all over my cock, baby.”

I broke. My orgasm hit like a wave, stealing my breath, arching my back, making my legs shake. He followed right after with a groan so deep it vibrated through me—spilling inside me, hips stuttering, hands still gripping me like I might vanish. We collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and sweat and heavy breathing. For a long time, neither of us said anything.

Until he whispered, “We shouldn’t have done that.”

I turned my head, met his eyes, and whispered, “I know.” But neither of us moved. Because deep down, we both knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

I woke to the sound of rain tapping against the window and the soft weight of an arm draped across my waist. My eyes blinked open slowly. The air smelled like sex and skin and laundry detergent. My body ached in places I didn’t know could ache, in the best way. I could still feel him—between my thighs, in the marks on my hips, in the way my heartbeat picked up when I remembered everything he’d said to me the night before.

Fuck. Harry. He was still here. I felt him shift behind me, his arm tightening like he already knew I was awake. His bare chest was warm against my back, his hand flexing slowly on my stomach like he wasn’t ready to let go. Neither was I. But reality crept in, cold and sharp, like the edge of the pillow beneath my cheek.

I cleared my throat. “So… that happened.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just breathed in deep, slow. Then, “Yeah. It did.”

I turned slightly, just enough to glance over my shoulder. He was watching me, eyes softer in the morning light, curls messy, stubble brushing his jaw. Too handsome. Too tempting.

“We should talk,” I said carefully.

“Sure.” He pushed himself up onto one elbow, the sheets slipping down to his hips. “You regret it?”

I shook my head. “No. Do you?”

“No.” His gaze held mine, intense. “But I need to know what this is. What you want.”

I hesitated. Because I didn’t know how to say I want more of last night, over and over, until I forget how it feels to be hurt by someone else. Didn’t know how to say I think I’ve always wanted you, but I was too scared to admit it.

So instead, I said, “It was a rebound, right? One-time thing?”

His eyes flicked down, just for a second. “If that’s what you want.”

My chest squeezed. “What do you want?”

“I want…” He trailed off, then smiled faintly. “To keep doing that. Maybe not just once. But I know it’s complicated. You’re—”

“My brother’s little sister,” I finished for him.

Harry shrugged. “And I don’t want to fuck that up.”

“Then maybe we don’t tell him.”

He raised a brow. “You suggesting a secret thing?”

“Something simple,” I said, forcing a casual tone. “No strings. Just… physical.”

His eyes searched mine. “You sure you can do that?”

“Can you?”

He smirked—soft, crooked. “I can try.”

We lay in silence for a few seconds, the rain still tapping at the glass, our bodies warm under the covers. I should have gotten up. Showered. Gotten dressed. But I didn’t move. Neither did he.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “No strings.” But the way he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and kissed my shoulder like I meant something to him said otherwise.

A few days later, he was at the door, hoodie in hand, one foot halfway over the threshold. I stood a few feet back, arms crossed over my chest like it could protect me from what we’d just done. From what I wanted to do again.

“This was a bad idea,” I said, mostly to myself.

“Probably,” Harry muttered, glancing over his shoulder. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t like it.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “We said it was one time.”

“We say a lot of shit.”

He turned fully now, hoodie crumpled in his fist, jaw tense, like he was trying not to look at me—but failing. His eyes dropped. To my bare legs. The curve of my hip. The faint red marks he’d left hours ago. I should’ve said goodbye. Should’ve closed the door behind him and ended it.

But instead, I asked, “You leaving because you want to, or because you think you should?”

He stared at me for a beat. Then tossed the hoodie on the floor. And crossed the room in three long strides. His hands were on my face before I could speak, lips crashing into mine—hot, hungry, urgent. He walked me backward until my knees hit the couch, and he pushed me down gently, climbing over me, covering my body with his.

“This doesn’t change anything,” I whispered as he kissed down my throat.

“Not yet,” he said, voice dark. “But it will.”

His mouth was everywhere—neck, collarbone, chest. His fingers slid between my legs, already finding me wet.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re soaked. You want it again, don’t you?” I nodded. Breathless. Desperate. “Say it.”

“I want you to fuck me again.”

He didn’t hesitate. Pulled his jeans down just enough. Pushed my legs apart like he couldn’t wait another second. No foreplay this time. Just raw, hungry need. He slammed into me in one hard thrust, and I cried out, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Thought about this all fuckin’ day,” he gritted, pounding into me. “Couldn’t stop thinking about how tight you are. How you sounded when you came on my cock.”

“Harry—”

“You said it was one time.” He grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head, holding me down, fucking me even deeper. “But you’re letting me do it again. You’re letting me use you like this.” I moaned, head thrown back, back arching. “You love it, don’t you? Being used.”

“Yes—fuck, yes—”

He bit my shoulder. “Gonna come for me again, baby?”

“I can’t—Harry—I—”

“You will.”

His free hand moved between us, rubbing tight, fast circles on my clit while he drove into me harder, faster. I was unraveling, falling apart, clenching around him. I came with a sob, legs shaking, mouth open in a silent cry. He fucked me through it, not stopping until he was right there with me, groaning into my neck as he spilled deep inside me for the second time that day.

Neither of us moved for a while. Just panting, tangled, sticky and ruined on the couch. Eventually, he pulled back, still hovering over me, eyes searching.

Then he leaned in, brushed his lips over my ear, and whispered—

“You can pretend it’s nothing. I won’t.” And just like that, I knew we were already in too deep.

[inkdrinkerworld]

Spencer doesn’t know when the habit had developed, but it had.

You’re standing next to him while your relationship was still a BAU best kept secret, in the kitchenette and almost softly and absentmindedly, his nose brushes your shoulder when no one is looking, his lips following soon after.

That was offense number one (not that you minded.)

Number two came when you were upset, stressed beyond belief from playing politics in the BAU and trying to keep them from another court scandal.

Spencer was reading the file over your shoulder- a list of the BAU’s shortcomings in the words of Erin Strauss- and at your stressed sigh his nose presses into the material of your blazer and then his lips follow.

“I’m sorry angel.” You shake your head at his words.

“Not your fault, Spence. They hired me to play politics but they’re stretching things too far. It’s all a bunch of hypotheticals and exaggerations.”

Spencer knows what it’s like, he’s been under the criticism before with the rest of his team, he’s seen what it can do to be under the microscope like this.

“I can bring you a sugar donut from the kitchen.” You smile, leaning your head back over your chair and onto his chest.

“You’re the best ever.” Spencer rolls his eyes as he kisses your forehead.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

Emily sees the next time it happens and she honestly can’t believe her eyes.

Spencer abhors public displays of affection, he really really does. Everyone knows it, and yet you’re sleepy on the jet, already in your pyjamas as you sit beside him.

Despite Strauss’ plan for you to divulge information about the team, they’d all come to love you and your fierce protection of them.

You’re one of them; even before you’d gotten with Spencer.

“Just close your eyes,” Spencer murmurs, his own eyes heavy, but he wants you to sleep first. You’d not been having the best time in Oklahoma with them, you’d been up the majority of the week helping them with the case and keeping the legalities between the jurisdictions and the statue of limitations on some of the evidence.

A yawn tears through your words, “I just wanna finish my tea, Spence.” Spencer hums, watches you take a few more sips of your peppermint tea and then reach for your bag. You tug a thin blanket from it and drape it over your legs.

“You okay, mama?” Derek asks as he sips his bourbon. You turn your head, that sluggish feeling of moving through mud filling your head.

“Tired, dunno how you guys aren’t.”

JJ laughs, “We all slept babe, you were the only one trooping through.”

You shrug, Spencer’s hand tucks between your cheek and shoulder. Emily pretends to be busy pouring her own bourbon while everyone else goes about their own wind down routines, she sees the ease with which Spencer’s nose presses into the hill of your shoulder and then his kiss imprints on the same spot.

You melt under the affection too, a sticky and gooey as your face leans into his palm and your eyes shut.

“Alright, Spence.” She whispers, smiling a little as Spencer strokes your hair and your eyes become heavier.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

The grand life

Joel Miller x Wife!Reader

Warnings: 18+

Word count: 3,443 words 19,394 characters

Sunday mornings at the Miller house were sacred.

There were no alarms, no obligations just the smell of bacon popping in the skillet, the warm sun slanting through the blinds, and the sound of Joel’s heavy boots trudging into the kitchen like a grumpy bear.

You didn’t even look up from the pancake batter as he came in.

“Coffee’s fresh.”

Joel grunted, pouring himself a cup and leaning against the counter, watching you. “You make breakfast just to fatten me up?”

You turned with the whisk still in hand, raising a brow. “You’re the one who asked me yesterday if I’d make pancakes. You begged, if I recall.”

“Didn’t beg. I said I wouldn’t mind some pancakes.”

You smiled, flipping a piece of bacon. “You said, and I quote, ‘Baby, you know I can’t live without your pancakes, please make them, I’ll die otherwise.’”

Joel grumbled something under his breath and took a long sip of coffee, watching you move around the kitchen in one of his old T-shirts and sleep shorts. His eyes softened.

“Still grumpy?” you teased, brushing past him and patting his stomach playfully.

“Not grumpy. Just hungry,” he mumbled, curling an arm around your waist and pulling you in close.

“You’re always hungry lately.”

“Only for you,” he said, voice low in your ear.

You were about to respond maybe something flirty, maybe something sarcastic but your phone vibrated on the counter.

Sarah: “Important family meeting. 6pm at Mom and Dad’s. No excuses. I’ll bring dessert.”

Joel read over your shoulder. “That sounds suspicious.”

“Very.”

By 6:00, the house was full of noise again your favorite kind of chaos.

Joel Jr. came in first, tall and broad like his dad, kicking off his boots at the door. “You guys dying or something? Sarah was being dramatic in the group chat.”

“Watch it,” you warned, giving him a playful swat with the dishtowel. “We could be dying. You don’t know.”

“Guess I better stay for dinner just in case.”

Monica entered next, already scrolling through her phone. “If this is another intervention because Ellie says I talk too loud on speakerphone, I swear”

“I never said that,” Ellie snapped, walking in behind her. “I said you sound like a drunk squirrel when you laugh.”

“I do not!”

You were about to tell them all to quiet down when Sarah finally walked in, holding a bakery box and looking well, glowing.

“Hey, everyone.” She was smiling nervously.

Joel perked up, sensing something.

You watched as she placed the box on the coffee table and said, “Before we eat, I need to tell you something.”

Everyone went still. Even Ellie stopped chewing her gum.

Sarah opened the box, revealing a neat row of cupcakes half pink, half blue with tiny plastic booties on top.

Joel Jr. blinked. “Wait. Are those baby cupcakes?”

“Yeah,” Monica whispered. “Those are baby cupcakes.”

Sarah looked up at her siblings, then at you and Joel.

“I’m pregnant.”

It was like the air left the room.

Joel sat down hard on the couch, eyes wide. You stood frozen, hand over your mouth.

Then came the chaos.

Monica screamed, Ellie dropped her phone, Joel Jr. muttered something like “I thought this was about Dad’s cholesterol”, and you walked over to Sarah and pulled her into a hug, tears springing to your eyes.

“Oh, honey. Oh my God. Really?”

Sarah nodded, laughing through her own tears. “Yeah. I found out last week. I wanted you all to be the first to know.”

Joel was still silent, holding a tiny cupcake in his calloused hand like it might bite him.

“Joel?” you asked gently, eyes searching his.

He looked up, jaw tight. His voice cracked.

“You’re… you’re havin’ a baby?”

Sarah smiled. “I am, Daddy.”

He stood slowly, crossing the room and wrapping his arms around her. He didn’t say anything else. Just held her, tight and quiet, like the weight of the years was finally settling in.

After the kids had left still shouting across the driveway, Monica already planning the nursery you and Joel stood in the kitchen, the leftovers cooling on the stove, the house quiet again.

You turned to him, resting your arms around his neck. “You okay, old man?”

He looked down at you, his eyes warm, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“I watched her take her first steps in this damn kitchen,” he said softly. “Now she’s havin’ a baby of her own.”

You kissed his chest. “I know.”

Joel leaned in, touching his forehead to yours. “She’s gonna be a hell of a mom. Just like you were. Just like you are.”

Your fingers slid under the hem of his flannel. “You know what I was thinking?”

“What?”

“That we’re alone now. The kids are gone. House is quiet…”

He raised an eyebrow. “You makin’ a move on me, darlin’?”

“Joel, I just watched you cry over baby cupcakes. I’ve never been more in love with you in my life.”

That was all it took.

He hoisted you up onto the kitchen counter, kissing you like it was the first time, his hands rough but reverent as they skimmed up your sides. The cool tile beneath you only made his body feel hotter, his mouth trailing fire down your neck, your breath catching when he murmured against your skin.

“You gave me her, y’know,” he whispered. “And now she’s givin’ us another piece of her.”

Your hands found the edge of his shirt, lifting it as you whispered, “I gave you four pieces, Joel Miller. Don’t forget the twins and Ellie.”

He laughed really laughed and kissed you hard.

The moment your hands slipped under Joel’s flannel, his breath hitched.

The kitchen was warm from the oven, the scent of bacon still lingering in the air, but nothing compared to the heat building between your bodies.

Joel leaned in, his nose brushing your cheek, his voice rough and low.

“You got any idea what you do to me, sweetheart? Hm?” he murmured, his lips grazing your jaw as he slid your oversized T-shirt up, revealing soft skin and a pair of cotton panties that made his groan audible.

“You’ve been walking around in my shirt all damn day, legs bare, ass peeking out just enough to drive me crazy.”

You bit your lip, watching his pupils darken as he settled between your legs on the kitchen counter. His hands gripped your thighs possessively.

“Joel…”

“You think I don’t notice the way you sway your hips when I walk in? That you ain’t doin’ it on purpose?”

“I wasn’t”

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, biting your earlobe. “You wanted me like this. Wanted me desperate.”

Your breath hitched as he ground his hips into you, the hard outline of his arousal unmistakable beneath his jeans. His lips crashed into yours hungry, claiming while his hands pulled your panties aside with practiced ease.

“You know what I was thinkin’ all through dinner?” he rasped between kisses. “While the kids were talkin’ ‘bout baby names and nursery colors? I was thinkin’ about how wet you were gettin’ just from watchin’ me be a good dad.”

You whined, arching into his touch as his fingers found you. He swiped once through your folds, groaning when he felt just how ready you were.

“Goddamn, baby. Already soaked for me.”

“I love you like this,” you gasped. “All rough and sweet.”

He smiled against your neck. “Yeah? Love when I talk to you like this, don’t you? When I remind you you’re mine?”

You nodded desperately as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his thumb worked your clit with slow, deliberate circles.

“You gave me a whole family,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “You gave me a home. You made me a father. And now you’re makin’ me a fuckin’ grandfather.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, making him curse.

“You still tight for me after all these years. Still my favorite thing in this whole damn world.”

“Joel, I..I need you”

“I got you, baby,” he promised, pulling away just long enough to shove his jeans down and line himself up. “I always got you.”

He entered you in one smooth, deep thrust, both of you gasping at the contact. The stretch, the fullness, the way his hips snapped into yours with aching precision it felt like the first time all over again.

“Fuck, you take me so good,” Joel groaned, gripping your hips as he thrust slow and deep. “This pussy’s mine. Always has been. Always will be.”

You moaned loudly, nails digging into his back, your body trembling with each stroke.

“You look so goddamn beautiful like this writhin’ for me, beggin’ for it. My wife. My girl. Mother of my kids. And now…”

He leaned close, kissing you softly this time, voice cracking.

“…soon to be Grandma.”

You laughed breathlessly against his lips, clutching him tighter.

“I’ll be a hot grandma.”

He grinned. “You’ll be the hottest fuckin’ grandma Texas has ever seen.”

And he kept moving worshiping you, unraveling you until you came apart around him with a strangled cry, dragging him over the edge with you. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, and he emptied himself inside you with a low, possessive growl.

He held you there for a long while, panting, pressed forehead to forehead.

“Still got it,” you whispered, dazed.

Joel kissed your shoulder. “Damn right we do.”

That night, you didn’t just celebrate Sarah’s announcement. You celebrated every moment that led to it. Every diaper, every sleepless night, every scraped knee and school play and long road trip in a beat-up car full of kids and Goldfish crackers.

You celebrated the life you built.

Together.

And just before drifting off to sleep, Joel rolled over and mumbled, “We need to baby-proof the house again.”

You groaned. “Not again.”

He chuckled. “Worth it.”

9 months later, Joel was walking around the living room holding a fussy baby girl in his arms like she was made of glass.

“Why’s she makin’ that face?” he asked, peering down at her. “Is that her poopin’ face? Jesus, she looks like Ellie when she’s constipated.”

You laughed from the couch, bottle in hand. “You’re so dramatic. She’s just hungry.”

Joel huffed, gently handing over your granddaughter. “She’s so small. Smaller than Sarah was.”

“She’s healthy. She’s perfect.”

He watched you feed her, his hand resting on your thigh, thumb stroking circles through your leggings.

After she finished and was snuggled up on your chest, asleep, Joel whispered, “Never thought I’d see the day. You, rockin’ a baby to sleep again. Me, worried I’d break her just by holdin’ her.”

You looked up at him, heart full.

“I think we did alright, huh?”

He nodded, eyes damp.

“Yeah, darlin’. We sure as hell did.”

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, Joel leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice soft as ever.

“Still want you. Still love you. Always will.”

The living room was a battlefield of soft pastel blankets.

Joel stood dead center, brows furrowed, lips pressed in concentration as he stared down at his wriggling granddaughter on the couch. The baby blinked up at him with innocent confusion, one chubby arm escaping the sad excuse for a swaddle he’d attempted three times.

“Alright, you little Houdini,” Joel muttered, grabbing the blanket again and trying to fold it like that video Sarah made him watch on YouTube.

From the recliner, you were dying of silent laughter, watching your husband argue with a seven-pound infant like she was an Army recruit who wouldn’t take orders.

Joel gently rolled her tiny body to the side. “Stay still now, sunshine. We ain’t got all day.”

The baby cooed, kicked her legs, and proceeded to stick her entire fist in her mouth.

Joel, visibly sweating, made another attempt tucking one corner under her bottom, folding another across her chest but somehow she ended up looking like a lumpy Chipotle burrito with one arm sticking out and one sock missing.

“I swear to God,” Joel whispered like he was defusing a bomb. “If Ellie saw this, she’d never let me live it down.”

“I’m right here, and I’m not letting you live it down,” came Sarah’s voice from the front door.

Joel jumped like he’d been caught with a Playboy.

Sarah strode into the room, holding a Starbucks cup in one hand and a smirk in the other.

“Jesus, Dad,” she laughed. “She’s not a camping tent. You don’t need to roll her up like a sleeping bag.”

“She moved,” Joel defended, stepping aside like he was trying to preserve his dignity. “I almost had it.”

You cleared your throat behind your mug of tea. “You also said that last night with the IKEA shelf.”

Joel turned to you with an offended grunt. “That was different. The instructions were in Swedish.”

Sarah sat beside you, gently picking up her daughter and expertly re-swaddling her in less than twenty seconds.

Joel blinked.

“See?” she said, winking at him. “You just gotta make her feel like a little sushi roll. Tight, but not too tight.”

“She’s my granddaughter,” Joel muttered. “Not a damn California roll.”

Sarah laughed, kissing his cheek. “You’re lucky she already loves you. Even if you do swaddle like Frankenstein.”

Joel rolled his eyes, trying not to smile. “I raised you, didn’t I? You turned out fine.”

“Yeah, despite the burrito trauma,” she teased.

The baby gave a little yawn, content in her now-perfect swaddle. Joel stared down at her, one hand resting protectively on her back.

“…She looks like you when you were a baby,” he said quietly. “Same sleepy little mouth.”

Sarah softened. “She’s got your grumpy brow.”

He chuckled, eyes a little misty now. “Poor kid.”

You stood, wrapping your arms around his waist. “She’s got the best parts of all of us.”

And for once, Joel didn’t argue. He just nodded, kissing the crown of Sarah’s head, then yours.

The front door slammed open with the sound of sneakers and sarcasm.

“Alright, what did Dad break this time?” Ellie’s voice called from the hallway. “Was it the baby? Please tell me it wasn’t the baby.”

“In here!” you called, cradling the now-swaddled baby while Sarah handed Joel a burp cloth like he was a new recruit on the first day of bootcamp.

Monica and Joel Jr. barreled in behind Ellie, the twins already arguing over who got to hold their new niece next.

“Okay, but I brought the diapers and that organic baby butt cream,” Monica said, hands on her hips.

Joel Jr. rolled his eyes. “She poops. She doesn’t need luxury.”

“She’s a lady, you absolute troll”

“Kids,” Joel barked gently. “Calm down. You’re gonna stress her out.”

Ellie flopped onto the couch, cracking open a soda.

“Stress her out?” she snorted. “You almost wrapped her like a Quesarito thirty minutes ago.”

Joel stood tall, adjusting his flannel like he was at the podium for a presidential address.

“Y’all better show some respect,” he said, voice full Texas. “Because Big Poppa is in the building.”

There was a silence.

Then

“I’m sorry.. what?” Ellie sputtered mid-sip, coughing violently.

“Big Poppa?” Joel Jr. gasped. “Like… like the Notorious B.I.G. song?”

Monica doubled over, wheezing. “Oh my god, please stop. I’m begging you.”

Joel smirked smugly, arms crossed over his chest. “What? It’s got a ring to it. Better than ‘Grandpa Joel.’ I ain’t ready to sound like I wear orthopedic shoes and play bridge.”

You choked on your laugh from across the room, rocking the baby gently.

Sarah blinked. “You literally wore compression socks on the plane to Colorado.”

“That was for circulation,” he snapped defensively.

“Sure, Big Poppa,” Ellie teased, kicking her feet onto the coffee table. “Next thing we know, you’ll be dropping a mixtape called Burps & Bottles.”

Joel gave her the flattest look he could manage. “You done?”

“Not even close,” Ellie grinned. “I’m putting you in my phone as Big Poppa starting now.”

Joel Jr. was already typing furiously. “Group chat rename incoming.”

Monica added, “Oooooh! Can I be Lil G-Ma? Mom, say yes.”

You just groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. “I regret all of you.”

Joel walked over to you and leaned down to kiss your temple, grinning as he whispered, “Still got it.”

You murmured back, “God help me, you really do.”

And as the living room filled with laughter, bickering, and the soft, sleepy sounds of your first grandchild sighing in her swaddle, Joel Big Poppa himself wrapped his arms around you from behind and whispered in your ear:

“House might be full again, baby. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The front door shut with a soft click, with a heavy sigh and a soft kiss behind your ear.

“Well, sweetheart,” he murmured, “we survived.”

You turned in his arms, your hands sliding up the worn cotton of his flannel. “Barely. You almost got jumped for that ‘Big Poppa’ nonsense.”

Joel smirked, chin dipped down so your noses brushed. “You liked it.”

“I tolerated it.”

“You bit your lip.”

“I was trying not to laugh.”

Joel leaned in, his voice husky, low. “Could’ve sworn you were lookin’ at me like you used to… back when the house got real quiet at night. After the girls went to sleep.”

You raised a brow. “Is that right?”

“Mmhmm.” He backed you slowly toward the kitchen island, his hands already roaming, finding every familiar dip and curve. “Back when you’d pull me by my belt loops and whisper that I was handsome when I was grumpy.”

“I still do.”

“Yeah,” he rasped, pinning you gently against the counter. “But now you’re a grandma when you do it. Real filthy of you.”

You gasped, pretending to swat him. “Joel Miller!”

“Don’t act shocked, darlin’. You know I like it when you get a little bad.”

His lips met your neck, slow and warm, trailing down just behind your ear where he knew it drove you wild. You tilted your head back with a soft gasp as his fingers teased beneath your blouse.

“You cooked me breakfast this mornin’,” Joel murmured. “Fed our whole family. Rocked our granddaughter to sleep. And now…” He pressed against you, unmistakably hard. “Now I wanna ruin you a little.”

Your breath caught.

He lifted you with ease onto the counter, stepping between your thighs, crowding you in. “Let me have this,” he said. “Let me remind you you’re still mine. Every perfect inch of you.”

You curled your fingers in his hair. “Door’s locked?”

Joel grinned. “Sweetheart, I deadbolted it the second they backed outta the driveway.”

He was unhurried with you tugging your shirt over your head, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin like you were something precious. He whispered filthy things against your collarbone how good you smelled, how soft you felt, how no one had ever made him lose his mind the way you still could with just one look.

You wrapped your legs around his waist as his hand slid down your thigh, callused thumb teasing where you ached for him most.

“You’re soaked already?” he murmured, voice gone low and gritty. “Fuck, baby. That for me?”

Your nails dug into his back, breathless.

“Been wantin’ to touch you like this all day,” Joel growled. “All through dinner, all through dessert… watchin’ you with her. You’re so damn beautiful. Gonna have to take my time with you.”

And he did. Right there on the cool granite of the kitchen counter, with your hands clutching his shoulders and his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He worshipped you like the woman who gave him everything a home, a family, a forever.

When it was over, he held you close, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.

“Still think I’m grumpy?” he murmured, teasing.

You smiled, lazily running your fingers through his silvered curls. “Mmhmm. But you’re my grump.”

He chuckled, lifting you off the counter and carrying you toward the bedroom like it was second nature.

“C’mon, Big Poppa’s got one more round in him.”

“Joel!”