#I read the prompt and thought of him right away

[wreckless-tempestry]

“It made me think of you.”

Year of the OTP 2025 — February Prompt

Characters: Finn x Shrimpo (Dandy’s World)

AN: Thank you for all the positive feedback on my last post! Reading your comments is truly my source of dopamine. I’ve decided to write these two pretty ambiguously since I want to be accommodating for any peeps who think these two are just a rad non-romantic pairing. I didn’t fully proofread this as i was in a bit of a hurry to finish, but i hope you enjoy nonetheless! Word count is around 6.3k.

I SWEAR GOOB ISN’T THE STEREOTYPICAL ONE-DIMENSIONAL CLUELESS AND INNOCENT CHARACTER… I plan to give him some more screen time (wordtime?) in the future. Gigi also uses they/them pronouns because i said so.

Part 1

A little over a month had passed since the fateful night of the New Year’s dance, and already some new streamers were beginning to adorn the hallways of Gardenview – the shimmering whites of January being replaced with the ominously familiar shades of crimson and pink. And the hearts… oh Lord, the hearts, they were everywhere. On the walls, the ceiling, you name it. Hell, there were even those cliche heart boxes with all the shitty chocolates in them that seemed to always end up in the possession of at least a couple Toons. I love you this, I love you that, on and on and on.

This might be Shrimpo’s most hated holiday for real.

It surprised no one that Shrimpo wasn't particularly festive, but if he had to choose just one holiday to wipe off the face of the Earth, he's almost certain that he wouldn't hesitate to choose Valentine’s Day. It was so… weird. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to make an entire day about love? He already had to suffer through a truckload of other people’s feelings every day he spent in this hell; twenty-four hours reserved for the mushiest of all emotions felt like his own special-made nightmare. 

From his spot slouched against his bedframe, Shrimpo glared at the calendar on the wall across from him, on which he had already scratched a rather aggressive line in red pen on the box with the number 13. He had a couple more hours to brace himself before the dreaded day arrived, before he’d be subjected to all the heart eyes and sentiments and — Uurgh. 

In an attempt to keep the looming dread at bay, Shrimpo’s gaze flicked upward a little, focusing on the picture displayed on the calendar’s upper page. Two koi fish looked back at him, red and white scales contrasting greatly with the vibrant blue waters that served as the background. Kōhaku, he thought, the word popping into his head with little provocation. His clenched fist loosened a tad.

He remembered when Finn had run up to him a couple days after the New Year’s party, waving that calendar above his head. 

“Hey hey hey, Shrimpo! I got something for ya!” 

Shrimpo had turned around, blinked once at the rapidly approaching fishbowl, and barked out an “Eh? What?!”

”Look, it’s a calendar!” Finn slowed to a stop in front of him, holding out the calendar in question. “Brightney let me have some, said she’s already got too many of ‘em. We could be matching!” 

‘Finn wants to… give me something.’ Shrimpo gave the cover a critical once-over. It depicted a shoal of some fish he could not identify, with the words ‘Aquatic Life’ printed boldly near the top. ‘Figures.’

“…Lemme see.” He extended one hand, and Finn gladly let him take hold of it. He briskly flipped backwards through the pages within, getting glimpses of various fish whose names were foreign to him. A flash of red and white caught his eye, and his thumb stilled momentarily on top of the U in ‘February’.

Noticing the page he had paused on, Finn chirruped, “Those’re koi! Pretty, aren’t they? They’re REEL popular in Japan especially.”

Shrimpo shot Finn a stink-eye at the pun, but did not retort with an insult right away, which Finn chose to interpret as a sign to continue. “This particular type here is called kōhaku koi, because of their red and white markings. They’re one of the three most well-known varieties of koi, actually! The other two are called the Sanke and Showa varieties; both have black scales as well as red and white, but the Showa is primarily black with white and red markings, while the Sanke is like the Kōhaku but with some black marki—”

”I’ll take it.” Shrimpo could sense a full-blown yap-fest on the horizon, and there were only so many hours he wanted to spend standing in the hallway. His evasion tactic seemed to be successful, as Finn’s expression brightened and he bounced jubilantly on the soles of his feet a couple times. 

“Oh, yippee! You’ll love it, I swear! They even put in a couple facts about the fish in there too, haha!”

‘Which you already know by heart, I’m sure.’ Shrimpo watched as Finn raced off down the hallway once more, almost bumping into Poppy with a rushed “sorry!” and then he was gone. The calendar remained clutched in his hand, open to the page with the damn koi.

Slowly, he turned and began shuffling in the opposite direction, towards the dorms. He held the gift tight against his chest, glancing down occasionally to ensure it didn’t ruffle or tear.

Kōhaku, huh…

He wondered if he had any thumbtacks stored away somewhere.

About a month had passed since that encounter, and Shrimpo still did not know where they stood with each other. In the interactions they had since the dance, Finn had remained just as friendly and pun-prone as ever – but what sort of friendly was it? Was it just regular friendly, or ‘I'm trying not to cringe at the sight of you so I'm doing my best to act normal’ friendly, or… or… or what!? There might as well be a thousand types of friendly that a Toon could be, how the hell was Shrimpo supposed to know!

This would all be so much easier if Finn just let himself be hated like everyone else.

Groaning in agitation, Shrimpo rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. His brain was not being cooperative today. Why did every train of thought have to become weird and confusing? “I hate brains,” he declared into the smothering fabric.

A knock on the door called for his salvation (or doom, depending on the circumstance). “Who’s it?” he yelled, lifting his head up to speak. 

A familiar voice answered him. Shrimpo decided he would have been better off pretending he wasn’t home. He reluctantly swung his legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed the doorknob, hesitated, then flung the door open.

“Heya, bud! How goes it?” Finn seemed to have an extra bounce in his step today, almost exaggeratedly so. Some snippets of red paper had gotten into his head somehow, and were now drifting placidly near the bottom of the bowl.

Shrimpo quirked one dubious brow. “What’s up with you?” he replied instead.

“Hm? Nothin’, nothin’, I’m just… Excited! Yeah, excited for tomorrow.”

So Finn was one of those people, huh… Figures. He looked like the type who’d be all for a day of getting all emotional and tenderhearted. Shrimpo’s expression did not change. “And you’re here because…?”

“Um… just cause! I felt like visiting you, keheheh.”

“Try again,” he deadpanned, doing his best to ignore the peculiar swelling feeling in his chest if he dared entertain Finn’s words – which were not true at all, obviously. Surely.

A brief pause, before Finn accepted defeat and loosened his shoulders, his expression turning sheepish. “Um… can you help me get the, ah, the paper? Out of my head? I was doing, uh… something… with Scraps and Goob, and it got in there one way or another. I can’t reach that far in.”

“All this red shit? Why the hell are you asking me?” 

“Well, Scraps couldn’t, cause, uh, she’s made of paper… and I’m pretty sure Goob just ended up getting more of it in there. Plus, his hands aren’t necessarily the best for more, ah… delicate jobs. You’re the first person I thought of.”

The aforementioned details Shrimpo could not deny; Goob could probably crack Finn’s head in half without even trying. For whatever reason, the thought of such a thing brought with it an odd sense of discomfort.

‘The first person he thought of…’

“...Fine, fine,” Shrimpo sighed irritatedly, grabbing Finn by the arm and yanking him forward. “Just hurry up and get in here.” 

Finn stumbled into Shrimpo’s room, glancing around with curiosity – though not much had changed since his last visit on the evening of the dance. ‘Why the hell does the damn dance keep coming up?’ The fishbowl’s gaze landed at last on the calendar, and his grin rebounded with double the energy. 

“Hey, you did put it up! I knew you’d like it!” His eyes shone like the sun.

“Mm,” Shrimpo replied curtly, grabbing the stool next to his closet and dragging it over next to Finn. He stepped up onto the platform and proceeded to grab the rim of Finn’s head with one hand, to the surprised yelp of the boy in question. “Hold still,” he ordered before plunging his other hand into the water, keeping his eye on the sides of the bowl to pinpoint the location of the paper fragments.  

“Ack – careful, Barnaby Wilikers is in there!” 

“You’re aware that ‘Barnaby’ isn’t a live fish, right?” Shrimpo snorted.

“He’s my emotional support animal, leave him alone,” Finn retorted with a mock pout, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” 

The water in Finn’s head was surprisingly warm, Shrimpo mused as he managed to catch a couple pieces of paper in his palm. He wondered where he got it from. A sink, perhaps? Did his head magically procure water? Shrimpo considered asking, and decided against it for fear of seeming ignorant.

“Um, so…” It was Finn who broke the silence, while Shrimpo stubbornly chased after the last stray paper piece. “You doing anything for Valentine’s Day?” His voice gained a faint lilt to it. “Heh, got a special someone you’re getting something for?” 

The water felt a tad warmer now. Peculiar.

“Are you kidding? Please. I hate everyone in this dump.” Shrimpo paused his paper-fishing for a moment and laughed dryly. “You couldn’t pay me to get chocolates or some shit for anybody. I don’t even eat that crap.” If ever he took a chocolate bar when on one of the expeditions down below, it was solely to keep it from everyone else.

“Oh. Alright. Guess that’s… pretty on-brand for you. Hah.” 

Shrimpo couldn’t see Finn’s face all that well from his current angle, but he sounded… well, not as sunshiny as before, somehow. Before Shrimpo could wonder why, he at last captured the final snippet of paper, and he triumphantly raised his closed fist out of the tank.

“SHRIMPO WINS!” he shouted, whilst some water splashed outward to land on the floor from the sudden movement. Shrimpo pretended to pay it no mind, hopping down from the stool and putting his fists on his hips. “You can thank me later.”

Finn gave Shrimpo a somewhat tight smile, taking a step towards the door. “Thanks, Shrimpo,” he replied, eyes fixated on a spot behind Shrimpo’s shoulder. “You’re…” he paused, then shook his head. 

“Nevermind. Bad joke.” 

He turned away, and out into the hallway he went.

Shrimpo stared at the empty space where Finn had stood a moment ago. Bad joke? Bad joke? Not once had Finn been so self-aware as to recognize his puns were horrendous; something truly problematic must have happened. Had Shrimpo said something wrong? Had he messed up Finn’s brain by accident? Did Finn even have a brain?? 

Shrimpo racked his own for any idea as to what might have caused Finn’s change of heart, and rapidly came to the conclusion that he hadn’t a clue. He loathed to admit any weakness, but it was most undeniably true that Shrimpo was not well versed in social cues. Could you blame him? – he never would have thought in a million years that he’d have to know any. He prided himself on dancing to the beat of his own drum no matter how problematic this deemed him, but it would seem that this was one of the few occasions where doing so would not benefit him. 

Why was that? Why could he not push Finn’s feelings aside the way he did everyone else’s?

Okay. Revisit the facts. Finn had asked him if he had plans for tomorrow, then if he had somebody he was getting a gift for (ew). Shrimpo had denied this, obviously. And then… had Finn gotten mad? Disappointed? Why? There was literally no reason for him to get upset that Shrimpo didn’t have someone he was going to spend the day with… unless he was some major empath or something and felt bad. Shrimpo couldn’t relate, but even if it were true Finn’s reaction still seemed a bit unusual.

He was getting nowhere fast, and what little patience he had was wearing thin. He had to know the answer to his query as soon as he was able; it was already eating away at his chest and making his brain prickle uncomfortably. 

Despite his contempt towards the mere idea of it, he might have to rely on… other sources, more socially adept ones. He could not believe that one stupid fishbowl was getting him so out of sorts, making him resort to such desperate measures. 

Stupid Finn. Stupid social cues and stupid paper strips. 

Emitting another agitated groan, Shrimpo aggressively shook his hands in front of him for a moment in frustration as he began stomping towards his door. His room was doing that dumb thing again where it started feeling too small, signaling his cue to head out. 

He paused briefly as he stood parallel to his punching bag, before whirling to face it and throwing a singular wild punch. His fist landed a bit off-center, but it was enough to make the bag bump against the back wall. Unsatisfied, he grabbed the frame and heaved it to the side with a grunt, making it topple over onto the floor with a loud clatter. Only then did he cross the threshold into the hall.

Like some specter of doom, Shrimpo stood still in the empty hallway, fists at his side and an ireful gaze fixed firmly on the wall in front of him. Where should he go? He hadn’t actually formed much of a plan about which ‘outside sources’ he planned to use. 

Other Toons were out of the question, forget Finn himself. He refused to ask for assistance from anyone; he’d already spent too much of his time purposely antagonizing them, no way was he going to wreck all his hard effort now. So then what else was there?

The library – yes, of course, the library. He’d never paid it a visit once during his entire stay, but allegedly libraries had books about pretty much everything, so surely he would be able to find something that could help him out some. Didn’t they have computers in there sometimes? That could also work. He still had his reservations about relying on anything other than himself – and God forbid he ran into Brightney’s book club –  but modern problems required modern solutions or whatever. He’d just have to be extra careful not to run into anybody.

Now to actually find where it was. He swiveled on his heel to face the hallway to his left, fully prepared to spend a good amount of his evening traversing through Gardenview. ‘Alright, I’ll try upstairs first, and then–’

“Whoa, look who it is!”

A cheery voice behind him shattered his hopes of remaining undetected. For half a second he wondered if Finn had come back, but a glimpse behind him confirmed something much worse.

“Don’t see you out and about much!” A couple yards away, Goob waved one absurdly large hand at him from his doorway, sporting that moronic smile that Shrimpo had come to despise. “Where ya off to?”

“None of your business!” Shrimpo snapped. Geez, could this guy take a hint? Shrimpo had lost count of how many times he had vowed his eternal hatred towards Goob, and the number of times those vows had been all but forgotten an hour later. In a sense he was almost the same as Finn, except a whole lot dumber. Finn at least acknowledged Shrimpo’s spiteful claims and simply chose to pay them little mind; Goob just straight up didn't seem to remember.

“Uh, okay! Anyway, I have something for ya, so come over here real quick!” Goob’s multicolored hands were already outstretched and making their way towards Shrimpo at an alarmingly high speed. Oh no. Surely he wasn’t going to—

Shrimpo was not proud of the high-pitched screech that left his mouth as he was grabbed by his sides.  All of a sudden he was being half-dragged across the floor towards the ginger shitbrain that seemed to have absolutely no concept of personal space. In mere moments he found himself on his ass in front of Goob, whose smile had not changed since the beginning of their encounter.

“Wh— LET GO OF ME!” Shrimpo scrambled away from the offending hands, which let go of him without complaint. Already could feel the skin where he had been grabbed tingling, a sensation not unlike that of an ant colony crawling about. Jaw clenched, he clutched his sides tightly with his arms and glared wrathfully up at his attacker, who looked down at him with an expression that now displayed blank confusion. 

“Goob?” A feminine voice called from inside the boy’s room. “Who’s out there?” Light footsteps could be heard getting closer, and within the next couple of seconds Scraps poked her head outside; her ears lowered slightly when her curious gaze landed on Shrimpo. “Oh.” 

Goob turned to look at his sister, his smile widening once more. “I was gonna give him his valentine! I know it’s a little early, but he was right there. It was the perfect opportunity, right?” 

‘What the hell is this guy talking about? A valentine? He’s gotta be joking.’ Realizing he was still sitting on the floor in front of witnesses, Shrimpo swiftly got to his feet and brushed himself off, ignoring the remnants of the tingling feeling. Goob had just earned himself the #1 spot on Shrimpo’s hit list for that move. 

Scraps sighed, crossing her arms as she eyed Shrimpo warily. “Whatever you think is best, Goob.” As the Toon retreated back into the room, presumably to grab whatever it was he had prepared, Scraps raised one brow at Shrimpo and queried, “So… what happened here?”

Shrimpo considered just booking it out of there and heading to the library like he’d been planning to do in the first place — nothing was keeping him here, after all — but that could be taken as a sign of weakness or incapability. No way was he fleeing with his tail between his legs from some paper cat lady and her dumbass brother. 

Besides… he might as well see what Goob had pulled together for him while he was here. To critique it, of course.

“The idiot grabbed me and yanked me over here,” he replied with a scowl, gesturing with one hand in Goob’s general direction. “I hardly even said a word to him. Doesn’t he have any common sense?”

Scraps’ ears flattened fully against her head, her tail lashing about behind her. “First of all, my brother is not an idiot, thank you,” she hissed at him, pupils slit and eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry he touched you without permission, but that doesn’t give you the right to insult him, you hear? He’s been nothing but nice to you all this time, and you treat him like this.”

Shrimpo would have gladly started a full-on argument with her (at least there was one other Toon here who had some backbone), when none other than Goob himself popped up out of nowhere and thrust something into Shrimpo’s hands. Scraps, begrudgingly, took a step back.

“Here! I made it for you yesterday!” Turning his scrutinizing eyes downward, Shrimpo was met with a piece of red paper cut out to resemble a heart – or perhaps a lopsided piece of mutton, it was a bit difficult to tell. The words “HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!” were displayed boldly, albeit somewhat off-center, in black marker. Taped near the bottom was a single gumball. ‘How charming.’

“What is this,” Shrimpo deadpanned, looking up towards Goob. “We are not… a thing. You should not be giving this to me.”

“What do you mean?” Goob blinked in mild surprise. “You don't need to be dating to give someone a valentine!”

“Goob’s right,” Scraps added, shooting Shrimpo a look as if to say ‘Don’t be an ass’. “Valentine's Day is about spending time with people you care about, not just romantically. It could be a family member or a friend. Love takes on more than one form.”

Shrimpo refrained from commenting for a moment, absorbing this latest knowledge. He had assumed that love was reserved for, y'know, people who were in love, but apparently this was not the case. Though he didn't have any relatives whom he cared about, and as far as he was aware he didn't have any true friends here (right?), so Valentine's Day still didn't apply to him. Hah. Take that.

And yet…

He felt this info was important somehow, to his own puzzlement. He looked down at the vaguely heart-shaped paper in his hands again. It looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. 

‘More than one form…’

Wait.

He almost tripped over himself as he stumbled backwards slightly from the suddenness of his revelation. The craft siblings observed this with varied looks of concern. 

“I gotta go. I will… I will accept this,” Shrimpo said hurriedly, almost rushing the words to leave his mouth. “Bye.” And he turned on his heel and ran off down the hall like a man possessed. 

“Um… okay! Bye bye!” Goob waved at Shrimpo's retreating form. The farewell was left unheard.

The elevator doors couldn't open fast enough. Shrimpo slipped inside the moment they began to and slammed his fist on the button to the next floor up. Only when the doors closed on themselves did he let out a breath and lean against the back wall. He clutched Goob’s valentine against his chest.

He couldn't believe it. He simply could not believe that this was his answer.

If it were true…

‘Does Finn want me to do something for him tomorrow?’

It would explain his earlier reaction, at least. From that perspective, getting told that Shrimpo hated everyone in Gardenview could be cause for some resentment.

However.

The other connotations that went with the theory were… a big pill to swallow.

The elevator doors slid open again, and Shrimpo stiffly marched out. His original plan to go to the library no longer seemed as necessary now (though he could be entirely wrong and the library would provide him with the correct, easier answer). Despite this, he felt there was something that could be done here. He had an inkling of an idea of what it might be.

He looked both ways down the hall, to double check he was alone, before allowing himself to half-fall into a sitting position on the floor. He loosely wrapped his arms around his knees, setting his valentine next to him, and stared off into space with a furrowed brow.

If Finn truly did want something for Valentine's Day… the possibility that he was thinking of something for Shrimpo didn't seem too far-fetched, right? Maybe it was, he didn't know. He didn't seem to know a whole bunch of things nowadays. He was never taught, and to learn seemed an impossible task. 

‘Never mind, just assume he's getting something.’ So, theoretically, if Finn was getting Shrimpo a… a gift… 

Valentine's Day is about spending time with people you care about.

Would that mean Finn cared about him?

While yes, he already sported a pretty friendly disposition, it could also be that he was just choosing to tolerate Shrimpo out of politeness; this was the explanation that the latter had subconsciously chosen to believe, ignoring any signs that might say otherwise. It was plausible and relatively easy to understand, no room for subtext or misunderstanding. 

You did not get a Valentine’s gift for people you merely tolerated – this much Shrimpo knew. You did not become disappointed if they said they had no intentions of doing the same. 

Not for the first time that day, Shrimpo thought back to the dance, that fated 1st of January. He had dismissed the entire thing the morning after, blaming anything he might have felt about it beforehand on exhaustion, and left it at that as best as he was able.

But he could claim whatever he wanted – it didn’t mean it was true. It did not erase the memory, the way Finn had looked at him then. Even now he would not be able to describe that look or what it meant, but he knew that was not the sort of look meant for any random Toon. 

May I have this dance? 

God, life could be so much easier if he had stayed in his room that night. 

Shrimpo ran a hand over his face, nails dragging slightly over the skin. He got the sensation he was hurtling towards a line in the sand that could not be uncrossed. Giving Finn a gift in return now seemed on par to giving an admission he wasn’t sure he was prepared to give. 

‘Or maybe you’re being a sissy and overthinking it,’ a different part of his brain snapped at him, breaking his spiral into an early midlife crisis. ‘Man up and get something for the fishbowl, goddamn. It’s literally not even that serious.’

…On rare occasions, Shrimpo could appreciate his brain a little. He blinked, inhaled, then took hold of Goob’s valentine and rose to his feet again. 

He was thinking about it all wrong, he decided as he began walking down the corridor. This was just a… a chance to prove his capability. Yes. Like the thing with Scraps earlier; he could have left, but he didn’t, because he wasn’t a pathetic weakling. 

This had to be like it, right? This whole conundrum was a test to see if he could hold his own. If his resolve would crumble under the pressure. Finn had looked disappointed because he’d expected Shrimpo to rise to the challenge. Damn, he must think Shrimpo was pathetic.

He refused to let that idea stand, no matter how… unique this test was. 

Yeah. This was definitely what was going on. He was just tweaking out earlier and overanalyzing it. Totally hadn’t been having a revelation. Absolutely wasn’t half-assing another explanation to save himself from figuring out the original.

Yep. 

So… a gift, huh. Where might one be found? The image of a multicolored flower popped into his head, and Shrimpo instantly brushed it off. He hated Dandy. He hated everyone here, of course, but Dandy was #2 on his hit list. (Previously #1, but a certain Goob had claimed that spot a couple minutes ago.) Shrimpo just… didn’t trust him. He’d smile at you in passing, but Shrimpo had learned long ago not to count on outward appearances.

Although… he could think of another Toon with lots of items to offer. One that may be susceptible to threatening bargaining.

He jogged a little ways down the hall before stopping in front of a door. Glancing at the designation code painted on the wall to confirm it was the one he was looking for, he inhaled, squared his shoulders — and promptly began banging on the door with his fists.

“GIGI!!” He screamed, his voice echoing through the empty hall. “OPEN UP!!” Through his peripheral vision he could see a head peering out to see what the cause of the ruckus was, then quickly shutting the door again before he could see who it was. Whatever.

Mercifully for Gigi, it did not take long for them to answer the call of their visitor. “Holy shit, quiet down,” they chastised, glaring at him. “It’s late. The hell do you want?”

“I WANT TO BUY SOME SHIT OFF OF YOU,” he replied, maintaining his original volume to quickly assert dominance over the situation. “LET ME LOOK.”

“Wh— dude, my collections ain’t for sale,” Gigi answered as Shrimpo stomped his way into the room. “Why do you need anything from me, anyway? I don’t have no boxing equipment, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“IT’S… NOT FOR ME.” Shrimpo had some reservations about revealing his true intentions, but he recalled seeing Gigi hanging around Finn a couple of times, listening to his fish facts — of all the things! Who would willingly sit through a monologue about anglerfish mating customs? (Shrimpo had once endured such a thing, albeit against his will; he could only get so far away in a closed elevator.) Perhaps adding in this detail would help sway the tides in his favor. “IT’S FOR FINN.”

“For… Finn?” Some of Gigi’s aggravation faded, to be replaced with surprise — and then, to Shrimpo’s horror, a sly grin. “Well, well, well,” they drawled, crossing their arms as they leaned against the wall. “Never thought I’d see the day when you finally softened up. Someone catch your eye at last, eh?” 

“WHAT— NO!!” Of all the horrid assumptions. Shrimpo clenched his jaw. “I AM PROVING MY SUPERIORITY. I WILL NOT BE BESTED BY A BOY WITH A PLASTIC FISH FOR A COMPANION.”

”Mhm.“ Gigi did not seem impressed by his explanation — but at last they loosened. “All right. I’ll let you take up to two things, and I expect to be paid real nicely. I recommend looking over on the third cabinet, with the tackles n’ everythin’: Finn would probably like that sorta stuff.” 

“Whatever.” With the hard part out of the way, Shrimpo felt free to lower his volume, at least a little. Sauntering over to the shelf in question, he rapidly noticed that this might take a little longer than he thought. Gigi was known for being a hoarder, but hell, they could probably give Dandy a run for his money with how much crap they owned. This cabinet alone was only a couple items away from maximum capacity, as was every other. 

“Where’d you get all this junk?” he muttered as he began sifting through the collection. It wasn't meant to warrant a reply, but Gigi answered with a vague “Oh, here and there.”

Most of the stuff he was looking at had something to do with fish, with a tackle box here, a painting there, and so on and so forth. There was some jewelry, though, and Shrimpo’s fingers happened to catch upon something whilst rummaging in that general area. 

It was two beaded bracelets, one crimson and the other cerulean, bots with the same charm of what appeared to be an octopus. Shrimpo considered them in his palm; he had no idea why one would need two matching bracelets, but whatever. It would do — he’d rather not stick around for longer than he had to. He whipped around and thrust them forward in a silent query.

Gigi glanced at them, a faint smirk reammerging on their face (though Shrimpo did not see why). “60 tapes,” they hummed at last. At Shrimpo’s withering glare, they relented and added, “Okay, fine, 40.”

Shrimpo fished around in his pockets, for once thankful that he snatched up so many of them during runs. “Here,” he snapped, shoving the currency into Gigi’s hands. In the next second he was gone.

“A thank you would've been nice,” Gigi scoffed to themselves, reaching out to close the door. 

“FINN!” The rest of the prior evening had come and gone, and the dreaded 14th of February had descended upon them. Although Shrimpo was no less spiteful of the current date then he had been before, he had business to attend to. Namely, a certain gap-toothed buffoon.

Sitting at one of the dining room chairs, the boy himself turned his head with a brow raised, only to devolve into a grin Shrimpo knew all too well. “Shrimpo!! I’ve been meaning’ to look for ya, actually,” he chuckled, scooting his chair over a little and pulling out the one next to him. “Come and sit!” 

Plopping down unceremoniously on the offered chair, Shrimpo opened his mouth to rush out the words he needed to say, and was promptly beaten to the punch. 

“So, uh… I made something for you. Here.” Reaching into a small cross-body bag he had slung over his shoulder, Finn pulled out an ominously familiar-looking piece of paper and extended it to Shrimpo, who snatched it in one hand after a beat of silence. The words “Happy Valentine’s Day!” were written in a large, round font in the center. The shape of this one was a much more distinguishable heart. Some stickers of starfish and coral were scattered about on the sides.

Of course he had assumed that there was a good chance Finn had something for it, but to see material proof was an entirely different matter. He held the paper on flat palms, as if he believed his touch would rip it in two, and thought ‘This was made for me.’

“…This looks like what Goob made me,” Shrimpo commented after a moment, with striking bluntness, “but less sloppy.” 

That was certainly one way to deliver a comment.

“Oh-!” Finn emitted a sheepish hah. “I guess that makes sense; I did make it with him, after all. He offered to work on some handcrafted valentines with me yesterday, and it seemed like a fun thing to do.”

“S’that where the paper in your head came from?” The dots connected quite suddenly, but when they did it the whole ordeal made a lot more sense. 

“Yep. Sorry about that, by the way.” Finn shifted in his seat a little, gaze drifting downward to the floor. “Uh, I know you… weren’t planning to do anything, but it’s alright, it’s not mandatory or anything. I jus’ wanted to—“

“OH RIGHT,” Shrimpo interrupted loudly, remembering what he had come here to do in the first place. “I forgot. Here.” He placed the fist he had kept tightly closed the entire conversation on the tabletop in front of him, opened his fingers, and let the items he’d held loose before quickly retracting his hand again. The bracelets sat quietly for the whole world to see, the octopus charms catching the yellow glare of the linoleum lighting above.

Finn stared at them. The silence was deafening. Shrimpo’s mouth opened again to shatter it. “Um.” What was it that people always said in those sappy romcoms again? 

“They made me… think of you.”

Hang on, since when did I use fucking romcoms as a reference for social interactions? Stop that. That show was years ago anyway.’

Finn’s hand at least reached to inspect the bracelets, eyes wide and pondering. The tentacles of the two octopi caught together for a moment as they were picked up before releasing each other. 

“Are these.. for us?” Finn asked at last, looking back up at Shrimpo. 

Shrimpo frowned. “Eh? No, they’re for you.”

At this, Finn couldn’t help but break out in a brief giggle. “Not just for me, silly. They’re friendship bracelets. Each person gets one.” 

Shrimpo thought back to how sly Gigi had looked when he'd picked out his gift. He silently resolved to exchange a couple choice words with them later. 

“Uh…” He watched as Finn extended one to him, the cerulean one — an offering. For whatever reason, such a simple gesture felt loaded with meaning he wasn’t sure he was fully able to grasp. 

It felt almost like a commitment. A confession.

‘Again with this hyper-analyzation thing…’ There was his favorite voice of reason again. ‘Seriously, brother, you’re spazzing out. It’s Finn’s gift, he decides what he wants to do with it. If he wants you to take the bracelet, take the bracelet. Simple as that.’

He felt this brain-voice of his had a habit of omitting certain details, but he decided to let it slide for the time being. He’d already been sitting there like a dumbass staring at Finn’s hand for a second too long.

“…Fine, whatever.” Shrimpo reached out and plucked the thing up with two fingers, lifting his other wrist to slide it on. It felt eerily akin to putting on his own shackles. 

Shackles… to what?

‘Dude, for real! Snap out of it!’

Okay, okay! Keeping his fingers straight, he let the jewelry piece fall down to rest on his arm. He pulled on the cords to tighten it, although just a little, and looked up at Finn to gauge his reaction. The fishbowl’s smile was brighter than ever, holding out his own wrist adorned with the crimson beads. 

“This is a great gift, Shrimpo.” How warm his eyes were. The flecks of yellow seemed even more prominent, now. “You’re a real great friend.”

Friend.

“Okay,” he answered, for lack of a better word.

The boy seemed almost to glow. 

That night, Shrimpo lay silently on his mattress, looking up at his ceiling. Not much had changed since January; it remained as unremarkable as it had been the day he arrived, free of any holes left behind from outbursts. Maybe someday. 

He looked down at the calendar. The 14th had been triumphantly crossed off, and tomorrow so would the 15th. And eventually so would the 16th and 17th and all the other days, and then he’d have to get a new calendar so he could check off all the boxes all over again. 

He now looked to the calendar’s left. The words Happy Valentine’s Day! looked back at him, written in two different types of handwriting. The room was dark, but he could still see them faintly, unchanging. Even when he slept, he knew they would be there, for whenever he needed to look at them. 

Love takes on more than one form.

So do gumball flavors, he mused, chewing on his Valentine’s present. 

[dollfacefantasy]

kinktober day 20 - size kink jason todd x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, size kink, tummy bulge

"That's it, baby. Take it all. Oh, look at you go. Being so brave for me."

On the surface the words are soothing, but the tone of Jason's voice fills each syllable with condescension. Not in a bad way. The sickly sweet lilt strikes the perfect chord that has you wetter than any body of water on this earth.

Your hips rise and fall in measure rolls, your cunt embracing his thick cock with every motion. You have to take it slow. Otherwise, you feel like you'll tear yourself in half.

"Jay…" you whimper, lip wobbling and eyes gleaming with the need for him to coddle you, "You're so…"

A sharp whine from your throat cuts off your own words. Your head tilts back and then hangs forward. His tip brushes your sweet spot every time you sink down on him. It makes it nearly impossible to remain coherent. You'd never met somebody who could make you malfunction like this.

"I'm so what?" he coos, prompting you to finish your statement. He already knew the words on the tip of your tongue, but he still wanted to hear them spoken into the drafty air of your apartment.

"You're so big," you choke out.

Another moan falls from your lips before you grit your teeth. Your face scrunches up in tandem with your walls clenching around his length. Vaguely, you hear him chuckle. He then pulls you close and cradles you against his chest.

"And you like that, don't you?" he whispers.

He slumps further down on the couch. His feet press hard against the smooth wooden floor beneath the two of you. The muscles in his thighs flex as he begins to pump his hips up and down. You whine and clutch at his meaty bicep, melting against his warm skin and letting him do all the work right now.

You nearly forget he asked a question at all until he continues speaking.

"I know you do, doll. You like that when you're with me, you're helpless. Don't have to think. Don't have to move. Don't have to do anything but let me use this sweet, little pussy till I'm satisfied," he says.

Your toes curl, your thighs clamping around his own. The pressure doesn't stop him from moving though, not in the slightest. You inhale sharply before nodding against his neck. Of course, you like this. You love it.

You could never get enough of Jason's body. You'd study it forever if he let you. Your pupils felt magnetized whenever they had the chance to drift along his chiseled torso or mentally map the pathways of his scars. Adoration wasn't a strong enough word for how you felt in regards to his figure. Obsession seemed more appropriate.

Fortunately for you, Jason behaved much the same about your body.

In the mornings when he thought sleep still had a strong hold on you, he'd run his fingers over every curve he could find. He'd knead the swell of your ass and press tender kisses between your shoulder blades. As you'd start to wake, he'd wrap his hands around your waist and nearly pop a boner right then and there from how large they looked in comparison.

His favorite thing in the world after a long grueling patrol fast became coming home to you. Not even thirty minutes with your delicate body washed away all the stress caused by hard and rough people he dealt with beyond these walls. Some nights he'd prop your dainty legs over his broad shoulders and dive into your slippery cunt. Other nights he'd get right down to it, shoving his fat cock inside you and watching your belly bulge with the intrusion.

Tonight hadn't been either of those. He'd been home for a change. But having you curled up to his side and pressed against him while he read a book got him worked up pretty fast. It wasn't his fault the two of you just seemed to fit so naturally together.

"My good girl. Soft and sweet all for me," he praises as he continues fucking up into you. His heavy balls lightly slap against your ass with each thrust.

Your nails dig into his shoulder as the repetitive strokes start to build on one another. Small, whimpered expletives drip from your lips like a leaky faucet. He knows you're getting there. All he has to do is ramp up his efforts a little.

His hands lock around your waist like they do on hazy mornings. Just like then, he's obsessed with the way your skin dimples beneath his digits now. He boosts you back and starts bouncing you up and down in addition to his thrusts.

Your eyes roll back at the sensation and you take your bottom lip between your teeth. You don't have to do anything in this position still. He's strong enough to hold you upright all by himself. The only thing you had to do was like he said - stay still and let yourself be used.

"Can never get enough of you, baby, fuck," he grunts. His head falls back against the sagging cushion as he keeps working himself into you over and over. He glances back up at you slightly. "Is it feeling good?"

"Mhm," you whine, "So fuckin' good. So deep. All the way inside."

Your head bobbles around with the way he jerks you up and down on his lap. He smirks at your words and the airy way you say them.

"I know. I can see it," he responds, eyes flitting down to that faint and familiar bump. Evidence of his place inside you.

You only whimper in response. He drops you back down against his chest so one of his hands can slot against your center and rub your clit in fast, tight circles. The flickering feeling draws even more noises of pleasure from you.

The edge sneaks up on the both of you fast. You fall over it first. Your body spasms and seizes between his hands, but his strong grip is enough to keep you in place. For him, it explodes in a muted burst of ecstasy before burning into a brighter one. He wraps his arms around your smaller frame and keeps you flush against his sweaty skin as he fucks his load deep inside.

The both of you stay there while you come down. His chest puffs up and down with deep breaths. Even with all his exertion, his hand rubs soothing stripes along the column of your spine. You lie against him completely motionless, limp against the muscles of his chest. A little pleasure doll all for him to play with.

[adragonprinceswhore]

One Whore Is As Good As Another

Aemond x Brothel worker x (drunk) Aegon

Summary: Desperate to prove he's no mere boy, Prince Aemond leaves his taunting brother and seeks out another conquest. Momentarily, he feels back in control, until his brother reappears.

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, reader is a brothel worker and has Valyrian features, targcest, rough sex, oral (m. receiving), face fuccin', P in V, semi-public sex, exhibitionism, titty slapping, humiliation, degradation, dysfunctional brothers

Word Count: 2000

A/N: I had this idea when I read the leaks for episode 3, and let's just say Aegon's awfulness worked great as inspiration. Filthy drabble ahead!

You've seen Prince Aemond's long, silver hair flash by in the corner of your eye countless times in the past weeks.

You never get the chance to observe the prince up close. He only appears fleetingly, confidently striding through the Blue Pearl towards the room where Madame Sylvie awaits him.

She seems to be his favourite; the only one allowed to touch the imposing young man. Sometimes he spends hours with her, though you are not privy to the details. All you know is that most men entering your place of employment conduct much shorter visits.

You do not envy your madame. Entertaining a Targaryen prince is no easy feat, from what you've heard.

Still, you do wonder what it would be like to catch his eye. For him to choose you, like he had chosen the madame.

Had he ever caught sight of you, like you did him? Had he ever seen the shimmer of your silver hair reflect in the corner of his eye?

Does you Valyrian heritage look as alluring as that of the statuesque prince, despite being born a bastard?

These thoughts had merely been fugitive, indulgent fantasies.

Until tonight.

Prince Aemond stands naked in the middle of the vast space in the heart of the Blue Pearl, seeing eye gazing out over the intertwined bodies moving in differing rhythms.

No one had asked for your services as of yet, and you'd therefore been tasked with refilling chalices and plates for the patrons.

The prince's gaze settles on you as you pour wine into a few cups scattered around, ensuring no one chases pleasure parched.

He walks towards you in slow, confident steps, seemingly uncaring that he is fully nude.

'Tis a brothel after all.

Placing the decanter back on the table, you curtsey as he draws near; trembling fingers fumbling with the thin material of your gown,

"Wine, your grace?"

"Do you work here?"

'Tis not the wine that caught his attention.

"Yes. How may I be of service?"

His eye scans the place, searching for a more secluded spot. He gestures towards a plush settee tucked away in a corner with a nod, prompting you to follow him there.

Walking next to the prince, you can truly admire the sharp features of his face. His hair is as fetching up close, and his skin resembles milk; so clear and smooth.

Clean.

Not fit for the filthy surroundings you'd been brought up in.

"Are you my uncle's bastard?"

His query catches you off guard,

"I-, I do not know, your grace. Mayhaps"

You could be his cousin.

Or his sister.

It matters little here; the gods had decided both of your fates when they ruled it fair he be born a prince and you a bastard to a whore in Flea Bottom.

Despite the evident uncertainty, your answer seems to please him.

Prince Aemond's hums, seeing eye narrowing and the right corner of his mouth twitching briefly, perhaps nearly breaking into a smile.

The possibility of you being his uncle's daughter excites him.

"Lay down"

You do as told, reclining on the settee. The corner the two of you occupy is fairly out of sight, yet there is no curtain hindering wandering eyes from seeing your act. It surprises you that the otherwise secretive prince would chose such an exposed place for your coupling, yet you say nothing.

The choice is his.

He inspects your form as you lie down; gaze traveling from the round softness of your breasts to the smooth skin of your inner thighs. The gown you wear leaves little hidden, and the prince's searing stare causes your heart to drum quicker in your chest.

The unpredictability of what he'll do next; of what he wants from you, causes as much unease within you as the determined look in his eye elicits.

He hums, head nodding faintly to himself, before he moves towards you, lifting one long, lean leg so he may straddle your chest.

His cock is right by your mouth, already growing larger as he gazes down at your face underneath him.

Perhaps 'tis the gaining of control that arouses the prince so; seeing you laid out for him with nothing but obedience to offer.

He feeds you his half-hard cock; not too brutish to force it all in your mouth at once. A prince still keeps his manners, you suppose.

Taking him in, you feel the skin of his member; hot and with a taste like salt. It's heavy in your mouth, and the awkward position the prince has you in does not allow you much movement.

He looks down at you; one eye stoney and unmoving, with shadows and light dancing in it. The other expressive and fierce.

Hungry.

Both his hands grab the back of the seat as he leans forward, forcing more of his cock down your throat. It prevents you from breathing, yet you do your best to appease him, sucking and swallowing him to the best of your ability.

You feel his balls slap your chin as he rocks into your mouth, pleased grunts escaping his lips.

A few more thrusts and you start to feel dizzy, not receiving enough air with the prince's manhood in your mouth and his lower belly pressed up against your nose.

You gently tap his leg and he abruptly pulls away from you, hurriedly moving off of you to stand next to the settee.

You cough as you inhale air once again, looking up at him with glassy eyes and wet lips, shining with spit.

His face is still harsh and demanding, and your gaze flickers down to his cock.

Decorated in your spit, it has grown double in size and is now red; like vexed skin after a beating.

You lay still, breathing rapidly to regain your senses. After giving you a moment to calm, Prince Aemond gestures for you to stand, and sits down on the settee.

He grabs your hips, dragging you towards his lap, and so 'tis your time to straddle him, take his cock in hand and sink down on it.

You know how to play these games. You know how to appease the men seeking your touch. Still, the moan you emit as you take in the prince is not solely performative; the stretch of his member fills you to the point of pain.

You bite your lip in a vain effort to concentrate, set on pleasing and serving your prince. Moving up and down in a slow pace, you grow wetter and more accustomed to his intrusion, and soon, your own pleasure follows.

"A-, ah, Prince Aemond", you call out, hoping the flattery will make him favour you even more. Mayhaps as much as he favours your madame.

He grunts and places his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him so he may rest his face against your scarcely clad bosom. He's enjoying you; reveling in your cunt, and it feels like the highest of praise.

You continue to call his title, his name, moving faster and harsher up and down his length, until,

"Brother!"

You catch the flash of a figure stumbling towards you in the corner of your eye, certain you know who it is before looking up;

King Aegon.

His lips are curved into a lazy smile, eyes half-lidded and hair tousled,

"I knew you had it in ya!"

The king ends his exclamation with a slur, clearly far too drunk to be staggering around Flea Bottom unattended.

You'd never been eye to eye with the king before; word around the street was that he found the Blue Pearl far too dull. He requires more to quench his thirst for depravity.

And yet, seeing you ride his brother's cock seems to be to his liking,

"Come on, girl, ride the dragon!", King Aegon shouts before falling into a fit of laughter. His hand smacks your arse as if you were a mare, urging you to go faster.

You search the prince's face for approval, but he's not looking at you anymore. His dark gaze is trained on his brother; still harsh and determined. You take his silence for compliance and move faster; quick breaths of exhaustion and moans of pleasure slipping out from your still wet lips.

"Making her do all the work-",

Aegon's still laughing between the words he slurs out. Standing behind you, one of his hands move to cup your left breast, and he squeezes it roughly; too drunk to appreciate tenderness,

"-I can see why"

Prince Aemond is still silent; still staring at his amused brother.

"No, no, no, this won't do", the king mumbles as he releases the harsh grip he'd had on your breast,

"Remove your gown, bastard"

Again, you seek Prince Aemond's eye for instruction, but he does not grant it. So, you grab the hem of your thin attire and pull it off over your head, exposing yourself to the Targaryen brothers.

'Tis not like you've never been naked before; you entertain most guests nude. Still, there's something about the royals' presence, their ongoing, silent battle, that leaves you feeling more exposed than ever before.

King Aegon hums in appreciation at the sight of your bare teats, the same rough hand coming up to slap the side of one of them, chuckling as they knock together.

You pick up the pace to ride your prince again, yet the king does not leave you be. His voice is still amused, though tinted with something darker, as he commands his brother,

"I want to see you fuck her like a hound, Aemond"

The prince does not reply, and your pace does not falter. You were tasked with pleasuring the prince, and if he did not reply to his brother's orders, neither would you.

Though he is your king.

"Fuck her like a hound! Come on!"

King Aegon sounds more agitated now; impatient. He does not like that his brother does not obey him instantaneously; that he would refuse an order.

The prince is as stubborn as his elder, and in between the brothers, is you;

Caught between two dragons waging a war of wills.

"Get up", Prince Aemond grits through clenched teeth.

You comply, standing swiftly only to be turned and roughly placed back on the settee on your knees.

The prince places a hand on your lower back, pushing you to arch, and enters you in one stroke, reaching far deeper than your previous position had allowed.

He quickly sets a brutal pace; fucking your squelching cunt harsh and quick.

You desperately hold on to the back of the seat, vainly searching for some control as the prince takes his pleasure from you.

Behind you, you hear his laboured breaths and grunts, and the entertained cackle of the king,

"That's more like it!"

He walks around the settee to face you; watching your body as it sways back and forward with the prince's rough thrusts.

Leaning in closely, so closely that his wine-soaked breath is right by your cheek, King Aegon inquires, "How does royal cock feel?"

You know how to play these games.

"Heavenly, your grace"

He hums and touches a strand of your hair, twirling it around his finger, "Is that what your mother thought as well?"

He does not bother with waiting for an answer from you; truly, he's not interested in knowing. Instead, he circles the settee yet again to stand next to his brother, mesmerised by the sight of his cock driving in and out of you,

"Where on her will you spill?"

Prince Aemond stays silent, pace never faltering.

“Face, teats or arse?”, his brother asks, but before his stoic sibling answers, he decides for him,

"Spill on her face. You got to appreciate those, uh, familiar features"

A few more rough strokes and the prince pulls out, grabs your waist, and turns you around so that you face them both. He pushes on your shoulder in a silent order for you to get on the floor, once again with his member in your face.

With a quick hand he strokes his slick cock, seed shooting out like arrows, landing on your cheeks, in your hair, on your lips.

He's breathing heavily, yet does not say anything, nor does he moan or grunt. He simply decorates your face in pearly luminescence, matching your silver hair and lilac eyes.

When he's done, he turns, and you see his older brother lay a comradery hand on his shoulder, commending him for "a good fuck".

As the brothers walk away together, you see the tension in Prince Aemond's shoulders ease ever so slightly.

The burdens of being a royal.

A/N: If the HotD writers want Aemond to be obsessed with his uncle, I'll comply! I like to write these little drabbles as a fun way to practice writing without much pressure, so please be kind, it's all just for fun!

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

Hard Launching ∘°∘♡∘°∘

Summary: lando and y/n wanted to hard launch their relationship after dating secretly for a while. lando finds the perfect way to do so.

☘ ln x reader ✧˖*°࿐

☘ fluff + humour ✧˖*°࿐

masterlist ☾☼

lando and y/n had been discussing for a while about hard launching their relationship. they had managed to keep it out of the media for an entire season, but the media liked to paint lando as a villain, in more ways than one. not only were they attacking his skills on track, they began collecting pictures of lando with women, no matter how many years ago, and publishing them with articles about him being a womanizer.

the funniest ones were the pictures of lando and her sister out on some bonding time. reading those articles always made y/n laughed, and she would be lying if she said that she didn’t have them bookmarked in her browser for a pick me up when she was having a bad day.

at first, they had thought of doing a simple post with a cheesy caption. enough to let the fans knows that he was off the market again. but, it also felt kind of boring, and that was not lando or y/n’s style.

they discussed it for weeks, looking at different social media websites for inspiration, until it struck lando. scrolling through instagram, he’d found the perfect way to hard launch his relationship with his girlfriend.

when y/n asked him, he said, “you’ll just have to wait like the rest of the world, my love. but, i know you’re going to love it.”

y/n waited, just like he had told her to. she waited for two months, until one day, in the middle of her work, she received the instagram notification of lando posting and tagging her. this was the moment, y/n thought.

opening instagram, she found a reel, instead of a post or a story like she assumed. quickly, wearing her airpods, y/n clicked on the reel, increasing the volume in the background.

the reel opened with someone recording lando as he walked, head down and concentrated. the person recording said, “excuse me, what are you listening to right now?”

lando took out one of his airpods, and said, “my girlfriend yapping,” and then walked away.

the reel immediately cut to different instances of y/n talking and lando patiently listening. they were all sped up videos, and y/n watched her animated hands as she ranted, and lando listening, changing his position every so often. the music in the background was a lively, jaunty sound, and it fit so well with the reel.

there were a series of videos, from their home, from the paddock, from conference rooms where they were waiting for zak, or even from the gym where lando worked out, and y/n basically followed him, still talking his ear off. there were multiple videos of them on facetime as well, or screenshots of their hour - hour and half long conversations.

y/n laughed. it truly was the perfect way for lando to hard launch their relationship. it described them perfectly, if she did say so herself.

scrolling through the comments, she saw a lot of fans crying that he was a taken man now. she saw some saying things like, “this is the realest representation of a relationship.” there were some hate comments too, but they were stupid, so she ignored them.

she commented on the post as well, typing, “wait till i send you a 20 minute voice note on my lunch break” to which lando immediately responded with, “can’t wait, i got my airpods and my phone fully charged”

y/n laughed again, opening her text messaging app, and sending a quick “i love you this was perfect” to her boyfriend.

·̩̩̥͙＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊·̩̩̥͙

hi! i hope you guys enjoyed this! it came to me while i was driving to college! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @anamiad00msday

[yoonjae20]

Danny deeply distrusts the Justice League

Based on the wonderful @saltymarshmall0w 's prompt.

I really feel like they aren't enough fanfics or prompts where Danny dislikes the Justice League — and continues to dislike them even after everything (Anti-Ecto Acts) is revealed and taken care of. (Or maybe I'm not looking in the right places — if you guys have any recommendations put them in the Tags or Comments!)

Read on ao3. Masterpost

After many years Danny has finally retired — sure he had to leave everything he loved and that was familiar to him behind for it, but it was worth it. He had a small little house that was his own, he would water his plants every morning and make small talk with his neighbors. Everything was fine. 

Everything turns not so fine, when there’s a sudden knock on his door. Expecting it to be one of his neighbors — for example needing eggs or flour (a neighbor’s kid had needed eggs to bake one of her parents a cake and Danny had been more than willing to spare the few she needed) — he opens the door without a second thought.

Only to almost immediately want to close it again. 

Because that’s the Justice League standing in front of his door. And that can mean nothing good.

Before Danny can slam the door closed, Superman‘s shoe slides in between the door frame, blocking his escape. The smile the man shoots him is probably meant to be reassuring, but the only thing Danny feels is dread. 

To most civilians the Justice League is seen as a beacon of hope — but to Danny? He knows the bitter truth. When he needed them the most they turned his back on him before chasing him across half the globe calling him a villain without even hearing his side of the story. They handed him over the GIW for Ancient’s Sake. He would have died if it weren’t for Tucker and Sam. (He may not have scars to show for it but he can still feel his chest burn when he thinks back to it.) Not that they can remember that though. He still doesn’t trust them. 

“You are Danny Fenton, correct?” Superman asks and Danny stiffens. 

Fenton — not Nightingale like he has changed his surname into to escape his parents influence and leave everything behind. 

“Yes,” he says warily — seeing no point in lying. Considering Batman is lingering behind Superman the Detective would figure it out instantly. 

“And you used to be Amity’s Park’s vigilante Phantom?”

Danny grips the door frame, knuckles white. What’s their point? Are they trying to intimidate him?

“Yes,” he grits out. 

“We were told that you are the one we should seek out in matters involving Ghosts and the Infinite Realms,” Superman continues, but Danny doesn’t let him finish.

“I’m retired,” he interrupts. “Find someone else.”  

“There’s a world-ending event,” Superman says like that would convince Danny. Like Danny hadn’t lived though so many of them — had to prevent them from happening without anyone’s help every single time. Guilt-tripping much? “Even if you don’t want to fight — we need you as an advisor.”

Danny snorts, shaking his head. 

“Go take up the matter with the Justice League Dark then.” 

Danny moves to close the door, but still Superman’s foot doesn’t budge. He could probably brute-force his way through this — but Danny’s tired and he’s not in the mood to explain to his neighbors why his door is broken and he needs to do repairs.

He glares at them and to his surprise Superman actually takes a step back — but still not enough to be able to close the door. 

Danny hasn’t transformed into Phantom since he left Amity Park. Had kept that part of himself locked away — would have separated his Ghost Self from himself if he didn’t know he would be selfish for that. Had ignored his Obsession even if it screamed at him — had pushed it away in his Human Form even if it muted all the colors around him and it meant that every breath was a painful wheeze.

Faced with this situation he almost wants to break the promise he made to himself — but he can’t.

There is no GIW anymore —  Danny had made sure of that. He had wiped all of their files and his parents published research with the help of Technus. He had dismantled both portals to the Ghost Zone and made sure no one would be able to replicate it. But Danny also knows the Justice League — knows how much Superman’s punches hurt, how it feels to get mind controlled — they could overpower him in an instant if he twitched as much as into the wrong direction.  

He really doesn’t have a choice here, doesn’t he? If he doesn’t go out of his free will — they will force him with any means necessary, of that much he is sure. 

His gaze trails to his neighbor’s house and the swing in their backyard. And if they are right and he turns them away — is he sure he won’t feel any guilt if something happens that he could have prevented? Sometimes Danny really hates his Martyr Complex. 

Danny sighs, defeated.

“What do you need my help for?”

They had liked their new neighbor despite the fact that he barely left his house other than to water his plants. They had known that the young man was sickly. He looked like death wormed him over and was weak on his feet— his ice-blue eyes dull. His smile barely held any warmth in it.

Still they invited them over after he had given their daughter eggs to bake the cake for their birthday. They learned that he was kind and had escaped to their small village to live a quiet life. 

When the young man came to tell them that he would be out of town for a few days and to please water his plants if they could, they were worried.

“Are you sure that you are fine, son?” they asked and touched the man’s forehead — but it was icily cold like the rest of their skin had always been. “You look even paler than usual.”

The young man had only given them a half-hearted smile and affirmed them that he was fine

Their daughter's excited steps had hurried behind them and she tugged on their pants after the man had left. 

“Was that Uncle Danny?” the girl asked. “Can I play with him?”

They gave their daughter a weak smile. 

“Uncle Danny is busy for a few days,” they explained. “Later, okay? How about you draw him a picture while we wait for him to come back? So he has something to look forward to?” 

Their daughter nodded and raced back to the living room, searching for supplies, while they continued looking out of the window. They can’t help but have a bad feeling about this.  

It’s unnerving how quiet the young man is. 

There are no easy smiles, sassy quips and puns like from the few shaky phone videos they had pulled from the internet about Phantom. 

He’s meticulous. Probably even more than Batman — and that is a statement. There had been a deep mistrust in the eyes when they had located him and asked him to help them. It’s evident in every step he makes. He double-, even triple-checks every single evidence, every single sentence, every single word they say. 

Nothing is left unturned as he works the way though the situation like if he is dealing with a case. He never stops moving, always doing something — reading through heavy leather-bound books or through their reports. His heart rate is so slow that Clark sometimes wonders if the boy is still breathing at all. 

When the young man had asked them if they spoke to the leader regarding the war declaration and the reasons behind them, he had clicked his tongue when they told him no.

He hadn’t let anyone help him when he drew out the summoning cycle — it looked even more intricate and complicated than they had seen from Zatanna or Constantine. When he had spoken the words for the spell,  his words had sounded ancient and undescribable — hushed whispers following every single word. He clasped his hands and only opened his eyes when he spoke the last word, his eyes burning a deep green. 

The cycle goes up in green fire before a form appears — Clark recognizes the Ghost from the declaration. 

The man’s cold gaze sweeps over the Justice League before it stops on Phantom. He smirks, bowing his head slightly.

“I greet the Prince of the Infinite Realms.”

“Cut the crap Fright Knight,” Phantom's voice is steel-hard. “We both know I refused that position.”

The man tilts his head but nods.

“Very well,” he says. “I greet Phantom, savior of the Infinite Realms.”

Phantom grits his teeth like he wants to refuse that title too before he shakes his head. He gestures to the Justice League.

“Explain.”

“We are just paying back what has been done to us,” Fright Knight claims. “Vita brevis, ars longa, occasio praeceps, experimentum periculosum, iudicium difficile.”

“Life is short, art is long, opportunity fleeting, experiment treacherous, judgment difficult,” Diana translates for them. 

“I see the Daughter of the Queen of the Amazons knows her arts,” the man’s voice has a hint of mockery. “Humanum genus est avidum nimis auricularum. Ignorantia legis non excusat:”

Diana’s eyebrows knit together as she listens. 

“Mankind is too greedy for lies. Ignorance of the law does not excuse,” her voice is almost a whisper. 

“I would have thought you would know of this Phantom,” Fright Knight addresses the young man again. “But now seeing your state, you probably didn’t feel the call for the announcement either. Is there a reason why you are starving yourself?”

Phantom doesn’t meet any of their eyes as he answers.

“That is unimportant to this situation.”

Fright Knight’s lips twitch back into a grin. 

“If the savior of the Infinite Dreams claims so, then I have no choice but to accept it.” He turns back to the Justice League. “Si vis pacem, para bellum.”

“If you want peace, prepare for war.”

“When have we been ignorant?” Batman finally steps in. 

Fright Knight huffs out a dark laugh.

“When has mankind not been ignorant?” Fright Knight questions. “When your government captured my brethren and tortured them, where were you? When they declared us as non-sentient and staged war against us, where were you? When they threatened to destroy our home, where were you?”

The man’s eyes seem to burn as he repeats himself.

“Where were you?”

Clark and the rest of the League are shocked to silence. 

“Now that the danger has passed, why should we just forgive you? Why should we forget?” Fright Knight continues. “If we are not worthy enough to be counted towards mankind that means we just have to rewrite the rules. And since we were never given the chance to negotiate, that means by force.”

“The Meta-Protection Acts-” 

“Only count towards those that are alive.” Fright Knight interrupts Batman. “After all, how can the dead feel any emotions such as pain? I’m sure if you ask your government they will hand you a lot of pretty reports on the biased experiments that prove so.” 

“But that’s-” Clark starts but Fright Knight doesn’t let him finish.

“Despicable? When has that ever stopped mankind?” Fright Knight asks. “We can talk if there isn't a law that states that we can be eradicated without any consequences.”

Before either of them can stop him, Fright Knight swishes his cape made out of purple fire and disappears. Clark faintly asks himself if that is how other people feel when Batman does that in front of their noses. 

Seeing no other option the entire League turns back to Phantom who hasn’t said a single word since the Ghost went on his tirade.

“Phantom-” Batman tries, but the young man’s eyes burn with so much hate that the normally stoic man stocks in his words. 

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Phantom seethes. “You heard him. Now finally do your jobs right for once.”

Then he leaves the room without a single glance back.

Clark gulps as they look at each other.

“I feel like we made a mistake.”

When the news declares the Anti-Ecto Acts as abolished, Danny feels nothing but exhaustion. The Justice League barely managed to avoid a large-scale — and very justified war. 

Danny leans back tiredly on his sofa. His eyes trail to the drawing his neighbor’s daughter had given him and the first genuine smile in months graces his lips.

“What I don’t do for mankind,” he sighs before he closes his eyes. 

[pennyellee]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢 - 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐁

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈 | 𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐁 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐔 title: champagne confetti - side B (part 2 of champagne confetti) pairings: heartthrob!jk, yandere!jk x fashion employee f!reader genre: dark romance, smut, porn with plot, 90s word count: 18,4K beta read by @chaoticpuff17

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Prompt 1:“you give me brand new emotion, you got me drinking that potion” Prompt 2:  The lines did blur, in his mind for sure. Will you be tamed or will your passion for fashion falter for greater good - a life without Jeon Jungkook. When everything you’ve worked for hangs in the balance, his twisted love comes as both a gift and a curse.

summary: You, a determined fashion designer, find yourself entangled in a collaboration with the irresistibly charming and egotistic heartthrob, Jeon Jungkook. Will this partnership remain strictly professional, or will he make the lines blur?

warnings: minors dni 18+ | physical violence, hint of incapable police department, jk is the boy saviour here and everybody bends backwards for his famous ass, dubious consent, possessive/obsessive behavior, emotional manipulation, references to medication that affects mental and physical responses as "drugs" or "pills" or "medication", power imbalance, themes of isolation and confinement, gaslighting, mentions of mafia and criminal underworld, forced intimacy, oral sex (m!receiving), numbness, reader's difficulties getting wet, use of lube, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, riding/cow girl, orgasm difficulties, creampie, and so on (if i'll forgot smth, im so soorrryy!)

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain strong language, explicit content, obsessive behaviour, alcohol drinking, abuse of medicine, illegal activities, oppressiveness, which we do not condone.

previously: 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢 next:

author's note: happy new year to all of you! so, where to start right? this was a long ass ride, mainly because i was fighting with myself to not burn out on this fic coz i loved it so much, and i still love it, but i won't lie that i got lil overwhelmed with how much love this fic received and how much pressure i had to suppress to not decide to just not finish part two. I am so so so grateful for each and one of you! ♥ and thank you for your patience too. Life's not easy, please understand that, i always try my best. Thank you all.

On a different note, part two a.k.a side B content is most likely something you might or might not expect to happen. And while I understand that many of you might not like where the narrative is headed, I humbly ask you to express your opinions in a nice and respectful way. If you wish to treat champagne confetti as a one-shot, I suggest you to not read part two, naturally.

1996 If they asked you how you managed to slip away when he had you in his grasp, ready to pull you back upstairs, you wouldn’t know the answer. That night became blurrier each day. All you remember is the rush of adrenaline as you pushed through the crowd, your heart racing with each step that took you further away from him.

If they asked how you ended up in the New York City police department, drenched in a flimsy pyjamas with an empty black file you once thought was your portfolio, shivering from the cold and sheer panic coursing through your veins, you wouldn’t know the answer.

If they asked how Jeon Jungkook picked you up not even thirty minutes later, knowing exactly which department you were at before you even managed to get your bearings and speak of what had happened to you, you wouldn’t know.

Apparently, you head-butted Jeon Jungkook. Well, that would explain why you were arrested and why he picked you up, ensuring the officers wouldn’t press charges against you.

Why didn’t you say anything to the officers, you may ask. Unless you did.

"You’re arresting me for what?! SELF-DEFENSE, MOTHERFUCKER, KIDNA—"

"Baby, that’s enough already. I’m so sorry, officer. I threw her birth control away by accident—"

That’s what he told them. You got into a fight over birth control, ran away in the heat of the moment, and accidentally head-butted him. You could still see the dried blood under his nose. His whole story felt like one truth mixed with lies, but you may not remember much. You certainly didn’t head-butt him by accident. You would never miss such a exquisite chance, god forbid.

"Are you seriously going to believe that sh—"

"Sir, she’s clearly having an episode. I’m so sorry about this," Jungkook’s voice dripped with concern as he addressed the officers, his hand running through his hair in apparent distress.

"Listen, you little—" your words were cut off by one of the officers raising his hand.

"Ma’am, please calm down. Mr. Jeon here is a respected man. These accusations you’re making are very serious."

"But he’s lying! He’s manipulating everything!—" your voice cracked with desperation.

"She’s been under a lot of stress lately," Jungkook interjected smoothly, fixing his gray zip-up hoodie, all dry unlike your clothing. "The fashion industry can be brutal. I’ve been trying to help her cope."

The officers exchanged knowing looks, their expressions softening as they regarded Jungkook with sympathy. One of them nodded understandingly, "We see these situations more often than you’d think, sir."

"I can take care of her from here," Jungkook assured them, his voice honey-sweet but his eyes cold as steel. "She just needs rest and her medication."

You watched in horror as the officers began nodding, your truth dissolving in the face of his perfectly crafted lies. The world seemed to tilt on its axis as you realized no one was going to believe you over him. He made you look like a psycho.

So, if they asked how in God’s name you ended up being led back to the glass cage you vacated only a few hours ago, with memories flashing before your eyes like a broken film reel, you wouldn’t know. Because that shit is straight-up unbelievable.

Each moment felt disjointed and surreal, a series of fragmented thoughts punctuated by Jungkook’s voice, smooth and calming yet laced with menace.

As he guided you back through the sleek hallways of the penthouse, the familiar opulence felt suffocating. The delicate decor, once a sign of luxury, now seemed to mock you. Jungkook’s hand rested on your lower back, a possessive gesture that sent chills down your spine.

"I hate you," you whispered, the words slipping out before you could rein them in.

Jungkook paused, the hand on your lower back tightening just enough to make you flinch. His gaze locked onto yours, those dark eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite decipher—was it anger, or something more akin to hurt? The sharp intake of breath that followed felt like a crack in his carefully crafted facade, and for a fleeting moment, the man behind the mask was revealed.

"No, you don’t. You don’t know what you feel," he replied, his voice low and steady, like the calm before a storm. The tightening grip on your back felt almost protective, but the intensity of his gaze was unnerving.

"I know enough. I know you’re trying to control every aspect of my life. You can’t keep me locked away forever."

"Locked away?" he echoed, the corner of his mouth twitching in a sardonic smile. "Is that how you see this? This is a sanctuary, a place where you’re safe. I’ve given you everything, Y/N."

"Everything?" you scoffed, your voice trembling with disbelief and rage. "You’ve taken everything from me, and now you added my dignity to the collection." The words hung heavy in the air between you, and for a moment, you caught a glimpse of something dangerous flickering in his eyes. 

"Well fucking done, Jeon–"

"Well fucking done, YOU!" He interrupted with his voice laced with anger. 

"How do you imagine me trusting you after the stunt you just pulled?!" He turned to face you abruptly, screaming those words into your face. 

"You are one to talk, Jeon! That baby room upstairs speaks volumes, you fucker!" Jungkook’s face turned pale, his eyes widening with genuine surprise.

"You went into the baby room?" His voice was a mix of shock and something else you couldn’t quite place—fear, perhaps?

"You hid the portfolio there, of course, I did."

"That room was supposed to be a surprise," he growled, stepping closer until you could feel his breath on your face.

"You had to ruin it."

"Surprise?" you shot back, your voice rising. "You can’t force a future on me that I don’t want, you moron!"

His hand shot out, gripping your arm tightly. "You think you have a choice in this?" he hissed. "You think you can just walk away and pretend none of this ever happened?"

"I know I can," you said, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance. "And I will. You don’t own me."

Jungkook’s grip tightened, his face inches from yours. "You’re mine, Y/N. You always have been. And you always will be.”

"You’re insane," you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. You saw the change in color in his eyes when you said those words. With a burst of adrenaline, you yanked your arm from Jungkook’s grip and bolted up the stairs, his furious shouts echoing behind you. Your feet barely touched the steps as you flew toward the recording room, heart pounding with fear. Bursting into the room, you slammed the door behind you, your eyes locking onto the recording booth.

Jungkook stormed in moments later, his face contorted with rage. "I’m gonna fucking teach you a lesson, you ungrateful brat!" he bellowed, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of you.

You held perfectly still, watching as he moved closer to the recording booth. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat echoing like a drum in your ears. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering around the room, before stepping into the booth.

As soon as he was inside, you sprang into action. You dashed towards the door, slamming it shut and locking it with trembling hands. Jungkook’s eyes widened in shock as he realized what had happened, and he lunged towards the door just as you secured the lock.

"What the fuck, Y/N!" he roared, pounding on the glass. "Let me out!"

Ignoring his furious shouts, you grabbed a nearby chair and wedged it under the doorknob, barricading the door. You took a step back, breathing hard, and met his furious gaze through the glass.

"This ends now."

You ran through the penthouse, desperate to escape before Jungkook could free himself.

As you reached the front door and yanked it open, you collided with a solid figure, stumbling back. You looked up to see a man with dark hair and intense eyes, his expression a mix of surprise and concern.

"Who the hell are you?" you snapped, your voice trembling with fear and adrenaline.

"Min Yoongi," he replied, his tone calm yet probing. "I’m a doctor. Jungkook called me—"

Panic surged through you, but you forced yourself to stay composed. "We don’t need a doctor. Jungkook is sleeping anyway," you lied, trying to keep your voice steady.

"He must have forgotten he even called you—"

Yoongi’s eyes narrowed as he took in your disheveled state, your pajamas still not dry, and the raw fear in your eyes.

"You look terrified," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "Are you sure everything’s alright?”

Your chest tightened, a wave of panic rising. You needed to get rid of him—fast.

"Really, Yoongi-doctor-whatever, it’s fine. I just need some rest—" You cut yourself off, realizing you were only digging yourself into a deeper hole. Yoongi looked unconvinced, his gaze piercing as he studied you.

Before you could finish, a loud crash echoed from upstairs, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Your heart skipped a beat, and your mind raced, knowing Jungkook must have escaped the recording booth.

Yoongi’s eyes flickered towards the noise, his expression darkening with suspicion. "What was that?" he asked, his voice laced with concern and suspicion. Your mind raced, trying to think of an excuse, but you knew it was futile.

"It’s nothing," you insisted, forcing a smile. "Probably just some stuff falling ov—" that’s when an even louder crash sound echoed. Yes. He is totally out of there. You couldn’t hold back anymore. 

"Fuck!" you muttered under your breath, closing your eyes as you listened to Jungkook’s heavy footsteps. You could sense the rage in every thud. The tension between you thickened, your body shaking as his furious footsteps grew closer from upstairs. You could hear him bellowing for you, rattling the doors in his rage. The time to make a run for it was slipping away.

"I need to get out of here. Please, you have to help me," you pleaded, turning to Yoongi.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked at you—his gaze unreadable, as if he was weighing something in his mind. After a beat, he spoke again, his voice clipped and cold.

"Don’t be like the others, Y/N."

You froze at his words, your blood running cold. "The others?" you whispered, barely able to comprehend what he was implying.

Yoongi didn’t elaborate, but the weight of his gaze told you everything you needed to know. The look in his eyes wasn’t one of compassion—it was something darker, more knowing.

Yoongi’s gaze was locked on you, but you couldn’t afford to stop, couldn’t afford to hesitate—not when Jungkook’s rage was closing in on you, his every step a reminder of how little time you had left. Without warning, you darted toward him, trying to push past him. Yoongi moved in response, stepping into your path, his cold gaze never leaving yours.

"You're not leaving," he repeated, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. His presence was like a wall, blocking every path of escape. You didn’t stop. You tried to shoulder past him, using every ounce of strength and fear-fueled desperation to break free, but his arm shot out, grabbing your wrist with an iron grip.

"Let go of me!" you hissed, thrashing in his hold.

Yoongi’s expression remained impassive, but you could see the subtle shift in his stance as he tightened his grip. He wasn’t letting go, not without a fight. You yanked your free hand back, driving it forward with all the force you could muster, slamming it into Yoongi’s chest.

"He said you’re a good girl, but all I see is a brat who needs to be tamed," he warned, his voice steady but sharp. You fought him again, but the door seemed impossibly far, and Jungkook was just moments away.

In that moment, all you could do was scream.

You slowly woke up, the soft hum of voices drifting into your awareness before the world around you even began to make sense. At first, there was nothing more than a distant buzz, the kind that lingers when you’re still trapped between sleep and reality. But as the fog in your mind began to lift, the sound of two familiar voices cut through the haze—Jungkook’s, low and impatient, and Yoongi’s, calm and cold.

You blinked slowly, your eyelids heavy as if you’d been drugged, though you couldn’t be sure. You tried to sit up, but your body felt sluggish, unwilling to obey. Everything seemed wrong. The weight on your chest. The thickness in your head.

"She’s still out of it?" Jungkook’s voice, sharp and worried, came from somewhere nearby.

You tried to focus, but the disorientation kept you from piecing together the words. Still, you could feel the presence of both men—close, but not yet in your line of sight.

"She's sleeping," Yoongi’s voice was colder than you remembered, a warning in its tone. You instinctively tried to move, but your limbs refused to cooperate. Panic threatened to claw its way to the surface, but you pushed it down, trying to stay composed. You couldn’t be weak. Not now.

"She’s stubborn," Jungkook murmured, frustration evident in his voice. "You know she’ll never accept it. If I show her the truth, she’ll run again."

Yoongi’s laughter was light, but there was no warmth in it. "You sound like Namjoon."

"How is Peaches?"

There was a pause, thick with unspoken tension, before Yoongi continued, his words measured but still carrying an undercurrent of something darker.

"Her recovery... is progressing very well. She’s strong. Stronger than we probably thought."

"That’s good to hear."

"You can mend the wounds, but the mind... that’s another matter. She won't be the same." You flinched at his words. What happened to the woman they are talking about?

"But that essentially works in Namjoon’s favor."

Jungkook’s voice grew quiet at Yoongi’s words, the weight of the implication settling between them like a heavy shroud.

"How so?" His tone held a mixture of confusion and curiosity, but there was an underlying edge, as if he didn’t fully trust where this conversation was heading.

"Namjoon... He’s always been good at seeing people as they are. He doesn’t need to force things. He knows how to manipulate the mind. To make someone want to comply."

Jungkook remained silent for a long moment. His breath was audible, shallow and strained, and you could almost feel his inner conflict.

"Well, I should stop by for a crash course ’cause apparently I cannot move this one," Jungkook huffed, frustrated. Yoongi’s laughter again, light but tinged with something darker this time.

"You need to claim her, make it official. Show the world that she’s yours." Your pulse quickened, and your mind started to get dizzy again.

"She’s already in your head. You think it’s the running that’s hurting you? No, Jungkook. It’s the fact that she’s living in your thoughts, in your every decision. You’ll bend over backward for her, but she’ll never respect you for it. She needs to see you take control. Then she’ll respect you. Then she’ll stay."

"How am I supposed to make her mine when she keeps running? My original plan is fucked; she saw the baby room, hyung."

"You’re overthinking it, Jungkook. She’s already seen it, so what? It’s not a crime to want a child, for fuck’s sake."

"She saw the future I was building for us, and she’s already rejecting it."

Yoongi let out a slow, calculated breath, his voice steady as he responded. "She’s rejecting it because you haven’t made her understand it yet. She doesn’t know what’s good for her. You’ve given her too many choices, Jungkook. You’ve let her think she has the power to decide. And look where that’s gotten you. She’s running, isn’t she?"

There was a pause. You could almost hear Jungkook’s thoughts racing as the truth of Yoongi’s words sunk in.

"You’ve got to take control of the situation, Jungkook. Make her see that there’s no running, no escaping, that there’s no reason to!--" he raised his voice an octave higher before he hushed it again when Jungkook motioned urgently to prevent from waking you up.

"Make her see that you’re the one who decides her future now. You’ve made all this for her—don’t let it slip away just because she’s scared."

"I don’t want her to be scared… I want her to want me." The weight of their expectations, of what Jungkook was being urged to do, twisted in your chest like a growing storm.

"Well, if this won’t work, we can think of something more—"

"Permanent."

The idea hit you like a punch to the gut. The thought of being pushed into a corner, with no choice but to accept the suffocating control, twisted your insides. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t a partnership. This was manipulation. But they didn’t care. They never did.

As you lay there, helpless and broken, the seeds of doubt and fear began to take root in your mind. Would you ever be able to escape? It was too much to listen to, and you don’t remember at what point in their conversation you fell back asleep.

"Sedate her, if you have to," Yoongi continued, his tone smooth but dangerous. "Keep her compliant. Keep her obedient. She can’t fight you if she doesn’t have the strength to."

"Once she’s fed up with all the side effects, she’ll do anything to stop it—"

"If she’s weakened, if she’s broken down enough, she’ll have no choice but to comply."

"What if she’s pregnant, hyung?" he asked, hope and worry evident in his tone. Yoongi rolled his eyes and sighed out of frustration.

"You boys should realize that pregnancy does not have to happen after you stick it in once, for fuck’s sake."

You woke up to the sound of running water, the steady rhythm of droplets hitting tile. Your head still felt thick, the remnants of whatever drugs they’d given you making it hard to fully shake off the fog. As you struggled to sit up, the door to the bathroom opened, and a cloud of steam billowed out. Jungkook emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair damp and tousled from the shower.

Your eyes instinctively scanned his body, taking in the intricate tattoos that decorated his arm. Each one seemed to tell a story, a piece of the puzzle that was Jeon Jungkook. He caught your gaze and threw a smirk your way as he began to dry his hair with another towel.

"You cooled down a little?" he asked, his tone light but with an underlying tension.

You swallowed hard, your mouth dry. "What did you give me?" you managed to croak out.

"Just something to help you rest," he replied, stepping closer to the bed. "You were exhausted, and I needed you to stay put."

"Stay put?" you repeated, trying to muster some anger, but the drugs still held you in their grip. "You drugged me, Jungkook."

"To protect you," he said, his voice firm. "And to protect us. This running has to stop, love. There is no getting away and that’s final."

You tried to sit up straighter, but your body refused to cooperate. "How is this supposed to work between us?" you asked, fighting to keep your voice steady. "You can’t just keep me here like this."

Jungkook sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "I know it’s not ideal, but I want to make this work. You just need to trust me."

"Trust you?" you scoffed, though it lacked the bite you intended.

"Yes, love, trust me." He moved closer, his presence overwhelming as he sat on the edge of the bed. You wanted to speak up, but he was faster.

"You are confused—"

"Confused?" you interrupted, your voice a weak protest. "I know exactly what’s going on."

"You think you do," he countered softly, "but you don’t see the full picture. You don’t see how much I care about you, how much I’m willing to sacrifice to keep you safe."

"Safe?" you echoed, feeling a mix of frustration and helplessness.

"Yes, and before you think of snooping around the penthouse again, your portfolio is already in the hands of someone who can give you a very high-profile job." You stared at him, processing his words through the haze. 

"I kept my promise," his eyes bore into yours, filled with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. It was never here, and the file you thought your portfolio was in, was just scribbles of something incoherent. You made a mistake. You should have given up the portfolio and just built your career from the ground up again. Or you should have never met Jeon Jungkook. Never given him the chance to fall in love with you, lure you in, and lastly fuck you good. Way too good.

"At what cost, Jungkook? My independence?"

His expression softened slightly, though his resolve remained.

"You need to stop fighting me. You need to see that this is for the best—"

He climbed onto the bed, his towel barely clinging to his hips as he moved closer to you. His presence was overwhelming, and you couldn’t help but feel a mix of fear and reluctant fascination. He leaned over you, his lips brushing against your ear.

"I want you to succeed," he whispered. "But you need to stop running for that to happen and let me take care of you."

Before you could respond, he captured your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It was a stark contrast to the confusion and fear swirling inside you, and for a moment, you found yourself melting into it.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours. With that, he settled beside you, keeping you close and, as if it were a peace offering, he said:

"Friends is on the telly. Wanna watch?"

You stood under the shower, the warm water cascading over your body, trying to wash away the heaviness that clung to your every move. Despite the soothing temperature, you couldn't shake the lethargy that had settled deep in your bones. The antidepressants Jungkook insisted you take were doing their job, keeping you subdued, but they also left you feeling like a shell of yourself. You did not want to scream or argue. You had no strength to fight him; all you felt was a twisted, strange calmness. 

The door was unlocked as there was nothing to lock them with, and he even insisted that wherever you are in the penthouse, the door will never be shut fully or you’ll lose the privilege to be alone even for a second. It was the aftermath of your little stunt in which you locked him in his recording booth and the state Jungkook left it in was not pleasant for the eye.

As you stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around yourself, you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror. The person staring back at you seemed distant, a shadow of who you used to be. You had lost some weight, something Jungkook had noticed too, as his cooking became very carb- and protein-oriented.

In the kitchen, the smell of cooking filled the air. Jungkook was at the stove, focused on preparing breakfast while the stereo was on in the living room just like every morning. This time, he put the whole SWV album on repeat. You mentioned you liked girl groups. So now he plays girl groups in the mornings. The sight of him in his domestic element would have been comforting if not for the circumstances. Body covered by a large black shirt, his tattooed arm moved with precision, flipping whatever was on the pan and stirring a pot of something that smelled sweet.

"Morning," you said softly, your voice still raspy from sleep.

He turned, a smile spreading across his face. "Good morning, love. Did you sleep well?"

You nodded, though sleep had been fitful at best. "Yeah, better. Thanks."

In normal circumstances, you could imagine yourself sassing some nasty remark his way, but somehow that is not what your brain thinks of anymore.

"Good," he replied, his eyes flicking over you with an unreadable expression. "Breakfast will be ready soon. Take a seat, baby."

You moved to the table, your legs still unsteady. The medication made it hard to feel grounded, and you grasped the back of a chair to steady yourself. As you sat down, a memory flashed through your mind, a moment that made your stomach churn.

It had been a week ago, or maybe more. Time blurred under the constant influence of the drugs. You had missed a dose, intentionally, hoping for a moment of clarity. But Jungkook had noticed the difference in your demeanor almost immediately.

"Take it," he had ordered, his voice devoid of its usual warmth.

You had refused, shaking your head, trying to stand your ground. But the look in his eyes had shifted from concern to something darker, more desperate.

Before you could react, he had grabbed you, forcing you down onto the bed. The pills were shoved into your mouth, and he held your nose, forcing you to swallow. Tears had streamed down your face, the bitter taste lingering long after the pills had gone down.

"Don’t make me do this again," he had whispered, his voice breaking with frustration. "Just take them Y/N."

Since then, you had complied, taking the pills under his watchful eye, the memory of that night a constant reminder of what defiance would bring.

Jungkook set a plate of pancakes in front of you, breaking your reverie. "Eat up," he said, his tone softer now. "You’ve lost some weight."

You picked up a fork, your hand trembling slightly. As you took a bite, he sat across from you, watching you closely. The silence between you was heavy, filled with unspoken words and lingering tension. This is so fucking awkward.

"I, um…" you began, hesitating. "I need something."

"What is it?" he asked, his gaze never leaving your face.

"I need some Tampax."

Jungkook's expression hardened at your request, his jaw tightening. The silence stretched uncomfortably as he processed your words. "Tampax," he repeated, his voice flat.

You nodded, feeling the weight of his gaze on you. "Yes. I..I got my period."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair.

"I thought you to be pregnant," he muttered, more to himself than to you. His frustration was palpable, the air thick with it.

"I'm sorry," you said automatically, though the apology felt hollow. What were you even apologizing for? For your body doing what it was supposed to do? For disappointing him? Why would you say that? Something flickered in his eyes when you said that, though.

"Can I go with you?" you asked carefully.

Jungkook's eyes shifted, darkening as he processed your question. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, the air seemed to thicken with tension. He remained silent, staring at you as if weighing something in his mind. You haven’t been out in what seems like a month. You wouldn’t know; he took out every single thing that indicated time or date, just as he made all the doors lack the keys so you wouldn’t ever lock him or yourself somewhere. But you have been behaving, and looking at Manhattan through the thick glass windows was just not enough anymore. He did not even let you step on the balcony.

"Where?" he asked, his voice low and guarded.

You flinched, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "To the store. To get the...tampons."

"I can take care of it—"

"Kookie, please."

The softness in your voice seemed to catch him off guard. His expression faltered for a moment, a brief flicker of uncertainty flashing in his eyes before he composed himself. Jungkook's hand gripped the back of the chair as if fighting the urge to reach for you, to demand that you stay where you were.

"Please," you repeated, your voice barely a whisper now, trying to steady the trembling in your chest. "I just want to... feel normal, just for a moment. Please, Kookie."

His gaze shifted from you to the window, the silence between you thick and heavy, suffocating. The idea of letting you go outside, even though he would be right there, scared him, and it was evident in how reluctant he was whilst granting you this plea.

"I promise I’ll behave—" you added quickly, your voice barely audible as you tried to make him see that this wasn't about defiance, but about a small piece of normalcy that you so desperately needed.

Jungkook stood frozen for a moment, the weight of your words hanging in the air like a fragile thread, ready to snap. He looked at you, eyes dark with something close to frustration, but there was a vulnerability too. You could see it in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his hands twitched, as though he was battling with himself.

Finally, he let out a slow breath, exhaling through his nose like a release of tension. "Fine," he muttered, the word falling between you like a reluctant concession.

"But you won’t get out of my sight." Jungkook continued, his voice hardening, as if the promise of letting you go outside came with an unspoken condition he couldn’t shake off.

You nodded, accepting his terms without argument. You didn’t have the strength to fight him on this, nor did you have the energy to explain that you weren’t asking for much.

A simple errand, just a quick trip.

"Let’s go, then," he said, his voice gruff.

You stood up, feeling the weakness in your legs from the antidepressants. They made you compliant, dulled your senses. Jungkook’s arm slid around your waist, his grip firm and possessive. You didn’t have the strength to resist.

Dressing was always a slow process for you, but this time for a different reason. While before you did not know what to choose to wear, now you just didn’t feel like dressing up. You chose simple clothes, if that word was ever even in your vocabulary – it is now. But when you looked upon your grey Max Mara coat with fur on the hem of its sleeves, you could not keep trying to hold on to some semblance of normalcy. You longed to be you again.

Jungkook’s eyes never left you. Not when you pulled on the last piece of clothing, not when you sat down to zip up your boots, and not when he put a warm scarf around your neck to keep you from the cold of December.

The car ride to the store was silent except for the radio that proudly played Christmas classics. You had to chuckle a little when you heard his voice playing from the radio of his reimagination of Oh Holy Night. It’s the time of the year, and you did not even realize how agonizingly slow time was in that penthouse. You stared out the window at the bustling streets of Manhattan, the snow-covered pavements, people all around. It was overwhelming, the normalcy of it all.

You walked into D'Agostino, and his hand never left yours while the other was pushing the trolley through the aisles. You looked at him, the sweater complimenting his build, his big brown coat on top of that.

You moved through the aisles, adding items to the cart under his watchful eye.

When you reached the health aisle, his grip tightened. You glanced up to see him slipping a box of pregnancy tests into the cart. Your heart sank, but you said nothing. That was what he was waiting for – to give him a reason to punish you in whatever way he pleased. But you wouldn’t give him that. Nonetheless, the implication was clear, and sooner or later you would have to fight him on that.

"Just in case," he mumbled.

As you turned the corner, you nearly collided with a couple that looked oddly familiar. They didn’t look normal, not in the way people usually did. There was something off about them, something familiar in a way that made your chest tighten. But you couldn’t put your finger on it.

"Jungkookie! Didn’t expect to see you here," the man said, his tone casual but with an underlying edge. His eyes lit up when he saw Jungkook, and it wasn’t hard to sense that they were far more than just friends. The man wore similar attire to Jungkook but in darker colors, his whole aura projecting wealth and power. She, on the other hand, was adorned in a striking red coat, her pregnant belly barely concealed beneath it. The red was too bright, too vivid, and you couldn’t ignore how much attention they drew, even in a crowd.

"Just running some errands. You know how it is." Jungkook’s voice and smile were thin, like something else was at play beneath his words. You could feel the tension in his body as he shifted slightly to face them. Was he scared of you misbehaving? Or acting up? Just what was going on in his head right now?

"Y/N, this is Jung Hoseok and his wife." There was a brief pause, his words heavy with something unspoken. Jung fucking Hoseok. You knew that name, knew the stories. The man was a businessman of the highest order, owning the distilleries producing the finest whiskey and brandy carrying the Jung’s and Kim’s name. He had nothing and everything at once with that fucking mullet. 

"Hoseok, Princess - this is Y/N."

Hoseok raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than comfortable. His smile was smooth, disarming, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was a predator in the shape of a man.

"Nice to meet you, welcome to the family," he said smoothly, his tone warm, but his eyes glinted with something that made you feel as if he was evaluating you like a piece of merchandise. It was a greeting, but it didn’t feel like one. There was no warmth in it, no welcome. Not yet. 

It was ownership, as if he was claiming you as kin before you even had a chance to understand what was happening. You could barely move, trapped in his gaze, in the suffocating air thick with tension. And then there was the mention of "family."

Family?

Your mind scrambled to understand the connection. What the hell did Hoseok have to do with Jungkook? Was this some business partner? Some associate? And then you remembered the stories—Jung Hoseok, the name whispered in the same breath as the Jung family distilleries, their illegal dealings. Alcohol, drugs, money, power... and whatever the hell was happening behind the scenes that you didn’t even begin to comprehend.

Jungkook’s hand clenched around yours, his body rigid as if daring you to question his actions. But you already knew—there was no room for questions here. No room for defiance. No room for anything other than what he allowed.

You felt a shiver race up your spine as Mrs. Jung—Princess—smiled sadly, her eyes flicking between you and Jungkook. She tilted her head, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to close in. Her eyes held something unsettling—empathy, maybe, but also something darker. She wasn’t looking at you with pity; it felt more like an understanding of the kind of life you were being thrust into. A life you couldn’t escape from, no matter how hard you tried.

Her smile deepened, but the sadness never left her eyes.

"I hope you’re adjusting well," she said softly, her voice carrying an air of familiarity, but it was cold beneath the sweetness. "It’s a big change, isn’t it?"

Her words were innocent on the surface, but you knew better. They were a reminder of the power dynamic at play here, a subtle reaffirmation of your place in their world. You were still the outsider, and no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself otherwise, you were still under their watch, under their control. No freedom would ever be guaranteed.

Jungkook’s hand tightened around yours, the possessive pressure grounding you back in the moment. His gaze flicked from Mrs. Jung to Hoseok and then to you, an unreadable look passing across his face. He was silent for a moment, but the tension between the four of you was palpable, almost suffocating.

"Do you think you’ll make it to the Christmas gathering, Kook?" Hoseok asked, his voice smooth, his eyes glinting between you and him. As if he were asking whether you are ready to be part of the family.

His eyes darted to you, as if measuring whether or not you would speak, or even if you would understand what was actually happening.

"I’m not sure, Hyung," Jungkook finally answered, his voice colder than it had been moments ago. His grip on your hand remained firm, a silent warning that nothing about this encounter was casual, nor were any of you truly free.

"We’ll see."

Hoseok chuckled softly, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as if the conversation were some kind of game to him—one where he already knew the outcome. The tension was suffocating. Every word, every gesture was an unspoken measure of who had the power and who had none.

"Well," Hoseok continued, "I’m sure we’ll all be expecting you there. It’s a family affair, after all. Wouldn’t want anyone to feel... excluded." He gave a small nod, and the implication wasn’t lost on you.

"Peaches wanted to talk to you for some time, Kook."

He visibly stiffened, his body language shifting into something more guarded. His fingers tightened around yours, the possessive grip now tinged with something darker, like a warning, a reminder of who he was and who you weren’t.

The mention of Peaches—and her connection to whatever the hell was going on—left you unsettled. Another piece of the puzzle that you didn’t understand, but felt creeping closer with every passing moment.

"Yeah, I know," was all Jungkook said. His tone brooked no argument. Who is she? What was her connection to Jungkook, and why did his entire demeanor shift the moment her name was mentioned?

Hoseok, watching the two of you closely, seemed to relish the silence that followed. He leaned in just slightly, eyes flicking between you and Jungkook, measuring something unseen. Just what is he trying to achieve?

His eyes never left Jungkook, but his words were directed at both of you. "She’s been wanting to have a chat for a while. About everything."

"Don’t worry about it, we’ll talk soon, Hyung," Jungkook finally muttered, his gaze turning toward you, softening for just a moment.

But the unease in his voice didn’t fool you. The more he avoided talking about Peaches, the more you knew there was something lurking beneath the surface. Something he was hiding. Something you weren’t meant to see. And it only made you feel more trapped.

Jungkook’s grip on your hand tightened so much that you winced, but you dared not say anything. His eyes flicked from Hoseok to Mrs. Jung, his expression unreadable. There was something cold in his gaze now, something sharp, but it was directed outward—at them.

The tension between them was palpable, an unspoken war fought with words, smiles, and a look that only people like them would understand. And then, just as quickly, the moment passed.

"Well, we won’t keep you," Hoseok said, his gaze lingering on you just a moment longer. His smile never faltered, but the weight of it made you feel small, insignificant.

"It was nice finally meeting you, Y/N."

Her name resonated in your head for a while before you gathered the courage to actually ask. There must be a reason why not one but two people had already talked to Jungkook about this Peaches. Who in the world names their child Peaches? Anyway, the way his demeanor shifted at the mention of her name left you with more questions than answers. You did not know why. This should not bother you at all.

Despite Jungkook’s attempts to reassure you that nothing was going to change, the nagging feeling of being kept in the dark gnawed at you. You had become part of his world, yet there were so many aspects of it that remained a mystery. Who exactly is Jeon Jungkook if not a popular heartthrob of this generation?

One evening, as you sat in the penthouse, the silence was interrupted by the soft strains of a piano melody drifting through the space. Jungkook was at the grand piano, his fingers gliding over the keys with a grace that belied the tension that seemed to have settled over him. You watched him for a moment, the music a temporary balm to the unease that had been building between you.

Taking a deep breath, you decided it was time to address the elephant in the room. "Jungkook," you called softly, walking over to where he sat. He looked up, his expression guarded but not unkind. You did not really express any affections towards him as of late. And apparently, he was giving you space to come to him yourself. How generous after what he has done to keep you here.

"Yeah, baby?"

You took a seat beside him on the piano bench, your fingers lightly brushing the keys. You sighed loudly because you couldn't believe you were actually going to ask him that.

"Who is Peaches?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly. More from embarrassment than fear of his reaction. Jungkook’s expression shifted, a playful glint appearing in his eyes.

"Hm, someone sounds jealous?" he asked, his tone light and teasing. Obviously, that was the first thing he was going to ask.

You flushed, feeling your cheeks heat up at his question. "No, I’m not jealous," you retorted quickly, but the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you. Were you not?

Jungkook’s grin widened, and he leaned closer, his face just inches from yours. "Oh, really?" he murmured, his voice low and mischievous.

"Because it sounds like you might be a little bit jealous." You turned your head away, trying to hide the embarrassment creeping up your neck, interplaying with frustration that was very much successfully toned down by the number of pills you’d taken this morning.

"I could not give a flying fuck, Jungkook, I’m just curious."

"A flying fuck, huh?" he repeated, his tone laced with amusement. Jungkook chuckled, the sound low and rich, his breath warm against your cheek.

He reached out and gently turned your face back to him, his fingers light on your chin.

"Peaches is Kim Namjoon’s fiancée," his tone softening but the amusement still present in his eyes. You could feel the tension in his fingers as he held your chin, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. And you could also not miss how the little ball of nerves you had in your chest suddenly evaporated. 

You blinked, trying to process the information. "Namjoon’s fiancée?" you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper. You knew Namjoon as the man next to Jungkook in the majority of the photographs he had hanging up, and you recall him talking about this Namjoon even before you got yourself into this situation. Jungkook looked up to Namjoon. The name carried weight, and you could see why Jungkook might be protective over such a significant part of his and his family’s life.

"I saved her life."

His words hung in the air, adding another layer to the mystery surrounding Jungkook and the world he was a part of.

"You saved her life?" you repeated, your voice softening. The weight of his words began to sink in, and you could see the depth of his connection to this woman named Peaches.

Jungkook nodded, his fingers still gently holding your chin. "Yeah, I did," he said quietly.

"H…how?" He seemed to be weighing his words carefully, the playful glint in his eyes dimming slightly. It was obvious. He wouldn’t tell you.

"I’m not sure you’re ready to know all of it at once," he said gently, his thumb brushing your skin. "But what you need to understand is that everything I’ve done, everything I’m doing, is for the good of the family."

"Are you like…Hoseok?" you asked, your voice wavering just slightly as you tried to make sense of everything. Jungkook leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he processed your question. He tilted his head, almost as if he were weighing your words. His fingers, which had been so tender on your chin, slowly slipped away, leaving a cool emptiness behind.

"Depends on who you think Hoseok is?" he replied, his voice light, but there was an underlying edge to it—a hint of something he wasn’t quite ready to share. You frowned, not fully understanding.

"Everybody knows who he is, Gguk." Jungkook’s lips curled into a small, amused smile at your bluntness. The nickname "Gguk" rolled off your tongue like it had been there all along, and for a brief moment, his usual playful demeanor flickered back, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His gaze softened just a little, but the weight of the conversation hung heavy between you.

"He’s mafio—"

"Yeah, I know what everyone thinks.." Jungkook’s lips quirked into that familiar smile, but this time it was tinged with something a little darker.

"You think Hoseok’s just some dangerous guy who gets his hands dirty, but it’s more than that. It’s about belonging."

"It’s not all suits and guns and power plays. There’s a whole other side to it—" he continued. You tilted your head, not sure if you were entirely following what he was saying.

"Jungkook, I thought you were a goddamn heart-crushing pop-star." He laughed.

"I’ve been everything the world thinks I am, but that’s not all."

"But… you’re not like Hoseok, though, right?" you asked, needing reassurance that he wasn’t too far gone. Jungkook’s gaze softened as he looked at you, his fingers now tracing small patterns on the back of your hand.

"No, I’m just a heart-crushing popstar," he said finally, his voice amused.

"I am still very much part of the family though,—"

"You’re part of it now too. Whether you like it or not. And I’ll protect you. I’ll make sure you’re safe."

The sincerity in his voice made your heart ache. You wanted to believe him. You needed to believe him. But the weight of the world he was offering you was far heavier than you had imagined.

"That’s how we roll." 

His fingers continued their slow, deliberate tracing on your hand, a reminder that he had all the control here. You pulled your hand away from his, shaking your head, your chest tightening as you tried to keep your emotions in check. He looked confused for a moment and undoubtedly started to question whether you’d taken your medication or found a way to sneak past his watchful eye.

"You’ll understand why eventually," he murmured, his voice low and sure, as if he were speaking a truth you weren’t yet ready to hear.

And then, before you could say another word, his lips were on yours again—slow, but with a possessiveness that sent a shiver through you. It was suffocating in its intensity, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away, trapped in the haze of his touch, the drug in your system, the desperate need to find some kind of relief. To feel something else rather than the empty numbness of your brain.

The medication, the constant monitoring, the suffocating feeling of being trapped in your own mind—it all faded into the background as Jungkook's kiss deepened, his tongue tracing the outline of your lips, sending sparks of sensation through your numbness. You felt yourself getting lost in the intensity of the moment, your hands rising to grasp his shoulders, pulling him closer as if trying to anchor yourself to something, anything, that felt real.

The possessiveness in his kiss was almost palpable, a reminder that he was in control, and yet, you couldn't bring yourself to care, too caught up in the desperation to feel something, anything, that wasn't the dull, hollow ache of your own emptiness.

Your thighs spread wide as you settled onto his lap, the hardness of his erection pressing against your core, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. 

You did not stay in this state of mind for too long though.

"I don’t want this Jungkook."

Jungkook's kiss paused for a fraction of a second, the softness in his movements turning sharper, as if the words you spoke were a challenge, one he wasn’t ready to hear. His breath was heavy, his chest rising and falling with the rapid rhythm of his pulse. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze dark and intense, like he was searching for something—an answer, an explanation, perhaps even your submission.

"You don’t want this?" His voice was calm, but there was an underlying sharpness to it, a hint of disbelief. His thumb brushed lightly across your bottom lip, his touch almost possessive, as if claiming that too.

"I…I don’t know." The confusion in your words only seemed to fuel something inside him—a deepening desire, a need to pull you even closer, to make you feel as though you were already lost to him.

His hands roamed, shifting to your back, pulling you against him with a force that made your heart race, your breath hitch. He was strong, too strong, and as much as you wanted to push him away, your body—distant, clouded by the drugs, the numbness—reacted to him, betraying the words that your mind screamed.

"You can fight this all you want," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear, sending a shudder through your body. "But you know you're mine, Y/N. I’m not letting you go. Not now, not ever."

You tried to focus on your words, the ones that should matter. "I don’t want this, Jungkook," you repeated, your voice weak, and yet, something in your chest tightened. The longing for freedom, for a way out, collided with the dull pull of your body’s response to him. It felt as though you were suffocating between two opposing forces—one part of you screaming to break free, the other part craving the warmth he was offering, even if it was twisted.

"Hey, look at me, baby," Jungkook’s gaze softened, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. The heat in them was still there, darker, more intense, as he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze.

The drugs were fogging your mind, the reality of what was happening slipping away like sand through your fingers. You felt his hands tighten around your waist, pulling you even closer, the pressure building between you both, and yet, a small voice in the back of your mind screamed no. It screamed that this wasn’t right, that you were more than this moment, but the drugs and his kiss drowned it out, and all you could do was let yourself be consumed by him.

"This is happening. This is us." His voice was firm, steady, and with each word, the finality of his claim echoed between you both.

You wanted to push him away. You wanted to tell him to stop, to make him understand how wrong this was, but your body betrayed you, too caught in the haze of his touch, his kiss, the overwhelming pull of his presence. You closed your eyes, trying to block out the sensations, trying to escape into the numbness that you had once sought.

But Jungkook wouldn’t let you. His fingers slid to your jaw, guiding your face back to his as his lips found yours once more. This kiss was different—it was hungry, possessive, the kind that felt like a demand rather than a plea. You could feel him pressing against you, his desire unmistakable in the hardness of his body, and it was suffocating, consuming you in ways you didn’t know you could be consumed.

He pulled away just enough to look into your eyes, his chest still rising and falling beneath yours. "You don’t want this now, but you will," he said softly, his voice full of certainty. "You’ll see. You’ll understand at the end,—I’ll make you understand."

The intensity of his gaze held you captive, the world outside this moment blurring into insignificance.

"Jungkook…" you whispered, your voice trembling. The fear, the confusion, the longing—they all mingled into a desperate plea for something you couldn’t quite name.

His eyes softened, but the possessiveness never left. "You’re mine," he repeated, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "I’ll protect you. I’ll keep you safe. But you have to trust me, Y/N–"

 "You have to let me in."

You looked down at your mug, swirling the mulled wine as you gathered your thoughts. "I... I think I’m ready to go back to work," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

The change in Jungkook’s demeanor was immediate. The warmth in his eyes flickered out, replaced by something harder, colder. He set his mug down on the counter with a soft clink, his posture stiffening.

"What makes you think that?" he asked, his tone deceptively calm, but you could hear the edge beneath it. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

"I’ve been good, haven’t I?"

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied you, the tension between you palpable. He took a step closer, his presence imposing. "You have," he admitted, his voice low and measured. "But that doesn’t mean you’re ready to go back out there."

You felt a pang of frustration, but you tried to keep your voice steady. "I need to feel normal again, Jungkook. I need to get out of here, to do something meaningful."

His jaw tightened, and he reached out, gently but firmly taking the mug from your hands and setting it aside. His fingers lingered on your wrist for a moment, his touch both comforting and possessive. "This is meaningful," he said, his voice softening just a fraction as he looked into your eyes. "Us, here, together. This is your life now, Y/N."

"But..but you promised." Jungkook's expression flickered, a brief moment of conflict passing through his eyes before his gaze hardened again. He took a deep breath, his grip on your wrist tightening slightly as he processed your words.

"I promised to keep you safe," he said, his voice firm but with an undercurrent of something you couldn’t quite identify—fear, perhaps, or desperation. "And letting you go back to work... it's not safe for you now, Y/N."

You pulled your wrist free, taking a step back to create some distance. "I can’t stay cooped up in here forever, Jungkook," you said, your voice trembling but determined. "I need to feel like myself again. I need to be around people, to do something other than just exist in this penthouse."

He took a step closer, his hands reaching out to cup your face, his touch gentle but his eyes intense. "You are my life now," he said softly, his voice breaking slightly. "And I can’t lose you. Not to anything or anyone." You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch despite the turmoil inside you. Jungkook’s thumb brushed over your cheek, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

"Freedom comes with risks, Y/N," he murmured, his voice filled with a mix of love and possessiveness. "And I’m not sure I can handle those risks."

"I promise I am not plotting, Gguk—" you began, but Jungkook’s eyes narrowed, his grip on your face tightening ever so slightly.

"Are you not?" he cut in, his voice low and dangerous. The hint of desperation from before was now replaced with a cold, steely resolve.

"Just give me a chance to prove—" His eyes bore into yours, searching for any sign of deceit.

"I don’t know if I can trust that, Y/N," he murmured, his voice filled with an unsettling mix of love and possessiveness. He was silent for a long moment, his jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tight with tension. Finally, he let out a slow breath, his grip on your face softening.

"We have the family dinner coming up. It’s important, and everyone will be there. If you can behave, show that you can handle yourself around my family, then maybe... just maybe, we can talk about you going back to work."

The implication of his words settled over you like a weight. This wasn’t just about proving yourself to him; it was about proving yourself to his entire family. The thought was daunting, but you knew this might be your only chance. To get away from his grasp.

"I’ll do my best," you said, your voice trembling with a mix of determination and anxiety. "I promise."

A small, almost tender smile tugged at the corners of Jungkook’s lips. "Good," he said softly.

You swallowed hard, the pressure of the upcoming dinner weighing heavily on you. "Who will be there?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jungkook’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Everyone," he said simply. "My parents, all of my Hyungs... among whom someone can offer you a position if you make a good impression."

This was your chance, and you had to take it.

"I’ll be on my best behaviour," you promised, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you.

You stood there in Jungkook’s arms, the Christmas lights twinkling softly around you, you resolved to do whatever it took to reclaim a part of your life.

"Now, show me how good you can warm my cock this Christmas."

His murmured words were low and commanding. You swallowed hard, your mind racing as you tried to process what he was asking of you. This wasn’t the first time he implied that he wanted you to drop down there. He was obsessed with your body and how obedient it became when you had the right amount of pills and alcohol in your system. You both could deal with detox once you realized that there was no different route in your life but him. That was his plan all along.

You could smell the mulled wine on his breath, and it only added to the sense of unease growing inside you. He reached out a hand and gently stroked your cheek, his touch sending a wave of revulsion through your body.

As the flames danced in the fireplace, casting a warm glow over the room, Jungkook's eyes locked onto yours, his gaze burning with a fierce intensity. He reached out and gently stroked your hair, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. Without a word, he guided you to your knees, his eyes never leaving yours. Quick flashbacks ran through your mind from the last time he did that. Normally, fear would take you down or push you to protest. Not anymore. He made you his doll. At least partially.

As his hands closed around yours, he gently guided them to his sweatpants, his eyes locked onto yours with a spark of excitement. You felt a rush of anticipation as your hands made contact with the soft fabric, and Jungkook's eyes seemed to gleam with a knowing light.

He urged your hands to explore, to delve beneath the waistband and discover the secrets that lay hidden beneath. Your fingers trembled slightly as you complied, slipping beneath the fabric to find the warm, smooth skin. Jungkook's eyes fluttered closed, and a low, husky moan escaped his lips as your hands made contact with his flesh. His hips seemed to arch into your touch.

Your fingers wrapped around him, feeling the warmth and the hardness.

Jungkook's eyes snapped open, and he gazed at you with a fierce intensity, his pupils dilated with desire. "Yes," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own ragged breathing. "Like that. Just like that."

You could imagine that this was your high school boyfriend. You for sure loved him back then. Because now you have to suck and fuck that man like you mean it if you want out.

Your lips made contact with the warm, smooth skin of his cock, and Jungkook's eyes fluttered closed, a low, husky moan escaping his lips. You began to suck, your mouth wrapping around him like a warm, wet glove. Jungkook slightly moved his hips against you, inviting you to take more, to suck him deeper.

You felt his hands tangling in your hair, holding you in place as you worked to please him. The sound of his breathing, the feel of his heat, and the taste of his skin is nothing new for you anymore, and you desperately wish you never got the taste of him.

Jungkook's moans grew louder, and his hips began to move, thrusting gently into your mouth. You felt him growing closer and closer to the edge, and you knew that you were driving him wild. Your mouth moved up and down, sucking and licking, as Jungkook's cock grew harder and thicker. You felt his precum dripping onto your tongue, and you knew that he was close to coming.

Jungkook's hands tightened in your hair, holding you in place as he began to thrust faster, his hips moving in a rapid, piston-like motion. You felt his cock hitting the back of your throat. His body tensed when he pulled your wet mouth from his cock just in time, his cock still throbbing with desire. His chest heaved with exertion, his breathing ragged as he gazed at you with a hungry look in his eyes.

Without a word, Jungkook reached out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you to your feet. He spun you around, pressing your back against the wall next to the Christmas tree as he loomed over you.

You felt his hot breath on your skin, his lips inches from yours as he whispered, "I'm not done with you yet." His hands roamed over your body, stripping away your clothes with a fierce urgency.

Jungkook's eyes devoured you, his gaze lingering on every curve and contour of your body. You felt his hot breath on your skin, his lips inches from yours, as he whispered, "Mhm, I’m gonna fuck you so hard and nice—" his hands continued to strip away your clothes, leaving you naked and exposed before him.

Jungkook's hands grasped your hips, lifting you up as he slammed you against the wall. But instead of thrusting into you, he paused, his eyes locked on yours as he whispered,

 "I want to savor you, to taste every inch of your skin."

Jungkook's lips crashed down on yours, his tongue invading your mouth as he kissed you with a fierce, possessive passion. You felt yourself getting lost in the sensation, your body responding to his touch as he deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring every corner of your mouth.

As he kissed you, Jungkook's hands began to roam over your body, touching, caressing, and claiming you as his own. His fingers trailed down your neck, over your shoulders, and down to your breasts, where he cupped them in his hands, his thumbs tracing circles around your nipples.

His lips left yours, and he trailed kisses down your neck, over your shoulders, and down to your breasts, where he sucked your nipples into his mouth, his tongue swirling around them in a sensual dance. His fingers continued tracing down your stomach, over your hips, and down to your thighs, where he parted them with his hands, his fingers brushing against your entrance, spreading your lips wide and finding very little of wetness.

His brows furrowed in concern, and he lifted his head from your breasts, his eyes locking onto yours with a questioning gaze.

For a moment, he simply looked at you, his chest heaving with exertion, his lips still wet from kissing your breasts. Then, his face softened, and he whispered, "Do you want me to stop?" His voice was low and husky, but laced with a hint of uncertainty.

Was he testing you?

The Christmas tree lights twinkled in the background, casting a warm glow over the scene. The soft hum of the lights and the quiet beat of Jungkook's chest rising and falling with each breath were the only sounds in the room.

What are you going to do now?

It was not uncommon for someone on such medication as yours to have trouble with dampness down there. Even when the excitement might be there, waterfalls weren’t.

"It's just the medication…" Jungkook's expression turned serious, and he kissed your forehead tenderly.

"I know, baby," he said softly. "We'll go slow. We don't have to rush anything."

He shifted slightly, adjusting his position so that he could hold you more comfortably. As Jungkook held you, his hands moved slowly, caressing your back and sides with a gentle touch. How? Why? Where is the Jungkook who forced you down on your knees and fucked your throat until you cried?

The contrast between the Jungkook who was now so gentle and the one who had been so forceful left you bewildered. His tenderness felt alien, almost as if he were a different person. You couldn't help but wonder if this was just another side of his complex personality, a side he was showing now to keep you close, to make you feel safe.

"Why are you being so gentle with me?" you whispered, unable to keep the question to yourself any longer.

Jungkook paused, his eyes searching yours. "Because I love you," he said simply, as if that explained everything. "I want you to feel safe with me, Y/N. I want you to trust me."

You felt a lump form in your throat, the words catching you off guard. Trust. It was such a fragile thing, something that had been shattered and mended too many times. Could you really trust him? This could simply be another foul play.

Jungkook's gaze softened, and he cupped your face in his hands. "I know I've been rough with you, baby. I know I've scared you. But I need you to understand that everything I do, I do because I can't bear the thought of losing you. You're my everything, Y/N."

"I need to feel like I can breathe." You whispered, bare and vulnerable.

"I can give you that," he said, his voice steady. "But you have to promise me something."

"What is it?" you asked, your heart pounding.

"Promise me that you won’t leave me, baby," he said, his grip on your face tightening slightly.

"I won’t," you replied, your voice trembling at the thought. But your answer was rather enigmatic, and his brain opted to process it the way he wanted and not the way you meant it. You won’t. You won’t promise that.

Slowly, his grip on your face relaxed, and he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding. "Good," he murmured, pressing his forehead against yours. "Because I can’t live without you."

He kissed you softly, his lips lingering on yours, and you responded as best you could, trying to convey the mix of emotions swirling inside you. It was almost disorienting, this gentleness from a man who had shown you such brutality.

"I want you," he whispered, his voice low and husky. "I want to be inside you, to feel you wrapped around me." He paused, his gaze never leaving yours. "But I don't want to hurt you. I want to make it good for you."

"Just like the last time." He smirked, recalling all your dirty juice on his body and bed once you came undone the first time he claimed you as his.

He took a step back, his eyes still locked on yours, and nodded to himself. "I'll be right back," he said, turning and walking away.

You watched him go, wondering what he was doing. But then you heard him rummaging through a drawer, and you realized what he was looking for. He returned with a small bottle of lube, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I want to make sure you're ready for me," he said, his voice low and gentle. "I want to make sure you can take my big cock into your tiny hole." He moaned at the thought of being inside you again.

"I can’t hold back, baby. I'm going to fuck you good until you can’t walk."

He poured some lube onto his fingers, his eyes never leaving yours as he climbed on top of you. You felt him touch you, his fingers slipping between your lower lips, spreading them with his two fingers apart and caressing each side, making you breathe loudly. You gasped, feeling a spark of pleasure ignite within you, just a little. He knew exactly how to touch you, how to coax your body into a state of complete surrender.

The warmth of his hands seeped into your skin, spreading a comforting heat that eased the tension from your muscles. Every stroke, every caress, was a reminder of his dominance, yet also of his desire to please you.

His fingers moved with a rhythm, slow and deliberate, exploring every inch of your sensitive flesh. He started with light, teasing touches, barely grazing your skin, before gradually increasing the pressure. You felt a fluttering sensation in your lower abdomen, a mix of anticipation and need. Your breath hitched, and you let out a soft moan, encouraging him to continue.

You were feeling something after such a long time of numbness. He made you forget about how sore your muscles were every morning, how tired you woke up even though you slept for more than eight hours, and how you emptied your stomach now and then because the drugs made you nauseous.

He whispered soothing words, his voice a low murmur that vibrated against your skin. "That's it, baby," he said, his breath warm against your ear. "Just relax. Let me take care of you."

His fingers moved with an intimate knowledge of your body, finding all the right spots inside you to make you gasp and writhe beneath him. He took his time, not rushing, making sure you were fully prepared, fully aware of every sensation.

His lips hovered over yours, eyes locked onto yours. Slowly, his lips descended, brushing against yours in a gentle, teasing caress.

"You are such a good girl for me." His fingers continued to move, stroking and teasing, building the tension inside you. You felt his hands moving, positioning you the way he wanted when an idea struck your brain. This is it. He will think that you’re finally falling in line, that you are content living by his side, and eventually showing him some love he is forcing from you. You decided to use this moment to your advantage, to make him believe you were giving in, that you were starting to accept your place by his side.

You clung to him, as if seeking more of his touch, more of his warmth.

"Jungkook," you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of genuine arousal and calculated submission.

"I wanna ride you."

His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise quickly replaced by a dark, eager gleam. You would pay to see that micro-mimic again. He smiled, a slow, predatory smile that made your heart race.

"Oh, do you now, baby?" he murmured, his voice low and filled with anticipation.

You nodded, maintaining eye contact, letting him see the sincerity in your gaze.

"Yes, please."

Without another word, Jungkook shifted, guiding you to straddle his lap. His hands moved to your hips, his grip firm but not painful, holding you steady as you settled yourself over him. The feel of his erection pressing against you sent a shiver of anticipation through your body.

"Take your time," he said softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "I want to feel every inch of you."

You bit your lip, lowering yourself slowly, savoring the feeling of him filling you. He let out a low groan, his fingers tightening on your hips as you took him in, inch by inch. The connection between you felt almost electric, every nerve ending alive with sensation.

Once you were fully seated, you paused, giving yourself a moment to adjust. He felt even bigger now that your arousal was half artificial. Jungkook's eyes were dark with desire, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

"Good girl," he whispered, his voice thick with arousal. "You feel so good."

You began to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles. Jungkook's hands roamed your body, caressing your back, your breasts, your thighs, as if he couldn't get enough of touching you.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper. "So fucking perfect."

You leaned forward, capturing his lips in a heated kiss. His lips were soft yet demanding, moving against yours with a fervor that matched the rhythm of your hips. You could taste the lingering sweetness of mulled wine on his tongue as it slipped into your mouth, exploring and claiming.

As you bounced on him, your movements became more urgent, driven by the growing need that coursed through your veins. You were getting riled up. You knew you wouldn't cum. At least not like before.

You broke the kiss, gasping for air, your forehead resting against his. "Jungkook," you moaned, your voice trembling with need. "I need you."

Jungkook's hands moved to your hips, guiding you, urging you to move faster, harder. The friction between you was exquisite, each movement sending waves of pleasure through your body. His kisses grew more desperate, more demanding.

"I'm right here, baby," he groaned, his hands tightening on your hips, his own need evident in the way his body moved against yours. "You're doing so well. Keep going."

You closed your eyes, losing yourself in the rhythm, the sensation of his body against yours. The room was filled with the sound of your heavy breathing, the soft hum of the Christmas lights, and the quiet creak of the couch under you.

You glanced down where your pussy swallowed his cock, noticing the bulge in your belly growing each time you slumped down on his cock.

"Cum for me, baby," Jungkook whispered, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. "I want to feel you."

You shook your head slightly, the frustration and the numbness from the medication making it difficult to reach the peak you both desired. "I... I can't," you gasped, feeling the tears of frustration prickling at the corners of your eyes.

"Yeah, you do, baby. I know you can." Jungkook's voice was firm but encouraging, his hands guiding your hips as he increased the intensity of his movements.

He shifted slightly, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot inside you with each thrust. His thumb found your clit, rubbing gentle but insistent circles that sent jolts of pleasure through your body. The combination of his relentless thrusts and the skilled motion of his thumb began to break through the fog of numbness.

"Just focus on me," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. "Feel every touch, every movement. You're so close, baby. I can feel it."

You let out a soft whimper, your body responding despite the numbness. The tension inside you began to build again, each touch, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through you. Jungkook's presence, his voice, his touch, all combined to draw you closer to the edge.

"Come on, baby," he urged, his voice thick with arousal. "You're so beautiful like this, so perfect. Let go for me. I know you can."

You closed your eyes, focusing on the sensations, on the heat of his body against yours, the rhythm of his movements. The frustration began to ebb away, replaced by a growing need, a desire to reach that peak, to give him what he wanted.

"That's it," Jungkook whispered, his voice a mix of encouragement and command.

You could feel the tension coiling inside you, tighter and tighter, until it was almost unbearable. But the finish line not close at all. You could feel the pleasure building, but it was like reaching for something just out of your grasp.

You clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders, your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. A little drop of sweat rolling down your forehead. You knew you had to come somehow or this wouldn't stop. He wouldn't let you go, he would know if you faked it right away.

You forced yourself to concentrate on his touch, on the rhythm of his movements, on the sound of his voice. You felt the tension coiling tighter inside you, every nerve ending tingling with anticipation. Jungkook's relentless pace, the way he filled you so completely, the firm circles his thumb traced over your sensitive spot.

"Jungkook," you gasped, your voice trembling with need and desperation. He leaned in to take one of your nipples into his mouth, his thumb moving faster against your clit, his thrusts deep and steady. You bit your lip, trying to channel all your focus into the sensations he was creating.

With a final, desperate cry, you felt the coil inside you snap. Your body convulsed around him, your muscles clenching and releasing in a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart. Jungkook held you through it, his movements never faltering as he guided you through your release.

The aftershocks of your orgasm slowly receded; after all, it felt like you only edged hard instead of cumming but that was good enough for you to moan his name and shake for him to be sated.

You collapsed against him, your body spent, your mind hazy. Jungkook followed you over the edge, his own release shuddering through him as he buried himself deep inside you. He held you close, his breath warm against your neck, his heart beating in time with yours.

"You did so well," he murmured, his voice filled with pride and affection. "So perfect for me."

For now, that was enough.

Enough for him to give him hope that you are his and he is yours.

The church bells rang out a somber melody as you and Jungkook stepped inside the grand cathedral. The last time you were here was when you told your parents you didn't get accepted to MIT for neuroscience as they wanted. Instead, you had announced your desire to pursue a career in the fashion industry. You still remembered their horrified faces.

Jungkook’s grip on your hand was firm but gentle as he guided you to a seat near the front. Garlands of evergreen and red ribbons decorated the aisles, reflecting the deep religious commitment of Jungkook’s family. Yours believed in science, and if you went to church, it was only for the image it gave your parents. But Jungkook insisted that you, as in you and him, cannot skip the service. It’s a no-no in the family. 

Seeing Jungkook in something so not hipster or at least, fuck boy like, made you re-think just how much he had grown as a person without you ever noticing. The crisp white shirt tucked neatly into his tailored black slacks, a perfect striped suit jacket on top, tie underneath, all Bloomingdale, you took a mental note. The hint of cologne that wafted every time he moved made him look almost unrecognizable compared to the tattooed, oversized-hoodie-wearing Jungkook you first met and it made you wonder when did you start seeing him as a helpless heartthrob. Gone was the boy and instead there was this stand-up guy holding your hand.

You settled into the wooden pew once the priest began the service with a deep, resonant voice. You tried to focus on the words, on the serenity of the moment, but your mind kept drifting to the upcoming dinner. This had to be the performance of your lifetime. But you have to try to endure words that have no meaning to you or your soul while you wait for the innocent naivety of distant future’s mothers and fathers, lawyers and doctors, or good people and vigilantes, in the form of a child choir, to start singing. 

You spotted Hoseok and what looked like Kim Namjoon with, you assumed, Peaches, nearing your seats. Jungkook's grip tightened slightly, a silent signal that he was aware of their approach. He was scared you’d run away, that you’d ruin everything. He was right to be scared. To ruin their family Christmas might be on your Grinch wishlist, but you would be the most obedient woman on the planet if you had to. Because that meant, you had a chance of getting out of that ugly block of a tall building more than once a month when you begged for it. How you’d get rid of your "boyfriend," that was a story for another day.

While the service continued, you felt a hand slip into yours, warm and reassuring. You looked up to see Peaches smiling gently at you, her curly blonde hair framing her full face, and her eyes filled with quiet strength. She was wearing Versaci’s black slit medallion dress that you thought there is no way to get after the 94’ movie showgirls. But she has them, and a what seemed to be a very nice fur coat draped over her shoulders. 

She was quite the beauty, and your brain immediately imagined her on a runway. Although she was rather petite next to a man like Kim Namjoon. She squeezed your hand lightly, a silent gesture of support. It was comforting, and for a moment, you felt a small spark of hope.

"Hi," she said quietly, and at that moment, you couldn’t hate her like you hated the rest of them.

"Hi," you whispered back, offering a small, tentative smile. Her presence was unexpectedly soothing, a reminder that there might be allies or at least people who sympathized. But mere sympathy wouldn’t help you get out of this arrangement.

Jungkook noticed the exchange, his eyes softening slightly, though his grip on your hand remained firm. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "You’re doing great," he murmured, his voice low and encouraging. "Just a little longer."

Hymns filled the air, and the congregation joined in with reverence. You tried to let the music and the surroundings wash over you, to find some peace in the chaos of your mind. Peaches’ hand in yours was a constant source of comfort, a silent promise that you weren’t completely alone in this.

The service drew to a close. The priest offered a final blessing, and the congregation began to disperse. Jungkook helped you to your feet, his hand never leaving yours.

"Good to see you both," Hoseok greeted, his smile genuine but his eyes sharp. "Are you ready for the dinner tonight?"

Jungkook nodded, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. "Yeah, we’ll be there. But we’re stopping by my parents’ house first."

Namjoon glanced at Peaches, whose movements showed pain once she stood up. Nonetheless, she gave you a reassuring smile.

"We’ll see you there," he said, his voice calm and composed.

As you walked out of the cathedral, Peaches leaned in and whispered, "Don’t let them get into your head."

Her words resonated with you as you made your way to the car. Jungkook’s parents' house was your next destination, and you knew you had to maintain your composure. This was your chance to prove yourself and eventually free yourself.

Jungkook’s family home was grand and imposing, decorated lavishly for the holiday season.

You took a deep breath as you stepped out of the car, Jungkook by your side. He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before leading you to the front door.

The door swung open before you could even knock, revealing Jungkook’s mother, her face lighting up with excitement. She was a petite woman with a warm smile, but her eyes were sharp and assessing.

"Jungkook, darling!" she exclaimed, pulling him into a tight hug before turning her attention to you. "And this must be Y/N!"

She reached out and took your hands in hers, her grip surprisingly strong. "It’s so lovely to finally meet you," she said, her eyes flicking down to your fingers for a good moment before she realized that what she was looking for was not there. Her smile faltered slightly but she recovered rather quickly when she saw your confused mimics.

You forced a smile, feeling a bit overwhelmed by her forwardness. "It’s nice to meet you too, Mrs. Jeon."

"Aish, that’s how the staff calls me," she said with a light chuckle, waving her hand dismissively. "You call me eomma, honey."

Before you could respond, her gaze had already shifted, and she was inspecting you more closely, her hands suddenly on your shoulders, then your arms, and finally your stomach.

"You will be so pretty with a—" she began, her tone filled with genuine admiration, but her hands still firmly on your midsection.

"Eomma!" Jungkook interrupted abruptly, his voice firmer than usual. He gently but decisively moved her hands away from you. "Ya, is that a sponge cake I’m smelling?"

Mrs. Jeon blinked, momentarily thrown off, before breaking into a warm smile. "Oh, yes! I made your favorite, Ggukie-ah!" she said, her enthusiasm shifting to the mention of the cake.

The dining room was filled with people, all of whom seemed to know each other well. You felt like an outsider, but you kept a polite smile on your face, determined to make a good impression. This house, or rather mansion, was overwhelming. Tall ceilings and crystal chandeliers loomed overhead, and the mansion was beautifully decorated, with twinkling lights and elegant ornaments adorning every corner. A massive Christmas tree stood in the center of the hall you passed on your way, its branches heavy with decorations and presents piled high underneath. It seems that the Jungs or maybe this whole family is rather obsessed just as much with crystal as it is with kidnapping women.

Jungkook introduced you to everyone you didn’t know, his grip on your hand never faltering. As you sat down at the long, elegant table, you noticed a blonde man watching you from across the room. His name was Park Jimin, and you knew exactly who he was.

A goddamn chairman of Dior looking at you and your little black dress Jungkook insisted you will wear. It was a gift, from whom he did not say. And your heart could not reject such a fine piece. 1947 Christian Dior, a classic embodiment of the fifties shape. You loved them, and your selfishness could not choose to not wear them. Jungkook was not bluffing when he said someone who could give you the job would be here after all.

The shocked look Jungkook noticed on your face when he introduced you to Jimin was much more evident than you intended it to be. He gave you a reassuring nod, and you took a deep breath, ready to face whatever came next.

"So, Y/N, how did you and Jungkook meet?" Hoseok’s voice raised above the murmur of conversation once the tightest circle settled around the table. Among what they refer to them as the elders. Parents, and other relatives. The previous generation you may call them, and judging by the greyness of some of their hair, even the one before. Jungkook did lend you to them to answer some, rather, traditional remarks that you tried not to let rot in your brain.

Oh dear, what a beauty you are, surely your children will be as beautiful. You look like a perfect match. You have such a kind face, dear. I'm sure you'll make a wonderful wife and mother.

Among which is the how you and Jungkook met.

This question was no different in the message it was sending.

His question was casual, but you sensed the curiosity behind it. His wife was sitting next to him and on the other side, none other than Namjoon and Peaches, followed by Seokjin, Yoongi, Taehyung, and Jimin. It looked almost biblical, this kind of hierarchy.

You smiled, trying to appear as natural as possible. You know he knew, every single person in this room knew that he knew but he asked anyway. His wife nudged him gently to stop prying, but he did not pay her more mind than putting his palm on her swollen belly.

"We met through work on Klein’s campaign," you began, your voice steady despite the pressure. They were waiting for you to slip up so they could eat you alive like hungry wolves.

Peaches smiled warmly, her hand resting on Namjoon's. You arched your brows at her demeanor as you could not quite place the state of her mind when it comes to, you know, all this.

Jungkook squeezed your hand gently, his eyes filled with pride.

"Ah, the Klein campaign," Seokjin said, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "That was quite a project, wasn't it? Jungkook mentioned how pivotal your role was."

Kim Seokjin is a lawyer. And a goddamn good one. The man would get you out of the death penalty and that’s maybe why Hoseok is keeping him close. At least, that’s what you heard. Each and one of them is somehow valuable to the infrastructure you don’t have the right to glimpse into, just yet. But how Jungkook falls into this scheme remains unknown.

You nodded, maintaining your composure. Breathing in and trying to ignore what his words were suggesting.

"Yes, it was a significant project. We both put a lot of effort into it."

"Effort, indeed," Yoongi chimed in, his voice low and smooth. You could not overlook the undertone. Jungkook narrowed his eyes at his oldest Hyungs, not quite understanding what they were trying to do. And here you thought he asked them to test you. You felt your cheeks heat up, the scrutiny intensifying.

Hoseok's wife, sensing the tension, tried to steer the conversation into something more—

"I loved the collection. Gguk is one hot motherfucker, cannot lie with that one."

You would not know how to call this kind of linguistic expression but, it seems, it worked.

Laughter erupted around the table, the tension easing slightly. Jungkook blushed at her comment, scratching the back of his head.

"Thanks, noona," he mumbled, clearly embarrassed but also grateful for the lighter mood.

Namjoon, ever the diplomat, leaned forward with a curious expression. "Y/N, what was the most challenging part of the Klein campaign for you?"

And now this started to seem like an interview. But for what? The job you were hunting for let's see if you can handle this family interview. You are trying to convince yourself that someone like Kim Namjoon cannot be this incredibly dull because he’s only testing how you’re going to behave. How do you know your way with words as this family needs to keep appearances.

You heard bits and pieces that you are now able to connect, at least a little. Jungkook was not in your imaginary map of this empire that people talk about in hushed voices. You were never that interested; you just wanted to keep doing what you love and have a roof over your head. Now you gotta do a lot more than just mind your business if you wanna stay in the line of your work.

Why?

Because you bloody want to.

You bloody want to reach the toppiest top of tops in the fashion industry as a designer. Even after all of this. You still want that; otherwise, you’d perish already. This dream of yours proved to be a conflict of interest not only in your head but also in this family.

To be or not to be, that is the question.

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of all eyes on you.

"Jeon Jungkook."

You said that with a somewhat strange lightness in your voice. Jungkook choked a little on his wine and Taehyung, who sat opposite him, gave him an exclusive view of his mischief grin, his tongue darting out to touch his upper teeth.

Another set of laughter erupted around the table. Jungkook, still recovering from his mini-choking incident, chuckled and squeezed your hand. And it was in that moment, amidst the laughter and warmth of this, let’s say, unconventional family, that you felt a sense of belonging you had never experienced before. Growing up, warmth and familial affection were foreign concepts, mere figments of your imagination. But here, with Jungkook and his family, you were starting to understand what it meant to be part of something bigger, something warm and real, and you certainly didn’t know how to feel.

People call them greedy but they prefer ambitious. Ambition, after all, is what drives us forward. Isn’t it? They weren't just a family; they were a well-oiled machine, each cog turning in perfect synchrony. Each person at the table had a role to play, a purpose that intertwined with the others.

The room seemed to close in as you sank deeper into your thoughts. The warm glow of the chandelier overhead, the laughter that felt like a distant hum in your ears, the rich aroma of food in the air—it all became background noise and your head was reeling with questions you wanted answers to.

What is it that changed within you?

The evening wore on, and it seemed Jungkook was more than pleased with you today, judging by how extremely happy he looked talking to his Hyungs. But your attention was on one person only now.

Jimin approached you during a lull in the conversation. "Can we talk for a moment?" he asked quietly. You turned your face back to Jungkook. You knew better, so you opted to ask for permission to be excused for a moment. You met Jungkook’s eyes, his expression softening slightly as he saw the silent request in yours. His gaze lingered for a moment before he gave a subtle nod, a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his lips, as if assuring you it was okay.

You stood up, excusing yourself politely to the group, and followed Jimin, your heart picking up its pace with every step. The air between you felt charged, as if there were unspoken words waiting to be voiced.

Once you were out of earshot from the others, Jimin led you to a quieter corner of the house, the low hum of the gathering fading into the background. His eyes met yours, and you could sense a mix of nervousness and something deeper behind them.

"I see you’ve received my gift." You glance down at the dress, fingers brushing the soft fabric.

"Thank you, Jungkook have to insist I wear them–" A small smile tugs at his lips, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. The held a quiet intensity, his usual playful demeanor replaced with something far more serious. The atmosphere around you seemed to change as he spoke, his words carrying weight.

"It’s good you’re focused on Jungkook—" his hands were paying attention to the crystal glasses he was pouring Kim’s brandy into.

"Well, it’s not like I had a choice." You stumbled awkwardly. You cannot mess this up, Y/N. You just can’t. You kept repeating to yourself that you had to, or otherwise, you’d do something Jungkook would not fancy at all.

Jimin didn’t seem to notice your discomfort as he handed you a glass of brandy, his gaze still fixed on the amber liquid swirling in his glass. "You’ve always got a choice in this family," he said, his voice low, almost too calm for the conversation you were having.

"It’s up to you if you choose wrong or right."

The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy, as Jimin’s gaze finally met yours. You took a slow breath, trying to steady the racing thoughts inside your mind. The glass of brandy in your hand suddenly felt like a weight you weren’t prepared to carry.

"What do you mean?" the words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them.

"Jungkook might not be in the center of all this—" he gestured to the lavish room you were in. This was a private office, and from what you gathered with your wandering eyes, it was Hoseok’s office.

"But he is still part of the family just like I am—" His posture relaxed, but his eyes betrayed an undercurrent of something deeper. You listened to him, gulping every word he said. "Just like you ought to be."

"He’s not just the charming guy you think he is. He’s tied to a world you don’t understand yet, and it’s not a world you can just walk away from if things go south."

For a moment, you couldn’t find your voice.

"Why are you telling me this now?" He took a long sip of his brandy, his gaze flicking briefly to the door before locking onto yours again.

"Because I need you to understand you are going nowhere if I offer you the position." The air between you thickened, and your pulse quickened as Jimin’s words sank in. You opened your mouth to respond, but your voice faltered. Jimin let out a soft sigh, the corner of his mouth curling up slightly as he leaned in, his voice lowering, now more direct.

"I need you to know that this is a goddamn privilege—" But the look in his eyes told you it wasn’t that simple.

"Women in this family do not work, they don’t have to." His voice was low and measured, but there was no mistaking the command behind his words. You slightly flinched at such an old stereotypical remark but remained silent. You can’t slip away.

The room felt smaller suddenly, the space between you shrinking with each word he spoke. You tried to steady yourself, to push past the shock and confusion that was flooding your mind, but it was difficult. And suddenly, you did not know whether you actually wanted this.

"Gguk seems to think that this will bring you two closer." His tone shifted ever so slightly, a faint edge of something you couldn’t quite name creeping into it. He wasn’t just making an observation, he was planting a seed, subtly drawing attention to something you hadn’t yet fully realized.

"So pardon me for ensuring that it fucking will."

You stood there, the glass of brandy suddenly feeling like it might slip from your hand, the weight of his words crashing over you. He leaned back slightly, his posture shifting to one that seemed more confident, more relaxed—like he was watching a show unfold and you were its central character.

"Hoseok was not pleased altogether, let me tell you that—" The silence that followed was deafening. Your mind raced, trying to process everything that had been said. Where is this leading to?

"—but if this helps you to know your place here, so be it."

"Jungkook’s not immune to the politics of this family. And neither are you," Jimin continued, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took another sip of brandy.

"So what is it you want from me?" Your voice came out stronger than you expected, but your heart was still pounding. You needed to know what he was after, what his angle was in all of this.

Jimin’s smile deepened, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

"There you go." He mused, laughing softly.

"You can have it all,—" he said, his voice soft but cutting.

"—only if you’re willing to make the right choice."

As the evening drew to a close, you found yourself standing by the Christmas tree with Jungkook. Back at the penthouse, the lights twinkled softly, casting a warm glow over the room. He looked down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of possessiveness and affection.

"You did well tonight," he murmured, his hand gently cupping your face. "I’m very proud of you."

You smiled up at him, feeling a strange mix of emotions. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, lingering kiss. Jungkook's fingers trailed down your cheek, pulling you closer.

"Let’s get ready for bed, or Santa won’t come and eat his cookies–" he said, his voice husky with emotion.

You smiled a little at his goofiness and nodded. He took your hand, leading you to the bedroom. The room was dimly lit, the moonlight casting silvery shadows on the floor. You could hear the distant hum of the city below. Not even on Christmas can the never-ending busyness of Manhattan be stopped.

Jungkook started undressing, his movements slow and deliberate. He pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the chiseled muscles of his chest and the tattoos that adorned his skin. You couldn’t help but admire the way the light played over his body, highlighting every contour and shadow.

As he turned to head to the bathroom, you slipped into the walk-in closet, needing a moment alone. The closet was a treasure trove of designer clothes, including your own designs for Klein. The scent of expensive fabrics and faint traces of perfume filled the air.

You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, the weight of the evening pressing down on you. Your heart raced, and your breaths came in shallow gasps. Panic gripped you, the pressure of the family’s scrutiny and the reality of your relationship with Jungkook closing in. So how are you going to stop them from getting into your head if they already planted the seeds?

You sank to the floor, surrounded by the clothes that represented your dreams and ambitions. The panic intensified, and tears welled up in your eyes. You closed them tightly, trying to calm yourself. 

Breathe, Y/N. Just breathe.

You focused on your breathing, counting each inhale and exhale, trying to ground yourself. Slowly, the panic began to subside, replaced by a sense of resolve. You couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not now.

"Baby, you coming?"

Jungkook's voice filtered through the closed door, warm and concerned.

He had stood by you. The whole evening. The whole time, actually. The memory of his touch, his kiss, his… love.

You wiped your eyes quickly, taking another deep breath before standing up. The panic had subsided, leaving you with a fragile sense of calm.

You took a moment to compose yourself, looking around at the clothes that symbolized both your dreams and the immense pressure you felt. You reminded yourself why you were here, why you endured the scrutiny and the stress: because you had a vision, a goal to reach the pinnacle of the fashion industry. And now, Jungkook was a part of that journey, whether you had planned it or not.

"I want my life back," you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips.

Opening the closet door, you stepped back into the dimly lit bedroom. Jungkook was waiting by the bathroom door, his concern evident in the way he studied your face. His shirtless form was suddenly a comforting sight, his presence grounding you in the reality that he was here, supporting you.

"Everything okay?" he asked softly, closing the distance between you with a few strides.

"Yeah," you replied, forcing a smile. "Just a bit overwhelmed."

Jungkook nodded, accepting your answer but not entirely convinced. His bare skin glowed, every muscle defined and accentuated by the dim light, an embodiment of raw beauty.

"Want to wash it away?"

He took your hand, leading you into the bathroom. The steam from the shower had filled the room, creating a warm, misty atmosphere that was both soothing and intimate.

You undressed slowly, Jungkook’s eyes never leaving you. The way he looked at you, with a mix of desire and affection, made your heart race for an entirely different reason. You stepped into the shower together, the hot water cascading over your bodies, washing away the remnants of the evening’s tension.

Jungkook pulled you close, his hands gliding over your wet skin. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The sensation of his strong arms around you, his body solid and warm, was a comfort you hadn’t realized you needed.

"You were amazing tonight," he murmured against your hair, his lips brushing your forehead. "I know it wasn’t easy, and I want you to know that I’m gonna keep my promise."

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him, your eyes searching his for any sign of doubt. But as you looked deeper, something shifted. The lenses through which you saw Jeon Jungkook began to tint with a soft, rosy hue. His face, so familiar yet infinitely captivating, seemed to glow with a newfound warmth. The world around you faded, and in that moment, the colors of your life transformed, blending into shades of pink and gold, painting a picture of something…something you never quite felt yet.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the water. "It means so much to me, Jungkook."

He smiled, a small, reassuring smile that made your heart flutter.

"I love you, baby."

The hot water cascaded over you both, creating a steamy haze that made everything feel surreal. Jungkook’s hands moved gently, tenderly, as if he was afraid you might break. You felt safe, cherished, and for a moment, all your fears and doubts melted away.

You did not flinch anymore when he ran his slender fingers over your perky nipples, not when his other hand slipped down the small of your back to grip your naked ass cheek. Instead, you leaned into his touch and asked yourself the same question you did hours ago.

What is it that changed within you?

The first light of Christmas Day filtered through the heavy drapes of the penthouse, casting a soft glow over the room. The world outside was quiet, blanketed in a gentle layer of snow that muffled the usual city sounds. You woke up to the warmth of Jungkook's arms wrapped around you, his breath steady and calm against your neck.

Jungkook stirred beside you, his eyes fluttering open. He smiled softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Merry Christmas," he whispered, his voice husky from sleep.

"Merry Christmas," you replied, your voice still groggy. The scent of pine from the Christmas tree in the living room mingled with the aroma of coffee brewing in the kitchen. It felt like a picture-perfect morning, almost too serene for the turmoil that often lingered beneath the surface of your life with Jungkook.

He got up and wrapped himself in a robe before heading to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. You took a moment to collect yourself, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep and the ever-present tension. As you joined him in the kitchen, you noticed the table set beautifully, with a spread of breakfast items that looked straight out of a holiday magazine. There was bits of this and that on the tray and after a long time, you had an appetite to eat it all. 

"Are we feeding an army or just trying to impress a really hungry ghost of Christmas past, Ebenezer?" you asked, raising an eyebrow at the lavish display.

Jungkook chuckled, a light-hearted sound that momentarily eased your nerves. "I thought we could indulge a little. It’s Christmas, after all."

You nodded, taking a seat at the table. The food was delicious, and the effort Jungkook had put into making this morning special was evident. For a moment, you allowed yourself to enjoy it, to pretend that everything was normal.

After breakfast, Jungkook led you to the living room where the Christmas tree stood, twinkling with lights and adorned with ornaments.

"Jungkook—" you began when you noticed the little beautifully wrapped box being tucked in the branches of the tree.

"I know, I know you said no gifts, but this is something for the both of us." His voice was gentle, almost pleading.

You sighed, but nodded, stepping closer to the tree. Jungkook reached for the box, carefully removing it from the branches. He turned to you, his eyes filled with an intensity that made your heart pound.

He handed you the box, his fingers brushing against yours. "Open it, baby," he urged softly.

Part of you wanted to freeze the moment, not because you wanted to remember this part of your life, but because you wished to not know what was coming your way. You had to decide now, and the tingly feeling inside of you, remembering Jimin’s words from last night, had never been clearer.

You can have it all, only if you’re willing to make the right choice.

Your hands trembled slightly as you unwrapped the box, revealing a small velvet case. You glanced up at Jungkook, your heart racing, but he simply nodded, encouraging you to continue.

You didn’t need to say it out loud for everyone to know what was inside. Yet, it still took your breath away. Not that you expected any less from Jeon Jungkook.

The ring commanded attention, with its centerpiece—a large, marquise-cut diamond. Set in a band of lustrous yellow gold, the setting featured intricate, filigree-style detailing that adorned each side of the diamond, evoking the elegance of a bygone era. Delicate, smaller accent diamonds were carefully embedded within the gold framework, amplifying the ring's dazzle and enhancing its vintage charm.

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked up from the ring at Jungkook, who had dropped to one knee before you.

"Will you marry me?"

.

.

.

I N T E R L O G U E

Yoongi leaned against the wall, his brow furrowed in thought. "You know, Jungkook, the mind is a fragile thing—"

"We've seen how the actual medication isn't helping her as much as we'd hoped. It's making her numb, Hyung. She's still spiraling. We need to try something different, something that might break through her—"

Yoongi crossed his arms, contemplating Jungkook's words. "And you think this is the way? To trick her into thinking she's taking the medication?"

"Sometimes," Jungkook replied softly, "a little deception can lead to the truth."

The end of part two - side B

©pennyellee. please do not repost

tag list: @pamzn - @jaedayy (was unable to tag) - @mylyus-blog (was unable to tag) - @vanillacupcakefrosting - @jjeonjjk7 - @darkuni63 - @jeonaraathedreamer - @urlovelily - @kissyfacekoo - @looneybleus - @btspurplesky - @seokseokjinkim - @doulcha - @sexytholland - @minyngrl-blog - @mizuumii (was unable to tag) @ali99eel - @loomipee @jkslvsnella - @tearykth - @iveivory - @lachimolalajeon - @mother2monsters - @junecat18 - @mayvalentine33 - @ttanniett - @elle0604 - @mageprincess7 - @laylasbunbunny - @ashthetic7 - @00frenchfries00 - @weareatthebadlands (was unable to tag) - @annafarrr -

Don't be a silent reader, let's be friends chummers! Only love please! ♥

see ya soon, love, p.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hope you can do this-

WE TOTALLY NEED t141 with a wife reader doing that one TikTok trend about standing naked in front of them, like they could be watching a rugby game and reader comes into the room with nothing but a towel on, drops the towel, completely flashes them and then leaves 😂

(you can do gender neutral if you don't want to do a female reader 💕)

HA! OKAY! I know this trend! I've seen videos of it before. Love, love, love this idea, anon. I could have gone real smutty, but I controlled myself (shocking, I know) and only went a bit cheeky (lol) with it. I hope you have a good laugh or smile while reading. Enjoy!!

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): established relationship, non-descriptive nudity, suggestive themes, dirty thoughts, shenanigans, swearing, implied sexual content

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

The documents are sprawled out across the dining room table. John has been pouring over them for hours, considering every bit of information, determining importance.

In his peripheral, you float about, a moving shadow that appears and disappears as you roam the house. John would like to spend time with you, to bask in your presence, but it’s not to be. This is far too important to merely set aside.

For a time, you disappear, then your shadow emerges again. John expects you to continue on, but you linger, and it draws his attention up and away from the documents.

You stand before him in nothing but a fluffy white towel. Your skin, that of what he can see, is slightly wet as if you’ve just emerged from the shower.

“Love?” he prompts.

You don’t speak. You simply drop the towel.

All thoughts of the upcoming mission leave John’s head. In its place is your nakedness and the rushing of blood to his dick as it hardens.

As words form on his tongue, you abruptly turn, giving him a full view of your bare ass.

Fuck it, John thinks as he pushes back his chair.

The mission can fucking wait.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny’s tongue sticks out from between his teeth. It’s just a sliver of pink—a hint of the concentration brewing in his gaze.

“Come on,” he mutters, clicking the buttons on the controller. “Come on.”

He’s off. Away from work. Enjoying the comforts of home.

You appear from the right, directly between the television and the couch. Johnny notices but says nothing. When you don’t move away, he glances over. You’re in nothing but a fluffy, white towel.

“Coming to join me, love?” he asks with a wink.

As a reply, you smirk, and then drop the towel you’re wearing. It pools at your feet.

Johnny’s gaze completely shifts in your direction. He stares…and stares, the video game forgotten. You’re completely naked, looking goddamn delicious. All the blood in his brain promptly rushes to between his legs, building an aching need that grows by the second.

And you’re…walking away? No. You should be sitting in his lap right now. You should be on his dick.

“Oi!” he shouts, standing abruptly, the controller clattering to the floor.

You glance over your shoulder, and Johnny melts under that look. Desire hangs heavy, and Johnny decides right then that the game can wait.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle leans against the kitchen counter, his gaze distant as Price chatters away in his ear. They’ve been on the phone for five minutes—a new record for Price who thinks cellphones are evil incarnate—and the man won’t shut up.

“No,” says Kyle, keeping his tone neutral. “I hear you. It’s a fucking mess that one.”

You appear from around the corner in nothing but a towel. Kyle smirks in your general direction, extending one arm toward you with the intent to draw you close to him. But you do not approach. You remain completely out of reach.

Frowning, Kyle pushes off from the counter. The words begin to form on his lips and then promptly disappear when you abruptly drop the towel.

His mouth hangs open, breath stolen, with gaze fixated on all that nakedness.

Price is still talking—still jabbering.

Kyle hears none of it. Price’s voice becomes a low buzz as all of Kyle’s attention goes from his head to his dick.

“Captain,” he manages to gasp out as you dart away down the hall. “Captain. I have to go.”

Kyle doesn’t wait for Price’s affirmative. He ends the call, legs already moving to follow you.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon lifts the hammer, intent on striking the nail to push it further into the wall.

Just as he brings his arm down, a shadow appears in his peripheral. Within him is a tug—an insistent urge to look and seek out the source of the movement.

And Simon does.

Shifting his head just enough for the shadow to become solid, Simon’s gaze falls upon the one person he loves most in this world. It’s only seconds that pass, but his brain registers everything about your figure in an instant. It’s your exposed skin, then the towel wrapped around your body, to you opening it up to reveal the nakedness underneath, only for you to drop the towel where it pools on the floor.

The hammer comes crashing down, but Simon doesn’t notice that the trajectory has shifted. Not until it falls, and misses the nail, coming down on his hand.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he growls, staring down at his now throbbing thumb.

Simon glances up, ready to tell you off, but you’re already walking away, bare ass on full display.

You naught thing. Distracting him on purpose.

Simon sets down the hammer, following, intent on teaching you a lesson.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@fern-reads @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus

@beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx @chaostwinsofdestruction @weasleytwins-41

@saoirse06 @glassgulls @ravenpoe67 @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

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@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @glassgulls @greeniegreengreen

[krosiefics]

i wanna see you naked • yang jeongin

M D N I 18+

Synopsis: You and Jeongin decide to play two truths and a lie, taking shots of soju as a punishment. Who knew that with all the drinking Jeongin would confess his fantasies about you.

WC: 2k

Tags/Warnings: afab!reader, softdom!jeongin, bsf!jeongin, pure smut, pwp, intoxicated sex FULLY CONSENSUAL, piv, unprotected sex (DON’T DO THAT…also pee after sex guys), creampie, breeding kink(?), grinding, cunnilingus (clothed cunnilingus), fingering, hair pulling, doggystyle, light spanking, not proof read

a/n: YES THIS IS INSPIRED BY HIS SOLO STAGE BECAUSE WTF WAS THAT…Baby Bread nuh uh more like Daddy Toast…sorry-look I know Jeongin’s saying “call you my hallucination” (????) I think…it’s something hallucinations- but let’s all admit we ALL heard ‘I wanna see you naked’

“Ugh, I’m so bored!” You groaned, tossing your head back. You sat on the floor in front of the sofa while your best friend played and braided your hair behind you. “Hey, isn’t me doing your hair fun?” The black hair boy with a bleached spot commented. You turned your head, shooting him a playful glare. “You’re the one braiding it.”

“Fine, fine. What if we play a game?” Jeongin hummed, a piece of your hair unbraiding itself when his fingers loosened. “Ooh, two truths and a lie!” You say excitedly, giving him the strand of hair that had fallen against the nape of your neck, “I’ll start!”

“You suck at braiding hair. I don’t like your weirdly spotted hair…and,” you begin to ponder a third statement, “and I think your dimples are cute.”

You smile to yourself, a small tug of your hair causes you to scowl, “Hey!”

“I do not suck at braiding hair, I’m just learning!” Jeongin scoffs in a jokingly offended tone.

You turn over your shoulder again, Jeongin’s grasp on your hair seizing yet again. You give him an unamused look, shaking your head.

“What’s the lie Innie?” You prompt him, “I dunno…you’ve never called my simple cute before so that’s weird. And you haven’t really cared about my hair…I’m gonna say it’s the hair one?” Jeongin stated in a questioning manner, shrugging as he attempted to restart the braid- again. You pull your hair away, swiveling your body to face Jeongin.

“Correct, I do like your weirdly spotted hair. What do you want?” Jeongin gave you a confused look, “What do you mean ‘what do I want’?”

“Well you won that round, what do you want?”

“Oh we’re getting penalties?” Jeongin hummed in amusement, his interest peaking in this game, “Go get me one of those mochis you hide, I know you have some.”

You frown at him before getting up from your spot on the floor to retrieve the doughy dessert. A few more rounds of the game went on before the two of you decided to turn it into a drinking game, a shot of soju for every loss. You’ve lost track of how many rounds have gone by, your mind too fuzzy from the alcohol to recall.

“Okay, my turn again!” Jeongin grinned, he wasn’t nearly as drunk as you, having given you insane scenarios to choose from and getting almost every round of yours right. “I’ve seen you naked.”

“What?!” Your eyes shoot open, Jeongin’s statement sobering you slightly. “You want to see me naked.”

Your cheeks flush red, cause it’s true- though you’d never admit it. You must be a madman to not think that your best friend is hot, and that fact alone has made you have some thoughts about him.

“And, I wanna see you naked.”

Jeongin’s cheeks had a pink hue, though you couldn’t tell if it was from the alcohol. “What?” You breathed out shakily, you could feel yourself become aroused, you blamed the soju for that.

“I…I wanna see you naked.” Jeongin repeated himself, his face turning a darker shade of pink now.

You had no clue what possessed you to strip yourself of your loose t-shirt, but you blamed it on the alcohol. Jeongin watched your every move as you rid yourself of the material, his lip caught between his teeth. The sight alone sent arousal straight to his hardening cock, twitching in his pants.

You tossed the shirt somewhere onto the floor nearby, barring your bra covered chest to Jeongin. The black haired boy stared at you, his eyes grazing every bit of your exposed skin. He hesitantly brought his hand up before trailing his index finger along your bra strap.

Jeongin’s fingers trailed along the top trim of the bra, following the curve of your breast. Your breath hitches and he stops, Jeongin gives you a knowing look, you simply shake your head assuring him to go on. “Can I…can I take this off?” He stared up at you with flushed cheeks and a lazy soft gaze.

“Only if you,” You say, you bring your hand up to the hem of his white t-shirt implying your want, “take this off too.” Jeongin happily complies, a wide grin plastered across his face as he lifted and tugged his shirt over his head. “So I guess you do wanna see me naked.” He grins, you let out a playful huff.

Jeongin watches as your chest heaves and your thighs rub together under his eyes. Jeongin shifted closer towards you, “Is this okay?” His breath fanned across your cheek to your ear, you simply nodded in response. Jeongin’s fingers unclasped your bra from the back, the straps falling off your shoulders before the full undergarment was discarded.

The boy in front of you just stared in awe at your body, his eyes ranking up and down each curve of your breasts and waist. Growing timid under his gaze, you cross your arms in front of your body.

“Are you uncomfortable?” He asks, his hand reaching to rest gently on your knee.

“No,” You breath out shakily, “I dunno…I know it’s weird but…I want it so bad- fuck I want you so bad.” You ramble, your trembling hands cupping his face. Oh how you wanted to lean in and kiss his pink lips. “Fucking hell.” Jeongin breathed out before connecting your lips together.

His lips were rough against yours, every ounce of lust and desire fueling the kiss. You raised from your spot on the floor, climbing onto Jeongin’s lap, straddling his thighs. Jeongin’s hands are immediately on your body, trailing them along your hips to your waist. His hands trailed slowly towards your ass, but never quite grabbed you.

Out of frustration you took his hands in yours and placed them on your ass, letting him know that it’s okay. Jeongin’s rough hands squeezed the fatty flesh before rubbing the area. You moan into his mouth when you feel his erection poking your clothed cunt.

“Fuck,” You bite your lip, pulling away from the kiss and resting your head against his. “Wanted this for so long, Innie.” You whine as his hands cup your breast, his fingers flicking your hardened buds. “Shit baby, I’ve wanted this too!” Jeongin says, his hips bucking into you.

Your hands fumble to his waistband, trying to desperately free him of the clothing. Jeongin’s lips attached to your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin there. Once you tugged at his slacks, he lifted his hips, letting you slide the pants along with his underwear down.

“Fuck, can I?” You say, pulling away from his lips once more as you stared at his erected cock. “Next time babe.” Jeongin said, watching you with amusement as you drooled over his cock. He swiftly flipped you onto your back, his fingers going to the waistband of your loose shorts.

You helped Jeongin slide them down your shorts, as you were gonna reach to pull your underwear down, he stopped you. “Don’t.” Jeongin simply stated, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

He maneuvered himself downwards till he was settled between your legs. Jeongin left kisses along your thighs up towards your heat. As he stared at your panties, he noticed a wet patch of your arousal stained on them, a sense of pride swelled over him knowing that he was the cause of it.

Jeongin suddenly leaned in and licked a stripe up your folds, a gasped moan falling from your lips as he continued lapping up your covered cunt. “Ah, Innie…they’ll be ruined.” You could feel the vibrations of his chuckle against your throbbing cunt, “I’ll buy you new ones, yeah?” He said, his hand making its way between your legs, slipping them under your panties and circling around your entrance.

“Ah, fuck Innie.” You moaned out as his finger nudged your panty to the side allowing his younger to finally meet your leaking pussy. Jeongin worked his finger in and out of your hole, stretching you by pushing another in, curling them at the right angle.

“Innie-“ You whined, neediness taking out your body, “Jeongin- stop!” And he did, Jeongin looked at you with round eyes, worried that he did something wrong or that he hurt you. “Are you okay?!” He says, pulling his finger out and wiping it on the couch cushion.

“I’m fine Innie, but if you don’t fuck me right now, so help me God.” Jeongin let out a sigh of relief before a small chuckle escaped his lips, “You’re so beautiful, you know that?” He said climbing up to your face and leaving a kiss on your cheek.

You felt your face flush, “I- Jeongin…don’t just say stuff like that I- what?!” The words you formed in your head went numb on your tongue. Jeongin simply bit his lip cockily. “You…ugh.” You groaned, pushing his body off of yours, straddling his hips once again before taking his cock in your hand and dragging it along your wet folds.

“Oh fuck.” Jeongin hissed, his hands flying to your hips, gripping tightly. Every trace of his cockiness was wiped away. You could feel him throbbing underneath you, the veins along his cock protruding at the need for friction. “Babe, don’t start something you can’t finish.” Jeongin warns, squeezing the flesh at your hip.

“Who says I can’t finish it?” You taunt, a playful smirk on your face. Before you could blink, Jeongin had flipped you over the couch, your hands pinned above your head with one of his hands as his other guided the tip of his cock to your entrance.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Jeongin smirks, barely pushing his tip in before pulling out again. “This is still okay right? You don’t need me to stop-“ “Yang Jeongin! I swear if you ask me that one more time- if I want you to stop I’ll tell you, just fuck me already.”

With your confirmation, Jeongin flushes out against your ass as he pushes himself into your warm heat. Erotic moans falling from both of your mouths. “Shit, you’re so tight baby.”

“Fuck, I feel so full.” You whine as Jeongin starts thrusting into you.

Jeongin watches as your tits bounce with each thrust he gives. His eyes linger on your ass as it smacks against his pelvis. A sudden smack echoed throughout the living space, followed by a sting of pain on your asscheek. Jeongin watched as the flesh moved under his touch, how it reddened so quickly, how you moaned as he spanked you.

“You're so pretty like this, bent over and taking my cock like this.” Jeongin’s words go straight to your cunt, that familiar knot forming in your stomach.

“Holy fuck I’m gonna cum.” You whimpered as Jeongin continued pounding you from behind. You were suddenly pulled back by your hair, forcing you to look up. “You gonna cum on my cock, doll?” Jeongin mumbled, his grip on your hair loosening so that he doesn’t hurt you.

“Mmm, fuck yes Innie! Please can I cum.” You cried out as your climax neared. “Cum on my cock baby, you got it.” He encouraged, his pace never faltering. A few more thrust and you orgasmed, a watery liquid wetting the two of you. “Fuck, you’re so sexy- you’re clenching so hard on me, doll.”

“Shit I’m gonna cum- where do you want it?” Jeongin grunted, his fingers retreating from your hair and wrists, gripping your hips yet again for support. “Inside.” You whimpered due to the overstimulation. Jeongin groaned as he filled you up with his seed, resting his head against the back of your shoulder as he emptied out inside of you, “You’re milking my cock so well baby.”

After pulling out and washing up, the two of you just layed there on the sofa in a daze. “So what was the lie?” You broke the silence. Jeongin looked over at you with a small smile, “That I had seen you naked- which I guess now isn’t necessarily a lie anymore.”

[ssahotchnerr]

girl!dad aaron reading to his daughter over the phone while on a case! 🥹 just like that one episode of jj and henry 😭🥰

nightmares

i will sob. 🥺 i'm also setting this in ellie's bad dreams era :( cw; fem!reader, girl dad!aaron, slight angst, fluff <3

"It looks like this is his comfort zone." Using a red marker, Spencer circled an area on the map. "If we pinpoint-"

As he was continuing his thought, Aaron's phone rang. He fully expected to see Penelope's name, anticipating her call as she was working her magic to narrow down a pool of potential unsubs. However, his eyebrows furrowed in worry as he saw it was from you instead.

"Excuse me." He spoke lowly yet urgently, keeping his eyes on his screen and hurrying away with no hesitation, missing the team's concerned glances.

"Hey," he answered, closing the door to the empty conference room behind him. There was knowing feeling deep in his chest - and a grim one at that. "Everything alright?"

"Kinda... no." You switched up quickly with a sigh, slight distress in your voice. "I'm sorry, I know you're busy. But can you spare a minute or two?"

"Another nightmare?" Aaron's eyes shot to the clock perched on the wall. While it was somewhat early for him, it was getting late back home, timezones to thank. And doing the math quickly, bedtime for the kids had been about two hours ago. So sadly this - right on schedule.

You hummed in confirmation, beginning with the positive first. "She fell asleep in her bed tonight, actually. Went down easy, not much protest. But then woke up crying, and was nearly inconsolable for a while. She's with me now." Your eyes shifted down to your frightened daughter besides you, who was inching closer and closer to seemingly making herself smaller. "And keeps asking for you."

Aaron glanced out; the team was still preoccupied, discussing the geographical profile amongst themselves, and could definitely manage without him for a while longer. "Yeah, I have some time."

There was a quick rustle as you set your phone down, placing it on speaker. Your voice was farther now, not by much, but it felt treacherously distant, as if more miles had been added. "It's Daddy, honey."

"Hey Ellie Bellie." Aaron's tone quieted, his face softening as he spoke. "What's the matter?"

A light sniffle came from the other end. "I had a scary dream."

"A scary dream, huh?" He repeated, an achy pang producing in his chest. Ellie's nightmares have been occurring for a while now, and indubitably becoming a problem. You both expected the dreams to run their course, eventually pass, and things would return to normal. But as time moved forward, it was becoming clear it was well beyond that as they worsened. "It's okay, you're safe with Mom now, right?"

Ellie nodded, unknowingly to him. Her small voice cracked, laced with tears. "I want you."

"I know, and I'll be home when work lets me, I promise. You can even use my pillow tonight too, if you want." He bit down onto his lip as Ellie mumbled a small 'okay' in response. Hard. "Or how about a story? Would that help you feel better?"

Her head rose up and down again, prompting you to speak up as Aaron was met with only her silence.

"We have a few right here." You reached across her, grabbing the few storybooks that frequented Aaron's nightstand and settling back against your own pillow.

"Your pick sweetheart." Aaron pulled a chair from the table, sitting down and making himself comfortable momentarily.

"Goodnight Moon?"

Goodnight Moon, also one of Jack's favorites when he was younger. Between him and Ellie, Aaron's read it so many times, he had the entirety of the book memorized. In addition, Ellie's other, more lengthy favorites - he had gone through and cleverly taken a picture of each page, all stored safely in his camera roll for instances such as tonight. No matter where he happened to be, he could read the text, while also drawing attention to and discussing the images with her.

"Sure. Get all comfy and cozy up to Mom, yeah?"

Ellie nestled herself more into your side, her head resting on your arm as she death-gripped onto her plush bunny. You adjusted the duvet to adequately cover the two of you, scooting down and propping the book up for the two of you to see.

"We're ready when you are." You told Aaron, brushing a few stray strands of hair away from Ellie's face.

As your brief sentence concluded, a harsh pinch formed behind Aaron's eyes, the guilt creeping in as he pictured the two of you laid together, where he also should've been. His little girl was beside herself in fear, wanted him, and yet here he was. Far away on the other side of the country. He felt as if he were failing her; letting her down.

Aaron swallowed to even out his voice, to sound as cheery as he possibly could, and to refrain any agony from being heard. He took a deep, yet small guttural breath.

"In the great green room..."

[ubeb0nes]

Sevika x Fem!Bar Owner!Reader - The One Who Pours the Drinks

Pt. 3 (can be read as standalone)

༇ ༇ ༇

Summary: After their (very homosexually-charged) estrangement a few weeks ago, Angel tries to bury the sour Sevika left in her heart. Sevika does the same, dismissing any meaning to be found in how she still makes sure to walk by the Five-Copper Furnace at least twice a week.

But one thing remains true: No one threatens the one who pours the drinks.

a/n: i'm a dirty filthy liar, i finished pt. 3 for bar owner reader before i even started my warmup for writing sevika's character LMFAO. will still do that prompt at some point!!

w/c: like 4.3k ish

༇ ༇ ༇

The world doesn’t stop spinning because of one person.

It’s a sentiment you were forced to be fond of in your life before the one you had now. People had always come and gone, it was the nature of the crime life, and it was certainly the nature of the Zaun one too. To stop and mourn for too long was to die.

And you had a business to run.

You did your best to count your lucky stars every night, reminding yourself as you wiped down the bar that there were other people. Plenty of women with smokey laughs and eyes like the moon. You were a good-looking bastard, you’d find the next one. You had all the time in the world now, away from the strife that used to follow you like a shadow.

Pay no mind to how you always swiped harder at the bar as you had these thoughts, slamming tumblers and plates into their places beneath the bar with extra vigor. Nor to how Zaun was about as different from Bilgewater as steel to iron.

Sevika’s men and their presence started to dwindle with hers, albeit more slowly; many of them almost seemed hesitant, apologetic. You caught one of them on your way into the bar to open it for the evening.

“I’m real sorry, Angel,” he’d said.

“I’m sure she’s got other work for you,” you said, waving him off as if it was- and indeed, it was- nothing personal. You only had problems with one ex-frequent of your bar. You weren’t even all that inclined to include the heavy muscle she brought in with her on the last visit.

“Always other work where the boss is concerned,” he affirmed, “But… this has been one of the better gigs.” You stayed static outside your bar for a moment as he walked away, your key still stuck in the lock.

It’s not like you needed protection in the first place, you were more than capable. Not that Sevika knew that. You grumbled to yourself as you organized the prep area behind the bar; you hadn’t had to give much mind to security the past several months, Sevika handled the matter in its entirety without you so much as having to ask.

It’s a sentiment you were forced to be fond of in your life before the one you had now. People had always come and gone, it was the nature of the crime life, and it was certainly the nature of the Zaun one too. To stop and mourn for too long was to die.

You’d have to add that back into your list of tasks. Along with putting all the stools up at closing time. And what were you supposed to do with all these damn cigarillos you had behind the counter? You didn’t smoke nearly as much as she did.

You smacked a hand that wasn’t yours away from the aforementioned stash, smirking when you heard a small, “Ow, jerk!”

“You’re not old enough to smoke.”

“It’s Zaun, babies would smoke if they could,” the boy, a little tail of yours named Kix, retorted, pouting as he hopped up on the counter. You sighed. “I finished that book you gave me.”

“Yeah? How was it?”

“Pretty good! And, I think, as a reward for finishing it, I should-”

“Yeah, I’m gonna stop you right there,” you said, stepping away to move the lemons you just sliced into a container. Your tail, of course, followed.

“Fine, can I at least finally get a knife?”

“When you can wield one of those batons without smacking yourself in the face, yeah. ‘Til then, hell no.”

“That’s a bad word!”

“Like you care!” You could only breathe out a laugh. The children of Zaun were sharp, often leaving you deeply amused and incredulous.

“Ugh,” he said dramatically, flailing against the bar. You shot one of your patrons an apologetic look at the antics of Stray Wet Cat #1. “But you have so many, Angel!” He exclaimed, “How’d you get those anyway? Did you kill somebody?”

I killed a lot of people, you wanted to say, but something told you that wouldn’t have been appropriate. “I told you before, Kix,” you started, voice gentle like a teacher’s, “Zaun isn’t the only place in the world where you need to defend yourself. The world is way bigger.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered to himself, pushing away from the bar and trudging back to the lounge area connected to the kitchen, where a few of the other kids spent their time. You frowned as you watched him walk away, then looked down at the paring knife in your right hand.

For the children of Zaun, life depended on which end of the knife you found yourself on, and oftentimes nothing more. How much were you really doing for them, giving them sandwiches to eat and rudimentary lessons on how to hold a blade? They all had to leave the bar at the end of each day, stepping back into the streets waiting to swallow them whole on their treks back home.

“Don’t be so hard on ya’self, Ang’,” the patron you’d shared a look with earlier interjected. You looked up at him in a daze, quickly putting on a thoughtful smile.

“I’m okay,” you replied simply.

“And so are those kids, thanks to you,” he said, “A little bit goes a long way in Zaun. These kids can stretch an inch of kindness, always have been able to.”

You saw eyes like slate in your mind as the gentleman went back to nursing his drink, and your smile faltered.

Weren’t these the kids Sevika claimed to be doing her righteous work for? What could she tell them as she chipped away at their safe haven, showing up bi-weekly just to take away a little more? You growled lowly as you swiped a cigarillo from beneath the counter, abiding the thought to linger in your mind- as if you could condition yourself to hate her faster.

You were busy staring down the end of the cigarillo as you lit it, almost too busy to notice how a wave of quiet had washed over the Five-Copper Furnace. Your eyes flicked to the door just in time, though.

Your busy mind halted all thoughts more trivial than the now, a low voice reminding you of the shotgun beneath your bar, the knives in your sleeves, and the preeminent experience in violence that scarred your skin. Four men wearing all manners of weapons, and gleaming belt buckles of meridian silver, stalked into your bar.

𒀭 𒀭 𒀭

Sevika was, for whatever reason, a woman well-versed in the department of odd and unwanted talents. Being weirdly good with kids was at the forefront.

“Oh! Captain-General Metal Arm Lady!” Well, she knew which kid that was*.*

“Why is my name so long?” She muttered to herself as she stopped anyway, and turned on her heel to face him. The boy, one of Angel’s little henchmen named Kix, skidded to a stop in front of her. “What is it, kid?” She asked gruffly.

“Where’ve you been? Are you and Angel having a lover’s quarrel?”

Isn’t he like twelve?? Sevika picked her jaw up from the ground as quickly as it’d fallen. “Who the hell even taught you what that is?” She asked incredulously.

“That’s a bad word. And I read it in a book. Are you coming to the Five-Copper?”

“No, I’m busy,” Sevika said flatly. Her brow furrowed at the way his face fell. Not like a child who’d been told no, but a boy who had something to fear. “…Why?”

“Well, uh… m-maybe you could just stop by?” He rocked back on his heels, looking over his shoulder at the bar in question. He’d caught Sevika so close to the place, he just needed to get her through the door… “I think Angel might… u-um…”

Sevika sighed. “Before tomorrow, Kix.”

“I think Angel might need you.”

Sevika scoffed, turning with a small flare of her cloak (drama queen), “She’s a big girl, she can handle herself just fine, kid. I gotta go.” A small, surprised grunt rose out of her when she felt a tug on her metal arm. She looked down at the boy, shooting him a glare that lacked even an inch of fire.

“Please, Miss Sevika! A bunch of guys just walked in and I don’t know them, a-and they have really ugly, scary faces, and-”

“Okay! Okay. C’mon, let’s go,” Sevika rattled her arm out of Kix’s grasp, sweeping it back beneath her cloak. The boy let out a small cheer as her broad form turned in the direction of the Five-Copper Furnace, and he fell into step under the cover of her shadow. “And don’t call me ‘Miss Sevika’. Just Sevika is alright,” she made a small, grossed-out sound.

“Okay! Does that mean we’re friends?”

“No,” she replied, giving his head a small nudge as they walked.

“Ack! Bully!”

The smile that began to flicker across her features promptly melted back into her perpetual frown as she watched almost half a dozen patrons leave the Five-Copper in succession. “How many of them were there, kid?” She asked in a low voice.

“Uh, I think four?”

Sevika hummed, stopping beside the entrance. She pulled Kix aside by the collar with her, as even more patrons filed out. “Are your friends in there?” She asked. The boy nodded. “Okay. Go get ‘em through the back. And go home.”

“But-!”

“Uh-uh. She’s already pissed at me enough, can’t imagine how mad she’d be if you brats got hurt once this goes down.”

“So…” Sevika felt a few grey hairs grow in at the same time Kix’s frown faded into a grin, “…it is a lover’s quarrel?”

“Kix!”

“Okay, bye Sevika!” He hopped up and down as if to charge himself up before sprinting off. Sevika watched as he nearly tripped over himself when he quickly halted again. “Uh… you won’t let them hurt Angel, right?”

“She’ll be fine,” Sevika said. She sighed as his feet stayed planted in the ground. Her voice was softer when she spoke again, “You have my word, kid. Angel will be okay.” He gave her a final grin, before darting off. Sevika cracked her neck as she zeroed back on the entrance to Angel’s bar. “Guess collections is early this month,” she muttered wryly, before pushing the door open.

𒀭 𒀭 𒀭

“These people don’t even know, do they?”

You breathed out tendrils of smoke from your nose, lowering your voice in line with the bounty hunter’s. His friends had stayed mute, opting to survey your patrons and the bar itself like three angry lighthouses.

You smiled slightly at those who hadn’t left yet, whose postures were coiled tightly like metal springs.

“I can’t imagine it’d change a thing,” you replied. You picked up the wanted poster (old fashioned, you were aware) he’d thrown on the counter, giving it another flippant once-over. Your likeness had been- rather skillfully- illustrated in the center, with meaningless words like ‘Wanted’ and ‘approach with care’ swimming around it.

God, I’m good-looking, you thought with a smile and a nod.

“And yet you have ‘em call you a different name. Bury your old one with the rest of your money, huh?”

“Oh, that isn’t buried. Not one bit,” Your face spread into a grin, wolfish teeth crushing the filter of the cigarillo. You saw the hunger that flickered in his eyes, a greed so romantically entwined with the people of Bilgewater that men died for it. Like this one would.

“Well, good to know! Between that and the hundred Golden Krakens on your head, you’ll make a fine cashout,” the rancid man said, “Angel.”

Your eyes widened slowly, mockingly. “A hundred Golden Krakens?” You echoed, “…Can I turn myself in?” Your eyes flicked casually to the door as you heard it open once again.

“Very funny. Now…”

Whatever the hunter had to say ceased to matter as you watched her walk in. Wide shoulders curved inwards, entering with the same intent your remaining customers all had. Sevika met your eyes immediately.

On one hand, not only was your safety further secured, but a return in a casket to your old city was all but out of the question now. Sevika wouldn’t let you die, at the very least, you knew that much.

On the other hand… Sevika was in your bar. Your eyes narrowed at her, and you gave her a look that practically screamed ‘piss off’ in spite of your other senses relaxing. She shook her head at you, matching your rising agitation with an annoyed curl of her lip.

Kix, she mouthed. Oh, thanks, kid. What a wingman.

You would’ve found it silly the way she stuck to the walls as she moved through the bar. Trying to get closer to you, you realized. A hand slamming down on the table and another grabbing your collar brought your attention back to more pressing matters.

Sevika felt her heart jump higher in her chest, and she resisted the urge to rush right to you and pluck that man’s head from the rest of him. A firm hand on her shoulder was all that prevented her, and she leveled her gaze with the fool who’d stepped in her line of view.

“We called dibs on this job, you’re too late,” the hunter said. Sevika furrowed her brows in brief confusion, but the pieces came together quickly in a mind as sharp as hers.

Bounty hunters? For you?

He gave her shoulder a shove, and Sevika let herself be moved. Some distance to deploy her left arm’s blade, good. “Go on,” he growled.

A scream from the bar counter swiveled all heads in that direction.

Sevika’s eyes widened as your name started to rise in her throat, until she saw the main perpetrator sink like a stone in water… his hand left behind in your grasp. You wiped the knife on your apron, throwing your still-burning cigarillo at him as he writhed on the floor.

Sevika threw her cloak to the ground before her sensibilities turned to steel.

𒀭 𒀭 𒀭

You would’ve made a fine alchemist, if you hadn’t chosen the more profitable industry of alcoholism instead.

You also would’ve been far less likely to have ever encountered Sevika and the all-consuming rage she inspired in you if you’d started an Apothecary. What with her- very much expected- aversion to seeking out any medical assistance of any sort.

“Ow.”

“Stay still.”

“Ow.” Sevika hissed when you pressed the tonic-doused cloth to her wound with the exact same vigor as before, thrashing away from you. You sat up straight, leveling her with a look that seethed with your indignance.

“You’re acting like a wuss.”

“And you’re acting like a child who didn’t get her way,” she snapped. Your eye twitched, and so you closed them to take a moment to gather yourself.

You missed the way Sevika’s gaze fell slowly to your lap, eyes creasing as she frowned at your battered hands. You hadn’t had time to pull your gun from beneath the bar before shit went down, and so you’d resorted to hacking with hand and blade. Sevika had been at your back like a magnet, sticking to you and letting the hunters come to her. You’d held your own valiantly.

She only serviced you a lukewarm glare as you moved back to her, this time gently easing the cloth onto her wounded cheek. You held her in place by the other side of her face. “You can take a punch but not a wound disinfectant,” you quipped.

“I took more than just a punch recently, princess.” Sevika side-eyed you when your touch faltered, letting out a shallow huff from her nose.

“Unbelievable…” you muttered.

“Who the hell were those guys? What could they possibly want with you?” Sevika asked. You jutted your lip at her in annoyance when her movements shifted the cloth.

She looked down to ponder the fight from a few hours ago (the lower floor was still an absolute wreck, but that was a problem for you to deal with tomorrow). Silver teeth; and weaponry not at all reminiscient of anything you’d find in Zaun, or Piltover. They had moved with an erratic tick to their attacks, not completely unlike the Shimmer-dependent henchmen Silco kept; although their addiction ran strictly red.

“They weren’t Zaunites,” she mused aloud.

“…No. They weren’t. They were from Bilgewater.”

You freed your other hand to reach for your wanted poster you’d nabbed before heading upstairs, and handed it to Sevika. There was a hanging silence between you as she read the same words over and over again.

“They got your likeness wrong,” she said. You pursed your lips, waiting. “Your head is bigger than that.”

“Shut up.”

Sevika chuckled; or at least gave a limp attempt at it. Her hand holding the poster fell with a soft crunch as she sighed. You let your own hands rest in your lap as she closed her eyes, and leaned her head over the back of your couch.

She had such a pretty neck. The lines of that strange scar were like wisps of blue smoke on her skin. You wanted to reach out to touch them, to thank her sweetly for defending you even as you spat fire on her wounds. You wanted to kiss all the smooth and rough patches you could see, lull her into a soft sleep-

“This is gonna get back to Silco in a couple of days tops.”

You scoffed. “What, is he gonna raise my rent? Doesn’t he have a revolution to claim to run?”

Deep down, you were impressed with what Sevika let you get away with saying to her. Inadvertently discounting her life’s work was no small thing, and you’d seen her put others on the ground for less. It was even more surprising when she gave a real answer to your poor-faithed question.

“You should’ve kept your head low. And let me deal with it. Not- cut a guy’s hand off.” She shook her head, rubbing her forehead. You opened your mouth to refute your lost honor, but she beat you to it, “You’re too… competent. He’ll wanna bring you in now. And you’re no good to the Undercity if he pockets you.”

You’re about to ask her why the hell does she work for him then, but another piece clicks into place before the words surface. Sevika watches the realization cross your face. “So that’s why you…”

“Trust me,” Sevika took hold of your wrist as she raised her head to stare scrutinizingly at your wall, and guided you to press the cloth back to her face. “The collections I take from you are cheaper than really being under his heel. You should see what he takes from that Sheriff up in Piltover.” She breathed out a humorless laugh. Your eyes widened, as the scope of Silco’s reach did too. **

You were a fool. Had going straight truly dulled your cunning mind? (Or was it just the handsome woman sitting in your living room…)

“That’s the discounted price too, by the way,” she muttered. You were pulled from your thoughts with a soft laugh.

“I knew you were fond of me.”

“I like what you do for the kids.”

“It’s nothing,” you said softly, surveying the injury on her face and deeming it sufficiently stabilized to move onto the next. You were glad, at least, that the brunt of the pain had been inflicted on you two rather than your good-willed customers.

Sevika’s brow furrowed as she watched you go through the motions of prepping her next injury. Truthfully, she didn’t know why she let you drag her upstairs in the first place; the way you coupled your attentive- if not presumptuous- touch with barbed jabs at her gall for walking into your bar should’ve pissed her off. But she let you move her like you were a breeze.

Your movements were practiced, like you’d spent a whole lifetime sweeping up the broken pieces of stupid, pointless fights. Sevika looked down at the wanted poster again. “…How much is 100 Golden Krakens?” She asked.

You hummed as you tried to think of the best comparison in Zaun’s economy, “Probably eightteen months’ worth of what I make running the bar.”

“Janna-”

You laughed heartily as you carefully peeled the wax paper from a bandage. Subconsciously, you rubbed over the wound once it was patched to soothe the ache, not noticing how Sevika’s gaze immediately went to your nimble hand. “Why, you thinkin’ about turning me in?” You teased.

“Funny,” she deadpanned, “Would be one less pain in the ass for me, though.” She gave you a pointed onceover. Her feigned exasperation melted into a grin when you slapped her leg (albeit very weakly).

“You just said you like me!”

“That isn’t what I said,” she said, still feigning dismissal so smugly. You hated how well she wore a petty smirk, or how pretty her teeth were when she gleaned a real smile.

(You wanted to kiss that stupid look right off her face.)

Instead, all you did was roll your eyes, collapsing on the opposite end of the couch. In Sevika’s mind, she just won that encounter.

“You mind if I smoke?”

You waved your hand, looking out the window of your kitchen, “Worse has happened in my house today.” She didn’t pull your gaze back to her until you heard her shifting around for a longer amount of time than it should’ve taken for someone to find a cig and lighter. “Lose your lighter?” You mocked, taking in the cigarillo hanging out of her mouth as she patted down her pockets with mild frustration on her face.

“One of the bastards must have knocked it out of my pack,” she said with an agitated sigh. Her eyes perked up at the metal clink of… your lighter. You laid your head back against the arm of the couch, resting the open lighter slightly above your abdomen. Sevika’s breath caught as she realized how close she’d have to get to you- how close you’d make her get to you- to get a light.

Her eyes narrowed into a glare as they slid up to meet your gaze. She wasn’t about to make a coward of herself now, though. She held your expectant stare as she leaned down between your legs, one of her hands boldly bracing on your shin with a slight squeeze. She cupped her hand protectively around yours as she lit the end of her cigarillo. The way your eyes widened and your chest stopped rising with breath wasn’t lost on her.

I take it back, Kix, she thought, I don’t think she’s all that pissed.

She turned her head to the side as she blew smoke from her mouth. “Tell me something,” she said, her voice nearly a purr. You had to fight with your own goddamn eyes to tear away from the small puffs of smoke that left her mouth as she spoke. You cocked a brow. “Were you a pirate or something?” She asked. Her eyes widened slightly when you met her with silence. “Oh, sweet hell…”

“Don’t laugh!”

She laughed. You loved that she did.

“That was… a long time ago,” you waved your hand like you could bat the memories away, but they’d never felt more with you than today. You had nearly forgotten how easy it was to snatch someone’s life away. You’d made a fortune on it once, and yet… the muscle of ruthlessness had grown weak and disoriented with lack of exercise. You frowned to yourself, shaking your head. “I did a lot of things I’m not proud of.”

Sevika shrugged, taking another drag. “We don’t choose where life puts us,” she replied. You shouldn’t have been surprised by such a… thoughtful sentence leaving her mouth. But your brows still raised slightly as you looked at her. “I’m not gonna be the one to judge you around here.”

You frowned, guilt jabbing in your gut. “But I did you.”

“Maybe you weren’t wrong for it,” she retorted softly. Your eyes widened. She inhaled softly before continuing, swiveling her gaze to meet yours again. “I used to try an’ push Silco to do more for the kids. Get books smuggled in in between all the Shimmer requisitions,” she scoffed, shaking her head. Your heart squeezed as you watched her carefully begin to pull the curtains around her true self back- for you. “Give people resources, just… something. I didn’t realize I let four years go by ‘til I saw you doing all that for the kids the moment you touched down here.”

You sighed, swinging your legs over the edge of the couch to rub your face with both hands. “You really think I won’t be able to help them at all once Silco comes knocking?” You asked, biting your lip as you felt like what was the only answer was slowly enclosing around you.

Immediately though, Sevika shook her head. Your mouth opened slightly in confusion as she stood up from your couch. “No. I’m gonna handle this,” the determination in her step would have been beyond adorable if it weren’t for your utter bemusement. “I… owe you,” she said slowly. You wanted to laugh at how her fierce bravado seemed to come to a skidding stop the moment she had to make an admission on her pride.

“Oh yeah?” You teased.

She rolled her eyes as she pulled her cloak back on over her shoulders, concealing that absolute unit of a figure from your prying eyes. You smiled at how her broad shoulders were still very apparent, and the beginnings of her v-line peeked out with that damn cropped vest- get it together, Angel. “He’s gonna know I was here anyway, might as well make something out of it,” she explained (right, you bought that…), pausing again to scrutinize you, “You’re all good?”

Trigonometric equations started floating around in your head as you tried to decipher what she could possibly mean with that question, until her arched brow turned judgemental at how long you were taking to answer.

Oh. She was just asking about your… general wellbeing. Aw!

“O-oh, yeah, I’m all good,” you said. Truthfully too, you were more used to fighting the Bilgewater types than her, and had come out of the confrontation mostly unscathed. Your jaw stuttered as if to say more when she hummed and took a swift step forward, tilting your head up with her index and thumb.

“You’re not lying?” She asked lowly, turning your head gently from side to side.

“E-even if I was, it’s none of your business,” you snapped defensively. Dumbass. Did you have any idea how red your face was?

With an amused exhale from her nose, Sevika gently let go of your chin, fleetingly brushing her crooked index over your cheek. “Whatever you say, princess,” she said. She didn’t even give you a chance to shoot back something clever (as if you had something prepared) before she was sweeping towards the door, fixing her cigarillo in the corner of her mouth. “Your bar’s a mess,” she quipped over her shoulder, just to be a dick.

“Fuck you!” You called after her, the smile on your face crystal-clear in your tone. The last thing you saw was her pretty side-profile as she half-glanced at you with smug amusement lining her face, before she closed the door behind her.

You slumped back on the couch, letting out a heavy sigh. “That goddamn woman…” you muttered, “Fuck.”

[kiwriteswords]

Because You're Just a Man [Aaron Hotchner x Reader]

Masterlist (updated!!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 10k|| AN: Who's going to explain to my boss that seeing this prompt caused me to get ZERO work done today. I'm getting more comfortable with writing smut again and this was honestly my favorite piece I have ever written so far! Also! Thank you for the encouragement on my original post @honeypiehotchner @ssamorganhotchner and @hoe4hotchner <3 Tags/Warnings: female reader, mdni, canon typical themes, sexual themes, flirting, hotch and reader pushing each others limits, jealous!Hotch, simp!Hotch, unprotected sex, horny hotch, horny reader, provoking hotch hours. Summary: Based on the prompt from @urfriendlywriter: "You're making it really hard to be a gentleman right now."

The hum of the BAU office felt different at night--quieter, but still charged with the weight of unfinished cases and the scent of stale coffee.

It was late, most of the team had already left, and the bullpen was washed in the dim glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of the overhead fluorescents. You sat at your desk, typing halfheartedly on your laptop, stealing occasional glances at the one person still in the office.

Hotch.

He sat in his glass-walled office, posture perfect as ever, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he’d been at this for hours. His jaw was tight, his fingers moving steadily across reports, and even from here, you could see the muscle in his cheek flex every time he clenched it.

God, he was impossible.

You’d been seeing him--or at least talking about the possibility of seeing him--for weeks now. There had been stolen moments, almost-confessions, a tension so thick between you that even the team had started noticing. But Hotch, ever the professional, ever the stoic leader, hadn’t given you much to go on. A lingering glance? A stray touch? A sharp inhale when you got too close? Sure. But he never acted. Never said anything.

Nothing concrete, anyways. 

And it was starting to drive you insane.

At first, you thought maybe he was just slow to act. That he wanted to be sure. But the more time passed, the more you started to wonder: Was he even attracted to you?

You knew he cared. You’d seen it in the way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking. In the way he checked in after cases, always ensuring you were okay. But physically? He was impossible to read. He was so composed, so disciplined, that you couldn’t tell if he was holding himself back or if he simply didn’t feel the way you did.

So you decided to test him.

Nothing outrageous, nothing too obvious--just enough to see if you could shake his composure.

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms overhead, the hem of your blouse riding up just a fraction. If he was looking, he didn’t show it.

Fine.

You stood slowly, making a deliberate show of gathering your things. You could feel the soft stretch of your pencil skirt as you shifted, the way your blouse clung just right in the low light. You weren’t normally one to be overly conscious of what you wore to work, but tonight? Tonight, you wanted him to notice.

File in hand, you took your time walking toward his office, letting the faint click of your heels punctuate the silence.

He didn’t look up right away, but you knew he knew you were there.

"Still working?" you asked, voice just a little softer than usual.

Hotch finally glanced up, dark eyes flicking to yours before settling back on the paperwork in front of him. "Looks that way." His voice was smooth, measured. Controlled.

You stepped inside, setting the file down on his desk--closer than necessary. Close enough that you could smell the subtle, clean scent of his cologne, something rich and warm beneath the sharpness of his aftershave.

"You should take a break," you mused, tilting your head slightly.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. "I don’t have time for a break."

"Not even for me?" You rested your hand against the edge of his desk, fingers just barely brushing the wood as you leaned in--just enough to make it impossible for him to ignore the proximity.

That did it.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but you saw it.

The slight shift of his jaw. The way his fingers tightened around his pen just briefly before setting it down.

A rush of satisfaction curled in your stomach.

So, he does notice.

But the moment passes as quickly as it came. Hotch barely spares you another glance, flipping the page of his report with that same unreadable, impassive expression. If he was affected, he sure as hell wasn’t showing it now.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, watching him.

That’s how you want to play it, Hotchner?

Fine.

You could almost see it--the way his mind worked, the methodical discipline he relied on to keep himself locked up tight. He was compartmentalizing. Shoving down whatever impulse had flickered through him the second he caught your scent, or felt the heat of your body just inches from his desk.

He wasn’t indifferent. He was deliberately refusing to acknowledge it.

That realization sent a slow hum of intrigue through you.

This wasn’t going to be as simple as you thought. If you wanted to get a real reaction out of him, you’d have to be smarter about it. Subtler.

You straightened up, deliberately not lingering the way you had been. Let him think you were backing off.

“Don’t work too hard,” you said lightly, turning toward the door.

You swore you felt his eyes on you as you walked away--but when you glanced back, he was already staring at his paperwork again, jaw tight.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Back at your desk, you settled into your chair and let your fingers drift over your keyboard, not really typing, not really thinking about work anymore. Instead, your mind was spinning, plotting.

What else would get to him?

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

You had all the time in the world to figure that out.

oxoxoxoxoxoxox

The conference room was buzzing with low chatter, the sound of files rustling, and the distant whir of the coffee machine in the bullpen. The team was gathering for a briefing, and you were one of the last to arrive, slipping in just as Hotch stood at the head of the table, setting down the case file.

You slid into the chair across from him, casually smoothing the hem of your skirt as you crossed your legs, slow and deliberate.

His gaze flicked up--so brief, so controlled, that anyone else would have missed it. But you didn’t.

Your stomach hummed with satisfaction.

His eyes dropped immediately to the folder in front of him, fingers adjusting his watch before flipping open the case file. His movements were precise, methodical. A man rebuilding his walls, brick by brick.

Good. You weren’t done testing their strength yet.

Morgan and JJ were still chatting, waiting for Garcia to finish setting up, so you leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand, watching Hotch as if you were actually interested in the file he was reading.

“You didn’t go home last night, did you?” you mused.

Hotch’s jaw tightened just slightly. “I was finishing reports.”

You hummed, tilting your head. “Right. That explains why you’re so grumpy today.”

“I’m not grumpy,” he replied, voice smooth, but the way his grip subtly flexed around his pen told you otherwise.

“You kind of are.” You let the amusement curl in your voice. “At least a little.”

His exhale was barely audible, a long, slow breath through his nose. He still wasn’t looking at you, keeping his attention on the paperwork in front of him, but his fingers tightened around his pen just slightly.

You smiled.

And then, because you wanted to see just how much he was holding back, you stretched--a lazy, innocent stretch, your back arching just enough to accentuate your figure, your blouse shifting ever so slightly.

Hotch froze.

Just for half a second.

But it was there.

The slight pause in the movement of his pen. The subtle way his jaw went even tighter. The fraction of a second where his eyes flicked toward you before snapping back to his papers.

You bit back a smirk.

This was working.

You tapped your fingers against the table, feigning nonchalance. “You know, Hotch, if you ever actually relaxed once in a while, I think the world would keep turning.”

His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to respond--but at that moment, Garcia’s voice burst through the moment, her usual chipper tone filling the room.

You didn’t miss the slight tension in Hotch’s shoulders as he very purposefully turned his full attention to the case.

He was trying so hard.

And it was only making you more determined.

xoxoxoxoooxox

The night air in Quantico was thick with humidity, the kind that settled into your skin and made the inside of the BAU feel heavier than usual. It made you wonder if this is where they decided to save bureaucratic dollars, by turning the air conditioner off when people worked after office hours.

Most of the team had already left, the bullpen dimly lit except for the faint glow of desk lamps and the occasional flicker of the coffee machine cycling through its last brew of the night.

Hotch was still in his office, as always.

And you were still here.

At first, your little experiments had been entertaining--a game to see if you could shake his impossible composure, test the limits of his discipline. And while you had noticed the cracks--those fleeting glances, the small shifts in body language--he never let them grow into something more.

And it was starting to piss you off.

It wasn’t as if you expected him to shove the desk between you aside and kiss you breathless (though the thought was an incredibly tempting one). But you needed something. A sign. A confirmation that this thing--this slow, unbearable push-and-pull--wasn’t just in your head.

Because if he wasn’t interested, if all of this was just a cruel trick of your own imagination, then what the hell were you doing?

You pushed away from your desk, snatching up the case file you’d been pretending to work on, and made your way up the stairs to his office.

His door was open, but he was in his usual state of intense focus--pen in hand, elbow resting on the desk, brows drawn together. His sleeves were rolled up now, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms, and his tie was loosened just enough to be tempting.

You leaned against the doorway, tilting your head. “You do realize the case is over, right?”

Hotch didn’t even look up. “Paperwork isn’t.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. “You work too much.”

“I’ve been told.”

There was something infuriating about his ability to stay perfectly neutral. You stepped closer, rounding his desk slightly, just enough to lean against the edge.

Close enough to be impossible to ignore.

“You ever think about taking a break? Doing something fun?”

His eyes flicked up at that--just for a second--but his expression didn’t change. “I have fun.”

You huffed a laugh, crossing your arms. “No, you don’t.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

You took it further. “When was the last time you let yourself actually relax?”

“I don’t have the luxury of--”

“Oh, come on, Hotch,” you interrupted, frustration leaking into your tone now. “You’re always like this. So composed, so in control.” You leaned in slightly, voice dipping into something just a little more pointed. “So unaffected.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. A warning. A silent caution that you were pushing too hard.

You ignored it.

You tilted your head, considering him, your frustration bubbling into something sharper.

And then, because you couldn’t stop yourself, because you were tired of second-guessing and waiting for something that might not even be there, you let the words slip:

"You must be the most disciplined man on the planet, Hotchner." You let it sit for a beat before adding, deliberately flippant, "Or maybe I’m just not your type."

That did it.

It was instant.

His pen stilled, fingers tightening around it before setting it down with deliberate care. His jaw tensed, the muscle there flickering under the low light. And then--finally--he looked at you.

Not a glance. Not a fleeting acknowledgment.

A look.

Slow. Measured. And dark in a way that made your breath hitch.

For the first time, you felt something shift in the air between you--something crackling, something dangerous.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders, his gaze locked onto yours like he was considering his next move. Like he was deciding.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before. “You really think that?”

Your stomach tightened.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as your pulse picked up. “Well, I don’t see you proving me wrong.”

His exhale was slow, controlled--like he was reining himself in.

And suddenly, you weren’t sure if you were the one poking him--or if you had just walked straight into something you weren’t ready for.

The room felt smaller.

Hotch hadn’t moved--not an inch. He was still leaning back in his chair, arms resting on the desk, posture as composed as ever. And yet, something had shifted.

Maybe it was in the air between you, thick with unsaid things.

Maybe it was in his eyes--still dark, still unreadable, but no longer distant.

Or maybe it was in the silence, the heavy pause after your words had landed, stretching just long enough for doubt to creep in.

Maybe you were right? Maybe you were wrong? 

"You really think that?"

He repeated. His voice was low, controlled, but there was something new in it. Something deliberate.

You lifted a shoulder in a shrug, determined to keep your ground, even as your heartbeat knocked against your ribs. “Well, again, I don’t see you proving me wrong.”

Hotch inhaled slowly, tilting his head ever so slightly as he studied you.

And then--he smirked.

It wasn’t full, wasn’t obvious, but it was there. The barest hint of amusement curling at the edges of his lips, just enough to make your stomach tighten.

“You’re impatient,” he murmured.

Your brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

He tapped his fingers against the desk once--just once--before leaning forward. Not much, but enough that the shift in proximity sent a shiver down your spine.

"You expect me to react on your timeline," he said, voice smooth, steady. "You think if I don’t, it means I don’t feel it." His eyes flickered over your face, slow and deliberate. "That I don’t want to."

Heat licked up your spine.

His words were careful, calculated--but there was something beneath them. A warning.

Your pulse quickened, but you refused to let him see it. You lifted your chin slightly. "Am I wrong?"

Hotch exhaled sharply, the ghost of a laugh under his breath, before shaking his head.

“No,” he admitted. “But you are underestimating me.”

Your stomach flipped.

You felt the weight of those words, how easily they unraveled the confidence you’d built up.

Underestimating him?

Your lips parted slightly, but before you could speak, he continued, voice dropping just slightly:

“If I wanted to give in, I would have already.”

The sheer certainty in his tone sent a thrill down your spine.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "So why haven’t you?"

He held your gaze steady and unwavering.

"Because I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of winning this little game you're playing."

Your breath caught.

So he knew.

He’d known this whole time.

Bastard. 

Every shift in your tone. Every touch that lingered just a little too long. Every glance, every tease, every attempt to get a reaction out of him.

He had seen all of it.

And he had been letting you play.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, frustration and thrill curling into one. You had been trying to push him, to get under his skin, but now it was you who felt unsteady, heat pooling low in your stomach.

"You think this is a game?" you challenged.

Hotch’s gaze flickered lower--just briefly, just enough to make your breath hitch--before snapping back to yours.

“I think you’re trying to get a reaction out of me,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “And I think you’re getting frustrated because I won’t give you one.”

You sucked in a breath, hands curling at your sides.

“And that’s why you’re underestimating me.”

Your throat tightened.

He’s turning this on you.

You had walked into this office thinking you were the one in control, that you were the one poking at his restraint.

But now, sitting there, completely composed, unshaken, he was making it clear:

He had never been the one losing control, but you did have an effect on him.

He was letting you think you were winning--letting you push, letting you test, letting you play.

But the second he wanted to break the tension, he would.

And not a moment sooner.

Silence stretched between you, and you realized that if you said anything now, you’d only be proving him right.

So you did the only thing you could.

You stepped back.

Not much. Just enough to put a few inches of space between you. Just enough to breathe.

Hotch’s lips twitched slightly, almost like he knew he had won this round.

"Goodnight," he said, voice as smooth as ever.

Your nails pressed into your palm, heat still simmering low in your stomach, but you forced yourself to stay composed as you turned.

And as you walked out of his office, one thought burned in your mind.

You had severely underestimated Aaron Hotchner.

And now, you were more determined than ever to make him break.

xxoxoxoxoxo

The local precinct smelled like stale coffee and cheap disinfectant, the kind of place that saw too many long nights and not enough successful arrests. The team had been working with the local PD all morning, briefing the officers, pouring over evidence, and establishing a strategy for catching the unsub. The air was thick with tension--case tension, but also something else.

Hotch tension.

You had been careful, playing it safe the last couple of days after your last conversation with him. He had successfully flipped your game back on you, made you second-guess your own approach, and that had annoyed you. But more than that--it had intrigued you.

You had underestimated him.

But that only made you want to try harder.

So now, standing in the middle of the precinct, surrounded by officers, detectives, and your team, you found your next move.

It happened when one of the younger officers--a rookie, maybe mid-twenties--sidled up beside you while you were scanning over a map of the unsub’s hunting ground. He was cocky, too casual for a case like this, but harmless enough.

“You guys always get put on the bad ones, huh?” he asked, shaking his head.

You hummed, glancing at him briefly. “Something like that.”

He smelled like cheap cologne and bad news. 

His eyes flicked over you--not in a way that was offensive, but in a way that was obvious. “So, what’s it like working for him?” His gaze drifted past you, and you knew exactly who he was referring to.

You glanced toward the other side of the room, where Hotch was standing with Rossi and Morgan, discussing logistics with the local captain. He was doing what he always did--keeping his tone measured, his posture unwavering, his presence demanding attention even when he wasn’t speaking.

“What do you mean?” you asked, playing dumb.

The rookie smirked. “I mean, he’s kind of intense, right? Seems like the type of guy who doesn’t let his team breathe.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, he lets us breathe. Just not when we’re wasting time.”

The officer chuckled, leaning slightly closer. “And what about after hours? He loosen up at all then?”

It was an innocent enough comment. It wasn’t inappropriate, wasn’t particularly suggestive, but it was loaded--an implication lingering beneath the surface.

And that’s when you felt it.

The shift.

It wasn’t obvious. No one else in the room would have noticed. But you did.

His energy--you could feel it surrounding you without him even making as much as a subtle eye movement. He was all around you. All at once. Just not physically. 

The way Hotch’s posture stiffened, ever so slightly.

The way his conversation faltered for just a fraction of a second before continuing.

The way his fingers twitched, like he had the urge to look over but refused to.

You had just done something dangerous.

And you liked it.

A slow, wicked idea unfurled in your mind.

You didn’t even have to flirt with the rookie. You just had to let him think he had a shot. Let Hotch think that someone else might be in your orbit.

So you smiled--just a small, amused smile--as you said, “Why? You looking for some FBI mentorship?”

The officer grinned. “I wouldn’t say no.”

And then, because you could, because you were feeling reckless, you let your fingers lightly trail over his forearm. A barely there touch. A casual, fleeting thing.

But it wasn’t casual at all.

You felt the shift further before you even looked up.

And when you finally glanced toward Hotch--when you saw the way his gaze was locked onto you now, the sharp, barely restrained tension in his features--you almost lost your own composure.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes?

His eyes were burning.

A rush of heat surged through your body.

Oh.

You had found something.

But before you could process it, Hotch’s voice cut through the air--calm, too calm.

“Agent,” he said sharply. “A word.”

Your stomach dropped.

And not in the way that made you nervous.

In the way that made your pulse spike.

You turned slowly, heart hammering, as Hotch gestured for you to follow him.

He didn’t wait for you--just walked toward one of the quieter hallways of the precinct, expecting you to keep up.

You did.

His legs were so long--such long strides. 

Your mind was racing, trying to figure out if he was mad or if this was something else--if you had finally managed to push too far.

When he finally stopped, he turned abruptly, standing so close that you almost collided into him.

His jaw was tight. His breathing controlled.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked up at him, playing the part of the innocent. “Excuse me?”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. “The officer.”

Your heart thumped. You knew what this was now.

It wasn’t anger.

It was something else entirely.

A slow, knowing smirk curved your lips. “Oh,” you said, tilting your head. “You were paying attention.”

His nostrils flared slightly.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, voice even lower now.

Your pulse thrummed in your throat. “Am I?”

Hotch’s gaze locked onto yours, something sharp, something restrained--but this time, barely.

For the first time, you knew you had him.

And now?

Now you were dying to see what happened when Aaron Hotchner stopped holding back.

The hallway was too quiet.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just you, hyperaware of every single breath, every shift in the air between you and Hotch. The precinct buzzed faintly in the distance, but here, in this small, dimly lit corridor, it felt like another world entirely.

Hotch hadn’t moved.

Neither had you.

The space between you was barely a few inches, and yet, the tension crackled like a live wire, sparking in the narrow gap separating you.

His jaw was tight. His shoulders squared. His hands twitched--just slightly, like he was debating what to do with them.

Hotch exhaled through his nose, slow, measured, but there was something off about it--something that told you it wasn’t just an exhale. It was restraint.

Tightly coiled, barely-leashed restraint.

You had never seen him like this.

He was always so careful. So composed. So in control.

But right now? Right now, there was something just beneath the surface, something barely held together by the thread of his discipline.

And it was because of you.

You could feel your pulse hammering against your ribs, heat rising up your spine, but you didn’t step back.

Neither did he.

“I didn’t realize talking to an officer was against BAU protocol,” you mused, letting the words hang in the air between you, testing, pushing.

Hotch’s eyes darkened. “That’s not what this is about.”

Your lips curled slightly, your confidence returning in full force. “No?”

His breath hitched--just a fraction, just enough.

Then, before you could blink, he took a step closer.

It was subtle. Barely there.

But it was deliberate.

You were trained to decipher human behavior, after all. This man--he was one of the hardest shells to crack, but something told you how to put the pieces together now. 

Your spine straightened instinctively, the sudden nearness setting off a slow burn low in your stomach.

For the first time, it felt like he was the one testing you.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he murmured, voice dangerously low.

A shiver trailed down your spine.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze, even as the heat between you thickened. “And what am I doing, Hotch?”

His jaw ticked. “You want a reaction.”

You tilted your head slightly, barely suppressing a smirk. “Do I?”

His exhale was sharp this time, less measured, less composed. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was physically keeping himself from moving.

Then, before you could process what was happening, he leaned in--just enough that his breath ghosted over your skin, warm, sharp.

“You really want to test me?” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

Your lips parted slightly, a retort forming, but nothing came out.

Hotch let the moment hang, suspended, the air thick with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then--just as quickly as he had closed the space--he pulled back, his expression unreadable once more.

His discipline snapped back into place like a steel trap, as if he had never let it slip at all.

But you had seen it.

You had felt it.

And as he straightened, adjusting his tie, clearing his throat, you knew.

He wasn’t unaffected.

Not even close.

“Get back to work,” he said finally, voice smooth, controlled.

But he didn’t look at you when he said it.

And that?

That told you everything you needed to know.

You thought you had won.

You felt the tension, saw the moment Hotch nearly cracked, heard the shift in his breath. You knew now--knew for certain--that you affected him. That you weren’t imagining things.

That Aaron Hotchner wanted you.

And yet, as you walked back into the main room of the precinct, trying to steady your own breathing, trying to refocus on the case, something gnawed at you.

Because when he had pulled back, when he had gathered himself, when he had smoothed his tie and sent you back to work like nothing had happened--there had been something in his expression.

Not regret. Not hesitation.

Something else.

And you realized it too late.

You had just handed him the upper hand.

oxoxoxoxoxxoox

It started small.

You were seated at the long table in the precinct’s war room, reviewing files, mapping out patterns on a whiteboard with Morgan and Prentiss, when you felt it.

A gaze.

Hotch was across the room, engaged in a discussion with Rossi and the lead detective, his voice even, steady. Composed.

But he was watching you.

Not directly. Not obviously.

But you could feel it.

The way his eyes flicked toward you between sentences, the way his attention lingered just a second too long before returning to the conversation at hand.

It shouldn’t have rattled you.

But it did.

Because you had spent so long trying to get a reaction out of him. And now, suddenly, he wasn’t ignoring you. He wasn’t brushing it off.

He was watching you back.

And worse?

He wasn’t hiding it anymore.

Your stomach twisted in a way you weren’t used to.

You forced yourself to refocus, flipping through the files in front of you, but it was impossible to concentrate, not when you could still feel his eyes on you, his presence like a gravitational pull you couldn’t ignore.

And then--he upped the ante.

It was in the small things.

Like the next time you spoke to him--when you handed him a report, expecting him to simply take it like he always did, business as usual.

But instead, his fingers brushed yours as he took the file, slow, deliberate.

The touch was barely there, but it sent an electric jolt up your arm.

You glanced up at him, startled, only to find his gaze already on yours. Steady. Controlled.

Like he knew exactly what he had done.

Your lips parted, but he simply nodded, expression unreadable. “Thank you.”

And then he walked away.

Your breath stuck in your throat.

Oh, he’s good.

It only got worse from there.

During the next strategy meeting, you found yourself seated beside him--not an unusual occurrence, but this time, you felt it.

The space between you was almost nonexistent.

His arm rested along the table, his fingers occasionally brushing the edge of your notepad, each accidental touch sending a slow hum through your body.

But the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

Was when you went to reach for your coffee mug at the same time he reached for his.

Your fingers brushed again, but this time, he didn’t move away.

Not right away.

Instead, his thumb lingered against your skin for a half-second too long.

And when you looked up at him, startled, he just--

Smirked.

It was small. Subtle. So quick that if you hadn’t been looking, you might’ve missed it.

But it was there.

You swallowed hard, gripping your coffee mug like it was your lifeline, because suddenly, the temperature in the room felt ten degrees hotter.

And he just continued on like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just turned the game back on you.

You barely heard a word Morgan was saying, barely processed anything but the way Hotch’s arm remained just close enough that if you moved, even slightly, you would touch again.

He was toying with you now.

Testing you.

And suddenly, you understood.

He had been waiting for this.

Letting you push him. Letting you get bold.

Because he had known the whole time that the moment he pushed back, you wouldn’t be ready for it.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to refocus, forcing yourself to push through the way your stomach twisted, the way your pulse hammered against your ribs.

Fine.

If he wanted to play, you could play.

But you were starting to realize something you hadn’t expected.

Aaron Hotchner was a much more dangerous opponent than you had ever given him credit for.

And now, you weren’t sure if you were winning--or if you were about to completely lose yourself in him.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place the team liked to celebrate in after a case closed--a quiet enough spot to talk, but loud enough that no one paid much attention to a group of FBI agents drinking in the corner.

The case had been a difficult one, drawn out and exhausting, but the unsub was in custody, the victims’ families had answers, and--for tonight at least--you could all breathe a little easier.

You nursed your drink, watching as Morgan and Prentiss laughed at something Garcia said, Rossi swirling his whiskey in his glass as he smirked at whatever banter they were trading.

And then there was Hotch.

Sitting beside you, as always.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, but still distant in that way only he could manage--always composed, always aware of himself, of his surroundings.

Always in control.

You had spent the entire night testing that control.

At first, it was subtle. A lingering touch when you handed him his drink, a fleeting brush of your fingers against his wrist when you leaned in to speak over the noise of the bar.

Then, bolder.

A teasing remark, the way you laughed just a little softer when he said something dry and sarcastic, the way your hand rested lightly against his thigh just as you shifted in your seat.

You had expected a reaction.

You wanted one.

But instead of pulling away, instead of scolding you, instead of doing what he always did--remaining unaffected, unshaken--Hotch did something worse.

He played along.

He didn’t move your hand. He didn’t shift away.

He let it happen.

And the worst part?

He let you sit with it.

Let you feel the weight of your own actions, the way the tension between you thickened, the way your pulse picked up when his dark eyes flicked toward yours, unreadable but aware.

He was so much better at this game than you were.

And you were losing.

You needed to tip the scales back in your favor.

So you made a choice.

You reached for your drink, fingers brushing the rim, and took a slow sip--letting your lips close around the edge of the glass, letting your tongue flicker just slightly against the rim as you pulled back.

It was innocent enough.

But the moment you placed your glass back down, you shifted in your seat--legs crossing deliberately, brushing against his knee as you tilted your head, looking up at him from beneath your lashes.

And then you said it.

Low. Soft. Just for him.

"You know, Hotch…I don’t think I’ve ever seen you flustered before."

It was a direct challenge.

A blatant, deliberate provocation.

And this time?

He reacted.

The shift was instantaneous.

His fingers tightened hard around his glass, his jaw clenching as his breath hitched--so subtly that no one else would have noticed, but you did.

His lips parted slightly, his tongue flicking against the inside of his cheek like he was considering his next move.

Then, finally--finally--he turned to look at you fully.

And the intensity in his gaze?

It nearly knocked the breath out of you.

His voice was low, rough around the edges, laced with something you had never heard from him before.

"You’re making it very hard to be a gentleman right now."

Your stomach dropped.

Your fingers curled slightly against the table, and you swallowed, suddenly feeling so much smaller beneath the weight of his attention.

You had wanted this.

You had asked for this.

And now?

Now you weren’t sure if you were ready for what happened next.

Because the way Hotch was looking at you?

Like he had been holding back for so long--so painfully long--and was finally, finally reaching the edge of his control?

It sent a shiver down your spine.

And suddenly, for the first time since this little game started…

You realized you might have just gotten in over your head.

Your stomach clenched, heat flooding through your body in waves, but you didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Not when he was looking at you like that.

Not when his fingers flexed against his glass, his jaw clenched so tightly that you could almost hear the strain in it.

Not when you realized--really realized--that you had finally done it.

You had finally pushed him to his limit.

And now, for the first time, you were the one feeling unsteady.

A slow smirk threatened at the corner of his lips, barely there, his fingers tapping against his whiskey glass before he finally--finally--pulled his gaze away from yours.

But not before he leaned in, just a fraction closer.

Just enough for you to feel his warmth.

Just enough for his breath to ghost against your skin when he murmured, “Finish your drink.”

Your breath hitched.

You forced yourself to swallow, gripping the glass as your pulse pounded in your ears, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he hadn’t given you an order before.

Not like that.

Not in a way that made your thighs press together beneath the table.

You took a slow sip, the whiskey burning down your throat, but it wasn’t the alcohol that was making your head spin.

It was him.

You were utterly and completely drunk on him. 

Hotch leaned back in his chair, as if regaining some of his composure, but you could see it now.

The way his fingers still flexed against the glass.

The way his chest rose and fell just a little deeper than usual.

The way his entire body was coiled tight, like he was waiting.

And the worst part?

The absolute worst part?

You had no idea what he was waiting for.

A few minutes passed, conversation continuing around you, but it felt like background noise now--like nothing else in the room mattered except the heavy weight of whatever this was sitting between you.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Hotch glanced at his watch and pushed back his chair.

The shift sent a jolt of anticipation through your body.

He leaned down slightly, voice low in your ear.

"Let’s go."

Your stomach flipped.

You set your glass down, fingers slightly shaky as you grabbed your coat, barely managing a quick glance at the team.

Morgan smirked. Rossi raised an eyebrow. Prentiss definitely noticed something.

But you didn’t have time to care.

Because the moment you stepped outside into the cool night air, the second the door shut behind you, you barely had time to turn before Hotch’s voice--low, measured, dangerous--cut through the silence.

"Tell me something."

You looked up, breath catching. “What?”

His gaze burned into yours, dark and unwavering.

"Was this just a game to you?"

Your throat tightened.

You blinked. “What?”

His jaw clenched. “All of it,” he murmured. “The teasing. The touches. The way you looked at me back there.” His eyes flickered to your lips before snapping back to your gaze. “Was it just a game?”

The air between you was electric.

Your stomach churned, your pulse hammering in your chest, because this was it.

This was him--finally, finally dropping the act.

And the rawness in his voice?

The realness in it?

It made you realize exactly what you wanted.

Your lips parted slightly, a shaky breath escaping before you whispered, “No.”

Hotch’s entire body reacted to that word.

A sharp inhale. His fingers twitching like he was holding himself back.

And then--finally--he stopped holding back.

His hand lifted--slow, deliberate--fingers grazing your jaw as he tilted your chin up.

Not demanding. Not rushed.

Just assessing.

Just waiting.

Like he needed you to give him permission.

Like he needed to know you wanted this as much as he did.

And God, did you want this.

Your breath stuttered, but you didn’t look away.

Instead, you leaned into his touch, exhaling softly as your fingers curled against the lapels of his jacket.

That was all it took.

Hotch moved.

His lips were on yours, firm but controlled--measured, like he was still trying to hold back, still trying not to lose himself completely.

But you wanted him to lose it.

So you made a sound--soft, desperate--pressing yourself closer, and that was it.

His restraint snapped.

A sharp inhale against your lips, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His body was warm, solid, hot, and suddenly you were gripping him, fingers twisting into his shirt as his lips parted, deepening the kiss, letting out a low, gravelly noise that sent a shockwave down your spine.

The street was too open.

The world was too present.

But Hotch--Aaron--was kissing you like it was the only thing that had ever mattered.

And the second his hands tightened around you, the second his teeth grazed your lower lip, you knew.

You had both lost this game.

And you couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

The kiss was heated, sharp, and all consuming, a slow unraveling of every ounce of tension you had been building for weeks.

Hotch’s hands were firm against your waist, fingers flexing like he was still battling the instinct to pull you closer, like he was still trying to cling to the last fragments of control that were slipping through his fingers.

You weren’t making it easy for him.

Your hands fisted into the front of his shirt, tugging him forward, pressing yourself into the solid warmth of his chest, needing more--needing all of him.

And God, the way he reacted--

The sharp inhale against your lips, the way his fingers dug into your waist, the soft, barely-contained groan that rumbled deep in his chest--

It was like nothing you had imagined.

He wasn’t careful.

He wasn’t measured.

He was starved.

Hotch tore his lips from yours, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours, his grip still tight on your hips as if he was physically keeping himself from devouring you completely.

Your own breath was uneven, your hands sliding up his chest, nails scraping lightly against his shirt.

“Aaron--”

His groan was immediate, like hearing his name like that sent a direct current through his body.

Then his hands moved.

He skimmed them up your sides, tracing the curves he had so painstakingly ignored for weeks, months, forever--his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your blouse before one of them slid into your hair, tilting your chin just so before he kissed you again.

Harder.

Rougher.

No restraint now.

It sent a shockwave through your body, heat pooling low in your stomach as his teeth scraped your lower lip, his other hand gripping your waist like he needed you, like he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

And God, you didn’t want him to stop.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were aware that you were still outside the bar, still in public, still far too exposed for what was rapidly spiraling into something uncontainable.

Hotch must have realized it at the same time because he broke away, breathless, dark eyes burning into yours.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

The ride to his place was a blur.

You barely remembered getting into the car.

Barely remembered the way his hands tightened on the wheel, the way his jaw ticked as you sat beside him, thighs pressing together, anticipating.

The air in the car was thick, electric with everything unsaid, everything about to happen.

And the second the door to his apartment closed behind you--

It snapped.

Hotch was on you before you could take another breath.

His lips crashed into yours, his hands gripping your hips, backing you against the wall like he needed to feel you, like he was making up for every second he had spent denying this.

Your breath hitched, your arms looping around his neck, nails dragging along the short hairs at the nape of his neck as you kissed him back, tilting your head to let him deepen it, let him take what he wanted.

And God, did he want.

His hands wandered, gripping your waist, sliding up your back, fingers teasing the hem of your blouse before slipping beneath it, palms searing against your skin.

He let out a low groan, his mouth moving to your jaw, down to your neck, hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower, sending a pulse straight to your core.

“Aaron--”

Another groan.

His fingers tightened on your hips, his breath warm against your skin.

“You--” He exhaled sharply, voice wrecked. “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.”

You shivered, gripping his shoulders. “Then show me.”

Something snapped in him at that.

His hands slid to the back of your thighs, and before you could react, he was lifting you, guiding your legs around his waist, pressing you firmly against the wall, his body pressing flush against yours.

Heat flared through you at the sheer strength of him, the way he held you so effortlessly, the way his lips found yours again, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, owning the kiss in a way that made you dizzy.

He walked you to the bedroom like that, lips never leaving yours, never giving you a moment to breathe.

And when he laid you down, settling between your legs, hands braced beside your head, his breath coming out ragged--

You realized you had been so, so wrong.

You had thought you were in control.

Had thought you were winning this game.

But the way Aaron Hotchner was looking at you now?

Like he owned you?

Like he was done holding back?

You knew.

You had never stood a chance.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The room was dim, bathed in the soft glow from the city lights spilling through the window. The air was thick--heavy--with heat and want and weeks of barely restrained tension finally snapping apart at the seams.

Hotch hovered above you, one hand braced against the mattress, the other tracing along your jaw, his thumb dragging over your lower lip, teasing.

You exhaled sharply, your chest rising beneath him, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. You had never seen him like this--eyes dark, his breath uneven, his entire body wound so tight, like he was fighting every urge to just take you right then and there.

He was still holding back.

You weren’t having that.

Your fingers tugged at his collar, pulling him down until his lips crashed against yours again, hot and desperate, teeth scraping, tongues meeting, consuming.

A low sound rumbled in his chest--a groan, gravelly and wrecked--as his weight settled between your legs, pressing firm against you, and God, you could feel everything.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, your nails dragging down his back, and that was it.

He broke.

Hotch's mouth moved--leaving your lips, tracing a path down your jaw, to the curve of your throat. He sucked, bit--just enough to make you gasp, his tongue sweeping over the sting.

"Aaron," you breathed, your hands threading into his hair, tugging hard.

His reaction was immediate--a deep groan against your skin, his fingers gripping your waist, his hips pressing flush against yours in a slow, torturous roll.

You gasped, arching up against him, heat flooding through your body as his hands wandered, sliding beneath your blouse, fingers tracing over your stomach, exploring.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered, lips dragging down your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. “You and your games.”

You smirked, gasping as his teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot. “I think you liked them.”

Hotch exhaled a sharp breath, pressing his forehead to your shoulder for a moment, laughing, but it was low, dark--not amusement, but something else.

Something dangerous.

Then he lifted his head, his fingers tilting your chin just so until your eyes met his.

“I let you play, sweetheart.” His voice was silk and steel, deep and gravelly, thick with desire. “But now?”

He smirked--smirked--and leaned in, lips brushing against yours in a whisper of a kiss.

“Now it’s my turn.”

A shiver ran through you, your pulse pounding, your entire body on fire.

Then, in one swift motion, he sat up, pulling you with him, his fingers tugging at the hem of your blouse. His eyes met yours, giving you one last out.

But there was no hesitation.

Not from you.

Not from him.

Your hands covered his, pushing the fabric up, and then it was gone--tossed aside, forgotten.

His eyes--God, the way he looked at you.

Dark. Devouring. Like he was memorizing every inch.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick, rough.

Then his hands were on you again--roaming, claiming--his lips pressing, trailing, worshiping.

Your head tipped back, another breathless gasp escaping as his hands found the clasp of your bra, his fingers making quick work of it before sliding the straps down your shoulders, his lips following their path, tongue flicking, teasing.

You arched into him, needing more, your own hands tugging at his shirt, desperate to even the playing field.

Hotch chuckled--deep, dark--before obliging, sitting back just enough to yank the offending fabric over his head.

Your breath hitched.

You had seen him in varying states of undress before--worn-down hotel rooms, bulletproof vests over tight shirts, dress shirts rolled up to his forearms.

But this?

Seeing him like this--the broad lines of his shoulders, the toned muscle of his chest, the faint scar near his ribs--

Your fingers traced over it instinctively, your touch featherlight.

Hotch inhaled sharply.

“That’s not fair,” he muttered, his voice wrecked, a teasing edge beneath the gravel.

You barely had time to process before he was kissing you again--deep and desperate, his hands sliding down, over the curve of your hips, fingers gripping, pulling you closer.

You gasped, hands curling around his biceps, feeling the tension in them, the way he was still holding himself back, still reining himself in.

So you tested him again.

Rolling your hips just so against his.

Hotch groaned, a sharp, wrecked sound against your lips. His fingers dug into your thighs, his control finally fraying--

“Fuck,” he exhaled, forehead pressing to yours.

You smirked, barely able to breathe.

“That’s all it took?” you teased. “I thought you had more self-control than that, Hotchner.”

His breath hitched.

Then--

You barely had a second to react before he had you pinned, his body flush against yours, his lips ghosting over your ear.

His voice was low, dangerous, devastatingly wrecked.

"You're going to regret saying that."

Your breath caught.

Then his hands moved--and you shattered.

Your pulse pounded, every inch of your body burning under Hotch’s touch, under the way he was looking at you now--like he had waited for this, ached for this, and was finally letting himself have it.

You swallowed, fingers tightening against his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he was still holding himself back--even now.

"Then make me," you whispered.

Hotch moved.

His lips crashed against yours, harder this time, rougher, his hands gripping your waist like he needed to touch you, like letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

You moaned into the kiss, arching against him as his hands slid down, fingers tracing the curve of your hips, exploring, learning you.

You were already dizzy, already losing yourself in him, but you didn’t care.

You didn’t want careful.

You wanted him.

You tugged at his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle, but Hotch caught your wrist, breath ragged, his forehead pressing to yours.

His eyes--dark and burning--searched yours, his fingers tightening around your wrist like he was waiting for something.

"Are you sure?" His voice was rough, strained, but still careful.

Your heart ached at the question, at the way he was still thinking about you, still making sure this was something you wanted.

You lifted your other hand, tracing along his jaw, feeling the tension there, the restraint.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," you whispered.

Something in him snapped.

His lips were on yours again, his hands sliding lower, gripping your thighs as he lifted you, guiding your legs around his waist before pressing you firmly against the mattress.

His body was solid, strong, his weight pressing into you in a way that had your breath catching, heat spreading low in your stomach as his mouth wandered--down your jaw, your throat, lips and tongue claiming you inch by inch.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gasping as his hands explored, learning the shape of you, teasing, tormenting--

"Aaron--"

The groan that ripped from his throat was wrecked, his fingers digging into your skin as his hips pressed flush against yours.

"You love saying my name like that, don’t you?" His voice was low, teasing, but you could hear the strain in it.

You smirked, tilting your head back, offering him more as his lips traced a path down your collarbone. "I like what it does to you."

His breath hitched.

Then his teeth scraped, just enough to make you gasp, his hands finally making quick work of the last barriers between you.

Fabric was pulled away, discarded, forgotten.

And when his gaze lowered--when his hands finally moved where you needed them most--

You shattered.

Hotch devoured every reaction, every gasp, every moan, learning you, memorizing you, until you were a writhing, trembling mess beneath him.

And when he finally, finally pressed into you--

It was slow. Deliberate.

Like he wanted you to feel every inch of him.

Like he wanted to ruin you.

Your fingers clawed at his back, legs wrapping tighter around him as he groaned, head dipping into the crook of your neck.

"You feel so--" His voice broke, his breath ragged, his lips pressing against your shoulder as he rolled his hips--

You gasped, arching into him, pleasure crashing through your veins.

Hotch cursed, a low, deep sound against your skin, his movements slow, controlled, but hard, perfect.

He was relentless.

He set the pace, dragging it out, making you feel every second of it, torturing you with the way he pulled back just enough before thrusting deep, the friction sending sparks down your spine.

Your moans were breathless, your nails scraping down his back, but it only spurred him on.

"You wanted this," he groaned, his breath hot against your skin. "All those games--"

You gasped as his hips snapped harder, his fingers digging into your thighs.

"You wanted to see if you could break me."

He rolled his hips again, making your eyes squeeze shut, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach.

"Do you feel broken now?"

You let out a sound that wasn’t even words, your fingers fisting into the sheets, your entire body on fire.

Hotch smirked against your skin, but his composure was fraying now--his thrusts turning more erratic, his breath coming faster, his muscles tensing beneath your hands.

He was losing it too.

And God, it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

His head dipped, lips crashing into yours in a deep, desperate kiss as the tension finally snapped.

Pleasure ripped through you, white-hot and overwhelming, your entire body trembling as his name tore from your lips.

Hotch groaned, his movements turning sloppy, frantic, chasing the edge--

And then he fell, his body shuddering against yours, his lips parting in a low, wrecked moan as he collapsed, breathless, his forehead resting against yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your bodies were still tangled, limbs entwined, your hearts pounding in sync.

Then, finally, Hotch exhaled--a slow, deep breath--before lifting his head to look at you.

His gaze was soft now, but sated, his thumb brushing lazily over your cheek, tender.

"You really are trouble," he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion, but teasing.

You smirked, tracing your fingers down his chest, lingering. "And yet, here we are."

Hotch huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You’re insufferable."

You grinned, pressing a lazy kiss to his lips. "You love it."

His smirk widened slightly.

"Maybe."

Then he kissed you again--slower this time, softer.

Like he was memorizing the taste of you.

Like he already knew this wasn’t the last time.

And God, neither of you wanted it to be.

You blinked, the haze of exhaustion settling in as reality began to sink in.

You had slept with Aaron Hotchner.

And it hadn’t been careful. It hadn’t been measured.

It had been raw. Consuming.

Desperate.

You swallowed, turning slightly in the bed, suddenly hyperaware that he was rolling off of you.

For a moment, your stomach twisted--should you leave? Would this change things between you? Was he already regretting it?

But before you could spiral, before you could even begin to untangle your thoughts, you heard it--

The quiet sound of running water.

You furrowed your brows, shifting up slightly onto your elbows, and then you saw him.

Hotch was standing near the bathroom sink, his back to you, shirtless, his lean muscles flexing as he ran a washcloth under warm water.

Your breath caught.

And more than that--he wasn’t panicked. He wasn’t rushing.

He was taking care of you.

Your throat tightened.

He turned a moment later, towel in hand, his dark eyes immediately finding yours.

“You should lie back,” he murmured, voice softer now, the roughness of the night before smoothed into something gentle.

You blinked at him, lips parting, but you didn’t argue. You simply did as he asked, sinking back against the pillows, watching as he approached the bed.

The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, his warm hand skimming lightly over your thigh before he pressed the warm cloth against your skin.

The sensation made you exhale, your body still aching in the best way, but his touch was tender, careful.

"You don't have to--"

Hotch gave you a look.

You stopped.

Because you realized--he wanted to.

He continued in silence, wiping away the remnants of the night before, his touch slow, thoughtful. His fingers brushed against you so gently that your chest tightened.

The air between you was different now.

The tension of the past weeks, the game you had been playing--it was gone.

All that was left was this.

Him.

You.

The weight of what you had just done, settling between you like something neither of you could take back.

When he was finished, he set the towel aside, fingers tracing over your hip absentmindedly before finally speaking.

"Are you okay?"

You blinked.

The question caught you off guard.

Not because you weren’t--God, you were--but because you hadn’t expected him to ask.

You swallowed, nodding. "Yeah. I am."

His lips pressed together slightly, his fingers brushing against your skin again, almost like he needed to feel you still there.

Your stomach twisted--not in doubt, but in something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

Something real.

So you asked.

"What about you?"

Hotch exhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself, and then--finally--he met your gaze.

And you knew.

Whatever restraint he had left--whatever pieces of the mask he had been holding onto--it was gone.

"I'm not sure I know how to stop wanting you now," he admitted, voice low, raw.

Your breath hitched.

Because that?

That was the first real truth he had given you.

Your fingers curled against the sheets, your heart hammering in your chest. "Then don't," you whispered.

Hotch exhaled sharply, shaking his head slightly, his fingers tightening just slightly against your hip.

"You don’t understand," he murmured. "I’ve wanted you for so long."

Your stomach flipped.

You opened your mouth, but he continued before you could speak.

"I tried--" He exhaled again, rough, like he was frustrated with himself. "I tried to ignore it. To pretend it was nothing. That it was just...passing attraction."

You swallowed. "Was it?"

Hotch let out a short, almost humorless laugh, shaking his head.

"No," he admitted. "It never was."

Your breath caught, your fingers gripping the sheets tighter, because this--this--was more than you had ever expected him to admit.

"You drove me insane," he murmured, voice dropping lower. "The way you looked at me. The way you challenged me. The way you--" He exhaled, shaking his head. "The way you said my name."

Your heart stuttered.

"You noticed that?"

Hotch huffed a soft laugh, his fingers trailing up your arm, his touch leaving a burning path in its wake.

"I noticed everything," he murmured. "The way you crossed your legs during briefings. The way you stretched when you were tired, your shirt lifting just enough to make me lose my train of thought. The way you knew exactly what you were doing--"

You let out a breathless laugh. "I didn’t always know."

Hotch tilted his head slightly, studying you.

Then, slowly, his lips curled into something dangerous.

"No?"

Your stomach flipped. "No."

His fingers brushed your jaw, thumb tracing over your lower lip.

"You really think you weren’t getting to me?" His voice was low, rough, something dark beneath it.

Your breath hitched.

"You were always getting to me," he admitted. "And you loved it."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling very small beneath the weight of his gaze.

Because God--he was right.

You had.

You had loved it.

But what you hadn’t realized was that he had loved it, too.

"I--"

Hotch moved before you could speak, pressing you back into the mattress, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

His weight was warm, solid, comforting.

And for the first time, there was no hesitation.

No restraint.

Only truth.

"I’m done holding back," he murmured against your skin.

You shivered.

"Good," you whispered.

And when his lips met yours again, soft and slow, hands sliding under the sheets this time--

You knew.

This wasn’t just a game anymore.

This was real.

And neither of you were walking away from it.

Not now.

Not ever.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry

[gothcsz]

Dark Room | Javier Peña x F!Reader | ~4.9k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: Accidentally getting locked in the photo developing room with Javier.

Tags: reader really doesn't like javi, co-worker vibes, era typical sexism/misogyny, he's kind of a smug dick but isn't he always?, smut, oral (f & m), reader has never had her pussy ate so javi changes that, unprotected p in v sex, quick blowjob, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, little to no physical descriptions, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: another javi one shot, what's new?! lol this is a follow up to this ask/prompt i got a few months ago and i just thought this would be very fitting for these two 🖤 thank you to my prima @ovaryacted for reading over this 🖤 hope you enjoy and as always, let me know what you think!

“We need some photos pulled from the photo lab…” Carillo’s voice drones on, his explanation fading into the background as the weight of Javier’s stare settles over you, dragging over your body unabashedly.

He’s slouched over a desk that’s cluttered with maps and reports, an overfilled ashtray perched precariously on the corner, its contents spilling over as evidence of long hours and bad habits.

The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up just enough to show off those strong, brown forearms, veins subtly bulging as he drums his fingers against the surface.

The air is perfumed with cigarette smoke, the stale scent clinging to everything. It’s honestly a wonder you haven’t choked on it yet.

Weeks have passed since your lapse in judgment in the parking garage—letting Javier fucking Peña slide between your thighs to take the edge off this godforsaken sexist job that you still haven’t quit.

Nothing’s changed, obviously. The men in the office are still assholes, continuing to treat you like an afterthought, but you just tune them out because at the end of the day; you know you’re better than all of them combined.

Except it’s hard to ignore Javier. Harder than usual when he’s flashing you those round and soft brown eyes that should be illegal for a man like him to possess. 

He’s tried cornering you—more than once. The break room, after meetings, even the damn staircase when you were in a rush to head home.

Each time, you shut him down. Telling him to fuck off and take whatever cocky, insufferable game he’s playing and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.

You’re actually kind of proud of yourself for pushing back more than usual, even if you do get hit with a wave of horny nostalgia for the way he’d taken you that day. Quick, ruthless, licentious.

You keep your expression neutral as Carillo wraps up his instructions. Nodding politely, you don’t spare a glance at the other agent before turning on your heel and making your way down to the lab.

The room is lit by a red bulb, casting everything in a hazy, bloody glow. You’re sifting through the folders, squinting at the labels, when you hear it—the soft click of the door shutting.

You spin around, and there he fucking is.

Javier leans against the doorframe, the silver watch on his wrist catching the light, his tie loosened around his neck and the first few buttons of his shirt habitually undone.

With his arms crossed and broad frame filling the space of the doorway, he’s the picture of amusement—of quiet, dangerous persistence.

You hate the way your pulse downstairs stutters at the sight of him.

“What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his jaw shifts, a muscle ticking as he weighs his words, like he’s carefully considering how much trouble he wants to get himself into.

It annoys the ever-loving shit out of you.

When he doesn’t reply, you just huff out breath. “I don’t have time for this. Carillo needs these photos,” you snap, as if he doesn’t already know that. As if that’s why he’s really here.

Your fingers tighten around the folder you managed to locate, flipping through the contents to confirm it’s the right one. It is. Thank goodness. Now all you have to do is get the hell out of here—away from him.

“You’ve been doing okay?” He finally speaks, tone deceptively casual. “Your car’s fine?”

You bark out a laugh, loud and incredulous, because really? That’s what he’s opening with?

“What is it that you want, Javier?” You slam the filing cabinet shut, the sound echoing in the small lab.

And of-fucking-course—he’s closer now. The ruby luminescence of the room carves sharper angles into his face, deepening the contours, making his already unfairly handsome features look even more severe.

“What do you think?” he asks with a tilt of his head, tongue dragging slowly over his bottom lip.

“I think you just want to get your dick wet,” you accuse in a quip. “But I’m really confused as to why you’re so adamant about coming to me for that. Don’t you have a list of whores you can call? I’ve got about a dozen of their numbers written down at my desk. Just for you.”

Javier smirks—slow, lazy, irritatingly attractive. “S’not as fun. Not the same.” He shrugs. “I like to work for it sometimes.”

Your brows lift in disbelief. “Work for it? Wow, this really is just a game to you. To all of you.” Immature, arrogant, government assholes. You can feel yourself getting worked up, reminiscent of the last time you were this close to him. 

You don’t give him the chance to reply, instead brushing past him toward the door, reaching for the handle and twisting—nothing. 

You try again. And again. It doesn’t budge.

You exhale sharply, pressing your forehead against the door for half a second before pulling back. 

Right, so this door has been busted for as long as you can remember, locking from the inside at the worst possible moments, clearly.

You should have snagged the spare key, just in case. This is on you.

And since you’ve got unwanted company, the space feels a lot smaller.

“Please tell me you have your stupid phone on you,” you’re still facing the door, voice tight, manilla folder clenched in your hands.

The sound of dress shoes sliding over the floor, measured, deliberate, breaks the momentary silence.

Your body lights up, tensing as warmth ghosts over the back of your neck, sending a shiver racing down your spine.

“I don’t,” Javier murmurs, too fucking smoothly.

And then his hands—those beautifully large hands—press against the door on either side of you, arms caging you in.

You turn slowly, back pressed to the door, looking up at him as your breath catches somewhere in your throat.

He smells like cologne and Marlboros, an intoxicating combination that does something dangerous to your resolve, sinking its talons into whatever shred of control you thought you had left.

You can already feel the telltale weakness creeping into your knees as he stares down at you, the red hue truly making him look sinful in all the right ways.

This is exactly why you’ve been dodging him, shutting him down at every turn.

Because he makes it so easy to give in if just given a second to lay it on thick, no pun intended. Not only have you experienced his sexual bravado first hand, you’ve also seen the way he works his personality and charm with everyone else.

You wanted to be different, you really did. To not be another person to fall for him. Not after the way he treats you in the office, like you’re barely worth acknowledging unless you’re useful to him. Not after the way he just lets the other agents walk all over you.

It’s really not fair that he looks the way he does or that he fucks like he knows exactly what his partner needs. Like he’s got some weird, kinky sixth sense. 

It’s definitely not fucking fair that your pussy is flexing at the memory of him cuffing your wrists behind your back, growling filth into your ear as he took you against the side of his Jeep.

You inhale sharply, attempting to shove the thoughts away.

“I think there’s a landline in here somewhere,” you tell him, grasping at something—anything—to keep your wits about you. “We need to call someone to get us out.”

You try to step away, but Javier moves faster.

He blocks your path effortlessly, stepping into your space like he belongs there, his chest brushing against yours, the heat of him seeping through your clothes.

“Not yet, baby,” he murmurs, tone laced with that familiar, knowing drawl. It’s so rich that a little bit of his Texan accent slips through. “Let’s have some fun.”

You let out another laugh, except this time it’s thinner, shakier than you want it to be.

“Fucking someone you don’t like isn’t really my idea of fun,” you bite out, but it doesn’t come out as bitchy as you intended.

“Didn’t stop you last time…” He says smugly and you grit your teeth. “It just makes it that much better,” he sounds so indulgent. Like he’s already won.

You open your mouth to argue, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“C’mon,” Javi coaxes like he’s the devil himself. “You’re always so tense. You work so damn hard, dealing with assholes like me all day. Let me make it worth your while.”

“I thought I told you last time that good dick wasn’t the solution to my problems.” 

“I’m not trying to solve your problems.” 

He ducks his head, the tip of his nose dragging up the side of your neck, a featherlight touch that sets your skin on fire.

You should push him away and slap him. But instead, you just… let him. Frozen, paralyzed by your own traitorous lust.

His soft pouty lips find your jaw, pressing kisses, each one getting you wetter. 

His tongue traces a languid stripe up to your ear, the wet heat of it making you gasp and your thighs press together. When his teeth graze your lobe, you can’t suppress the way your breath stutters.

“Javi—” His name escapes before you can catch it, barely more than a whisper.

You feel his grin against your skin.

“Say it again.”

You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut, as if that will somehow lessen the ache beating at your cunt. As if you can pretend you’re still in control of the situation. Like you ever were.

His hands find your waist, thumbs brushing slow, teasing circles over your ribs. The heat of his palms sears through the fabric of your top, burning away the resistance you were clinging to.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he breathes, lips dragging along the shell of your ear. “Tell me, and I’ll stop.”

You should. But you can’t.

Your fingers fidget with the folder, aching to grab hold of him and pull him closer. You let out a shaky sigh, your resolve finally crumbling to dust.

You really are a weak bitch.

Javier pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression knowing—victorious.

The folder falls from your hands and to the floor as you grab him by the tie, yanking him down, crushing your mouth to his in a kiss that is nothing short of desperate, full of frustration, hunger and irritation.

Javier groans into it, gratified, his grip tightening on you as he presses you harder against the door, molding his body against yours. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming and demanding, and you let him, moaning into the kiss, your nails scraping against the back of his neck as his hands start to wander.

You were always going to give in and you both knew it.

You don’t even remember when his hands started working at the buttons of your shirt, but you feel the fabric coming undone, feel the cool air chilling you as he exposes your chest. His lips chase the newly exposed skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the slope of your neck, trailing lower… lower…

You gasp when he undoes your bra’s front clasp, his fingers ghosting over the swells of your breasts before he palms them fully, kneading, teasing, thumbing at your nipples then tugging them until you’re pathetically whimpering

“Mmmm,” you utter, your head tipping back against the door when his lips wrap around the aching peak and he sucks.

Javier chuckles against your skin.“Told you I’d make you feel good.”

Your fingers tangle into his hair, yanking his mouth back to yours, swallowing any other egotistic remark he was about to make. 

You feel the hard line of his thick cock straining in his slacks as he grinds against you like a rutting dog, his hips rolling in slow, instinctive motions that have your pussy clenching around nothing.

Maybe resisting him was always a losing game. 

It’s not like you’re drowning in offers elsewhere, and hell, you should own the fact that a man like Javier Peña—arrogant, infuriating, dangerously handsome—wants you more than any of the easy lays he could get with a single phone call.

Your confidence grows, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.

One hand slips from the back of his head, trailing down between your bodies, fingers pressing against the rigid length of him through his pants. You squeeze, applying just enough pressure to make him hiss against your lips before he retaliates, biting your lower lip.

The pain blooms deliciously, sparking something even darker inside you. You reward him with another slow stroke, palming him, feeling his dick throb under your touch.

He flips you around quickly after that, pressing you hard against the door, your cheek and tits flattened against the cool surface.

A startled whimper escapes you, but he doesn’t give a damn, too lost in his own haze of desire as he works the button and zipper of your pants.

You quit dressing in cute skirts and delicate blouses to work. You weren’t about to continue to be an office fantasy or easy target for sexist bullshit.

But even in your practical wear and stoic demeanor, you knew damn well these men would find any way to sexualize you regardless. And they’ve proved your point plenty of times.

However, all of your carefully constructed defenses and feminist arguments about power and autonomy crumble the moment Javier Peña drops to his fucking knees behind you.

Your breath stutters, eyes widening as you try to push back against the door, a weak attempt at stopping him—but his grip is firm, fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as he tugs your pants down, his fingers skimming the sensitive skin behind your knees, making your back arch.

His calloused palms knead into the soft flesh of your thighs, gripping handfuls of your ass like he can’t decide whether he wants to spread you wider or keep you all to himself.

He does both—squeezing, parting you open just enough to make your pussy feel completely exposed, heat licking at her like a slow burn, anticipation curling around your clit.

“Javi—” His name barely leaves your lips before you suck in a sharp breath, body jolting as the wet heat of his mouth presses against the thin fabric of your panties.

Oh shit.

The damp lace does little to shield you from the deliberate drag of his tongue as he licks a slow stripe over the barrier, teasing, tasting, promising you things that make your head spin.

A moan slithers its way up your throat before you can stop it, your fingers twitching against the door as your knees threaten to buckle.

It’s such a foreign feeling.

“Nervous?” he asks, his voice dark, amused, but also curious.

You swallow hard, blinking rapidly against the overwhelming sensation of it all. No one’s ever done this to you before. No one’s ever wanted to. And yet, here’s Javier, on his knees in this dingy basement like this is what he was made to do.

“Just—” You suck in a breath. Fucking hell this is so embarrassing. “No one’s ever…” Your cheeks get hot, making you want to crawl inside yourself.

He stills for a moment, as if letting your words sink in, your panties now pulled down around your ankles. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, at the realization that he’d be the first to eat your pussy. His fingers flex, digging into the plush curve of your ass. “That just makes me want to ruin you even more.”

And then he does.

His mouth is everywhere all at once—tongue eagerly dragging through your folds, circling your clit dexterously and it’s a miracle you don’t melt entirely then and there.

His aquiline nose notches between your cheeks and the pressure makes you yelp in surprise.

Your fingers claw at the door like a rabid animal, trying to find something to hold onto, something to ground you as Javier devours your cunt.

He works you open by lapping thirstily and sucking on your wet flesh, groaning against you like he can’t get enough.

It’s otherworldly, a kind of pleasure so overwhelming that frustration bubbles up inside you. Why the fuck has no man ever done this for you before?

Your hips jerk when his tongue slides inside your hole, his mustache scraping against your soaked skin, his nose pressing against your asshole.

The contrast of soft and rough, teasing and taking, has you whining loudly, your forehead pressing against the cool wood as your eyes close tight.

The tension in your stomach twists tighter, hotter, tears spilling from your waterline as he sucks your clit into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue until your knees finally do give out but he holds you steady, keeping you from falling as you hit the wall of your orgasm. 

“Oh my god!” The words spill from you in a breathless, wrecked moan, your body pulsing, shuddering, before slumping as pleasure melts into boneless relief.

He takes his time with you, his mouth slowing to match your come down, his tongue kitten licking at your oversensitive sex like he relishes the taste of you.

He presses one last, open-mouthed kiss to your clit before pulling away.

His whispers are hushed, sweet words murmured against your trembling thighs until he stands, rising up behind you, his broad frame looming over yours.

You feel him—his chest, his shoulders—so solid and manly, pressing against your back. You’re still panting, skin heated, body humming, when you finally turn your head to look at him.

Javier Peña has never looked hotter in his goddamn life.

“Hard to believe no one’s ever tasted you, baby. Sabes tan dulce.” The praise sends a violent shudder straight to your freshly ate cunt.

He’s quickly working his belt open, the soft clink of metal making your thighs quiver in anticipation.

He fists his cock, stroking himself languidly, dragging his palm over the thick, velvety skin before his fingers dip between your legs, gathering the slick arousal dripping from your pussy.

Thankfully the door is thick enough to muffle the desperate, broken moans spilling from your lips, and that this basement is hardly ever visited—because the last thing you need is an audience for this shameful, filthy indulgence.

Yet once the lust settles, that same isolation won’t feel so convenient. You’ll be more than eager to get the fuck away from him.

He smears your sticky wetness over his shaft with a groan, eyes hooded and hungry as he watches your body react to him.

All you can do is continue to writhe, legs shaking as you kick your pants and panties off completely, giving yourself room to spread and bend over for him, expecting him to take you as he did last time.

But before you can brace yourself against the door again, Javi moves fast, flipping you to face him, his large hands cupping the backs of your thighs.

It’s instinct to wrap your legs around his waist, your ankles locking behind him as he hoists you up, pinning you against the door.

His lips crash into yours, hot and urgent, teeth clashing, tongues tangling as you flick off his tie and work open the last of his buttons.

His shirt hangs open, exposing his warm, taut chest to your greedy fingers, and you run your hands down the hard planes of his torso, reveling in the contrast of smooth skin and how human he feels despite the sex god aura he emits so effortlessly. 

But it’s his neck that has you dizzy. That sharp jawline, his defined Adam’s apple, how his pulse pounds just beneath the thick muscle.

You make eye contact for a brief, charged second before your mouth latches onto his neck, tongue dragging over salt and cologne, teeth nipping at the tendon.

The way the red light paints him—his bronzed skin darkened by shadow, eyes heavy-lidded with hunger for you, lips slick from your kisses and pussy—it all makes you dizzy with need.

Javi growls low in his throat, shifting his hold to steady you against the door, angling himself just right before pressing the thick head of his cock against your entrance.

The stretch is immediate, slow and torturous as he sinks into you inch by inch, your walls fluttering around the intrusion of his dick, the burn mixing beautifully with pleasure.

Your jaw falls open, but no sound comes out, only ragged breaths and a strangled whimper as your cunt struggles to accommodate around his girthy cock.

His gaze is locked onto yours, dark and molten, his lips curling at the way you tremble in his hold.

You’d slap the smirk right off his face if your hands weren’t too occupied with digging into his shoulders to keep you sane.

“That’s it, puta madre,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Your pussy feels so fuckin’ good.”

“S-Stop talking and just fuck me,” you breathe as you yank him closer, pressing your tits against his bare chest.

Javier doesn’t need to be told twice.

With a sharp thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, slamming you back against the door, the impact rattling through your bones and knocking the air from your lungs.

The obscene sound of wet skin slapping against skin echoes through the cramped room as he sets an unforgiving yet utterly satisfying pace.

Every stroke of his cock against your walls, every graze of his pelvis against your swollen clit, sends you spiraling higher.

The heat of the red light, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air, the filthy sounds between you—it’s all too much, too good.

His hands grip your thighs tighter, keeping you right where he wants you as he fucks you hard and deep.

He plants one hand next to your head while the other slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, teasing circles, you break.

Your body seizes, nails raking down his back as your orgasm slams into you, pleasure blinding and unbearable.

Javier groans, hips stuttering as he chases his own release, as he fucks you through your climax. “That’s it. Fuckin’ come for me—mierda, so fuckin’ pretty pinned up on the door like this, fallin’ apart all over this dick—”

“D-Don’t finish inside.” The words spill from your lips between gasps, your foggy mind barely catching up to the reality of what you’re doing.

You thank whatever shred of sanity is left in you for speaking up before it’s too late—because fuck, you almost forgot.

A part of you chastises yourself for even letting it get this far, for not making him wear a condom either time he’s had you.

You know better. You know Javier gets around, that his reputation in bed is just as legendary as his skill with a badge and gun.

He groans, a deep sound of both pleasure and frustration. He wanted to finish inside you. You can tell by the way his thrusts falter, how his fingers dig into your hips a little harder.

The idea of filling you up, of making you take all of him, has him on the edge, his control hanging by a thread.

“Fuck,” he grits out, and suddenly, he’s pulling out of you, his cock slipping free with a wet, lewd squelch that makes your empty walls clench around nothing. Before you can catch your breath, he’s pushing you onto your knees, the roughness making your head spin, your lips parting in surprise.

He takes full advantage.

Javier’s hand grips the back of your neck as he guides himself between your lips, pushing his thick cock into the heat of your mouth with a sharp hiss.

You barely have time to react before he’s thrusting in deep, the heavy weight of him stretching your jaw, his scent overwhelming your senses.

Your hands fly to his thighs, nails digging in as he fucks your mouth the same way he just fucked your pussy: relentless, desperate, filthy.

Your tongue flattens beneath him, taking him as best as you can while he pants above you, his breath ragged, his curses slipping into Spanish as he chases his release.

And then you feel it how he stiffens, the pulse of his cock against your tongue before his salty release spills hot and thick down your throat. Javier groans as he holds you there, making sure you swallow every drop.

“Goddamn baby,” he rasps hoarsely, his fingers easing from your hair as he strokes your cheek, his softening cock still twitching between your lips.

When he finally pulls out, you’re left breathless, your mouth swollen, your body still thrumming with pleasure and exhaustion.

You look up at him, and the sight alone makes your stomach flip—his chest rising and falling, his shirt completely undone, his tie hanging loosely around his neck,  hair falling in front of his face and gaze hooded and dark as he stares down at you.

He looks wrecked and you’re the reason why.

The fog of lust dissipates all at once, replaced by a feeling akin to cold water washing over you. Your lips are swollen, your knees ache from the hard floor, the unmistakable taste of him lingers on your tongue, and your pussy is sticky with the remnants of his pleasure.

You rise quickly with a sharp breath, ignoring the way your thighs still tremble. He offers a hand, fingers curled in that lazy, confident way that suggests he thinks you’ll take it.

You don’t.

Instead, you swat it away, reaching for your discarded clothes with sharp, jerky movements, yanking your panties up, stepping into your pants, and shoving your feet into your shoes without grace.

Every button fastened, every piece of fabric back in place feels like reclaiming a part of yourself, like stitching together the resolve that had crumbled the second he put his mouth on you.

You allow yourself moments of weakness—you’re only human, and he’s too good of a fuck to deny. But moving forward, you’ll have to be more resolute.

This? This was a mistake you can’t afford to keep making. The last thing you want is for him to think he has an in with you just because he’s made you see stars with his dick… and tongue… and fingers. Goddamnit. 

“You gonna keep this little act up,” he drawls, redressed himself, half ass fixing his belt, “or am I gonna have to chase you down just to get you to fuck me again?”

You snort, shaking your head as you adjust your bra and start buttoning your blouse. “You do realize how predatory that sounds, right?”

He just smirks, unfazed, and leans against the desk nearby as if he’s lounging. “And that whole thing about no one ever going down on you… That true, or were you just trying to get a reaction out of me?”

You ignore him, not about to stroke his already inflated ego by admitting he’s the first and only person to ever taste you so intimately.

Instead, you snatch up the forgotten folder from the floor, shooting him a glare through the red lighting of the room. “Help me find the landline so we can call someone to let us out.”

Javier just chuckles, shaking his head as he finishes tying his tie. “Won’t need to.”

Your eyes narrow. “What?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the spare key.

Your jaw drops. “You had that with you the entire time?”

His only response is a shrug, like it’s no big deal. Which, truth be told, it isn’t. But the realization that this was all orchestrated is enough to make your blood boil. You wonder if Carillo was in on it too. 

Your teeth clench, fingers curling into a fist at your side as he pushes off the nearby table and steps forward, unlocking the door with an infuriating lack of urgency.

He swings it open, then leans against the frame, motioning for you to go first with an exaggerated flourish.

“After you.”

You consider punching him, it had felt so damn good doing it last time. You don’t, however, instead storming past him, ignoring the way your skin still hums where he touched you, ignoring the smug chuckle that follows you out into the hallway.

You’ll let this go, you have to if not it’ll prick at you until you snap. You really don’t know how many more crash outs you have left in you before you do something more reckless than fucking the DEA agent.

Though one thing becomes sparkling clear in this moment—you’re going to have to find a way to resist Javier Peña. Even if he’s dead set on making that impossible.

i have a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out 🖤

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[pucksandpower]

Metamorphosis

Charles Leclerc x ex!Reader

Summary: Charles makes the worst mistake of his life, leaving him to watch from the sidelines as you move on to bigger and better things (and people)

Warnings: cheating, only one of you gets a happy ending (hint: it’s not Charles)

Based on this request

Charles enters the bedroom he shares with you, his heart pounding in his chest. He knows he has to finally come clean about his infidelity. The guilt has been eating away at him for weeks.

You’re sitting up in bed, reading a book. You look up with a warm smile as Charles approaches. “Hey, you’re home early.”

Charles takes a deep breath. “Yeah … we need to talk.” His voice is heavy with regret.

You mark your page and set the book aside, giving him your full attention. “What’s going on?”

Charles sits down on the edge of the bed, unable to meet your trusting gaze. “I ...” The words get caught in his throat. How can he tell you? How can he shatter the life you’ve built together?

After a long pause, you prompt gently, “Charles? You’re worrying me ...”

He forces himself to look at you. Your beautiful face, your eyes full of love and concern for him. It breaks his heart anew.

“I’ve done something unforgivable,” he confesses in a pained murmur. “I … I cheated on you.”

For a moment, the room is silent. You stare at him, eyes widening in shock and hurt. Then, almost robotically, you slide out of bed and walk over to the closet. You pull out a suitcase and start methodically packing clothes.

“What? No, please, don’t do that!” Charles jumps up, panic and desperation gripping him. “I’m so sorry, it was a mistake! It meant nothing to me, I swear!”

You don’t respond, continuing to pack with eerie calm.

“Aren’t you going to yell at me? Throw things? Please, just … show some emotion!”

You pause and look at him impassively. “Why should I waste my energy? You’ve clearly checked out of our relationship already.”

Charles feels like he’s been slapped. “No! No, that’s not true at all! I love you, I want to make this work!”

Shoving the last shirt into the suitcase, you move over to the vanity and begin unclasping your jewelry — pieces he gave you on holidays or your anniversary or just because. You stack the earrings, necklaces, and bracelets on the surface, finally pulling off your engagement ring and adding it to the pile with a soft clink.

“Please ...” Charles begs, tears filling his eyes. “Please don’t leave me. We can get through this, I promise!”

You zip up the suitcase and turn to him, your expression unreadable. “Let me go, Charles.” You roll the suitcase toward the door.

Charles follows you through the apartment, desperation clawing at his insides. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m so, so sorry. Please, just give me another chance!”

You stop at the front door, finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes are dry, but there is a deep sadness etched onto your features. “Why should I give you another chance when you didn’t give me or our relationship a second thought?”

“No, wait!” He rushes after you, grabbing your arm. You shrug him off easily, pausing with your hand on the knob to look back at him one last time.

“I used to think you were my soulmate,” you say quietly. “But you’ve shown me who you really are. I can’t keep loving a lie.”

“Don’t do this!” he pleads, desperation clawing at his throat. “Don’t just give up on us, on everything we had!”

You pause at the front door, finally turning to face him fully. “You gave up first, Charles. Not me.”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Because you’re right — he’s the one who destroyed this, who sacrificed your life together for one selfish moment.

Your jaw tightens slightly, the first flicker of emotion he’s seen. “Goodbye, Charles.”

You turn and walk out the door, pulling it shut behind you with a final click.

Charles is left staring at the closed door, the deafening silence around him. He’s not sure how long he stands there, frozen, replaying your parting words in his mind. Goodbye, you’d said, without any anger or tears.

Just … goodbye.

***

Months later, Charles is seated in the front row at Milan Fashion Week, watching the Ferrari Style runway show with a tight smile plastered on his face. He’s here for publicity, to keep up appearances, even though the last thing he wants is to be thrust into the spotlight tonight.

Not when you are walking in the show.

He tries not to hold his breath as each new model struts down the sleek crimson catwalk. He’s successful at keeping his cool, nodding occasionally at a particularly striking outfit, until suddenly … there you are.

You emerge from the backstage wings, a vision in deep Ferrari red from head to toe. But it’s not just a dress or evening gown. No, the Spanish flag and bold 55 displayed proudly on the front of the outfit leave no doubt — you’re wearing a feminine version of his teammate’s race suit.

Charles’ jaw goes slack as you move with confidence, head held high, every inch the picture of poise and strength. Of a woman who has moved on, left him and their broken relationship in the rearview mirror.

His hands clench in his lap as you pivot at the end of the runway. Even from here, he can see that characteristic glint in your eyes, the spark that had drawn him to you in the first place. The same spark that had been extinguished in those final moments at your shared apartment.

As the show wraps up and the other models join you, Charles rises shakily. He knows he shouldn’t, knows he has no right. But the masochistic urge to see you up close, to try and speak to you for the first time in months, is overpowering.

He makes his way backstage, flashing his credentials to bypass security. A deafening mix of cheers and laughter guides him towards the dressing area, where he finds a cluster of models still in their runway looks, giddily celebrating.

And there you are in the center, radiant and alive in a way he hasn’t seen in so long. A tall, broad-shouldered man he doesn’t recognize moves towards you, a massive bouquet of red roses in his hand.

Something dark and ugly rears up in Charles’ chest as the man leans down, offering you the flowers with a brilliant smile. Your returning grin is equally bright as you accept them, lifting the vibrant blooms to inhale their sweet scent.

Of course you have suitors lining up, Charles thinks bitterly. Look at you — confident, successful, leaving him and your painful history together far behind. Who wouldn’t want to give their entire heart to someone like you?

The irrational flare of jealousy is like acid in his veins as you turn to the man, mouth opening to undoubtedly offer your gratitude. But then, shockingly, the man simply pivots towards a nearby male model, gripping his lapels and pulling him into a searing kiss.

Charles blinks dumbly as the pair continue their heated embrace, seemingly oblivious to the raucous cheers and whoops from the other models, you included.

Even as the tight knot of jealousy in Charles’ chest loosens, it’s replaced by something worse — a sinking feeling of regret as he watches you from his hidden vantage point.

You look … happy.

Vibrant.

Surrounded by friends and uplifted by your success, without him holding you back with his selfish mistakes.

Why did he ever think confronting you backstage was a good idea? You’ve clearly moved on to an exciting new chapter, one he has no place in. Not after how much he broke you, shattered the loving core you’d shared.

You throw your head back in a full-bellied laugh at something one of the other models says. Even from here, even with the distance he forced between you, the uninhibited joy on your face in that moment cuts straight to Charles’ heart.

“Hey, you lost back here?” A rough voice breaks into his thoughts. Charles turns to find a burly security guard eyeing him suspiciously.

“I … no. No, I was just leaving.” Charles forces his feet into motion, turning on his heel to all but flee from the scene of your happiness.

As painful as it is seeing how beautifully you’re thriving without him, he has no one to blame but himself. He’s the one who threw away the greatest thing he ever had. You owe him nothing, certainly not delaying your healing by dredging up the past.

Even if watching you move on cuts deeper than any physical wound.

***

The salty Sardinian breeze ruffles Charles’ hair as he leans back on the plush deck lounger, soaking in the warm August sun. For the first few days of their annual family yacht trip, he’d felt the knots of tension slowly unraveling from his shoulders as the clear blue waters and simple routines of life at sea worked their magic.

His mother’s gentle humming as she read nearby, the sounds of his brothers horsing around and doing cannonballs off the stern, the nights spent under a blanket of stars — it had almost been enough to fully distract him from thoughts of you.

Almost.

But of course, nothing can ever be that simple.

“What the hell is that!” Arthur’s annoyed shout breaks the tranquil silence.

Charles squints against the glare over the water to see what his brother is griping about. At first, it’s just a speck on the horizon. But as it draws nearer, he can make out the sleek, gleaming white lines of another yacht — one nearly triple the size of his own comparatively modest vessel.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Charles mutters under his breath as the ostentatious floating palace drops anchor mere yards from their private little cove. So much for the serenity they’d been enjoying.

He rises, moving to the railing with narrowed eyes as the other yacht’s passengers begin to emerge on the decks above them, raucous cheers and laughter cutting through the previously still air. The sound is abrasive, grating on Charles’ very last nerve.

Until a very specific, very familiar laugh rings out.

It can’t be … can it?

Charles freezes, his heart jackrabbiting as your unmistakable voice and bright, bubbling giggle reach him across the waters. He watches, feeling like he’s been doused in ice water, as you come into view alongside a group of equally vibrant, beautiful people.

Of course it’s you. Who else could it possibly be, here to upend his few days of hard-won peace?

You lean over the railing, your sunglasses sliding down your nose as you peer down at the crystal clear waters. Even from here, even with the distance separating you, Charles is struck by your radiant, carefree smile. When was the last time he saw you look so … effortlessly happy?

Before he can spiral too far down that winding road, you whip off your sunglasses and straighten, pulling the flowing fabric of your cover-up over your head in one smooth motion. You toss it aside carelessly, revealing the deep navy string bikini underneath as you take a few steps back from the railing.

Charles’ mouth goes dry as he tracks the sway of your hips, the confident, easy way you carry yourself in just that tiny scrap of swimwear. And then, with a bright peal of laughter, you’re sprinting forward and sailing over the railing, tucking into a flawless backflip before slicing into the glittering waves below.

A chorus of cheers and whoops erupts from your friends as they follow your graceful leap, one by one pelting into the water in your wake like a stream of sleek dolphin dancers. Charles watches, his earlier frustration morphing into something darker and much more complicated, as your head breaks the surface, tendrils of your soaked hair clinging to the graceful curves of your neck and shoulders.

You toss your head back, slicking the dripping strands away from your face as you tread water easily, that brilliant, freed smile never slipping. How long has it been since Charles saw you look so radiant, so at peace, so … alive?

“Mon ami, close your mouth before you start drooling all over the deck.”

Joris’ voice startles Charles from his reverie. He blinks, only then realizing his hands are clenched tightly around the cool metal railing, knuckles straining white. His best friend arches an expectant brow as Charles quickly averts his eyes, flushing hotly.

“I wasn’t ...” he starts weakly, but Joris simply scoffs.

“Yeah, okay mate. Keep telling yourself that.” Joris settles in beside him, bare feet kicked up on the railing as his eyes track over to your group, now engaged in an intense game of chicken fight among the gentle waves. “She looks good, doesn’t she?”

The resentful scowl that tugs at Charles’ mouth is automatic, instinctive. “I couldn’t care less how she looks,” he lies through gritted teeth.

Even to his own ears, the petulant deflection sounds pathetic. Joris raises an unimpressed brow. “Could’ve fooled me, with how you were eye-fucking her from over here just now.”

Charles’ flush deepens as your bright, delighted laughter rings out again, echoing across the waters. “It’s not like that,” he insists, even as his gaze traitorously tracks after the source of that sound. “I was just … surprised to see her here, that’s all.”

“Sure, yeah. And I’m the Prince of Monaco.” Joris snorts, shaking his head. “Listen, man, I get it-”

“You don’t get anything,” Charles bites out, rounding on his friend as frustration boils over. “You have no idea what it’s like seeing her like … like that, after everything. She’s just moved on like our entire relationship meant nothing!”

The ugly admission hangs between them in the still air, Charles panting slightly from the force of the outburst. Joris watches him cautiously for a long moment before speaking. “That’s not fair, Charles. You’re the one who-”

“I know!” Charles cuts him off sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I know what I did, alright? You don’t have to remind me.”

He sinks back against the railing, suddenly exhausted down to his very bones. Out across the waves, you’re perched atop one of your friend’s shoulders, engaged in an epic battle against another pair that’s quickly devolving into a fit of violent splashing.

“I know I screwed everything up. I have to live with that every single day.” Charles’ throat feels tight, watched. “I just … I never thought I’d have to watch her being so happy without me too.”

The fight seems to leave Joris as he takes in Charles’ miserable, broken expression. The other man sighs, squeezing Charles’ shoulder comfortingly. “I’m sorry. That’s … that’s got to be tough as hell to see. But you can’t blame her for moving on and being happy again, you know? What you did … well, you really broke her heart.”

Charles doesn’t respond, letting the words hang heavy between them as your melodic laugh continues to drift towards them. He knows Joris is right — he has no one to blame for this gut-wrenching situation but himself. But that doesn’t make watching your vibrant, beautiful soul shine so bright without him there any easier.

***

Charles guides his Ferrari up to the valet stand outside one of his favorite restaurants in Monaco, the engine purring like a contented cat. He throws the car into park and kills the ignition, savoring that last potent growl of the powerful motor.

There’s just something different about a Ferrari, something quintessentially Italian and bred for speed. He runs an appreciative hand along the sleek black curve of the door as he waits for the valet. This is a beast made for the racetrack, for pushing past limits. Not like those garish, overcompensating-

The loud rumble of another engine cuts into his thoughts. Charles looks up in disdain as a blinding yellow Lamborghini pulls up.

“Trying too hard, as always,” Charles mutters to himself as he watches the valet park the ostentatious machine. Could a car be any more desperate for attention? Absolutely zero class or restraint.

He climbs out, already half-dismissing it from his mind, when a familiar figure emerges from the restaurant entrance. The valet is hastening to assist, offering a hand as she descends the front steps in a form-fitting crimson dress. Even from here, even with the perfectly curled hair and smokey makeup, Charles would know the line of those shoulders, the elegant curve of her neck anywhere.

You.

His breath catches as you smile warmly at the young valet, sliding him what looks like a generous tip before slipping into the driver’s seat of the garish yellow Lamborghini and roaring off without a backwards glance.

Charles is still gaping after you, mouth slightly ajar, when the second valet appears at his side.

“Good evening, monsieur. Shall I park your car for you?”

He blinks dumbly for a moment before recovering. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

Sliding the young man his own tip, Charles pivots on his heel and strides into the elegant dining room, mind whirling. Of all the cars in the world, he never would have pegged you for a Lamborghini person.

Then again, he clearly doesn’t know you like he thought he did. Not the new you, the version free of him and his betrayals.

He takes his usual table in the back corner, ordering an expensive Chianti before he can even glance at the menu. Tonight calls for relying on old vices. As he swirls the deep burgundy liquid, he finds himself drifting back to your matching crimson dress, how it clung to your curves in such a delicious way.

Even when you were furious with him, you could never quite hide the passion that smoldered underneath. Charles had spent many blissful nights stoking those flames, coaxing them into an all-consuming wildfire of want and need. He misses the scorching heat of your desire, your clever hands and wicked mouth setting his body ablaze.

He closes his eyes, letting the memory of your bare skin flush against his wash over him. Those nights of tangled limbs and breathy gasps, when nothing else mattered but struggling to get impossibly closer, as if your very beings could meld into one.

With a frustrated groan, Charles slams back the rest of his wine. What is he doing, torturing himself with memories of your lovemaking? You’ve clearly moved on to new chapters, new … cars. New everything, really.

And yet he can’t quite extinguish the gnawing sense of dissonance. A Lamborghini? Something so utterly over-the-top and desperate for attention just doesn’t seem like your style. You were always more understated … more elegant.

Not that it matters, he reminds himself firmly. Whatever choices you make now are no longer any of his business. He systematically strips away the judgements, the fragile sense of still knowing you intimately. After what he did, he sacrificed that right completely.

The waiter reappears with a fresh glass of wine and Charles takes it gratefully. He’s determined to focus on learning to untangle you from his thoughts and simply enjoy his evening. He came here for the ambiance, the food, the escape.

But no matter how he tries, your image keeps invading his mind’s eye — sliding into that sunshine yellow machine, stunning in that slinky red number and your lips curved in a contented smile. Content without him still lingering in the shadowed corners of your life.

And then it hits him like a slap across the face — you in that screaming yellow Lamborghini wasn’t about attention at all. It was the opposite — a declaration of fierce independence. Of staking your own claim, making your own flagrantly joyful choices without a care for his opinions or approval. Free from his reputation, his expectations, his name.

The realization is like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath. You’ve remade yourself so thoroughly, forging a vibrant path that has absolutely nothing to do with him. While he’s been stuck in neutral, spinning his wheels and passively watching you soar out of reach.

A strange sense of loss washes over Charles. As badly as he’d wanted you to find your way again after his unforgivable betrayal, he can’t deny how disorienting it is to realize you’re not the same woman he fell in love with all those years ago.

You’re a new version, one he isn’t familiar with at all. One who makes choices and carries herself in a way he doubts he’ll ever fully understand, no matter how much he wishes he could go back and undo every selfish mistake that set these changes into motion.

Charles blinks against the unexpected sting in his eyes as he stares at the table. On some deeper level, he knows this remolding of your identity, this blossoming into someone both thrillingly unfamiliar yet unmistakably you, should be cause for celebration. It means you’re healing, leaving his mistakes in the past and coming into your own again in spite of his ugliest failures.

He just wishes he didn’t have to watch the entire metamorphosis from a distance.

***

Charles squints against the bright morning sunlight as he strides through the paddock towards his garage. A slight chill still clings to the air, promising another sweltering afternoon session once the sun reaches its peak. He adjusts his cap lower over his eyes, trying not to dwell too much on the practice times from yesterday. There’s still so much fine-tuning needed to find those crucial extra tenths of a second.

Passing by the Red Bull motorhome, a flash of familiar flowing hair catches his eye. Charles freezes mid-step, his heart stuttering. It couldn’t be … could it?

But then the figure moves fully into view and there’s no mistaking the delicate slope of your jaw and those cheekbones he knows as well as his own reflection. It’s definitely you, slipping inside the sleek facade of the Red Bull motorhome with an easy smile.

Charles blinks dumbly, certain his eyes must be playing tricks on him. Why in the world would you be going into the Red Bull motorhome? You never had any connection to their team or drivers before, back when ...

When you were still together.

Charles swallows hard, dragging his gaze away. He must have imagined it. Sometimes his subconscious still gets carried away, superimposing your presence into random moments or places like an echo of a life he can never return to. Seeing you here, intertwined with his racing world in some way, is just too improbable.

Shaking off the strange moment, he refocuses on the day ahead. But over the next two days, he can’t seem to avoid catching glimpses of you around the Red Bull garage and hospitality areas. There you are chatting with one of their engineers just outside their motorhome entrance. Then sharing a hushed conversation off to the side with their chief strategist.

Finally, on Sunday just before the race, he watches with raised eyebrows as you throw your head back laughing at something Max Verstappen says, the Red Bull driver’s own grin wide and appreciative.

Some sort of friendship surely couldn’t explain this level of access and familiarity could it? A sour knot of suspicion begins twisting in Charles’ gut. There’s no way … no way Max would ...

But he has to know.

As the Formula 1 circus begins packing up after the race, Charles spots you slipping away from the Red Bull group once more, clearly headed back to their closed-off sanctuary. He watches Max linger outside, fiddling idly with his cap as he waits.

It’s the perfect opportunity. Charles doesn’t even think, just lets his feet carry him across the crowded paddock until he’s standing across from his fellow driver.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The accusation comes out half-snarl before he can stop himself.

Max turns, eyebrows shooting up. “... Charles? What are you on about?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Charles jabs a finger back towards the motorhome you disappeared into. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been with her all weekend. How you two can’t seem to get enough of each other’s company.”

Realization dawns and Max actually has the audacity to laugh. “Wait … is this about Y/N? You jealous she’s been hanging around our team?”

White-hot fury lances through Charles and he has to grit his teeth against the heated words that want to come spilling out. “You think this is funny? Cozying up to my ex-fianceé less than a year after I lost her? What, you couldn’t find someone else so you had to go after her?”

Max shakes his head slowly, clearly fighting to keep his expression neutral. “Damn … I didn’t realize the great Charles Leclerc makes the rules on who Y/N can associate with these days.”

The blatant dismissal in his tone is like a physical slap. Charles recoils slightly before squaring his shoulders. “Don’t turn this around on me. I know what I saw, how cozy you two were-”

“Easy there, tiger.” Max cuts him off, holding up one hand placatingly. “First of all, Y/N and I are just friends. I happen to have my own gorgeous girlfriend, but thanks for looking out.”

He pauses, letting the implication that Charles is being irrational and out-of-line sink in. When Charles doesn’t immediately retort, Max continues.

“Second … you seem to have conveniently forgotten that you’re the one who threw away your life with Y/N. The one who cheated and broke her heart. You don’t get to dictate a damn thing about who she spends time with or how she chooses to live her life now.”

The words slam into Charles with brutal force, knocking the breath from his lungs. Because Max is right — he has no claim here, no right to make assumptions or demands. Not after what he did.

Seeming to sense he’s scored a direct hit, Max shakes his head again. “Look, I get it’s probably hard watching her move on fully, start over without you. But that’s on you, not her. You’re going to have to learn to deal with the consequences of your own actions.”

The quiet truth in his voice is like a white-hot brand. Charles swallows hard, suddenly incapable of meeting Max’s level gaze.

“Then … then why has she been around your team so much?” It comes out sounding more petulant than he intended, a desperate scramble to regain some levity. “If she’s not … you know ...”

Max huffs out a soft laugh, stooping to retrieve his discarded cap. “That answer isn’t mine to give.” He slides it back on, fixing Charles with one last searching look. “But if I had to guess? She’s putting herself first now. Pursuing her own path, one that has nothing to do with you anymore.”

He turns towards the Red Bull motorhome, tossing his final phrase over his shoulder. “I’d get used to it, if I were you.”

Charles watches him disappear inside, leaving him rooted in place and feeling completely lost. The crowd continues to disperse around him, teams and personnel breaking down equipment and packing things away.

Yet Max’s words keep ricocheting through his mind on an endless loop.

She’s pursuing her own path now. One that has nothing to do with you anymore.

It makes perfect sense of course — the laughter, the camaraderie, the ease of her presence in Red Bull’s inner sanctum. The seamless way she navigated their ecosystem all weekend long while Charles remained oblivious.

Because you’ve fully remade your entire existence into one that no longer intersects with his whatsoever.

As the paddock slowly empties around him, Charles finally forces one foot in front of the other, his legs feeling like overcooked noodles. Part of him wants to stick around until you reemerge, to demand that you explain this bold new reality you’ve carved out.

But what would be the point? You don’t owe him any explanations, any part of your life now. Those days are over, gone forever thanks to his own bone-deep failings.

So he keeps walking, leaving you and your mystery behind. After all, hadn’t you made it crystal clear from the very beginning?

This was your path to reclaim now, a future that was yours and yours alone to chase.

***

Charles frowns down at the envelope in his hand as he pushes open the door to his apartment, his mind still half-focused on the looming Austrian Grand Prix. The return address is from some high-end clothing boutique in Paris, but it’s the name neatly printed below that makes his heart stutter.

Y/N Y/L/N.

For a long moment, he simply stands there in the entryway, turning the innocent envelope over and over in his hands. How did this slip through the cracks and wind up here, at what used to be your shared home before everything combusted?

He traces the graceful swoop of your name with one finger, memories flickering through his mind’s eye. Coming home from races to find you curled up on the sofa with the latest fashion magazines scattered around you, making notes in the margins. Or catching you in the huge walk-in closet the two of you designed together, carefully hanging up some new couture purchase with a reverent touch.

You always did have impeccable taste. Charles can’t even find it in himself to judge the fancy Parisian boutique’s stationary now clutched in his hands.

Making a split-second decision, he spins on his heel and heads right back out the door, letter in hand. If this innocuous slip of mail made its way here by some shipping error, it’s the perfect excuse to … what? See you again? Try to explain himself one more time?

He’s not sure, but either way, the pull to seek you out is utterly irresistible now that this connection has fallen into his lap. Charles makes it two blocks before realizing with a start that he has absolutely no idea where you’re living these days.

The logical side of his brain reminds him he could simply call or text to get your new address and make arrangements to pass the letter along. But the thought of such mundane formalities after all this time, after the way things were upended so brutally, is laughable.

So instead he lets his feet guide him towards the upscale apartment building you lived in before moving into his place. There’s a chance the leasing office might have a forwarding address on file he can use. A small voice whispers that this is almost certainly a futile quest, that you’ve no doubt successfully untangled every last thread of your life from his.

But he has to try.

The lobby is blessedly quiet, devoid of the usual bustle and foot traffic he remembers from past visits. Charles straightens his shoulders and approaches the front desk, where a youngish woman with a bright smile greets him.

“Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”

“Hi, yes, I’m actually trying to track down the new address for a former tenant — Y/N Y/L/N?” He carefully pencils in the last name, watching as the woman’s face scrunches in thought for a beat before her eyes widen in recognition.

“Of course, Mademoiselle Y/L/N. One moment.”

She taps efficiently at her computer, scanning whatever information has popped up on the screen. Just watching her work makes Charles’ heart kick up its rhythm in nervous anticipation.

“Ah, yes, here we are. It seems Mademoiselle Y/L/N moved out around three months ago. She actually left instructions for any further mail that slips through to be forwarded to ...”

She pauses, glancing up at Charles with newfound curiosity sparking in her eyes. “Are you a relative, sir? Mademoiselle Y/L/N requested her new address only be released to family.”

“I’m … an old friend,” he answers carefully, unsure if that bends the truth too far or not. “We used to be very close.”

The woman’s polite smile dims ever-so-slightly at his choice of words, like she can read the subtext loud and clear. Used to be very close … until he completely obliterated that closeness.

“I see,” she says neutrally. “Well, in that case, I’m afraid I can’t provide her new contact details without explicit permission. But the residents currently leasing her old unit have been directly forwarding any mail to her, if that would help?”

It’s not ideal, but a frustratingly belated realization stops Charles from arguing further — you clearly requested your whereabouts be kept private now, at least from him. Probably a wise decision, all things considered.

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.”

She rattles off the apartment number and Charles commits it to memory with a polite nod before turning to leave. As he crosses the airy lobby once more, he can’t resist glancing up towards the corner unit he knows was yours, absently wondering if someone else’s belongings line those shelves now, if there are new photos or mementos dotting the surfaces where yours once stood.

He shakes off the melancholy pang — you’ve forged an entirely new existence somewhere far away. Of course your old place has been repopulated, just like all the love you breathed into it has dissipated like smoke.

The apartment door opens after the third solid knock, revealing a twenty-something woman with a confused furrow in her brow. “Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m actually here about a piece of mail for the previous tenant? The front desk said to bring it here.” Charles quickly proffers the letter before she can raise further objections or shut the door in his face completely.

“Oh.” She accepts it hesitantly, turning it over in her hands just like Charles had done earlier. “Yeah, the last tenant did leave instructions for stuff like this, now that you mention it ...”

She trails off, eyes narrowing slightly as she studies him more intently. He knows that look, can pinpoint the exact moment realization blossoms.

“Wait … you’re not Charles Leclerc, are you?”

So much for anonymity. He opens his mouth, fully prepared to deny and deflect as the tension stretches between them-

“Oh my god, you are!” The young woman actually gasps, one hand flying up to cover her mouth as her eyes go saucer-wide. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you. I mean, sorry about … you know. That entire situation with Y/N. My boyfriend is such a fan of yours though, I can’t even-”

“It’s alright,” Charles cuts her off on pure instinct, the words rushing out in a bid to stem the conversational swerve that’s clearly brewing. “I actually stopped by to pass that letter along, but also see if there’s a current address where I could reach Y/N? Perhaps send her things directly from now on.”

His polite inquiry has the desired effect — the woman’s starry-eyed expression shutters again as she refocuses. “Ah, well, about that … Y/N asked for anything like this to be forwarded to an address in Austria once she moved there. Let me grab that for you.”

Charles waits in silence as she ducks back inside, busying herself with finding the details. Austria? Of all places, why would you have relocated to-

“Got it.” She reappears, a small slip of paper in her outstretched hand. “This is where you can send anything for Y/N. Though I obviously don’t know all the details about … you know. Your situation.”

He takes the slip without comment, just a curt nod of acknowledgement. The woman rocks back on her heels, worrying her lower lip slightly.

“For what it’s worth … I think it’s really cool you’ve tried to stay in contact, you know? Even after everything. That’s commitment.”

Her sincere tone grates against the ugly truth they’re both tap-dancing around — that he’s the one who torched your commitment beyond repair with his selfish actions.

“Thanks,” is all he can muster, already turning away and pocketing the slip of paper with your new Austrian address before she can say anything further.

As he retraces his steps to the ground floor, Charles finds himself clutching the envelope even tighter, knuckles going white. So you’ve fled all the way to Austria now, put an entire nation’s length between your old life and whatever rising present you’re building. No wonder you didn’t want your location breathed to just anyone, let alone the man who detonated your world.

Well, he got what he came for in more ways than one. He has your new address now, the roadmap to whatever path you’ve started down without him sketched out in his hands. Part of him longs to deviate from his own schedule and just … show up, uninvited, on your new doorstep. To try and explain himself, or at least attempt to understand what grander journey you’ve embarked on.

But the same voice that cautioned him earlier rings out once more — you’ve made it perfectly clear you want to sever any remaining ties or connections to him, no matter how tenuous. Perhaps out of necessity to fully heal or simply because you’re done having any part of Charles Leclerc tarnish your horizons any longer.

Either way, you’ve spoken through your silence and distance. Chasing you down now, while perhaps gratifying a selfish impulse of his own, would only disrespect the boundaries you’ve erected.

As Charles reaches his car and slides in behind the wheel, he can’t resist rereading the brief string of characters and numbers that make up your new address. He commits them to memory, sketching out a crude map in his mind’s eye of where exactly this secluded town lies in the looping alpine valleys and mountain peaks.

Part of him longs to program the coordinates into his GPS immediately, to seek you out while this connection still blazes hot and bright between you. But harsh realities keep crashing in — the Austrian Grand Prix is only days away, his own commitments and schedule unforgiving.

No, the wise choice would be to simply send the wayward letter on to its intended destination. To let you live in peace, unburdened by his disruptive presence any longer.

As Charles fires up the engine and eases out onto the main street, he catches one last glimpse of your old apartment building shrinking in the rearview mirror. He thinks of the wide-eyed woman’s parting comment about “commitment” and has to laugh bitterly.

Commitment is precisely what he failed to uphold, the whispered promises he shattered into pieces with his own calloused hands. You owe him no further explanations, no more fragments of yourself after he decimated the love you shared.

The seconds will stretch on towards the next race, the next city, the next routine of focused preparation. But part of Charles’ mind will linger in that small Austrian town, caught in the mystery of the new life you’ve built.

A life he has no right to reinsert himself into, not anymore. All he can do is wish you well from a distance and keep putting kilometers between you with every spin of his tires.

Kilometers and kilometers of regret.

***

Charles stares down at the navigation screen, his thumb hovering over the go button. This is ridiculous — completely irrational and just begging for disaster. He has no business showing up unannounced like this, disrupting whatever new life you’ve so carefully constructed.

And yet … the Austrian address you have been forwarding mail to is already programmed in, glowing softly with the swipe of his finger. He could be there in just over nine hours, barring any major delays on the route into Salzburg province.

His mind races, cycling through every logical argument for abandoning this reckless idea immediately. You’re entitled to your privacy, your fresh start far away from the wreckage he created. Anything more would be him selfishly barging back into your existence, the one place he swore to never intrude again.

Against his better judgement, Charles swipes the go button. Almost instantly, the robotic voice begins spouting turn-by-turn directions, the path to your doorstep stretching out in vivid digital detail.

What’s done is done. He’ll simply … take it one step at a time.

The winding Alpine roads are a marvel of feats in civil engineering, the roadways expertly carved into the towering rock faces in sweeping vistas. Even Charles, who has logged countless miles of serpentine racetracks and courses around the globe, can’t help admiring the impossible scenery whipping past.

Evergreen forests give way to snow-capped peaks reaching into the crisp blue sky. ancient castles and towering church spires alike keep popping into view around each new switchback turn. He can’t shake the nagging sense that this entire region is something ripped from the pages of a storybook, a landscape too perfectly picturesque to be real.

Which is perhaps why the sight of the enormous wrought-iron gates materializing up ahead doesn’t immediately faze him at all.

“You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS chirps pleasantly as Charles slows the Ferrari, trying to comprehend the sprawling estate now stretching out before him. This can’t possibly be right, can it?

Lush gardens and perfectly manicured shrubbery serpentine around the perimeter in intricate geometric patterns, eventually yielding to an emerald green meadow dotted with ancient growth trees. A gravel path splits the sweeping lawns up ahead, clearly carving a wide berth around … is that an actual lakehouse?

Charles blinks in stunned stupor, instinctively searching for some sort of address marker or sign as he creeps up the main drive towards the gates. Instead, his eyes are drawn to the imposing manor itself, all honey-colored stone and arched windows that wouldn’t look out of place in a Renaissance fresco. Turrets and spires spiral upwards towards the cloudless sky, practically winking in the summer sunshine.

This has to be some colossal mistake.

He’s fully prepared to simply turn around and peel back out of this fairytale estate when the crackle of a speaker breaks the silence.

“Hallo? This is a private residence. Please identify yourself and state your business.” The clipped, accented words carry an undeniable tone of authority.

Shit. Charles swallows hard against his suddenly dry throat, throwing the car into park as he leans towards the callbox mounted on the ivy-laced exterior wall.

“Ah, yes, hello … my name is Charles Leclerc. I’m actually here to-” He breaks off, fresh uncertainty bubbling up. He’s here to what, exactly? Catch a glimpse of the new life you’ve created? Throw himself at your feet and beg forgiveness once more?

“One moment, please,” the disembodied voice instructs crisply before the line goes dead silent once more.

Charles sits back, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. He should go, right now before this reaches the point of no return. He could simply turn around, act like this was all some misguided joke and leave you undisturbed. It’s the mature, sensible choice.

Instead, his pulse kicks up into a furious gallop as the massive front gates begin slowly grinding open with a metal groan, clear invitation to proceed. Charles doesn’t move for a long beat, waiting for the second half of the intercom to bark out a warning, for security to appear and politely hustle him off the premises.

But nothing. The gates yawn open further, revealing the full splendor of the estate lying in wait beyond.

Before he can think better of it, Charles eases the Ferrari forward. The crunch of the pale gravel beneath his tires seems to echo off the looming stone walls as he winds deeper into the property, the boundaries blurring between reality and a dreamscape more suited for the silver screen.

Finally, he rounds the last curve and the manor in its full glory stretches out before him. Every inch of the sprawling facade is a carved, architectural marvel — from the polished lintels to the intricate mouldings encircling each enormous window and doorway.

He kills the engine and simply sits there, once again grappling with unprecedented uncertainty. What was he thinking, assuming he could just brazenly roll up and … what? Vent months worth of grievances and miscommunications in a casual chat? As if the life you’ve so clearly cultivated here could ever intersect with his own beaten path again?

Charles climbs out of the car on legs that seem determined to wobble out from under him. He’s vaguely aware of the thunder of footsteps on stone before one of the massive oak front doors swings wide and a figure fills the entryway.

“Charles Leclerc, I presume?” The man’s sharp tone instantly catches Charles off guard. He’s younger than expected, perhaps mid-thirties, with an athletic build and carefully groomed dark hair. Despite the informal lounge pants and linen shirt, an unmistakable air of assurance rolls off him in waves.

“Er … yes. Hello.” Charles hears the uncertainty edging into his own greeting, quickly scrambling to fill the conversational pause. “I didn’t realize Y/N had … household staff now.”

The words are out before he can fully snatch them back. The man’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker, but there’s suddenly a tension charging the space between them that has Charles’ palms prickling with sweat.

“I’ll inform her you’ve arrived,” the man says at last, his intense gaze scanning over Charles slowly from head to toe.

Is that judgment blending into the appraisal? Regardless, Charles feels abruptly self-conscious — he hadn’t expected to be on the receiving end of such frank scrutiny today. But then again, he’s the one who inserted himself into unknown territory here.

“If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the receiving hall?” The open doorway and subtle tilt of the man’s head is clear invitation, one Charles has no choice but to mutely accept.

He climbs the three stairs to the arched entrance, pausing just before the threshold to turn back with furrowed brow. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your-”

“Mark.” The reply is clipped but courteous enough, at least. “Y/N should be down shortly.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and disappears through the foyer, leaving Charles to hover there alone for a beat too long before finally stepping across the threshold. Each footfall on the gleaming marble seems to ricochet off the domed ceiling above, bouncing back in mocking echoes.

As his gaze travels around the cavernous space, roving over the hanging art and intricate tilework, Charles can’t quite bite back the breathless huff of amazement.

Where in the actual hell are you living, Y/N?

***

Charles follows a step behind Mark as the other man leads them deeper into the estate. He can’t resist craning his neck, taking in every jaw-dropping detail — the soaring archways, the intricate brickwork, the Venetian plaster and artworks adorning the walls.

It’s the art itself that begins nagging at him first. Charles frowns slightly as they pass yet another larger-than-life canvas, this one emblazoned with the distinctive Red Bull logo and colors. Then a series of framed photographs, all seeming to depict different angles and events tied to the racing team.

“You must be quite a fan of Red Bull,” he finds himself commenting as they round a corner.

Mark half-turns, one eyebrow quirked. “You could say that.”

There’s an undercurrent to his tone that Charles can’t quite put his finger on. Before he can pry further, they emerge into some sort of sitting room or receiving area, the walls giving way to a bright, airy ambiance.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Mark gestures towards one of the plush sofas arranged in the center of the space. “I’ll have the staff inform Y/N you’re here.”

Charles nods, still trying to absorb the sheer opulence around him as he takes a seat. How in the world did you find yourself situated in a place like this? The nagging questions about Mark’s potential connection to the Red Bull team continue to swirl.

He’s pulled from his ruminations by the sound of your voice filtering down the hallway, breezing and melodic as ever.

“Babe? You down here?”

Charles stiffens instinctively at the endearment, his eyes snapping over to where Mark is casually lounging back against the opposite sofa. There’s no missing the tender smile playing across the other man’s lips.

“In the sitting room, liebling. We have a guest.”

The teasing lilt in his response has Charles’ skin prickling with something he can’t quite identify. He rises halfway as your footsteps grow nearer, not wanting to seem rude by remaining fully seated.

“Oh, a guest! Who-”

You sweep into the room still chattering away cheerfully, entirely oblivious until your gaze finally lands squarely on Charles. The breath punches out of you in a surprised rush, your entire body going rigid as the words die on your lips.

For an endless heartbeat, you simply stare at Charles, motionless but for the slight part of your lips. He watches as a faint flush blossoms high on your cheekbones, long lashes fluttering rapidly.

“... Charles? What are you doing here?”

He blinks dumbly at the sound of your voice, hushed with disbelief yet still so familiar after all this time. “I … you got a letter. From Paris, I think. It arrived at our — at my old place by mistake.”

Cursing his stammering, Charles reaches automatically for his inner jacket pocket, fumbling until he can produce the crumpled envelope bearing your name. “I didn’t know if other things might keep getting sent there, so I thought ...”

He trails off lamely, unable to properly articulate the impulse that propelled him all this way. To deliver one measly piece of mail? To re-establish some connection, no matter how fragile? He realizes with a start that you’ve moved closer, extending one hand to gently accept the letter from him.

“Thank you,” you murmur, eyes momentarily skittering away from his probing gaze. “That was very considerate.”

The moment stretches out, silence expanding in the cavernous space. Charles watches as your free hand flutters unconsciously upwards to fiddle with the collar of your shirt, struggling to find his voice once more.

“I didn’t realize you had, ah … you had a place like this now.” His attempt at nonchalance is so piss-poor he wants to cringe. “And … company, I suppose?”

A delicate snort from the other side of the room reminds Charles he’s not alone with you. His gaze snaps over to find Mark watching the exchange with an inquisitive smirk, arms crossed casually over his chest.

“Company?” He echoes the word airily, igniting a fresh bloom of color in your cheeks. “This must be terribly confusing for you.”

In one seamless motion, Mark unfolds himself from the sofa and crosses the short distance to your side, slipping one possessive arm around your waist. The intimacy of the gesture has Charles’ mouth going dry.

“Allow me to clarify — I’m Mark. Mark Mateschitz.” The subtle emphasis on the surname hits Charles like a bucket of ice water, comprehension crashing over him in waves.

“Mateschitz?” He hears himself repeating dumbly. “As in … Dietrich Mateschitz? The founder of Red Bull?”

Mark’s grin stretches into something wolfishly triumphant at Charles’ stunned expression. “The very same. My father.”

He lets the implication expand in the silence barreling down on them from all sides. Charles numbly finds the nearest armchair and sinks into it, struggling to fully process the revelation.

Of course. All the Red Bull imagery and iconography made so much more sense now. This sprawling, palatial estate clearly belonged to the family behind the team and brand, the multinational empire. Which meant … you weren’t simply a friendly acquaintance chumming around the Red Bull garages.

No, you were with the actual Mateschitz heir, the current co-owner of the goddamn company himself.

The sound of you softly clearing your throat breaks through his whirling thoughts. When Charles glances up, the vision that greets him is like a vise around his heart — you and Mark cuddled close together on the loveseat, his arm still looped possessively around your waist as you toy absently with the ends of his dark hair. Two people radiating intimacy and comfort, completely at home in one another’s embrace.

“We met during a Wings for Life charity run, actually,” you offer at last, almost as an olive branch. “We just … hit it off, I suppose. One thing led to another and … well, here we are.”

Mark’s fingers trail in a barely-there caress up and down your arm as you speak, his gaze locked adoringly on your profile. The look is so tender, so inescapably fond that it makes Charles’ chest constrict painfully.

“She’s a force of nature,” Mark says simply, the corners of his eyes crinkling with quiet mirth. “What else could I do but get caught up in her orbit?”

A flush blossoms high on your cheeks, but you don’t turn away, holding Mark’s fond gaze steadily. In that moment, the love you two share is almost a tangible force, shimmering and alive in the air between you. It’s beautiful and devastating all at once.

“I, uh, I should go.” The words leave Charles in a dazed mumble before he can reconsider. He rises abruptly, needing to create space between himself and the intimacies unfolding so easily in front of him.

As if snapping out of a reverie, you look up sharply. “Charles, wait-”

“No, really, it’s fine.” He tries valiantly to paste on a casual smile, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Thank you again for … well, you know. I’m sure I can see myself out.”

Turning on his heel, Charles makes it no more than two strides before your voice stops him once more, tinged with gentle exasperation.

“That’s the library you’re heading for. Here, let me ...”

You gently disentangle yourself from Mark’s embrace and cross the room towards a different set of double doors. Charles watches in silence as you lead the way through winding hallway after hallway with an effortless grace. Of course you know the layout of this palatial mansion like the back of your hand — this is your home now, your life.

The thought churns bitterly in his gut even as you both finally reach the arched front entrance. You turn back to face him, mouth twisting in that familiar apologetic quirk he knows so well.

“Listen, I know this was … unexpected. And maybe not the easiest thing to process.” You huff out a soft laugh, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear almost shyly. “But I’m glad you stopped by, despite everything. It was … nice to see you again.”

He blinks dumbly, at a loss for words in the face of your warm sincerity. This entire interaction has been an avalanche of emotions — the shock of discovering your romantic entanglement with the Mateschitz heir, the painful pang of watching you two’s intimacy on display, and now the remnants of affection in your tone as you bid him farewell.

It’s simply … too much. Too many conflicting feelings to deal with when his heart still bears the scar tissue of your break up.

“You too,” is all he can manage in return, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears. “I, uh … I should get going if I want to make it to Spielberg before media day.”

You nod, seeming to understand his unspoken need to retreat and regroup. “Of course. Well, safe travels then.”

“We’ll see you at the Red Bull Ring,” Mark pipes up from behind you, his voice cutting through the tension with surprising joviality. “It is our home race this weekend, after all. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The reminder that you’ll be perpetually woven into the fabric of his racing life from now on hits Charles with the force of a gut punch. He swallows hard, bobbing his head in acknowledgement as you open the front door for him.

“Looking forward to it,” he lies through his teeth before turning on his heel and all but fleeing down the front steps.

He’s vaguely aware of you calling out something about having someone escort him through the grounds and to the main gate. But Charles doesn’t pause, can’t stop until he’s directed the powerful Ferrari back out onto the main roads and open air.

Only then does he finally let out the shuddering breath he’d been holding, the sweet Alpine breezes sweeping over him. He floors the accelerator, putting as much distance between himself and that fairytale estate as possible.

But no matter how fast or far he drives, he can’t outrun the image searing into his mind’s eye — you nestled so contentedly in Mark’s arms, so visibly adored and cherished. Just as you’d once been cradled in Charles’ own embrace, before he burned everything to ashes.

Blinking hard against the hot sting in his eyes, Charles white-knuckles the steering wheel and lets the endless stretches of winding road unfurl before him. There’s only one direction now — forward.

Always forward.

No looking back, no wistful what-ifs allowed. You’ve found the life and love you deserve after he shattered your world.

All he can do is wish you nothing but joy from a distance, even as his own heart disintegrates inside his chest with every step further away from you.

***

The bass line thrums through Charles’ body like a living thing as he signals for another round at the club’s private VIP bar. He can barely make out the sound of his own thoughts over the pulsating music, but that’s rather the point tonight. To drown out the ceaseless reel of memories and fragmented realizations in a haze of liquor and pounding rhythms.

“You sure about that?” The bartender has to shout to be heard, one sculpted eyebrow arching upwards as she eyes the growing collection of empty glasses. “I think you’ve had quite enough, sir.”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough,” Charles snaps back, the words slurring slightly as he slaps his platinum card down with more force than intended. “Just keep them coming.”

The woman’s dubious gaze flickers briefly to somewhere over his shoulder before she simply shrugs and moves to fill his latest order. Charles slumps forward with a harsh exhale, fingers digging into his sweat-dampened curls as the relentless bassline reverberates through his bones.

“Easy there, calamar.”

The familiar voice cuts through the noise as a firm hand clasps his shoulder. Pierre slides into the open stool beside him with a concerned furrow in his brow.

“I’m starting to think my invite for a fun night out may have been a mistake.” His eyes rove over the staggering collection of empty glasses and bottles before lifting to meet Charles’ glazed stare.

“Or more like a cry for help,” he mutters, pitching his voice to be heard clearly. “Want to talk about what’s got you in such a mood?”

Charles opens his mouth but all that comes out is a bitter bark of laughter. He reaches for his newly-arrived glass, downing half the amber liquid in one go as it burns all the way to his core.

“What’s there to talk about?” The words are thick and unwieldy on his tongue. “She’s gone. Moved on better than I ever could have with some … some rich prick who treats her like his personal princess.”

He waves a sloppy hand in the air, gesturing vaguely. “Guy is richer than God, probably spoils her rotten with jewels and furs and … and billion dollar villas overlooking the Alps.”

His voice cracks slightly on the last word and he has to blink rapidly against the unwelcome sting in his eyes. Pierre’s forehead creases further as he watches Charles raggedly drain the rest of his glass.

“I take it your little meeting with Y/N didn’t go well?” He pitches it as a careful question, one Charles shrugs listlessly at before reaching for the nearest full glass. Pierre’s hand shoots out, closing around Charles’ wrist to impede his progress.

“I think you’ve had quite enough of that for one night,” he declares firmly. “Unless you want security dragging your drunk ass out of here, that is.”

Charles tries feebly to tug his arm free but Pierre’s grip remains vise-like. His traitorous thoughts drift back to the image of Mark’s arm so casually looped around your waist, confident in his place at your side.

“What’s he got that I don’t?” The plaintive question slips out before he can bite it back. Charles swivels glassy eyes towards his friend and teammate. “Seriously, Pierre … what can Mateschitz offer her that I couldn’t?”

A heavy silence stretches out between them, punctuated only by the thunderous pulse of the music. Pierre holds his stare steadily, clearly weighing how much harsh truth Charles can handle in his current condition.

“Well … thirty-seven billion dollars is a decent start, I would guess.”

The matter-of-fact words hit like a sucker punch to the gut. Charles flinches as if physically struck, mouth falling open in a small ‘o’ of shock.

“Jesus, have some tact,” Pierre continues crisply. “Forget the money for a second — mate, he didn’t cheat on her. He has the basic decency to stay faithful. You know … the bare minimum requirement for a relationship?”

The dig bites deep, sparking a fresh flare of white-hot shame and regret in Charles’ core. He twists his captured wrist futilely once more before giving up and dropping his head to thunk dully against the bartop.

“I thought we were past rubbing salt in the wound,” he mumbles towards the gleaming wood surface.

Pierre sighs, his grip softening enough to pull his arm free at last. “We are, we are … mostly. But you can’t honestly expect me to sit here and help you feel sorry for yourself about another man treating Y/N right after you treated her so abysmally.”

Charles squeezes his eyes shut as your face swims into focus. The light in your eyes when Mark gazed at you, the simple intimacy you radiated together ...

“I miss her,” he whispers, each word carved from shards of anguish and loss. “I miss her so damn much. And now every time I have to see her at a race or schmoozing at an event, I’ll know exactly what I threw away for one night of selfishness.”

Fat tears leak from the corners of his screwed-shut eyes, tracing hot pathways down his cheeks as Pierre watches silently. After a long stretch, Charles finally cracks one eye open to peer blearily at his friend once more.

“I need to win her back,” he declares with as much conviction as he can muster through the alcoholic fog seeping into his brain. “I’m not over her, I’ll never be over her. There has to be a way to … to make things right again, don’t you think?”

Pierre regards him steadily, arms folded across his chest. “I think … you’re drunk off your ass and in no state to be making grand romantic gestures tonight.”

Charles waves a clumsy hand, nearly toppling his remaining drink in the process. “Not tonight. But … soon. Yeah, soon I’ll figure out what her new favorite flower is or some shit. Maybe a nice bottle of whatever top-shelf champagne she likes these days. Or … or I can dedicate a race win to her! Girls go gaga over that romantic shit, right?”

He watches Pierre’s expression morph into one of pure incredulity before his friend pinches the bridge of his nose hard, eyes screwing shut with a shake of his head.

“You’re not even hearing yourself right now, are you?” Pierre asks at last, infusing as much patience into his words as possible. “This isn’t about some flowers or a bottle of bubbly or delusionally thinking you have a chance to beat Red Bull this season. You completely decimated her trust in you and demolished the entire foundation of your relationship.”

Charles squirms uncomfortably at the brutal truth. Part of him wants to get up and stalk away in a final burst of tipsy petulance.

But the rest of him knows Pierre is simply being the voice of reason — the harsh reality check he so desperately needs right now, despite how it slices into his wounded pride.

“Look ...” Pierre seems to sense he’s veering into dangerous territory and softens his tone slightly. “I’m not trying to kick you while you’re down, I swear. But any chance of reconciling with Y/N will require so much more than a thoughtless grand gesture or gift.”

Slowly, Charles lifts his bleary gaze and locks eyes with his friend. Pierre holds the stare steadily, mouth set in a solemn line.

“It’ll take rebuilding the bedrock of your foundation — time, effort, and trust. Things you can’t buy or speed along, no matter how much you try.” A heavy pause settles between them before Pierre speaks again, more gently this time. “Maybe reconnecting with her is possible one day … or maybe not. But you owe it to her and yourself to give space for those open wounds to heal first.”

It’s not at all what Charles wants to hear right now. His instinct is still to barrel forward, to blaze a path of extravagant overtures until you melt back into his arms. But deep down, he knows Pierre is speaking the truth — he systematically torched something sacred and attempting to simply spackle over that devastation would be spitting in the face of your shared past.

Nodding slowly, Charles reaches up to swipe clumsily at the dampness on his cheeks. Pierre places a steadying hand on his shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze.

“Come on, idiot. Let’s get you home before you really embarrass yourself out here.”

Charles doesn’t protest as Pierre slips off his stool and hauls him upright, looping one arm securely around his waist for support. As they navigate the pulsing crowd, he steals one last glimpse over his shoulder at the bar now shrinking away in the distance.

Perhaps this part of his story with you might be over, the final embers snuffed out. But somehow, some way, Charles vows to rekindle that spark again — even if it takes immeasurable time and effort to nurture it back from the smoldering ashes of his own making.

One thing is certain, though — any path forward will require him to douse these wallowing flames of self-pity first.

The pounding bass fades into a dull throb as Pierre guides them out into the cool night air. Charles blinks rapidly, the city’s twinkling lights swimming dizzily before his bleary eyes as his friend bundles him into the backseat of a waiting car.

“Just let me sleep it off,” he slurs as the plush leather seats engulf him. “I’ll be good as new in the morning.”

Pierre huffs out a wry chuckle as he slides in beside Charles, rapping his knuckles on the privacy partition to signal the driver. “Yeah, we’ll see about that. Once you’re properly re-hydrated and that tequila has run its course.”

The motion of the town car pulling away from the curb has Charles’ head lolling back against the headrest. He cracks one eye open to peer at his friend through his disheveled curls.

“I really do love her, you know?” The confession emerges soft and subdued, loaded with naked yearning. “Like … the love of my entire whole damn life, probably. How fucking stupid is that?”

He’s not sure if the dampness blurring his vision is from a fresh wave of moisture or simply the alcohol still sloshing through his system. Either way, Pierre’s gaze softens imperceptibly as he reaches out to give Charles’ knee a reassuring squeeze.

“We’ve all been certifiably stupid in the name of love before, believe me. The key is learning from those mistakes before moving forward.” A beat passes before he adds, “And for the record — I know you did love Y/N with everything you had, even when you monumentally fucked things up.”

Charles lets his eyes slip shut once more with a slow nod. “Then you know why I can’t just … let her go completely. Why I need to find a way to get back to her, even if takes years of making things right first.”

The words hang heavy between them, a tangled thicket of resolution and remorse. Finally, Pierre exhales a soft sigh.

“I know. But that’s a bridge to cross another day, when you’re sober and can actually string two coherent thoughts together.” He gives Charles’ shoulder a light shove. “For now, focus on putting one foot in front of the other and staying hydrated, yeah?”

Despite himself, the corners of Charles’ lips quirk upwards at his friend’s gentle ribbing. He fumbles blindly for the window switch, lowering the glass to allow a blessed gust of fresh air to roll in and fill the cabin.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Just … don’t hold your breath on me moving on anytime soon.” His eyes flicker open once more to meet Pierre’s steady gaze. “I’m kind of stubborn that way when it comes to the things I want most.”

Pierre holds his stare for a long beat before giving a slow shake of his head, a wry smile tugging at his own lips. “Believe me, mate — I’m well aware.”

They lapse into companionable silence for the remainder of the drive, the city’s twinkling skyline gliding past in a blur. Despite the copious amounts of alcohol still sloshing through his veins, a flicker of hope rekindles in Charles’ chest.

You might have slipped from his grasp, but that doesn’t necessarily mean your paths can’t someday and somehow intersect once more.

All it will take is the courage to keep inching forward, one stumbling step at a time.

No matter how many times the darkness tries to swallow him whole.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening as Charles kills the engine, the high-pitched cheers swelling to near-riotous levels.

He tips his head back against the headrest for a beat, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. P2 at the Singapore Grand Prix isn’t cause for disappointment — he drove one hell of a race and pushed his machinery to its limits.

But the unbridled pandemonium echoing all around paints a stark reminder that second-place means precious little tonight.

As he cracks open his helmet visor, the screams seem to multiply tenfold. Charles squints against the blinding flash of a thousand camera flashes as the feverish celebration kicks into high gear. Of course the crowd is whipped into such a frenzy — a certain Dutchman has done it again.

Max Verstappen just secured his fourth consecutive World Drivers’ Championship.

Charles watches almost numbly as a swarm of bodies in dark blue coverings rushes the track. The Red Bull mechanics, crew members, and team management spill out in an ever expanding tide, swarming towards parc fermé. All desperate for their piece of history, to bask in the glory of their latest accomplishment.

Bracing one hand against the sweltering engine cover, Charles hauls himself up and out of the cockpit with as much energy as he can muster. He plants his feet wide on the sizzling asphalt, scanning the chaos overtaking the pit lane in search of … there.

You cut an unmistakable figure in understated elegance among the churning sea of navy. Even from here, Charles can make out the burgundy sheath dress clinging to your curves, the soft tendrils of hair escaping your chignon. You’re a vision wreathed in smiles as you follow closely behind Mark, the two of you buffeted but undeterred as you fight against the tide of bodies.

For a split second, Charles allows himself the simple indulgence of drinking in your radiance. Seeing the way your cheeks bloom with color from the heat and exhilaration. How your delighted laughter seems to sparkle in the humid night air, mingling seamlessly with the roars of jubilation.

You’re so clearly drunk on the evening’s euphoria, caught up in the intoxicating thrill of witnessing sheer greatness on display. Even standing halfway across the track, Charles can sense the infectious joy rolling off you in waves.

He’s always loved seeing you like this — passionate and alive in a way that sets his heart pounding. Though he knows now, with a ferocious ache, that particular spark isn’t for him anymore.

As if to underscore the point, Mark suddenly grinds to a halt right in the middle of the sea of revelers. You plow into his back with a breathless giggle, clearly caught off guard. That’s when Charles notices the obvious struggle as you try to regain your footing, wobbling precariously atop a set of wicked-looking stilettos.

Even from this distance, he can read the brief look of concern that pinches Mark’s brow as he turns towards you. The chaos of the celebration fades into background noise as Charles watches helplessly as Mark reaches for your arm to help steady you.

You wave him off with a warm smile, clearly unbothered as you simply shrug out of the towering heels completely. Mark lunges to catch the discarded shoes before they can get swallowed up by the crowd.

There’s a brief pause as the two of you seem to communicate wordlessly. Then, in one smooth motion, Mark pivots and crouches down in front of you, gesturing towards his broad back. Your laughter rings out bright and delighted as you clamber on, effortlessly looping your arms around his neck as he straightens with a grunt.

Just like that, you’re ensconced within the protective circle of Mark’s arms, held securely in place on his back as he continues walking through the celebrating crowd. From his vantage point, Charles can just make out the matching beams you both have plastered on as you sway happily with each step.

It looks so … easy. Natural and uncomplicated in a way Charles’ entire existence seems incapable of obtaining these days. He drinks in the vision of you nuzzling sweetly against Mark’s neck, leaving a feather-light kiss of pure affection on the hinge of his jaw before snuggling back down. Two people completely in sync and unabashedly in love.

Despite the sweltering humidity, an icy chill washes over Charles from somewhere deep within. He’s all too aware of precisely what he’s witnessing right in front of him.

You’ve exchanged his partnership — one defined by betrayal and brokenness — for something far greater.

Charles huffs out a dry, mirthless breath as he sinks back against the sweat-dampened chassis of his idle car, feeling painfully adrift despite the pulsing rush of people all around him. He catches one final glimpse of you and Mark before the crowd finally sweeps you up — the picture of contentment nestled so trustingly against your beloved’s back. Watching on as your dazzling smile lights up the night with each joyful step you draw nearer to the championship celebration

He knows with soul-cleaving certainty in that moment that you’ve likely never felt as cherished or prized in your entire life as Mark must make you feel every single day.

Meanwhile, Charles is perpetually exiled here on the outskirts, unable to do anything but bear witness to the other man’s spoils. So close to his own desires yet barred from ever seizing them for his own.

Always the usurped, forever second fiddle, constantly relegated to P2 in work and life.

With a jaw so tightly clenched it threatens to crack his molars, Charles wrenches his gaze away at last. He feels the first angry prick of heated moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes and hates himself for the painfully vulnerable reaction.

This is his self-manufactured hell, after all. He has no one to blame but his own selfish impulses and cowardly weakness for tossing that bond with you into the incinerator. For annihilating the relationship you had built over years of steadfast partnership in one careless night.

So he’ll swallow down the bitterness and lingering heartache as penance for his sins. Compartmentalize the image of you balanced so peacefully in another man’s embrace, so patently adored and worshiped as you deserve.

He at least owes you that mercy — to bear the whole of his consequences in dignified silence as you bask in the victor’s glow you were always meant for.

[societyfolklore]

Stay Still

Title: Stay Still (Prompt- how is the mistletoe following you around) Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: The Avengers’ Christmas party takes an unexpected turn when mistletoe starts mysteriously following you around. You assume it’s Tony or Peter playing pranks, but the truth is much darker—and more deliberate. Bucky has been strategically placing the mistletoe, his plan as subtle as a super soldier’s smirk. Will you figure it out before the mistletoe gets its way?

Word Count:  2.2K

Warnings:  /Warnings // Explicit Content //1 8+, Minors DNI, smut, Unprotected sex.  Probably others.. Not Beta read.

A/N: Another entry for @the-slumberparty December daze challenge – Day 15)

The annual Avengers Christmas party was, as always, a grand affair. Tony had outdone himself again, decking the compound with extravagant decorations and enough lights to compete with the New York skyline. Mistletoe hung in strategic spots, its placement suspiciously coincidental for maximum awkwardness. You’d rolled your eyes at the sheer absurdity of it all when you arrived, but as the night went on, you couldn’t help but notice a pattern.

The mistletoe seemed to be… following you.

At first, you brushed it off as a prank. Tony or Peter was likely behind it. The first time you noticed, you were standing near the snack table, chatting with Natasha. A soft chuckle behind you caught your attention, and you turned to see Bucky leaning against the counter, watching you with an amused expression.

“You’ve got something over your head, doll,” he said, nodding upward.

You glanced up, spotting the offending mistletoe dangling directly above you. “Very funny,” you muttered, glaring at the green sprig as if it had personally insulted you. “Where’s Peter? This has his fingerprints all over it.”

Bucky shrugged, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You didn’t believe him for a second. “Right,” you said, grabbing your drink and moving to another part of the room. But an hour later, when you were talking to Sam near the fireplace, there it was again—dangling innocently above you like it had every right to be there.

“Seriously?” you groaned, pointing up at the mistletoe. Sam burst out laughing, drawing the attention of half the room.

Bucky, conveniently nearby, chimed in. “Guess the universe is trying to tell you something.”

“Yeah,” you shot back. “That I need to get a restraining order against a plant.”

Bucky’s laugh was low and warm, and for a moment, you forgot your irritation as his tone stroked up your spine like honey. He looked good tonight—too good. His dark sweater clung to his frame, his hair tossed back. You tore your gaze away, determined not to let him distract you.

As the night went on, the mistletoe’s antics grew increasingly suspicious. It didn’t matter where you went—whether you were grabbing a drink, sitting on the couch, or even stepping outside for fresh air—it always seemed to find you. By the third or fourth occurrence, you were convinced someone was actively moving it.

“Alright,” you said aloud, hands on your hips. “Who’s behind this? Tony? Peter? Clint?”

“Why are you so sure it’s a prank Doll?” Bucky asked, appearing beside you with perfect timing, as usual.

“Because mistletoe doesn’t grow legs and follow people around,” you replied, narrowing your eyes at him. “Unless you know something I don’t?”

“Maybe it’s just good luck,” he said with a shrug, his smirk firmly in place. “Or maybe it likes you.”

You rolled your eyes, but his teasing tone sent a flutter through your chest. Bucky had been hovering around you all night, and while you couldn’t prove he was involved, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew more than he was letting on.

Later that evening, you found yourself alone in the kitchen, enjoying a rare moment of quiet. You leaned against the counter, the cool surface grounding you as you tried to shake off the lingering tension from the party. Your thoughts, however, kept drifting back to Bucky—his smirk, his teasing, the way his eyes seemed to follow you no matter where you went. It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about him before, but tonight he felt different, like a storm you couldn’t outrun.

The door creaked open, and you didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was. The air shifted, heavier now, charged with something unspoken.

“You hiding in here?” Bucky’s voice was low, a teasing edge laced with something darker.

“Maybe,” you replied, glancing over your shoulder. “Or maybe I’m trying to escape the world’s most persistent mistletoe.”

“Funny you mention that,” he said, his boots thudding softly against the floor as he stepped closer. You turned to face him fully, only to find him standing directly beneath the mistletoe, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure against the dim kitchen light.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned, gesturing at the offending plant. “Did you bring that in here with you?”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his smirk widening into something sharper. “Or maybe it just knows where it’s supposed to be.”

You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened. “Alright, Barnes. Spill. What’s your deal?”

“My deal?” he repeated, tilting his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” you said, stepping closer despite your better judgment. “You’ve been hovering around me all night, and somehow, that thing”—you pointed at the mistletoe—“keeps showing up wherever I go. So what’s the plan? Embarrass me into kissing you in front of everyone?”

Bucky’s smirk faded slightly, his eyes darkening as he studied you. The playful edge in his demeanour shifted, replaced by something far more deliberate. He stepped into your space, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. The gesture was slow, almost languid, as if he were savouring the moment.

“No plan,” he said quietly, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Just thought I’d give you a little nudge.”

Your heart stuttered at his words, your resolve wavering under the weight of his gaze. “A nudge?” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his thumb trailing along your cheek with agonizing slowness. “You’ve been driving me crazy all night, doll. Watching you, wanting you… Figured it was time to stop pretending.”

The air between you crackled, heavy with tension that felt like it could snap at any moment. You wanted to move, to say something, but his presence pinned you in place, his touch igniting something raw and electric inside you.

“So this whole mistletoe thing…”

“Was my idea,” he admitted, his voice a dark, velvety drawl. “Not my best work, but it got your attention, didn’t it?”

You tried to muster a response, but the words caught in your throat as his hand slid from your cheek to your neck, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin just below your jaw. His grip was firm but not unkind, a subtle reminder of the strength that hummed beneath his calm exterior.

“Why so quiet, doll?” he asked, his lips curving into a wicked grin. “Not used to someone chasing you for a change?”

The challenge in his tone sent a shiver down your spine, and you met his gaze with as much defiance as you could muster. “I….”

His grin widened, his thumb pressing lightly against the hollow of your throat. “Now, I’ve put in a lot of work to get your attention.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours with a deliberate slowness that left you trembling. The kiss wasn’t soft—it was consuming, demanding, his hand sliding to your waist as he pulled you flush against him. You gasped against his mouth, your fingers instinctively gripping his sweater as the world around you blurred into nothingness.

When he finally pulled back, his lips still hovering dangerously close to yours, his voice was low and rough. “Now be a good girl and do as your told. The mistletoe knows what it was doing.”

Standing in the kitchen tension rising between you. He brushed something against your cheek, the damn mistletoe again..

"Let's get out of here," he said, his voice low and husky. "I think we've had enough of the party for one night."

All you could do was no, your voice caught in your throat. He took your hand, his metal fingers wrapping around yours, and led you out of the kitchen. You walked in silence, the only sound the soft rustle of the mistletoe as he carried it with him.

As you entered his room, he closed the door behind you, the click of the lock echoing through the silence. He turned to face you, his eyes burning with intensity.

"I've been waiting for this moment all night Doll," he said, his voice dripping with desire. "I've been watching you, wanting you... and now, I'm going to have you."

He took a step closer, his hands reaching out to undo the zip on your dress. You felt a shiver run down your spine as he slowly peeled the fabric away from your skin, his fingers tracing the curve of your neck.

The mistletoe was still clutched in his metal hand, and he ran it along your skin, the soft leaves tickling your flesh. You felt a gasp escape your lips as he touched the mistletoe to your nipple, the sensation sending a spark of electricity through your body.

He undressed you slowly, his hands worshiping your skin as he exposed it to the cool air. You felt vulnerable, yet empowered, as he gazed at you with adoration.

“Feel like silk sweetheart..”

His eyes never leaving yours, and led you to the bed. You lay down, your heart pounding in your chest, as he followed you, his body pressing against yours. Taking off his own clothes enjoying the hungry look in your eyes as you took him in, pulling you to his lap while he leant against his headboard, same smug grin on his face.

The mistletoe was still clutched in his hand, and he ran it along your skin, the leaves tickling your flesh. You felt a shiver run down your spine as he touched the mistletoe to your lips, his mouth claiming yours in a searing kiss.

As you broke apart for air, he whispered, "I've been waiting for this moment for so long. I'm not going to let you go.”

And with that, he slid inside you, his body moving in perfect sync with yours. The mistletoe was forgotten, lost in the passion that consumed you both.

As you moved together, your bodies entwined, you felt like you were losing yourself in the moment. The world outside melted away, leaving only the two of you and the noises he could ring from you. His metal hand fisted in the back of your hair, still clutching that damn strig of mistletoe, forcing your head back his mouth kissed at your throat, making his way up to your ear. “Down you go Doll.” The voice sounded soft but the tug on your hair was clear, and you lowered yourself back down taking more of him back inside of you. “Let him kiss it again." 

Your thigh shook as you went down, going all the way until he was pushed back up against your cervix as he bottomed out. “Yeah that right.” He groaned, you mewled “Now come on, little bounces.”  His tip nudging- kissing it again and again while you panted. “Buck,” you managed, your voice unsteady you were losing yourself as he moved your hips up his other hand moving between you.

“Oh doll she such a messy kisser, drooling all over me.” His fingers pressing into your clit while he had you bouncing on him, your hand grabbing his headboard behind his head, his body pressed against yours, his chest warm against yours. All you could do was pant and keen as he meet your little movement with his own. “Shh shh, I know.” His voice soothing as you continued to bounce on him, his fingers worked their magic on your clit, sending shivers down your spine. You felt like you were losing control, your movements becoming more erratic as you chased the pleasure. Bucky's grip on your hair tightened, his mouth still kissing your throat, sending sparks flying through your body.

“Aah.” His thrusts were slow and deliberate, his tip kissing your cervix with each stroke. You felt like you were being pulled apart, your body torn between the pleasure of his fingers on your clit and the sensation of him moving inside you. “There you go Doll, just, got to, let go..”  His words emphasised with thrusts.

You felt like you were being consumed, your body overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through you. Your legs began to shake, your thighs trembling as you approached the edge.

"Bucky," you managed to gasp, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing. He responded by thrusting into you harder, his fingers moving faster on your clit.

You felt like you were flying, your body soaring through the air as you came. The sensation was intense, overwhelming, and you felt like you were going to pass out from the sheer force of it.

As you came back down to earth, you realized that Bucky was still moving inside you, his thrusts slow and gentle now. You felt like you were floating, your body relaxed and sated. "Stay still, doll," Bucky whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "I'm not done with you yet."

[wolvietxt]

Hey! Could you do Bucky Barnes with this prompt?? 👀

grumpy’s soft side: sunshine accidentally finds grumpy’s secret stash of cute little things they’ve kept as mementos - like a doodle sunshine made or a pressed flower from a walk they took together. grumpy tries to act embarrassed, but sunshine can see the fondness in their eyes.

BUCKY BARNES was many things - grumpy, stoic, and impossible to read most of the time. but sentimental? that didn’t seem to fit, or at least, that’s what you thought.

until today.

it had started innocently enough. bucky had left to grab groceries, grumbling something about you forgetting the eggs, leaving you alone in his apartment. with some extra time on your hands, you decided to tidy up his desk - a cluttered corner of his otherwise neat space.

you knew bucky wasn’t the most organized person. papers and odds and ends were scattered everywhere, some of them clearly years old. while straightening a stack of books, you noticed a small drawer slightly ajar. curiosity got the better of you, and you slid it open, intending to tuck away the loose papers.

instead, you froze.

the contents weren’t what you’d expected.

a tiny doodle you’d drawn months ago sat on top of the pile, the edges a little crumpled but otherwise intact. it was a quick sketch you’d made while teasing bucky - an exaggerated cartoon version of him with a cat on his head. he’d scoffed at it at the time, rolling his eyes, but apparently, he hadn’t thrown it away.

beneath it was a pressed flower, carefully preserved between wax paper. it was from a walk you’d taken one spring afternoon, when you’d playfully tucked the flower behind your ear and teased bucky for being grumpy even on such a beautiful day.

there were other things too: a stray button from his jacket you’d helped sew back on, a photo booth strip from an impromptu outing, and a receipt with your handwriting scrawled across the back.

your heart twisted, warmth spreading through your chest as you took it all in.

bucky barnes, who rarely let his guard down, who always acted like nothing phased him, had been keeping these little pieces of you.

the sound of the front door opening pulled you from your thoughts.

“damn cashier was slower than molasses,” bucky muttered as he walked in, shaking his head. he stopped short when he saw you standing by his desk, the pressed flower in your hand.

his blue eyes narrowed. “what’re you doin’?”

you turned to him, holding up the doodle with a small smile. “you kept all this?”

a flicker of panic crossed his face as he strode over, snatching the drawing from your hand and shoving it back into the drawer. “it’s nothin’,” he mumbled, slamming the drawer shut.

“it’s not nothing, bucky.” you took a step closer, your smile widening. “you kept a doodle, a flower… even a button? this is -“

“don’t say it,” he cut in, pointing a finger at you. “don’t you dare call it cute.”

you bit back a laugh, unable to help the way your eyes sparkled. “but it is cute. bucky, this is adorable.”

his jaw tightened, and he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “it ain’t cute,” he grumbled. “just stuff I didn’t get around to throwin’ out.”

you raised an eyebrow. “a pressed flower isn’t exactly something you ‘forget’ to throw away, buck.”

his gaze darted to the side, avoiding yours. “it doesn’t mean nothin’,” he muttered, his voice quieter now.

“doesn’t mean nothing?” you echoed, stepping closer until you were standing right in front of him. “bucky, it means something to me.”

his eyes flicked back to yours, guarded but softening just a little. “you’re makin’ a big deal outta nothin’, doll.”

“because it is a big deal,” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “you kept these things because they remind you of me, don’t they?”

he let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. “maybe,” he admitted, his tone reluctant. “but don’t go readin’ too much into it.”

your smile softened, and you reached out to place a hand on his arm. “too late. i’m already reading into it.”

he groaned, his cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink. “you’re impossible, you know that?”

“and you’re a big softie,” you shot back, your grin widening.

he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to look annoyed. but the way his lips twitched betrayed him, the corners tilting upward despite his best efforts.

“fine,” he muttered after a moment, his voice gruff. “maybe i kept ‘em ‘cause they remind me of you. happy now?”

your heart swelled at his quiet admission, and you leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek. “very.”

he froze for a second before letting out another sigh, his arms falling to his sides. “you’re gonna tease me about this forever, aren’t you?”

“oh, absolutely,” you said, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

despite his grumbling, bucky reached out to pull you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. “just don’t tell anyone, okay?”

you laughed, resting your head against his chest. “your secret’s safe with me.”

he relaxed a little at that, his hand settling on the small of your back.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” he mumbled, his voice low but affectionate.

“you’re luckier,” you teased, earning a low chuckle from him.

and as he held you there, the warmth of his embrace and the steady beat of his heart grounding you, you couldn’t help but smile. because as much as he tried to act grumpy, bucky barnes had the biggest heart of anyone you’d ever known.

ᰔ bucky barnes : @notacleangirl, @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @lemoanaid

@yvespecially, @hhiggs, @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts, @seasonofthenerd, @superlegend216

@withasideofmeg, @pvndomi, @flamin-hot-cheetos, @bbittenapples, @hazydespair

@aoi_targaryen, @person-005, @corvuscattus

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[mggslover]

i love your firsts idea and i wanted to know if you could write something with experienced reader/unexperienced spencer where he is like an ass guy cause i always see him being a boobs guy in fics so id like to read something like this, maybe abt how he gets worked up looking at readers ass or some other scenario, totally up to you! love your fics 🩵

spencer seeing you in leggings genre: smut 18+ content warnings: perv!spence having dirty thoughts, dialogue from s9e18 but no spoilers word count: 1,3k a/n: i love your prompt!! i wasn't sure if you wanted reader and spencer to actually do something, so i hope i've found a good balance

“8.49,” Penelope groaned, wiping her forehead after running her third lap in a row. “Good God, that’s not even close.”

Spencer’s breath came in sharp bursts, his hands gripping his knees as he leaned forward. “You think they’ll really terminate us if we can’t run fast enough?” 

“Probably something worse,” she sighed with a shake of her head. “They’ll probably make us take another fit test.” 

Spencer grimaced at the thought. “I’d rather be terminated.” 

Penelope snorted. “I just hope the PT instructors aren’t jerks. Those jock guys are always jerks.”

“Yeah, total jerks,” he agreed with a nod, but then his attention drifted away as he caught sight of two figures in the distance. “That’s probably them right now.” 

Penelope squinted, following his line in sight. “Oh, look,” Penelope hissed, whipping her head back to Spencer. “He’s totally walking like a jerk. And ugh, look at her! That figure… that is just unfair.”

Spencer blinked rapidly as he could recognize your confident, hypnotic stride from miles away. “Wait a minute.” 

“Oh my god, it’s them.” Penelope gasped, confirming Spencer’s suspicion as you and Derek made your way over to them.

“Why are you two here?” Penelope asked, trying to piece together what was going on. 

“It looks like we’re your new PT instructors,” Derek responded, flashing an amused grin. 

The second you came into view, Penelope’s complaints faded into the background, muffled to his ears. Spencer always thought you looked pretty. He admired how professional you looked, even in the field, but today was the first time he saw you outside the office. The training jacket you wore ended just above your hips, the fabric pulling snugly against your torso. His eyes traced the curve of your waist until they landed on your hips. The lavender color of your skin-tight leggings clung softly to your thighs, and Spencer had to fight back a moan at the sight. Penelope was right. Your figure was, indeed, unfair.

"Kid, where's your mind at?"

Spencer's head snapped up at Derek’s question, clearing his throat as he scrambled for an excuse. He could still feel the heat in his cheeks from the way he’d been staring at you.

Derek waved him off with an exasperated shake of his head. "Alright, from now on, I want you two to focus," he commanded in a no-nonsense tone, pointing at Spencer and Penelope.

“Shall we start with stair climbing?” Your voice rang out and Derek nodded in agreement. 

“Let’s do that. Follow us,” Derek said, gesturing toward the stone stairs in the distance. 

You turned to follow Morgan, and the movement knocked the breath right out of Spencer’s lungs. He choked on his inhale, his gaze drawn to the way the fabric of your leggings clung to the plumpness of your cheeks. The tight material left little to the imagination, every contour visible, accentuating the soft swell of your ass with every step. Spencer’s heart hammered in his chest, racing faster than it had during those grueling laps around the field. 

Spencer’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening as he fought the heat beginning to pool low in his stomach. He couldn’t help the way his body was reacting to you, and the effort to control it only made things worse.

The exercise was simple—walking up the first few steps of the stairs and back down again. You called it a warm-up, unaware that every step you took made it harder for Spencer to keep his focus. Just the sight of you moving, the sway of your hips as the leggings stretched over your thighs, was enough to drive him crazy. 

"This is torture," he muttered under his breath.

"I know, right? I can’t believe they’re making us do this." Penelope replied, completely oblivious to the source of his frustration. 

———

Spencer felt a wave of relief wash over him as he finally completed the exercise, his legs burning but grateful it was over.

"Good job, Spence," you said, flashing him a bright smile as you gave his chest a quick pat. "And cute outfit," you added with a teasing tone, a compliment that made his heart skip.

"Oh, I—uh, thanks," he stammered, patting his red hoodie as if to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

"We're doing squats next. Derek's with Penelope. Want me to help you with your form?" 

"Sure," he squeaked, his voice betraying his nerves.

You positioned yourself in front of him, glancing over your shoulder to make sure he was paying attention. And, obviously, he was—his gaze fixed on you almost too intently.

"Okay, the most important thing is to keep your back straight," you instructed, your voice calm and focused as you lowered your hips, sliding down until your thighs were parallel to the ground.

Spencer stood right behind you, so close that he could feel the heat radiating off your body. His shorts were growing uncomfortably tight from the proximity. He couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like to pull you in by your waist, holding you flush against him.

"See how I'm doing it?" You asked innocently.

"Mhm. Looks good," he breathed out, his eyes lingering on you as he licked his lips.

He could picture it vividly—how perfectly his length would fit between your cheeks. How he would make you repeat that same motion against him until his dick would stand tall in response, throbbing with need. He imagined how easy it would be to slide your leggings down to your knees, leaving you exposed. Were you even wearing anything underneath?

The thought sent a surge of heat through him. He wondered if your closeness was affecting you in the same way. Wondered if he would find you wet, your pussy glistening with anticipation. Would you like him to softly trace your puffy lips with his finger? Or would you want him to waste no time, grabbing you by your thighs as he would enter you? 

He asked himself if you were the type to let him take control, or if you’d bend over, pushing your own hips back against his, matching the deep rhythm of his thrusts. The thought of filling you, of hearing your gasps mix his moans, was clouding his mind. 

Spencer hadn’t realized just how much his thoughts had turned him on, until your voice broke through his haze. 

“Okay, your turn.”

He looked down, seeing how his dick had twitched up to the point where it was almost peeking out of his boxers. Shit. He made quick work of his hands, adjusting himself before you turned around.

“I—I’m so sorry. I need to go,” Spencer stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush before he turned and fled, leaving you without an explanation.

———

“Oh, come on man!” Derek groaned in disappointment as he spotted Spencer slumped on the grass at the far side of the field.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mumbled.

“Just one more round. You’ve got this,” Derek encouraged.

“I can’t.”

“You’re capable of more than you think.”

“Derek, I swear… I literally can’t get up.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, and with a defeated sigh, Spencer pointed awkwardly toward his shorts.

“Oh shit,” Derek responded as the realization dawned upon him. 

“Is it because of…?” He pointed to the direction where you were standing and Spencer just nodded.

“Damn,” Derek muttered. “Well, okay, just take a break. Have some water. Relax those muscles.” He winced, immediately regretting his choice of words. 

Spencer nervously looked up at him. “Will you tell her?

Derek shook his head. “Nah. As long as you don’t tell Penelope this whole fit test thing is just a formality and that I could’ve got the whole thing waived.”