#The fan of spiral shell | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dreamersparacosm · 4 months ago

Text

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part four)

warnings ; where do i start. public sex kinda (they’re in an office), choking, degradation lowkey, fingering, unprotected sex, reader gets forced to say thank you??? idk bruh

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; let’s get one thing straight here — this is porn. porn to the highest degree. however, this is porn with plot, i swear. also, just so everyone’s aware, this is tpod!jk core. like this is how i imagine him when i write him (with this song. and that hair. especially this song and you SHOULD listen to it while reading.) anyways my point here is that this smut has meaning and it is not just some crack of the tension whip (although that, it is too. whatever. say thank you Ang!) <33

playlist here *and you should listen to meddle about while reading this*

series masterlist here

The headlines had hit before you’d even left the gala.

And by the time you wake up the next morning — bare-faced, half-blind, head pounding from one too many champagne flutes — it’s already a media typhoon.

At first, it’s quiet. A low simmer of speculation: grainy fan-captured footage, a couple throwaway tweets, Reddit sleuths dissecting every inch of fabric between Jungkook’s sleeve and Jennie’s waist like it’s a forensic crime scene. You squint at the screen, sip your espresso, and think Okay. Annoying, but containable.

Then it detonates.

Somewhere between your second cup of coffee and your third panicked email to the PR team, the entire internet decides: they’re in love. Secretly married. Expecting twins. Maybe launching a couple’s perfume line.

Your phone has been possessed ever since, buzzing, ringing, lighting up like a slot machine from hell. Sunrise to sunset, it doesn’t stop. Calvin Klein executives, press liaisons, Jungkook’s management.

Everywhere you look, there’s another headline screaming at you in all-caps bold Helvetica.

“JENNIE & JUNGKOOK: CALVIN KLEIN’S POWER COUPLE?”

“WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AT THE GALA? BLACKPINK AND BTS HOTTEST COUPLE”

No confirmation. No Dispatch exposé. No official anything.

None of it matters though, because the internet doesn’t wait for facts. It builds empires out of crumbs. And right now, it’s building one out of Jungkook’s smirk and the angle of Jennie’s clavicle.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter, hunched over your desk like a shell-shocked war general, fingers pressing into your temples hard enough to leave dents.

Across from you, Daniel doesn’t even look up. “No shit.”

He’s typing at Mach speed, probably trying to get ahead of the narrative. Your assistant is juggling five calls at once. The PR team is in full red-alert mode, assembling a strategy board like they’re planning a military coup.

You’ve been on back-to-back calls with Jungkook’s manager for the past day, trying to glue this mess back together with nothing but rage and anxiety.

“Can we at least get his company to release a statement?” you ask, flipping through the latest crisis reports.

Daniel snorts. “They aren’t touching this with a ten-foot pole.”

You glare. “Why?”

He glances up, deadpan. “Because it’s free publicity.”

You exhale so sharply it feels like your soul exits your body. Of course. Of fucking course.

Jungkook’s name is trending worldwide along with Jennie’s. Calvin Klein’s engagement metrics have gone full meteoric. This is the kind of viral attention marketing teams dream about minus the spontaneous combustion of your sanity. So, all that to say, no one actually cares that you’re bleeding out behind the scenes. That you haven’t slept in 24 hours. That your screen time is officially criminal. That every time you close your eyes, you see fan edits of his hand on her waist set to some dramatic TikTok audio and captioned “soulmates.”

The worst part of it all is you haven’t seen him. Not in meetings, in hallways and not even a fucking text.

While you’re spiraling into madness trying to do damage control, Jungkook is out there existing, probably blissfully unaware, shirtless in his hotel room, eating ramen and ignoring 400 missed calls.

Professionally — you’re furious. This was supposed to be your campaign, your legacy. Not some romantic scandal rebranded into clickbait. The optics are a nightmare. The timing couldn’t be worse. And now, instead of launching a clean global message, you’re managing a tabloid firestorm.

Personally — you want to launch him into the sun.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The tension in the Los Angeles office conference room is unbearable. You sit at the head of the table, posture perfect but jaw clenched, while Jungkook lounges across from you like he didn’t just derail your entire campaign with his fucking face.

His expression is unreadable but you can feel it, the heat rolling off him. He’s pissed too. Good. Let him stew.

His manager is talking fast, voice tight, while Calvin Klein’s PR lead cycles through stats like this is a TED Talk. “There’s no actual damage… if anything, the buzz is working in our favor. Global engagement is up 36% in the past three days.”

You grip your pen so tightly it might become a weapon.

They’re treating it like a miracle, like this whole thing was orchestrated. Like you haven’t been putting out fires for 72 straight hours while Jungkook goes radio silent and lets the rumor mill chew you alive.

No one’s asking how you’re doing. No one’s wondering why your hands are shaking beneath the table or your voice has gone hoarse from repeating the same line in every call: There is no confirmed relationship between our brand ambassadors.

You don’t even look at Jungkook. You don’t need to. You can feel his crossed arms and the stubborn, infuriating silence a mile away. He hasn’t said a word this whole meeting, just simmering annoyance.

It’s mutual.

By the time the meeting wraps, you’re seconds away from snapping your pen in half and hurling it across the room.

“We’ll keep monitoring the situation,” Jungkook’s manager says, closing a notebook with a satisfied little snap. “No statements for now. Let’s see how it plays out.”

You smile politely. You are going to kill him. And you’re going to do it in a very calm, very professional, very brand-safe way.

Make no mistake, Jungkook is not getting out of this untouched. Especially not after you haven’t slept in three days, after you touched yourself like some hypnotized virgin because he told you to.

Everyone nods. There’s the rustle of papers, the scrape of chairs on polished floors, the low murmur of corporate farewells. One by one, people file out of the conference room, clutching tablets and crisis decks pretending they weren’t just gleefully discussing how to milk this for record-breaking engagement.

The door clicks shut behind the last person.

Thick, cloying, suffocating silence. It swallows the room whole.

For some reason you can’t explain, Jungkook does not file out of the room with the rest of the team. No, he sits there. You don’t move or have the energy to question his motives.

You sit frozen in your chair, every muscle pulled taut, fingers tapping slow against the glass table, almost like a warning and a countdown. Your other hand is curled into a fist in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your palm as you do the mental math on whether murder voids your employment contract.

Your eyes flick to Jungkook, who’s sprawled back in his chair, legs spread slightly apart, one ringed finger lazily dragging along the curve of his jaw like he’s bored. Or amused. Or both. His expression is neutral, completely detached. Like the headlines weren’t about him and he’s never even heard the word scandal.

He’s got that infuriating look again from the other night — that what chaos? look—and your jaw ticks.

Tap. Tap. Tap. One last, sharp crack of nail to glass.

“Tell me you’ve seen the fucking headlines.” You don’t yell. You don’t need to. Your voice slices through the air like it’s powered by three sleepless nights and a steady diet of cold espresso and escalating fury.

Jungkook’s eyes finally lift slowly like he’s gracing you with his attention.

You glare. “Tell me you’re not actually this stupid.”

The barest twitch of his brow. Something flashes behind his eyes — humor? guilt? boredom? — but it’s gone before you can grab hold of it.

Then he shrugs like your career isn’t currently dangling off a PR cliff. “What do you want me to do?” His tone is even, the exact pitch of someone who’s never once had to clean up after himself. “Call Dispatch and tell them I was just being friendly?”

You blink casually, pulse thudding in your ears.

You’re too well-trained to explode on him. Too experienced, too poised. But, something inside you combusts. A small, silent implosion of patience and all the fake calm you’ve been wearing.

He has no idea what it’s like to sit through back-to-back damage control meetings while your brand is turning into tabloid fodder. No clue how many favors you’ve had to call in, how many emails you’ve had to rewrite until your fingers went numb. How many headlines you’ve seen this week that made your stomach twist.

Somehow, he’s still looking at you like you’re the one overreacting.

Your voice drops, quieter now. “Friendly doesn’t involve your hand on her waist.”

Jungkook tilts his head lazily, like he’s trying to remember. “Didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to talk to people anymore.”

“Oh my god,” you exhale. “You are insufferable.”

The fact that he’s still calm, still sprawled out in that chair like this is just another workday, is only making everything worse.

You shove back from your chair so hard it scrapes across the floor with a screech that would make your assistant wince. Heels clicking, spine ramrod straight, you round the table like a storm in four-inch heels, not stopping until you’re toe-to-toe with his chair.

He doesn’t flinch, not even a blink. Just watches you approach like he’s a monument to indifference. His legs are splayed slightly apart, both arms calmly resting in his lap.

Your blood boils so hot it’s a miracle the fire alarms haven’t gone off.

“You think this is funny?” Your voice pierces through the air. “You think this is some harmless little flirtation?”

Still, no reaction. Just a slow exhale through his nose, like he’s being so patient with you.

“This isn’t about your personal life, Jungkook. This is about your goddamn responsibility to this brand,” You tower over him, and there’s a sense of joy that ripples through you as he stares up at you.

So, you keep going. “Do you even get how hard I’ve worked to make this campaign seamless? Flawless? Executives don’t throw global platform rollouts at just anyone, Jungkook. I fought tooth and nail for this and for you and now the only thing people are talking about is Jennie like it’s some soft launch.”

You see it the moment it lands; the flicker in his eyes, the slight drop of his shoulders, a shadow passing across his expression before it hardens again. Yet he has the nerve to lean back even farther like you’re just a minor inconvenience standing between him and his afternoon protein shake.

Then, finally, he speaks. It’s exactly as smug as you feared it would be. “Oh,” he says, “So that’s what’s really bothering you.”

Your jaw tightens so fast it might shatter.

Jungkook’s eyes glint, lips twitching, “You don’t like that people are talking about me with someone else.”

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, as if he’s not just poking the bear. He’s setting the entire forest on fire to see how you’ll react.

You laugh bitterly. It’s the kind of sharp, completely unhinged sound that spills out when you’ve officially crossed the border between frustration and rage. Your vision tunnels and your fists clench. You wonder if any judge would convict you for knocking out one of his perfectly white teeth.

“You’re fucking impossible,” you spit, nearly breathless.

“No,” he says slowly, coming to some realization. “You just hate when things don’t go your way.”

You take a step forward, dangerously close to falling on top of him in that chair. Close enough to count the flecks in his eyes, close enough to rip that chain off his neck if you wanted to.

“You are a reckless, immature, insufferable little shit who doesn’t know when to stop,” you snap, every word a direct shot to his ego.

Jungkook’s jaw clenches. “And you’re a fucking control freak who thinks the world will crumble if you’re not there to hold it up.”

Your breath hitches. That one sentence goes deeper than it should. That wasn’t a throwaway insult. That wasn’t just something to piss you off. That was a direct fucking hit, and Jungkook knows it.

“You know what the worst part is?” you whisper, each word soaked in absolute disgust. “You actually think you’re special.”

Jungkook’s expression shifts, and not in a dramatic, storming-off, throw-the-chair kind of way; he’s too practiced for that. But it’s there beneath the surface.

You see it, and you double down.

“Of course you think the world revolves around you,” You say, voice curling with disbelief. “You walk around like consequences don’t apply. Like you can do whatever the fuck you want and someone will be there to fix it. You’re not brilliant. You’re not clever. You’re just an overgrown man-child with too much power and zero idea what to do with it.”

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek deliberately like he’s trying to decide whether to bite back or bite harder.

“Oh, and you?” he says, voice dropping into that venom-laced register he saves for moments like this. “You’re just another girl in heels, pretending your job makes you interesting.”

Your blood is boiling, sure. Your hands are clenched so tightly you’re pretty sure your nails have left permanent dents in your skin. But you’ve had enough. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re unbearable,” He grits out, standing up to loom over you. You don’t back down, though.

“You’re the most insufferable man I’ve ever met.” You spit the sentence like you’re trying to scrape the taste of him off your tongue.

Jungkook lets out a short laugh that’s dry and humorless. You realize now you might be in serious trouble, with him being so close to you that you can smell his scent, can see every curve in his pink lips. It’s also not helping that when he’s standing like this in front of you, he practically towers over you and you can look right up into his darkened eyes. But you’ve done worse to more important men.

“You should be fucking thanking me,” Jungkook glares.

That’s the moment where your patience fractures like glass. A laugh explodes from your chest, the kind of sound that only comes when you’re so far past your limit that your body doesn’t know what else to do. You throw your hands in the air, exasperated, stunned, teetering on the edge of hysterical.

“Thanking you?” you repeat, incredulous. “Oh, yeah. Sure. Let me just clear my schedule so I can fall to my knees in eternal gratitude.”

He doesn’t blink. He watches you with that calmness, like he’s the victim here. You keep going, the rage pouring out unchecked now. “Thank you for what, Jungkook? For being a walking liability? For dragging the campaign into a scandal before we even hit global release? For making my job a nightmare?”

And then he says the sentence that knocks the wind out of you. The one that makes everything go suddenly, dangerously quiet. “This campaign is nothing without me.”

The words land like a slap. Your mouth parts, stunned at first. A full second passes before the heat rises to your face, before the fury starts buzzing in your limbs like electricity, before you really register what the fuck he just said.

Beneath all of it — the rage, the resentment, the sheer disbelief — it’s there. That horrible, humiliating ache lodged deep in your chest. Because god, you hate him. You hate the way he talks, the way he breathes, the way he stares at you like he’s not afraid of you. But what you hate more is the way you still want him, even now and even when he’s infuriating and reckless and dragging your hard work through the dirt, your body still betrays you. It aches in places you swore he couldn’t reach. It’s disgusting. It’s pathetic. And you’d rather die than let him see it.

You step in closer, close enough to smell the cologne on his collar. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch, this wouldn’t be an argument; it’d be something else entirely. Something much worse.

“Is that what you think?” you whisper, voice cutting and low, trembling with rage you can’t contain.

His eyes flicker, uncertain for the first time.

“Fine,” you continue, sweetly now. Your voice dips into something syrupy, bitter enough to rot your teeth. “You want a thank you?”

“Thank you, Jungkook. Thank you for being the absolute worst celebrity I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with. Thank you for the emotional whiplash, for reminding me every single day that talent doesn’t equal professionalism. Thank you for making my life a fucking nightmare. Really… thank you. “

Jungkook’s lips twitch, not in a smirk, not exactly, but not a smile either. It’s a little wicked. The kind of expression that says I know what I’m about to do, and I know you’re going to let me.

Then he leans in slightly, enough to make your breath pause and your spine lock straight. His voice drops into that low, dangerous place that always sets your nerves alight. “You are so fucking welcome.”

That’s really all it takes.

It’s like a match to gasoline. Like every insult and eye-roll and pointed glare was just foreplay for this exact moment.

And then he’s on you.

There’s no grace to it. No warm-up. No time to second-guess what the hell is happening. His mouth crashes into yours like it’s been building since the first time he pissed you off. His kiss isn’t sweet. It’s not poetic. It’s not some delicate, well-choreographed thing you’d find in a film scored by violins.

It’s a breaking point: his lips bruising yours, his tongue sliding in like he owns the right and claiming victory, like he’s waited too long to keep pretending he doesn’t want this as badly as you do.

And you do. God, you do.

Your back hits the edge of the table. His hands are already everywhere, one wrapped tight around your waist, the other gripping your jaw with just enough pressure to make your head spin. There’s a very real chance he’ll leave marks and an even more real part of you that wants him to.

This is so incredibly, epically stupid.

Anyone could walk by. Anyone could glance through the conference room glass and see you kissing Jeon Jungkook like he’s the only thing keeping your heart from flatlining. This is career suicide. This is the real scandal.

For a moment, you don’t care. You don’t care about the job or the risk or the headlines this could spark by morning.

Right now, you need this. You need him. You need the way his mouth drags against yours, hungry and punishing. You need the little sound he makes when you fist your hands into the collar of his shirt and yank him closer like you’re daring him to ruin you.

You need the way he tastes, like it’s the final word in every fight you’ve lost to him.

Your heart is hammering. Your skin’s on fire. And all you can think between the biting kisses, the ragged breaths, the way his teeth graze your bottom lip like he wants to keep a piece of you, is how badly you want more.

He knows, because the grip on your waist tightens like he’s trying to anchor you. His breathing’s uneven now, ragged against your cheek. His lips are red, swollen. He pulls back just a fraction to look at you.

The worst part — the part that makes you want to scream into the nearest cushion and maybe also sue him for emotional damages — is that this is his fault. All of it. Three nights ago, he told you to get off. Just like that.“Maybe you just need to get off.” So you did. Not with him, because you still had a shred of pride at the time, but alone, practically shaking. With one hand between your thighs and the other gripping your pillow. The whole time, you imagined him, his mouth, the way he’d sound telling you to let go, like it was an order, not a favor. You’d never cum so fast in your life.

Now your body’s not even pretending to be neutral. You want him. And honestly, you can’t even blame yourself anymore. What choice did you ever have?

His mouth is back on yours in an instant, hotter, rougher, like he’s trying to erase every sharp word you’ve ever thrown at him and replace it with this. Tongue, teeth, hands. It’s all-consuming.

His lips drop lower, dragging along the edge of your jaw. He bites once, hard enough to make your pulse stutter, then soothes it with the flat of his tongue, mouth trailing down your neck like he’s tasting a victory

The heat of his breath hits the column of your throat, and you shudder. Your hands scramble for something to hold onto, fingers gripping the edge of the table like that might ground you, like the cool surface might offset the fire currently crawling beneath your skin. But then his mouth finds the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, and he sucks lightly, enough pressure to make your knees go soft and a gasp slip from your lips before you can bite it back.

And that’s when reality sucker punches you.

This is a conference room.

A Calvin Klein conference room with glass walls and a brand reputation you’re quite literally paid to protect. These walls are not built for discretion. You could throw a stapler against them and still hear the gossip echo through the elevators.

You moan again and it’s the sound that yanks you back into yourself.

You break away from his mouth, breath ragged, pulse sprinting, trying to pull oxygen back into your brain and remember things like logic, boundaries, laws.

Your fists are knotted in the collar of his shirt as you breathe out, “Lock the fucking door. Close the blinds before someone sees.”

Jungkook freezes for a second. And then that smirk creeps back in like it never left, like you didn’t just try to be the voice of reason and immediately lose to your own body chemistry.

He leans in again, and his mouth grazes your ear, his tone low “What?” he whispers, a chuckle riding the syllable. “You don’t want anyone to see how desperate you are for me?”

Your breath hitches at that. You should be angry. You should throw him across the room and write him up for misconduct and file a strongly worded HR complaint with yourself.

But instead, your stomach flips. And his hand slides down your side, fingers digging in just tight enough to make you feel pinned in place.

“You don’t want anyone to see you thank me properly?” he murmurs, his mouth grazing the side of your neck again.

You hate that it lands. You hate the way heat immediately pools deep in your stomach, sharp and unrelenting, like your body has fully abandoned ship and left your brain behind with a middle finger and a “good luck.”

With every brain cell you have left, you know you should push him away. You should shut this whole thing down before it crosses a line so thick it might as well be in neon.

Instead, you let go of his shirt and he grins like he knows exactly what that means.

With a breathy exhale, he turns and strolls toward the door with that godforsaken confidence, the kind that makes you want to rip off his shirt and punch him in the face, preferably in that order. His movements are infuriatingly casual. You hear the click of the lock, sharp in the quiet room.

One by one, he draws the blinds closed, shielding the floor-to-ceiling windows from view. Not that there’s anyone left to see; It’s late and way past working hours. The only people left in this building are you and him.

By the time he turns back to you, the air feels different. It’s the kind that screams no take-backs.

When Jungkook starts walking toward you, you swear your lungs forget how to function. He’s looking at you like he already knows what’s about to happen and he’s already halfway through imagining exactly how you’ll fall apart for him.

Which, for all intents and purposes, is so annoying.

You hate how good he looks under fluorescent lighting. Hate the way he moves like a storm rolling in. Hate the way your stomach flips when his hands find your hips, fingers curling tight, tugging you in like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

His lips press against yours again. His mouth is all heat and pressure, tongue pushing past your lips.You don’t stand a chance. Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling, gripping as he groans into your mouth. His fingers drift lower, trailing down your waist with infuriating patience.

He smirks against your lips, no less. “That’s more like it,” he murmurs with the kind of voice that says I knew you’d break eventually, like this is some victory lap and not the exact thing he’s been secretly begging for just as much as you have.

His hands slide up your thighs now, slow and teasing, thumbs grazing the hem of your pencil skirt. He pushes the fabric inch by inch, taking his sweet time, fingers skimming bare skin like he’s trying to savor the reveal.

Your breath stutters. Jungkook, the ever observant bastard, notices.

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath warm as he says, “Still waiting for that thank you, sweetheart.”

Your pulse jumps and he takes that as an invitation to move his fingers even higher. Your head tilts back against instinct as his mouth drags along your jaw.

“Come on,” he hums, voice silky. “Be polite.”

You’re already dizzy. Your body’s betraying you by the second, caving faster than you’d like to admit. Every part of you is screaming more, while your brain is just quietly short-circuiting in the background, waving a white flag.

But there’s still a sliver of fight left in you. You grit your teeth. “Fuck off.”

His hands shove your skirt the rest of the way up, no hesitation, fabric sliding around your waist like gravity’s no longer relevant. He steps back half a beat to look and the second his eyes drop, you see it.

His resolve flickers long enough for his jaw to tense, for his breath to catch ever so slightly at the sight of your black lace panties stretched against skin. It’s the tiniest shift but it’s there.

He clicks his tongue, a single, dismissive tsk like this is an error. A styling choice to be corrected. Like your underwear is somehow offensive to his sense of dominance and he’s going to rectify it immediately.

His fingers trace the curve of your hip, dragging over the band of lace like he’s thinking about doing something with it but not yet. He stays right there, just beneath the threshold of satisfaction, basking in the power of your suspended breath.

He leans in, “Only polite girls get what they want.”

Your pulse spikes so fast it makes you dizzy. His lips ghost along your jaw barely there, and then a sudden squeeze at your thigh

“That dirty mouth?” he murmurs, dragging his lips back to your ear, “It’s not getting you anywhere.”

His presence is overwhelming. He’s not just standing in front of you, he’s all over you. In your space, in your breath, in your bloodstream.

He’s not even doing that much and you’re still putty in his hands.

His fingers skim lower, brushing dangerously close, hovering over the heat between your thighs like he’s got nothing but time. He doesn’t dare touch you fully though.

“You feel that?” he whispers, his knuckles grazing across your clothed clit.

You hate the way your head tips back slightly. The way your lashes flutter without permission. The way your hips tilt forward subtly enough to betray you completely.

You hear the smile in his voice before you see it. “Oh, baby…”

His voice is smug as his thumb drags along the soaked strip of lace between your legs. His lips curl as he feels it, the proof of what he’s doing to you.

“Fuck,” he breathes. He’s just confirmed his own suspicions.

“Still telling me to fuck off, when you’re this wet for me?” His words go straight to your core.

You dig your nails into the glass table like it might keep you grounded, like maybe furniture will save your dignity when your body is this far gone. Every muscle is wound tight, clenching around nothing.

“Shut up,” you snap.

Or at least, you try to. Your voice cracks and it’s more of a gasp than a threat.

Jungkook laughs so sure of himself. The sound rolls over your skin. “That’s not how you thank me, sweetheart.”

His thumb slides down again, agonizingly slow, pressing right where you’re aching, but lightly to make you whimper.

Your hips jerk forward instinctively. He watches the way your body reacts, eyes locked on your every movement, cataloging every breath, every flinch, every subtle giveaway.

“C’mon,” he breathes, low and taunting as his fingers drag along the damp lace again. “Be polite. Say thank you.”

You want to kill him. You want to slap the look off his face, shove him into the wall, storm out of the room with your head high and your dignity intact.

Instead, you bite down on your bottom lip so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t split.

Your chest rises, sharp and fast, trying to hold yourself together while his fingers keep up their rhythm, the barely-there pressure that amount to nothing and everything all at once.

Every motion is deliberate, cruel in the way only Jungkook can manage. He drags his fingers over the soaked fabric with precision, keeping you right on the edge without ever tipping you over.

His dark eyes flick up to your face, full of wicked amusement. Your whole body trembles, thighs twitching with every gentle, useless stroke that doesn’t give you what you need.

It’s humiliating, honestly, how badly you want this. How badly you want him to just pull your panties aside and do something about it. You hate how soaked you are.

Jungkook chuckles. “Getting desperate, baby?”

His fingers press down slightly harder, dragging slow and steady over your clit, still over the lace, still refusing to give you the friction you’re dying for. It makes your breath sink into your chest, your thighs squeeze together, your pride snap a little further.

“No,” you force out, barely above a whisper. It’s pathetic. You know it, he knows it. You hate how weak it sounds, how shaky your voice is like your body’s begging even when your mouth is trying to hold the line.

And then — god help you — his thumb swipes over your clit, the lightest brush, and it shoots lightning straight up your spine.

Your head tilts back with a gasp, eyes fluttering shut. His lips brush your jaw, deceptively soft.

“Then why are you shaking?” he whispers. He already knows the answer and just wants to hear you admit it.

Your pride is threadbare. Your breathing’s a mess. Your thighs are trembling. Your self-control has officially packed a suitcase and left the building.

“P-please, Jungkook—” you gasp, voice shaking.

His cock twitches against the front of his jeans at the sound. Before you can even protest or say some other snarky remark, his fingers vanish.

You blink, stunned as he pulls back. He shakes his head slowly, like he’s the one let down here. “That’s not a thank you, sweetheart.”

You don’t even have time to react. One second you’re trying to remember how to breathe, and the next, he moves. Hands firm on your waist, grip unyielding, and then he lifts you like you weigh absolutely nothing. As if you’re just another object he’s decided he wants to rearrange, only this one’s got a mouth and an attitude and a skirt that’s now hiked halfway up her thighs. He places you right on top of the conference table and your breath catches.

Your heels skid against his jeans, scraping uselessly as you scramble to steady yourself. It’s humiliating how easily he manhandles you, how your pride takes a nosedive the second he steps between your legs and palms your knees wide like it’s the most obvious place they should be.

You’re caged in now. The position, however, seems to be a problem. A very large, very solid, very painful-to-ignore problem currently pressed against your cunt.

You grit your teeth, already seething, already spiraling, already half out of your mind with the unfairness of how badly you want this.

His head drops slightly as his tattooed fingers trail down again, grazing your inner thigh, slow and dangerous, until they find the damp lace between your legs. “Try again,” he whispers.

His thumb presses against your clit again but it’s still not enough. It’s slow, careful circles that make your hips twitch, make your legs shake.

His expression is ripped straight from your nightmares, or your fantasies. You can’t tell the difference anymore.

“That’s more like it,” he says like you’ve just proven a point for him. Like your shaking thighs are a confession and he’s been waiting all week to drag them out of you.

His thumb keeps moving, slow and taunting. The pressure is maddening. It’s fire with no release, torture with rhythm.

He tuts softly, shaking his head like he’s disappointed in both of you.

“Such a fucking mess,” he mutters, voice thick like molasses. His fingers slip under the waistband of your panties, hooking in, finally doing what you’ve been silently begging him to do for what feels like years.

He pushes the fabric aside, and the air hits you immediately. You suck in a breath like this whole thing has suddenly crossed from fantasy into something far too real.

Jungkook’s fingers slide through your slick folds, unhurried, gathering every bit of your arousal on those infuriatingly elegant hands. He groans at the feeling, the sound being punched out of him.

And when he lifts his hand to the light, fingers coated, glistening, spreading them slightly to watch your wetness stretch between them, you want to die. You want to combust.

His eyes flick back to yours, “Look at this. Dripping all over my hands. You really are pathetic, huh?”

You whimper. It’s not a choice. It’s not even voluntary. It’s just your body breaking, and he feels it. Feels the way your thighs twitch again, the way you clench around absolutely nothing, the way you respond to every filthy word he feeds you like it’s gospel.

His thumb swipes the slick across your bottom lip, but he’s already following it with two fingers, pressing gently, not forcing.

“Here,” he says, “Be a good girl. Taste yourself.”

And maybe in another life, you’d slap his hand away. Maybe you’d laugh. Maybe you’d remind him who the fuck you are and who works for who in this brand partnership. But, right now? Right now, your body is burning. Your pride is unraveling. Your brain is static.

You part your lips slowly and his fingers slip inside. Your eyes flutter shut while your tongue swirls over them. You taste yourself, sweet and sharp. You suck, gentle at first, then harder, and Jungkook curses under his breath.

You feel him, thick and straining through his jeans, twitching with every movement of your mouth, every drag of your tongue.

“Fuck,” he whispers, watching you like you’re the most perfect thing he’s ever seen.

Jungkook’s grin spreads like wildfire as he slips his fingers from your mouth, glistening with your taste. Under the soft conference room lighting, they shimmer like proof. Evidence. The loss of your ego documented in high definition.

Those same fingers trail back down, dragging across your skin like he’s etching his name into you. He dips between your thighs again, gathering the mess you’ve already made for him and then he inserts one finger… then two.

“F-fuck—” the word stumbles out of your mouth, sharp and fractured.

Your entire body jolts, instinct tightening your grip on his shoulders like he’s the only thing tethering you to the present. His tattooed knuckles vanish inside you, filling you with such ease, the stretch making your eyes flutter.

“Messy little thing, aren’t you,” he murmurs, so clearly pleased with himself it makes you want to scream.

His gaze stays locked on yours as he starts to pump them, dragging along every nerve-ending like he’s studied the terrain. His fingers seek until they find that one devastating spot.

Your head falls back, a moan slipping past your lips before you can catch it. It’s the kind of sound that has no place in a room like this, in a room where you’ve scolded interns and charmed executives.

Now you’re perched on a table in your own damn conference room, gasping around his hand, writhing against his touch like some desperate cliché. Your skirt bunched at your waist and your voice a breathy mess. Every sound that leaves you is proof of just how far you’ve fallen.

“There it is,” he exhales, palm grinding against your clit just enough to make your hips shake.

The contact is almost too much. His other hand grips your waist to steady you. His eyes never leave your face.

“So damn needy,” he teases, leaning in until his mouth brushes yours, until you can feel every syllable fan across your lips. “What do you think they’d say if they saw you like this?”

Your whole body locks up. Your breath snags, your legs clamp tighter around his hand, thighs trembling at the very idea of someone walking in, of someone catching you sitting across a boardroom table with Jungkook’s fingers deep inside you.

“Oh,” he tuts, smug and molten, “you like that.”

His pace picks up, thrusts deeper now, fingers slick and unforgiving, dragging another desperate moan out of you. His rhythm is ruthless, his tone even more so.

“You like the thought of being caught,” he says, “You like knowing you’d just keep taking it. Letting me fuck you open while anyone could walk through that door.”

Your body is giving you away. Clenching, shaking, grinding down against his hand like you’re chasing something you swore you’d never need from him.

He can feel how close you are, how every muscle in your body has gone taut, trembling, ready to break.

And before you can protest, he stops, pulls back just slightly, fingers dragging out. You let out a sound you don’t even recognize — part whimper, part curse, all frustration. You chase what he keeps pulling away, and it’s humiliating how little shame your body has left. You’re supposed to be better than this. You’re supposed to have dignity.

“So fucking greedy,” he mutters, voice all lazy cruelty, thumb circling over your clit in the most obnoxiously light touch imaginable. “But not a single thank you? That’s rude, baby.”

Your eyes snap open, burning holes into his stupidly infuriating face. He’s enjoying this, no, thriving on it like every second you squirm just proves a point he’s been waiting to make.

“Go to hell,” you spit, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “Just shut up and do it.”

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you didn’t just give him exactly what he wants. The sound is sharp and sends heat rolling through your spine in the worst way.

“There she is,” he says, and then his fingers enter you again and push deeper. He resumes the same slow, devastating rhythm that makes you want to scream and sob and slap him in the face all at once.

“That attitude’s going to be the death of you,” he shakes his head his other hand pins your thigh wide open. “Can’t follow the simplest instruction, can you?”

You glare, breath stuttering, thighs trembling around his wrist. You’re soaked. You’re twitchy. You’re seconds away from exploding and he’s still talking like this is some kind of training exercise.

“I don’t need to thank you for shit,” you grit out but your voice cracks halfway through.

“Sure you don’t,” he rolls his eyes, his fingers dragging out so painfully slow you swear your lungs stop working. He leaves you empty, throbbing, desperate.

He leans in, lips brushing your open mouth, barely there, like he’s daring you to beg. “Say it.”

The command lands like a slap. Your jaw tightens. Your pride hangs on by a thread. But his fingers curl again and your whole body clenches, bucking against him. His thumb presses harder now, rubbing tight, perfect circles. It’s torture. It’s heaven. It’s both.

“Say it,” he repeats, quieter this time, almost gentle. Which somehow makes it worse.

He doesn’t stop moving. He keeps pushing you closer, keeps working you with his long fingers like it’s some lesson in obedience and you’re failing miserably.

You crumble.

“T-thank you,” you gasp, barely audible, voice catching like it physically hurts to say it.

“There’s my girl,” Jungkook whispers, lips brushing yours. Fingers slam into you, hard and fast. Thumb relentless against your clit. His pace turns brutal in an instant, wringing every last shred of resistance from your body as he drags you straight to the edge.

He fucks you open with his fingers like he has a point to prove, and maybe he does. Maybe this whole thing is some twisted power play.

You’re clutching at his shoulders, his biceps, the table, anything that might ground you while your mouth flies open and your vision swims.

“Look at you,” he scoffs, voice ragged, fingers still thrusting deep and fast. “God, never seen you this out of control. “

You try to speak, try to say something sharp. Anything. But all that comes out is a gasp. Your head drops back and a string of breathless moans tumble from your mouth and you can’t stop them. You don’t even try.

“What?” Jungkook bites, fingers curling again, “No smartass comment now?”

His free hand grabs your jaw, forces your eyes to meet his. You look and feel like someone who’s been thoroughly, completely ruined.

“You were so mouthy earlier,” he taunts, lips brushing yours again, heat radiating between your bodies like static. “What the hell happened to that sharp little tongue?”

You really wish you had an answer.

A helpless sob punches out of your throat, your hips rolling into his palm like you’ve lost all motor control. It’s embarrassing. You should be embarrassed.

You’re too far gone to care, too high on the way he’s touching you to feel anything but that slippery, white-hot desperation boiling under your skin.

“Th-thank you,” you nearly scream, the words barely forming a shape. They’re not even yours. They feel stolen, ripped from someone else’s body and handed to him like a white flag.

Jungkook laughs, fingers slamming harder. His wrist is soaked with you, slick dripping down his knuckles as he fucks you with a pace that borders on brutal.

“That’s right, baby,” he groans, teeth clenched. His breath fans across your lips, hot and ragged. “Keep fucking thanking me.”

Your thighs start shaking. Like, really shaking. Not sexy trembling — it’s full-on, legs-aren’t-working, earthquake-mode collapse. His smirk is practically audible when he leans in closer, pressing his palm down just enough to keep you locked in place.

“Gonna cum for me?” he taunts cruelly. “Gonna soak my fucking hand like a good girl?”

“Y-yes,” you choke out, already unraveling. “Yes—please—fuck—”

It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s the kind of orgasm that folds you in half, that knocks the air from your lungs, that crashes into you like a freight train with zero brakes.

You cry out as your entire body convulses. Your juices gush out of you, coating his fingers, dripping onto his wrist, soaking the polished conference table beneath you.

“Holy fuck,” Jungkook breathes, eyes wide, jaw slack as he watches you fall apart in real time. His fingers finally slow, dragging out your high but your chest is still heaving, mind blank, vision fuzzy.

Your hands move on autopilot, grabbing his jaw, dragging him down like you can’t bear another second without his mouth. Your lips crash into his, your breath still stuttering as you kiss him like he’s oxygen.

Jungkook groans into your mouth, his grip on your thighs tightening as his hands, still slick with you, glide up your sides. He doesn’t wipe them clean. He smears you into your own skin, marking you like a trophy.

You reach down between your bodies, fingers fumbling for his jeans like you’re possessed. Your breath mixes with his, frantic and desperate.

“Take them off,” you pant, yanking at the waistband. “Fucking take them off, Jungkook.”

“Bossy now, huh?” he teases, brushing his lips over yours as he bats your hands away with infuriating ease, long enough to shove his jeans down himself.

The zipper splits the silence like a gunshot.

Your panties? Gone. He doesn’t ease them off, doesn’t bother with delicacy. He hooks his fingers under the lace, yanks hard, and the fabric tears clean in half before sailing somewhere behind you like a flag of surrender. You’re too stunned to even flinch.

His jeans hit the floor and boxers follow. Towering over you, cock flushed and straining, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip. He’s hard and you’re suddenly aware of just how empty you are without him.

You should stop. You know you should. This is a disaster. A mistake. An HR nightmare.

And then Jungkook smirks like the devil just handed him a keycard to your soul and those thoughts vanish.

His hands grip your thighs as he pushes them wider, spreading you open on the cold, polished surface of the Calvin Klein conference table like this is his personal altar.

“Better say thank you again,” he mutters condescendingly, as he lines himself up with the mess between your legs. “Might be your last chance to be polite.”

And like… objectively? You hate him. Right now… you hate yourself more.

The table is ice-cold against your bare skin, a jarring contrast to the way his body radiates heat between your thighs. His cock drags through your slick, hot and heavy and completely disrespectful, teasing your entrance and tapping against your clit like he’s knocking just to be rude.

A high-pitched moan escapes before you can clamp it down, and suddenly your hands are flying to his shoulders, gripping tight, nails digging in, like he might float away if you don’t anchor yourself to something solid.

“So fucking desperate,” he notes against your jaw, lips dragging across your skin like he’s trying to mark a trail. “You always get this needy when you’re about to beg?”

You want to tell him to shut up. You do. But then he nudges forward again, his cock just barely breaching your entrance, not even halfway in, and your thighs are already trembling like he’s got you wired to a detonator.

“You’re lucky I’m even giving you this,” he says, and… okay. You should slap him. Or yourself. Or whoever failed you in your formative years because what the fuck is happening right now.

Maybe your parents didn’t hug you enough. Maybe this is some long-buried trauma expressing itself through your complete inability to say no to a cocky k-pop idol who’s holding you open like a wishbone and acting like he’s doing you a favor.

But also… it’s been months. Months since you’ve been touched. Months since someone made you feel like this. Maybe ever since someone made you feel like this.

It doesn’t help that he’s so good at this. Infuriatingly, obscenely, life-ruiningly good.

He drags his cock along your folds again, spreading your arousal over his length, dragging it torturously slow over your clit just to feel your hips buck, just to hear that gasp fall from your lips.

“What’s missing?” he asks, fake innocence dripping from every syllable. “Hmm?”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip like he’s testing the weight of your silence. Like he knows your pride is the last thing standing between you and complete humiliation.

You know what he wants. You know what he’s waiting for yet your lips stay sealed. Your nails dig deeper into his skin. You hold on to your last shred of dignity like it’s going to save you from drowning even though you’re already in over your head.

“Fine,” he breathes, feigning disappointment as he presses forward, just the tip. “Guess you don’t want it that bad after all.”

That’s the moment your sanity packs a suitcase and bolts for the nearest emergency exit.

You grab his face and crash your mouth into his like you’re trying to shut him up with teeth. The kiss is messy, all heat and spit and pure, frantic need.

“Thank you,” you breathe into his mouth, unhinged, panting, kissing him again before he can gloat.

“Thank you,” again, more wrecked now, your body grinding up against him like your life depends on it. You’re trying to make him cave, to make him snap. Trying to ruin him the way he’s been systematically dismantling you.

Your hand slides between your bodies like muscle memory, wrapping around his cock for the first time, and…

“Oh my fucking god.”

The words fall out before you even process them.

He’s massive. Thick too. Your fingers don’t even fully meet around him. You blink, stunned, palm moving in slow strokes as you feel the weight of him, already leaking against your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” you say under your breath, more to yourself than anything.

Jungkook grins, so satisfied with himself and for one brief, fleeting second, you almost come to your senses.

His smirk returns with full force, his dark eyes blown wide, borderline unhinged as he watches you really see him. Watches the way your fingers tremble around his cock, the way your mouth goes slack like your brain is buffering under the weight of the moment.

“Yeah?” he breathes, tilting his head just slightly,“That mouth finally quieted down.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not when he’s twitching in your grip, thick and flushed and hot against your palm.

“Scared, sweetheart?”

Here’s the thing: you know he’s talking about his dick. You’ve gotten that much. Beyond that, though, you really should be scared. This is a terrible idea. Catastrophically bad. You could lose your job. Your reputation. Your sanity.

And yet here you are, stroking him faster like it’s a religious calling.

Your legs fall open wider and Jungkook kisses you like he’s claiming his prize, mouth slanted over yours, tongue dragging.

The second he slides in, your soul flatlines.

There’s no warning. No buildup. Just the full, devastating stretch of him splitting you open like you’ve never been touched before. He sinks in with ease, your slick dragging down his length like your body knew him. Like it had been waiting.

And holy shit, he’s huge. Your head drops back, mouth open in a silent gasp as your nails dig into his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself against the full-body shock of being filled to the hilt. It’s overwhelming. It’s incredible. It’s so good it feels wrong.

Jungkook moans as he watches himself disappear inside you. His jaw clenches, inked fingers bruising your waist as your walls flutter around him, squeezing tight enough to knock the wind out of both of you.

“Fucking hell,” he hisses, forehead dropping against yours as his cock throbs inside you, helpless against the heat of your body.

His eyes snap up to yours, and without a word, his hand shoots up, wraps around your throat, and squeezes. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he whispers, “All full of my cock.”

Your nails scrape down his back, thighs trembling as he pulls back slightly, enough to make you beg.

Then, without another word, as if he’s decided he’s done holding back too, he slams into you.

And the sound that tears from your throat? It’s not human.

He pounds into you, deep and unrelenting, each thrust angled to wreck you a little more than the last. You cry out, your whole body rocking with the force of it, your breath cutting out as your walls clamp around him, fluttering like you can’t decide if you’re ready to take this or not.

Spoiler: you’re not.

His grip on your throat tightens, not enough to hurt, but to hold, to remind you who’s in charge here.

The slick, wet sounds of your bodies meeting echo through the room, mixing your breathy moans, with his low, guttural groans. Filthy. Loud. Absolutely not workplace appropriate.

Your cream coats his cock, slicking down to the base, messy and hot and humiliating.

“Where’s that fucking mouth now?” Jungkook snarls, breath ragged as he watches your head tip back in surrender. “What happened to all that attitude, huh?”

You try. You really do.

But all that comes out is a shattered moan, your lips parting around a gasp as your eyes flutter open, dazed and glassy.

“Nothing to say now?” he pants, his hold flexing around your throat, his hips snapping forward like punishment. “So fucking mouthy before… so bitchy.”

Your nails dig into his arm now, clutching anything to survive the relentless drag of his cock inside you. You’re soaking the table. You’re making a mess of yourself.

His other hand grips your thigh, pinning it wide, forcing you to take every inch of him, again and again and again.

You let out something between a gasp and a sob, a high, broken sound that is dragged from your throat as your muscles twitch with every devastating thrust. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

The drag of his cock inside you.

The pressure of his hand tightening around your throat.

The voice in your head screaming what the fuck are you doing while your body clings to him like it would rather die than let this end.

“You fucking love this, don’t you?” he taunts, eyes gleaming, lips cut in a grin so sharp it could slice you clean in half.

Your hands clutch at his wrist like you’re trying to stop him but the truth is more humiliating than that. You want more.

“Say it,” he growls, voice hoarse, wild, like he’s half a second away from breaking himself. “Say how bad you needed to get fucked like this.”

You literally can’t speak — and you wish he would understand this before asking you to say more things — but you try, lips parting, throat working around the words.

“Fucking thank me for this cock,” he snarls, each word a vicious command, each syllable punctuated by a brutal snap of his hips that knocks the breath from your lungs.

You’re gasping, moaning, barely holding onto coherence as he drives into you, stretching you so full it feels like your body is being taken apart from the inside.

“Th-thank you,” you whimper, the words stuttering out of you, barely a whisper. You hate how easily you say it, how naturally it slips from your tongue. At this point, you do mean it though. Because this isn’t just sex. It’s obliteration. It’s ego-shattering, soul-rearranging ruin, and you’re giving in with open arms.

Jungkook groans, his eyes squeezing shut for a second as your walls clench around him, squeezing so tight his rhythm falters, hips stuttering as a curse slips from his lips.

Then he’s moving again, faster, rougher, desperate in a way that makes your stomach flip. One hand drags down your stomach, the other grabs the collar of your blouse and rips. Buttons go flying. Fabric splits.

And suddenly you’re bare beneath him, chest heaving, breasts spilling out like a reward he’s been waiting to collect.

“Fucking hell,” he bites his lip ring, eyes darkening.

His palms are rough, fingers greedy. He grabs your breasts like he’s starved, squeezing, rolling your nipples between his thumbs until your back arches, your body chasing his touch.

He slams you flat onto your back, the cool glass of the conference table slapping against your skin like a punishment. The temperature sends a jolt through you, makes you arch up into him, makes your breath catch in your throat.

He doesn’t stop or give you a second to process. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open wide, and before you can regain your breathing patterns, he’s already hiking one leg up, hooking it over the thick band of muscle in his tattooed forearm. The shift tilts your hips and the second he thrusts back in, your entire nervous system stops working.

You scream. Not a cute sound. Not a porn sound. It’s raw.. It’s the kind of noise that rips out of you when someone hits a part of you you didn’t even know could feel.

“Holy fuck,” you sob, fingers clawing at the glass beneath you, nails skittering uselessly against the smooth surface. There’s nothing to hold onto. No leverage. Just the dizzying rhythm of his cock dragging in and out, in and out, too deep, too good, too much.

Jungkook groans low in his throat, head dropping, dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches himself disappear into you, thick and soaked in everything you’ve already given him. Your cream is everywhere.

“That’s it,” he grits out, his voice wrecked and strained, every muscle in his body flexed, straining with restraint. “That’s my girl.”

And all you can do is say the only thing left in your vocabulary.

“Thank you… thank you, Jungkook—” the words tumble out in gasping fragments, broken between moans, between thrusts, between the feeling of him absolutely ruining what little control you thought you had left.

“Yeah?” he pants, reaching up to grab your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks, forcing you to look at him even though your eyes are already half-rolled and glassy. “That’s all you can say now, huh?”

You nod, barely, because clearly speaking is no longer a skill you possess. And it makes him laugh as he pushes your leg higher, spreading you wider.

His rhythm snaps into something faster now, his hips slamming into yours with a pace that feels like it should knock the table off its legs. He’s so deep. So deep you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel.

God, he looks so good like this. Face flushed. Veins in his neck standing out. Tattoos flexing. Sweat dripping down his chest as his abs tighten with every brutal thrust. You want to kiss him. You want to claw at him. You want to cry.

“You were such a bitch to me,” he grits out, eyes locked on yours, voice pure venomous lust. “Thought you were untouchable.”

You would’ve snapped back. Any other time. Any other moment. But then he slams into you again, sharp and sudden, and the breath is knocked right out of your lungs, your hands flailing for anything.

“And now look at you,” he spits, voice dropping, almost fond in how cruel it is. “Just a pathetic little slut for my cock.”

This is exactly how you imagined it three nights ago. When you were alone in that hotel bed, hand between your thighs, chasing the memory of his voice, the feel of his breath on your skin. You pictured this exact stretch, this rhythm, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, or, well, into the conference table. Somehow, it’s better. It’s so much fucking better than anything your desperate, horny little brain had managed to conjure. Because of course he’s good at this. Of course he’s the kind of infuriating, smug fucker who can read your body like it’s his native language. Every thrust, every snap of his hips, every filthy word slipping past his lips feels custom-built to ruin you.

You whimper pathetically, your nails carving down the ridges of his forearms as your whole body trembles beneath him, too far gone to pretend you’re still in control. Your hips jerk up to meet every punishing thrust, desperate for more even as your brain screams that this is a bad idea, a terrible idea, that you should still have a shred of self-respect left.

You don’t, and it gets worse every time he opens his mouth.

Because of course his filthy, cruel little comments only make the fire in your gut burn hotter. Every time he mocks you, your core clenches like your body’s trying to wring the arrogance out of him.

“F-fuck you—” you manage to get out, voice wrecked and thin, but even you can hear the edge of a moan tangled in the syllables.

“Already doing that, sweetheart,” he pants, his grin stretched.

His thumb finds your clit, pressing hard, rubbing little circles that send lightning up your spine, and your back arches clean off the table like he’s shocked you straight out of your body.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, like he’s not the one actively rearranging your internal organs. “Thought you were tough. Thought you could take it.”

His thrusts pick up speed, slamming into you with relentless force, his cock dragging over every hypersensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly where you’re about to break.

“You were so fucking loud earlier,” he grits out, eyes burning, “What happened to that mouth, baby?”

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear, hips slamming into yours like he’s trying to knock the voice back into you. “Use it,” he snarls. “Come on. Say something.”

But you can’t. You literally cannot form a single syllable. Your body is locking up, every muscle coiling tight as your release barrels toward you like a goddamn freight train. All that comes out is a high, ragged keening sound, your mouth hanging open, your nails scraping down his arms, your thighs quaking around his waist as he fucks you toward the edge.

He feels the way you start to squeeze him as if your body’s trying to pull him deeper, hold him in place, never let him go.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, voice cracking, eyes slamming shut as your body milks him. “F-fuck, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

Your moans dissolve into pure nonsense, half-sobs, half-praise, all desperation, as the pressure builds unbearably.

And somewhere, in the scrambled static of your brain, one final thought surfaces: He’s going to ruin you for everyone else and you’re going to let him.

“Jungkook, fuck, please,” you gasp, voice so raw you barely recognize it as your own.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice gravel-rough, “This is what you fucking wanted, huh?”

Yes. Yes. This is exactly what you wanted, what you fantasized about with your fingers buried between your legs three nights ago while your rational brain screamed at you to stop.

His thumb drops to your clit again, pressing down hard, dragging tight, vicious circles that send electric shocks shooting up your spine. You cry out loudly, the sound ricocheting off glass walls that have seen way too much.

“You wanted me to fuck you like this,” he growls, teeth gritted as he watches the way your breasts bounce with every punishing thrust. “Wanted me to ruin you, didn’t you? Wanted to act like — fuck — a fucking brat just so I’d fuck you stupid.”

You’d deny it if you could, really. But he slams into you again and all that comes out is another broken moan as your nails carve into his arms, your brain gone static.

“Say it,” he snarls, hand gripping your face now, forcing your glassy eyes to meet his. “Fucking say it.”

“I—” you gasp, lips trembling. “I wanted it. Fuck, I wanted your cock so fucking bad.”

That’s what breaks him. Jungkook lets out the filthiest groan you’ve ever heard from a man as his whole body locks up for a moment, abs tightening, hips faltering like he’s trying not to lose it right then and there.

“F-fuck, baby,” he grits out, every muscle straining, “Be a good girl, come on. Cum for me.”

God, you do.

Your body shatters, legs locking around his waist, your release crashing over you so hard you forget your own name. You sob as your walls tighten around him, trying to drag him under with you.

“Oh my fucking god,” you cry, because there’s no other vernacular for what this is. Every nerve-ending is on fire, your skin tingling, your mind white-noise and wreckage.

Jungkook groans like it’s being torn from somewhere inside his chest and you feel his cock twitch, his rhythm faltering.

“F-fuck, fuck, baby,” Jungkook pants, his whole body jerking with the effort of holding back. You feel the twitch of him inside you and then suddenly he’s pulling out, just in time, hand flying to his cock as his other arm braces above you.

“Shit, oh, god [Y/N],” he groans. His brows knit together, eyes slamming shut as his release hits him hard, stroking himself feverishly as hot, slick ropes of cum spill across your stomach.

His thighs tremble, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it hurts, strokes growing slower as he rides it out.

He’s so fucking pretty while he does it, like offensively pretty.

Like who the hell gave him permission to look like that while literally unraveling over you? Chest flushed, skin glowing, lips parted just enough to show his teeth as he groans your name like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. His sweat-slick hair falls into his eyes and you hate him for being this hot, for wrecking you and somehow looking like that while doing it.

You don’t know if it’s the orgasm or the emotional damage but your brain stops working a little.

Jesus Christ. You need therapy. Or an exorcism. Both at the same time probably.

For a second, the room is just breathing. Yours and his, probably fogging up the glass.

Jungkook finally exhales and when he looks down and sees the wreckage — you, splayed out and trembling, his cum smeared across your stomach like a signature — he grins.

“Such a fucking mess,” he notes, tone hoarse as his fingers swipe through the creamy trail across your stomach and smears it like an artist admiring his work.

Your body twitches again, a soft aftershock rippling through you, and he notices. His eyes drop to your still-quivering thighs, the way your breath catches, the way you’re still coming down like he’s rewired you from the inside out.

His tongue swipes over his lip ring. He tilts his head like he’s deciding whether to keep going or let you recover. Either way, you’re doomed.

Instead, he settles on, “You really should thank me for this one too, baby.”

And all you can do is lie there, half-naked on a conference table, covered in cum, dignity somewhere on the floor next to your ripped panties, and wonder how the fuck this became your life.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @uarmygguk @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97 @jksusawife @rkivesarchive @hyunjinswifetingzz @bjoriis @nan4rf @parkinglot-nights @travelgurrl @softhaes @bexxs

#jeon jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook #jungkook smut #jeon jeongguk #bts #bts x reader #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x you #jjk #jjk x reader

474 notes · View notes

revolvingsaturn · 23 days ago

Text

Summary: small Aizawa oneshot, enjoy :)

🫧🌱

You never thought, back when you first met him, it would go like this. Brief chats in the UA staffroom before teaching-accompanied, of course, by Hizashi Yamada’s ever present voice- turned into lesson planning dates, planning dates turned into actual dates, and dates eventually turned into being almost folded in half on the crumpled bedsheets of Shota Aizawa’s apartment.

Snippets of the occasional low moan slipped from his swollen lips-courtesy of your teeth- and whatever did escape was quickly enveloped by your own shaky whines as you felt him fill you with each less than careful thrust. Thighs pressed almost to your chest by Shota’s strong hands and his quiet unassuming strength, pads of his fingers holding you in place while you pant desperately into each other’s mouths.

It took you a while to get to this point, sure- it’s been what feels like years since your first polite conversation beside the UA staff-only coffee machine, but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t found him attractive from day one. A thought not lost to you when you break the messy, open mouthed kiss to pull in a shaky breath and gaze dazedly up at Shota through the strands of black hair hanging in front of his eyes. He’s concentrated, so concentrated that it almost makes you squirm- eyes bore into you with the same intensity he has when using his quirk, irises raking over your body and all the marks he’s left; if you look hard enough, you’d notice the corner of his mouth twitching into what looks far too much like a self satisfied grin to be anything else. You huff, and almost roll your eyes at him. Almost.

You don’t get to, though, because it’s cut short when he leans in to brush the shell of your ear with his mouth and whisper you’re “so pretty f’me” and how “you look so good like this” and you lose whatever composure you’re tricking yourself into believing you have left when he snakes a rough hand down from the back of your thigh to your clit, rubbing in calculated spirals that mirror the trails of purple blossoming across your tits and collarbone. Your eyes widen in shock, back arching in unexpected pleasure but Shota just keeps going in ignorance of your whines.

He’s determined, looking down at where he’s still thrusting in and out of you, cock hitting that specific spot inside of you in tandem with his fingers gliding over your sensitive clit; you’ve already came twice this evening, one from his mouth and one from his fingers, so there’s no shortness of wetness for you- the noises you’re making as he slides in and out of you are downright obscene and it brings a flush to your face, but Shota doesn’t seem to care. You suddenly gasp, back arching again.

“Oh fuck, Shota, m’gonna cum-“ you whine out.

“‘S okay, just let go f’me.” He’s groaning into the space between you, admiring how your eyes fill with crystalline tears at his instructions when you cum for the final time tonight; your hips buck and he’s still pressing you into his mattress, still thrusting into you even as you’re squeezing him and clawing at whatever you can reach- his chest, back, and ribs are all granted the same gift of red strips when your nails scrabble for purchase to remain grounded through your orgasm.

He cums shortly after, with a mixture of low groans and breathy noises into your skin; his thrusts get messy and his eyes glaze over even more than before, until he suddenly can’t stop and has to keep thrusting, overstimulation be damned- he finishes inside the condom you both agreed on him wearing and stays above you, panting, for a good thirty seconds before he’s pulling out of you and dropping the little latex into the bin beside his bed.

You both lie next to each other in comfortable silence, basking in the post-sex glow. His ceiling fan whirrs to life as you look through bleary eyes to raise a smile at Shota as he gazes over at you. He offers you a small grin in return, and you swear you feel yourself melt more than you did during your orgasm.

This isn’t going to be a one time thing, a fact which is solidified when you entwine your fingers with his on top of his chest as you roll over to lie your head closer to him. You feel his breath ruffle your messy hair as your eyelids get heavy; his hair isn’t any better, all messed up from where you tugged on it when he was between your thighs.

This definitely isn’t going to be a one time thing.

🫧🌱

comments always appreciated :)

#bnha #bnha fanfiction #bnha x reader #fanfic #mha fanfiction #mha x reader #smut #bnha smut #oneshot #mha #aizawa #aizawa shouta #bnha shouta aizawa #shouta aizawa x reader #present mic #pwp fics #pwop #coworker

178 notes · View notes

rainydaygotham · 4 days ago

Text

AT THE MOVIES

Dick Grayson x GN Reader

Summary: You get a little frisky in a matinee with your boyfriend. Well, a lot frisky. Can they blame you? It’s Dickie.

Warnings: pwp, semi-public sex, handjob, hero name kink?, dick worship (pun intended)

A/n: I’ve had a rough week and I NEED to give this man a handjob. For some reason my period is making me horny af

It’s dark in the theater, and because it’s 3pm on a Monday, there’s no one else in the theater. Well, except that one guy who sat up in the very front. You and Dick, being people of culture, took the back row.

It’s nice. You know how (relatively) nice theater seats are now, essentially being those little recliners with the middle you can move to make it a loveseat. You’ve nestled your head in the crook of Dick’s neck, and he leans on you, practically purring like a cat.

You don’t know what you’re watching. You haven’t paid attention the entire time and you won’t be anytime soon. You’ve got one thing on your mind: Dick. Both capitalized and uncapitalized.

You’ve never done anything like this in a public place before, but hey, there’s a first time for everything. The theater is dark, the movie is loud, and you’re feeling bold.

You drifted your hand to the place between Dick’s legs, watching as he feigned nonchalance.

You cupped his package through his jeans. You looked back up at him. He just stared blankly ahead, trying really hard to pay attention. You don’t know why he’s still trying. That movie? Boring. This? Much more interesting.

You continued groping him, gently feeling and squeezing. He was getting stiffer as you traced the tip of your finger over the outline of his cock through the fabric. You lingered over the tip, delicately drawing a spiral over it. Dick’s breath hitched.

You gave a gentle pat to his inner thigh, bumping against his cock again as you pulled your hand back to your own side of the chair. You pretended to go back to watching the movie, just to make him squirm.

Sure enough, after a moment, Dick shifted in his seat, casually making a bit more room for an uncomfortable erection.

You thought about feigning disinterest for a little bit longer but nah, you’re too impatient and horny to torture your boy any longer. Your hands groped in the dark to find the button on his jeans, quickly undoing it and slowly unzipping them as to not make noise. Thankfully some car zoomed by on the screen. A chase scene, but you’ve already apprehended your suspect.

Dick let out a tiny gasp as you snaked your hand into his jeans, wrapping your hand around his member. You started stroking him slowly, more feeling him in your palm than anything. His skin was tender and soft, you kept stroking him just to feel that beautiful skin glide against yours.

Dick shuddered as he did everything in his power to keep quiet. You weren’t a fan of that, but you weren’t a fan of getting a flashlight shone on you more, so you’ll have to wait to hear him later.

You ghosted your mouth over the shell of his ear, and he bit his lip, “You’re being such a good boy for me, now, aren’t you?”

Dick stifled a whimper. You let your hand stray to his tip, collecting precum on your fingers and smearing it down his shaft.

“Yeah, just like that. You’ll stay quiet for me, won’t you Wing?”

Okay, maybe that was being a little too mean, calling him by his hero name like that. Especially while you’re still going at such a slow teasing pace. He scrunched up his nose, eyes shut tight.

But there’s at least half an hour left in this movie, you’re gonna take your time with him.

You could feel the vein along his cock, the pulse that throbbed in your hand. You gave him a gentle squeeze and heard Dick suck the air between his teeth. God, feeling him up was addictive.

You know what needs a little love? His balls. You’re sadly neglecting them right now.

You begrudgingly let go of his cock to drift downwards to scoop a handful of his heavy sack. You pull away and then come back to cup his balls again, just to feel them gently come to rest in your hand. Dick nuzzled his face into your neck, all pretenses of watching a movie abandoned. Very gently, you began to roll the flesh around in your palm.

Shifting your attention back to his member, you gave him a few strokes a bit faster than you��d been going. Dick squirmed in the crook of your neck, his fluffy hair and the noticeable stubble on his cheeks tickling you.

Back to that deliciously slow torture, you stopped, taking a moment to admire the weight of him in your palm. You traced your fingertips along the ridge of where his head met his shaft, all the way around. You took an extra moment to tease that little sweet spot and Dick literally started biting his hand to muffle the moan that slipped out.

“Baby,” he pouted.

The light of the movie screen shone on his pretty blue eyes as he frustratedly glared at you. It was hard for him to look intimidating when he was the world’s most adorable man. Nevertheless, you conceded.

Although, it would be fun to edge him for the rest of the runtime, only allowing him to come once the credits rolled…

You looked back at his pouty face.

Nah. He’s a good boy. He deserves a treat.

You spit in your hand. Time for things to get good.

Sliding the spit over his shaft, your hungry hands took their fill a lot faster now. Dick hid his face in your shoulder again. You tightened your grip as you dragged your fist around his cock, and it was a bit more intense. In a slight panic he looked for something that wasn’t his poor already chewed up hand to stuff in his mouth, and he settled on his hoodie’s hood. Worked like a charm, and was conveniently by his mouth anyway, he just had to pull the fabric between his teeth. Good. There was no way he was going to be able from making loud pornographic sounds otherwise.

His cock was leaking so much pre, and the slick sounds were getting a bit, uh, noticeable. Thank heavens some loud ass action sequence was happening. The music got faster and everything.

Dick’s hips started doing sloppy little thrusts up into your hand, and you knew he was getting close. You moved along with him, helping him reach that peak. A flick of your thumb over the head of his cock and he was bursting in your hand. Thankfully, the action film you were ignoring provided a loud, fiery explosion to cover up the sound of Dick crying out as he came.

You rode it out with him, stroking him until every last aftershock was through. Dropping the fabric from his mouth, Dick took his face out of the crook of your neck, tears prickling in the corner of his eyes.

Trying to steady his breathing, Dick huffed, “I… think I needed that,”

You took your hand out of his pants, reaching up to lick the semen off of your fingers. You savored the salty taste of him as you sensually cleaned yourself. Dick glanced away in an attempt to not get turned on again.

“Mmm. Me too,”

(And then you hastily left the theater while that one guy waited for the end credits scene lmao. Freaks)

#dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #dick grayson smut #nightwing smut #dick grayson imagine #dick grayson x male reader #nightwing x male reader #batboys x reader #nightwing imagine #dick grayson x you #nightwing x you #rainyday writes

250 notes · View notes

cinnxmxngxrl · 2 months ago

Text

“Check one, two”

Tom Hardy x f!Reader

Masterlist here

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

Summary: A mic accident turns into a viral scandal when you’re caught moaning your boyfriend’s name backstage.

WC: 3.8k

Tags/Wanings: smut, minors DNI, dirty talk, semi-public sex, filming a sex tape, unprotected piv, oral (m&f receiving), established relationship, reader is famous actress. This is a work of fiction. It is written for entertainment purposes only, the version of tom portrayed here is a fictional character. If RPF isn’t for you, feel free to skip this one

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

He was proud of the weight his name carried. Of the legacy he’d built with quiet consistency. The last few years had been about pulling away from the cameras, the spotlight. Choosing privacy over attention. Silence over scandal. His personal life had become something sacred — locked down, sealed tight.

You were the exact opposite.

Famous and filthy rich since your early teens, the word “no” had rarely, if ever, applied to you. The flashes of paparazzi, the roar of the crowd, the center of the stage — that was your natural habitat. You thrived under scrutiny. Craved the chaos.

By 26, you’d racked up more Oscars than Meryl Streep and more controversies than Kim K. You’d lost count of how many times you’d been cancelled — but it never stuck. The outrage always fizzled out, smothered beneath your undeniable talent. Your fans were loyal to a fault. Rabid. Defensive. A legion armed with memes, think pieces, and fan cams, ready to die on every hill you stood on.

The rumors started two years ago, back when you were both cast in that movie. The erotic thriller. The one that had half the internet foaming at the mouth before it even premiered. You and him on the same set was all it took for the tabloids to spiral.

He’d tried to stay under the radar. Tried to keep things quiet. Told you a million times he wanted to keep a low profile. That’s why you never commented publicly, never confirmed the relationship. But after dozens of events, red carpets, and paparazzi photos that screamed louder than any PR statement, there was no need for a declaration. Everyone knew.

Sometimes, he hated himself for getting involved with someone like you. Someone bold. Reckless. Addictive.

He was no stranger to your little games. Like during the press junket for the film — when your hand slid high up his thigh, fingers grazing his cock with the kind of casual confidence that made his pulse spike. You kept talking, kept smiling, answering questions like nothing was happening. Like you weren’t stroking him through his trousers while four journalists sat barely a few feet away.

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

This night, you looked like sin. It was the premiere of the new film you starred in, and you showed up dressed like a provocation.

That dress — red, liquid-slick, poured over your curves like melted wax. Backless. Braless. Dangerous. Every inch of skin you revealed looked deliberate, from the deep plunge of the neckline to the scandalous curve of your spine. Diamonds dripped from your neck like ice. Your heels could’ve slit a throat.

Tom was fucked the second he saw you.

“You’re gonna behave tonight, yeah?” he murmured under his breath, his palm settling low on your back as he escorted you into the venue. His voice was all gravel and restraint, a fragile attempt at composure as cameras flashed and fans screamed.

You leaned in, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “Only if you make me.”

That hand slid lower. Gripped tighter. Right above your ass.

“Don’t start,” he warned, jaw already tense.

Too late. You’d started the second you stepped out of the car.

And backstage? Things got worse.

You were scheduled to give a short speech before the film began — five minutes, spotlight, polite applause. Your mic was clipped discreetly to the inside of your neckline.

Tom? Mic’d too — strictly for the behind-the-scenes documentary crew. Supposed to be muted. Supposed to be.

But when you pulled him into the green room before your cue?

That mic was live.

“Ten minutes,” you whispered, voice low and sweet as the door clicked shut behind you. The makeup team had cleared. The room was quiet. Just you and him.

His eyes dropped to your chest. Up close, the dress was almost obscene, the fabric hugged every contour, clinging to your nipples with no shame. There was nothing underneath. Nothing to hide behind.

“You’re trouble,” he growled, stepping in close. The tension in his voice cracked at the edges, already unraveling.

You smiled, slow and wicked, and reached down — palming his cock right through his tailored pants. Bold. Effortless. Deliberate.

“You like it.”

He caught your wrist. Firm. Commanding. A warning.

“Not here.”

You pouted, body pressing closer. Your lips brushed his jaw. “You’re already hard. That mean you want me?”

He stared at you like a man starved.

Then? He locked the door.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he muttered, voice rough with need, hands already gripping your hips, spinning you around, pushing you back against the dressing table. His fingers rucked up your dress — fast, practiced, hungry.

You didn’t wait. You hiked it higher. No panties. No hesitation.

And Tom? Dropped to his knees.

Right there. Suit still on. On the fucking carpet. Eyes locked on your cunt like it was his only salvation.

Face buried between your thighs before you could even breathe.

“Oh—fuck—Tom—”

You gasped, back arching, fingers flying into his hair as his tongue dragged through your folds. Slow. Greedy. Possessive. His beard scratched in the most sinful way, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking hard until your knees buckled and you had to grip the table to keep from collapsing.

“Louder,” he growled into you, “wanna hear how wrecked you get for me.”

“Tom—please—oh my god—”

And that’s when the sound tech’s worst nightmare came true.

Because while Tom had you whimpering and soaked on his tongue, his mic was still hot. Still connected. Still transmitting.

The audience heard it.

First, just a soft, breathy moan — like a secret not meant to be shared, crackling through the venue speakers as the crowd shuffled and murmured, waiting for the film to start.

Then:

“Tom—fuck, right there—”

A gasp.

A slick, wet sound.

A man’s groan, deep and distorted.

And then chaos. Scrambling audio techs. Static. The sound cut.

But the damage was done.

Back in the green room?

You were cumming on his face.

Your teeth sank into your hand to keep from screaming, body shuddering, thighs clamped around his head as his tongue drove you to pieces. He held you in place like you were his meal — which you were. Sloppy. Ruthless. Devoted.

When he finally stood, his chin was glistening. His eyes feral. His chest heaving like he’d been through war.

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” he muttered, dragging your dress back down, kissing your jaw as you panted in his arms. “Catch your breath. You’re on in sixty seconds.”

And then?

The door burst open. A frantic stage manager. Red-faced. Out of breath.

“Tom, your mic—”

That was when it hit you.

People heard you.

The scandal was immediate. The internet? On fire before the lights even dimmed.

Was that a MOAN during the pre-show?? Is she okay??

“Tom—fuck, right there” 😭 NOT TOM HARDY HAVING HIS MIC ON

Hard-launching his oral game mid-Emmy campaign is a flex I respect.

i want a relationship like theirs. chaotic, talented, public, and completely unapologetic. plus the oral game is clearly elite

we all heard it. you’re not slick.

On stage, you were flawless. Smiling. Glowing. Commanding the spotlight like you hadn’t just been tongue-fucked backstage with a live mic on.

Tom looked like he wanted to strangle the entire sound team.

In the car afterward, you were curled in his lap, laughing breathlessly as your phone buzzed nonstop.

“You’re trending,” you whispered against his throat. “Tom Hardy Oral Audio Leak.”

He groaned. Head falling back. Hands gripping your thigh like a man punished.

“You’re evil. You know that?”

You shrugged. “You ate me out like you were starving. You should’ve expected consequences.”

He kissed your collarbone. Then your shoulder. Then lower.

“You wanna talk consequences?” he murmured. “You’re not walking tomorrow.”

You smirked. Tugged him closer by the tie.

“I didn’t plan to.”

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

You woke up with a sore throat, aching thighs from the night before, and six dozen missed calls.

The sunlight was brutal. Your body ached. Your core still pulsed with the ghost of his tongue, and the rasp in your throat sounded like you’d been screaming through a house fire.

Tom was still asleep behind you, arm heavy around your waist, warm breath at your neck, the weight of him thick and grounding. There were dried scratches trailing down his back like a confession scrawled in flesh. You’d clawed at him, ridden his mouth like a threat. Now you were paying for it.

Your phone buzzed again.

This time, it wasn’t just a message.

It was a goddamn news alert.

NY Times: “Was That Tom Hardy’s Mic?” Internet Loses Its Mind Over Mysterious Moan at Last Night’s Premiere.”

You blinked. Stared at the screen. Then snorted so hard it hurt.

“Tom,” you wheezed, elbowing him. “Babe. Wake up. You’re on the front page of the Times for eating me out.”

He groaned behind you, muffled, like he was still halfway through a dream. “What…?”

“Wake. Up. We’re viral.”

He turned over, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot, one cheek still creased from the pillow. And when he saw the headline?

That woke him the fuck up.

He sat up fast. Grabbed your phone. Scrolled through the notifications with the dawning horror of a man realizing he’d just publicly deepthroated his chances at subtlety.

Vulture: “When You Hear the Moan That Launched a Thousand Tweets.”

Buzzfeed: “10 Times Tom Hardy Accidentally Gave the Internet a Thirst Crisis.”

GQ: “Mic’d Up and Down Bad: The Moan Heard ’Round the World.”

“…Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, this is a mess.”

Thirty minutes later? PR hellfire.

Your manager was pacing the hotel suite like she was preparing to fling herself out the window. Your agent had called twice, then texted in all caps:

“DO NOT SAY ANYTHING TO THE PRESS.”

“DO NOT TWEET ABOUT IT.”

“DONT DO ANYTHING.”

Tom’s publicist? Sent a single email. Subject line blank. Just the message:

“Tom. Please. Not again.”

You were on your third mimosa. Barefoot, robe half open, legs still aching, a smug ache in your hips where he’d made a full meal out of you.

“Y’know,” you said, sipping from the flute, “we could deny it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You moaned my name into a hot mic.”

You grinned into your glass.

Your manager called again.

“Alright,” you said, exhaling, “so what’s the move? Denial? Apology? Public celibacy pact?”

Your manager’s voice crackled like she’d aged a decade overnight. “Just… let them talk. With luck, they’ll forget soon enough.”

They wouldn’t.

Not today.

Today, Twitter was war.

“the way she said ‘fuck’ like she was his last meal…”

“imagine having tom hardy’s face between your legs and you know the mic is on and you STILL don’t care.”

“i need that man to choke me backstage like he choked his chances at an unproblematic press tour.”

You showed him the tweets.

He laughed so hard he fell back against the couch. “You’re a menace.”

You crawled into his lap like gravity had pulled you there. Straddling him in his towel. Hair dripping. Smiling like a problem.

“You like it.”

His hand slid to your thigh — fingers slipping just beneath the edge of your robe.

“I fuckin’ love it.”

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

Later that day, the interview requests rolled in.

You picked your favorite: a soft, upscale, Vanity Fair-style profile. One-on-one. Fireplace. Matching all black. Glamor and damage control in one shot.

Tom wore a tight black turtleneck. You wore a smug smile, glossy lips, and the memory of his mouth between your thighs.

Midway through, the interviewer coughed delicately.

“So,” she said, flipping her cue card with the stiff grace of someone afraid of HR, “we have to address the elephant in the room. Last night was… eventful.”

You smiled with practiced innocence. “Was it?”

“There’s a lot of buzz. About… a mic. And a moment.”

Tom leaned in. “Sound design’s a funny thing, innit? Could’ve been a technical issue.”

You deadpanned, eyes cool: “Sometimes… you really feel the performance.”

The interviewer blinked.

Tom added, voice a purr: “I like to support her work.”

She stammered something about Twitter and going viral.

You sipped your water. “Tom’s talented.”

He smiled like sin. “She’s vocal.”

You nodded solemnly. “Always support local artists.”

The interviewer gave up.

The internet exploded. Again.

“‘support her work’ IS CODE FOR EATING HER OUT BEFORE SHOWTIME.”

“their media training is nonexistent and i’m obsessed.”

“they are deranged and in love and i would die for either of them.”

“he said ‘support her work’ and she said ‘he’s talented.’ baby that’s not flirting, that’s foreplay.”

TikTok edits hit like a tsunami.

Caption: “TOM HARDY LOOKS AT HER LIKE SHE’S GOD.”

Song: Rihanna’s “S&M.”

Clips: Tom licking his lips mid-interview, you whispering something in his ear, one distorted cut of your moan at 0.75x speed.

A girl sobbing into her ring light: “THEY FLIRT LIKE FOREPLAY AND I’M NOT STRONG ENOUGH.”

Caption: “Tom Hardy’s hands are the real problem.”

30 seconds of slow-motion clips: Tom’s hands gripping your waist, adjusting his mic, resting casually on your thigh during interviews like they weren’t registered weapons.

2.3 million views in 3 hours.

Instagram Reels? Just loops of Tom saying “She’s vocal,” comments:

“he said it with his whole dick in love.”

“i need to go lie down.”

“he’s not acting. he’s possessed.”

Merch dropped the next day.

Minimalist font. Black hoodies. Just said: “She’s Vocal.”

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

You’re sprawled across the bed, silk robe barely hanging on, one shoulder exposed, thighs parted like a half-written invitation. The glow of your screen lights your face as you scroll — red carpet stills, backstage selfies, a grainy, almost pornographic shot of Tom with his teeth in your neck, your lipstick smeared across his jaw in a hotel elevator.

He walks in from the bathroom, towel slung low, still damp, skin flushed from the shower. He sees your expression first, then your screen.

“What’s on your mind?”

You tilt your head, smiling slow and wicked. “I was thinking… we already have the audio of you eating me out. What about the video?”

He pauses, water beading on his chest, eyes narrowing with suspicion and heat. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” You drag your gaze down his chest, down to the barely-clinging towel. “I want to record us.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he mutters.

You grin wider. “Little bit.”

“You think I want this shit leaked? ‘Tom Hardy Sex Tape’ trending while I’m buying cereal?”

You drag a finger up your thigh, slow, deliberate, tracing the inside with teasing flicks. “No one’s leaking anything. This is just for us.”

You tilt your chin, letting your voice go soft, coaxing: “You don’t trust me?”

His jaw flexes. “I trust you. I don’t trust your iCloud password to be strong enough to not get hacked.”

You blink, mock-offended. “Oh, come on.”

He snorts — then stops short when you say it:

“I want to watch you ruin me.”

His chest rises sharply. Breath caught.

“I want to see your hands around my throat. I want to hear the way I scream when you fuck me. I want to remember what your face looks like when you’re inside me. When I’m coming all over you.”

Tom swears under his breath. “Fucking hell…”

And then —

“Pass me the fuckin’ phone.”

It starts slow.

His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs circling, mapping every inch like it’s his first time all over again, except this time, there’s a lens watching. Recording.

And that’s what makes your breath stutter when he pushes your knees apart, spreading you open under the warm, amber lamplight.

“Camera’s rolling,” he murmurs, dark eyes flicking up. “Say something for me.”

You smirk. Voice syrup-sweet.

“What should I say, daddy?”

His eyes go black. Pupils blown. You’ve got him.

“Come here and tell the camera how much you love sucking this cock.”

You do.

On your knees, plush and obedient, robe falling open over your shoulders and pooling around your waist. Completely bare underneath. Nipples tight, stomach fluttering, dripping down your thighs before you’ve even touched him.

Your hand wraps around his thick length — slow, reverent, greedy. Fingers barely meeting around the girth. He twitches in your palm, precum slicking your thumb.

You whimper, breath warm against the head as you press soft, open-mouthed kisses down his shaft — tongue teasing the slit, dragging along that thick, throbbing vein that runs beneath.

“I love it so much,” you whisper, stroking slow, tongue dragging along the vein. “Best cock I’ve ever had. Ever tasted.”

Tom groans low in his throat, a feral sound, deep and cracked open. His arm flexes as he tilts the camera downward, angling it to catch every filthy inch of what you’re doing to him.

“Look at her,” he pants. “Perfect fuckin’ mouth. Takes me so good. She’s fuckin’ starving for it. Fuckin’ love you, baby—”

Your lips part wider. You lick a thick stripe up the underside, then suck the tip in hard, cheeks hollowing around him. Eyes fluttering. Throat relaxing.

He groans, fingers twitching at the base, watching the way his cock disappears down your throat, inch by inch, until your nose presses against his pelvis.

You choke — just a little. Just enough. The sound makes his hand tighten in your hair.

You moan around him, the vibration pulling another deep curse from his chest. You hollow your cheeks more. Drool slips down your chin, glistening in the lens.

“She loves it,” he growls into the lens, voice tight with restraint, jaw clenched like it’s killing him not to cum already. “Look at this little slut. Fuckin’ addicted.”

Then he hands the phone to you — slow, deliberate.

You blink up, pupils blown, spit-slick lips swollen. Fingers trembling as you take the phone in one hand… and his cock in the other.

Still stroking. Still needy. Still aching.

“You wanna watch yourself fuck my face, daddy?” you whisper, lips brushing his tip again, eyes gleaming.

And then you angle the phone down, give it the perfect view as you take him back into your mouth — sloppier this time. Louder. Messier.

You gag when he thrusts, and the sound sends him over the edge.

“Fuck… stop,” His breath shudders. “Your turn now.”

You’re flat on your back now, legs spread, camera shaking in your grip as you film him tongue-deep in your cunt, eyes locked on your, groaning against your pussy like he’s fucking starving. His hands grip your thighs hard, pulling you closer with every lick, jaw working, nose buried, and those wild eyes locked on yours.

He groans as he tastes you, lapping slow, then faster, then harder — holding your hips down when you buck up. You can hear the sounds on the recording — wet, obscene, slick, every lap, every slick drag of tongue against your soaked folds.

You’re panting, breathless. “He doesn’t stop until you beg,” you say, voice shaking. “I’ve tried. He doesn’t stop.”

Tom lifts his head, chin soaked. He grins. Cocky. Filthy. Proud.

“Fucking right I don’t.”

You try to keep the phone steady, filming the way his tongue flicks your clit, the way your thighs are trembling, the way your toes curl against the sheets, heels digging in like you’re trying to run from it—except you’re not. You want more.

“Make me cum on camera, Tom,” you gasp.

His tongue answers faster than words. You moan so loud the sound spikes the recording.

You scream. The camera tips. Shakes. Then tumbles to the sheets.

You’re now filming yourself as you ride him — your body rocking, hips rolling, that soaked little pussy taking him all the way in, again and again and again. The camera catches everything: the bounce of your tits, the sheen of sweat on your chest, the obscene way his cock disappears into your soaked heat.

You dip your fingers down, stroke your clit, gliding through your own slick, whispering to the camera, “Look how wet I am. All for him. Only for my man.”

“Fuck, baby,” Tom grunts, one hand gripping your ass, the other adjusting the angle. “Look at this cunt. Mine. So fuckin’ tight and wet.”

You whimper again, roll your hips deeper, and his cock drags against every sensitive spot inside you — slow, hot friction that makes your whole body tremble. The sound of you soaking him fills the room.

“Give me the phone,” he growls. “Wanna film your pretty face. Wanna see that pretty little face when you cum on me.”

He takes the phone with one hand, the other grabbing your jaw, tilting your face up for the camera, and for him. Your mouth is open, eyes glassy, tits bouncing with every thrust.

He’s holding your jaw now, whispering, “Show the camera. Show ’em what this cunt was made for—mine. All fuckin’ mine.”

You sob his name.

Over and over. Louder each time.

“Say it louder,” he pants. “Let the camera hear how I fuck the words outta you.”

“Tom—fuck, deeper—please—don’t stop—don’t stop—” You’re gasping, voice shrill and wild. Your clit grinding against his pelvis, your thighs clenching around his waist, your whole body twitching with every thrust.

“That’s right, babe. Let ‘em hear what my cock does to you.”

The final scene? Pure filth.

He’s got you bent over, cheek to the sheets, hair in his fist, cock pounding into you so deep it makes your legs give out.

One hand tangled in your hair. The other holds the camera. Zoomed in on your cunt. The way it grips him. The way it drools around him every time he slams in.

“This is my favorite view,” he groans, breath ragged. “Watch this when I’m gone. Fuck yourself to it. Promise me.”

Your voice breaks, sobbing. “I’ll cum to it. I’ll cum so fuckin’ hard.”

He grits out a curse, pounding harder, the slap of skin-on-skin loud and merciless.

“Mmm—f-fuck, Tom—ohmygod—right there—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

“Look at you,” he rasps. “Fucked open. Cryin’. So fuckin’ desperate for it…That’s it, babe. Cum on my cock. Make a fuckin’ mess of me again.”

“Tom—fuck—I’m—I’m—” Your voice shatters. “I’m cumming—fuck—I’m cumming—”

He growls your name. His thrusts go erratic. “Fuck—fuck, babe—I’m—shit—I’m cumming too—”

Your body jerks. You cum loud, wet, soaking him, legs shaking, ass slapping back into his hips as he fills you, deep and hot, with a strangled groan.

“Keep the camera on me,” you gasp, eyes glazed. “Don’t stop filming.”

So he does.

He films himself kissing your shoulder, stroking your hair, then slipping two fingers into your still-dripping cunt, pushing his cum back inside you, slow and possessive.

“That’s where it belongs,” he murmurs.

You both collapse into the sheets, breathless, sore, laughing through the haze.

Tom rolls to his side, grabs the phone, and films you one last time:

Flushed. Glowing. Fucked out and grinning.

“You’re gonna watch this every time I’m gone,” he says, voice low.

You smile, voice hoarse. “Gonna send you timestamps.”

And then—

Fade to black.

⋆｡°✩🎥✧📸⛓️⊹𖤐✦ 💋𓆩♡𓆪☾ 🎞️༄★ ⌇🌙 ⧫ 🎤

A/N: Okay, so this was just a silly little idea I threw together in about an hour — hope you enjoy it anyway! The final part of the Alfie series is dropping this Saturday, and I’m also working on the third and final chapter of the Already Ruined fic with Harry.

To everyone who’s requested Harry and Alfie fics: I see you, I love you, and I promise I’m working on them, thank you for your patience🩷🩷

Thanks for all the love and support.

#tom hardy x you #tom hardy x oc #tom hardy x reader #tom hardy x y/n #tom hardy #tom hardy x f!reader #tom hardy/reader #tom hardy/you #tom hardy fanfiction #tom hardy fic #tom hardy fanfic #tom hardy smut

195 notes · View notes

imaginesfordifferentfandoms · 3 months ago

Text

Froze

Click here for my masterlist.

Click here to add yourself to my taglist.

Prompt - "You're one of us now."

Notes - Season 8, Episode 15 Spoilers // it's a bad week to be a tlou and 911 fan but at least I'm uploading because of it

You’d been in LA for six months now and still hadn’t gotten used to it. For the first few months you’d just sit in your apartment, not leaving unless you absolutely had to, which between all the delivery services out there was rare.

Eventually though you had to get on with your life. You had to start the fresh beginning you’d come here for.

So you forced yourself to start functioning like a proper human being, forced yourself to leave the safety of your apartment and go to a coffee shop a few blocks down the road, forced yourself to go for a walk along the pier, forced yourself to go grocery shopping.

To anyone else it wasn’t an achievement, it was just everyday life but to you it was big.

You’d been reckless back when you were a part of Station 252, an awful relationship, one that had left you a shell of yourself, that had seen you putting yourself into unnecessary situations both on and off the job. Eventually your reckless behaviour had been enough to cause a call to go wrong, people had been hurt because you weren’t focused, because your mind was so far away from the scene.

Yet they hadn’t fired you, you’d been transferred out to LA. You hadn’t spoken to anyone from the new fire house but the Captain had reached out when you got here, assuring you the job was there when you were ready to take the test that would tell you if you were stable or not to go back.

Six months in LA and you had finally felt ready to take it. You were still broken, still had to deal with the fears and the ghosts from your old life but you wanted to go back to work.

And so you did.

You passed the test, shocking even yourself when they’d given you the all clear and spent the morning getting ready, feeling like a bag of nerves as you walked into your new fire house.

You saw some of the team had gathered up the stairs, two of the men cooking whilst the others sat at the table, all five of them talking and laughing and it made you relax slightly, calmed the thunderous beating of your heart as you climbed the stairs and stood just beyond the scene.

The older of the two men cooking was first to notice you, the small furrow of his eyebrows as he looked at you was quickly replaced by a kind smile, drawing the attention of the others.

“Um, hi, can we help you?” The other man cooking asked and before you had a chance to reply the man with the kind smile answered.

“This is Y/N, right?” He asked you and you nodded, watching as he stepped around the counter and made his way over to you. “Y/N here is joining us from New York.”

“No way, that’s so cool! Why didn’t you tell us?” The man asked before turning to you. “Welcome to the 118. I’m Buck, that there is Eddie, then we have Chim and Hen and that there is our Captain, Bobby Nash.”

You smiled at everyone, giving a polite wave and was shocked by how genuine your smile was.

“Buck, watch the food, I’ll be right back.” Bobby said as he gestured for you to follow him to his office and you felt your stomach drop.

“Relax, I’m not here to pick apart your life up in New York.” Bobby said as you both sat down and you nodded, the tension not leaving your shoulders. “I am here though if you need anything. Doesn’t matter what it is, you need me, you pick up that phone and call.”

“That’s it?” You couldn’t help but ask, feeling taken aback with how seriously he’d seemed to mean his words. “No list of rules for me to stick to, no threats looming over my head of what happens if I ever spiral again?”

“You’re gonna spiral again, Y/N. One day you could be great and then the next something’s gonna hit you, it might be your old life, it might be something that triggers you on the job. When that happens, you come to me. I can’t promise I can fix it but I can promise you won’t be alone.” Bobby told you, his voice kind and soft but filled with so much conviction that you trusted him without knowing him.

“That’s it?” You asked softly in disbelief causing him to chuckle.

“That’s it. You came here for a new start, Y/N, I’m not treating you any different to how I treat the others. You’re one of us now.”��

His words had your eyes stinging but you kept yourself composed and nodded, choking out a thank you that had the man grinning and gesturing for you to follow him back to the others, Bobby’s hand holding your shoulder the whole time and never straying too far as you got to know the team.

Things had been good, it had been a year since you moved to LA and six months since you’d become a part of the 118, the firehouse feeling more like home than anywhere else ever had.

Things had been good.

Then you had a call that left your hands shaking. It hadn’t even been a particularly bad call to begin with, it was a building fire but it was easy enough to get in and out of, passing civilians down to safety without trouble.

Then the building shook and your heart leapt, remembering the last time you’d been in this situation.

It was the last call before you were sent away and you hadn’t bothered securing your safety equipment properly. It was routine enough that you thought you’d be in and out but then just as you picked a child up ready to get him out, the building shook violently and you felt yourself falling.

Thankfully, despite the drop, you’d kept the kid safe, hurting yourself in the process but that didn’t matter.

It wasn’t long after that you found yourself no longer a member of the 252.

“Hey Y/N!” You heard Buck call through the radio and it snapped you back to reality, your hands gripping your safety harness so hard your knuckles were white. “Y/N, do you copy?”

Your throat was dry, you opened your mouth but couldn’t answer, the panic had already built up and worsened as the building shook again.

You knew you had to get out, so why couldn’t you move?

“Y/N?” Buck tried again, the rest of the 118 stood outside looking up at the building and Buck looked at Bobby desperately.

“I’m going in.” Bobby said when you failed to respond, watching Buck shake his head but didn’t protest when Bobby gave him a sharp look.

Bobby made his way through the building, the smoke blocking his view for the most part but he found you easy enough, you were frozen to the spot, one hand gripping your safety harness whilst the other held the wall like it was the only thing grounding you.

“Hey kid,” Bobby called and he watched as your head snapped up, your wild, panicked gaze meeting his calm one. “You’re okay, you did good. We got everyone out and nobody got hurt.”

He watched you take a moment to process his words before you nodded, not taking your eyes off of him.

“You did good but we need to leave, Y/N.” He said softly, reaching out a hand for you to grab.

You looked at Bobby’s hand, steady and still, and watched as your own finally reached for him, shaking violently, only stopping when Bobby wrapped his around yours.

“That’s my girl.” He smiled over at you and you couldn’t stop the ragged breath that left you, body on autopilot as you let Bobby lead you out, just in time for the building to crumble.

The team immediately encompassed you and despite how foggy your mind felt, despite how overwhelming it was, you couldn’t stop the warm feeling that spread through you at how much they cared.

Plus Bobby’s hand was still in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Bobby was tempted to pull you into his office once you’d all arrived back to the house but he stopped himself. This was the first time you’d faltered since being here and he wanted to see if you would come to him on your own.

It took nearly an hour but Bobby had to fight back a smile when he saw you approaching him, clearly nervous but his words from the first time you’d met had been playing in your head since you got back.

“I froze.” You said after a few minutes of sitting next to Bobby in silence.

“You froze.” Bobby agreed and you looked over at him, his eyes as kind as they always were, a steady, unshakable force that you needed.

“What if I can’t do this job anymore? What if every time a building shakes all I see is me falling, see the kid in my arms sobbing in fear?” You asked, tears stinging your eyes.

“You can do this job, Y/N.” Bobby told you and his words were so certain that you believed them too, a shuddering breath escaping you. “Everyone got out safely because you made sure they did. You froze, it happens. That’s the beauty of the 118, you freeze? It doesn’t matter, we’re all here for each other, if you can’t get out on your own, we’ll come get you.”

You let out a small sob and Bobby couldn’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around you, smiling as you buried yourself into his chest.

“I told you, you’re one of us. We’re here to you, you’re not alone anymore, Y/N.”

“I don’t deserve it.” You mumbled into his chest and Bobby sighed, running his hand up and down your back.

“Everyone on this team has done something they think they can’t atone for but they can. This team is never going to hold your actions over you, they’re gonna drag you through the tunnel to the other side, trust me I know that better than anyone.” Bobby told you softly and you looked up at him with a shaky smile.

“I’m glad I got sent here, couldn’t imagine not having you by my side.” You told him, smiling as he pulled you further into his arms and held you tightly.

“Me too, kid.” He murmured softly, not at all surprised by how much he’d meant those words, between you and Buck the father instincts he thought were long gone were being dragged up to the surface, protective of the two youngest of his team.

You’d meant it though, despite only being a part of the 118 for six months, it was hard to believe you’d gone so long without knowing Bobby. His kind, steady presence was what you depended on, the way it was so easy to talk to him, easy to trust him. You couldn’t picture a world without him anymore.

Despite all the bad things that had happened in New York, despite all the hurt and guilt and regret you carried, you were glad for it because without it you never would have met Bobby Nash and that was the biggest tragedy of them all.

Thank you so much for reading! Link in bio to add yourself to the taglist!

Bobby Nash Taglist /

@navs-bhat @valluvsu @alexxavicry @pretty-npeach @irishavengersassemble, @pear-1206

#bobby nash #911 #9-1-1 #bobby nash x reader #bobby nash & reader #bobby nash fanfic #bobby nash imagine #bobby nash imagines #911 x reader #911 imagines #911 imagine #911 fanfic #9-1-1 x reader #9-1-1 imagine #9-1-1 imagines #bobby nash is not dead #911 show

175 notes · View notes

aventurineswife · 6 months ago

Note

...Shadow I do believe you need to write an enemies-to-lovers with sunday, to feed the sunday fans.

(i'm not one but i do encourage the creativity) -Smooch Anon 💋

The Spaces Between Us

Summary: In the Dreamscape, a realm where reality and illusion intertwine, you and Sunday, the Halovian Protector of Dreams, are forced to confront your differences and growing attraction while traveling aboard the Astral Express. Though you despise Sunday for his role in creating the Sweetdream Paradise, a utopian world that ensnared countless souls, a series of heated debates and vulnerable moments reveal cracks in both your facades. As you grow closer, the lines between hatred and love blur, culminating in a kiss that neither of you fully understands but both deeply feel.

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Slow burn, Enemies to lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Tension, Forbidden love, Psychological conflict, Flawed characters.

Warnings: Heavy emotional conflict, Intense philosophical debates, Vulnerability and guilt, Brief kiss, leading to unresolved feelings, Potential for future developments.

[Inspired by]

The Dreamscape was a realm of whispers, where the tangible and intangible blurred into one. It was here that you had first crossed paths with Sunday, the Halovian Protector of Dreams. His presence was a quiet command, his eyes glowing with an unsettling mix of empathy and authority. But to you, those eyes had always felt more like judgment than compassion.

You were no stranger to the Dreamscape’s twisted allure. It had swallowed up people you cared about, reducing them to smiling shells. Sunday’s Sweetdream Paradise had been the root of it all—a utopia, he’d called it, though you knew better. To you, it was an insidious prison. And he, its architect, was the one you blamed.

"Your hypocrisy knows no bounds, Sunday," you said sharply, folding your arms as you faced him across the astral-lit room.

The two of you were aboard the Astral Express now, bound to the same journey under Welt Yang’s watchful eye. It was a situation neither of you had chosen, and the friction was palpable.

Sunday tilted his head slightly, the golden glow of his halo casting faint patterns on the walls. “You mistake intention for malice,” he replied, his voice calm but cool. “The Paradise wasn’t meant to harm.”

You scoffed, stepping closer. “Tell that to the people who lost their lives chasing a lie.”

His wings quivered slightly, a rare crack in his composure. “I acted out of mercy. Do you think the chaos of this world is kinder?”

The proximity between you grew suffocating as you leaned forward, pointing a finger at his chest. “Kindness without consent is tyranny, Sunday.”

For a brief moment, his serene mask slipped. His eyes searched yours, a storm brewing within their depths. “And what would you have done?” he asked, his voice lower now, tinged with something unspoken. “Watched as people tore each other apart, believing it to be freedom?”

The air between you was electric, charged with unspoken emotions and barely concealed tension. His wings shifted, fingers brushing against your arm as he stepped back, breaking the moment before it could spiral into something more.

The arguments didn’t stop. If anything, the days aboard the Astral Express only intensified them. Every mission, every philosophical debate, seemed to draw you closer to the edge of something neither of you could define.

One night, after a heated exchange about the nature of sacrifice, you found yourself alone in the observation car. The stars outside blurred into streaks of light as the Express surged forward, but your thoughts were stuck in the past.

“You’re quieter than usual.”

His voice startled you, but you didn’t turn. Sunday stood a few feet away, his hands clasped behind his back, his halo glowing softly in the dim light.

“Don’t you ever get tired of pretending you’re above it all?” you asked, not bothering to mask the bitterness in your tone.

He stepped closer, his boots clicking softly against the floor. “Pretending?”

“Yes.” You finally turned to face him, the intensity of his gaze unsettling. “You act like you’re untouchable, but I see through you. You’re just as lost as the rest of us.”

His expression shifted, the faintest hint of vulnerability breaking through. “And if I am?” he asked quietly. “If I’m lost, does that make my intentions any less genuine?”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. For the first time, you saw the cracks in his armor—the guilt, the doubt, the weight of his choices.

You stepped closer, your voice softer now. “It makes you human, Sunday. Something you seem determined to deny.”

His wings fluttered, a subtle but telling reaction. “Humanity is... complicated,” he admitted. “I’ve spent so long trying to protect others that I’ve forgotten how to protect myself.”

The honesty in his words left you momentarily speechless. The distance between you had vanished, and for the first time, the tension didn’t feel like a battle but a fragile truce.

It was during a mission to a shattered planet that everything changed. The two of you had been separated from the rest of the crew, forced to rely on each other as you navigated the ruins of a forgotten city.

The arguments were fewer now, replaced by quiet conversations and lingering glances. But the undercurrent of tension remained, shifting into something neither of you dared name.

When a sudden cave-in left you trapped in a narrow passage, the closeness became unbearable.

“Are you hurt?” Sunday asked, his voice tinged with genuine concern as he brushed the dust from your shoulder.

“I’m fine,” you replied, though your heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the collapse.

He was too close, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that left you breathless. “You’re trembling,” he murmured, his hand lingering on your arm.

“It’s the adrenaline,” you lied, though the heat rising between you told a different story.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air was thick with unspoken words, and his wings fluttered softly, hand brushing against your back.

“Why do you hate me?” he asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t—”

“You do.” His hand moved to cup your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle. “And yet, you’re still here.”

The vulnerability in his eyes was disarming. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance between you disappeared. When his lips brushed yours, it was hesitant, as if testing the boundaries of a fragile truce.

The kiss was brief but electric, leaving you both breathless.

“We shouldn’t—” you began, pulling back, but his hand on your cheek stopped you.

“Perhaps not,” he said softly, his gaze steady. “But tell me you don’t feel it too.”

You couldn’t.

The journey ahead was uncertain, but the walls between you and Sunday had begun to crumble. The love that bloomed between you was as complicated as the man himself—marked by tension, conflict, and the hope of something more.

In the end, it was the imperfections that made it beautiful.

I tried if you couldn't tell 🧍‍♀️

My fav trope may be enemies to lovers but I'm definitely horrible at writing it☹️💔

#x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #sunday hsr #hsr sunday #sunday x reader #sunday #slow burn #enemies to lovers #angst #hurt/comfort #romance #forbidden love #psychological conflict #flawed characters

154 notes · View notes

lagunned · 5 months ago

Text

I'LL GET EVEN, dave mustaine.

pinned rules masterlist

pairing; modern!dave mustaine x fem!reader

summary; dave is angry at a producer and comes home, just wanting to see you. you have other plans, deciding to join in on a couple tiktok trend—he doesn’t find it as funny as you do.

warnings; very fluffy, modern era but with 1980s dave, slight cussing, no use of y/n, mentions of toxic masculinity, dave gets butthurt, tough boy isn’t so tough anymore. if im missing anything else let me know!

word count; 750

requests open, not proofread, based on this ask.

You never thought you’d see the day when Dave Mustaine—the snarling, sharp-tongued leader of Megadeth, the same man who wrote lyrics about death and betrayal—would be curled up in your arms like an overgrown cat. But here he was, his spiralling, copper curls a mess against your chest, his breath warm against your collarbone, completely unaware that he was currently being recorded, despite your quiet, hushed giggles that left your soft lips. He was so fucking tired he didn't even think anything of it: his first mistake.

It had started out as an innocent cuddle session. He’d come home after hours in the studio, grumbling about producers who didn’t “get” his sound, and immediately toppled onto you like a weighted blanket. You knew better than to say anything at first—Dave was a like cat in human form; if you pointed out that he was being affectionate, he’d immediately "hiss" and pretend he wasn’t. So you just let him rest, lazily running your fingers through his hair while his arm draped possessively over your waist, his strong, calloused thumb stroking the hem of your pants.

That’s when the idea struck.

With your phone angled just right, you hit record, keeping your voice soft, teasing. This will fucking get him. You knew he wasn't active on social media, let alone TikTok. And you loved your pranks—rather, you loved to push your boyfriend’s buttons.

“Who's my good boy?” you cooed, fingers tracing light patterns on his back.

A sleepy mumble; “...Me.”

Your grin nearly split your face into two. Got him.

“Yeah? My bestest boy?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed, nuzzling closer into your warm neck.

You held back a laugh, heart melting at how completely relaxed he was. This was the Dave most people didn’t get to see—the one who craved softness, who would willingly tangle his limbs with yours just to feel safe for a while. The one that just yearned for intimacy and love, and admiration. Even if he didn't admit it. His gentleness with you proved it right—despite what the people had to say in the media. It was all bullshit.

Then, as if some internal alarm sounded, his whole body suddenly stiffened against you. Uh-oh…

“Wait,” he muttered. You felt the pause; the slow, tired wheels turning in his brain. He lifted his head slightly, hazel eyes squinting in suspicion. “The fuck did you just say?”

You bit your lip, trying not to giggle. “I said, ‘Who’s my good boy?’”

His brows furrowed. Then his eyes flickered to your hand—manicured nails clasped around your phone. His domestic, exhausted eyes met his own within your phone. What the fuck was wrong with you—on every level. Mentally, emotionally, physically—hell, spiritually. You don’t do that shit to thee Dave Mustaine!

“…Are you recording this?”

“Maybe.”

Dave shot up faster than a rocket and you barely had time to react before his tall frame was towering over you, his expression caught somewhere between betrayal and damage control. No, no, no, no—fuck no!

“Delete it.” His voice was gruff now, like you’d just walked in on him playing with kittens and he was scrambling to reassert dominance. He had an image to uphold—both with the fans and you. “Right fucking now.”

You pouted. “But you were soooo cute.”

"I’m not cute,” he grumbled, already crawling back into his toxic masculinity shell. He ran a hand through his thick golden hair, shoulders straightening, jaw clenching. “I’m fucking dangerous."

You tilted your head, still recording. Your phone shook as you held back a laugh. “Oh? Who’s my big, strong, dangerous boy?”

A muscle twitched in his cheek as a vein popped in his forehead. Dave pointed at your phone. “I swear to God—”

But before he could finish, you gave him the look. The one that said, I’ll stop recording if you just play along for two more seconds, pretty, pretty please sweetheart.

Dave groaned, rubbing his face. You could tell he was so done with your antics. And then, with the deepest, most reluctant sigh you'd probably had ever heard from his lips, he muttered under his breath:

“…Me.”

You burst out laughing, nearly dropping your phone in the process—but you relentlessly gripped it for dear life. Gotcha!

Dave, realizing what he just did, let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a feral growl before launching himself at you, trying to snatch your phone from your iron grip.

“You’re fucking dead,” he grumbled, burying his face in your neck, but the warmth of his arms tightening around you told you otherwise. Dave even shocked himself sometimes, it's like his heart reacts before his head. The little things made him realize that he truly was infatuated with you. Inside and out, no matter how cruel you may be. You took to him when no one else did.

And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind being your "good" boy after all.

#lagunned #megadeth x reader #megadeth #megadeth rp #megadeth smut #dave mustaine #dave mustaine fluff #dave mustaine x you #dave mustaine x reader #dave mustaine smut #dave mustaine rp #megadeth x you

106 notes · View notes

idiashroudshusband · 5 months ago

Text

Loading… // Idia Shroud x Reader - Fluff

The dormitory of Ignihyde was silent, save for the soft hum of computer fans and the flickering glow of blue flames that danced in the darkness. It was past midnight—Idia’s favorite time of day. A time when he didn’t have to worry about forced social interactions or the suffocating expectations of the outside world.

And yet… tonight felt different.

You were sitting in his room, curled up on his bed, bathed in the soft neon glow of his monitors. One of Idia’s favorite animes was playing on a monitor, both of you watching it. Idia still couldn’t quite process how this happened. How you happened.

You, who somehow weren’t put off by his reclusive nature.

You, who laughed and payed attention at his ramblings about obscure game lore instead of getting bored.

You, who leaned close enough that he could smell the faint scent of your shampoo, making his heart rate skyrocket like he was facing a final boss with no HP left.

“Idia?” Your voice right next to him pulled him out of his spiral, and he jolted, nearly knocking over his energy drink.

“W-W-What?” He tugged his hoodie down over his face, soft pink flames sparking erratically at the tips. “D-Don’t sneak up on me like that! Critical damage to my heart gauge…”

You chuckled, resting your chin on your palm. “I’ve been here the whole time, you know.”

“Th-that’s even worse,” he muttered, burying his face deeper into his hood.

It had started with small things. You bringing him food when he forgot to eat (that wasnt just energy drinks and candy, though you did buy some for him on occasion), waiting for him outside the mandatory classes he had to attend, even when he insisted he was completley fine going alone, coaxing him out of his shell little by little. And now? Now you were in his personal space, sitting in his room, watching his favorite anime with him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

If this were an otome game, you’d definitely be on the true romance route, and that terrified him.

“…You okay?”

Idia stiffened when he felt your fingers brush against his wrist, hesitant but warm. He swallowed, feeling his throat go dry. His mind screamed at him to pull away, to hide behind his screen where it was safe. But he didn’t.

Instead, he let out a shaky breath and mumbled, “I just… I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you’re here.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Because I want to be?”

“That’s—” His brain short-circuited. “That doesn’t make sense. I mean, I’m not exactly protagonist material. I’m not cool and confident like the other housewardens, I don’t do well in crowds, and I—” He hesitated. “I’m… kind of a pain to be around.”

You frowned. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is.” He forced a laugh. “I mean, I literally have a stat debuff in social situations. If this were a dating sim, my affection points would be so low that I wouldn’t even unlock the friendship ending-”

“Idia.”

You said his name so softly, so gently, that it stopped him cold. Before he could spiral further, you scooted closer and took his hand in yours. His entire system crashed.

“I like you,” you said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “Not in a ‘background NPC’ way, or in a ‘pity route’ way. Just… you.”

His throat clenched. His fingers twitched in your grasp, as if debating whether to hold on or pull away. The warmth of your touch, so foreign yet addicting, made his head spin.

“B-But…”

“No buts,” you interrupted, squeezing his hand. “You don’t have to be some overpowered anime protagonist. You’re you, and that’s more than enough. I like you for being you.”

Idia’s heart thudded against his ribs, his flames flickering a soft, pastel pink—his face dusted with a soft rosy blush. His mind still screamed that this had to be some elaborate dream, a rare gacha pull that he’d wake up from any second.

But then you smiled at him, patient and unwavering, and suddenly, for the first time in a long time… he didn’t mind the idea of stepping outside his comfort zone.

Just a little.

Maybe.

If it was with you.

I love writing silly cute fanfics about my favorite little guy <3333

#fanfic #fanfiction #fluff #idia shroud fanfic #twst idia #idiashroud #idia shroud #twisted wonderland idia #disney twst #twst #twst fanfic #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #idia x reader

138 notes · View notes

thesassypadawan · 10 months ago

Text

Are You Afraid Of The Dark (Luke x FemReader)

Summary: This isn’t how you imagined your Halloween night panning out. You thought you would just have a little ‘fun’, while spooking the ever-living shit out of your poor scaredy cat. Instead things have changed…in a ghoulishly delightful sort of way.

Warnings: 18+ (minors dni), because all the lovely smut. Cockwarming, spooky movie, and…Luke’s long, fat dick.

Notes: Happy Kinktober all you, lovelies! 🖤🧡

- Warm breath fans across your face, lips graze the shell of your ear. “What’s the matter, pumpkin?” Strong arm tightens around your waist; presses and keeps your back firmly to his chest. While his hand gripes gently, lazily traces ‘soothing’ circles on your thigh. “Too spooky for a scaredy cat like you?”

- Huffing softly, you shift and fidget on Luke’s lap. “Me…ME?!” His thick cock buried deep in your cunt, brushing at that sweet little spot. “I’m n-not the one who insists w-we sleep with a nightlight.”

- “Sssh…” Fingers knead, squeeze your subtle flesh; slowly migrate lower, ghost over your pert mound. Causing the heat to blossom on your cheeks, spread through your body. “It’s about to get to the good part.”

- “W-wait, this isn’t how it’s s-supposed to happen!” You try your best to stop him, wriggle free. Turn off the tv before it gets to that one gory scene, the very one that made you chose to watch this slasher flick…in hopes of giving him a good freight. “You’re t-the one-”

- The screen fades to black and the music grows more intense. You already know what’s coming next, there’s not a single doubt in your mind. However that still doesn’t stop you from involuntarily rocking your hips. Plush walls starting to clench around him from the tension building up in the room, inside of you. “Noooo! Don’t g-go in there! No no n-no no…”

- A high-pitched scream… The sight and sound of blood splattering… And… “NOOO!!”

- “Calm down…” He coos, his hold on you tightening. Nose nuzzling your neck affectionately, teeth nip ever so tenderly. “I’m right here…”

- Dipping between your soaked folds, he rolls your neglected nub. “Nothing big and bad is going to hurt you…” Teasing it a bit; applying just enough pressure to make your legs start quivering, feeling like jelly. “Except maybe…me.”

- With a low growl, he thrusts upwards. “Thought you were real sneaky, huh?” Fat tip slamming, hitting your cervix in such a delicious way. That has you gasping, mewling weakly from the overwhelming rush of both pleasure and fear. “Telling me this was going to be another ‘hocus pocus’ kiddie movie; didn’t have anything to worry about.”

- Head falls back onto his shoulder, eyes clamp shut. Desperately wanting to hide away, from the horrific scene that plays out in front of you. “Meanwhile, you were planning to scare the ever-living shit out of me.” Covering up the fact that he has your stomach twisting, knotting up from your approaching orgasm. “Well, got news for you.”

- Slapping your pussy harshly, you cry out. Eyes snapping open, widening in fright at the sight of another victim being slayed. “Tables been turned.” Back arching slightly, hips grinding against his pathetically. “Now you’re going to be screaming and begging…all movie long.”

- Pace increases; vision blurs from your tears of terror, ecstasy. You’re so painfully close to unraveling completely, crashing and spiraling into the abyss. All you can manage to do is babble, whine as you slump forward; a last-ditch effort to block out the carnage. “Pro-promise, w-won’t do it again! Please, just…just…”

- “When you put it that way.” Grabbing your chin, pinching it between his thumb and index finger. You think he’s going to subject you to watching the next untimely death though, instead… “Fine; make a deal with you, sweetheart. I’ll turn this off, finish taking care of you. Only if answer my question.” …he turns your face towards him. “Are you afraid of the dark?”

- Licking your lips; walls pulsing, shuddering. And you can’t help but compare Luke’s grin to the villain’s, as he chops up the next poor unfortunate soul. “I-I’ll admit it…”

- This isn’t how you imagined your Halloween night panning out. But with the way he’s making you wail and rearranging your guts. “I-I’m…” It’s going to ended up being much MUCH better, a ghoulishly delightful one. “Afraid of the d-dark…"

Tag List: @espinathena-17, @myheartwillgoon2022, @laylaplease, @princessswifie, @kenobiskywalker16, @loverforoldermen, @jediavengers, @avescorner-blog, @valyna27, @xoxo-hayden-fangurl-xoxo, @laoif, @decaffeinatedunicorn, @fredswrite

213 notes · View notes

hearts4sturn · 14 days ago

Text

CAUGHT IN A LIE – MATT STURNIOLO

pairing: heartthrob!matt x fem!reader synopsis: y/n was forced to attend a fraternity party after losing a bet to her friend. she was awkward—never quite sure how to handle parties like this. when a guy (who clearly couldn’t take a hint) kept flirting with her, she found herself unable to say no. matt, thinking he was doing her a favor, stepped in and claimed they were dating. but word spread fast around the university, leaving them no choice but to keep up the lie. warnings: lowercase intended, angst, alcohol, mentions of sex

masterlist | series masterlist

THREE: DEAL

“WHAT?” evelyn’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and sudden, like a knife slicing through thick air. her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes went comically wide, her face twisting in exaggerated disbelief. she stared at me like i’d just confessed to robbing a bank or adopting a stray raccoon or announcing i was moving to a remote island to live among goats. the kind of look someone gives you when they’re convinced your brain has temporarily short-circuited. pure shock, painted all over her face.

i collapsed onto her bed like i’d been hit by a truck full of emotional whiplash, as if all the air had been sucked out of me, the weight of everything finally crashing down in one heavy, overwhelming wave. my heart hadn’t stopped racing since it happened—like it hadn’t quite caught up to the absurdity of what my life had suddenly turned into. like i was the unwilling star of some bizarre, bootleg teen rom-com where i, of all people, was the reluctant protagonist. this wasn’t me. this wasn’t even close to being me. i was background noise. a human parentheses.

i dragged my hands down my face, desperately trying to shove my racing thoughts back in place, and mumbled through my fingers, “what am i supposed to do, eve? i don’t even know what to think anymore. should i say yes? should i say no? i’m seriously losing it over here.”

evelyn blinked slowly. like, full-on buffering mode. her brain was the spinning rainbow wheel of death. she stared at me for a beat, then another, until her jaw dropped again, even further this time. “wait—wait, wait, wait. let me make sure i’m hearing this right. matt sturniolo—you mean the matt sturniolo? the one with the stupidly perfect hair and a fan club practically built in? he asked you to be his fake girlfriend?”

“yes!” i cried out, burying my face into the nearest blanket like it might somehow muffle the madness of reality. “and i have absolutely no idea what to do! do i just... agree? like, ‘sure, cool, let’s casually fake date in front of half the school’? eve, this is insane. i’m so out of my depth here, i might as well be drowning. with bricks in my pockets.”

i rolled over, flinging my arms dramatically across her pillow like it might absorb the swirling panic currently hijacking my nervous system. everything was a mess. thoughts and worries spun around like a glitter tornado—chaotic and sparkly and entirely unhelpful. no clear answers. just noise.

evelyn sat up like she was about to lead a battle strategy meeting. she started ticking things off on her fingers like we were planning a school fundraiser, not negotiating the terms of a fake relationship with someone who basically walked around like he was the main character. “okay, let’s start with the pros. if you say yes, you get to hang out with matt freaking sturniolo. you know, the guy who makes the hallway feel like a runway every time he walks through it. people will notice you. and not in the bad way. you’ll actually exist to the rest of the student body.”

i groaned in response, rolling my eyes so hard it could’ve been considered a workout. i sank deeper into the pillow like it might swallow me whole and save me from this conversation.

“plus,” she continued, completely ignoring my spiraling, “it might help you get out of your shell. no offense, but you’ve been living in full-blown social invisibility mode for, like, forever. maybe this is the universe’s weird way of giving you a push. a weird, hot, slightly chaotic push.”

i just stared at the ceiling, unblinking. if i didn’t move, maybe time would pause. maybe the laws of reality would glitch and rewind thirty-six hours.

“cons,” evelyn said, switching gears like we were flipping through a menu. “people will talk. some of them are going to be... not nice. jealous girls, gossipy types, the whole high school greek chorus. and let’s be real, you don’t exactly thrive under scrutiny. you might spontaneously combust.”

i nodded faintly, still staring upward, hoping the ceiling would open up and swallow me whole or at least hand me a cosmic cue card.

“but then again,” she added, voice softening a little, “maybe being overwhelmed is just the first step to being brave.”

i didn’t respond. just sighed again, long and slow. the kind of sigh that said, i did not sign up for this timeline.

“so... what do i do?” my voice was small now, almost fragile. i hated how vulnerable it sounded, like i was afraid to hear the answer.

evelyn looked at me gently, that half-smile she gets when she’s trying to stay positive for my sake, when she knows i’m about to make a big decision and she wants to be supportive, no matter what. “it’s your decision. i can’t tell you what’s right. but whatever you choose? i’ll back you up. completely.”

“you’re not helping,” i muttered, getting up and dragging myself out of her room like the floor had turned to quicksand.

i collapsed onto my own bed, and the weight of my body felt ten times heavier than usual. i stared at the ceiling again. still no divine intervention. rude.

yeah, sure, maybe this whole fake relationship thing would help me break out of my shell. maybe i’d finally get to stop being the quiet girl in the corner who no one noticed unless i dropped something. but... pretending to be someone’s girlfriend, even if it was fake, still felt like lying. and i was terrible at lying. i overthink everything. i trip over my words when i get emotional. i panic-text friends to double-check if “haha” sounds too passive-aggressive.

and matt?

matt was... something else. charming. infuriatingly so. that easy, offhand charm that made you feel like the most important person in the world—even when he wasn’t trying. especially when he wasn’t trying. and me? i was a footnote. someone you wouldn’t notice unless i spilled iced coffee on your shoes or accidentally walked into a pole.

being his fake girlfriend meant people would start watching. start talking. and worse... what if i started liking it? what if i actually caught feelings?

i sat up suddenly, as if the thought itself was too much to lie down with. the panic was back. but this time it had backup.

“eve?” i shouted, my voice echoing in the quiet of my room.

“yeah?” she called back from the other room, her voice muffled but still clear enough to hear.

“would you do it?”

there was a pause. long enough to make me wonder if she was really thinking it through or just dramatically sipping water for effect.

“probably,” she finally replied, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

i groaned and wandered back to her room like a zombie who had just given up on trying to make sense of anything.

“look who’s back,” she smirked, still glued to her phone.

“oh, shut up.” i plopped down beside her, exasperated. “why would you do it?”

she shrugged like it was no big deal. “i don’t know. it sounds fun. plus, matt sturniolo is hot.”

“you–!” i flailed a little, then flopped back onto her bed again. “you’re unreal.”

she just grinned, kicking her feet casually like we weren’t discussing the fate of my entire social existence.

and the worst part?

the worst part was that i was starting to consider it. seriously.

“so?” matt asked, sitting across from me at the same little cafe where this whole chaos had started, his eyes twinkling with the kind of confidence that only comes from someone who knows exactly how to get under your skin.

i took a deep breath. a long, shaky one. a breath that didn’t seem to calm my racing heart in the slightest. “i’ll do it. but there have to be rules.”

his lips curled into that annoyingly charming smirk. “rules?”

i nodded, my hands trembling slightly. “serious ones. non-negotiable.”

“like what? no falling in love?” he teased, leaning forward like this was all some game.

i gave him a look, one eyebrow raised. “i’m serious.”

“okay, okay,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “hit me.”

i reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper—written at 3 a.m., full of crossed-out lines, overthinking, and dramatic bullet points. “these are just... guidelines.”

he raised an eyebrow. “you made a list?”

“you asked me to fake date you. this is the least weird part of the entire situation.”

he chuckled, and i hated how nice it sounded. warm and easy, like fresh laundry right out of the dryer.

“rule one,” i said, steadying my voice, “no kissing. unless it’s absolutely necessary. like, cinematic, life-or-death kind of necessary.”

“so if someone’s dying and a kiss is the only cure, i’m allowed?” he grinned, clearly enjoying this way too much.

“exactly. short of that, keep your lips to yourself.”

“understood. high-stakes kissing only. very niche.”

“rule two: no unnecessary touching. unless we’re in public and someone’s watching—and even then, it better be subtle. i don’t want forehead kisses or hand-holding or whatever you think passes as ‘romantic.’”

“subtle. got it. can i put my arm around you?”

“you get one arm. use it sparingly.”

he grinned wider. “i’ll treasure it.”

“rule three,” i continued, “no flirting over text. no pet names. no heart emojis.”

he blinked. “not even ironically?”

“especially not ironically.”

he leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table. “you’re really going all in, huh?”

“because this is serious. people are going to assume things. i just... i need boundaries.”

he looked at me for a moment, and for once, he wasn’t smiling. he was just... watching me. like he was really listening.

“okay,” he said softly. “boundaries. i get it.”

i looked down at the table, then back up at him. “this is so weird.”

“weird’s not always bad,” he said, his voice calm, reassuring. “sometimes weird turns into something cool.”

i rolled my eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “don’t make this a thing.”

“what thing?”

“that,” i gestured. “the charm thing. turn it off.”

he leaned back with a smug little shrug. “sorry. it’s automatic.”

i groaned, sliding the list across the table toward him. “just read the rest of the rules.”

“yes, ma’am,” he said, mock-saluting me as he unfolded the paper like it was a sacred text.

and as i watched him read, i still didn’t know if this was the best idea or the worst.

but for the first time in a long time?

i kinda wanted to find out.

matt unfolded the paper like it was some ancient scroll, eyebrows raised as he skimmed the dramatic bullet points and chaotic half-crossed-out ideas. his eyes flicked across the page, and every so often his lips twitched like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

“you really wrote ‘no smirking like that’ as a rule?” he asked, tapping the margin with a fingertip.

i snatched the paper back. “you’re breaking it right now.”

“i’m not smirking,” he said, smirking. “i’m smiling. big difference.”

i glared at him. he just raised his eyebrows, like see? i’m adorable and technically innocent.

ugh.

“fine. that one’s unofficial,” i muttered, folding the list again and jamming it into my pocket. “but i’m watching you.”

“oh no,” he said, mock-serious, “not the watching. anything but that.”

i hated how light he made everything feel. like this was just a casual hangout instead of the start of what could become the most emotionally confusing thing i’d ever willingly walked into. like he wasn’t a walking social spotlight and i wasn’t about to step into it like a deer on the world’s biggest stage.

“so,” he said, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. “now what?”

i blinked. “what do you mean, now what?”

“i mean,” he shrugged, leaning back in his chair like this was no big deal, “are we telling people? are we doing a dramatic cafeteria reveal? posting a soft-launch photo dump? what’s the play here?”

my stomach turned. “you want to tell people?”

he tilted his head, considering. “well, the whole point is for people to think we’re dating, right? can’t exactly do that if we’re hiding in corners and pretending to be allergic to each other in public.”

i winced. he had a point. a gross, logical, painfully accurate point.

“i don’t know,” i muttered, fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve. “i guess... i didn’t think that far ahead. i was too busy panicking.”

he grinned. “cute.”

“don’t call me cute.”

“noted.”

he paused, “but also, you’re cute.”

i smacked my forehead against the table. he laughed. loudly. unapologetically.

“i hate you,” i mumbled, voice muffled against the wood.

“no you don’t.”

and god help me, he was right.

wc: 3.4k author's note: HELP I COMPLETELY FORGOT TO POST THE NEW PART sorry for posting late </3 dividers: @toastray

taglist: @courta13 @tits4matt @backwardshatnick @emely9274 @mattspillowprincess @oopsiedaisydeer

40 notes · View notes