#and it’s the same thing as the last day every day so i just don’t want to be here anymore and im ok w that bc i dont feel anything these

[hoshifighting]

— Synopsis: After a series of graffiti attacks on your bakery, you find out Jihoon is the vandal behind it, frustrated because your shop's success has outshone his grandma's bakery. — WC: 13k — WARNINGS: enemies to lovers, angst, smut, fluff, physical violence (reader hits jihoon with a mop, vandalism), jealousy, emotional conflict, fingering, blowjob, hair pulling, semi-public sex, cock riding, overwhelming, body fluids (cum), no protection, fetish elements—being painted with grafitty during sex, claiming, mention of an enormous cock on the bakery's wall.

Your arms are crossed in a tight clutch as you stare at the front door of the bakery, the black, fresh tags sprayed across the pastel walls like an ugly bruise. It’s the same crap, just a new day. The pink and white of your shop—the delicate aesthetic that drew people in—was constantly being smeared by some low-life with a spray can. Months of this, and all the cameras ever caught was a faceless guy in a black hoodie. Useless.

With a frustrated sigh, you unlock the door, pushing it open with more force than necessary. The day needed to start, vandalism or not. You open the windows, letting the fresh morning air in. At least the floors were clean, thanks to the obsessive mopping you’d done last night. That had become a habit lately, one of the few things you could control.

You grab a bowl, dumping the ingredients for cake batter in with a bit too much force. Your arm flexes as you whip the fouet through the mix, your irritation guiding every furious stroke. It’s therapeutic, in a way—until Mingyu walks in.

“Are you... trying to murder the batter?” he asks, amusement clear in his voice as he sets his stuff in the locker. “You’re about to crack the bowl in half.”

You glance up, still scowling, but the comment catches you off guard. “Shu’up, Mingyu. You would be mixing like this too if someone graffitied your walls for the hundredth time.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t be so dramatic about it,” he teases, walking over to grab his apron. “It’s just a little paint. You act like the world’s ending.”

“It’s not just paint! It’s every day with this. And it’s not even good graffiti. It’s just some bullshit tags that don’t mean anything.”

Mingyu laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t know, some people might say you’re overthinking it. Maybe the artist is just misunderstood. Maybe there’s a deeper meaning.”

“‘Eat shit’ has no deeper meaning,” you deadpan, pushing the bowl to the side. “And I’ve got a cake due at 3 p.m. Can you please help me with the fondant? I need to leave on time for class.”

“Gastronomy waits for no one,” he quips, moving to help you.

You sigh, rubbing your forehead with the back of your hand. “Exactly. And if I’m late, I’m fucked. So let's get this done.”

Mingyu chuckles, but he gets to work, his hands already busy with rolling out the fondant. “You ever think of just... catching the guy yourself? Stake out the place or something?”

“Yeah, because that’s a great use of my time,” you mutter. “I’ve got school, work, and now this mystery asshole. Besides, what am I supposed to do? Sit outside all night and wait to get jumped?”

“Hey, you might scare him off with your mixing technique alone.”

You snort. “At this point, I’d rather beat him over the head with the bowl.”

— // NEXT DAY // —

You’re bent over the counter, carefully arranging the pies and cupcakes in the vitrine, when the bell above the door jingles. The sound makes you straighten up automatically, pasting on your best “welcome to my bakery” smile.

“Good morning! What can I get you today?” you ask, looking up to see Mrs. Yang, one of your more... particular customers. She smiles politely, her bag clutched in one hand, and takes her time approaching the counter.

“Good morning, dear,” she says, her voice too sweet for whatever she’s about to say next. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about... the situation outside.”

Here we go.

You nod, still smiling like your life depends on it. “Yes, we’ve been dealing with some, uh... graffiti issues lately.”

Her lips purse. “It’s quite the eyesore, don’t you think? Having that sort of thing on the storefront isn’t good for business, especially with such a nice bakery like yours. People might get the wrong impression. I wouldn’t want to bring my friends here if it continues.”

You feel Mingyu’s eyes on you from the back, wide and alarmed like he’s bracing himself for whatever smartass remark is about to leave your mouth. You can almost hear him holding his breath.

But instead of snapping, you swallow it down. Barely.

“I understand, Mrs. Yang. We’re working on getting it removed as soon as possible,” you say, your voice calm and professional, even though your brain is screaming, What the hell do you want me to do? Hand-paint the walls every night?

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll handle it,” she replies with a thin smile, “You always do such a lovely job here. I’ll have two of the lemon tarts, please.”

“Of course,” you say, grabbing the tarts and ringing her up, every muscle in your body tense as you try not to explode. “That’ll be $8.50.”

As she leaves, Mingyu sidles up behind you. “You alright? That looked painful.”

You shoot him a glare. “Shut up before I throw a tart at you.”

He just laughs. “Hey, props for not biting her head off. That’s growth.”

Your day only goes downhill from there.

An order comes in last-minute, right when you're about to head out for a cake delivery, forcing you to juggle too many tasks at once. The fondant on the cake cracks just as you’re trying to finish it, and you nearly drop the entire thing when you’re loading it into the car. By the time you deliver it, you're ten minutes late, and the client is tapping her foot like you ruined her wedding or something.

As you drive away, you notice that some idiot in the parking lot nicked the side of your car with their door. The scrape is fresh, ugly, and just another thing you don’t have time to deal with.

By the time you make it to the university, you’re on edge. Every little thing is pissing you off—the late delivery, the car, Mrs. Yang’s passive-aggressive comments replaying in your head.

You stomp into the classroom, tossing your bag on the desk as you take your seat. Your friend, Jiyeon, looks up from her notes, immediately catching the “I’m about to lose it” vibe radiating from you.

“Woah, woah... Don’t talk to me,” you say, waving her off before she even opens her mouth.

She raises her hands in mock surrender, exasperated. “Okay, okay, damn. I wasn’t even gonna say anything!”

From the corner of your eye, you catch the guy sitting next to you glancing over. He’s half-smirking, like he’s amused by your bad mood. You roll your eyes as you pull your utensils from your bag.

“The hell you lookin’ at?” you snap, not really in the mood for whatever attitude he’s giving you.

He just raises an eyebrow, unfazed. “Nothing. Chill.”

You huff, biting your tongue. “Whatever, man.”

As class starts, you try to focus on the lecture, but it feels like everything is stacking up, one annoying thing after another. You’re counting down the hours until you can get out of here and back to the bakery, where at least you can take your frustrations out on some dough.

[...]

The bakery is finally quiet. You’ve set the doughs to rest for tomorrow, turned off the colorful lights, and now it’s just you, the mop, and the hum of the radio. There’s something peaceful about the dark bakery—like it’s resting, too, after a long, chaotic day. The floor’s slick beneath the mop as you drag it in lazy strokes, the apron around your neck, always too tight, was finally off.

It’s quiet out there too. Rush hour’s over, people are strolling by in pretty scarves, leaving their cubicles for the day. Not that you’d ever want that life. That could never be you—this was your space, your bakery. You’d rather be here, mopping your own floors than stuck in some windowless office.

Even if your apron’s been digging into your neck all damn day. You rub at the sore spot, sighing, when—

Wait.

What the fuck? You squint, eyes narrowing as some guy steps right up to your bakery window, a paint can in hand. You watch in disbelief as he starts spraying. Right on your wall. Again.

You don’t even think. You just move. The front glass door slams open so hard the bell almost flies off, the aggressive clatter echoing behind you as you stomp out, mop still in hand.

“YA! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

The guy barely turns, but it’s too late. You’re already swinging. The wooden handle of your mop cracks across his back with a satisfying thud, and he lets out this startled grunt, almost tripping over his own feet. You swing again, harder this time, and it echoes across the empty street. Even the homeless guy across the road—the one you always give leftover tarts to—jumps in his spot, startled.

“What the fuck, you asshole! You think this is funny?!” you yell, swinging the mop at him again as he ducks, letting out an “ouch” with each hit. “You keep tagging my walls, and I’m the one paying for this shit! Do you even know how much it costs to get this cleaned? Huh?!”

“Ouch, fuck! Stop, STOP!” he stammers, arms up, trying to shield himself.

You don’t stop. You’re done with this day, done with this week, done with this punk-ass artist ruining your bakery’s vibe. “You piece of shit! You’re dead! I’m gonna shove this can so far up your—”

“What the hell?!” the guy stumbles, trying to dodge your swings, but you’re relentless.

“You think you can just waltz in and spray whatever dumb shit you want? You’re gonna clean this up with your tongue, you little—”

Before you can deliver another hit, the guy turns around, and his hood falls back. Your breath catches.

“Jihoon?!”

The guy grimaces, rubbing his back where you’ve practically beat the soul out of him, but it’s definitely him. The same Jihoon you snapped at in class today, the same Jihoon you barely tolerate during group projects. The fucker who’s been defacing your bakery.

You blink, still holding the mop in a death grip. “So it was you, you fucking idiot?! You’ve been doing this the whole time?!”

He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, still smirking like this is some kind of joke. “Well... I wouldn’t say the whole time.”

“You—” You jab the mop handle at him again, making him flinch. “You’re going to clean this up. I don’t care how. Hell, you can start with your tongue if you’re so attached to your damn art.”

“Woah, woah.” He holds his hands up in surrender, backing up a step. “I didn’t think you’d take it so personally. I mean, it’s just paint.”

“Just paint?” you repeat, incredulous. “I’ve had customers complain, the city’s sent me notices, and you’re out here calling it just paint? Are you fucking insane?”

“Come on, the tags aren’t that bad.”

“Oh, no. They’re shit. Like, the worst shit I’ve ever seen,” you bite out. 

You cross your arms, staring Jihoon down as he leans awkwardly against the wall. 

“You know what? I should call the police on you.”

His eyes go wide, his posture straightening instantly. “No, no, no! Come on, don’t do that!”

You slowly pull your phone from your back pocket, waving it in front of him as you point a finger at his chest. “I think it’s about time you get what’s coming to you.”

Panic flashes across his face, and he lunges forward, trying to grab your phone, but you thrust the mop at his chest, pressing it against him to keep him at bay. “Back off!”

He stumbles back, frowning, his lips jutting out in a sulk. “I don’t wanna go to jail! I don’t wanna sleep in the cold!” His feet stomp on the ground like a child throwing a tantrum, the whole thing looking ridiculous enough that anyone watching might think this was an opening scene from The Office.

You ignore his whining and start dialing, but he won’t shut up. “Please! You can’t let me go to jail over some paint!”

“You should’ve thought about that before tagging my bakery again.” You cut him off, giving him a pointed look. “Why the hell have you been doing this? And don’t think I didn’t notice the enormous dick spray-painted on the back of my shop either.”

Jihoon stays quiet for a moment, avoiding your eyes as he shifts on his feet. His hands fidget with the hem of his sweatshirt, and you narrow your eyes, sensing something off.

“Well? Spit it out,” you demand.

He mumbles something, so low you can barely hear. 

You raise an eyebrow, stepping closer. “What?”

His face goes red, and he mutters again, “Only if... you let me try one of your tarts.”

You blink, leaning in closer. “What was that? Speak up, punk.”

Jihoon sighs, cheeks practically glowing. “I said... I want to try one of your tarts, okay?!”

For a second, you just stare at him, completely dumbfounded. Then, you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Are you serious right now?”

He nods, keeping his head down, looking smaller and more pathetic than you ever imagined he could.

“You’re telling me... you come here, paint my walls like a little delinquent, and now you want a fucking tart? You—”

You breathe in, trying to summon every ounce of patience you have left. The tarts are your best sellers—the buttery crust, fresh fruit, and creamy filling that made your bakery famous not just in the neighborhood but all over town. People raved about them, coming from across the city just to get their hands on one. Hell, students from your college made regular stops just to bring some back to class.

Your shoulders sag in exasperation, but you eventually gesture toward the door. “Fine. Get inside.”

Jihoon looks up, surprised but not daring to push his luck. You flip the lights back on, the bakery coming to life once more. Heading to the back, you grab a fresh tart from the display, muttering curses under your breath as you shout, “Which one do you want?”

“Strawberry!” he calls out.

You grab a pink plate and set the tart delicately in the center, placing it on the counter with one of your signature gold-colored forks and a neatly folded napkin. When you walk over to the table Jihoon picked, nestled in a corner, you notice him glancing around the bakery with a curious expression, taking in the space like he’s never seen it properly before.

He sits down, eyeing the tart suspiciously at first. You cross your arms and sit across from him, your foot bouncing impatiently under the table. You can’t help but suppress an inner smile—every customer had the same reaction to their first bite, and you’re secretly waiting for it.

Jihoon picks up the fork, hesitantly cutting into the tart. As soon as the buttery crust gives way, the scent of fresh strawberries and sweet cream fills the air. He takes a bite, and his eyes widen almost immediately. He chews slowly, like he’s processing the taste, his expression changing from sulky to... amazed.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs under his breath, glancing up at you, eyes wide. “This is... really good.”

You lean back, crossing your arms tighter. “Yeah. That’s what people keep saying.”

He takes another bite, and then another, clearly trying not to devour the whole thing in two seconds. His face softens, the usual smugness gone, replaced by genuine awe. He looks around the bakery again, understanding slowly sinking in. The care you put into every detail—the soft lighting, the warmth, the way the scent of fresh-baked goods fills the air. It’s no wonder other bakeries in the area couldn’t compete.

No wonder people kept coming back.

Jihoon finally looks up, sheepish but impressed. 

You shift in your seat, arms still crossed, and stare at Jihoon as he wipes his mouth with the napkin, setting it down with a quiet sigh. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his posture heavy with something unsaid.

“So… you gonna tell me why you’ve been punking my bakery?” you ask, your voice less biting than before, though the edge is still there.

Jihoon hesitates, glancing out the window for a moment like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. Finally, he sighs again. “We had a bakery, me and my grandma. It was right across the street.”

You frown, your head tilting slightly as you turn to glance outside through the window. Yeah, you remembered that place. It had that old-school charm, the kind of bakery that felt like a cozy throwback to the 60s, with its wooden benches and rustic signage. It had been there before you moved into the neighborhood. You even remembered the old lady that used to work there, always with a smile, though her hands were slow and her voice even slower. The front of the bakery had been boarded up for months now, closed and forgotten by most.

Jihoon continues, his voice lower. “Before you opened up, we did well. My grandma’s tarts were, like, the thing around here. People came from all over to buy them.” He pauses, and you see his shoulders drop slightly. “But after your tarts took off… we started losing customers. A lot of them.”

You don’t say anything, but the tension in the air thickens. You swallow, suddenly feeling an uncomfortable weight in your chest. You remember seeing them sitting outside their shop, the once-busy bakery now quiet as yours boomed with success.

“We tried to keep up,” Jihoon says, his voice a little shaky. “But no one came in anymore. People stopped buying our stuff. My grandma and I used to just sit there on the bench, watching people line up outside your place while we were lucky to sell a couple tarts.” He laughs, but it’s hollow, like he’s mocking the memory. “She’d pretend it didn’t bother her, but I knew. I knew it killed her inside.”

You feel a knot form in your stomach, guilt creeping in even though you know it wasn’t really your fault. Still, hearing it from him, the weight of their loss, makes you look down at the table, feeling suddenly small.

“What was I supposed to do?” you ask softly, the words barely escaping your mouth. “This was my dream too.”

Jihoon nods, almost like he understands, though there’s still bitterness in his tone. “I know. And it’s not like you did anything wrong. Your bakery is… well, people love it. They loved your tarts. And I guess, after a while, I just got so… mad.”

He looks down at his hands, twisting his fingers together. “We had to close the bakery. We couldn’t keep up. And I started working in the city, doing graffiti, whatever I could to make ends meet.” He shakes his head, laughing without humor again. “And when I saw people still lining up here, day after day, it just… pissed me off. So I started tagging your walls. Stupid, I know.”

You feel a lump in your throat, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. You glance back out the window, seeing the boarded-up bakery in the distance, and it stirs something deep inside. His frustration, his anger… it all makes sense now.

“I didn’t understand,” Jihoon says, his voice softer now, almost defeated. “I couldn’t figure out how your tarts were better than my grandma’s. It didn’t make sense to me. We’d been here for years. How could people just forget about us?” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck, his expression sad. “But now I get it. I guess… your tarts really are better.”

The way he says it, with that empty laugh, hits you right in the chest. There’s no joy in his voice, no real acceptance, just this sad realization that his family’s legacy had been outdone by you.

You lower your gaze, feeling awful. “Jihoon…” You want to say something, anything, to ease the guilt gnawing at you, but what could you even say? You worked hard for this. It wasn’t like you meant to destroy his bakery. But it’s clear now that, in a way, you did.

“I never meant for this to happen,” you mumble, your voice quieter than you intended. “It’s not like I wanted to take business away from you guys.”

He waves it off, but his eyes don’t meet yours. “I know. It’s just how it worked out. You did what you had to do. I just… I didn’t know what else to do but get mad at you for it.”

The silence between you is thick, heavy with unsaid things. Jihoon keeps his gaze on the table, his fingers playing with the edges of the napkin, while you try to process the weight of everything he just said.

And as much as you want to feel justified—after all, you didn’t do anything wrong—there’s a part of you that can’t shake the sadness settling deep in your chest. You glance out the window again, at the closed shop across the street, and for the first time, you wonder what it must’ve been like for them, watching your bakery rise while theirs fell apart.

Jihoon’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “I don’t know… it’s dumb. You didn’t mean to screw us over. I just… I just miss the way things used to be.”

You breathe in deeply, trying to push down the growing lump in your throat. 

The silence between you two lingers, stretching out like the stillness of the night outside. You can hear the faint hum of the refrigerator behind the counter, the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. You breathe in, thinking of something to say, and for a moment, Jihoon glances up at you, expectant. But when you close your mouth again, he looks away, fingers fidgeting with the napkin.

Finally, you place your hand on the wooden table between you, the sound of your fingers brushing the grain breaking the silence. "What kind of tarts did your grandma sell?" you ask, voice steady but curious.

Jihoon frowns, clearly taken off guard by the question. "Savory ones," he says after a beat, as if testing the waters of the conversation.

Your brow lifts in surprise. Savory tarts weren’t really your thing—you specialized in the sweet stuff. "Savory?" you lean in a bit, curiosity piqued. "Like what?"

Jihoon seems to hesitate, unsure of where you’re going with this, but then he starts listing them off, voice soft at first but growing stronger. "Palm heart or olives, ham, and cheese, sometimes we’d do quiches with bacon and caramelized onions, even some seasonal ones with pumpkin or sweet potato… Stuff like that."

You sit back, letting the list of flavors settle in your mind, gears turning. You’d never considered offering savory tarts before—your bakery was known for its sweets. But maybe that was part of the problem. There was a whole side of the tart game you hadn’t even touched.

"You think you could make some of those flavors and bring them tomorrow?" you ask, your tone casual as you rest your chin in your hand.

Jihoon frowns deeper, confused, his head tilting to the side. "Yeah, I think so. Why?"

You chew your lip for a second, glancing around your bakery, imagining it filled with the rich, hearty smells of savory tarts instead of the usual sugar and cream. "I was thinking maybe we could try something… an experiment," you say, eyes lighting up as you lean forward. "You bring the savory ones, I’ll sell them in the display, right alongside the sweet ones. See how people like them."

Jihoon blinks at you, processing your words, and for a moment, you see a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, like he can’t quite wrap his head around what you’re suggesting. "You… you wanna sell my grandma’s tarts here?"

You nod, the idea already snowballing in your mind. "Yeah, why not? People around here are crazy for the sweets, but maybe they’ve just never had the chance to try something savory. And you know I don’t do that kind of thing, so… it’d be different." You pause, watching his face, which is slowly starting to shift from confusion to something brighter. "We’ll call it a collab or something. Give them a taste of what your bakery used to offer."

His eyes light up, sparkling with excitement as the idea sinks in. The hesitation that was there before vanishes, replaced with genuine enthusiasm. "Really?" He leans forward, hands gripping the edge of the table. "You think… people would like them?"

"If they’re as good as you say they are," you grin, tapping your fingers on the table, "then yeah, I think they will."

Jihoon’s face softens, and for the first time tonight, a real smile spreads across his lips. It’s small at first, but there’s something genuine and almost childlike about it, like you just handed him a lifeline he wasn’t expecting. "They’re really, really good," he says earnestly, nodding. "My grandma used to get people coming back for them all the time. They were, like, her specialty."

"Then bring enough for tomorrow," you say, feeling a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "We’ll put them out, see what happens. Maybe it’ll bring some of her old customers back."

He looks at you like you’ve just flipped the entire script on him. The guy who’d been tagging your bakery out of spite now suddenly has a shot at redemption, and it’s written all over his face. You can see the wheels turning in his head, his excitement barely contained.

"How many do you need?" he asks, voice filled with an eagerness you hadn’t seen in him before.

You pause, thinking for a second. "Start small—maybe a couple dozen to test the waters. If they sell out, we’ll know we’re onto something."

Jihoon nods rapidly, his excitement bubbling over. "I can do that. I can bring, like, the spinach and feta ones. Those were super popular. And maybe the mushroom ones too. People loved those." He’s rambling now, his hands gesturing wildly as he talks. "You think they’ll like them? I mean, people around here are kinda obsessed with sweet stuff, but these… these are different."

You laugh softly, watching him get more and more animated. "I think if they’re as good as you say, people are gonna be lining up for them. And who knows? Maybe savory tarts will be the next big thing."

Jihoon sits back, grinning like he can’t believe this is real. "I can’t believe you’re actually doing this." His eyes flicker over the bakery, taking in the pink and white décor, the polished countertops, the faint smell of sugar still lingering in the air. "I thought you’d just tell me to fuck off, honestly."

You shrug, smiling slightly. "Well, I did wanna hit you with a mop earlier. But… I don’t know. It seems like the least I can do after everything."

He stares at you, his grin softening into something more serious, more genuine. "Thanks," he says quietly, and you can tell that he means it. "I… I really judged you wrong."

You wave him off, but inside, there’s a warmth spreading, something that feels almost like… relief? Like maybe this little experiment could be more than just business—it could be a way to right some wrongs.

"Just bring your best game tomorrow," you say, standing up from the table. "If your grandma’s tarts are half as good as you say, I’m sure people will love them."

Jihoon stands too, still grinning like a kid on Christmas. "Oh, they will. Trust me." His eyes sparkle with that confidence again, and for the first time, it feels like you’re seeing the real him, not the guy who’s been tagging your bakery out of anger.

As you walk him to the door, you glance back at the kitchen, already imagining the savory tarts lining the shelves next to your usual sweets. This could be something big, something new—something that might even help mend the bridge between you two.

Jihoon pauses at the door, turning back to you with a grin. "Tomorrow, then. You won’t regret this."

The next morning, Jihoon arrives at your bakery with a box, the warmth of the tarts and quiches radiating from inside. You grin as you lift the lid, the smellof the buttery crust wafting out. Carefully, you place them in the display, arranging them neatly beside your sweets.

Jihoon moves towards the door without saying a word, but before he can leave, you raise your voice, “Where are you going?”

He pauses and steps back in, bending down to pick up a bucket of paint remover and a brush from outside. “Gonna get rid of the mess,” he says with a shrug, shaking the supplies in his hand.

You scoff, leaning against the counter. “Looks like hitting you with the mop actually worked.” You raise an eyebrow, arms crossed.

He freezes, his eyes widening a little, like he just remembered something. “Hey! You!” he protests, gesturing to his back. “I’m my back its black and blue thanks to you! My back its ruined.”

You roll your eyes, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Serves you right,” you shoot back, and Jihoon huffs, but there’s a playful glint in his eyes as he heads outside to scrub off the tags.

As the morning rush starts, a couple of your regulars approach the counter, eyeing the new items. One of them, Mrs. Park, furrows her brow. "What’s all this?" she asks, nodding to the savory tarts.

You flash her a smile, "We’re doing a little collab with Jihoon’s family bakery. They used to sell these savory tarts, and we thought we'd give them a try here. You should taste them, they’re amazing."

Mrs. Park raises an eyebrow but picks up one of the tarts anyway. Within minutes, word spreads, and before you know it, the dozen savory tarts you put out are gone—people even leaving with extras for home. You lean against the counter, watching the buzz, satisfaction building in your chest.

As the rush dies down, you step outside where Jihoon is wiping down the wall, now tag-free. You smirk. "Sold everything," you say, watching his reaction.

His eyebrows shoot up, eyes wide. “Really?!”

You nod. “Yeah, they went faster than I thought. Even Mingyu couldn’t keep his hands off them,” you say, pointing through the window where Mingyu is, mid-bite, munching happily on a tart behind the counter.

Jihoon laughs, shaking his head as he looks at Mingyu, then back at you. "I’ve got more ready at my grandma’s place. I can go grab them now."

"Do it," you say with a grin, waving him off. “Bring a lot. I don’t think these’ll last long.”

An hour later, Jihoon returns, but this time he’s not alone. His grandma, the sweet old lady you remember from the bakery across the street, is with him. You light up when you see her.

"Mrs. Lee!" you greet her warmly. 

She smiles, her eyes crinkling as she gives you a gentle hug. "You’ve done so well with this place," she says, looking around the bakery.

As you help unload the box of fresh tarts, you see Mingyu’s eyes widen as he watches you set them out again, his mouth practically watering. He reaches for one, but you swat his hand away.

"Those are to sell," you scold playfully, but before you can follow up, Mrs. Lee reaches up and pats Mingyu on the head.

"Eat, eat, you’re a big boy. You need it," she says, and Mingyu, towering over her, grins sheepishly as he lowers his head.

"Yes, ma’am," he says with a boyish smile, clearly charmed.

With the tarts restocked, the afternoon turns out to be just as busy as the morning. People are coming in and out, curious about the new savory options, and before you know it, they’re sold out again.

After the rush dies down and the shift ends, you pull out the cash notes, counting how much you’ve made for the day. You walk over to Jihoon, handing him a stack of money.

"Here, this is how much we sold, minus the cost of ingredients," you say, but Jihoon waves his hand, shaking his head.

"Nah, don’t do that," he says, clearly uncomfortable. "It’s your bakery. I’m just helping out."

You raise an eyebrow, folding your arms. "You think I’m not gonna pay you for your grandma’s recipes? Don’t be stupid."

He fidgets, glancing down. “I don’t deserve it,” he mumbles, but you cut him off.

"Come on. You think of reopening your grandma’s bakery again?"

He hesitates, then nods slowly. "I’ve been thinking about it. But there’s a lot to clean up, fix…"

You lean back, thinking for a moment. “Well, while you figure it out, how about you use my bakery to sell your savory stuff? We can split the profits and see how it goes. Maybe that way, you’ll get enough to fix it.”

Jihoon’s eyes widen, gratitude spreading across his face. "You… you’d let me do that?"

You shrug. "Why not? People love your stuff, and I’ve got space. Plus, this way, we both win."

His lips part, disbelief still etched on his face, but then his shoulders relax, and a small smile forms. "I don’t know what to say. Thank you."

"Don’t thank me yet," you say, grinning. "We still gotta get through tomorrow."

He laughs, the tension that had been hanging between you since the whole graffiti incident finally easing. "I guess I’ll be back here early with more tarts, then."

"Bright and early," you reply, with a playful nod. "And don’t forget to bring your grandma too. Mingyu might cry if she doesn’t show up."

Jihoon chuckles, glancing at Mingyu who’s in the back, still wiping tart crumbs from his face. "I think you’re right about that."

As Jihoon and his grandma leave, you’re left standing in your bakery, the warm glow of the lights reflecting off the now pristine windows. 

The next morning, Jihoon shows up right on time, his grandma’s small hand wrapped around his arm as they step into the bakery. There’s something heartwarming about the sight—the way she leans on him, and how he effortlessly balances the heavy box of tarts in his other hand. You catch a glimpse of the pure affection between them, the kind only grandparents seem to have for their grandkids, and it makes you feel... softer.

Jihoon flashes you a quick, almost shy smile as he sets the box on the counter, the warmth of the freshly baked tarts instantly filling the room. You move to help him, opening the glass case of the vitrine. As you lean in to arrange the tarts, his arm brushes against yours, just barely. It’s nothing, really—just a quick touch—but you bite back a smile anyway. The warmth of it, the quiet ease, feels nice. Comfortable.

Outside, the rain begins to pour, pattering against the windows. It's not the gloomy kind of rain, though—it’s the kind that makes people crave warm spaces, a place to settle into with a coffee in hand. Your bakery, with its soft yellow lighting and the sweet smell of tarts mingling in the air, feels like the perfect refuge. You can already see a few people huddling under umbrellas as they make their way inside, the little bell above the door chiming each time.

Jihoon steps back, his eyes following yours as you arrange the tarts in perfect rows. “Looks good,” he murmurs, glancing over at you.

“Yeah,” you agree, trying to sound casual, though your voice is a bit quieter than usual. You clear your throat. “Rain’s gonna bring people in. They’ll want something warm.”

Almost as if on cue, the door swings open with a gust of wet air, and your best friend stumbles inside, panting, her umbrella flung into the holder by the door. She shakes the rain off her coat and makes a beeline for the counter, eyes wide.

“I heard you’re selling savory tarts now,” she exclaims, nearly breathless.

You shoot her a look, half-amused. “Word spreads fast around here, hm?”

She leans on the counter, eyes scanning the new additions in the vitrine like she’s sizing them up. “You know me. I’ve got my ear to the ground,” she says, grinning. Her gaze shifts to Jihoon, who’s still standing behind you. “And you,” she says, her tone turning teasing, “finally decided to be useful, huh?”

Jihoon just rolls his eyes, but you can see a flicker of amusement there. “I’m useful in ways you don’t even know,” he mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear, but it makes you smirk.

Your friend raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sure,” she quips, pulling out her wallet. “Alright, give me one of those tarts. Let’s see if they’re worth the hype.”

You grab a tart—spinach and cheese, her favorite—and hand it to her on a small plate. She takes one bite, her eyes widening dramatically. “Oh my god,” she says, mouth half full. “Okay, this… this is dangerous. You can’t sell these, I’ll be here every day.”

You laugh, watching her devour the tart. Jihoon leans against the counter next to you, arms crossed, a little smug. “Told you they were good,” he murmurs.

The steady rain outside only adds to the cozy vibe, making the bakery feel like a warm little haven. More customers trickle in, shaking off their umbrellas and ordering coffees to go with the new savory tarts. Some regulars ask about the new addition, and you tell them about the collaboration with Jihoon and his grandma. It’s casual, like you’re letting them in on a little secret, and soon enough, people are lining up to try them.

As you work, you can feel Jihoon’s presence behind you, quietly helping out where he can—refilling the display, wiping down tables, clearing plates. It’s kind of funny, actually. Not long ago, this same guy was spray-painting the walls of your bakery like a punk, and now here he is, setting tarts in your vitrine, his arm brushing against yours, acting like part of the team.

Your friend finishes her tart and slides the plate back toward you, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Okay, I gotta go before I eat the whole case,” she says, shooting you a wink. She glances at Jihoon as she grabs her umbrella. “You better keep bringing these, or we’ll have problems.”

Jihoon smirks, giving her a mock salute. “I’ll keep ‘em coming.”

As she leaves, you watch the bakery fill with warmth, laughter, and the soft hum of conversations. The rain taps against the windows, the outside world grey and wet, while the inside is alive with comfort. You lean against the counter, watching Jihoon’s grandma chatting with a customer. It’s kind of perfect, in a way—everything just falling into place.

After the lunch rush, Jihoon catches your eye, his expression a little sheepish. "They’re really selling, huh?"

You smile, a little proud. "Yeah. Told you they’d be a hit."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Guess I underestimated this place."

“It’s kinda nice having you around... even if you are a pain in the ass.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes but not disagreeing. “You just like bossing me around.”

“I do,” you admit with a grin. “And you’re getting pretty good at following orders.”

Jihoon laughs, shaking his head as he picks up a rag to wipe down the counter. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll bring more tomorrow."

The evening was quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the faint swoosh of the mop gliding across the floor. You were halfway through cleaning when your foot nudged something under the counter. Frowning, you crouched down and pulled out a box—heavy, clinking inside—and when you opened it, there they were. Paint cans.

You tilted your head, staring at them, then shouted, "Jihoon! What the hell is this?"

He popped out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Uh... well, I was thinking... maybe the bakery could use a little—art,” he said hesitantly, his eyes darting from the cans to you.

"Art?" you raised an eyebrow, hands resting on your hips. "You're not gonna draw a dick on the front door, are you? 'Cause if that's your plan, Jihoon, I swear—"

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “No! It wasn’t me, alright? That was one of my friends.”

Your eyebrow shot up even higher. "So you had your friends tag my bakery too?"

He suppressed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I yelled sorry, like, a million times already.”

You shook your head, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “Unbelievable.”

Jihoon stepped closer, eyes scanning your expression carefully. “Look, I promise—no dicks. I was thinking... something different. Something that matches the vibe here. I could paint something... that looks like you.” His gaze lingered on you, analyzing your features like he was already sketching you out in his mind.

You sat back, considering it. The idea of graffiti on your pristine bakery wasn’t exactly appealing, but there was something about Jihoon’s offer... the way he was looking at you, not like a cocky vandal but like someone who wanted to create something for you.

You frowned, arms crossed, skeptical. “You? Graffiti something that looks like me? You’re kidding.”

He shrugged, stepping back slightly. “Let me show you. I’ll do it on the back wall. Something pastel, something sweet—like your bakery.”

You huffed, but curiosity got the better of you. “Fine. But if it looks like shit, you’re cleaning it up, Jihoon.”

Outside, the air was crisp, and the dim lights of the street barely reached the back alley behind your bakery. Jihoon grabbed the cans, setting them down with a focused energy, his jaw tight. He was different when he worked on something—serious, quiet. You watched as he started to shake one of the cans, the metallic rattle filling the space. 

He started to sweat after a few strokes of the spray, his arm flexing each time he pressed the nozzle. The light from the back door illuminated his face, and when he flicked his hair to the side, it reminded you of those boys from high school, the ones who all had that Justin Bieber haircut. You couldn’t help but smirk at the thought.

He stepped back, turning toward you, his eyes searching your face. “So... what do you think?”

You tilted your head, focusing on the paint. It was a pastel-colored slice of cake, detailed with delicate swirls and shadows that made it look almost real. “The... strawberry looks a little weird,” you pointed out, walking closer.

Jihoon let out a soft laugh, stepping aside. “Come help me then. You fix it.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. "Me? I don’t know how to spray paint, Jihoon. It’s gonna look like a five-year-old did it."

He waved it off, walking toward you with the can in hand. “Nah, you can do it. C’mere.”

Before you could protest, he was already pulling you out of the chair, placing the can in your hand. “Just like this,” he murmured, stepping behind you. His chest pressed lightly against your back, close enough that you could feel his breath on your ear. His hand moved to yours, guiding your fingers to press down on the nozzle, and the paint sprayed out in a clean line. "Here," he murmured, his voice low. "Press gently... just like that."

“See?” he whispered, his voice right in your ear, and you could feel the concentration in his breath, how calm it was. “Not so hard, is it?”

You were too aware of everything—his breath, his hand on yours, the way his body pressed just slightly against yours, not enough to feel too much, but enough to make your pulse pick up.

His hand, now on your waist, gave you the faintest squeeze, right where your skin showed between your top and your jeans, right where your shirt had ridden up a little. It was an absent touch, almost like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. But you did. His fingers were warm, the pressure light but there. Your breath caught in your throat for a second.

You bit your lip, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. His hand never moved, just stayed resting on your waist, a quiet but steady reminder of how close he was. The paint kept flowing, and you realized you were barely focused on the mural anymore. It was all Jihoon. The way his body moved with yours, the brush of his breath against your ear.

“Jihoon,” you whispered, voice low, just to see what kind of reaction you’d get. "You sure you're not just getting handsy with me to avoid doing the work?"

He huffed a small laugh, right in your ear, his breath warm. “You think this is me being handsy? I’m just trying to teach you something.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back a little more, just enough to feel him tense up. His hips were snug against yours, and you could feel the smallest reaction in his body, the way his chest rose sharply as you pressed back into him.

"Uh-huh,” you said, feigning innocence. “So that’s why you sound like you’re having the best time of your life right now? Not exactly subtle, Jihoon.”

He scoffed, his mouth so close to your ear that you flinched a bit. "Says the one who's shivering under my arm like I’m doing more than just helping you paint.”

You let out a soft chuckle, your head leaning back just a little, the movement making his face brush against your shoulder. You could feel his breath catch again as your body pressed back.

“Jihoon…” you said, voice dropping an octave. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying real hard not to moan in my ear.”

His breath hitched, and this time, you felt it. His body tensed, the can in his hand wavering slightly as he pressed the nozzle. He was trying—trying so damn hard to stay focused on the paint, but your words were getting to him. His grip tightened on the can.

He lowered your arm, stopping the spray of paint, and you could feel the tension crackling between you both. His hand lingered on yours for a moment, and then he turned his head slightly, his lips brushing the edge of your jaw as he whispered, “You keep teasing me like that, I’ll forget the painting and pin you to this wall.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the low rumble in his voice, letting your ass push against him again. You give him a slow, teasing smile, turning your head just enough to look at him out of the corner of your eye. “And if I told you I wouldn’t mind?”

Jihoon’s eyes flicked down to your lips, then back to your eyes, in a blink, he turned you around, the paint can clattering to the floor as his hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His lips hovered over yours for just a second, his breath mingling with yours, tension thick in the air. “You're playing with fire, you know that?” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

You smirked, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the heat of him through his shirt. “Then burn me.”

His lips crashed against yours in a starved kiss, his hands gripped your waist tighter, pulling you closer, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, his body pressed so close it felt like there wasn’t an inch between you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him down harder into the kiss, feeling the tension melt away from his shoulders. His hands roamed over your back, slipping under your shirt, his touch burning your skin as he kissed you deeper, rougher, like he couldn’t get enough. 

His body pressed you against the wall, his hips fitting perfectly against yours, and you could feel his cock coming to life. The slight tremor in his hands as they roamed your sides, the way his breath hitched when you kissed him harder—it was all there, barely restrained.

His lips were warm, tasting faintly like the strawberries and honey from earlier, and every time you tried to pull back for air, he chased you, his lips crashing back against yours like he couldn’t stand the space between you for even a second. 

Finally, when you both pulled away for breath, your foreheads resting together, you smirked, your breath still uneven. “You okay there, Jihoon? You look like you’re about to lose it.”

He chuckled, his hand still gripping your waist, but there was no humor in his eyes. “You talk too much,” he muttered, pulling you back in for another kiss before you could even think of another comeback.

You could feel the wetness of his tongue against yours, slick with saliva that started to pool at the corners of your mouth as you sucked it in deeper. Jihoon’s hand was firm, gripping the curve of your ass, his other arm wrapped tight around your waist as if he couldn’t let go even if he tried.

You stumbled backward in a tangle of steps, the two of you moving like you were magnetized to each other, lips fused together, completely unwilling to separate. His hand squeezed your ass hard, making you gasp into his mouth. That sound—the desperate little moan you couldn’t hold back—had him groaning too, swallowing the noise like it fueled him, pressing you harder against the door to the back of the store.

Jihoon fumbled for the handle, blindly opening it while keeping his mouth glued to yours. You barely noticed when he shoved you through the threshold, into the bakery’s quiet salon. He didn’t break the kiss, not even for a second, not until your back hit the counter and he pressed himself against you again, trapping you between him and the cold wood.

You were breathless, desperate to kiss him harder, to get more of those sweet, low moans he made when your lips connected just right. It wasn’t until you felt his hand slipping between you that you realized what he was doing. Somehow, in the heat of it all, he had already undone your jeans, his fingers deftly sliding the button free, his hand dipping lower, teasing the waistband of your panties.

"Fuck, Jihoon," you panted, head thrown back as his lips trailed along your jaw. You shivered when you felt his hand slipping under the lace, fingers ghosting over the sensitive skin. You felt your sink boiling, the warm air from the bakery making you sweat down your neck. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, more like moaning. 

The jeans you still had on were tight, too tight, and it made it impossible for you to spread your legs the way you wanted. The friction of his hand between you was good, but not nearly enough.

You shifted against him, trying to spread your legs wider, your breath coming out in frustrated little pants. "Jihoon," you managed, voice almost pleading, "jeans... get them off."

His lips curled into a smug grin against your skin, and you could feel him smirk before he pulled back slightly. "So bossy," he murmured, but he didn’t hesitate. His hands went straight to your jeans, tugging them down with quick, rough movements, the denim catching awkwardly on your thighs before he yanked them free.

With your jeans finally gone, he spread your legs wide, his eyes dark and hungry as they trailed over you. His hands gripped your thighs, positioning you exactly how he wanted before slipping his fingers right back under the waistband of your panties, but this time, there was no hesitation.

He slid one finger through your slick folds, groaning low when he felt how wet you were for him. "God, you're soaked," he breathed, almost like he was in disbelief. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow circles that had your hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more.

You couldn’t help the whimper that escaped your lips. "Just... please, Jihoon—more."

He slid a finger inside you, the sensation making you gasp, your legs instinctively spreading wider for him. You wanted more of him, needed it, and when he curled his finger just right—not even forcing it, he felt the spongy spot, you couldn’t stop the moan that tore from your throat.

"Like that?" he whispered, voice hoarse as he added another finger, filling you up and making your whole body arch into him. His other hand gripped your thigh, holding you steady as he worked his fingers inside you, each thrust deeper, more insistent.

"Fuck, yes," you gasped, barely able to form words as he sped up, his thumb still rubbing circles over your clit, making you see fireballs with closed eyes. "Just... just like that."

His hand moved faster, fingers curling and stroking deep inside you, the wet sounds of your arousal filling the quiet room. Your hips bucked against him, chasing the sensation, wanting him to take you higher, needing him to push you over the edge.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot as he whispered, "I could do this all night... but I think you want me to make you come, don’t you?"

You whimpered. "Please, Jihoon," you breathed, voice shaky. "I need it."

His fingers quickened their pace, thrusting deep, hitting that spot over and over until your whole body trembled. He could feel how close you were, could see it in the way your thighs quivered, the way your breath came in short, desperate gasps.

"Cum for me," he murmured, thumb pressing harder against your clit, feeling the nerve throb as his fingers worked inside you. "Cum all over my fingers."

You rest your elbow on the counter, arching your back in a way that makes the slick sound between your thighs almost obscene. It’s impossible to ignore. You know exactly how wet you are, and palm, right there pressing down the mound of your pussy—god, you can feel it, burning hot. Your breath hitches, and you throw a hazy glance in his direction, catching his smirk, that cocky look on his face. His lip is trapped between his teeth, eyes dark and full of heat, and that’s all it takes before you come apart.

Your orgasm hits hard, ripping through you. Eyes squeezing shut, your body tenses, thighs trembling as your hips jerk involuntarily against his hand. You hear him coaxing you through it, his voice a low murmur, his fingers keeping steady pressure, coaxing every last wave of pleasure out of you.

“There you go… good fuckin' girl. Just like that, keep comin’ for me… shit, so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, fingers slowing just enough to keep you riding the high.

Your chest heaves, your breaths coming in short, ragged bursts as you slowly open your eyes again. He’s staring at you—taking in every inch of you. The smirk on his face hasn't faltered, only deepened. There’s something dangerous about the way he looks at you, like he's already planning his next move.

“You think you can turn around for me?” he asks.

You shake your head, still catching your breath, but a wicked grin spreads on your lips. “Nah. I’ll fall to my knees and suck you off instead.” Your voice is steady despite the way your legs still tremble. His eyes widen just for a second before he sharpens a breath, a harsh inhale that lets you know you’ve hit the right nerve.

You don’t give him time to respond before you’re on your knees, fingers already undoing his belt, pulling his jeans down just enough to free him. You look up through your lashes, watching his jaw tighten as his cock springs free, already hard and leaking at the tip. His breathing’s heavy, uneven.

You run your tongue along his length slowly, collecting the sticky precum, teasing the underside before wrapping your lips around the head. He moans immediately, one hand gripping the edge of the counter so tight his knuckles turn white.

“Fuck,” he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking forward as your lips slide further down his cock. The sound he makes is a whiny moan, almost of frustration as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks. You can feel the pulse of him on your tongue, the way his body reacts to every little move you make.

He grips your hair, tugging gently as you bob your head, setting a slow rhythm that has him panting. His hips start to move, barely restrained, thrusting shallowly into your mouth. “Goddamn… ngh—fuck! From hittin’ me with a mop to this?” His voice cracks on a laugh, but it’s breathless, shaky. “Didn’t think you’d… suck me off like this…”

You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue around the head, lips slick, before looking up at him, smirking. “Better than the mop, right?”

His laugh turns into a groan, the sound vibrating through his chest as you take him deep again. “Fuck yeah… way better than the fuckin' mop.” He’s losing his composure now, hips moving a little more desperately, the hand in your hair tightening, guiding you as you work him harder, faster.

His moans grow louder, less restrained, and you can feel the tension building in his body, the way his muscles tighten as he gets closer. You hollow your cheeks one last time, sucking him in deeper, tongue working every inch of him until you hear him curse under his breath, his head falling back as his body shudders.

“Shit—” His moan is drawn out, almost too much for him to handle, as he loses himself in your mouth, his hips bucking forward uncontrollably. You keep going, pushing him right to the edge, savoring every last sound he makes until he finally pulls you off, breathless and wrecked.

“Fuck... you’re gonna kill me with that pretty mouth,” he pants, grinning down at you, still catching his breath. 

You pull back for a second, lips slick with spit, catching your breath before you go back in, this time with a wicked grin. His cock twitches in your hand as you stroke him slowly, teasing, just enough to keep him on the edge.

“So…” you start, voice low, looking up at him with a dangerous gleam in your eyes. “How are you gonna fuck me, huh? Gonna be good to me, or…” You drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft, making him gasp before taking him back into your mouth, sucking harder, wanting to hear him stutter. “… or you gonna fuck me like you mean it?”

His breath hitches, and he swears under his breath. “I—fuck, I—” His hips jerking toward your mouth, but he’s not quite there. The pressure is building, you can feel it, the way his muscles tense, the way his grip in your hair tightens.

But before you can push him too far, he suddenly pulls you off with a gasp, his cock red and leaking at the tip, his body shaking from the almost-orgasm. “Stop, stop, fuck—”

You raise an eyebrow, lips swollen as you sit back on your heels, panting, teasing. “Could’ve just let me finish you off,” you murmur, licking your lips slowly as you watch him struggle to catch his breath.

He grins, though his expression is tight, like he’s holding onto control by a thread. “Not gonna let you win that easy,” he mutters. He helps you up, hands firm but delicate as he lifts you to your feet. Your knees wobble a little from the discomfort of kneeling on the hard wooden floor, and he notices, his thumb brushing gently across the soft skin.

“They hurt?” he asks, glancing down at your knees, frowning just a little.

You shake your head, smirking. “I’ll live. But you owe me a good fuck for that.”

“Don’t worry. I’m gonna make it up to you.”

You let him guide you back against the counter, his hands already sliding down to the waistband of your panties, hooking his fingers into the fabric and pulling them down tossing it on the floor. He pauses just for a second, eyes flicking between your bare pussy and your face, his breathing heavy.

He leans in close, lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Gonna make you scream.”

You shiver, feeling his cock press against your thigh as his hands move to grip your waist. His fingers are rough, impatient. You can barely think straight when he turns you around, pushing your chest flat against the cold countertop. The contrast of the cool surface and his hot skin makes your breath hitch, your body already aching for him.

He groans softly, positioning himself at your entrance, teasing you with the tip of his cock, rubbing it along your slick folds as you grind back against him, impatient.

“Fuck—please, just—” You barely get the words out before he thrusts into you, filling you up completely in one swift movement. The stretch is intense, but it’s exactly what you needed, the delicious burn making you gasp as your fingers dig into the counter.

He groans, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he pulls back and thrusts again, setting a relentless pace. “That good enough for you, hm?”

You can barely answer, the only sounds leaving your lips are desperate moans as he fucks into you, hard and fast, just like he promised. “F-fuck, Jihoon… yes—just like that.”

He leans down, his chest pressing against your back as his lips brush your ear. “You feel so fuckin’ good… so tight, fuck.” 

Your body trembles under his, the pleasure building so quickly that you can barely keep up. "Jihoon—" His name leaves your lips in a broken moan as you start to lose control.

Your breath is ragged, chest heaving as you lick your fingers, letting them trail down your slick body. The moment your fingers find your clit, Jihoon freezes. His cock still buried deep inside you, but it’s like he's hypnotized by the way you touch yourself. You know he’s watching, eyes dark with hunger as you start to circle your clit, finding that perfect rhythm that makes your legs weak. There’s something so intoxicating about him just watching you, letting you take control of your own pleasure while he stays inside, keeping you full.

"Fuck, that’s hot," he mutters, his voice husky and rough as he leans over you, his lips grazing your ear. "You look so fucking good like this."

You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, his words fueling the fire burning low in your belly. Your mind flashes back to everything between you two, from the first time he tagged your bakery walls, scowling like you were the enemy, graffiti cans in his bag, the way he barely looked at you when he spoke. 

Now look at him, look at you—sweat-slicked bodies moving together, his fingers pulling your hair. The teasing exchanges that turned into this—tangled limbs in the very place you swore you'd kill him if he ever touched.  Now, all you can think about is how good he feels inside you, how much you crave more.

His hips start to move again, slow, smooth rolls that make your whole body tingle, but he keeps his hands steady on your hips, letting you keep that perfect rhythm on your clit. The sound of your wet fingers moving in time with his thrusts fills the room, and it’s obscene, but fuck, it’s so good.

“What do you want me to do?” he murmurs against your ear, his voice vibrating through you, sending shivers down your spine.

God. Hot. So fucking hot.

You could ask for anything. Him fucking you against every surface in the bakery, bending you over the counter, the tables, hell, maybe even hanging from the goddamn chandelier if it were possible. But right now, with the way his cock fills you and your fingers work your clit, you only want one thing.

“Pull my hair.”

His hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, and he gives it a firm tug. The sharp pleasure shoots you, and your body arches against him, hips pressing back to meet his next thrust. The way body rollsl, smooth, matches the pace you’ve set with your fingers. It’s perfect, it’s so fucking good.

His hips snap against you harder now, and you can feel his restraint slipping. He’s getting close, the way his moans get rougher, the way he’s tugging your hair a little more desperately. You know he’s just as on edge as you are.

“Jihoon…”

He moans sly. He knows exactly what he's doing to you.

You hum, breathless. Something so ridiculous comes to mind, and you can’t believe you’re going to say it, but fuck it. 

“Can you… paint me?” You’re not sure where the words come from, but once they’re out, you can’t help but smirk.

He hesitates for a second, his hips stuttering before he recovers. “What?”

You bite your lip, half-laughing through your moans. “You heard me. Paint me. Grafitti me. Whatever. Do it.”

He’s still chuckling, his chest pressed against your back as he slows down, but you can feel the horniness in the way his cock twitches inside you. He is very into it. “You’re fucking crazy, you know that?”

You laugh, but it’s breathless. “You’ve been tagging my bakery for weeks. Might as well make it official.”

He groans, biting his lip as he slides out of you for a moment, leaving you feeling suddenly empty, needy. You turn your head, watching as he reaches for one of the paint cans you knocked over earlier, shaking it a few times. The sound of the metal ball rattling inside echoes through the small space, making your heart race faster.

“You sure about this?” he asks, but there’s a grin on his face, his cock still hard and wet, glistening in the dim light.

You arch your back, pushing your ass out toward him, wiggling a little for good measure. “You scared?”

He shakes his head, biting down on his lower lip. “Not even a little.”

Then, with one hand steady on your lower back, he leans in, the cold metal of the spray can grazing your skin. You hear the hiss of the paint as he presses down on the nozzle, feeling the cold spray hit your skin. It’s not the same as the heat between your legs, but it sends a thrill through your body nonetheless.

“Hold still,” he mutters, focused, but you can hear the grin in his voice. He’s enjoying this—maybe a little too much.

You laugh, a shaky sound as the paint settles on your skin, the smell of it filling the room. “What are you even writing?”

“You’ll see,” he says, voice teasing. The spray continues, and then, after a moment, he steps back. “There. Perfect.”

When he’s done, he pulls you back onto his cock all in once, making you gasp as the pleasure returns full force. “Red suits you,” he says, his voice whiny. You can feel his eyes on you, taking in the sight of you painted, fucked, completely his in this moment.

You look over your shoulder at him, breathless. “What did you write?”

He smirks, thrusting hard enough to make you cry out. “My name,” he says simply. “Right across your ass.”

The sound that leaves your throat is half-laugh, half-moan. “Cocky bastard,” you mutter, but you can’t deny how fucking hot it is, the thought of his name on you, like a claim.

He watches the paint dry quickly, the faint sheen of it on your skin as you move against him. The thought of cleaning it off flickers in his mind, but fuck, the idea of you walking around with his name stamped across your ass, hidden inside your jeans as you go about your day—a part of him wants it permanent, a tattoo maybe, to mark you in a way no one else could see but him. His. Completely.

His hand slides up your body, fingers sneaking under your shirt and bra until they’re squeezing your tit, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you yelp and splatter your hand onto the counter for balance. Your legs are shaking as his thrusts get rougher, messier, the slick sound of him filling you echoing in the quiet bakery.

You moan out his name, “Jihoonie…” and he fucking loses it. Every time you call him that, it gets to him. The way you say it, needy and teasing, like it was meant to wreck him.

He grunts in response, pulling your hair again to tilt your head back against his chest. Your eyes roll, pleasure coursing through you like fire, and your pussy clenches tight around his cock, sucking him in deeper.

You try to hold yourself up, but your legs are jelly, barely able to stand. “I’m gonna… fuck, Jihoon,” you gasp, your body trembling. You’re on the edge, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly, ready to snap at any second.

He pulls you back harder, his chest flush against your back, his mouth right at your ear as he growls, “Cum for me, baby. Fuckin’ do it. I wanna feel you.”

His words, the rough sound of his voice, the way he’s completely owning you—it pushes you over the edge. You shatter around him, your body convulsing as your orgasm slams into you. Your pussy clenches tight, milking his cock, and you scream his name, your voice echoing through the empty bakery.

He groans deep in his chest, thrusting through your orgasm, chasing his own orgasm. The way you squeeze him, the way you moan and tremble in his arms, it’s too much. He pulls out at the last second, just barely, his hand jerking his cock as he cums, thick ropes spilling onto your ass, painting over his name in red.

You’re a mess, both of you—paint, cum, sweat sticking to your skin—but you can’t bring yourself to care.

His hand slides gently down your back, soothing the tremors that still ripple through your body. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice still shaky. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your neck, completely different from how rough he was just moments ago.

You breathe out a laugh, still catching your breath. “Think we’re gonna need more than a mop to clean this up.”

Jihoon chuckles, pulling back slightly to admire the mess he made. “Yeah,” he says, “But I gotta say… seeing you with my name on your ass? Kinda want it permanent.”

You tilt your head back to look at him, a lazy smirk on your lips. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

His smirk matches yours as he tugs you closer, his hands still resting on your hips. “Maybe,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours. “Maybe more than I should.”

Jihoon sulks, his face twisted in irritation as he presses the paper towel against your ass, muttering under his breath about how he ruined it. You can hear him grumbling, the cum smudging the once-clear letters of his graffiti like some kind of art project gone wrong. He’s so focused on trying to clean it up, but all he’s doing is making a bigger mess, the red paint mixing with the white streaks, swirling into a chaotic, almost laughable design.

You, on the other hand, can’t stop the grin that spreads across your face. The whole situation is just too ridiculous—the great Woozi, all serious and brooding, now pouting like a kid who messed up his school project. You rest your arms on the counter, the cool surface grounding you after everything, and glance over your shoulder, still half-naked from the waist down, shaking your head.

“Hey,” you snicker, pushing up onto the counter, bare skin still tingling from what just went down, “come on, take a picture for me.”

He glances up, narrowing his eyes in that grumpy way of his, but he’s not about to argue. With a sigh, he reaches out to take your phone, swiping it from your hand like it was a burden. He shakes his head, but there's the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, waiting as he squats a little to get the right angle. His breath is still slightly ragged, cheeks flushed pink, but he’s focused now, swiping a thumb across the screen before lifting the phone to snap a pic. You hear the click, followed by his low mutter. “Fuckin’ smudged.”

“Let me see,” you laugh, reaching out for the phone. He hands it over with a huff, standing there, arms crossed, while you inspect the damage.

There it is. Bold, bright red, smeared all over your ass. “Woozi,” right there in the middle, smudged but still totally readable. The first “W” is clear, but by the time you get to the “zi,” it’s a messy blur of paint and cum, like he tried to rush through it at the end. You burst out laughing, the sound bouncing off the walls of the empty bakery.

“Woozi?” you choke out between laughs, glancing up at him. “You really went with that?”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, cheeks burning a bit now. “What? It’s better than my actual name, isn’t it?”

You squint at the screen again, biting your lip to stop the next wave of laughter from spilling out. The smudge really does make it funnier. It's like his little alter ego tried to make a grand appearance but ended up getting dragged through a mess of his own creation.

“Woozi,” you repeat, grinning as you shake your head. “So now I’m walking around with your vandal name on my ass?”

He shrugs, still pretending to sulk, though you can see he’s fighting back a smile too. “Thought it’d be… symbolic or something. Besides, no one’s gonna know what it says. It’s all smudged now.”

“Oh, they’ll know,” you tease, lifting the phone to show him the picture again. “It’s clear enough, trust me. Woozi’s gonna be famous for something else entirely after this.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, great. Exactly what I need. My name on your ass, and you showing it off to the world.”

“Not showing it off to the world,” you smirk, leaning back on the counter. “Just, you know, keeping it for personal reasons.” You give him a cheeky look, watching as his eyebrows raise in mild curiosity.

Jihoon moves closer, sliding his hands over your hips again, thumbs brushing the sides of your thighs. “Personal reasons, hm?” 

“Yup,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too wide. “Might just stare at it whenever I need a good laugh. Or maybe when I need to remember how well you… fuck.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes again, but there’s a smirk pulling at his lips now. “You’re real funny, you know that?”

You nod, still grinning like an idiot. “Yeah, but you love it.”

“Mm,” he hums, stepping even closer, so close that your legs naturally part to let him stand between them. “Love it, huh?”

You raise a brow, tilting your head. “Yeah, love it. You, though?” You press your palms to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt just a bit. “You’re sulking because you didn’t get the masterpiece you wanted.”

His hands grip your waist, and he leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’m not sulking,” he whispers, voice dripping with faux irritation. “I just didn’t expect my art to get ruined by…” He pauses, pulling back slightly to give you a teasing look. “…circumstances.”

You snort. “Circumstances? Jihoon, you came on it.”

He tries to hold back a laugh, but it slips out anyway, his chest vibrating against your hands. “Yeah, well, you didn’t exactly help the situation. You’re the one who—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head as if he’s trying to erase the memory of what just happened.

You grin, tugging him even closer by his shirt. “Say it. I’m the one who what?”

He chuckles. “You’re the one who kept calling me ‘Jihoonie’ like you were trying to kill me.”

“Oh, that’s on me?” you laugh, giving him a playful shove. “You loved it, don’t even lie.”

“I did baby girl, I did.”

You hold on to him, tired from working the whole day and from… fucking in the workplace too.

“But don’t think this makes us even. You still hit me with that damn mop.”

The next few days were nothing short of chaos—an exhilarating rush of sweet and savory tarts flying off the shelves, and new recipes you and Mrs. Lee concocted together, bringing fresh buzz to the bakery. The scent of freshly baked goods filled the air every morning, pulling in crowds, while the constant hum of the oven working overtime had become your new normal.

One morning, Jihoon arrives early, the sun barely peeking over the rooftops, casting a soft golden hue over the quiet streets. He strolls in, wiping the sleep from his eyes, hair a little mussed but looking determined to work.

As soon as he steps inside, he spots you standing near the counter with Mingyu. You're talking animatedly, your hands gesturing as Mingyu grins at something you said. His big frame blocks most of your view, so Jihoon immediately veers toward the vitrines to see how the tarts are doing. He doesn’t want to interrupt whatever you’re saying to Mingyu, but he's definitely curious.

He gets to the counter and freezes. The vitrines… they’re empty. Not a single tart left. Not even the little label card for the savory tarts, the one that proudly displayed the flavors he’d worked so hard to perfect.

His brows furrow, and he turns to you, half in disbelief. “Hey, where’s all the savory tarts?” he asks, trying not to sound like he’s panicking a little.

You and Mingyu exchange a quick glance before you turn to Jihoon, biting back a smirk. “Oh, yeah... about that,” you say, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter. “We had to stop selling them here.”

Jihoon blinks, caught off guard. “What?” He steps closer, eyebrows knitting together. “Stop selling them? What are you talking about?”

You sigh dramatically, playing it up. “They were just taking up too much space, you know? Not enough room for the sweets and everything else. Figured we’d move on to other things.”

Jihoon stares at you, his eyes flicking between your face and the empty case. You can see the gears turning in his head, confusion, then frustration. “But… they were selling well. Why would you—?”

Mingyu pipes up, poorly holding back a laugh. “Yeah, dude, it was wild. People just stopped caring about them, I guess.”

Jihoon’s eyes widen. “No way. They were doing so well just yesterday—” He stops, eyes narrowing at Mingyu's grin. Then he looks back at you, finally sensing something’s up. “Wait… what’s going on?”

You can’t help it. The corners of your lips twitch, and then you crack, bursting into laughter. “Come on, Jihoon. Just follow me.”

He follows you, still a little skeptical, his pace hurried as he tries to keep up with your sudden excitement. When you lead him out of the main bakery, his confusion only grows. You guide him around the corner to a neighboring shop space you’d kept quiet about.

Jihoon stops dead in his tracks the moment he sees the sign hanging above the door: Lee’s Tarts. His eyes go wide, scanning the large windows where people are already lined up outside, some chatting excitedly while others peek through the glass to get a look at the new place. And right inside, behind the counter, Mrs. Lee is standing tall, her hands expertly working as she serves up savory tarts to eager customers. The place is buzzing, the line practically spilling out onto the street.

“What the hell...” Jihoon mutters, blinking in disbelief.

You nudge his arm playfully. “Surprise.”

He turns to look at you, his expression still caught in shock. “You opened a shop?”

“Well, technically, Mrs. Lee opened the shop,” you grin. “I just helped.”

Jihoon shakes his head, still processing. “This… this is for her?”

“Yeah, for both of you,” you say, folding your arms, satisfied with the look on his face. “Your tarts were way too good to just stay in one little display case. Now they’ve got their own home.”

Then, without warning, he turns to you, arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you into a tight hug.

“Holy shit,” he mutters into your hair, squeezing you so hard it almost knocks the wind out of you. “I can’t believe you did this.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sparkling warmly, something that you rarely see from him. 

“You deserve it, Jihoon. It was all you.”

His lips curl into that soft, genuine smile that’s rare but so worth it when you see it. “Guess we’re gonna be pretty busy, huh?”

“Guess so,” you say, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Better get used to it, Woozi.”

You and Mingyu handle the morning crowd in your bakery, but every now and then, you steal glances through the window at the new Lee’s Savory Tart shop next door. The line of people doesn’t seem to stop; every time you look, it’s like there are more. Jihoon’s name is already making waves, and it’s only been a few hours since the doors opened.

Someone at the counter clears their throat, and you turn back, wiping your hands on your apron. A woman leans over the display case, eyes scanning the rows of sweets. “Hey, don’t you have those savory tarts? The ones with the spinach and cheese?”

You nod, smiling. “Not here anymore, actually. We’ve got something even better now.” You motion with your thumb toward the window. “Just next door. The savory tarts have their own shop now, Lee’s Tarts. You’ll find all the flavors there—probably even a few new ones.”

The woman’s eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up. “Oh! I didn’t know they moved! I was looking forward to trying them again.”

Mingyu, wiping down the counter behind you, pipes in with a grin, “Yeah, you’re gonna want to head over there before the line gets longer. Trust me, it’s worth it.”

The woman glances outside, spots the line, and her face shifts to one of mild panic. “Oh god, it’s already long.”

You chuckle. “Better get in there while you can. They’re selling out fast.”

She nods quickly, a little flustered, and rushes out the door, making a beeline for the shop next door. As the door closes behind her, you share a look with Mingyu. He’s smirking, arms crossed, leaning casually against the counter like he owns the place.

“You’re really sending our customers away like that, huh?” he teases, shaking his head. “What are we gonna do when everyone’s over there?”

You roll your eyes, nudging him with your elbow. “Oh please, you know people will still come for the sweets. Besides, Jihoon’s shop is practically ours. Same team, right?”

Mingyu grins wider. “Yeah, I guess. But damn, the guy’s getting popular fast. Never thought I'd see the day where Jihoon had groupies for tarts.”

You laugh, glancing out the window again, and sure enough, more people are queuing up outside the Lee’s Tarts storefront. “I know, right? It’s kinda surreal.”

Another customer steps up to the counter, a man in a suit, adjusting his tie as he peers at the empty spot where the savory tarts used to sit. “Excuse me, do you still have those mushroom and leek tarts?”

You shake your head, smiling. 

[...]

You lean against the counter, crossing your arms and watching through the glass again. There’s something deeply satisfying about seeing people excited for Jihoon’s tarts—almost like watching a small victory unfold before your eyes. It’s hard not to feel proud.

Mingyu glances at you, brow quirked. “You think he knows how big this is yet?”

You shrug, still watching the customers flow in and out of the shop next door. “Maybe. He’s probably too busy to even think about it right now.”

Mingyu snorts, pushing off the counter. “Yeah, well, let’s just hope he doesn’t get all cocky now that he’s got his own place.”

You smile softly, shaking your head. “Nah. That’s not him. If anything, he’s probably stressing about making sure everything’s perfect.”

As if on cue, the door to the bakery next door opens, and Jihoon steps out for a quick breath of air. He’s in his apron, hair falling into his eyes, looking a little sweaty but in control. 

He glances over to your shop and catches your eye through the window. For a second, his expression softens, and he gives you a small, appreciative nod.

You wave back, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. Then, before he can get too sentimental, he’s back inside, ready to tackle the next wave of customers.

As the day wears on, the steady flow of customers in both shops never really stops. You keep handling the orders, but every once in a while, someone comes in asking for the savory tarts, and you point them next door, grinning every time at how fast Jihoon’s new shop is becoming the talk of the town.

By the end of the day, when the last customer has left and the door finally swings closed, you take a deep breath, leaning against the counter, watching the lights flicker off in Lee’s Tarts through the window. Jihoon steps out again, this time wiping his hands on his apron as he locks up for the night.

He crosses the sidewalk and steps into your bakery, looking utterly exhausted but somehow content. “Busy day?”

You smile. “You could say that. You?”

Jihoon lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Never thought tarts could be this stressful.”

You step forward, wrapping your arms around his waist in a brief hug. “Well, looks like you’re stuck with it now.”

He smiles down at you, that soft look back in his eyes as he pulls you in for a kiss—quick and sweet this time, just a little stolen moment before the work starts all over again tomorrow.

From behind the counter, Mingyu makes a gagging sound, dramatically covering his eyes. “God, you two are disgusting.”

As you roll your eyes, Jihoon leans in close, his lips brushing your ear with a low murmur. “Maybe we should celebrate... you know, properly. You, me, that freaky side you try to keep in check—let’s see if I survive tonight.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his, a smirk pulling at the corner of your lips. “Is that a challenge, Jihoon?”

He chuckles, breath hot against your skin, his hand squeezing your hip suggestively. “Only if you’re up for it. I might not walk straight after, but I’m willing to take that risk.”

[...]

The next thing you know, you're in a motel room, Jihoon having insisted that the best way to celebrate was somewhere far away from work, where neither of you had to think about baking for once.

You’re on top of him, straddling his hips, thighs caging him, riding him so hard it’s like you’ve forgotten how to go slow. The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard knocking softly against the wall with every thrust, but all you can hear is Jihoon’s moans—loud and desperate. 

His pale skin is already flushed pink, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"Fuck... you're gonna break me," he gasps out, voice strained, eyes half-lidded and desperate. His head falls back against the pillow as you ride him harder, his lips parted in a silent moan. "I can't... shit, you're too good."

You lean down, your hair falling around your faces, your lips brushing his ear as you tease, “You’re not tapping out already, are you?”

His chest heaves with each ragged breath, his hands slipping down to grip your ass, trying to hold you still for a moment, but you don’t let him. You push back against him, harder, faster, and his groan rips through the small motel room. “Fuck, I’m serious... gonna fucking break...”

“You’re the one who wanted to celebrate, remember?” You dig your nails into his shoulders, moving with an intentional grinding roll of your hips, making you two shiver at the same time. "Now take it."

He almost sobs at that, his hands tightening on your waist, his head falling back as his hips buck up into you. The noises spilling from him—those choked-off moans and heavy breaths—made your lower belly boil, making you even bolder. You grind down, angling just right, and Jihoon lets out a sound that's more a whimper than anything.

You bite your lip, holding back a laugh as you grind down harder, feeling his cock twitch inside you. “Look at you. Jihoonie, you're so fucked out. What was that about me breaking you?”

He groans loudly, squeezing his eyes shut as his hands grip your thighs tighter, knuckles white from the pressure. “Shit—”

You lean down, your mouth brushing against his ear, your voice a sultry whisper. “Maybe you’ll survive if you’re lucky.”

That’s all it takes for Jihoon to melt completely. His hands slide down your body, clenching desperately as his entire body tenses beneath you. His hips stutter, a long, ragged moan tearing from his throat as he finally cums, body trembling as he cums hard, buried deep inside you.

For a moment, you just let him ride it out, watching the way his chest heaves, eyes fluttering shut in pure bliss, his body still twitching from the orgasm. You slow your movements, giving him time to catch his breath.

When he finally opens his eyes again, they’re hazy, half-lidded with exhaustion. He looks up at you like you’ve completely destroyed him, which, to be fair, you kind of have.

“Fuck,” he breathes out. “You really are going to break me.”

You smile, leaning down to kiss him softly on the lips, your hips still gently rocking against his. “Can’t break my Jihoonie.”

He covers his face, whimpering, cheeks flushing up as if they couldnt get more red. 

“If you call me that again, I'll paint your face.”

“At least it's not my bakery.”

[...]

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching through the window as Jihoon crouched outside, focused, the spray can in his hand hissing with each stroke of paint. The tart he was working on looked almost surreal—like it could pop right out of the wall, the pastry perfectly golden, the filling a burst of deep reds and oranges, with olives vibrantly on top. It was almost too pretty for a bakery wall, but it was Jihoon, and somehow, it worked.

"You're staring again," Mingyu's voice broke through your thoughts, and you barely turned your head as he leaned against the counter beside you, his stupid teasing grin stretching across his face.

“Shut up, i'm not,” you muttered, but even you could hear the weakness in your voice. Your eyes stayed glued to Jihoon, his hands moving quickly, confidently, as he added more details to the tart. a few people stopped to admire it, heads turning as they passed by, and you could see them whispering to each other, clearly impressed. he really was talented.

“Uh-huh," Mingyu’s voice showing that he was doubting everything you say, “You know, if you’re gonna stand there drooling, you might as well just go out there and sit on his lap while he paints.”

You shot him a glare, cheeks heating up. “Mingyu, fuck off.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Oh come on, just admit it. You’ve been staring at him all week. It’s obvious. The way you look at him? Please.”

You bit your lip, eyes sliding back to Jihoon outside. He had stood up now, switching cans, his fingers stained with vibrant shades of pink and yellow. There was something about watching him work, about how focused he got—His brows furrowed, bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he leaned in close to get the details just right.

And, god, after yesterday when he finished the cake on the front of your shop… you were pretty much done for. You hadn’t even realized how long you'd been staring until he'd caught your eye, giving you that little smirk that made your stomach flip. And yeah, the way he insisted on going around the whole damn city to find the perfect pastel colors to match your aesthetic? It was sweet. Way sweeter than you wanted to admit.

Mingyu raised an eyebrow, waiting, and you let out a long, frustrated sigh, finally caving. “Fine. okay, Yes. I fucking like him. Happy now?”

His eyes widened in mock surprise, but he was clearly pleased with himself. “Oh my god, really? Who would’ve guessed?”

“Oh, shut up,” you sulked, crossing your arms tighter across your chest and turning your gaze back to Jihoon, who was now adding some final touches to the tart's crust. The sunlight hit him just right, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, the veins in his forearms as he shook the can. “I don’t even know how it happened. One second I was annoyed as hell with him, and then… Yeah. Here we are.”

Mingyu chuckled, clearly enjoying every second of this. “I think it was when he convinced you to let him spray that cake on your wall. You looked like you were about to strangle him, but then you didn’t. You just stared at him like he’d hung the moon or some shit.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t deny it. “Yeah, well… I guess it was kinda cute. He really went all out with that cake. You know he circled the whole damn city for those colors?”

“Yeah, he told me,” Mingyu said, smirking. “And now look at you, all whipped for him.”

You groaned, running a hand through your hair, trying to push down the feelings that were bubbling up again. “God, why am I even telling you this? I don’t need you making it worse.”

ou sighed, glancing out the window one more time, watching Jihoon wipe his hands on his jeans, the drawing complete. He took a step back, admiring his work, and for a second, he glanced your way, catching your eye. He raised his hand in a casual wave, a soft smile playing on his lips. Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly turned away, feeling like you’d been caught.

Mingyu raised an eyebrow at you. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.” You groaned, pushing past Mingyu to head back behind the counter. “Whatever. You’re just jealous he didn’t paint something for your store.”

Mingyu’s laughter followed you as you walked away, but as you leaned against the counter, arms still crossed, you found yourself glancing back out the window, one last time. There was no denying it anymore. You were definitely into him—his art, his focus, the way he just fit into your world without even trying.

You let out a small sigh, content, but your peaceful moment was interrupted when the door swung open hard enough to make the bell jingle a little too loudly. A group of boys walked in, street-worn and loud, carrying backpacks that were half-open, revealing cans of spray paint inside. A couple of them had skates hanging off their shoulders, and their clothes were loose, baggy, clearly not from around here—or at least, not part of the usual clientele.

You blinked, taking in the sight of them as they strolled in like they owned the place, heads bobbing to whatever beat they had going in their heads. One of them, tall with a beanie pulled low over his eyes, spotted you behind the counter and immediately grinned. “Yo, is this the spot where Jihoon’s lil' girlfriend works?”

You froze, mid-wipe, blinking silently at the question. Girlfriend? Lil’ girlfriend? Your face flushed, and you could feel the heat crawling up your neck. You quickly tried to play it cool, clearing your throat. “Uh... I don’t—what?”

The guy chuckled, his crew falling in behind him, all of them eyeing the bakery like it was some kind of alien planet. “Nah, nah, don’t play like that. We know. Jihoon said his girl runs this bakery. This is it, right?”

One of the other boys, wearing a hoodie that was about three sizes too big, pointed to the display case, leaning over the counter a bit. “Damn, y’all got those fancy-ass tarts here. Hey, you think we could get a discount? You know, 'cause we know your man and all.”

You blinked again, gulping, still processing the whole “girlfriend” thing. Flour clung to your apron and dusted your arms, and you suddenly felt a little out of place, standing there dirty from baking while these guys—who clearly rolled with Jihoon—looked way too comfortable.

“You, uh, want some tarts?” you asked, trying to change the subject, wiping your hands on your apron.

The beanie guy grinned again, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll take some. Heard you got some sweet shit in here. Hook us up, Jihoon’s girl.”

You cringed at the nickname but forced a smile, grabbing a few plates and serving up some of the sweet tarts you had left. They all watched you work, curiosity in their eyes, and you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched watched.

As you handed them their plates, another one of the boys spoke up. “Damn, I thought bakers were like... supposed to be all old and shit. You’re cute, though.”

You almost dropped the plate. “Thanks,” you muttered, cheeks turning pink as you slid the tart towards them. “Enjoy.”

“Yo, speak of the devil,” one of them interrupted, nodding toward the door as it swung open. You turned around, relieved, and there was Jihoon—sweaty, paint splattered across his arms and hands, still holding a spray can. He froze for a second, taking in the scene, his eyes narrowing at the sight of his crew huddled around the counter.

“The fuck you guys doin’ here?” Jihoon grumbled, walking in with that same grumpy look he always wore when he was caught off guard.

You could see Jihoon’s jaw clench as he approached the counter, shaking his head. “She’s not—why the fuck are you even here?”

Another one chimed in, chuckling. “We just wanted to see the spot, man! Heard it was dope.”

Jihoon stepped up next to you, placing a hand on your lower back in a subtle, protective gesture. “Get outta here, you dumbasses. This isn’t a playground.”

 “Bro, why didn’t you tell us she makes shit this good?”

Jihoon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked up to the counter. “They’re not here to cause trouble, are they?” he asked, giving you a look that was half-apologetic, half-amused.

“They’re just hungry,” you said, shaking your head, trying not to laugh at how out of place they all looked in your pastel-colored bakery. “Let them eat. I think they like the tarts.”

“They’re pretty good, right?” you teased, handing Jihoon a tart too.

One of the guys pointed his finger between you and Jihoon, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Man, your kids are gonna be so well-fed. Tarts for breakfast, lunch, and dinner!”

Jihoon almost choked on his tart, coughing as he shot the guy a glare. “Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no denying the redness creeping up his neck.

You burst out laughing, the absurdity of the situation too much to handle. “You really bring these guys everywhere, huh?”

Jihoon shook his head, embarrassed but smiling too. “I didn’t bring ‘em. They follow me like strays.”

One of the guys grinned, shoving another tart into his mouth. “Hell yeah, we do. And we gonna keep comin’ back if these tarts are free.”

You gave Jihoon a look, shaking your head with a laugh. “Let ‘em eat. They’re harmless… mostly.”

“That one,” Jihoon said, jabbing his thumb toward the high guy. “He’s the asshole who drew the giant cock on your wall.”

Your eyes widened, immediately zeroing in on the guy who was now trying to pretend he wasn’t the subject of conversation. He suddenly found the tarts very interesting, stuffing another one into his mouth to avoid your glare.

“No way,” you deadpanned, your voice dripping with disbelief. “You did that?”

The guy, mouth still full of tart, shrugged sheepishly. “Uh, it was… kinda funny though, right?”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you leaned against the counter. “Oh, hilarious,” you said, your voice thick with sarcasm. “Do you know how many old ladies came in here and gave me looks?”

He swallowed hard, looking around at his friends for backup, but they all just laughed, clearly enjoying the fact that he was getting called out. “I, uh… I’ll clean it up?” he offered, scratching the back of his head.

Jihoon snorted, shaking his head. “Too late for that, man. She already scrubbed it off.”

You shot Jihoon a look. “I scrubbed it off. With bleach. In the middle of a freakin’ heatwave.”

The guy looked genuinely guilty for a second, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “My bad, yo. Didn’t think it’d be that big of a deal…”

Jihoon laughed under his breath, clearly amused by the whole situation. “You owe her, dude.”

The guy shrugged again, looking at you with a half-apologetic, half-amused grin. “Aight, aight. My bad, lil’ bakery girl. I’ll make it up to you.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Yeah, you better,” you teased. 

“We’re definitely talking about the ‘girlfriend’ thing later.” Jihoon gave you a squeeze on your ass behind the counter, where nobody could see it.

You smirked, raising an eyebrow at him, not missing the way his eyes lingered on you just a second too long. “Oh, are we?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, his breath warm and teasing against your ear. “After I get these idiots outta here.”

[slut4jeon]

Company (jjk)

Pairing: brothers bsf!jk x fm!reader

Sypnosis: Your longtime crush who happens to be your older brothers best friends walks into you humping your pillow to the thought of him

Warnings: 18+ smut, unprotected sex, dry/pillow humping, nudity, reader has an IUD, etc…

Note: hey yawl it’s been a while… if anything sounds off jus so yk it’s not proofread :)

You’ve always carried a long crush for your older brothers bestfriend Jeon Jungkook.

Your ages being separate by 2 years, you’ve always remembered the chicks your older brother Taehyung would sneak into his room after a night out meanwhile your parents slept peacefully in their room.

As of now, this carried onto his current college days. Attending frat parties along with his best friend since childhood, Jungkook.

Your heart ached to be seen as nothing but Taehyungs younger sister to jungkook and others known to him. Especially when after those late night outs you’d come to find a chick wrapped around Jungkook’s meaty arms. You wanted jungkook to see you as a woman who harbored deep feeling for him.

And so, your decided to attend the same college as your brother. It not being that far off your home moving onto campus was not required. Unlike jungkook whose family had moved farther off from town your parents gladly took him in. Knowing him since he was a little boy they allowed him to crash in taehyungs spacious room.

This only made your crush on him worse, you were too shy to even start a conversation with him. Despite your shyness he always acknowledged your presence, never making you feel left out or ignored. Your interactions with him were limited, and every convo was initiated by him with little teases and silly remarks. He’s such a kind guy, no wonder your lingering crush only heightened with him staying in your home.

Classes were over for you and generally Taehyung was always the one to drive you home considering he had a car. A sudden message from him vibrates your phone you carry in your palm.

3:52 pm taetae: not on campus so I asked jk to give you a ride home today

great.

pulling into the campus parking in his car was jungkook, “hey, tae asked me to drive you back home for today he’s out so he’ll be back tomorrow” he said with his silver pierced charming grin

“hi, thanks for driving me back home” you said with your typical shy demeanor as you made way into the passenger seat of his car

“don’t worry about it, sweets”

oh.

That was the nickname he’d given you many many years ago cause of the constant snacking of sweets and candys. He payed notice to that then coining you the nickname “sweets”

You turned your head faced to the direction of the window to hide the rosy cheeks he gave you from pet name

Too shy to keep the conversation going jungkook spoke, bringing up school and asking about your classes. All came to an end once he pulled into the driveway of your home.

“Your brother won’t be back today, he’s spending the night with jennie today”, jungkook said while opening the refrigerator to get a class of water.

dammit.

You thought to yourself. You’re parents are out at work and don’t arrive til 9pm. So that means it’s just you and Jungkook for the meanwhile. What a mess, you figured you were gonna stay locked in your room for the remaining time until your parents got home.

“Well, I’m just gonna work on my assignments due tomarrow…”

“Alright, I’m off to the gym. In case anything happens feel free to call me, okay?”, the tattooed man said.

The muscular man did go to the gym everyday though. Usually around 4:30pm for about at least 2 hours.

“Okay” last thing said between you two before grabbing his gym bag and making his way out the door.

“Hey Jungkook?”

“Yea?”

“Thanks for looking out for me”, this time you held onto the eye contact made between both irises. Making sure to illuminate your gratitude to him.

He offered you a grin from his silver pierced lips, “no problem, sweets”

You could not get Jungkook out of your head. It was impossible to focus on your assignments without thinking about the tall raven hair tattooed man with the bunny smile. He lingered your mind, causing stress.

Closing your MacBook and tossing it aside you decided to relieve this aching stress that invaded your mind but also the lingering ache between your legs.

You rid yourself of your clothing only remaining in your cropped tank and underwear.

Positioning your pillow between your legs in which your body hovered over you made onto your pillow searing yourself upon it.

Arching your back and you rocked your hips back and forth onto the wrinkled textured fabric of the pillow. The lacy panties you were currently wearing added to the ecstasy. Following the flow of movement adding friction and pressure to your needy clit.

“mhhpp, fuck” gasping out while you retracted your head back then forward.

The layered front strands of your mid length hair covered your face due the continuous movement of your head. Tucking them back behind your ear once again.

“j-jungkook! s’good, feels so good…” you desperate whined as you chased your high.

Gripping onto the pillow leaving your knuckles white due to the pressure of squeezing while leaning forward.

Your pillowy nipples lacked attention, your fingers latched onto the buds from the outside of your tank. You weren’t wearing a bra so the thin shirt was the only separation between your calloused fingers and hardened buds.

Getting rid of your shirt and panties you were bare entirely. Your only audience being the plushies corner of your bed watching the show you gave them.

Is what you thought, too oblivious and deep into your own world to have heard the sound of the car pulling up into the drive way, to have heard the sound of the front door opening and footsteps. To have noticed the presence of the same man whose name you constantly let slip past your moaning lips watching you reach your high on your pillow at the thought of him.

He watched your ass jiggle at the rapid movement of your hips, along with the movement of your breasts The way your face contorted into an expression of pleasure with your teeth biting onto the plump of your lips. The sight in front of him had his length twitching in the gray sweats he changed into before leaving the gym.

“g’na cum, please let me cum…fuck jungkook need it so bad!” you desperately expressed.

At the final rock of your hips you released, a shivering orgasm causing you to rip a pitched whine.

The movement of your hips lessened as you rode out your orgasm. Tired and worn out after that workout your head began to wander off.

Until.

“Quite the performance you showed off there” your heart dropped

There he was. The same man that you’d been rubbing your pussy against your pillow at the thought of watched you get off.

“Jungkook!” you wanted the ground to swallow you whole at this very moment.

Quickly grabbing into your discarded clothing at an attempt to cover your bare body. Unaware of what to say in explanation to the presence in front of you.

“I-I…”

No words could come out or your mouth as you watched Jungkook walk towards you with a darkened expression.

Removing the piece of clothing from your grip at attempt of concealing yourself. His eyes remained at your bare figure. Tempted at the sight of your hardened nipples, goosebumps covered your skin.

“Fucking hell, look at you. Getting off to the thought of me? You’re so damn cute…”

The eye contact made you aware of the glint in his eyes, a message he was trying to convey.

“Jungkook?” you quietly questioned

“You gonna let me do what I want with you, hm? Is that what you want?”

Your eyes remaining in contact with his glistening ones, you nod your head in response.

That was all it took from jungkook to commect your lips with his. Hungrily capturing your mouth, sloppily stuffing his tongue down your throat causing him to groan and you to whimper at his roughness.

“Open your legs, baby. Show me how wet your pussy is”, you obeyed and showed him your glistening folds lathered in your cum.

Taking his tattooed hand and gathering the substance on his fingers he brought them to his mouth. The taste of your discharge coated his tongue as he cleaned it from his fingers.

“Fuck, you’re as sweet as your nickname. You sure live up to it”, he said as he continue to lick clean his slick coated fingers.

Your fingers inched towards the hem of his sweats, encircling the strands of the waistline.

“What is it you want, sweets?

“You.”

“Take me out, baby” fuck, that practically confirmed to you he was hiding a big package under there.

Lowering his sweats his hardened cock sprung free from the confided layer of fabric.

Taking his length in your palm toward your warm mouth to lubricate it with your saliva. Jerking him off in a up and down motion earning you grunts and groans from him.

“Just like that, fuck…keep doing that n I’ll cum” he gritted out.

Pushing you onto the soft surface of the bed you watched as he removed his clothing. You admired his muscular physique, the gym really did pay off.

“Are you really sure about this?”

“Yes, I’m sure” confirming.

“Condom?”

“It’s okay I’m on an IUD, I’ll take an after pill tomorrow”, reassuring him

He hovered over your body, hiding in the crevice of your neck to leave a few pecks while aligning his length to your heat.

Your chest heaved deeply as you exhaled, the slight burn of his size rubbing toward your tight walls ignited pleasure.

“mhpm! j-jungkook..” wrapped arms on his back as he thrusted in you, increasing the pace as you let out more moans and whimpers.

“I know, baby…ya’ feel so good, so warm n’ tight”, he cooed.

At sudden movement his arms then wrapped around your thighs hoisting you up while the relentless abuse to your cunt never stopped.

“Ahh! f-fuck! Jungkook!”, Now in the standing missionary position, he was in deeper than you’ve ever experienced. The motion of his hips thrusting at an unforgivable pace, all that was heard was the sound of his balls smacking against your sopping pussy filling the entire room.

“shit, m’ gonna cum”

“m-me too..” your climax right on the edge.

With that both of you reached your highs, his thrusts began slowing down to ride out the climax. Both the mixture of your cum riding from his abdomen down his leg.

Laying you down on the soft surface of your bed with his cock still soft in you. Enjoying each other’s company as you laid in his embrace.

“Jungkook, are you gonna tell?” you innocently say with genuine concern written on your face.

“Now why would I do that? I’ve been waiting for this moment for quite a long while now. Why? Do you not want this?”

“No, I do! But when you say you’ve been waiting for this moment for quite a while now, what outcome do you expect to come from this? Taehyung will find out sooner or later and it’ll get messy.” your questioned further anticipated his response.

He let out a sigh, “you see sweets, I’ve envisioned this moment to occur, I’ve gotten off at the thought of you just like you showed off earlier. I want you just as bad….” he admits.

“I don’t see you as just my best friends younger sister, I see you as much more”

“Jungkook?” fuck, he’s worried. What if the feelings are mutual as what he initially believed they were? What if we only meant it to be a quick fuck?

“Hm?” Oh well.

“I see you as much more too”, you don’t know where this sudden burst of confidence came out but this weight you’ve been carrying has been lifted after your confession, you feel more at ease.

Both your gazes locked in with one another. Both leaning into each other as your mouths then mounded into one.

The kiss was deep and passionate, although you both have confessed your mutual feelings for each other, there’s something different about it. Feeling more as acceptance and comfort.

“The things you do to me y/n, you don’t get it”.

“You’re mine, all mine”

Pt 2?

[endless-ineffabilities]

chemical override (10)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: as dictated by the results of poll #6, this chapter will include stunt training, clubbing, and an accident. Plus, you've got tub anon to thank for... well... the tub scene :) Oh, and this is kind of 18+. Just a tad.

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

Matt and the reader eagerly explore the uncharted waters of their budding relationship. Ewan is booked and busy with the preparation for his new franchise. Will Ewan and his darling even find time for each other, or should they just take this opportunity to let go?

The internet, ever so informative, lets you know that Ewan and Jenna’s arrangement is in its initial stages before he even calls to tell you. 

Their first interview with Josh Horowitz is immediately followed by another feature on the movie set, with the two talking about the pre-production, what they liked about the script, and their chemistry, which according to them, came naturally and did not require much work at all. It was practically the thing they had to work on the least. How lucky. 

A lighthearted reprieve came in the form of a meme that started circulating not long after their interview with Josh. In it, Ewan is caught looking like he's either malfunctioning or deep in a philosophical crisis. The internet ran with it, with captions like, ‘When you realise you left the oven on at home’, to comparing him to an NPC glitching out.

When you asked him about it, he quickly stammered that he simply spaced out. Sure. It was hilarious, nonetheless.

Your publicist Mallory had commented that soon Ewan and Jenna would be obliged to go on pap walks, something that would appear casual and separate from the confines of the project that they’re working on. Something that signals that their relationship is making it into the real world.

“That whole casual ‘just friends hanging out’ vibe they’re gonna push? It’s all part of the gig,” Mallory shared. “Next thing you know, they’ll be taking long walks on the beach or grabbing coffee in some trendy LA spot.”

You’d be lying if you said it didn’t sting. Even just a little. Sure, you know what the business is like. You’ve been on the same end of that deal just recently, with your own film’s PR efforts. But this arrangement that Ewan has doesn’t seem like the usual short-term fling to drum up buzz. It feels… heavy, like something that might actually stick.

“I’d be lying if I say I don’t find it all annoying, darling, but I try to look at it now as part of the job, you know?” he had said, when he phoned you one evening – his afternoon – to let you know that his stay in LA would be much longer than expected. 

You responded with, “Oh, yeah, I completely understand.” What else can you do? You aren’t together – you don’t have a claim to him, and vice versa. You thought that would make things better – easier – but you’re still waiting for that sense of comfort to kick in.

This is for the best, you would remind yourself every time a new headline surfaces. 

It’s only been a month since you last properly saw Ewan, since that night on the rooftop. In the early days, he messaged every day, called whenever he had a spare moment. But slowly, the calls have become shorter, more sporadic – chalked up to his increasingly busy schedule. Your tones have become more dispassionate – he blames it on his exhaustion, profusely swearing that he misses you so fucking much, but something feels different. 

Your job keeps you busy, with your commitments related to the new season of House of the Dragon, event appearances, and gearing up for the release of your film with Jacob. You are even invited to the upcoming Vanity Fair Young Hollywood Ball, an exclusive party to be held in New York.

And Matt is a more than welcome distraction. 

Matt, who has begun spending more time in your apartment after Ewan’s temporary move to LA. Matt, who brings you flowers that are apparently ‘beautiful, but pales in comparison to you’. Matt, who is unfailingly a gentleman, respecting your boundaries and not making a move since that time on your couch after your first date, when you told him to wait. 

He sits with you by your kitchen counter, in a disarmingly tight white shirt that leaves little to the imagination, one sturdy hand nursing a cup of coffee and the other on the small of your back to support you as you sit on the high stool, and you suddenly don’t want him to wait anymore. 

“Have you decided on what you’ll be wearing to the screening tonight, love?” he asks. 

“Why? Does it have to be pre-approved?” you playfully quip, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Ah,” he nods, smiling, playing along, “of course, of course. You think I’m an easy man to date? You’ve got to keep up with my standards, as beautiful as you already are.”

You laugh, playfully mussing his hair, and he catches your wrist before it drops back on the counter. He says, “I ask because I wanted to match you, so to speak. We’d be like two peas in a pod.”

“Oh,” you snort softly, “or you know, like Tweedledee and Tweedledum?”

“Funny girl,” he muses, before leaning forward and capturing your lips in a soft kiss, caffeinated and warm and Matty. You notice that his hand on your back is pressed firmer – he didn’t want you to slip when you leaned in. 

Charming bastard. He isn’t making things any easier… or maybe he is. 

Maybe he’s it. 

But the moment’s broken by a loud, offended-sounding meow. You look down to see Sansa, staring at Matt like he’s personally responsible for all the world’s problems.

“Hey, babygirl,” Matt croons, extending a hand toward her. Sansa, the biggest diva of a kitten, just gives him a slow blink before trotting off, clearly unimpressed.

“Calling her babygirl isn’t going to make her warm up to you,” you tease.

“She already doesn’t seem to like me,” he replies, scoffing. “Which is a shock, pretty much, how can she not?”

“So humble, Matthew.” You smile at his effortless charm, his easy personality. That’s all you seem to be doing nowadays. Matt is like your personal ray of sunshine. 

“I’ll win her over,” he declares confidently, sitting upright. “Anything for my lady.”

You roll your eyes. “How very Daemon of you.”

“Actually,” he laughs, “Daemon would probably feed her to Caraxes for being difficult.”

“Matthew!”

“I’m kidding!”

Sansa meows even louder, bounding away towards your bedroom. 

“Leave my Sansa alone,” you say, pointing at him accusingly.

He gives you a sly grin. “I will… if you come here and give me another kiss.”

Before you can respond, he slides your stool closer to his with a smooth movement, catching you off guard. You find yourself practically in his lap, his thighs pressing against yours as he waits, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Okay,” you sigh deeply, narrowing your eyes, unable to mask the smile that graces your lips. “One kiss, but only for Sansa.”

“Oh, shush and kiss me already, love.”

The film screening had been a private event, by invitation only from those who worked on the film. Edward Bluemel, Matt’s good friend, is a fellow actor marking his directorial debut with this film. For a first go, it was impressive, gripping from start to finish. Almost as much as Matt’s hand resting just above your knee, his thumb absentmindedly tracing soft circles into your skin.

Your cheeks had flushed when a particularly steamy scene came on the screen, and it might have been the nervous gremlins in your mind, but you swore Matt’s hand inched higher up your leg.

Now, on your couch, his hand is even higher. He hovers over you, his breath heavy and uneven as his fingers tease at the warmth between your thighs, so close to where you’re already aching for him. 

Maybe it was all the dirty martinis you drank at the open bar after the screening, or maybe this was a long time coming. Either way, you want him, and from the way his lips move urgently against yours, he wants you too.

It dawns on you that the tension is no longer something you can talk yourself out of.

He pulls away, and you protest with a mewling whine, your body arching into him. He nearly growls in frustration, the unspeakable sound you just made having a direct line to his hardened cock. With a gentle tug at the nape of his neck, you pull him back down to your lips, but he resists. 

“We have to slow down,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Because we’re about to cross a line that I won’t be able to hold back from, love.”

“Matt – ”

“I understand – ” He licks his lips, letting out a slow and controlled breath. “ – that you want to wait – ”

Your confession comes out slow and measured, letting him know that this is what you really want. “Maybe I don’t want… to wait anymore.”

“Say that again,” he says slowly, his eyes darkening in lust. 

“Maybe I… I want you to fuck me.”

“Maybe?” he whispers, his voice rough, practically pleading.

“Oh, just fuck me.”

That’s all it takes for him to snap.

He undresses you in record time, ripping off every item of clothing from your body with an eagerness that betrays just how hungry he is for you.

Neither of you even bother to travel to your bedroom. At some point, your entwined naked bodies slip off the couch and onto your plush carpet. 

And you have a heated… What was it called again? 

Oh right – a damn good roll in the hay. 

The water is still warm in your deep clawfoot tub, steam rising gently from the surface. You lean back, head resting against the porcelain, that blissful post-sex daze settling over you. 

Matt slides into the water opposite you, his movements slow, deliberate. His eyes haven’t left you since he stepped in, and you can feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your skin. It isn’t just the remnants of your earlier intimacy – though that heat still hummed in the air between you – it’s something more. Something you can’t name and maybe you’re afraid to, but it tugs at you all the same.

A small smile plays on his lips, the kind that made your chest tighten – half teasing, half dangerous.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks, voice low and smooth.

You exhale a soft laugh, running your fingers lazily through the water, trailing small ripples across the surface. “I’m not exactly complaining, am I?”

“Good. Wouldn’t want you to have second thoughts.” His tone is light, but the undercurrent of meaning isn’t lost on you.

You close your eyes, letting the warm water soothe your tired muscles, but even with the comfort of the bath, you can’t quite escape the one person lingering in the back of your mind. 

Matt isn’t Ewan, but he’s here, his presence steady, his charm disarming. He makes you laugh, makes you feel wanted in ways that are simple and uncomplicated, and maybe that’s what you need right now. Maybe it was okay to let yourself enjoy this, to live in this moment without overthinking what it meant.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Matt asks, leaning forward.

You open your eyes, catching the glint of amusement in his. “Just... thinking.”

“Dangerous territory,” he teases, reaching for your hand.

“Hmm, maybe,” you murmur, meeting his gaze. “You’re too charming for your own good, you know that?”

He chuckles deeply. “I’ve been told. But I like to think it’s part of my appeal.”

You roll your eyes, though you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Cocky bastard.”

He grins, leaning in even closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “Takes one to know one.” His hand travels to your leg underneath the water, massaging gently.

“I’m serious, though,” he says softly, his voice taking on a more earnest tone. “I don’t want you overthinking this. We’re good, yeah?”

You nod, but there is a flicker of something else in your chest. Guilt, maybe? But Matt is right here, and he isn’t asking for anything more than what you could give, and for now, that is more than enough.

“We’re good,” you whisper, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips.

He smiles against your mouth, his hand moving to cup the back of your neck, pulling you in closer. “Good,” he whispers back, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

You laugh, the sound muffled as he kisses you again and positions you on top of him. You shuffle forward and discover a very obvious indication that he’s ready for round two of rolling in the hay. Or in the tub. Whatever works. 

He looks absolutely enraptured when you ride him, your motions causing tremors in the water. 

And in the sheer pleasure he gives you, surrounded by flickering candlelight and the smell of lavender, you allow yourself to let go.

The event has the industry buzzing - an exclusive event by Vanity Fair celebrating the rising stars of Hollywood. A masquerade party, the notion of which excited you to no end. You’d only read about such in books, in its medieval iterations, all poofy skirts and velvet waistcoats, the whole concept full of prestige and mystery. 

You spent days prepping with your team, the anticipation building until it felt like a living thing inside you. Your dress, a beautiful piece from Atelier Versace, fits like a glove, one side made of draped black sequins shimmering like liquid night against your skin. The theme is Midnight Elysium, and you look every bit the part - dangerous and glamourous and untouchable. 

Your makeup team did an impeccable job. Your eyeshadow resembles a swirling galaxy, a blend of silver and noir. Your lipstick is a perfect nude shade that matches your skin tone and your features.  

But then there was the mask. The final, necessary touch. Delicate black lace that settles over your eyes, framed with gold filigree and flecks of silver – sharp and ethereal at once. It was a piece of art, something you personally commissioned from a local designer in your hometown.

In a room where everyone claims to know everyone, a mask can be more than just a costume piece. It can be a weapon – giving you the freedom to be both seen and unseen. 

Stepping into the nightclub is like slipping in between worlds. Black velvet drapes line the walls, catching the glow of the minimal lighting – gold and silver chandeliers hanging like constellations. The bass from the music pulses underfoot, sending vibrations through your veins. Faces are obscured by extravagant masks, but you are able to recognise some of them if you look close enough. Milly is speaking to someone by the bar, and you remind yourself to pull her aside for a chat later. Timothee is introducing his date to a small flock of people. And Jacob is bounding right for you the moment you make eye contact. 

“There’s my leading lady,” he greets cheerfully, swooping down to kiss you on both cheeks. He’s wearing a metallic silver vest and trousers, along with a white mask that covers one side of his face like The Phantom.

“Wow,” you say, making a show of appraising him, looking at all 6 foot 5 inches of his figure up and down. “You look like a handsome disco ball.”

He laughs, the sound unmistakable even in the bustling nightclub. “And look at you! What are you, a cyberpunk witch? A sleek dominatrix?” 

“Careful now,” you warn him, “or I might just hex you into getting me a drink.”

“Coming right up,” he says, but his attention is pulled by someone calling his name. “Hold on a sec, I have to introduce you to some of my friends.” You let him lead you further into the room, and you’re swept into the rhythm of it all, moving through the crowd as if you belong – because you do. You’re slowly getting used to the weight of eyes on you, but tonight, it feels as if there’s a shadow you can’t quite shake. 

Your personal shadow in a room full of masked shadows. Your skin prickles, an awareness blooming under your ribs. In all the fuss leading up to this event, you hadn’t really bothered to check the full roster of attendees.

After several rounds of conversation, you excuse yourself for a moment and stand off to the side to take a breather. 

And then you see him.

Ewan stands across the room, a drink in hand, his black leather overcoat tailored to perfection. The mask he wears, a sharp cut of black and gold, adds a dangerous air to him. His effortlessly tousled hair sports a smattering of gold embellishments, like streaks of pale blonde hair. You take him in, every inch of him, that mischievous curve of his lips and the glint of his blue eyes underneath that mask. 

It hits you like a tidal wave, like a fucking hurricane, the longing you’ve tried to suppress for weeks. 

You shouldn’t want him this much, not when you both agreed to the break. To keep some distance. His fake romantic arrangement had made sure of that. And after everything, you knew that some separation was what you both needed. 

But seeing him now, looking at you like he’s starving… it’s enough to unravel every careful thread you’d stitched together since you last touched. You want to look away, pretend that this is just another night, that he’s just another fellow actor among the crowd. But the pull is too strong. It’s as if your legs move on their own volition, and you slowly move through the crowd, almost subconsciously drawn to him. 

He steps deeper into the shadows of the club as you approach, disappearing into one of the more secluded alcoves draped in heavy black velvet. No one will see you there. No one will know any better.

The world narrows down to just the two of you, and the music becomes a distant hum. It’s quieter, darker, and for all the trappings of the Hollywood elite, Ewan is far more intoxicating. 

“You’re here,” you whisper, half in question, half in disbelief.

But he’s already moving towards you, his eyes dark and hungry behind the mask. The air between you crackles with an undeniable need – weeks of distance, of longing, building up to this moment. He’s close enough that you feel the warmth of his body through your dress, and you so badly want to forget that this is a bad idea.

“I can’t stay away,” he says, his voice low and raw, like it’s costing him to hold back. “Not tonight.”

You swallow, your heart pounding in your chest, every rational thought slipping away as his fingers skim the bare skin of your waist through the slits in your dress. “We… we can’t,” you manage to say, but even to your own ears, it sounds weak. Oh, who are you trying to fool?

“How can I not? Fuck, how can you look like that and expect me to just walk away?”

You want to say something, something sensible, something to remind him of the stakes. But nothing comes to mind, not when his hand brushes up your arm, raising goosebumps in its wake. His other hand slips to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you. He dips his head down, breathing against your shoulders and your neck, taking you in like a vice. 

“Ewan,” you finally croak. “We agreed not to – ”

“I don’t bloody care,” he cuts you off, his mouth inches from yours. “We agreed to give it some time, sure, but I never agreed to stop wanting you. Besides, I make good on what’s asked of me. I play the part. I deserve to be rewarded, don’t I? And you’re the only prize I desire.”

His words hit you hard, melting any resistance you’d been clinging to. 

“Oh? So… so I’m just a prize now?”

He only smiles. “The only one worth winning.”

Before you can think, before you can stop yourself, you pull him closer and crash your lips into his. 

The kiss is hard, fierce, his mouth feverishly attacking yours. He tastes bittersweet, all hard bourbon and cigarettes. You’re certain that the lipstick your makeup artist painstakingly applied would be wiped clean off. His hands grip you harder, fingers digging into your flesh, pulling you closer, deeper, like he can’t get enough.

You break apart, gasping for breath. His lips are slick, shining in the occasional flicker of neon blue and red lights, his mask casting shadows across his sharp features.

A bright flash from the party's official photographer erupts in the corner, thankfully not pointed in your direction. Still, it momentarily shakes both of you back to reality. 

“Come with me.” His hand slips into yours, fingers curling possessively as he pulls you away from the cacophony of the club. You barely have time to react before you’re being led down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. He pushes open a door, leading you into a smaller room bathed in that same cold, electric blue. Plush seating is arranged haphazardly in the corners, but the space is mostly empty. The low hum of the bass still thrums in the distance, but it’s reduced to a faint echo. The smell gives off cigarette smoke and spilled liquor.

“Smoking area,” he says with a half-smirk, glancing around the room as if seeing it for the first time himself. “I think.”

“You think?” You raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs, utterly unconcerned. “Who cares? It’s just us in here.”

You shoot him a look, glancing back at the door. “Someone could walk in.”

He chuckles, stepping closer, that familiar heat radiating off him like a furnace. “It’s a party, darling. They’re probably wasted out of their minds. And besides…” He taps the edge of his mask, his eyes glinting mischievously behind the black and gold. “The masks?”

You bite your lip, trying to maintain some semblance of control. “And if someone does walk in?” you ask, arching a brow. “What then?”

He steps closer, crowding into your space, the tension thick between you. “Then they get a show,” he says, his voice playful and teasing, but laced with something darker. 

“Are you fucking serious?” 

“You can still walk away, darling,” he offers, trying to bait you when he knows full well that he already has you hooked. “Or, you can just shut up and kiss me.”

So much for giving it time. Ewan’s lips find yours once more, just as desperate, and you barely notice when he directs you to the seating, your back colliding with its velvet exterior. His low groan sends a wave of heat pooling in your stomach, and you think to yourself, this was a terrible idea. 

Your hands roam, finding the planes of his chest. He smoothly takes off his leather overcoat, revealing his bare torso underneath. The sight of it makes your head spin, and you croak unsteadily, “Ewan… not here, baby, we can’t – ”

“I know, darling,” he croons, his hand cradling your face. “I just wanna kiss you. I just want you… to touch me…” His other hand takes yours and drags it down the firm lines of his stomach, a desperate plea in his eyes. “Please, just – ”

The moment is abruptly shattered by the sound of giggling from the hallway, getting louder. Suddenly, the door opens and in stumbles a pair of girls, one of them you recognise to be Jenna. 

“Oh!” The other girl exclaims, clearly delighted by the situation she’s just walked into. She pulls off her mask, revealing herself as Emma Myers. “We found him! We finally found your date.”

Your heart plummets, right down on the liquor stained carpet.

“Hi,” you manage to squeak, getting to your feet and smoothing down your dress which had ridden scandalously higher up your thighs. “I’m – ”

“Oh, I know who you are,” Jenna says, shaking your hand, not the least bit bothered by the state she found you and Ewan in. “I love your work. I’m Jenna.”

“Oh… thank you – ”

Emma steps in, grinning. “Hi! I’m Emma. I’m such a fan.”

“Oh my god, I should be saying that to you guys!” you blurt, feeling a rush of relief at their easy demeanour. “I love Wednesday.”

They both gasp, and soon the three of you are exchanging compliments like old friends, chatting about each other's work with enthusiasm. Ewan, still seated, watches the scene unfold with barely concealed frustration. He eventually stands, shrugging his leather coat back on, and glances at Jenna.

“One of our producers is here,” Jenna explains cheerfully. “She’d love to chat with both of us.”

Right. Ewan’s her date. The word echoes in your mind, but the jealousy you expected to feel is oddly muted now. 

Ewan speaks, addressing only you, “Darling, will you – ”

“I’ve got her,” Emma declares, looping her arm around yours. “I’ve got so much I want to ask you!” Before you know it, she leads you out of the room like you’ve been best friends for years.

Ewan’s eyes stay on you, full of frustration and yearning, even as he and Jenna follow you out the door.

But you barely see him for the rest of the night.

The party is a blur of celebrities and conversations, but your mind keeps drifting back to that stolen moment in the blue-lit room. Eventually, your social battery runs out, and you slip out of the club early, unnoticed by most. 

Back at your hotel, you peel off your dress and drop onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as the events of the night replay in your head. The feeling of his hands on your skin, the heat of his body pressed against yours – it’s all too much.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, snapping you out of your thoughts. Ewan One-Eye flashes across the screen.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen, but you pick up. His voice is low, almost cautious. “You left early.”

“I was tired,” you reply, voice soft. “The party was great but it was... a lot.” Mainly because of him.

A beat of silence follows, and you wonder if he's wrestling with what to say next. “Are you okay?” You can almost picture him running a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, eyes dark with worry. 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you say, unable to hide the tremble in your voice. 

Another long pause, with only his slow breathing on the other end. 

“I hate this,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper, the raw emotion in his words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “I fucking hate that he gets to have you, and I don’t… and I can’t… ” He cuts himself off, and you hear the snap of his lighter followed by his sharp exhale.

You bite your lip, your throat tight with emotion. You’ve both been so careful, dancing around each other, pretending that you could stay apart.

“I’m flying back to London tomorrow night,” you blurt out, the words rushing out before you can stop them. It feels like a confession, like you’re admitting defeat.

“I need to see you before you go.”

“Ewan, we agreed – ”

“Fuck what we agreed!” His sudden outburst takes you by surprise, and you hear the raw need in his voice. “I don’t care about the arrangement, I don’t care about the distance. I just... I need you.”

You want to tell him that you need him too. You want to throw caution to the wind and agree to being together in secret despite the false romance he has to portray to the world. But you can’t. 

“I...” Your voice falters. “We’ll see each other soon.” It doesn’t feel like enough. With a soft sigh, you add on a lighter note, “Alyna still has to kick Aemond’s ass, you know.”

A beat passes, and then you hear his tired laugh on the other end. “Right,” he chuckles softly, the sound both comforting and heartbreaking. “Wouldn’t want to keep the fans waiting for that.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, trying for casual, trying not to let your voice crack, “someone’s got to put Aemond in his place.”

“Hmm, well if that place happens to be right in Alyna’s arms, I doubt you’ll hear any complaints about the script from me this time.”

You can’t help but smile at his teasing, but it only deepens the ache in your heart.

“Ewan…” you begin, but the words hang in the air, unspoken. 

“I know, darling,” he replies, his tone resigned yet gentle. “I miss you too.”

The training room is alive with the sounds of clashing swords and laughter, but you can’t help but feel a different kind of electricity buzzing in the air. Maybe it’s just the way Matt looks at you, as you rehearse a scene where Daemon helps Alyna brush up on her sword fighting. 

You lunge forward, initiating the first move with confidence, and he counters effortlessly, the blades clashing in a symphony of steel. The practice moves are intense, each swing bringing you closer. His eyes darken with focus as he follows your movements, and for a moment, it becomes easy to forget the rest of the stunt crew in the room. 

“Nice footwork,” Matt compliments, stepping in closer. His body brushes against yours, sending a rush of heat through you. Ever since your night together, he has only been more brazen with his affections. “But you’re leaving yourself open here.” He demonstrates, his sword brushing against your side as he adjusts your stance.

“There,” he says, his voice dropping lower, “feel that?” You swallow nervously, grateful that the stunt coordinator had moved on to Harry in the far side of the room.

“I think I might be too open,” you manage to say, trying to keep your tone light.

“Maybe,” Matt murmurs, stepping back slightly but keeping his gaze locked on yours. “But I can’t help but want to close the distance.”

As you move through the choreography, you both fall into a rhythm, and almost inevitably, the fight turns into something more playful. You circle each other, exchanging faux blows and laughter, the distracting banter causing the stunt director to approach and get you both back on track. 

Next up, you have to train for Alyna’s pivotal scene where she attempts to mount Caraxes as per Daemon’s command. 

As you practice the mounting technique on the mechanical dragon, you’re hyper-aware of every movement. The crew watches closely, ready to offer guidance. You grip the handles tightly, adrenaline coursing through your veins, and for a brief moment, you lose yourself in the character, feeling the thrill of the scene.

But then it happens. The Buck jolts unexpectedly, throwing you off balance. Time seems to slow as you feel yourself slipping. You try to brace for impact, but it’s too late. You land hard, the pain shooting through your ankle as it twists at an unnatural angle.

There is a stinging sensation too, by the side of your head, and all you think is – oh fuck. The world around you fades to a blur, just as chaos erupts.

When you finally regain consciousness, the sterile scent of antiseptic fills your nostrils. Your surroundings come into focus slowly, and your heart races when you realise you’re in a hospital room. The steady beep of a monitor is the only sound, punctuated by the faint rustle of fabric.

You feel his hand on yours before your eyes even land on his figure, slumped on a chair beside your bed. His head rests on his shoulder, his grip still lightly holding your hand. His brow is furrowed in worry, even in sleep. 

You feel lightheaded, and for a moment you worry that your concussion might be worse than it is, but no. It's just him. 

Then, the sound of your movement catches his attention. He stirs, his eyes fluttering open, and when he meets your gaze, relief instantly washes over his features. 

“Love… you’re awake.”

Taglist: @namelesslosers @skymoonandstardust @valyrianflower @luckyfirebasement @omgsuperstarg @elissanatok @callsignwidow @sinistersnakey49 @darkwriteracademia @yyrzmomo @queenofshinigamis @luvaerina @shamelessblazecrown @mirandastuckinthe80s @elleinex0x0 @pierrotlu @aegonswife @strangersunghoon @lunampacheco @writer-ann-artist @gaiaea @of-swords-and-words @ateliefloresdaprimavera @m00n5t0n3 @helaenaluvr @peachysunrize @annie-ruk @luvly-writer @ananas26t @athenafaes @lovelyteenagebeard @mamawiggers1980 @moongirl27 @katherine93 @barnes70stark @justbelljust @cloudroomblog @somestufftoday @esposadomd @girl-in-the-chairs-void @insideyourimagination @vyctorya @wildrangers @onlyrealjoy @hotdismylife @thepurplecrown @just-fics-station @clarkysblog @urmomsgirlfriend1 @misfitbimbosblog (continued in comments ... )

Some notes in the margins...

Well, well, well. Yous were convinced that Matty would get the clubbing scene, helped by the red herring of his dancing video. Alas!

Is that Matty at the end there? Or a certain Mitchelly man? Hmm... one wonders. 💖

Complaints? Refund requests? Please direct your thoughts in the comments section below. I can 100% guarantee a satisfying solution. Or 70%.

Or, you know, bugger it. We're all in this together, better or worse ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

[stunie]

UMEMIYA’S SHAZAM! — sfw ﾉ fluff ﾉ umemiya hajime x f!reader ﾉ entry for @melon-fodder / bofurin brothel’s music collab!! ﾉ in which a certain white haired stranger comes to you for some help…

Your routine has stayed the same from the day you moved to Makochi. You’d say good morning to Kotoha at 7:30 AM. Eat breakfast at Pothos and enjoy a quick cup of coffee. And by 8:30, you’re already out the door and heading to work.

It’s not every day that a stranger startles you the way this one did. Your headphones are dangling around your neck now, hands lingering over them as you stare back at him. Wide-eyed and taken aback. Your music continues playing, and you can still hear it.

Maybe that’s why you didn’t hear him approach you.

“I really, really need your help!” He sits beside you, hands clasping together to plead. “You heard it, right?”

“Y-you scared me.” Your brows furrow. “My heart’s racing— you shouldn’t run up to people with headphones in and yell for help! I thought you were hurt.”

It seems to dawn on him suddenly. “Oh, you do have headphones in! No wonder you didn’t hear me earlier.” He lets out a sheepish laugh and rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry! I didn’t notice. You look so pretty— I completely missed it.”

You blink. “Me? Pretty?”

“Yeah.” He tilts his head a bit and looks at you. “Pretty.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that you’re not even sure how to respond. “O-oh. Thank you.”

The man in front of you gives you a bright smile at this. A little too wide— as if he’s confused as to what you’re even thanking him for.

“So..” you fiddle with your headphones. “What did you need help with? It sounded urgent.”

“Ah!” He perks up again. “I almost forgot. I really liked the last song that was playing. Did you hear it? I can’t find it..”

“Oh,” you almost laugh at how he’s already forgotten that you had headphones in for the second time that morning. “Sorry. I didn’t hear it. Did you catch any of the lyrics? I can try to guess.. if you want.”

“Eh? You can do that?”

You nod.

“I’ll sing it!” He’s much closer to you now. If he notices, he doesn’t seem to acknowledge it. You start to think he’s just a really oblivious guy, but it’s not a bad thing.

You think he’s cute.

You watch him with a small smile when he clears his throat, humming in thought as he tries to recall the lyrics of the song he heard. “Hm.. okay, okay. I remember.”

“Listen closely,” he smiles. “It goes like… mmmm. mmmm mmm… and I’ll sacrifice!”

Sacrifice? That doesn’t sound like Kotoha’s playlist.

The laugh slips past your lips before you even realize it. It catches you off guard— and the confused look he gives you only makes you laugh even harder. “Sorry, sorry, ah!” You cover your mouth with the back of your hand when it comes back ten times worse.

You’re forced to hunch over the table now. Completely oblivious to the way his eyes widen at how cute you sound. You look even prettier when you’re like this. But he doesn’t need to tell you that, does he?

It’s so obvious. That’s why he was confused earlier. You already know all this, don’t you? Warmth starts creeping up his cheeks the longer you laugh at him, and his lips feel a little wobbly now.

“Hey…” a crooked smile tugs at his lips when you try to apologize through a giggle again. “How mean. And here I was asking for help!”

You weakly slide your phone in his direction. “I think this should be the song…otherwise,” your voice cracks and you take in a sharp inhale to resist the urge to laugh again. “Otherwise I really have no idea.”

“Ah, so you do know! Old Love? By… hm… Putri Dahlia and Yuji. Okay. Old Love. Old Love!” He nods before standing up abruptly. “You’re the best, you know that? Thank you!”

“You’re welcome.” It’s the calmest your voice has sounded in the last two minutes. “Don’t scare other people on your way out.”

He gives you an eager nod before leaving, and you slip your headphones back on. He never even gave you his name, did he? You’re also not entirely certain if he would be taking your advice, but at least this time it wouldn’t be you getting jumpscar—

“Hey!” You almost spit out your food. “No way. I scared you again? You scare pretty easily, huh?”

This time, it’s his turn to start laughing, and you note that this is the third time he’s forgotten about your headphones in the span of fifteen minutes. Not that telling him again would help.

“This is for you. I almost forgot.” He drops a folded piece of paper into your hands. “My number! Oh- you can call me Umemiya.”

He points to the paper. “So you can help me find more songs. I’ll text you the lyrics this time.”

So now he’s expecting you to know what he’s singing over text too. It sounds impossible, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. It’s not like it you would get jumpscared over text, anyway.

[randomdragonfires]

Time Can't Stop Me Quite Like You Did | Part Three

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | The music blares and everyone’s out of it, but she turns and sees him. Detached from it all, Aemond stands on the balcony with a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips - watching the party unfold, watching her. The realization hits her as their eyes meet.

It’s him. It’s always been him. 

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Non-Con and Violence Elements; Use of Substances and Alcohol; Complicated Relationship Dynamics.

PAIRINGS | Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Reader [MAIN]; Modern!Daeron Targaryen x Reader

WORD COUNT | 24.5k [I'M SORRY]

Check out the art created for this fic by the lovely, talented and so very kind @azperja here!  

A/N | By now it's obvious. I really don't beta read things -_-

She starts with small changes. 

She takes different routes around campus, chooses study spots on the opposite end of the library, and declines any parties where she might run into him. They’re usually in different parts of the campus anyway, so avoiding him should be easy. But it isn’t. They run in the same circles, and all her friends know him. She has to be mindful, strategic, careful not to linger in places where their paths might cross.

The one shared class they have is her biggest challenge. She slips into the lecture hall just as the professor begins, taking a seat in the back, hidden among the sea of students. She keeps her head down, her attention fixed on her notes, refusing to let her eyes wander to where she knows he’s sitting.

But she feels his presence, even without looking. She can sense the way his gaze lingers on her, like a weight pressing on her shoulders. It takes every ounce of her willpower to ignore it, to pretend she doesn’t notice, that she isn’t affected by it. She keeps her mouth shut, barely even acknowledging the professor, just so Aemond won’t have a reason to notice her.

But he’s seen her. She knows he has. And yet, he hasn’t made any attempt to approach her. He hasn’t tried to talk to her after class, hasn’t texted, hasn’t even sent a cryptic message through a mutual friend.

The silence from him is both a relief and a torment. On one hand, she’s grateful that he’s giving her space, that he’s not forcing her to confront what happened. But on the other, she can’t help but wonder why. Why hasn’t he reached out? Does he understand that she needs space, or is he simply indifferent?

The conflicting thoughts whirl around her mind, making it impossible to focus. She’s avoiding him, yet she can’t stop thinking about him. She wonders if he’s reached the same conclusion she has - that whatever happened between them was a mistake. Or maybe… maybe the girl he’s seeing is back, and he’s realized that what they had was a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment that he regrets.

The thought makes her skin crawl.

It stings more than she’d like to admit. It’s ridiculous, she tells herself. She should be glad that he’s keeping his distance. It’s what she wanted, after all. But the doubts creep in, feeding the anxiety that’s been gnawing at her ever since that night.

Her finals don’t help either. The pressure to perform well, to maintain her grades, is a vice around her chest. She spends long hours in the library, her nose buried in textbooks, trying to drown out her thoughts with the relentless march of deadlines and exam schedules. But he is a constant presence at the back of her mind, and she cannot shake him off.

The final exam of the semester passes in a blur, each answer she scribbles onto the paper feeling more mechanical than the last. When it’s over, she walks out of the exam hall with a numbness that clings to her. The weight of the past weeks - the stress, the sleepless nights, the constant battle to keep her emotions in check - finally catches up with her.

She spends the entire day holed up in her flat, the blinds drawn to keep out the bright summer light. The silence is thick, the hours stretching on as she flits from one distraction to another. She tries reading, but the words blur together on the page. She turns on the laptop, but the shows barely hold her attention. Even scrolling through her phone feels empty.

As the afternoon fades into evening, a slow realization dawns on her: she can’t keep hiding forever. The exams were a temporary distraction, an excuse to avoid dealing with everything she’s been running from. But now that they’re over, she’s left with nothing but her thoughts - and the gnawing certainty that she can’t keep avoiding Aemond.

He’s likely finished his exams too, probably somewhere out there, living his life as if nothing’s changed. The thought brings a fresh wave of frustration. He hasn’t reached out to her, hasn’t made the slightest effort to clear the air.

It’s almost as if he’s content to let things remain as they are. But she's not.

The more she thinks about it, the more she realizes that waiting for him to make the first move is futile. He’s not going to reach out, not after the way she’s been avoiding him. And maybe he’s thinking the same thing - that she doesn’t want to see him, that she’s already moved on.

The idea of confronting him terrifies her, but the thought of continuing on like this - of pretending that she can keep dodging him forever - is worse. She can’t live in this self-imposed exile, trapped by her own fears and doubts. If there’s any hope of moving past this, of getting closure, she needs to take the first step.

With a deep breath, she makes up her mind. The decision brings a strange sense of calm, like a weight being lifted from her chest. She can’t predict how it will go, but at least she’ll be taking control, no longer at the mercy of her own avoidance.

The evening sky outside her window is turning shades of pink and orange, and for the first time in days, she feels a spark of determination. She’s not going home for the summer, and neither, as far as she knows, is he.

There’s no more running, no more hiding.

Her eyes settle on Aemond - sprawled across his bed, completely at ease, as if he’s got not a care in the world.

The familiar scent hits her first - weed, strong and pungent, curling through the air and invading her senses. She pauses at the threshold, taking it in, before leaning against the doorway.

He doesn’t notice her at first. He’s too absorbed in the book he’s holding, his fingers lazily turning a page. She can’t make out the title, but she recognizes the Valyrian text on the cover, the ancient script curling elegantly along the spine.

For a moment, she watches him. There’s a strange, almost surreal quality to the scene - like she’s an outsider looking in on his life. His face is calm, his expression softened in the dim light, but there’s a tension in his posture, a quiet restlessness that she can’t quite place.

“So this is what you do when you’re high? Read Valyrian books?”

“They’re interesting,” he replies, his voice casual, detached. He doesn’t look at her, his eye still roving over the page, words spilling out as if she wasn’t there. Almost as if they hadn’t been icing each other out for weeks.

She doesn’t know what to say. The weight of their silence presses heavily down on her chest. She hesitates, her mind racing, but before she can form a coherent thought, he gestures toward her, a lazy wave of his hand as he adjusts himself on the bed.

“Come here.”

It’s not a request; it’s a command, spoken with the kind of casual authority that’s so inherently him. She swallows hard, the tension in her stomach coiling tighter. Part of her wants to resist, to stay rooted in place, but there’s another part of her - smaller, more vulnerable - that aches for the familiarity of being close to him again.

She pushes off the doorway, her steps slow and hesitant as she crosses the room. The air feels warmer near him, the scent of weed and smoke mingling with the faint smell of his cologne, a combination that’s both comforting and disorienting. When she reaches the bed, she pauses, unsure of what to do, where to sit, what to say.

Aemond looks up at her then, his gaze locking onto hers. There’s something different in his eye now, something softer, more aware. It’s like he’s really seeing her for the first time since she walked in.

He nods and she gives in, sitting down beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight. There’s a tension between them, a fragile thread that could snap at any moment, but for now, it holds.

She hesitates for a moment, then slowly lies down next to him, feeling the warmth of his body radiate through the thin fabric of her shirt. He doesn’t say anything, just shifts slightly to make room for her, and as she curls into the mattress, he slips an arm around her waist, pulling her in closer.

His hand rests on her side, fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns on her skin through the fabric, the movement steady and soothing. She feels his breath against her hair, steady and calm, and for a moment, she closes her eyes, allowing herself to melt into him.

She takes her time, letting her gaze drift over him, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his hair falls messily across his forehead, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The book is still in his other hand, balanced carefully as he continues to read, the pages illuminated by the dim light of the bedside lamp. He’s so absorbed in it, yet his hold on her is firm, as if he’s anchoring both of them to this moment, this shared silence.

She shifts slightly, her head resting on his shoulder as she glances at the book in his hand. “What are you reading?”

He pauses for a moment, his fingers stilling on the page as he looks down at her. “It’s called The Last Embrace.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for a romantic.”

He chuckles softly at her remark, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through his chest. "It’s a Valyrian classic," he says. “I know someone who can find the premium first edition copies.”

“Hm.” She moves into him, and his hand roves over her clothed back, warmth seeping through. She nestles against him, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. “Read to me?” She asks softly, almost shyly, as if the request might shatter her pride.

He considers her for a moment, then gently adjusts his position, making sure she’s comfortable as he continues from where he left off. With his arm still wrapped around her, holding her close, he begins to read. The words flow from his lips - his voice deep and rich as it carries and fills the quiet space between them. She listens, captivated by the way he brings the story to life.

One word in particular catches her attention, its lilting syllables intriguing. She stops him, her gaze curious. “What does that mean?”

He looks down at her, his gaze tender and slightly dazed. “Gevie means ‘beautiful,’” he explains, his tone mellowed by a subtle high. She repeats the word, her attempt tentative. “Gevie.” Her pronunciation falters, and he gently corrects her, his voice a soothing murmur. “Gevie,” he reiterates, his lips curving into a soft smile.

She tries again, her voice more confident, “Gevie,” and he nods in approval, his hand squeezing lightly on her arm, a touch that sends a shiver down her spine.

The reading continues, and she’s captivated by another word. 

“Jorrāelagon,” she asks. “And this one?”

“It means ‘love.’” He replies, his eyes soft and hazy, the high giving his voice a languid quality that almost lulls her to sleep. She echoes. “Jorrāelagon,” but her pronunciation is awkward at the first try. He guides her gently, his voice dropping as he enunciates the word.

 “Jorrāelagon.”

She repeats the word again, and he nods, pleased. She doesn’t want to dwell on how pleasing him feels.

When they reach 'Vūjigon', she leans in closer, her curiosity and desire blending seamlessly. “What does this one mean?”

“To kiss,” he murmurs, his gaze growing more intense. She wonders if she’s seeing the slight red on his cheeks, or if it’s actually there. She repeats, “Vūjigon,” her pronunciation faltering again. He corrects her, his voice a velvety whisper.

As she practices the word, the anticipation builds between them. Her body shifts, aligning with his, and she straddles him, her movements deliberate and sensual. The mattress dips under her weight, and she feels the heat of his body radiate through the thin fabric of their clothes. His hands find her sides, gripping firmly but tenderly, his touch sending electric currents through her skin. She leans in closer, their foreheads touching, and she inhales deeply. The scent of his cologne mixes with the distinct smell of the weed. The high he's on adds a dream-like quality to his touch and his gaze, making every sensation more vivid and intense.

“Vūjigon,” she whispers, her voice husky with desire. The correct pronunciation flows from her lips, and the air between them is heated and heavy.

His eye darkens with desire as he gazes at her, the effect of the high amplifying his senses. He responds to her unspoken invitation, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that is both urgent and tender. The kiss deepens quickly as his hands move to her waist, pulling her closer, the heat of his touch igniting a fire within her.

His hands tighten on her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she can feel the hard line of his desire pressing against her. The sensation sends a shudder through her, a wave of heat that pools low in her belly.

This is happening, this is truly happening-

His kisses are a heady mix of passion and need, his tongue exploring her mouth with a fervor that leaves her breathless. She responds in kind, her own desire spiraling out of control as her fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently as she presses herself against him. The weight of him beneath her, the feel of his body so close, so real, is intoxicating.

With a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, he flips them over, his body covering hers, pressing her into the mattress. His hands are everywhere - roaming her sides, cupping her breasts, sliding down to grip her hips. The urgency of his movements is matched by the haze of the high, adding a surreal, almost dream-like quality to the moment.

She arches into him, her back curving as she seeks more of his touch, more of the heat that’s building between them. His mouth leaves hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, until he’s tugging her shirt aside, his lips finding the sensitive skin beneath. Every touch, every kiss, feels amplified, the high making her hyper-aware of every sensation.

He’s moving with purpose now, his hands tugging at the waistband of her pants, sliding them down her hips with a practiced ease. She helps him, kicking them off, leaving her bare beneath him. He follows quickly, discarding his own clothes until there’s nothing between them but heated skin.

His hands are back on her, rough and gentle all at once as he positions himself between her thighs. She feels the blunt pressure of him at her entrance, the anticipation so sharp it almost hurts. She meets his gaze, his eyes dark and blown with lust, the effect of the high making them seem even more intense. He pauses, just for a moment, his breath ragged. “I’m on the pill,” she murmurs, as if sensing his hesitation.

He thrusts into her with a single, powerful stroke.

The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure that has her gasping, her hands clutching at his shoulders as he fills her completely. He stills for a moment, letting her adjust, his forehead pressing against hers as he takes a shuddering breath.

Then he’s moving, his hips snapping against hers in a rhythm that’s fast and unrelenting. Each thrust sends sparks of pleasure shooting through her, the friction, the heat, the intensity of it all pushing her closer to the edge. She wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, her own hips meeting his in a desperate attempt to keep up with the pace he’s set.

His breathing is ragged in her ear, a rough counterpoint to the smoothness of his movements. She can feel him tensing, the way his thrusts grow more erratic, more desperate, as he nears his own release. His hand moves between them, fingers finding her clit and rubbing in tight, precise circles, pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

With a low growl, he slams into her one last time, his body tensing as he comes hard, the force of his orgasm shaking him. He rides it out, his hips still moving in shallow thrusts as he chases the last remnants of pleasure.

But he doesn’t stop. Even as his breathing slows, his hands remain on her, one sliding down her body until his fingers are slipping between her folds, finding the wet heat there. He pulls out of her slowly, and she whimpers at the loss, but the sound quickly turns to a moan as his head dips between her thighs.

His mouth finds her, his tongue licking a slow, teasing stripe up her center before his lips close around her clit. He sucks gently, his fingers pressing inside her, filling her again as he works her with a relentless, skillful rhythm. She’s already so close, her body still buzzing from the intensity of what they’ve just done, and it doesn’t take long for the pleasure to build again, fast and unstoppable.

As his mouth works her, his tongue drawing her closer and closer to the edge, he lifts his head just enough to murmur against her skin, “Gevie… ao gevie issi, jorrāelagon.”

His voice is thick with desire, the words rolling off his tongue with a reverence that sends shivers down her spine. She’s too far gone to try and grasp the meaning, her mind clouded with the overwhelming pleasure he’s giving her. But something about the way he says it, the heat in his voice, makes her gasp.

“What… what does that mean?” she manages to ask between moans, her voice breathless, shaky.

He doesn’t answer right away, his mouth returning to her with renewed focus, his fingers curling inside her in just the right way. The pleasure is dizzying, her body trembling as she’s pushed closer to the brink. When he finally speaks again, his words are low and guttural, vibrating against her skin.

“Gevie… beautiful,” he says, his voice thick with lust as he looks up at her, his eye dark and filled with heat. “Jorrāelagon… love.” His hand moves in sync with his words, drawing more moans from her lips, her mind barely able to process the translations as the pleasure intensifies.

Her body arches into him, desperate for more, needing more, and he gives it to her, his fingers working her relentlessly. She’s on the edge, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps, when he murmurs one last word against her skin.

“Vūjigon,” he says, the word slipping from his lips like a caress, his voice deeper, rougher, as he lifts his head to look at her, his gaze burning into hers.

“Kiss,” she breathes, finally understanding, the realization sending a fresh wave of desire crashing over her. Her body moves of its own accord, her hips grinding against his fingers as she chases the release that’s just out of reach.

He doesn’t give her time to dwell on it, his mouth returning to her with a fervor that’s almost too much to bear. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and need that builds and builds until she’s teetering on the edge, her mind a haze. Her hips lift off the mattress, seeking more, needing more, and he gives it to her, his tongue and fingers moving in perfect harmony until she’s falling over the edge, her orgasm crashing over her in waves. She cries out, her hands fisting in his hair as he pushes her through it, his mouth never leaving her until she’s trembling with the aftershocks, her body spent and sated.

When he lays back down and his lips meet hers, she thinks there could be no better feeling than being held in his arms.

The fact that he may still have another woman in his life slips her mind completely.

Tonight, he is hers.

The morning after, he's gone off for an early class, leaving her to rest. She finds The Last Embrace on his nightstand and picks it up, her nimble fingers turning the pages as she scans his notes scattered throughout the book.

Love is a disease of the mind, but one we willingly suffer for.

It’s the kind of observation she can easily imagine him making aloud, his voice detached yet tinged with a subtle irony. She almost pictures him writing it, pausing to consider the implications of the passage before inscribing his thoughts with careful precision. It’s a stark reminder of how his mind works - always a step removed, always observing from a distance, even when he’s most deeply involved.

It’s so very Aemond, the way he can reduce something as chaotic and overwhelming as love to a mere intellectual curiosity, and yet, in doing so, reveal more about himself than any grand declaration ever could.

A small smile plays on her lips as she closes the book, gently smoothing the folded corner.

She least expects it, but it hits her with the force of a brick wall when it does.

She finds herself at Aemond's apartment again, perched on the familiar countertop in his kitchen, picking at a bowl of leftover pasta he’d casually reheated for her. Aemond stands at the stove, his attention focused on a kettle of water beginning to steam. He moves with his usual grace, every action deliberate and precise, but there’s something slightly different about him today—a subtle energy that she can’t quite place.

Almost offhandedly as he reaches for a mug, he speaks. “I might not be around tomorrow night. I’ve got…plans.”

He says it so casually, the words slipping out as though they’re of no consequence. But there’s a flicker of something in his tone, something that makes her glance up from her bowl, her curiosity piqued.

“Plans?” she echoes, trying to keep her voice light, nonchalant, though a strange tightness begins to form in her chest.

“Yeah,” he continues, filling the mug with hot water before turning back to her, his expression as composed as ever. “Dinner, actually. With someone.”

The way he says it - "with someone" - is so deliberately vague, so carefully chosen, that it sends a chill through her, the pieces beginning to fall into place. The quiet confidence in his voice, the way he doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t feel the need to explain. It’s a subtle giveaway, but one she can’t ignore.

“Oh,” she murmurs, her gaze dropping back to her bowl, her appetite suddenly fading. She forces herself to take another bite, though it tastes like ash in her mouth. “That sounds…nice.”

“Yeah,” he replies, his tone so matter-of-fact, so indifferent, that it stings more than anything else. “It should be.”

For a moment, she doesn’t know what to say, the silence between them suddenly feeling heavier, more oppressive. The realization settles in slowly, a painful clarity that makes her heart ache. To him, what they have is just…convenient.

He isn’t even trying to hide it. The ease with which he mentions his plans, the lack of any concern for how she might feel about it—it all points to one thing. 

Casual. Non-exclusive.

Then again, he made no promises.

The realization - reminder, if she was being practical - is a bitter pill to swallow, and she fights to keep her expression neutral, not wanting to betray the sadness that’s creeping into her. She allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to this. But now, sitting there on his countertop, she sees it for what it truly is.

“Enjoy your dinner,” she says, her voice sounding distant to her own ears as she pushes the half-eaten bowl away and slides off the counter. She offers him a small, strained smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Thanks,” he replies, his gaze flicking over her briefly before returning to the kettle, as if her words are of no particular importance.

As she moves to grab her bag, her movements slow and deliberate, Aemond turns to look at her. The casual indifference that colored his words just moments before falters when he sees the expression on her face - something distant, guarded, as though she’s trying to shield herself from the truth that’s just settled between them.

“You’re upset,” he says, not as a question but as a statement, his tone flat. He’s always so direct, so infuriatingly precise in his observations, as if everything in the world can be neatly cataloged and understood.

She hesitates, her back to him as she reaches for her bag, fingers brushing over the strap, but she doesn’t pick it up right away. She can feel his gaze on her, sharp and assessing, waiting for her to respond.

“It’s nothing,” she murmurs, forcing herself to keep her voice steady, even though the words feel like they’re sticking in her throat. “Just…you could’ve mentioned it before.”

There’s a beat of silence, the air between them taut with unspoken things. She knows he’s searching for the right words, something that won’t sound like an admission but also won’t deny the reality she’s trying to ignore.

“You always knew there was someone else,” he says finally, his voice low, almost gentle, as if that can soften the blow.

She swallows hard, her grip tightening on the strap of her bag as the truth of his words settles in. Of course, she knows. There’s always been something in the way he holds himself slightly apart from her, something that hinted at the boundaries she was never meant to cross. And yet, she crossed them anyway, hoping—foolishly—that maybe he would meet her halfway.

“Did I?” she asks quietly, her voice trembling just enough to give her away. She turns to face him then, her eyes searching his, looking for something - anything - that will contradict what he’s just said. But there’s nothing. His expression is calm, measured, as though they’re discussing something inconsequential.

He doesn’t answer, but the silence that follows is more telling than anything he could say. She can see it now, how he’s always been careful with her, careful not to let things go too far, careful not to give her any false hope.

But he never really needed to, did he? Because she already knew, deep down, that whatever they had was just a small part of his life - a convenience, a passing thing that will end the moment someone else comes along. Someone more important, more permanent.

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, the sound heavy in the quiet of the kitchen. “Right,” she says, nodding to herself as if that will help make sense of everything. “I guess I did know.”

She hesitates, the words tasting bitter on her tongue as she adds, almost too casually, “Daeron texted about coming to Oldtown over the weekend. I probably have plans with him anyway.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, and when she dares to meet his gaze, she catches the subtle shift in his expression - a small, almost amused curl of his lips. It’s as if he can see right through her, peeling back the flimsy layers she’s tried to build around herself. The realization that he sees her so clearly, that he understands her attempts to guard herself, makes her feel smaller, more exposed than she ever intended.

His smile fades, replaced by something darker, more contemplative, and the weight of his gaze makes her want to shrink away, to hide from the way he’s dissecting her. He steps closer, the space between them shrinking to nothing as his presence looms large, overwhelming. She feels like she’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something that could shatter her if she’s not careful. But she doesn’t move, rooted to the spot by the intensity of his gaze, by the way he’s looking at her like he’s trying to decide if she’s worth the effort of breaking down completely.

The resignation in her voice must cut through him because he shifts, leaning back against the counter, his eyes never leaving hers. But he doesn’t move toward her, doesn’t try to reach out. It’s as if he knows that any attempt to comfort her now would only be hollow, empty of meaning.

She can smell the faint scent of the coffee still lingering on him, mixing with his cologne, and it makes her head swim, makes the room feel smaller, more suffocating. Everything feels too close, too real, and she needs to leave before she says something she can’t take back.

“Look, it’s fine,” she says quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I should get going anyway. I’ve got things to do.”

He doesn’t stop her. He just watches as she slings the bag over her shoulder, his gaze cool and detached, like he’s studying her, trying to understand why she’s making such a big deal out of something they both knew had an expiration date.

But just as she turns to leave, he reaches out, taking hold of her hand. The contact is brief, almost hesitant, but it’s enough to make her pause. There’s something in his touch—something that feels more like pity than affection. It twists in her chest, making her feel even smaller, more exposed.

“Take care,” he says, his voice polite, almost distant, as if the gesture was merely obligatory.

The words sting, made worse by the way he immediately lets go, his hand slipping away as if it never held hers at all. She walks away.

She pauses for a moment, hand on the doorknob, before glancing back at him. There’s so much she wants to say, but she knows it will all sound pathetic and desperate, and she refuses to let him see her like that.

“Yeah,” she replies softly, her heart aching in a way that feels almost physical. “You too.”

She sits on the edge of her sofa, her fingers idly tracing the patterns on the faded fabric. 

She stares at the shadows, feeling them stretch and distort, like her own thoughts, twisted and knotted.

The apartment is a mess - books splayed open, cold coffee mugs scattered about, and a half-burnt vanilla scented candle that hasn’t seen use in days. The quiet hum of the city outside the window is distant, almost surreal, as if it belongs to another world entirely. Inside, it’s as if time has stopped, leaving her in a stagnant pool of self-pity that she hates like nothing else.

Her mind drifts to Aemond. She can’t shake the image of him talking with his date. The warmth of his voice, the way his eyes subtly light up - it all feels so tangible, yet so out of reach. She imagines him in those moments of connection, and each thought pulls her deeper into the mire of her own emotions. The more she dwells on it, the more isolated she feels.

The room feels colder now, the silence pressing in on her from all sides. She wraps her blanket tighter, but it doesn’t offer much comfort. Her phone buzzes on the coffee table, jolting her out of her reverie. She hesitates, a mix of curiosity and apprehension swirling inside her. It’s probably not Aemond, she tells herself, but she can’t help the flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, it is.

She reaches for the phone, her hand trembling slightly. The screen lights up with Daeron’s name. She swipes to open it, her heart pounding as she sees the photo he’s sent. It’s Daeron at Oldtown Airport, his face lit up with a smile that seems to brighten the whole frame. A text follows.

Lunch tomorrow?

She smiles.

She waits outside Moonbloom, the café's warm, inviting light spilling onto the pavement. She watches as people bustle by, each face a fleeting moment in the urban blur. Her nerves are a tight knot, and she checks her phone for the umpteenth time, though she already knows Daeron will be on time. She hears his voice before she sees him.

"Hey," Daeron says, a smile tugging at his lips as he approaches. His eyes, as familiar as they are, carry a weight that wasn’t there before. They embrace awkwardly, and it makes her bristle.

Inside, the café is bustling with midday energy. They choose a corner table, its cozy atmosphere offering some solace from the crowd. Daeron settles into his seat, his movements slightly hesitant. She follows suit, their conversation initially faltering as they tiptoe around the more profound emotions that linger between them.

“So, um,” she begins, fidgeting with the menu, “have you been to this place before?”

“Not really,” Daeron replies, his fingers tapping nervously on his coffee cup. “I mean, I’ve passed by, but I’ve never actually been in. It’s...nice.”

“I love the way they’ve decorated it.”

Daeron looks around, taking in the mismatched furniture and the array of quirky knick-knacks. “Definitely. It’s kind of...charming. I guess I didn’t expect it to be this warm.”

She smiles, relieved to have found a neutral topic. “Yeah, it’s cozy. I come here when I need to get away from everything for a bit.”

“Sounds like it’s a good spot for that,” Daeron says, his voice warming slightly. “I could use a little escape myself.”

They both pause, a slight awkwardness settling over them. The menu sits between them, a practical distraction from the underlying tension. Daeron glances at it, his brow furrowing as he tries to decide.

“So, have you tried anything here that’s a must-have?” Daeron asks, attempting to steer the conversation back to safe ground.

She looks at the menu thoughtfully. “The avocado toast is really good, and the latte is pretty great too. It’s one of those places where you can’t go wrong with pretty much anything. Oh and they have a really good cheesecake!”

“Sounds good,” Daeron says, nodding as if making a mental note. “I’ll have to try both then.”

She chuckles softly, trying to ease the nervous energy between them. “You won’t regret it.”

The menu arrives, and they both laugh over the choices—an easy distraction from the real conversation they know is coming. They talk about trivial things first: the new book she’s reading, Daeron’s latest coffee obsession. The conversation is light, almost too light, as if they’re both waiting for the right moment to dive into the deeper waters.

As their meals arrive, Daeron takes a deep breath, his fingers absently tracing the edge of his coffee cup. “I didn’t realize how much I missed this. You.”

She looks up, surprised by the shift in tone. “Yeah, moving away does that to you.” 

Daeron’s gaze meets hers, a mixture of nostalgia and hesitation in his eyes. “It’s like, I’ve been so caught up in trying to manage everything that I forgot to appreciate these simpler things. I’ve been trying to figure out what really matters, and I think...I think that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

Her curiosity is piqued, the earlier awkwardness giving way to a more genuine connection. “What do you mean?”

Daeron hesitates, fiddling with the edge of his napkin as he searches for the right words. “Floris and me. You know, things seemed okay, but I was always looking for the next problem, the next thing that might go wrong. I never really stopped to appreciate what we had, or how well things were actually working.”

She listens intently, her eyes softening as she senses the depth of his struggle. “And?”

Daeron sighs, his gaze meeting hers with a sincerity that tugs at her heart. “I’ve realized that I need to take a step back and figure things out. It’s why I came to stay here for the next month. It’s not just about getting away from everything. It’s more about taking the time to understand myself better. I want to be in a better place for her - when I go back, I want to be someone who’s really ready.”

The café hums around them, the sounds of chatter and clinking cutlery providing a gentle backdrop to their conversation. She absorbs his words, feeling a mix of sadness and a surprising sense of relief. “You’re actually going to do this?” she asks quietly.

Daeron nods, a small, hopeful smile touching his lips. “Yeah, I think it’s what I need. Just some time to be with myself, to figure out what really matters. I want to make sure I’m not just rushing through life, looking for the next thing. I want to be present for her, for myself. You know?”

There’s something endearing about Daeron, who he’s grown into, and his willingness to admit he needs to take time for himself. It is eons ahead of the boy she knew. For a brief moment, she sees Aemond in him, and she takes a deep breath before she lets her thoughts carry her away.

“I think that’s really brave,” she says softly. “It’s not easy to take a step back and admit you need to sort things out.”

She wonders if her words are for him, or herself.

Your Starry Sept postcards are at my place.

The afternoon sun hits just right as they walk through the market with their condensing iced coffee cups in hand. The stalls around them are alive with the scent of fresh bread, spices and flowers. It’s been days since she’s seen Aemond, and she ignores his texts and any chance to see him like the plague.

They sip their coffee, exchanging easy smiles as they pass by vendors selling everything from handmade jewelry to antique trinkets. The atmosphere is relaxed, yet a tension lingers beneath the surface. Daeron, seemingly content, glances at her and notices a shift in her demeanor as they approach an antique store.

“What’s up with you?” he asks, his tone light. “You’ve been a bit...off today.”

Now more than ever, she hates how well the Targaryen brothers know her. Her heart skips a beat.

“Uh, it’s nothing,” she says, her voice a bit too high-pitched, betraying herself. “Just...a lot on my mind, I guess.”

Daeron raises an eyebrow, his concern deepening. “Come on… We’ve known each other long enough. You can tell me if something’s bothering you.”

She looks away, her eyes darting over the colorful array of vintage items displayed in the store’s window. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. The prospect of confessing her recent history with Aemond is daunting, especially since she had poured out her feelings to Daeron not so long ago.

If anything, it makes it all feel a lot less valid if she thinks of it that way.

“It’s a bit complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

The question hangs in the air, and Wylde feels a lump form in her throat. She swallows hard, weighing the consequences of her next words. She recalls the emotional turmoil she experienced when she admitted her feelings for Daeron and how vulnerable she felt. The idea of now revealing that she’s been seeing Aemond—his brother, no less—feels like an insurmountable hurdle.

She takes another sip of her coffee, trying to buy time. “It’s just...I don’t know how to explain it. There’s been some...changes, you know?”

Daeron looks at her intently, sensing her hesitation. “Look, if you’re not ready to talk about it, that’s okay.” Her heart aches at his genuine concern. She knows she should be honest, but the fear of how Daeron will react clouds her judgment. She finally meets his gaze, the weight of her secret pressing heavily on her shoulders.

“I’ve been seeing someone,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s...complicated.”

Daeron’s expression shifts from concern to confusion. “Someone? Who?” She sees his frown lift into a smile.

“Who… that’s not relevant.” 

Before he can interrupt and charm Aemond’s identity out of her, she continues. “He was already with someone, but I caught feelings for him anyway. Then we hooked up, and I worry that I just…”

“You worry that you’ve made a mistake.”

“Among other things. I…” She sighs. “I just want someone that’s mine, you know? It is a bit of a shame that the boys I like always belong to someone else.”

He chuckles. “I’m going to ask you to think well and be honest. Do you know him well enough?”

“Very well.”

“Do you think he’s the type to cheat?”

“Definitely not.”

“And did you ask him about this? What he wants from you, and what his situation with the other person is like?”

“I guess.”

“And what did he say?”

“He made no promises. He said I always knew there was someone else. I… I messed up. I shouldn’t have encouraged him, to be frank. He always knew what it was. He always knew, and I… did too. Just took a while for it to sink in. And… I was slightly foolish in hoping that he’d be just for me… for a while there it felt like… the last few months, it was all building up to it.”

“And you’re sure a fling is what he wants?”

“He went out for dinner with this other girl yesterday. Safe to assume.”

“I guess the question is…” He sighs. “Having as little of him as he can give you… is that something you’re willing to have? Because if not, you’ll have to push him away entirely. Protect yourself.”

She closes her eyes and brings a hand up to her mouth in resignation. “I feel so stupid.”

Daeron places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it takes two to make something work. Don’t beat yourself up if he isn’t.”

When she walks back to her flat that night, Daeron’s words echo through her mind like a fast growing wildfire.

Is he worth it? 

She knows the answer long before she even ponders on the question. It is simply a question of whether or not she can handle it.

There’s more cheesecake in the fridge.

She avoids Aemond and his texts for the next few days, her thoughts spiraling as she wonders what he really wants from her if he’s seeing someone else. Every time her phone buzzes, she tenses, half-hoping, half-dreading it’s him. 

Of course he won’t say he misses her. He won’t say he wants to see her. That’s just not his style.

She stares at the screen for a long moment, her thumb hovering over the keyboard before she decides to leave him on read. Her heart pounds, but she doesn't know how to respond. It’s easier to focus on Daeron, easier to avoid the growing confusion that Aemond has brought into her life.

They lie on the blanket, the sound of waves crashing below the cliffs filling the comfortable silence between them. The sky above them shifts in shades of pink and orange as the sun inches closer to the horizon. It’s a scene that could easily be romantic if things had turned out differently between them.

“You know,” Daeron starts, his voice light but thoughtful, “we’re pretty compatible.”

She turns her head to look at him, a small smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, we are. It’s kind of a shame things didn’t… I don’t know, grow between us the way they could’ve.”

“Yeah,” he echoes, his tone carrying a hint of wistfulness. “It just never… happened.”

With you, she wants to add. I loved you for so long, you just didn’t love me back.

They both know there’s no regret in those words, just a shared acknowledgment of something that could have been but never was.

“I remember the first time I realized I had feelings for you,” she says, her voice softer now as she gazes out at the sea. “I was probably eight years old. That day on the school grounds, when you and Luke fought because he was bothering me. In my defense, I was eight years old and that was the most romantic thing ever.”

Daeron laughs, a genuine sound that makes her smile. “Eight years old, huh? Wow, I didn’t know I was such a charmer back then.”

“You weren’t. I was just an idiot.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, well, you had your moments,” she teases, nudging him with her shoulder. “But really, it was just a silly crush. I got over it eventually. Wasn’t great, but I managed it somehow.” The gravity of underselling her feelings hits her, but she’s not quite upset about it anymore. Daeron is a thing of her past - how much power can feelings from the past hold anyway?

“It all seems silly to me now.”

Daeron nods, understanding. “I get that. I always thought you’d make an awesome girlfriend, though.”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Yeah?”

“You’re cool and smart, and we always have a good time together. But I just… never felt much more than that. I do love you, just…”

“You’re not in love with me. I don’t blame you.” She sighs. “At least, not anymore.”

“You know what I mean,” Daeron says, chuckling. “We were close, and it always felt like we could’ve been something more, but it never felt… right. I think I just always saw you as my best friend.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it? We’re practically perfect for each other in so many ways, but the spark was never really there. No matter how much I used to want it.”

“Practically perfect,” Daeron agrees, smiling as he echoes her words. “Maybe we’re too practical.”

“Or maybe too perfect.” She grins, looking at him through her sunglasses.

“On paper, definitely.” They both laugh, the sound mingling with the crashing waves. They’re not sad about what could have been; they’re content with what they have.

She realizes she quite likes it this way.

“Hey, you know what?” Daeron says, his tone suddenly playful. “If we’re both still single at forty, we should just get married.”

She snorts, covering her mouth as she laughs. “Seriously?”

“Why not?” he says, grinning. “We’d make a pretty awesome couple, don’t you think?”

She looks at him, pretending to consider it. “Yeah, perfect on paper.”

“Come on, indulge me.”

“Fuck no. What if I’m actually single at forty and have to follow through?”

“It won’t be so bad, I promise.”

“If I’m still single by forty, I’d rather throw myself off this cliff.”

“Be a little brave for once. It’s just a far off possibility.”

“Ugh, fine. You have a deal.” Just as she says it, she extends her hand to him.

“Deal.” He laughs, and the realization is devoid of any pesky feelings as she thinks this is the best laugh she knows.

Hearty, boyish and pure.

Came by the flat, it’s locked. Tell me you’re okay. It’s been more than a week.

I’m fine.

She doesn’t want to see him till she knows exactly what she wants to say. He’s made his stance very clear - that this is very casual to him, and that he doesn’t take what they have as seriously as she thought. She envies him, in all honesty. Why can’t her heart be as straightforward as his?

Daeron had met Aemond and their uncle Gwayne for a game of tennis at the Hightower Townhouse and invited her - but she refused politely and chose to not dwell. A few days later, he takes the private jet to Essos to visit Helaena during her exchange year and she clings to him in a tight hug before letting him go.

Like Daeron, who has chosen to relax this summer, she knows that first-year internships aren't mandatory. If she wanted one, she could easily get it - her name carries significant weight in the world of art and history. Her great-great-great-great-grandmother, Coryanne Wylde, left an indelible mark on the Westerosi art scene with her scandalous and groundbreaking series of erotic paintings titled A Caution for Young Girls. The collection - now cared for at the Citadel in Oldtown - is notorious for its bold sexual depictions, and is considered a turning point in the history of Westerosi art. That, coupled with her family’s considerable wealth - she has the luxury to forgo work during the first year holidays and focus solely on herself.

This summer, she’s embracing that privilege fully. Her days are spent immersed in books, wandering through museums, and exploring the city. She takes day trips to quaint coastal towns, armed with her sketchbook and ready to draw.

Summer will come to a close in less than a fortnight, and she’s grateful for the rest. As much as she loves studying art history, it does take a lot of energy out of her to channel that interest into wading through a structured syllabus that doesn’t run on her own time or pace.

Mornings begin with walks through the city, sketchbook always in hand, capturing the delicate lines of the older architecture or the vibrant chaos of modern installations. She takes her camera too, and each photograph she takes feels like a small rebellion against the uncertainty that has plagued her thoughts.

Afternoons are reserved for exploring the smaller towns along the coastline. She finds solace in the simplicity of these places—the way the sea breeze carries the scent of salt and wildflowers, the way cobblestone streets wind past charming cafes and artisan shops. She sits by the harbor, sketching boats bobbing gently on the waves, or wanders through quaint markets, photographing the scenes. She lets the local old women near the port weave flowers and shells into her hair, and wears loose fitting bright gowns that she finds in smaller stalls.

As the weeks pass, Aemond’s messages become sparse. When the texts stop altogether, she feels a pang of guilt she can’t quite shake. She knows it’s probably for the best, that she needs the space to sort out what she wants from him, but the silence echoes in her mind, leaving her to wonder what she might have done differently.

In every possibility, she realizes she wants him. But she never dwells in her thoughts long enough to understand what that means for them.

One evening, a few days before the next semester is set to begin, she finds herself at the Quill and Tankard, a charming little pub nestled in a cozy corner of the city. The warm, dimly lit space is filled with the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses. She orders a drink, the amber liquid swirling in her glass, and settles into a secluded booth. The conversations around her blur into a comforting background noise as she sips her drink, the alcohol loosening the tight knot of anxiety in her chest.

As the night wears on, her thoughts drift back to Aemond. She has tried so hard to avoid him, to drown out the questions and doubts he has stirred within her. But here in the pub, the memories feel sharper, more insistent. She glances around the room, watching other couples laugh and share stories, and wonders why her own connections feel so fraught with uncertainty.

Her phone buzzes on the table, a reminder of the texts that have long ceased. She glances at it, feeling a pang of longing and frustration. The lack of communication from Aemond leaves her with unanswered questions and unresolved feelings. She takes another sip of her drink, the warmth spreading through her, and feels a surge of impulse.

With a deep breath, she reaches for her phone. Her fingers hover over the screen for a moment, trembling slightly. She knows she shouldn’t be doing this, that reaching out might only reopen wounds she isn’t ready to face. But the need for some semblance of understanding is too strong to ignore.

Finally, she presses the call button and holds the phone to her ear. The familiar ringtone feels both comforting and jarring in the quiet of the pub. She takes another sip, steeling herself for whatever comes next.

"Hey, can I come over?”

Despite living a stone’s throw away from each other, she hasn’t seen him in a month - and the moment she lays eyes on him again, she’s struck by how effortlessly captivating he is. Aemond sits at his desk, a stack of papers spread out before him, his focus completely absorbed by whatever it is he’s reading. The dim white light from his half-open laptop casts a soft glow on his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and the intensity in his expression. He’s in his element, completely at ease in the quiet of his own space.

She realizes, not for the first time, that it’s easy to stare at Aemond. Easy, because he’s always so absorbed in whatever task demands his attention. His head is often down, his gaze fixed on the papers, books, or screens in front of him, making it simple for her to observe him without the risk of getting caught. But more than that, it’s easy to stare at Aemond because there’s something about him that draws her in. He doesn’t have the easy, effortless charm of Daeron or the overwhelming presence of Aegon, but his appeal lies in the subtleties.

There’s a sharper, quieter beauty in Aemond that reveals itself in the smallest of ways. The way his brow furrows slightly when he’s deep in thought, the almost imperceptible lift of his lips when something amuses him. His beauty isn’t meant to be obvious or attention grabbing; it’s there for those who take the time to notice, for those who can appreciate the details that make him who he is. It’s the kind of beauty that makes her wonder about the thoughts that flicker behind his stormy eye, those that he keeps so carefully guarded.

In many ways, Helaena is much the same. There’s a quiet elegance to her, a softness that’s easy to overlook but impossible to forget once you’ve seen it. The two of them, siblings with such contrasting temperaments, share this unspoken, understated allure. They leave a lasting impression, like a delicate piece of art that grows more intricate the longer you look at it.

She stands there for a moment longer, taking him in - the way his long fingers trace the edge of the paper, the way a few stray strands of hair fall across his forehead. The familiarity of this scene almost comforts her as she leans into the doorway, unsure if she’s ready for this confrontation, but knowing it’s inevitable.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” she murmurs, the words slipping out like a secret, barely more than a breath. They drift into the space between them, fragile and hesitant.

“I told you to,” he replies, his voice steady, almost indifferent. His eyes remain fixed on the papers before him, the rustling of the sheets filling the silence between them.

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “What are you working on?”

“Going through some numbers, drafting reports for Otto,” he answers, still without looking up.

“Did you work with your grandfather? For the summer?” she asks, grasping at the small talk like a lifeline.

“Yes, father wanted me to train with him.”

“Hm.”

The conversation stalls, and she moves away from the doorway, retreating to the kitchen as if the physical distance might help her regain her composure. She rifles through his fridge, finding a slice of cheesecake and brewing a pot of coffee. The mundane actions feel almost grounding, but the tension remains, coiled tight in her chest.

As she watches the coffee drip, her mind races. She’s tense at his curtness, but a part of her knows she deserves it after avoiding him for so long. Still, she can’t help the anger simmering beneath the surface. She left to protect herself, but he’s acting as if her absence was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

She walks back into the room, determined now. She nudges herself between him and his work desk, leaning back with her palms pressing against the surface. He finally looks up, his gaze sweeping over her from top to bottom, assessing. His hand rests over his lips, elbows braced on the armrests of his chair. The quiet intensity of his stare sends a shiver down her spine, but she doesn’t back down.

“What are we doing?” she asks, her voice low but firm.

“You disappeared for weeks on end, and now you’re back,” he responds, his tone maddeningly calm, as if nothing has happened.

Her nostrils flare in irritation. “What were we doing before I left?” She’s not letting him off that easily.

“Hm.” He takes a deep, audible breath, the kind that makes her want to scream. “We slept together, and you walked away to sort yourself out.”

“Are you serious right now?” she scoffs, her voice rising in disbelief. “I left because we slept together, and then you told me you were still seeing someone else! Something I asked you about, and you never bothered addressing!”

The frustration bubbling inside her threatens to spill over. She feels like a petulant child, but she knows she’s not entirely in the wrong. Yet his infuriatingly level-headed tone only makes her feel more on edge.

Without warning, he stands up, looming over her like a dark shadow. His presence is overwhelming, and when he steps closer, she can feel the heat radiating from him. His hands slam down on the table on either side of her, caging her in. Their breaths mingle in the small space between them, and she refuses to break eye contact, challenging him with every ounce of defiance she has left.

“Did you, for once, consider that I may not have wanted to wreck whatever it is you have with this other girl you’ve been seeing? For more than a year too, if I might add?” Her voice is laced with bitterness, but there’s an edge of vulnerability there too, one she can’t quite hide.

“Hm.”

His nonchalant response is the final straw. “Do you have nothing to say to me?” she nearly pleads, her tone wavering. It’s borderline pathetic, and the entire situation feels far messier than she can handle. “You blindsided me.”

He watches her for a moment, his gaze unreadable, before he finally speaks. “Do you regret it?”

Despite the storm of emotions swirling inside her, that answer is easy. “I probably should, but no.”

Her words hang between them, and for a moment, neither of them moves. Then, almost imperceptibly, his hand brushes against hers where it rests on the table. It’s a tentative touch, the barest graze of his fingers, but it’s enough to send a jolt of electricity through her. She inhales sharply, her breath catching in her throat.

He leans in closer, the distance between them shrinking to nothing. She can feel the heat of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the tension thickens, wrapping around them like a vise. His gaze drops to her lips, and she feels her resolve weakening, her anger melting away into something far more dangerous.

“Aemond…” she whispers, her voice trembling.

He tilts his head slightly, his lips almost brushing against hers. “Wylde,” he murmurs, the sound of her name on his lips making her heart stutter. His eyes darken, and she knows there’s no going back now.

She can feel the tension, heavy and palpable. And then, without another word, he closes the final gap between them, capturing her lips with his in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. 

It’s messy, complicated, and far from perfect, but at this moment, he is all that matters.

His lips find the tender skin of her neck, trailing a path of open-mouthed kisses down to her collarbone. The wet warmth of his mouth sends shivers down her spine, his breath hot against her skin. His hands are everywhere - exploring, claiming, running up and down her sides under her shirt, fingers pressing into her flesh as if trying to memorize the feel of her.

“Been too fucking long,” he murmurs, the words flowing like water.

She pulls his head up, capturing his lips with hers in a fierce kiss, a desperate melding of mouths that leaves them both breathless. They move together with a practiced urgency, her shirt sliding over her head, his following a second later. Her bra is discarded just as quickly, tossed aside without a second thought, as their bodies come together, skin to skin, the heat between them searing.

But when she reaches out, shifting his papers aside to sit on the edge of the desk, he laughs quietly, a low rumble that sends a thrill through her. He shakes his head, amusement flickering in his eyes, and lifts her effortlessly, his hands strong and steady beneath her. Her legs instinctively wrap around his waist, holding on tight as he carries her toward the bed.

“Those papers took me a while to organize,” he murmurs sharply, his tone laced with mock seriousness. If she didn’t know him better, she might think he was truly annoyed.

But she does know him, knows the way his eyes glint with barely concealed mirth as he lowers her onto the bed. The cool sheets contrast with the heat of their bodies, and she arches up into him, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulls him down for another kiss. 

Aemond’s hands trail down her body, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her pants as he pulls away slightly, eyes dark and intent. She watches him, breathless, as he slides her pants and underwear down in one smooth motion, the cool air hitting her skin making her shiver.

He kisses his way down her body, lingering at her hips before settling between her thighs. The anticipation coils tight in her belly, her breath hitching as he looks up at her, his expression unreadable but undeniably hungry. He presses a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she feels the tension in her body build with each brush of his lips against her skin.

When he finally touches her where she needs him most, she gasps, her hips arching off the bed in response. He holds her down gently, his strong hands firm on her thighs as his mouth moves with skillful precision. The sensation is overwhelming, every nerve ending alive and thrumming with pleasure as he takes his time, drawing out every gasp and moan that slips from her lips.

She threads her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly as she loses herself in the feeling, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. His name slips past her lips, a breathless plea that only seems to spur him on, his tongue and lips working in tandem to push her closer and closer to the edge.

It’s a slow build, a steady climb toward something that feels almost too intense to bear. 

When she finally falls over the edge, it’s like the world shatters around her, a white-hot burst of pleasure that leaves her breathless and shaking, her hands gripping his hair tightly as she rides out the waves of her release. He stays with her through it all, his mouth still moving against her until the sensation becomes too much and she gently pulls him up to her, needing to feel his lips on hers, to ground herself in the warmth of his kiss.

Her breath is still uneven as she pulls him closer, her hand sliding down his chest, tracing the hard lines of his torso. She meets his gaze, eyes dark with desire, and murmurs, “I need you.”

Without breaking eye contact, her hand slips into his slacks, finding him already hard and straining against the fabric. He hisses at the contact, his jaw tightening as she wraps her fingers around him, stroking slowly, deliberately.

But it doesn’t last long. With a low growl, he pulls her hand away and stands up, quickly shedding his slacks and boxers, the clothing falling to the floor in a heap. The sight of him, fully bared to her, sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through her.

He’s back on her in an instant, his mouth on hers, urgent and demanding, as he positions himself between her legs. She wraps her legs around his waist, drawing him closer, and when he enters her in one smooth thrust, eliciting a gasp from them both.

He stills for a moment, buried deep inside her, his breath hot against her neck. Then, with a groan, he starts to move, slow at first, each thrust measured and deliberate, as if he’s savoring the way her body reacts to him. It doesn’t take long for the pace to quicken, the room filling with the sounds of their bodies moving together, the bed creaking beneath them.

She clings to him, her nails digging into his back as he drives into her, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through her. His grip on her hips is firm, his movements powerful and unrelenting, as if he’s intent on losing himself in her.

“Ae-mond…”

Their breaths mingle, their bodies slick with sweat as they move together, the world outside fading away until all that exists is this. A conversation is due and far from over, but her mind is clouded by thoughts of him, him, him-

She breaks the kiss, her head falling back as her body tightens around him, pulling him deeper as the pleasure becomes almost too much to bear. He buries his face in her neck, his breath ragged against her skin, and with one final, languid thrust, he comes in pleasure as he moans into her skin.

For a moment, they remain tangled together, their breaths harsh and uneven, the aftermath of their release leaving them both dazed and spent. He stays inside her as long as he can, as if reluctant to break the connection, before finally pulling away and collapsing beside her, pulling her into his arms.

Her head rests on his chest, the steady beat of his heart a comforting rhythm beneath her ear. His arm is draped over her back, holding her close as if to keep the world at bay for just a little longer.

But as the silence stretches on, the reality of their situation begins to creep back in, and she feels the familiar weight of her thoughts clouding her mind. What are they really doing here? What does any of this mean? The questions swirl in her head, tugging her back to the uncertainty she’s been trying to avoid.

He notices the change in her immediately. The way her body tenses slightly, the furrow that forms between her brows. He’s seen this look before - when she’s lost in thought, when something’s weighing heavily on her. His grip tightens around her, and he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head, trying to anchor her in the present.

She tilts her head up, meeting his gaze. There’s a softness in his eyes, a tenderness that makes her chest tighten. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the air thick. His hand comes up to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch lingering on her cheek.

Her heart skips a beat as she tries to find the words to express the tangle of emotions inside her. But before she can speak, he abruptly breaks the silence.

“It’s never going to be exclusive or long-term with her. That’s not what we have.” he says, his voice steady but laced with something she can’t quite place. “You’re not destroying anything.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and final. He’s said them almost as if to preempt whatever she was going to say, as if to take away the guilt and confusion that’s been gnawing at her since this all began. His eyes search hers, gauging her reaction.

She blinks, trying to process what he’s just said. The admission should bring some relief, should ease the turmoil inside her, but instead, it leaves her feeling more conflicted. The clarity she sought doesn’t come; instead, she’s left with a hollowness that only deepens the questions she’s been grappling with.

“You think saying that makes this easier?” she finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m saying it because I don’t want you to feel guilty,” he replies, his tone firm but not unkind. “This—whatever this is—doesn’t have to be complicated. It can be just us, without any strings attached.”

She bites her lip, the words sinking in. He’s offering her an out, a way to keep whatever they have without the burden of labels or expectations. But is that really what she wants?

Especially now that her heart skips a beat whenever he comes around? 

“You were in love with him for a long time. This is what you need. Something that won’t trouble you.” His hand trails down her arm, grounding her in the moment. “You don’t have to overthink it,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “We want each other.”

She likes him. More than she should, if a fling with her is all he wants. But she can't bring herself to push him away.

“We can just be.”

She looks up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but there’s none. He’s being honest with her, laying it all out so she can make her own choice.

“You're saying you've been seeing a girl for more than a year, but she's alright with you sleeping with me?”

“Think that's how an open relationship works. Don't you?”

She wants to ask who it is, but she has a feeling that's more trouble than it's worth.

“And what if I don't want this?”

“You can stop anytime. But you won't.”

His functional eye narrows and there's knots of muscle in both corners of his jaw, a slight twitch of the eyebrow. She likes him when he's like this.

She likes when he knows her. She likes that he's indispensable to her. She likes that he knows that too.

She kisses him and goes to sleep in his arms.

Does any of it matter if she gets to have him like this?

The room is quiet except for the faint rustle of pages as Aemond flips through her sketchbook, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders. She traces absent-minded patterns on his chest, the tip of her finger skimming over the faint lines of his muscles, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

The dim light filters in through the curtains, casting a soft glow over them, highlighting the contentment on her face. Her head rests against him, hair fanned out over the pillow as she relaxes into the moment, her mind drifting aimlessly. 

Aemond’s fingers lazily flip through the pages filled with rough pencil strokes, some finished, others abandoned halfway. His gaze pauses on one drawing in particular - a silhouette of a woman standing at the edge of the sea, her figure gazing out toward the endless horizon.

He runs his thumb over the page, his voice low. “What’s this one?”

She turns her head, glancing at the sketch. Her lips curve into a small smile, though her mind drifts back to the scene that had inspired it. “I was hanging out at the Sunset Sea for a few days. I’d been studying Jaeron of Lys in my class with Professor Rivers, you know, the old painter?” He shifts slightly, and she shifts along with him. “His work was all about those distant, far-off humans in his portraits, always framed by these huge, sweeping landscapes.” 

Aemond listens intently, his fingers still resting on the paper as she speaks. He turns his head slightly toward her, encouraging her to continue.

“It’s why his work is so widely discussed. The people in his paintings are always so still. Silent. You barely notice them at first, almost like they’re not even the focus. But the longer you look, the more you wonder what they’re thinking, what they’re feeling. He made the audience do the work to comprehend them.”

Aemond’s brow furrows slightly, intrigued by the thought. “I’ve seen some of his work in the books. There’s this tension in it, like the figures are waiting for something, even though the rest of the world moves on around them.”

She nods. “Exactly. That tension is what makes it brilliant. What’s even more tragic, though, is what happened to him.” Her voice softens, the weight of the story pulling her deeper into it.

“Jaeron went blind in his later years. He couldn’t paint, couldn’t create for years. The grief of not being able to see art, beauty… it destroyed him. He never touched a brush again, not until he was on his deathbed. And even then, he wished for one last chance to paint.”

Aemond turns fully to face her now, propping his head on his hand, captivated by the story. “And did he?”

She nods, her gaze distant as she recalls the details from her class. “He did. Blind and frail, he recreated his first-ever painting—a woman looking into the sea. It was perfect, down to the smallest detail. His final masterpiece.”

“The class was about muscle memory in art,” she continues softly. “How creativity, no matter how burnt out you feel, is what makes you… you. Even after all that time, even when he couldn’t see, his body remembered. His hands knew the strokes, the curves, like he’d never left it.”

“Hm.” Aemond’s noncommittal sound hums through the air as she turns her head, her eyes searching his face. “It is,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “I think about that sometimes - how you can leave something behind, but when you pick it back up… it’s like it never left you either. You just know.”

His thumb traces slow, soothing circles over her hand, his attention fully on her as she sighs, lost in thought.

“A lot of it translates into real life,” she continues, her voice softer now. “Like cycling, or swimming… even driving. Things that require focus and rhythm.”

She pauses, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It’s like learning to be in sync with something, or someone.”

Aemond’s eyebrow quirks up slightly at her words, a hint of curiosity flickering in his gaze as she drops her eyes, feeling the warmth of his chest beneath her cheek. She presses on, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Like how we didn’t see each other for the entire summer,” she says, her fingers idly tracing patterns on his skin, “but when we came back together… the chemistry, whatever it is. It was there. You didn’t forget what I liked, and I didn’t forget either.”

Her words hang in the air, the silence stretching. She feels a pang of doubt, wondering if her attempt at lightness had been too blunt, too revealing, too… stupid. She glances up at him, ready to brush it off, but Aemond is staring straight ahead, his fingers threading gently through her hair, the weight of his thoughts visible. She can see the wheels turn in his head.

“I wouldn’t want to forget anything about you,” he says. His voice settles deep within her chest.

Her breath catches, and for a moment, she’s at a loss for words, the intensity of his statement catching her off guard. A flush creeps up her neck, coloring her cheeks, and she feels the fluttering in her chest threaten to overwhelm her.

Desperate to lighten the mood, to distract herself from the way his words made her feel, she lets out a shaky laugh, trying to mask her flustered mind. “You’re being fucking pretentious now,” she jokes, but her voice betrays her, a bit too breathless, a bit too forced.

Why say things like that if you don't mean them?

Aemond doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze steady on hers. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t laugh, just keeps looking at her with a quiet intensity that makes her heart race. The flutter in her chest doesn’t fade, and the realization hits her, taking her down with the force of a well-aimed punch to the gut.

He’s seen right through her.

When she wakes, she glances at the clock—her classes start in an hour or so, but Aemond's are earlier, and he’s already gone. The quiet of the apartment feels warm, almost comforting.

She heads to the bathroom and steps into the shower. As the steam fogs up the glass, she notices faint traces of where his fingers must have absently brushed across the condensation, drawing random patterns. 

Proof that this isn’t a dream, he was hers last night.

After her shower, she rummages through his cupboard to find something to wear, but instead finds a shirt she left behind long ago, forgotten until now. She pulls it on, feeling the fabric cling to her still-damp skin, and shimmies into the same pants from yesterday. The hunger hits her suddenly, and she practically inhales the toast, eggs and coffee, savoring every bite.

As she prepares to leave, she looks for the keys to lock the apartment. By the keystand, a small note catches her eye. She picks it up, her heart giving a small flutter as she reads the familiar handwriting.

Remember your postcards.

She finds the small stack right next to the note and smiles. She picks it up and almost walks out, before she walks back in and takes the note along with her too.

They sit across from each other at one of the long, narrow tables, the polished wood catching the golden hour light filtering through the tall windows.

Months have passed, and classes have begun again. Their time together has been good, even great, filled with moments that make her heart flutter more often than she’d care to admit. But with each passing day, a nagging feeling settles deeper in her chest - a constant reminder that they’re not dating, that her feelings for him shouldn’t matter. It’s something she has to tell herself over and over, especially when he does something that makes her smile in his own subtle way.

She’s focused on her laptop, typing away at her latest assignment, but her concentration wavers every now and then. She can’t help but sneak glances at Aemond, who’s engrossed in one of his textbooks, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that tugs at something deep within her.

Every so often, his foot nudges hers lightly under the table, a small gesture that sends a tingling sensation up her spine. It’s almost as if he does it without thinking, but the effect on her is anything but casual. She tries to keep her mind on her work, but the reminders keep coming - small touches that feel too intimate, like the brush of his hand against hers when they both reach for their coffee, or the way he sometimes squeezes her knee under the table, just for a moment, before going back to his reading as if nothing happened.

The thoughts swirl in her mind, making it harder and harder to focus. She needs a break, something to pull her away from these confusing feelings. So, she stands up, mumbling about needing a book for her research. Aemond doesn’t look up, but she can feel his presence, his quiet attention, as she walks away from the table.

She wanders through the rows of books, her fingers brushing along the spines as she tries to steady her thoughts. The library’s quiet, the only sounds the soft rustle of pages and the distant hum of conversation. She’s been walking for a few minutes when she suddenly stops, feeling a familiar presence behind her.

His shadow falls over her, unmistakable in its solidity, in the way it looms, tall and certain. Even without turning, she knows it’s Aemond. There’s something about the way he stands, the way his silhouette feels different from anyone else’s—broader, more composed, with an intensity that seems to fill the space around him.

She senses him draw closer, the warmth of his body pressing gently against her back. Her breath catches in her throat when she feels his hand brush her hair aside, the strands falling softly over her shoulder. Aemond’s fingers graze the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. He leans in, his lips just barely touching her skin, teasing her with featherlight kisses that make her knees go weak.

“Hi,” she faintly murmurs. He grumbles just slightly, his voice low and rough in her ear, laced with a quiet amusement that makes her heart skip a beat. His breath is hot against her skin, and she can feel the faint rumble of his laugh as his lips travel along the curve of her neck.

Her breath catches as one of his hands slides under her skirt, fingers brushing over the curve of her ass, squeezing lightly before venturing lower, teasing the sensitive skin at the top of her thigh. The other hand moves up, slipping beneath her shirt. His touch is firm, confident, as his fingers trace over the fabric of her bra, finding the sensitive peaks of her nipples. He brushes over them, his touch sending a shudder through her that she can’t hide.

“Aemond…” she whispers, her voice a mix of plea and warning, but it only makes him smile against her skin.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he says softly, his voice full of a challenge she’s not sure she can meet. His fingers pinch lightly, just enough to make her gasp, the sound swallowed by his quiet groan of approval.

But she doesn’t tell him to stop. Instead, she leans back into him, her body betraying her mind as it seeks more of his touch. His hand on her ass tightens, pulling her against him, and she feels the heat of him, the way he presses against her as if he can’t get close enough.

“You drive me insane,” he murmurs, his lips trailing back up to her ear, nipping lightly at the lobe. “You know that, right?”

She nods, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts as his hand beneath her shirt continues its slow, deliberate torment.

“Say the word,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble that makes her insides twist with want. “Say it, and I’ll stop.”

But the words won’t come. Instead, she turns her head slightly, catching his gaze out of the corner of her eye, the intensity there stealing whatever resolve she thought she had. His eyes are dark, filled with something deep and consuming, and it’s in that moment she knows she’s lost.

“Aemond…” she breathes again, but this time, it’s not a warning. It’s an invitation, and he knows it. His hand leaves her ass, sliding around to her front, pulling her even closer, and she feels the low, satisfied hum in his chest as he kisses the side of her neck, harder this time, more insistent.

The hand slides further down, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties. His fingers move with agonizing slowness, tracing the curve of her before dipping into the heat between her thighs. She bites down on her lip, trying to stifle the gasp that escapes her as his fingers brush over her entrance.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs against her ear, his voice thick with desire. His fingers start to move in slow, deliberate circles, teasing and tormenting her with a touch that’s just enough to make her want more but not enough to satisfy the growing ache inside her.

She grips the edge of the bookshelf in front of her, knuckles turning white as she tries to stay quiet, but every slow, precise movement of his fingers makes it harder. Her breath hitches in her throat as he presses harder, moving against her in a way that makes her whole body tense with need.

“Please, Aemond,” she whispers, her voice trembling with the weight of everything she’s feeling. She wants more, needs more, and she knows he can give it to her.

A low, dark chuckle rumbles in his chest as he withdraws his hand, making her whimper at the loss. But before she can protest, he’s turning her around, his movements quick and deliberate, as if he’s been waiting for this just as much as she has.

He pushes her back against the shelves, his body pressing into hers, trapping her between the cool wood and his heat. His mouth is on hers before she can say anything else, kissing her hard and deep, swallowing the moan that escapes her as he reaches between them to tug her panties down. His fingers work deftly, the fabric falling to the floor around her ankles as he frees himself from his pants.

He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, his gaze dark and filled with something primal. “It’s a shame,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “I quite like it when you scream.”

Her breath catches at his words, the anticipation tightening in her stomach as he leans in, his lips brushing against her ear. “But you’re going to have to be quiet, or they’ll hear you.”

He doesn’t give her a chance to respond before he’s lifting her leg, wrapping it around his waist as he guides himself to her entrance. She gasps as he pushes into her slowly, stretching her inch by inch in a way that feels both torturous and utterly perfect.

She bites down on her lip to keep from crying out, the intensity of the sensation almost too much to bear as he fills her completely. His hand slides under her shirt again, pushing the fabric up and palming her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple in a way that makes her arch against him, her body desperate for more of his touch.

He begins to move, thrusting into her with a slow, steady rhythm that has her head spinning. Each movement is deliberate, controlled, as if he’s savoring every moment, every sound she makes. She can’t help the small moans that escape her, each one muffled against his shoulder as she clings to him, her body trembling with the force of her need.

But even her attempts to stay quiet aren’t enough to satisfy him. He kisses her again, harder this time, swallowing her cries as he picks up the pace, his hips snapping against hers with a force that makes the bookshelf behind her rattle. The sounds of the library fade away, leaving only the echo of their ragged breaths and the wet, slick sounds of their bodies moving together.

“So fucking perfect,” he groans, his lips brushing against her ear as he pounds into her, each thrust hitting deeper, harder.

She can feel the tension building inside her, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust. Her fingers dig into his back, holding on to him like he’s the only thing keeping her anchored to the ground.

“I need you,” she gasps, her voice a desperate whisper against his neck. “Please, Aemond… don’t stop.” The thrill of being caught only seems to make her want more.

His response is a low, guttural sound that sends shivers down her spine. He shifts slightly, changing the angle just enough to hit that perfect spot inside her, and suddenly she’s teetering on the edge, every nerve in her body alight with sensation.

“Come for me,” he whispers, his voice a dark command that she can’t resist.

And she does. Her body shatters around him, her release crashing over her in waves that leave her trembling and breathless. He kisses her again, swallowing her cries as he thrusts into her harder, faster, riding out her orgasm until she’s nothing but a quivering mess in his arms.

Aemond isn’t far behind. With a few more powerful thrusts, he buries himself deep inside her, his body going rigid as he finds his own release, groaning her name against her lips as he spills into her.

They stay like that for a moment, both of them breathing heavily, their bodies pressed together as they come down from the high. He kisses her softly, his lips lingering on hers as if he’s reluctant to pull away, and for a moment, it’s just the two of them, lost in the aftermath of what they’ve just shared.

When he finally pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes that she can’t quite place, something intense and raw that makes her heart skip a beat. He smooths her hair back, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before helping her adjust her clothes, his touch now tender, almost reverent.

When she’s done with adjusting herself, she brings her hands over her mouth and lets out a long, shuddering breath - disbelief, over what they’d just done. He seems quite unfazed, almost as if he constantly engages in semi-public sex and she can’t help but wonder.

Has he done this with her too?

When he pulls her into his chest with an arm over her shoulder, she smiles. She smiles and smiles and smiles until her lips go taut and her dimples are seemingly permanent.

Aemond pushes open the door to her room, stepping inside with a quiet creak of the hinges. He pauses, his gaze taking in the chaos that greets him: clothes scattered across the floor, stacks of books and sketch pads teetering on the edge of her desk, and an assortment of half-packed bags and boxes cluttering every available surface. 

Raising an eyebrow, he surveys the scene with amusement. “You’ve been busy,” he says, his tone both teasing and intrigued.

She glances up from where she is hunched over a suitcase, her hands busy stuffing garments into it with an absentminded efficiency. “I am,” she says with a sigh, straightening up and brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “I’m packing to go back home next week. One of my older half-brothers is launching his business, and my dad called me today. He’s got plane tickets for me, so I thought I’d just stay at King’s Landing until the Targaryen Charity Benefit.”

Her eyes flicker over to him, a hint of apology in them as if she were embarrassed by the state of her room. “I’m taking my classes online while I’m there.”

Aemond hums, his gaze drifting to the cluttered bed as he sits at the edge. He runs a hand through his hair, still processing her news. “You’ll be gone for three weeks.”

She leaves the mess behind and stands in front of him, between his legs. Almost as though it’s second nature, she straddles him, her legs wrapping around his waist. His hands settle on her hips, holding her in place, and she smiles. “Yes, whatever will you do without me?”

Aemond’s grip tightens around her hips as she straddles him. He lifts a hand to brush a strand of hair from her face, his touch tender. Without a word, she leans down, capturing his lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

It’s gentle at first. His hands roam up her back, steadying her against him, while her fingers trace the line of his jaw, feeling the sharp angles beneath her touch. She melts into him, savoring the warmth of his chest and the familiar feel of his arms around her.

Her mind betrays her, hitting her with the sudden realization of how much she cares for him - how her feelings have resurfaced in full force despite everything. She told herself before that this was casual, but now, pressed against him, it's impossible to ignore the tenderness of the moment, how much it means to her.

Just as she's about to lose herself entirely, Aemond pulls back slightly, his lips brushing against hers as he speaks softly. “Come with me… to the Targaryen Charity Benefit.”

She blinks, his words cutting through the haze of her thoughts. “What?”

He meets her eyes, his thumb stroking her side. “Come with me.”

“As your date?” She raises her eyebrows, knowing very well that going with him to public events is probably not a safe bet to make.

“As whatever you’d like.”

Her heart skips a beat, the invitation sending a flutter through her chest. For a moment, she hesitates, her mind whirling. She can see herself there, on his arm, but doubt quickly gnaws at her. What about the other woman? The one she knows he’s seeing? Wouldn't that complicate things further?

But she pushes the thoughts aside, smiling softly at him as she whispers, “Okay.”

Before she can overthink it, she leans down and kisses him again, her lips urgent against his, as though trying to drown out the uncertainty lingering in her mind. But as the kiss deepens, the doubt creeps back in. Can she really be the girl on his arm without stirring up more trouble? Will his other entanglements only complicate things further? What are they even doing?

She can’t shake the feeling that it’s not as simple as he makes it sound.

Pulling back from the kiss, her breath still mingling with his, her fingers still on his chest. The question that’s been nagging at the back of her mind breaks through, and she can’t keep it at bay any longer. “What about her?” she asks, her voice quieter now. “The girl you’re seeing… is that not going to be a problem?”

Aemond’s expression shifts ever so slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze. He sighs, his hands resting lightly on her hips as he looks down, avoiding her eyes for a moment. “It’s not what we do,” he says, his voice soft but edged with a weight that makes her heart sink. “We don’t… go out.”

There’s a heaviness to his words, something almost resigned in the way he says them. It breaks her heart just slightly, the realization that this other girl—whoever she is— isn’t someone he even takes out in public. But why? Why would he hide someone if she wasn’t important to him in some way? Why come to her if she was important?

Her brows knitted together as she looked at him, searching his face for answers. “Why?” she asked softly, the question slipping out before she could stop herself. “Why hide her if she’s not…?”

He met her gaze then, his expression hard to read. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, as if weighing his response. “It’s complicated,” he finally said, his voice low, almost distant. “It’s not what we do. We can’t… it’s not what we do.”

The way he said it, the way the words hung between them, sent a pang through her chest. She had no idea what he was dealing with, but it was clear that whatever this was with the other woman wasn’t as simple as she’d imagined. Still, it left her wondering if she’d ever really have him, all of him, or if he was always going to be torn between worlds she couldn’t fully understand.

She looked away, trying to process it all. The warmth of his body against hers, the comfort of his arms around her—none of it could quiet the confusion that swirled in her mind. Aemond’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on her hips as he noticed the way her expression shifted, the light in her eyes dimming.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost pleading. He lifted a hand to cup her face, gently turning her head so she’d look at him. His thumb brushed lightly over her cheek. “It’s not what you think.”

She held his gaze for a moment, her expression guarded, but the doubt lingered in her eyes. “Isn’t it?”

Aemond exhaled, feeling the weight of the moment press down on him. “It’s not like that with her,” he said, his voice low, steady. “She won’t mind.”

She won’t mind. She won’t mind. She won’t mind. She won’t-

Her time with him was all because this other girl did not mind. And if she did? What then?

The words echoed in her mind, reverberating off every wall of her thoughts until they drowned out the sound of Aemond’s voice, the warmth of his touch. She won’t mind. It burned into her, the reality she had been pushing aside - her time with him, their moments together, the intimacy they shared, all hinged on the indifference of another woman. Her existence in his life was allowed because someone else didn’t care enough to stop it.

But what if she did? What if this other woman, whoever she was, suddenly decided she did care? What if, one day, Aemond had to choose? She already knew the answer, and it made her stomach twist painfully.

Her mind raced, flicking through every moment they’d shared - every touch, every kiss, every lingering glance - and she saw it clearly now. This arrangement, whatever it was, wasn’t the casual thing she had imagined. It was precarious, temporary, held together by his convenience and Aemond’s careful balancing act between her and someone else. And if that balance tipped? If the other girl did mind?

The thought is ugly, but she can’t help it.

She’ll be the one left behind, a brief chapter in his life, an afterthought in the wake of his real relationship. The thought makes her sick. She doesn’t want to be with someone who can’t put her first, who keeps her around because it’s easy and doesn’t disrupt his life. She doesn’t want to be the girl waiting in the wings, always wondering when it’ll end, when she’ll be discarded because something else took precedence.

Aemond’s touch no longer feels like a comfort. His words, however sweet, now seem hollow. She wants him, yes—wants him desperately, but not like this. She doesn’t need him. Not so much that she would destroy herself, let herself be diminished, just to be with him.

She doesn’t want to help him keep up his image while he spends the entire night waiting to go back to her.

The realization hits her like a wave, flooding her with a clarity she hasn’t grasped before. She’s been clinging to him, holding on to the fragments of what they have because she thought she couldn’t let go. But now, she sees it for what it is. She deserves more than being someone’s second choice, someone’s convenience.

She exhales softly and looks at him, really looks at him. His sharp features, silver hair falling slightly into his eyes, his expression holding mild confusion as he notices her shift. He’s beautiful, enigmatic, the kind of person who draws you in without even trying. And she loves him. That much is clear. But she loves herself, too. And this—this isn’t good for her.

For a long moment, she stays silent, her heart thudding in her chest as she gathers the courage to say what she knows has to be said. Her eyes search his face, memorizing him, this moment. Because after this, everything will change. There will be no going back.

All of this is happening on borrowed time - she deserves more.

Before she can fully process her resolve, Aemond moves. In one swift motion, he lifts her effortlessly, a startled gasp escaping her lips as he throws her back onto the bed. Her body bounces lightly against the sheets, her heart pounding as she looks up at him. He looms above her, a quiet intensity in his eyes, and for a second, everything else fades away - there’s only him.

His thumb grazes her bottom lip, slow and deliberate, as if he’s committing the feel of her to memory. She can’t tear her gaze away, her breath hitching when he leans down, pressing his forehead against hers. The warmth of his skin, the closeness of his breath - it’s intoxicating, and despite everything, despite her earlier resolve, she feels herself crumbling.

“Come with me.” His voice is low, a quiet plea she can't resist. Their foreheads press together, breath mingling, and for a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath.

Her heart wavers, but the word slips out before she can stop it. “Okay.”

And then he's on her, kissing her with an intensity that steals her breath. His hands roam her body, rough yet tender, like he can't get enough of her. She melts beneath him, her hands tangling in his silver hair, pulling him closer, deeper.

Their bodies move together, a rhythm they know too well. He pushes into her slowly at first, drawing out her pleasure until she's arching into him, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hands grip her hips, holding her steady as his thrusts become more urgent, more insistent.

She moans, her nails digging into his back under his shirt as she rides the waves of her release, trembling beneath him. But he isn’t done.

Before she can catch her breath, Aemond flips her over, positioning her on all fours. The cool air hits her back, sharp against the heat of his touch, and she shivers. His lips trace her spine with sweet kisses before he grips her hips again, pulling her back towards him.

Without warning, he thrusts into her hard and deep, and she cries out, her fingers clenching the sheets as he fills her completely. His movements are rough, every thrust powerful, almost desperate, as he chases his own pleasure. She can feel the tension in his body, the way his fingers dig into her skin, the low growl escaping his lips as he loses himself in her.

Each thrust sends her reeling, her body arching as he pounds into her, the bed creaking beneath them. The pressure builds again, her senses overwhelmed by the roughness of his touch, the way his body dominates hers. It’s primal, raw, and she gives in to it, letting the pleasure wash over her once more.

He moves faster, harder, his breaths ragged as he pushes them both to the edge. His fingers tighten on her hips, pulling her back into him with each powerful thrust, his control slipping. She feels him tense behind her, his rhythm faltering as he reaches his peak, his final thrusts erratic and frantic.

With one final, forceful push, he groans, his body trembling as he spills into her, his grip tightening as he holds her close. She gasps, her own body quivering from the intensity of it all, pleasure mingling with the rawness of what they’ve just shared.

Aemond shifts beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist as he pulls her into his chest. His warmth envelops her, the steady rise and fall of his breathing soothing against her skin. She nestles closer, feeling the way his body fits perfectly around hers, his arm draped possessively over her stomach.

The room is quiet, just the sound of their breathing filling the space. She stares at the wall, her mind still spinning from everything—the way he held her, the feel of his body against hers. It feels so real, so perfect, and it terrifies her.

"I'm hungry," she whines.

And then, he laughs. It’s quiet, just a low chuckle, but she feels his whole body move behind her, his chest pressing into her back as his shoulders shake slightly. She doesn’t need to see his face to know how he looks when he laughs - his lips upturned slightly, the sound soft but genuine, his whole body leaning forward with it. It’s rare, but she cherishes it every time.

She smiles to herself, her heart swelling in her chest. She likes him too much, more than she ever thought she would. Maybe she even loves him. The thought sends a pang through her, bittersweet and undeniable. Loving him wasn’t supposed to happen, not like this, but it’s too late to deny it.

But she’ll leave soon. And when she comes back, she’ll tell him the truth. She needs to know if there’s space for her in his life, or if the woman he guards so fiercely already holds that place.

Her chest tightens at the thought. She wants to be the one he turns to, the one he holds like this, the one he laughs with. But she can’t let herself be second. Not again.

She closes her eyes, breathing in the moment, memorizing how it feels to be wrapped in his arms. Because when she returns, everything will change.

One way or another.

She sits cross-legged on Arianne’s living room floor, nursing a glass of wine as she absentmindedly swirls the deep red liquid around in her glass. The cozy, dimly lit flat is filled with the soft sounds of an old record playing in the background, casting a nostalgic haze over the room. Arianne, always effortlessly composed, lounges on the couch, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders as she watches her with a knowing look in her eyes.

"You sneaky little bitch," Arianne says, narrowing her eyes playfully, lips curving into a teasing smirk. She exaggerates a cross-eyed look, making her wince and laugh in guilt.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner,” she mumbles, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass.

“Yeah, you should have,” Arianne huffs, tossing a pillow at her. “I would’ve liked to know you were fucking Aemond Targaryen, for gods’ sake! Girl, you should have told me!”

She winces again, guilt gnawing at her. “I’m sor—"

“Aemond. Fucking. Targaryen of all people,” Arianne says, incredulous, her eyes wide as she takes a gulp of her wine. “He doesn’t seem like your type, though. What’s going on there?”

She blinks, a little taken aback by that. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” Arianne begins, leaning back into the couch with a lazy smile, “he’s Aemond Targaryen. The man calls Facebook ‘Book of the Face,’ for crying out loud. Posh, arrogant prick.”

“He’s posh? You’re a bloody Martell!” She retorts, raising her glass to her lips. “And for the record, he’s not even on Facebook.”

Arianne rolls her eyes dramatically. “Weird. I’d have thought the youngest one, Daeron, would’ve been more your type. The life of the party, you know?”

Of course, she’d say that. Arianne has known the Targaryens for most of her life. The Martells, like the Targaryens, are part of Westeros' seven most prominent families—the others being the Starks, Lannisters, Tullys, Tyrells, and Baratheons. In these circles, it’s not just about wealth or influence; it's about legacy. Apart from the reclusive Starks, the children of these families grow up in each other's orbits, attending the same elite schools, galas, and events that reinforce their status at the top.

Wherever life takes them, they find one another, keeping close within their exclusive, almost impenetrable social circle. Friendships and rivalries are passed down from generation to generation, their connections as powerful as the fortunes they control. She understands this better than anyone. Her family, after all, has sat on the board of Targaryen Consolidated for generations, their fates intertwined with the silver-haired dynasty. It’s a world where the personal and professional are inseparable, where trust is as valuable as the wealth that surrounds them.

She shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, Daeron’s... charming in his own way, but he’s basically Aegon if he wasn’t trying to screw anything in a dress.”

Arianne bursts into laughter, loud and unfiltered, leaning her head back. “Aegon’s fun though! I’ve hooked up with him a couple of times, and the sex was goo-ood!”

She groans, burying her face in her hands. “Ew, stop!”

“I’m just saying,” Arianne continues, completely unbothered. “Aegon may be a bit of a mess, but at least he knows how to have a good time. Aemond, on the other hand…” She trails off, raising an eyebrow, clearly amused by the whole situation. “I can’t believe you’re with him.”

She rolls her eyes, though a small smile tugs at her lips. “It’s not like that. Not really.”

Arianne scoots closer, intrigued. “Oh? Do tell.”

She sighs, taking a deep breath before the words tumble out. “I think I’m falling for him, Ari. But... It's so confusing. I mean, I was in love with Daeron not even a year ago. How does that even look? Like I’m hopping from one brother to the other.”

Arianne’s teasing expression softens at that, and she reaches out, placing a hand on her knee. “You…” she says gently, her voice lacking its usual playful edge. “You’re not hopping from one brother to the next. You’re figuring out what you want. It’s okay to change, to grow. And it’s okay to love someone new.”

Arianne tilts her head, considering her words carefully. “Look, if Aemond thought you were confused, he wouldn’t be spending all this time with you. He’s smart—too smart to waste his time on something that doesn’t matter to him. And from what you’ve told me, it sounds like he does care about you.”

She lets the words sink in, her chest tightening. “But it’s so much more complicated. He’s seeing someone—or was seeing someone. I don’t even know. He says it’s not serious, but…”

Arianne lets out a sympathetic sigh, pulling her into a side hug. “You need to talk to him. Really talk to him. Figure out where you both stand.”

She leans into her, resting her head on Arianne’s shoulder. “I’m scared. What if telling him ruins everything?”

Arianne rubs her back gently. “And what if it doesn’t? What if this is exactly what you both need to figure out where you’re going? You can’t keep avoiding it.”

She takes a deep breath, nodding. “You’re right. I’ll talk to him when I get back.”

“And if it’s real,” Arianne adds softly, “you won’t lose him. But if it’s not... you’ll be okay. I think you deserve better anyway.”

“Stop!” She whines. She then smiles, feeling lighter. “Thanks, Ari.”

“Anytime,” Arianne grins, nudging her playfully. “Now, can we please watch something trashy and stop talking about your Targaryen boys? My brain needs a break from all this drama.”

She laughs, grateful for the distraction. “I brought soda and chips!”

Arianne cheers, grabbing the remote. “You know just how to spoil me.”

“Ae-mond, please…”

On their last night before her flight back to King's Landing, they move slowly together, every touch deliberate and heavy. Their bodies come together with a fervor that’s almost desperate, as if they’re trying to hold onto something that’s slipping through their fingers.

Each kiss feels like a search, an attempt to erase the lingering traces of someone else’s touch from his skin. She wonders if she’ll ever fully wash away the imprint of another’s fingertips, or if she’s merely adding her own layer to him. Every caress, every kiss is an exercise in forensics, a quest to mark him with her own brand, hoping that her touch will replace any remnants of someone else.

As he presses into her with a familiar, almost instinctive harshness, she can’t help but wonder if the other girl’s body was fuller, more curvaceous. The way he handles her, the way he’s rough and gentle all at once, speaks of an experience that goes beyond her. His touch is meticulous, as if he’s dedicated to exploring every contour of her body with a reverence she feels he must have practiced before.

She’s acutely aware that he isn’t new to the art of adoration. His hands, his lips, his entire presence seem to carry a certain expertise—each stroke, each touch is a testament to a history of worshiping a woman’s body with precision and care. He seems to know exactly where to touch, how to press, as if he’s memorized the map of desire and is determined to chart every inch of her.

With every touch, she is reminded that there is someone else. It breaks her like nothing else.

Aemond’s hands roam with purpose, tracing every curve, every hollow with a skill that leaves her breathless. She can’t shake the thought that this is a ritual of sorts, a final act of devotion before she departs. Each touch, each kiss feels like an affirmation of what they’ve shared, an attempt to seal their moments together into something tangible, something she can carry with her.

As she nears her release, her body arches and shudders beneath him, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He follows soon after, his movements urgent and final, his breath ragged against her skin.

Afterward, they lie together in the dim room, the sounds of crickets chirping softly through the open window.

“How are you getting to the airport?” His voice is soft in a way that she wishes she can bottle up and take with her.

“Dad’s sending a car to the flat,” she replies, her voice muffled by the pillow and his embrace.

The room is filled with the subtle buzz of the lamp and the gentle rustling of the curtains in the night breeze. Aemond pulls her close, his arms wrapping around her as he kisses her shoulder tenderly.

When they wake, he says nothing as she takes a shower in a hurry to leave. He cooks a quick breakfast for them both with whatever he could find in her fridge, and she eats like a woman starved. He kisses her gently before he lets her go, and she cannot help but think.

She’s leaving every inch of Aemond to another woman exclusively for three weeks. What if he decides he does not want her when she comes back?

Then the thought at the back of her mind resurfaces - that she’s the other woman. No matter what Aemond says, she knows that much to be true.

“Aemond…?” She murmurs, quickly debating whether or not she should tell him now, if only so that he’d be tempted to not push her aside completely in her absence.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” 

The words die on her tongue, just like a piece of her heart does when she gets on the plane.

The weeks pass by in a blur, and soon she finds herself standing in a crowded event hall, meeting her half-siblings after what feels like an eternity. Two of them are launching their new venture in the city, and the occasion has brought them all together. She interacts with them as much as she can, offering polite conversation and smiles, but she can’t help but feel a quiet astonishment at how little she truly knows about them. Despite the shared blood, they seem like strangers bound only by a distant connection.

It isn’t surprising, really. Jasper Wylde’s five children by his first wife had been adults long before he met her mother, and by the time she was born, the youngest of them was just leaving for college. The age gap, the separate lives - they had grown up worlds apart. There’s only so much they could have in common, and that knowledge weighs heavily on her as she exchanges pleasantries with them, feeling the disconnect more keenly with each passing moment.

She watches them closely - the way they move through the crowd, how they speak to each other with an ease that she’s never known with them. They have their own inside jokes, shared memories, and a rhythm that she’s never been a part of. It’s like watching a family dynamic she can’t quite break into, one she’s always been on the outskirts of. Even as they make small talk, she feels the invisible walls between them, the years of absence and unfamiliarity creating a distance that no amount of cordiality can erase.

But she plays her part—engages when they speak to her, listens as they recount their stories, and smiles when it’s appropriate. Yet all the while, she feels that sense of being on the outside looking in. They talk about their father, Jasper, with a familiarity that she can’t match, their experiences with him vastly different from her own. It’s clear that, in many ways, they had a father she never really knew.

What amazes her most, though, is how much closer she feels to the Targaryens than to her own blood. The realization strikes her with a quiet weight as she stands among her half-siblings, exchanging polite words, but never quite connecting. With the Targaryens, everything feels different—natural, easy, as though she belongs in their orbit in a way she never has with her own family.

With the Targaryens, she doesn’t feel like she’s on the outside looking in. She belongs. In their world, she’s more than just the youngest child of a man with a complicated past - she’s someone who matters.

Being home has made her feel strangely untethered. It’s not that she isn’t used to it—this distance from Aemond—but somehow, this time it feels different. Maybe it’s because she knows she’ll see him again soon, in just a matter of weeks, but it feels like the days are dragging by, each one marked by the weight of missing him.

She lies in bed late one evening, her phone resting on the pillow next to her, waiting for the familiar buzz. It’s become a routine—Aemond calling just before she falls asleep, his voice the last thing she hears at night. When the phone finally lights up with his name, she answers without hesitation.

"Hey," she says, trying to keep her voice casual, but her heart picks up the pace as soon as she hears his breath on the other end.

"Hey," he replies softly. There’s a brief pause, and she can hear the faint sounds of his apartment in the background—the muffled hum of traffic, the creak of his chair. "How’s home?"

"Fine, I guess. Quiet." She smiles a little, thinking of how everything feels slower here. "I saw my half-siblings today, for the launch thing."

"How was that?" His tone is neutral, but she knows he’s asking because he cares, not out of mere politeness.

"It was... weird. I don’t know, I barely know them. I guess I’m just realizing how distant we are." She pauses, feeling the words settle in the quiet between them. "I feel closer to your family than to mine. Maybe because yours is the better family. Although, I do have the better father."

He’s quiet for a moment, and she imagines him leaning back in his chair, considering her words. “I can assure you, your family is just fine. You don’t want mine.”

She laughs, a little caught off guard by the softness in his voice. "Yeah, maybe."

They fall into an easy rhythm after that, talking about nothing in particular—work, the weather, what he had for dinner. It’s all so simple, so familiar, and yet she finds herself hanging on every word, savoring the sound of his voice, the way he says her name. It’s the closest she can get to him right now, and it isn’t enough.

There’s a pause, and then Aemond asks, "So, how long now? Two weeks?"

She bites her lip, her heart skipping a beat. "Yeah, just about."

"You’re counting the days?"

She can hear the smile in his voice, and she feels her cheeks flush despite herself. "Maybe."

"You miss me," he says, his voice gentle, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement, and it lands with a weight that she can feel in her chest.

"Maybe I do," she admits quietly, her heart pounding. There’s a moment of silence, and in that space, the truth presses at the edges of her thoughts, threatening to spill out.

When she speaks again, her voice is softer, more serious. "Aemond, we need to talk.”

She hears him shift on the other end, a subtle rustling of fabric. "What is it?"

She hesitates, not ready to say it yet. "A conversation best had in person."

"Alright," he says, his voice low, almost tender. 

She hangs up, her heart racing, her fingers still gripping the phone tightly. The warmth of his words lingers, solidifying her resolve. When she sees him again, she’ll tell him. She’ll tell him everything.

The event takes place in a grand hall, tucked away in the heart of the city but worlds apart from the modern, bustling life outside. The walls are lined with rich mahogany wood, centuries-old oil portraits of stern ancestors in gilded frames, and shelves stacked high with leather-bound books whose spines are worn with age. 

She steps inside and is immediately enveloped in the hushed murmurs of conversation, the gentle clinking of crystal glasses, and the soft rustle of fabric as guests move gracefully through the dimly lit space. Despite the outward calm, there’s an electric tension in the air as the auctioneer lifts the gavel to announce each winning bid. There’s a certain satisfaction, almost smug, in the faces of those who come away with a prized possession, as if they’ve secured another piece of their heritage. For the others, there’s no outward disappointment—just a cool, composed silence, knowing there will be another opportunity to prove their worth.

She sits back, observing it all, feeling both a part of this world and strangely removed from it. The dark paneling on the walls, the rich smell of leather and smoke, the soft glow of the fireplace at the far end of the room - it’s all familiar, yet there’s something about it that feels performative, as if the evening is a carefully constructed illusion. The charity, the good intentions, seem secondary to the ritual of it all. As the final item is brought out - a centuries-old manuscript in a glass case - the room stills. In the end, the manuscript is sold for an astronomical price. The gavel falls with a sharp crack, and polite applause ripples through the crowd, though it’s more a gesture of respect than enthusiasm.

As the final round of applause fades, the grand oak doors at the back of the room swing open, and Viserys Targaryen steps forward. His presence is immediately felt, even if he looks frail and thinner than ever before. She heard from Aemond that he’d taken up residence at Dragonstone now, having bought an apartment for himself to stay after his parents' secret, unofficial separation.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice is smooth, warm, and commanding all at once, carrying easily over the subdued murmur of the crowd. "What a night this has been. I’m not sure what’s more impressive - the art we’ve auctioned off or the fact that some of you managed to keep your bids as discreet as you did. Subtlety, after all, is an art in itself," he says with a slight chuckle, eliciting polite laughter from the audience.

"Your generosity tonight is overwhelming," he continues, his tone shifting to one of sincere gratitude. "These contributions will go a long way in supporting the causes we hold dear, ensuring that history is preserved for future generations to appreciate - something I think we all understand better than most."

"And now," Viserys adds with a glint of amusement, "I know you’ve all been quite serious about your bidding, but it's time to relax a little." The room hums in agreement.

"Please," he gestures toward the doors leading to the adjoining ballroom, "join me for a night of music, dancing, and, of course, more wine. I think we’ve all earned it after such a spectacular evening."

With a final smile, Viserys steps down from the podium, the soft clapping of the crowd filling the room as guests begin to rise from their seats, gathering their evening coats and handbags. The heavy double doors to the ballroom swing open, revealing a space even grander than the auction hall. The light spills out, golden and inviting, as the soft strains of a string quartet begin to play from within.

She takes her father’s hand and walks in with him, their pace in tandem with each other. 

Do you think we’ll make it through this evening without someone bringing up a new investment opportunity?" she murmurs, her voice laced with dry amusement, eyes scanning the sea of chandeliers, gilded mirrors, and finely dressed people mingling as they enter the ballroom.

Jasper Wylde glances down at her with a half-smile. "Doubt it," he says. "There’s always someone with a 'brilliant' idea that just needs a little backing."

She lets out a soft chuckle. "Maybe we should place bets on who brings it up first."

"Ten crowns on Lord Massey," he says, his tone casual, but the glint in his eye betrays his amusement. "He’s been circling us all night."

"You're on," she replies, feeling lighter as they reach the grand archway leading into the ballroom. The gentle strains of the string quartet swirl around them, and she allows herself to soak in the surroundings.

Their moment of ease is brief. As soon as they step fully into the room, a cohort of middle-aged men in dark suits, all clutching glasses of whiskey, make their approach, their faces lighting up at the sight of her father. She can see the shift in his demeanor - the casualness dropping ever so slightly, replaced by a more guarded, professional air.

"Ah, here we go," Jasper mutters under his breath. 

One of the men, a stocky figure with graying hair and a booming voice, claps her father on the shoulder. "Ironrod, just the man we were looking for!" he says, raising his glass. "We were just discussing the latest venture down in Storm’s End. Care to weigh in?"

Her father gives her a rueful look, the corner of his mouth quirking as if to say I told you so. "Duty calls," he says softly to her, before turning to the group with a more affable expression. "Gentlemen, lead the way."

And just like that, he’s swept up into the conversation, nodding and exchanging knowing glances with the men as they disappear into a corner of the ballroom. Before she can fully orient herself, Daeron appears at her side, his usual easy grin plastered across his face.

"Well, look who it is," he says warmly, pulling her into a quick embrace. "I thought I'd have to search the entire ballroom to find you."

She laughs lightly. "I wasn’t hiding, just waiting for you to make your grand entrance. How was Essos?"

Daeron’s face lights up, and he launches into a recount of his summer abroad with Helaena, his energy infectious. "It was wild. Good time with Hel, she took me along to the coastline and we went around looking for almost-extinct bugs in Lys." He rolls his eyes but there’s fondness in his voice.

She smiles at the thought of Helaena. "Sounds like her. Where is she tonight?"

"With our grandfather and Aemond, somewhere over there," Daeron says, nodding toward a nearby cluster of people. Sure enough, she spots Helaena waving enthusiastically, her face alight with joy as she talks to Otto. Aemond, standing next to her, gives a small, almost imperceptible nod when their eyes meet. His gaze lingers for a moment longer than it should, and her heart stirs in response.

She can’t help but smile softly, and, on a whim, she winks at him. She’s had a bad feeling about this night ever since she woke, but it all dissipates massively the moment his gaze meets hers. He doesn’t react outwardly, but there’s something in his posture that shifts ever so slightly, a subtle acknowledgment.

Daeron catches the exchange but remains oblivious, laughing as he gestures to the ballroom. "Come on, let’s take a look around. It's the same as always, but a little darker, don't you think?"

“Perhaps,” she remarks dryly, glancing around at the decadent decor.

As they stroll through the room, their eyes catch Will Tyrell, who is deep in conversation with an older man near the far end of the ballroom.

"Ah, Will," Daeron says, grinning as he gestures toward him. "His father's expanding their business, you know. Will's been training to take over soon. Everyone's talking about it."

"I’ve seen him around campus," she replies, keeping her voice casual. "We almost hooked up once, actually."

Daeron raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Really? What happened?"

Her stomach twists at the memory, a flash of the panic that had overwhelmed her that night. She remembers calling Aemond, his voice steadying her over the phone as she told him where she was. He’d picked her up, no questions asked. The bitterness that rises in her throat is unexpected, but it’s there, sharp and real.

"Don’t even ask," she mutters, her voice tight as she glances away, trying to shake off the heaviness of the memory.

Daeron, sensing her shift in mood, just nods, his usual carefree demeanor faltering slightly. He doesn’t push for details, instead flashing her a soft smile as they continue to walk through the room, the tension between them dissipating into the hum of the ballroom.

"Oh look, it’s the little runts," Aegon drawls, his speech a bit slurred. He saunters toward them, an empty champagne flute dangling from his fingers, Sara Snow by his side. She’s looking slightly amused, though there’s a softness in her expression that suggests she's trying to rein him in.

"Aegon," Daeron greets him with mock surprise, a grin spreading across his face. “Dude you’re already drunk, mum’s going to kill you.”

"Give it time," Aegon quips with a lazy smirk. "The night’s still young, brother."

Sara stifles a laugh, though her eyes are warm as she glances up at Aegon. "I’m doing my best to make sure he behaves," she says, her voice carrying a playful edge.

"Oh, please," Daeron rolls his eyes. "Aegon behaving is like...what, dragons coming back to life?”

"Exactly," Aegon retorts. "No fun at all."

"Yeah, you're all fun and no taste," Daeron jabs back. "In...well, pretty much everything."

Aegon dramatically clutches his chest as if wounded. "Excuse you, I happen to have impeccable taste."

"Oh really?" she chimes in, unable to resist the tease. "Let's not forget the time you tried to convince everyone that that neon green sports car was ‘classy.’ Or when you spent a fortune on that God-awful abstract painting that looked like a child had spilled paint on a canvas."

Aegon raises an eyebrow, clearly unfazed. "Hey, that car is an acquired taste, and the painting? It’s avant-garde. You wouldn’t get it."

Daeron bursts out laughing, shaking his head. "Right, keep telling yourself that."

But before anyone else can jump in, she adds with a smirk, "To be fair, Aegon has great taste in women."

Sara, who had been quietly listening, suddenly blushes furiously, her cheeks turning a deep shade of pink. She ducks her head, trying to hide her smile, but it’s clear she’s both flattered and embarrassed by the comment.

Aegon, however, grins wickedly. "Ah, finally, someone recognizes my true genius," he says, draping an arm around Sara, who shoots him a look but doesn’t pull away.

"Yeah, genius is the word I’d use," Daeron deadpans, earning another round of laughter from the group.

Aegon, noticeably tipsy and grinning like a Cheshire cat, leans in close to Sara, his words slightly garbled. "You know, Sara, I just remembered I left something...um, somewhere. How about we go find it together?"

Sara looks at him with a mixture of amusement and mild concern, but before she can respond, Aegon takes her hand and starts to guide her toward the door.

"Careful with that one," Daeron calls out, his tone light and teasing. "I’ve seen him turn a charity event into a rave before."

"Ah, don’t worry," she replies, her voice tinged with a hint of laughter. "I think he’s already got plans for a private after-party."

With a final chuckle, Daeron watches as they exit, the door closing behind them.

She turns back to Daeron, her gaze thoughtful. "By the way, what’s up with Floris? I haven’t seen her around tonight."

Daeron’s expression shifts, a shadow of sadness crossing his face. "Oh, um, we broke up," he says quietly, almost as if he’s still coming to terms with it.

Her heart twinges with genuine sympathy. "I’m really sorry to hear that. I hope you’re okay."

Daeron nods, managing a small, appreciative smile. "Thanks. It’s been...a lot. But I’ll be fine."

"Where is she, then? At the event, I presume?"

"Yeah, she’s here," Daeron confirms. "Probably with her parents and sisters. It was a bit weird to be honest.”

“I can imagine.” Just then, a waiter with a tray of champagne flutes comes by. They each take one, and Daeron is about to take a sip when he is called away by Otto Hightower.

As Daeron makes his way through the crowd, she turns to find Arianne Martell approaching her, her presence immediately drawing attention with her striking elegance. “You look amazing, Ari!”

Arianne’s eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief as she greets her. “So do you. But let’s cut to the chase. That’s not the Targaryen I was expecting to see you with tonight.”

“I haven’t told him yet. The time isn’t right. Soon though.”

“You mean you keep putting it off.”

“No, I just… I don’t know.”

“Look around you, babe. Half of these people are on the lookout - and those Targaryen kids? All their mothers are training their girls to get one. If my father had his way, I’d be throwing myself at Aegon!”

“Ari! Don’t be so crude.”

“I’m being realistic. Make your move.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m your best friend.” 

As they talk, she feels a strange unease settling in her stomach. Her gaze drifts across the room, taking in the opulence and the perfectly polished ambiance of the ballroom. Something about it all feels off, like there’s an underlying current she can’t quite grasp.

Noticing her silence and distant look, Arianne asks, “Is everything okay? You seem a bit… off.”

She hesitates for a moment before responding, “I don’t know. It’s just… something feels off. I have this gut feeling, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

Arianne’s brow furrows in concern. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s just the atmosphere. Everything is so perfect, almost too perfect.”

Arianne’s brow furrows in concern. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m not sure. I don’t know if it’s just me being paranoid or if there’s actually something going on.”

Arianne nods, her expression thoughtful. “It’s in your head babe. Calm down alright? You’ll be fine!”

Aemond finds them, cutting through the crowd with an ease that only someone accustomed to these events could manage. His presence alone seems to command attention, and she feels her heart flutter as he approaches. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, his breath warm and comforting. “You look pretty,” he murmurs, his voice low and genuine.

Her eyes follow him as he straightens, unable to help herself from shamelessly ogling him. The way his dark suit fits him so perfectly, the sharp cut of his jaw, the glint of his eyes—it’s all so striking that she finds it hard to look away. He’s right in front of her, and yet he feels like a distant star that she can’t quite reach, but desperately wants to.

Arianne, ever perceptive, catches the look on her face and raises an eyebrow with a playful smirk. “I’ll leave you two to it,” she says, her tone dripping with teasing. “You know, give you some space.”

She winks at them both before wiggling her eyebrows suggestively and slipping away into the crowd. Her departure leaves a space between them that feels both comforting yet like too much. “You look very nice,” she says.

Aemond’s lips curl into a faint, enigmatic smile. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he replies, his tone a mix of aloofness and affection that she finds utterly endearing. “Though I must say, I’m quite taken with how you look tonight.”

She catches his gaze, her smile widening. “Well, I’m glad I managed to impress you.”

His eyes twinkle with mischief. “You always manage to.”

There’s a pause, a moment of quiet intimacy, as their eyes lock. Aemond’s hand on her back feels reassuring, grounding her in the present. He then wordlessly gives her his hand, and she takes it. She always will, she is his.

With a gentle but purposeful tug, Aemond guides her through the maze of the ballroom, leading her into the darker, quieter corridors of the estate. The soft hum of distant conversations and the clinking of glasses fade as they move further from the main event.

Eventually, they reach a secluded room, dimly lit and private. Aemond closes the door behind them, cutting off the noise from the outside world. Without a word, he steps closer, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that starts soft but quickly deepens. Aemond’s hands find her waist, his grip firm and possessive. 

His lips are demanding, their kisses fiery and passionate. She responds with equal fervor, her hands sliding up his chest to grip the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. The connection between them is raw, almost desperate, as if they’re trying to make up for lost time with every touch.

Aemond’s hands roam over her back, his fingers pressing firmly against her skin, as if he’s trying to imprint her presence into his memory. She can feel the heat of his body through the fabric of their clothes, the tension in his muscles as he holds her tightly.

She gasps into his mouth as he pulls her even closer, his touch igniting a fire within her. His hands travel down to her waist, pulling her flush against him, his lips trailing hot, urgent kisses along her jawline and down her neck. She arches into his touch, her fingers tangling in his hair, drawing him back to her lips with a desperate hunger.

Gods, she likes him too much for her own good.

Finally, their lips part, and they break away, both gasping for breath. The room is filled with a lingering tension, the air heavy with the intensity of their embrace. They take a moment to collect themselves, their faces flushed and eyes still locked in a shared, heated gaze.

Aemond gently brushes a strand of hair from her face, his touch tender despite the fervor of their earlier kisses. “I have to go shake more hands,” he says, his voice reluctant. He offers a small, apologetic smile, his knuckles lingering on her cheek for a moment longer before he pulls away. “I’ll find you later.”

She nods, her heart still racing from their encounter. “Okay,” she replies softly, her voice a touch breathless. She watches as he turns to leave, and the moment he does - the feeling of unease comes back.

She walks back into the ballroom, smoothing down her dress and taking a deep breath to calm the rapid beat of her heart. The lingering warmth from Aemond’s touch is still on her skin, but the feeling of unease that had vanished in his presence now returns in full force.

As she steps further into the room, she spots a familiar face from across the crowd - one of the curators from the Westeros National Museum. He strides toward her with a knowing smile, gesturing to a nearby exhibit of her ancestor Coryanne Wylde’s paintings. “I was just about to ask if you’d seen these,” he says as they exchange pleasantries. “It’s rare to come across someone with a direct connection to the artist.” She smiles in response.

The curator nods in appreciation, and together, they walk over to the group of art enthusiasts who are gathered around the paintings. As they approach, she immediately recognizes someone else among them: her professor Alys Rivers. The professor’s sharp gaze softens slightly when she spots her, clearly surprised to see her here.

“Professor! So good to see you here, I wasn’t expecting you! Are you with someone?”

Alys chuckles lightly, offering a polite smile and points her finger beyond her shoulder. “That’s my brother.” She raises her eyebrows as she follows her gaze and raises an eyebrow. “Your brother’s Headmaster Strong?”

“My half-brother, yes. Which explains the different surnames.”

“Wow, small world.”

“We were just discussing some of the first-edition Volantene classics that we’ve been trying to source for the museum,” one of the curators says, a note of excitement in his voice. “A few Valyrian classics as well. It’s been quite the hunt.”

Her interest piques at the mention of Valyrian literature. The conversation drifts toward a particular Valyrian classic, The Last Embrace, and her attention locks in immediately, memories of Aemond reading it to her still vivid in her mind. One of the curators leans forward, adjusting his glasses.

“It’s such a beautiful work,” he says. “That passage where they talk about love being both a gift and a curse? The language is so intricate, it’s no wonder it’s one of the rarest Valyrian texts we’ve managed to preserve.”

Another curator nods in agreement. “Yes, I believe the exact line is something about love being a disease, but one we choose to suffer from?”

Before Wylde can speak, Professor Rivers steps in, her voice measured and calm. “Love is a disease of the mind, but one we willingly suffer for. It’s one of the most poignant lines in the entire text.”

Wylde's breath catches at the familiarity of the words. It was the same phrase he had marked, tracing the words as he read.

“That line,” Professor Rivers continues, “it’s always struck me. The complexity of love in Valyrian culture—how it could be both destructive and profound at the same time.”

The first curator smiles thoughtfully. “It’s fascinating how much depth there is in just one sentence. That’s what makes it a masterpiece. We’ve been trying to source a first-edition copy for years now.”

Rivers nods. “It’s difficult to find. I was lucky enough to own one of the first editions. Loaned it to someone close a while back, actually.”

Her chest tightens. The same line. The same book. She tries to push the thought away, but it grips her, the unease from earlier settling deep in her bones.

I know someone who can find the premium first edition copies, he had said.

But she doesn’t even teach him. And he’s Aemond Targaryen - he probably knows a hundred people of resource who can find him all the books he wants.

But there’s only three known copies of the first print in Westeros…

The feeling of unease that she had pushed aside the entire night comes back in full force - she doesn’t know why. It is a nagging feeling that refuses to go away, and she does not know what she’ll do about it.

Before she can dwell on it further, an attendant addresses her. He tells her that her father is asking for her from across the room. She excuses herself, turning away from the group with a polite smile. As she moves, she catches a fleeting glimpse of Professor Rivers’ necklace, the light glinting off the familiar design. Her breath falters.

She recognizes it.

A few months ago, she had seen that very necklace at Aemond’s apartment. She remembers asking him about it, how he had alluded to it belonging to a woman that he’s seeing. At the time, she hadn’t pressed him, unsure if she even wanted to know the details.

One of the curators points out the necklace, commenting on its unique craftsmanship. “That’s a Strong family heirloom, isn’t it?” he asks with admiration. “Quite the rare piece. One of a kind, if I’m not mistaken.”

Alys smiles, her hand brushing over the pendant. “Yes, it is. Passed down through generations. Only one of a kind.”

She feels like the ground is shifting beneath her feet. She can’t stop the flood of thoughts now, the connections falling into place. Her chest tightens as she pulls away from the group, her steps unsteady, her mind whirling with possibilities she doesn’t want to entertain.

No. It’s not what you think. It can’t be.

“It’s very beautiful, professor,” she says. “It was… uhm… it was nice to see you here. I’m going back to… my father’s expecting me.” The torrid nature of her thoughts shows on her face, and she can feel her palms sweating as the music and the crowd threaten to overwhelm her.

“Are you alright, Ms Wylde? You seem quite disoriented,” her professor says. She holds her onto her elbow to help steady her even if she hasn’t quite careened to the floor yet. Her skin burns where she holds her, and she wonders if she knows.

She looks her professor straight in her eyes, hoping to find any recognition. Then again, she doesn’t want to know too. 

“No, just… you know how these things can be. They tire you out quickly I suppose. I’m just going to…” 

She walks out of the ballroom and into the vast expanse of open gardens. She breathes and breathes and breathes.

It can’t be.

MASTERLIST

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[hyunebunx]

saw the soft thoughts post and i hope i’m not late >.< please forgive my typos or grammatical errors love i just woke up 🥹

soooo imagine a lazy saturday morning with hyunjin where you both just wanted to sleep in and cuddle on your shared bet until late in the morning. apparently you had to force yourself to get up because you were getting hungry and hyunjin—being a clingy boyfriend—is sticking to you like glue, and be like “noooooo don’t go!!!” because he doesn’t want to get out of bed but you had to drag him up. he became a pouty baby while being clingyyyy maybe a backhug when you were cooking, a stolen kiss when you were about to eat, helping you wash the dishes but he put some soap bubbles on the tip of your nose, asked you to go out and the spend the rest of the day with him outside maybe stroll around the city, an art museum date, go to a café and watch him sketch/paint you~

ughh to be loved by an artist bro i’m still half asleep so i hope i’m making sense... anyway have a good one deni ! 😽🩷

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: fluff and a loooot of kissing, you've been warned lol

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: my love <3 this is the cutest idea ever!! thank you so so much for trusting me to write it hehe <3 listen, this got quite steamy in the middle, idk what happened i blacked out fgsdgkj can't help myself when it comes to this man apparently. anywayss, hope you'll enjoy it <333

Mornings spent sleeping in with the love of your life, all cuddle up and intertwined, were truly your absolute favorite, a blessing you didn’t take for granted. You were both busy people, with busy lives that accommodated one another like it was the most natural thing in the world, fitting together like the last two pieces needed to complete the puzzle which revealed your love story.

Hyunjin was a heavy sleeper, clinging to every thread, no matter how thin, that transported him to dreamland to rest a little more. Just five more minutes, that turned into ten, fifteen, which ended up stretching into half an hour on good days. On the bad ones, when he was more tired than usual, nothing could get Hyunjin out of bed before the afternoon rolled around. You understood – he needed his rest – but it didn’t make missing him and his bright smile any easier.

You never knew you could miss someone even while they were dozing off next to you, blissfully unaware of how your heart almost jumped out of your chest to slip under his shirt just to feel his beating, desperately searching for confirmation he felt the same. And he did, of course he did, how could he not when your name and sweet face were constantly spinning around in his mind like some sort of live wallpaper, making him unable to concentrate even on simple tasks?

Though right now, neither of you was sleeping, cuddling to Hyunjin’s chest with one leg over his lap as you caught him up on the latest work gossip. You’ve been awake for almost two hours now and for once, the universe seemed to be on your side as no sunray managed to peek through the small crack left in the curtains, allowing you to continue lying around in peace.

“Anyway, so the printer caught on fire and that was Kim’s last straw. She threw all the papers on the floor and then proceeded to plop down on them and cry. I felt so bad.”

Despite his empathetic nature, Hyunjin lets out a short laugh, voice still husky and laced with sleep as his fingers tangled in your hair. “How did she even manage to do that?”

“It wasn’t her fault.” You yawn, hiding your face in his chest briefly. “Jay used the printer last to scan pictures of his cat’s toe beans and I guess some fur got stuck in there and ruined everything.”

He slowly shakes his head, whistling. “See, that’s why I’m a dog person.”

Prompting your chin on his chest, you look at him with raised eyebrows. “Ok Mr. meows at cats because he wants to get into their good graces.”

“That was one time!”

You giggle and he joins soon after, staring deeply into your eyes until the laughter dies down and every thought leaves your mind like it wasn’t even there to begin with. Dark eyes dart between yours and your lips, subconsciously licking his plush bottom one and telling you exactly where his train of thought has stopped. Patience was not one of Hyunjin’s virtues, so the hand in your hair moves lower to cup the back of your neck, bringing you closer as you quickly adjust, both hands sprawling on his chest to help you lean down and finally connect your lips.

The kiss is slow, lips merging perfectly as neither of you is in any rush, content to take the time to taste each other. However, it quickly gets messy, tongues meeting and complicating the familiar dance, making it hot and breathy but oh so delicious. You’d be lying if you didn’t admit you’ve been waiting for this ever since he woke up, constantly thinking about his rosy lips and driving yourself crazy as whatever he was saying faded in and out of hazy memory.

Hyunjin kissed you like no other, like kissing was an art he invented just to practice on you. One he managed to master throughout the years of your relationship but couldn’t get enough of, obsessed with the idea of improving and finding another unexplored corner he could take over and claim as his own.

A cold hand slides easily under your top, gripping at your waist in an effort to bring you closer, almost causing your arms to give out. You break away from the kiss and Hyunjin whines, displeased but still helps you settle on top of him more comfortably, guiding your body as you straddle his hips.

This new position allows for better access to what you’re both desiring, with Hyunjin wasting no more time in bringing you back down again, capturing your lips. With both hands on exposed thighs, the shirt he gave you to sleep in barely covering anything, Hyunjin loses himself in the taste of you, licking into your mouth and lightly biting on your bottom lip as your hands move lower over his stomach, needing to discard him of the annoying clothing.

You make to pull away but his lips follow, causing him to sit up and move one of his hands on the small of your back for support, not allowing you to slip away from him. With a mind of their own, your hands quickly abandon his shirt and move around his shoulders, meeting at his nape to deepen the kiss and lick at his bottom lip which he appreciates by the groan he lets out.

You feel him everywhere, hands groping and squeezing every bit of your body in the exact way he knew you loved, turning you to putty into his hold. By now, his dark hair is a mess from all the pulling – your fingers needed something to anchor onto.

“Hyun.” You inhale deeply, his lips moving down your jaw, restless.

“Yeah, baby?” He mumbles, barely hearing you.

“Breakfast.” You gasp out as he lightly bites the skin, quick to soothe it with his tongue. “I’m hungry.” Mostly true, you’ve been lying here for hours after all, who wouldn’t be hungry? But also because you knew if you didn’t stop him now, neither of you would get to eat anything before dinner time rolls around.

Hyunjin pauses, hot breath fanning your neck as he slowly tilts his head to look at you, his wet and swollen lips distracting. He’s speechless for a moment, almost like he can’t believe you interrupted him, like a child whose favorite toy is abruptly taken away. When it clicks in his head you are actually serious, Hyunjin barely registers the way you peck his lips as he rolls his eyes.

“Wow, ok connoisseur of romance. What a way to ruin the moment.”

You giggle as he gently lays you down on your back, knowing he could never be truly upset, no matter what kind of stunt you pull. He was most likely thankful you said something, surely hungry himself.

Scooting towards the end of the bed, your feet barely get to touch the hardwood floor before Hyunjin’s arms circle your middle once again, pulling you to his warm chest without a word.

“No, don’t go!” He whines, burring his head in your shoulder in protest.

Your heart squeezes in your chest, pounding from all the love you carried for your other half, the man you couldn’t imagine life without.

“Baby.” You coo, softly running your fingers over his hands on your stomach in a way to coax him. “How am I supposed to cook us breakfast otherwise?”

Hyunjin sighs, squeezing you to his chest for two more heartbeats before releasing his hold and allowing you to stand up. When you turn to face him, one of his big hands has already brought yours to his lips to plant a feather like kiss on your knuckles.

“Don’t go without me.” He mumbles, pouting slightly, and you almost explode like a piñata, staining him with your love and adoration that will surely trap him in this apartment for days trying to get it out. Not like he’d ever mind if that were possible, proudly showing off and talking about your feelings for him to anyone who’d listen, right after talking their ear off about the love he holds for you.

So, that morning, you waddle together to the kitchen like two penguins with Hyunjin refusing to stop hugging you from behind even when you started cooking. And after that, spoon feeding you on the counter and forgetting all about his needs until you threatened to take away his cuddles.

He caved in immediately.

[lokisfirecracker]

toxic, older man!price x reader

summary; you catch price flirting with someone else when you’re out on a date together, you argue but price manages to plant seeds in your head that you were overreacting. this is you coming back to him, because john is always right, and he would never hurt you, right?

warnings- toxic, abusive relationship, smut, public sex, voyeurism, humiliation, boot humping

—————

it had only been 2 days since your argument with john. you’d thought that he was in the wrong, when you caught him chatting up a pretty blonde whilst he waited for you to be done in the bathroom at the local pub.

you’d thought he was in the wrong when he’d denied their conversation being flirty, saying that he could never want someone that wasn’t you, even though his hand had been awfully close to her ass.

you’d started being confused about who was in the wrong when he’d complained about you always picking holes in every little thing he did, that he felt like he was being suffocated by you, before storming out, leaving you to find your own way home.

now, 2 days later, you knew that he was right, you had been more clingy than usual lately, and you had been tending to tell him off when really, the things he’d been doing weren’t that bad. you shouldn’t have complained about him looking down the waitress’ top last week when you were on another date, he couldn’t help that his eyes were at the same level as her tits! it’s not his fault that his chair was the perfect height.

you were missing him desperately, wishing that you’d just kept you mouth shut so you could be with him right now. you’d been on the fence about calling him, not sure if he’d even want you anymore after your spout. so instead, you decided that the best course of action, was to get absolutely plastered and pretend nothing happened.

admittedly, it wasn’t the best plan you could’ve come up with, and you were slightly regretting it now that you’d found yourself stood on john’s doorstep, in the sluttiest outfit you had, hand hovering by the door because you were too scared to knock.

luckily for you, he opened the door, unlit cigar in one hand. your eyes welled up immediately at the sight of him, feeling overwhelmed with relief from how much you’d missed him.

he sighed heavily, not looking at all surprised to see you and leaned up against the door frame, “you come to apologise for your behaviour?”

you quickly looked down, tears streaming down your face and cooling your warmed cheeks. now that you were here, you were unsure what to say. how could you ever make it up to him, what could you do to repay him for being so mean and inconsiderate to your poor boyfriend.

“you gonna answer me? or did y’come just here to yell and embarrass me again?”

his words only made you cry harder, wishing you could go back to before and have your john back. you swear that you’ll never complain about him again if he forgives you, you’d do anything he asked.

“no i-,” your own sobs cut you off, and you scrambled to find the right words, eyes lifting to meet his. “i’m so sorry, i was so cruel, i didn’t mean to.”

“so you just meant to upset me then, just didn’t mean to do it so publicly?” he sneered, titling his to the side a little. the floor beneath him creaked as he pushed off the frame, stepping closer to you.

you rushed to shake your head, doing it so quickly that your head swarmed, stumbling a little.

“don’t be so pathetic, it doesn’t suit you baby,”

you whimpered quietly, “i didn’t want to hurt you at all, i promise. please, i need you, please don’t leave me. i promise i’ll be good. just tell me what to do and i’ll do it, please.”

your breathing was laboured, and your heart felt like it was going to pump out of your chest. you waited whilst he considered, hoping that whatever he chose, that it would be enough for him to consider forgiveness.

“on your knees,” he commanded, finally lighting the cigar and taking a pull.

you dropped down, feeling the twang in your knees that you knew meant they’d be black and blue later. you looked up at him, waiting patiently for his next order as tears continued to fall, “hump my boot.”

you moved to do as he’d asked, not wanting to be seen hesitating and he change his mind. you carefully lifted yourself up, and placed your weight down onto his leather boot. your tears finally began to dry up as you loosely wrapped your arms around his strong leg.

going slowly at first, you rubbed your cunt along his shoe, trying to avoid the laces. you tried your best to put on a show for him, wanting to make him pleased at your actions, but the feeling of the leather grinding against your clit was disturbingly good.

just as you were getting lost in twisted pleasure, you heard a long whistle from down the street behind you. your head whipped around, stunting your movements on his shoe. a couple of men had gathered around to watch, and you hadn’t even realised. had they been there the whole time? did you know them? it was too dark to be able to recognise them, but the porch light above john made you very visible to them. you only hoped they couldn’t see the way your swollen cunt was glistening against the leather.

you felt a rough tug to your hair, and squealed as he said, “did i fucking tell you to stop?” you shook your head again, knowing that any words you said would only anger him further at this point, and john didn’t tolerate prolonged disobedience.

resuming your movements, you tried not to think about the strangers, and focused only john and your quickly approaching orgasm.

you’d never felt so humiliated in your life, but you knew you deserved this. after all, this is how he must of felt outside that pub bathroom, with all those people around, watching. really, if you thought about it, you were quite lucky to only have a couple people watching you. john had been very generous with his punishment, and you’d happily take it like a good girl if it made him happy.

legs shaking, you moaned into his thigh, calling out his name like a chant. pleasure flowed through you as you released your cum onto his now shining boot. you collapsed against him, feeling exhausted and embarrassed. he gently pulled you up and into his arms, pressing his hard bulge into you as you tried to recover.

before you could realise what he was doing, you felt him flip up the back of your skirt, followed by a sharp burn against your ass check. you gasped, trying to move away from the source of pain. he shushed you as you began to cry again, rubbing your back and discarding the rest of the now put out cigar onto the floor.

“did so well for me, sweetheart. you’re forgiven, been such a good girl, haven’t you? how could i ever stay mad at that pretty face of yours, hm?”

he picked you up and walked around back into his house, slamming the door shut with his foot behind him.

your body continued to tremble as he placed you down onto his bed, lovingly tucking your hair behind your ears. he moved back to undo your laces and take off your shoes, focus moving back over to your face every once in a while. next, he unzipped the side of your skirt, and pulled your top off, leaving you in only your soaked underwear.

he admired the view, smiley softly when your eyes met and crawled up the bed to lay beside you. you always craved these moments with him, where you knew he loved you, where you knew that you were the one he wanted right now. you’d go to much further lengths than you had tonight on the porch to make him happy, if it meant that this is what you got in return. nothing felt this good.

he pulled you closer, his hold on your body tight, almost uncomfortably so, before his face turned serious, “you ever embarrass me again, and i’ll fucking kill ya, you hear me?”

you sniffled, eyes widening a little but refusing to squirm from his arms, “i won’t ever, i promise john,”

“good, that’s good,”

and just like that, he was his happy self again, like you’d never argued, like he hadn’t just threatened to take you life, like you didn’t know that he meant it. everything was good again, just don’t you dare say a word when the next week, you catch him sending pictures of his dick to his “doctor”.

—————

any feedback in the comments is massively appreciated <3

[lenaswritingandstuff]

Dating the Slytherin boys (+ Harry) - HEADCANONS

Requested: No

Characters: Mattheo Riddle, Tom Riddle, Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Regulus Black, Harry Potter (+ y/n)

Warnings: NSFW mentions, English is not my first language

A/N: I'm not sure I like this but here we go. However I have to say I like Regulus' one so I might turn his version into a one shot one day (when uni won't be killing me slowly). This will include also the pre-dating/flirting stage as well. Comments and feedback are always appreciated. Enjoy! ^^

Tag list: @helendeath @im-jesus

Tag list for this story: @anawritez-posts @pumpkinchee @alwayslatetothefandoms

Mattheo Riddle:

His feelings for you probably confused him at first 

If he falls first, he either won’t let you know or will do everything to get your attention (‘Hey, y/n, come sit here, the seat is free!”, “y/n, do you mind helping me with homework for Snape? I can’t bloody do it”, “How about we go to Hogsmeade, just you and me?”, “you look beautiful, y/n”)

Your love for him always calms him when he gets anxious or when he’s upset, especially after his father comes back

Will tell you things he never told anyone

Would rather spend time with you than with his friends

Is terrified something will happen to you because of his father 

VERY jealous, but trusts you

Despite easily getting angry, he can’t get mad at you. Even during arguments 

LOVES sleeping in your arms or when you just hold him

He's crazy about your body

Loves showering with you, and we both know how it often ends

HOT, passionate sex

Will randomly eat you out without expecting anything in return (doesn't mind if you return the favor, though)

100% calls you "baby" or "love" all the time

Doesn’t care about what anyone thinks of him as long as you love him

Your love makes him feel lighter and stronger

You're his whole world

Feels bad when he hears someone criticize you for dating him 

Always makes sure you don’t overwork yourself, and makes sure you get enough sleep, water and food, and comforts you when you're anxious

Holds your hands when he's anxious or stressed

Will listen to anything you have to say 

Crazy about your perfume

Theodore Nott:

Struggles to express his love or feelings in general, at least in the beginning 

Has never done serious relationships before, and it may cause some trouble in your relationship, as you end up believing he doesn’t care about you

It causes many fights, and the last one will be the first time he says ‘I love you’

Always goes to you for comfort 

Loves sleeping with you in his arms/on his laps, or cuddling, and with time he can’t sleep without you

Loves watching you sleep 

Loves having you on his lap

Always gets you great gifts (even randomly)

“Well, it thought it was pretty, and…it reminded me of you.”

Will fight any guy who is rude to you or acts like a creep 

Very jealous (trusts you, doesn’t trust others)

Doesn’t mind PDA at all, will gladly hold your hand or kiss you in public

Always have a hand on your waist of around your shoulders 

Very supportive in everything you do, even when he doesn’t understand it/isn’t interested in it

Isn’t very good with comforting people (mostly because he's not used to it), but will hold you and listen to you as long as you need, can even give you advice/reassurance 

Every compliment/'I love you' you say melts his heart and means much more to him than he shows, same goes for anything you do for him

Loves doing fun things, even if it’s just throwing snowballs at each other during winter (which ends in loving kisses, just savouring the joy of being together)  

Love getting in a pool with you and playing "childish" games

Any form of intimacy means A LOT to him 

He's used to hooks up and "fucking" but it takes him a bit of time to have sex with you (despite being crazy about you and your body) because you mean everything to him and with you it's really making love instead of just "fucking"

The first time is loving and slow yet passionnate (eye contact, hands holding, desperate kisses from him), and it gets a bit rougher and passionate the next times (but aftercare, which he isn't used to, is always on point and keeps getting better)

Is secretly very insecure, and is terrified you will leave him (especially for another “better” guy) 

Craves your touch and your love but won’t admit it

His boggart is probably you being dead alongside his mother

Will tell you sweets things in Italian

Very clingy in private - and also in public with time

With you he learns to be happier and discovers a happier side of himself he didn't know he had

Loves you much more than he actually shows at first 

Will often say you're all he has (and means it)

But with time, you have no reason to doubt his love and he’s the perfect boyfriend

Blaise Zabini:

Probably will court you like the gentleman he is

He doesn’t trust people easily and might be a little distant (while always polite and kind) in the early stages of your relationship 

But with time he becomes very warm and smiles a lot

Always kisses the top of your hand or your forehead 

Doesn’t do much PDA except for holding hands and kisses on your forehead

However in private he’ll 100% cuddle you and hold you

Dates in parks or restaurants  

Get you flowers at least once a month

Will always defend you against others 

One of his love languages is acts of service

Lorenzo Berkshire:

You either were friends before dating or he fell in love with you at first sight, there is no in between

Takes you on fun dates (arcade, funfair, theme parks) 

Can be shy at the beginning, which will make it a bit hard for him to talk about he feels about you

Movie nights where you two eats lots of snacks and sweets while cuddling 

Always smiles when you enter a room

So supportive 

Loves when you're on his lap

He has no problem with PDA

Quickly willing to meet your family if you agree

He’s a great listener and mostly gives good advices 

Loves taking naps with you 

Always makes you sure you get enough sleep, water and food

Won’t let you get yourself into dangerous situations

Loves to go anywhere with you, no matter the activity and even if he just follows you around 

Many pet names

If you're Muggleborn or grew up among Muggles, he will totally ask you questions about the muggle world

Passionnate sex, will get rough if he hasn't seen you in a long time or if it's angry sex after he got jealous

His aftercare is the best, and he's always thankful you trust him enough to have that form of intimacy with him

Draco Malfoy:

Won’t flirt at first with you but keeps wanting your attention

Tries to seduce you with expensive gifts, and is a bit taken aback when you say he doesn’t work

Continues to get you gifts, but will make sure they match your interests/tastes, and keeps expensive gifts for your birthdays and Christmas (even though he’d like to get them all year for you) 

At first he doesn't show any weakness in your presence

With you he’ll learn patience and to focus of more positive things, and also to stand up to his father

Takes you on dates every chance he gets

Will ditch his friends to spend time with you

Probably makes Crabbe and Goyle carry your bags or do things for you

So proud to be dating you, it might even make him more arrogant

Gets grumpy when jealous but after a kiss on the cheek he’s back to his normal self 

Will invite you to his home and write you nearly everyday during holidays

Hates it when Harry or any Gryffindor boy tries to talk to you

Surprisingly has no problem with PDA

Loves when you come to see him play during Quidditch matches

Tom Riddle:

Oh boy

It started with him admiring/watching you from afar, for he reason he can’t understand

SUPER confused by what he feels for you and why

Will probably try to get closer to you through homework or through books if he sees you read one

Will know everything about you, and will secretly follow you, saving you if you’re in danger with you never knowing who it was

Crazy about your perfume, so much so that it makes him steal one of your clothes just to be able to smell it anytime he wants

After a while, he’ll spend most of his time with you without ever admitting he likes it

Will probably let you know his feelings for you after he cast a spell on a guy for being a creep with you 

Won’t let another man touch you

Will ask Mattheo for advice to be better or to make you fall in love with him

Will do your homework without hesitation, even if he pretends that he hates it, and will leave explanations so you understand his answers/his work

No PDA except for holding hands or your hand under his arm, but will make sure to stay close to you at all times 

Is a surprisingly good listener 

VERY jealous, but surprisingly isn’t mad or suspicious at you

“Did you enjoy having his attention? Do you wish for me to show you how my attention is better?” 

He doesn't stress over homework or stuff like that, so he finds it ridiculous when you do (learns with time to be more understanding)

Will let flowers in your room with a note on it

Pretends to not care about the gifts you get him for his birthday or Christmas but it actually means so much to him as no one ever got him any gifts before 

Nothing the others say about him gets to him, but he gets angry when he hears someone say that you deserve better than him

Is secretly insecure about his background and the fact that he’s poor, and thinks you deserve better 

As Voldemort: Might be torn between continuing his goals for power and spending a simple with you; is aware you’ll leave him if he gets on a darker path 

As Voldemort’s son: would do everything to protect you from his father, and if he’s forced to get the Dark Mark, he will makes sure you don’t know 

Possessive kisses 

Would hurt anyone who does you wrong

Borrows money from Draco to take you on dates or to get you gifts, as he feels like you deserve the nicest things, even though you keep telling him his mere presence is enough

May feel a little bit guilty that he can’t properly show you his love like “normal” boyfriends do 

Won’t admit it but considers you the only good thing in his life, and if he ever lost you he’d get on a dark path

Won’t cuddle at first, but if you wake up first you’ll find him sleeping close to you, with at least one of his hands touching you

Always notices when you don’t eat, sleep or drink enough

Not only you’re the first (and only) person he feels romantic love for

He has a bit of sexual experience before, but with you it's completely different - once you guys have sex for the first time, he becomes obsessed with your body and how it makes him feel

Loves fingering you

"You like it, dove?"

Even if you guys don’t work out, he won’t ever be with somebody else 

Would ask your parents for you hand in marriage, but honestly it's just out of politeness, the only answer that matters to him is yours

Regulus Black:

Like Blaise, he was raised the old fashioned way

Acts coldly towards everyone except you, his tone and eyes gets warmer and kinder when talking/looking at you, and you’re the only person he’ll smile at

You were his best (and only) friend and he has been in love with you for years

He hides his feelings very well, but one day you start dating someone else (thinking Regulus doesn’t share your feelings) but he can’t bear it and confesses his feelings

Always defends you

He’ll take you on restaurants or picnics dates, always bringing flowers

Mostly fine with PDA (holding hands, hands on your waist)

Thinks he’s very lucky to have you

Probably already starts thinking of marrying you during your last year at Hogwarts 

A bit jealous, but can’t stand it when Sirius tries to talk to you

Will gladly do your homework with/for you

Loves it when you sleep in each other’s arms, loves feeling you close

Loves it when you call him “Reggie” (only you is allowed to)

Will literally do everything you ask him to

You’re everything to him

Can’t stay away from you for long

Will get worried if you’re five minutes late

Always calls you “sweetheart” or “love”/”my love” 

Slow, romantic sex most of the time but sometimes he needs to be rougher

Thanks to you he’ll feel lighter and he will become kinder

You’ll even make him change his views on blood purity and stand up to his parents, and with time he gets closer to Sirius thanks to that (and you) 

If that doesn’t change and he still joins Voldemort, he’ll leave you a letter before going to the cavern, saying how much he loves you and how much you mean to him

Harry Potter:

Don’t expect any pet names from him, but he might create a nickname with your name (like he calls Ginny ‘Gin’ in the Cursed Child) 

His love languages are fierce protectiveness, loyalty and a patience he didn’t knew he had

Has no problem with PDA because he doesn’t care about what other people think  

Loves cuddles

Rarely gets mad at you, and feels guilty when he does

Mostly gets mad at you when you hurt yourself (for example during Quidditch) but it's also because he was scared for you

Hot kisses in private

Will be jealous if he sees you with another guy 

He’s passionate in a lot of things he does, and it includes you and everything you do

Will fiercely defend you again anyone, can even throw hands

Gets FURIOUS when Umbridge hurts you during detention, and will cuddle you for hours and do everything he can to make the pain disappear

Knows people are mean to you during fifth year because you're dating him and he hates it

During that year the only peace he feels is when he's holding you or when you sleep in his arms (it's also the only time he doesn't get nightmares)

Very supportive 

Loves getting you gifts 

You make him feel SO happy, he’ll just keep smiling for no reason 

Gets more and more clingy with time

Always write to you during the holidays (you always invite him to come to your house)

I'm not sure about sex while you guys are at Hogwarts but he 100% feels lust for you, there will definitely be hot making sessions when you guys are alone in a dark corner of the castle and it often ends up with you against the wall with your legs around his waist while he kisses your neck and caresses your legs

However sometimes he just can't stop himself and will eat you out (even maybe finger you at the same time), and will be proud when you come

Any act of service you do for him means a lot

You're always worried about him when he's at the Dursleys but he reassures you that he's fine

Comes to you in the middle of the night if he has a nightmare and generally comes to you for comfort or to rant 

Needs you more than ever after Voldemort comes back and after Sirius’ death 

Misses you like crazy during his quest for Horcruxes, and he can’t bear the thought of something happening to you 

Might struggle to show it, but he knows and is thankful of how patient and comprehensive you are with him, and that makes him want to be the best boyfriend he can be

Terrified Voldemort might hurt/kill you

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[sunny44]

No expectations

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Neighbor reader

Warnings: just fluff

Summary: after the day he saw Y/n alone at the restaurant, he thought it would be nice to do something for her.

Part 1

The following days after the restaurant dinner were tough for Y/n. I saw her every morning, as usual, when I left my apartment. But something was different. The smile that used to light up her face was gone, her eyes looked tired, and the contagious energy she always carried with her had vanished. She wasn’t the same person I used to see every day in the elevator, always ready with a witty comment or a brief conversation.

I knew it had to do with the disastrous date. As much as she tried to hide it, it was clear the situation had deeply hurt her. And, as much as I wanted to do something to cheer her up, I didn’t know exactly how.

After seeing her return from work once again with that sad expression, I made a decision. I couldn’t just stand by and watch her sink into that sadness. I took a deep breath, walked to her apartment door, and knocked.

She opened the door, and for a moment, the exhaustion and sadness in her eyes disappeared, replaced by surprise. “Max? What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to invite you out,” I began, trying to sound casual. “Nothing complicated, just dinner to help you relax a bit.”

She looked at me for a long moment, and the surprise in her eyes turned into something darker.

“Max, the last thing I need right now is a guy inviting me out out of pity. And honestly, I’m not in the mood to go to a restaurant just to be humiliated again.”

I could see the pain behind her words, and I understood that this wasn’t just about me. It was about everything that had happened to her recently.

“It’s not out of pity, Y/n,” I said, my voice firm. “I just thought you might enjoy having dinner in a place where you know you’ll be treated well. I was thinking… at my place. No restaurants, no expectations, just dinner between friends.”

She hesitated, her eyes studying my face, trying to figure out if my intentions were genuine. Finally, she sighed and nodded.

“Alright, but no complications, okay?”

“No complications,” I promised with a smile.

***

After she agreed, I returned to my apartment, trying to hide the panic that was starting to build. I had invited Y/n to dinner, but there was a huge problem: I didn’t know how to cook.

I called the only person who could help me: my mom.

“Mom, I need help,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

“Max, what happened?” The concern in her voice made me smile.

“I invited a friend over for dinner… and I don’t know what to do.” My mom laughed softly on the other end of the line.

“You’ve always been a disaster in the kitchen,” she said, laughing.

“Stop laughing at me and help me.”

“Alright, you sound nervous. Is this friend just a friend?”

“Yes, just a friend,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“And do you like her in another way?”

“Mom, that’s not important right now.”

“It is important, I want more grandkids.”

“But for that, I need a girlfriend, so focus on helping me with the food.”

“Okay, I’ll help you. Let’s start with something simple. How about lasagna?”

I quickly agreed, and she guided me step by step. It wasn’t easy, but with her help, I managed to prepare the lasagna. I put the dish in the oven, and when the timer started counting down, I heard the doorbell ring.

I rushed to the door, still feeling a little nervous. When I opened it, Y/n was standing there, looking a bit less sad than in the past few days, which made me feel like I was doing the right thing.

“Come in, make yourself at home,” I said, giving her space to enter. “I’ll just take a quick shower and be right back. I got delayed while making dinner.”

She nodded, and I headed to the bathroom. As the hot water ran over me, I couldn’t stop thinking about what was happening. I had invited Y/n to dinner at my place, and even though I didn’t know how to cook, I was determined to make this night special for her.

When I got out of the shower and returned to the living room, I found a scene that made my heart race. Y/n had set the table and was sitting on the couch with Jimmy, my cat, comfortably nestled in her lap. Sassy, my other cat, was lying beside her, purring softly.

“You’ve already met the real owners of the house,” I joked, walking over.

She smiled, petting Jimmy’s fur. “They’re adorable. I think they’ve won my heart.”

“Well, I hope the food wins it too,” I replied, feeling a bit more confident.

She laughed, and the sound warmed the room. “I trust you, Max.”

“Trust my mom, she was the real chef,” I admitted, which made her laugh even more.

We placed the lasagna on the table and sat down to eat.

As we ate, the comfortable silence began to shift into a quiet curiosity in Y/n's eyes. She put her fork down for a moment, tilted her head, and looked at me with a mix of hesitation and sincerity.

"Max, I have to ask... why did you do this? The dinner, the invitation... you didn't have to go through all this trouble."

I sighed, knowing that question was coming eventually. I looked at her, feeling the need to be completely honest.

"After that disastrous dinner at the restaurant, I knew you didn't deserve to go through that," I began, searching for the right words. "I know it wasn’t my business, but seeing you there, alone, waiting for someone who never showed up... I couldn't get that out of my head. Even if this dinner wasn't with me, I wanted to make it up to you somehow. I wanted you to have a good night, a moment where someone cared."

She looked away for a second, as if absorbing what I said. When she looked back at me, there was a hidden sadness in her smile.

"That’s... really kind of you, Max. But to be honest, things like that happen to me all the time." She toyed with her food absentmindedly before continuing. "My relationships have always been horrible. No matter how much I try, it feels like it's never enough. And after a while, you start to wonder... is it me? Is it because I’m not worth the effort?"

Her eyes glistened in a way that made me want to reach out and hold her hand, but I knew she needed that space to open up.

"I feel... insufficient, you know? Whenever I’m in a relationship, I’m always the one left behind. It seems like no one is willing to put in even a little effort for me. And that hurts."

I stayed silent for a moment, processing her words, feeling the weight of it all. It was hard to imagine how someone like Y/n, always so vibrant and full of life, could feel so small because of others.

"Y/n," I began, choosing my words carefully, "the problem was never you. The problem is those people who don’t see how much you’re worth. You’re amazing, and if someone isn’t willing to fight for you, then that person doesn’t deserve you, not for a single second."

She looked at me, surprised by the intensity of my words, and then smiled, a genuine smile, though a little sad.

"Thank you, Max. That means a lot to me." She smiled. “I think you’re the first guy that has put so much effort on something for me.”

“That makes me the only smart one then.”

She laughed.

The dinner was simple but pleasant, and I noticed that, little by little, the sparkle in Y/n’s eyes was returning. She still bore the marks of the disappointment she had suffered, but, at least that night, she seemed to be finding some peace.

And as I watched her, interacting with my cats and laughing at my cooking attempts, one thing became clear to me: I would do anything to keep seeing that smile.

Bonus scene!

Yourusername Instagram stories

“It feels good to be treated like a princess sometimes”

[hanniesluvr]

drunk in love | yjh

NSFW | MDNI!!

genre: friends -> fwb -> lovers, angst, smut, fluff

pairing: yoon jeonghan x fem!reader

WC: 6.7k

cw: drinking, angry jeonghan bc i said so, smut, exhibitionism pretty much, spanking, degradation (he calls you a "slut" and "whore" a couple times :3), unprotected sex, creampie, choking, cucking (poor josh but also he had it coming), pet names ("pretty girl", "baby", and "princess"), oral (f rec), little bit of butt stuff, mc has a LOT of internal thoughts/ dialog lol, possessive jeonghan, possessive jeonghan, and possessive jeonghan. lmk if i missed anything !!

synopsis: when a game of truth, dare, or drink with the boys turns to shit (thanks to hoshi and josh), jeonghan has no choice but to prove himself to be the best dick you've ever had ): (SPOILER: he is. oh he most definitely IS the best dick you've ever had)

! nsfw content below the cut. mdni !

you’ve known the boys for years.

you’d met mingyu back in your senior year of highschool. both of you being on the friendly, outgoing side of introversion, he knew he had to introduce you to his rather large group of friends once you guys graduated.

and wow was your life was never the same.

you had a group of down to earth boys (men) who all looked after you like no one else had. a friend group that people could only ever dream of. no one got upset if you chose to hang out with only one of them for a day, rather than the whole group. if you wanted to go out clubbing with your girlfriends, they all knew you had 13 body guard options to call before heading out. and the best part, your best friend of the group might as well be a professional chef. you never had to worry about going hungry or even cooking as long as you had mingyu around.

other than mingyu, you ended up gravitating toward minghao, jihoon, seungcheol, and jeonghan. almost entirely separate, but sometimes you, seungcheol, and jeonghan would go out on a weeknight for some 2am ihop.

the last thing you or anyone else had expected however, was for you and jeonghan to develop a “situationship” of sorts together.

over the last couple months, you both started developing what you thought were strictly sexual feelings toward each other. now, you weren’t so sure. you knew your feelings were turning into something far deeper than just lust, but you quickly tried to shut them down in fear of ruining your initial friendship with him. tried to. you also were terrified to face those feelings because… you had no idea how he felt. other than the occasional secret or rant that he needed to share with you that he couldn’t share with the boys, jeonghan was pretty emotionally reserved. you had NO idea how he actually felt about you beyond friendly and horny.

until that night.

-

truth, dare, or drink was a game that you played with the boys every once in awhile when you guys were feeling frisky. normally, it came to one of your brains once you guys had already been drinking through the night.

in tonight’s game, jeonghan thought it’d be funny to dare jihoon to lean over and give you a kiss. childish. so childish. you could tell he just didn’t have any better idea in his buzzed brain.

“awww don’t be a pussy, jihoon!” jeonghan taunted him. he was leaning backward due to you being sandwiched between the two boys at the table, jihoon to your left, jeonghan to your right.

“nah i’m not touching her, hannie. you’re funny” jihoon chuckled, throwing back the clear liquid.

“heyyyy rude!” you pouted, crossing your arms playfully, a smile threatening to pull at your mouth.

“tsss…” jihoon put down the shot glass. “jeonghan would kill me, y/n” he chuckled. then, “ow!” he yelled, still laughing.

you whipped your head to jeonghan who was… glaring at jihoon? he’d smacked him upside the head and you had no idea why. you thought jihoon making that comment was just to poke fun at the fact that everyone knew you and jeonghan were basically fuck buddies. however, jeonghan didn’t find it very funny for whatever reason. you playfully pushed his face telling him to lighten up. to that he faintly smiled before putting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together in front of his face. he looked like a cartoon villain. what was he so upset about?

“anyways…” you were the next to talk. “soonyoung! your turn!” you enthused leaning back in your seat to look at the boy to the right of jeonghan.

soonyoung jumped out of his seat before nearly screaming, “Y/N!”

“oh fuck.” jihoon mumbled looking into his lap. you broke eye contact with soonyoung to look at jihoon in confusion.

“i’m so sorry to do this.” you looked back up at soonyoung. what the fuck is going on?

“man i swear, if you don’t keep your mouth shut,” jihoon stood up from his chair.

“what? i have to ask!”

“no, no you don’t.” jihoon’s voice was threateningly low, and you now thought you had a hunch as to what’s about to happen. your heart started to race.

“is it true that you and hoon hooked up at last year’s halloween party?!”

“i’m gonna beat your fucking ass-“

you pushed your chair out blocking jihoon’s path before he could follow through. you shot your arm out for good measure to make sure he didn’t try to pass you. he silently turned around and sat back in his chair.

when you turned back around to face soonyoung, you couldn’t help but feel jeonghan’s eyes burning holes into you along with everyone else’s.

“dude, why?” you asked in a low tone.

“whaaaat the game was getting boring! i had to spice things up a bit,” he teased putting a hand on his hip before pointing his finger in your face over jeonghan’s head. “now answer the question or take a shot missy. either way, we’ll know the answer.”

you glared at him intensely sitting back down in your chair and quietly saying “it’s true,” before reaching for the shot in front of you and slamming it anyways. you needed it. you felt jeonghan’s eyes on the side of your face and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. you just locked eyes with mingyu across the table, knowing that even with his shock, his gaze would comfort you nonetheless. it worked. his face quickly went from a “what the fuck?” expression to a reassuring “we’ll talk about this later” look.

“ahem”

no.

“that’s interesting,” josh said from the head of the table.

“josh!” you, seungcheol and mingyu yelled at the same time. they also knew what joshua had to have been thinking, and didn’t want you to endure more embarrassment.

“ i thought i was your only little secret,” he said in a condescending tone, crossing his arms.

your face was hot. “it happened years ago josh!” you were yelling from your seat. “and we haven’t talked about it since! why are you even bringing it up? who cares!”

SLAM! you flinched. jeonghan had punched the table.

“i fucking do!” he yelled shooting up from his chair. “while we’re here,” his voice dropped, placing his palms on the table, leaning forward glancing at everyone. “would anyone else like to confess to fucking y/n?”

“jeonghan,” you reached your hand up to rest on his arm and you felt his muscles stiffen.

“it’s not like that,” jihoon followed up, trying to reassure him. jeonghan wouldn’t look at him. “it was over a year ago. it wasn’t important then, and it’s not important now.”

“it still fucking happened,” he looked over his shoulder down at you. “and you didn’t tell me about it.” his tone was laced with what could only be described as anguish.

“doesn’t seem like she’s told anyone,” josh pettily adds before taking a sip of whatever drink he’d made for himself before the game started.

now you were the one to punch the table but you didn’t stand up. “dammit josh! jihoon and i both agreed we’d pretend like it never happened. it was a mistake. and it happened years after you and i hooked up so why would i tell you out of everyone?! i didn’t even tell mingyu!” you were shaking in your seat. your breath rapid as you were hitting the peak of your anger induced high. shitfaced josh didn’t know when to stop. sober josh would never even slightly push anyone’s buttons the way drunk josh was vigorously punching yours right now (and jeonghan’s).

“well it seems you told mingyu and cheol about us, so what’s the reason for that? was i too good to forget?”

before jeonghan could even start to move toward him you stood up, forcefully holding him back by his shoulder. he froze. “josh…” you started, still keeping your hand on jeonghan to make sure he didn’t try anything. “i told them because i was fucking humiliated, and couldn’t believe that i fucked you.” you spat. “is that what you wanted to hear?” you could’ve sworn in that moment, all of jeonghan’s tension shifted to josh because as jeonghan found his way back into his chair, josh stood up. it didn’t phase you in the slightest.

“you’re fucking lying, y/n. i had to have been the best you ever-”

“fucking watch yourself man,” seungcheol warned, also getting out of his seat to defend you and jeonghan, his best friend.

“oh what? did you fuck her too?”

“that’s it!” jeonghan shot back out of his chair charging toward him.

luckily seungcheol was at the chair right next to josh and managed to get to him before jeonghan, stepping in front of him as some sort of human shield. jeonghan stopped in his tracks, mere inches away from his best friend.

“cheol, move.” he growled.

“walk away jeonghan.” seungcheol tried to calm him down.

“i’m not walking the fuck away. move or i’ll move you myself.”

“hannie, it’s not worth it,” you chimed in, making your way to him. “he [josh] isn’t worth it. what we did isn’t worth it.” joshua scoffed at your comment. you tried to ignore him, knowing that if sober josh was in there somewhere, he was telling his drunk self to just shut the fuck up and go along with all of it. although you really were ashamed of that hookup. you guys were like 19 at the time after all.

“look,” jeonghan turns around to face you. “jihoon? i get it. don’t ask me how or why, but it’s not much of a shock to me. i can suck it up over that.” he pointed his arm out behind him straight at josh, still looking at you. “but him? fucking joshua?” his voice nearly breaking at the end.

“what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” josh mumbled.

you and jeonghan ignored him.

“it happened years ago hannie.” it suddenly dawned on you how intense this simple game of truth or dare had turned. as you and jeonghan stared at each other in silence, everyone else waiting for what was gonna happen next, you had a million thoughts running through your mind. why does he care so much ? is it because josh is one of his best friends and he can’t believe josh didn’t tell him? is he… jealous? no. maybe?

it was almost like jeonghan could hear the questions in your head. his face turned into something small and ashamed as he slowly lowered his head looking down at the ground. one last thought was about to run through your head. is he like in lo-

then seungkwan broke the silence, clearing his throat. you both whipped your heads to the other end of the table. everyone else still staring at the two of you. “why don’t we just continue the game. no more stupid bullshit, soonyoung.”

you took a deep breath. “i think i like the sound of that boo,” you held your hand out for jeonghan to take and he did so hesitantly. not until the two of you were fully seated did seungcheol make his way back to his seat. everyone’s eyes moved to josh still standing at the end of table… waiting for him to sit.

“josh?” mingyu spoke up. it was almost like he snapped him out of a trance.

“yeah! yeah let’s keep playing,” he blurted sitting back down.

“alright well i guess it’s my turn then,” seungcheol nervously chuckled. “jun! i dare you to take a shot!”

“what?” jun laughed. collectively the tension in the room withered away as everyone started laughing softly, giving seungcheol confused looks, except for josh. he just sat, straight faced.

“yeah, you’ve barely drank tonight! cmon! either way you have to take a shot soooo…” seokmin added.

“okay okay,” jun smiled while leaning over the table for the bottle.

once he took the shot, everyone carefully looked to joshua who was clearly faking his enthusiasm now. “okay well… i gotta go with y/n!” he said in such a deceptively happy tone, you knew he wasn’t over what had just finally ended for you and literally everyone else at the table.

vernon spoke up for the first time since his last turn probably 15 minutes ago, “please don’t be a dick dude.” he casually took a sip of his drink.

“don’t worry, don’t worryyyy. i just gotta ask her something.”

you watched jeonghan’s face as he stared at his drink in front of him. his jaw was clenched so tight you thought he might shatter his teeth. you put your hand on his thigh under the table to silently tell him you wish josh would shut up just as bad as he did. “why don’t you just leave her alone man?” jeonghan asked calmly not looking away from his glass.

“well i would but there’s just this burning question i have in my head that i can’t shake,” josh was slurring a bit but still thinking about his next words wisely. “y/n,” he was staring into your soul, and you did the same to him, not backing down. “was i not the best you’ve ever had?”

“no,” you immediately answered. “no you weren’t. why do you think i never mentioned it again?” jeonghan smiled to himself looking down in his lap, grabbing your hand that was on his thigh. the gesture was oddly sweet in this bitter situation.

“oh? well then who was the best hm?” josh followed up.

“oh, jeonghan! hands down,” you didn’t even hesitate. his grip on your hand tightened, the grin on his face widening as his eyes stayed locked in his lap. you even heard jihoon softly chuckle behind you.

“bullshit,” josh accused. jeonghan quickly looked up at him, tilting his head ever so slightly. “no way he’s giving it to you better than i did.”

after that comment, everyone collectively started yelling at him to just go to sleep or leave the game, anything to get him to stop his petty remarks. including you. you were still yelling when jeonghan turned to you, cupping your face, “shut the fuck up,” he whispered before grabbing your wrist and forcefully pulling you away from the table. he stopped at the end by josh’s chair.

“fine!” jeonghan exclaimed, silencing everyone. he then leaned in to josh’s ear, “i’ll just let you hear how much better im giving it to her.” and with that jeonghan was dragging you up the stairs at an aggressive pace, not even giving anyone the opportunity to respond.

once you reached the top of the stair case he spun you around in front of him so you were walking backwards. you passed the banister as he started taking off your shirt. your bare chest on display for anyone to see had they looked up from the table down below. you couldn’t care less.

“kiss me,” you whimpered trying not to stumble backward as he’s fondling with the button of your pants. he obeyed, eagerly crashing his lips into yours as you both neared his room. he started turning you to the left and you knew you’d reached your destination. he didn’t push you all the way into his room though.

“if it gets to be too much say ‘stop’,” he breathed before pushing you against his open door and dropping to his knees, immediately pulling your pants down. you stepped out of them without a second thought. is he just gonna fuck me against his open bedroom door?

“fuck!” you gasped out as he dove in after your clothed core. i guess the answer is yes.

“jesus y/n,” he growled moving your underwear to the side. “you’re fucking soaked already,” he continued to lap at your pussy, the annoying fabric now out of the way.

“mmm liked you getting m-mad,” you whispered, not wanting the others to hear your confession. you knew it sounded pathetic.

jeonghan groaned into you in response. you liked him fuming over the thought of someone else fucking you better than he did? if his dick wasn’t pushing to break free from his sweats before, it sure was now.

“fuck, you’re such a slut y/n,” he slurred, now grabbing at your underwear, ripping it on each side down the seams and throwing them right across the hall into josh’s open room.

“hannie what the fuck?” you bemoaned. you’d just bought the lacy fabric the other day for him to admire, not ruin. the fact that he threw them in josh’s room couldn’t be less of a concern to you right now.

he stood up putting his hand around your neck, firmly pressing you against the door. “what?” he asked innocently, taunting you before crashing his lips back into yours. you moaned into the kiss, desperate for him to touch you again.

as if he’d read your mind, he used his free hand to pull down the waistband of his sweats, finally letting his dick breathe. he put his cock in between your legs, basically fucking your thighs. the subtle friction against your clit was enough to send you spiraling. you were over his teasing and torture.

“hannie, please,” you panted.

“please what?” he mocked, still rutting against the heat between your legs.

“please fuck me,” you whined.

it wasn’t good enough for him. “what? i’m sorry baby,” baby? “i don’t think josh can hear you.”

you were suddenly reminded of the circumstances surrounding the current situation you were in. you felt yourself turn beet red.

“remember, you can tell me to stop,” he whispered to you, noticing your complexion.

“no, no don’t stop,” you begged.

he smiled maniacally. “okay. so again, i don’t think josh could hear what you said,” his voice rising in the second half.

“please jeonghan, please fuck me. please!” you cried, knowing damn well that josh and unfortunately, everyone else could hear your desperate words.

“such a good little whore for me aren’t you?” his grip on your neck tightened, his other hand grabbing his cock, lining himself up with your entrance. you lifted your leg to give him easier access.

he pushed past your folds and you winced at the slight stretch, but you fit jeonghan like a glove. ever since the first time you guys had sex it almost felt like you were… made for each other in a way.

“you okay?” he nearly wheezed, trying to hold himself back from going completely animalistic on you in this moment. wanting to claim you as his for everyone to hear… for josh to hear.

fuck josh…

he barely let you nod your head before snapping his hips, thrusting his cock into you so fast you swear you saw stars. the squeal that escaped your throat was something of pure filth and you knew that by this point, josh had to have felt like a fucking idiot for everything he said.

jeonghan moved his hands to your thighs, hoisting you up, your back still flat against his door, his cock buried deep inside you. “i’m going to absolutely ruin you and your pretty little pussy,” he fucked himself deeper into you if that was even possible, “not even gonna be able to walk back down these stairs without my help,” he panted.

“mmmph hannie~” were your last whimpering words before he started brutally fucking himself in and out of your sopping cunt. you were a blubbering mess, whining and crying out like a bitch in heat.

“dammit y/n how are you always this t-tight,” jeonghan groaned before swallowing your sounds in a sloppy, wet kiss. his tongue desperately darted into your mouth to dance with yours and you were more than willing to let it in. your tongues danced together not so elegantly as his dick was thrusting into you with determination, his door thudding against the wall to the rhythm he’d set, and you moaning uncontrollably into his mouth.

you started to wonder what everyone downstairs was doing. especially josh.

“mmm wait wait wait hannie wait,” you put your hands on his shoulders putting enough distance between your bodies just to speak.

“i-i feel bad for everyone downstairs. should we keep doing this?” you whispered, giggling a little as the gravity of the situation really started weighing on you.

“i really don’t give a fuck about everyone downstairs.” he kissed you deeply. “unless it really makes you uncomfortable, then we’ll stop.”

“i’m not really uncomfortable just… feel bad.”

“well don’t. and remember how this all started?”

he was right.

“you’re right,” you threw your arms around his neck, attacking his lips with your own, taking control of the situation.

he let your legs down, now gripping your waist, pulling your naked body closer to him. you spun the two of you around so he was against the door. you pulled away from your kiss to lift his shirt over his head and throw it into his room. you then dropped to your knees, almost mirroring his actions from earlier. you pulled his sweats and underwear down to his ankles and he kicked them off to the side.

“fuck hannie,” you moaned, clenched around nothing as you were eye level with his cock. jeonghan could’ve came just at the sight of you gawking over his dick beneath him.

“y/n as much as i’d love to feel your mouth around me, i need to fuck you properly and i need to do it now,” he cooed cupping your face. he traced his thumb across your lip and you took it into you mouth, sucking on it like a binkie. “fuck, you’re such a fucking slut y/n,” he ripped his hand from your mouth. “on the bed. now.”

you started to stand up but he stopped you, “no, crawl.” you did exactly as you were told and crawled your way to the foot of his bed.

you could predict he’d want you on all fours, but you didn’t want to assume, so you sat on the edge of his bed waiting for further instructions.

“you know how i want you.” he was making his way toward you.

you quickly turned around on your knees and lowered yourself so your face and arms were flat on the bed and your ass was in the air.

when jeonghan got within arms length of your body, without hesitation he slapped your right ass cheek before grabbing it tightly, his left hand doing the same to the other side. you just yelped and balled up the sheets in your fists.

spreading you so wide you thought you might split, he speaks again. “there’s so much more of you that i want to explore, y/n,” he mumbled lining himself up with your aching core once again.

“s-so explore me, jeonghan,” your voice was rather shaky as you waited for his cock to be shoved into you at any moment.

“fuck baby…” baby again? you didn’t have time to process the pet name once again before jeonghan picked up where you guys had left off.

his hands were holding onto your waist for dear life as he railed you into his bed with no mercy.

“f-f-fuck hann-nie!” you cried out, every stutter on beat with his hips. a string of the most lewd whimpers, whines and groans you’ve every let fly from your mouth followed.

“uh huh, that’s r-right. how g-good do i-fuck~ fuck you huh?” he boasted.

something about jeonghan’s feral tendencies to “claim” you had you tightening around him over and over, that familiar knot forming in your tummy.

“g-god hannie i’m c-close!” you warned, gripping the sheets until your knuckles turned white.

he pulled his dick out of you instantly. you started pouting, “noooo hannie why did you-“

you heard a pop from his mouth and couldn’t help but turn your head around as far as you could. “hannie?”

“if you don’t like it, or it’s too much, what do you say?”

“‘stop’… what are you- fuck!”

jeonghan’s thumb was prodding at your other hole, barely being granted access due to it never being messed with. “too much?” he asked as the tip of his thumb slipped in.

the groan that escaped your mouth was all he needed but you tried to respond anyway, “n-no hannie~ fffuck…” your voice trailed off, the new sensation sending your body into a blissfully painful new level of pleasure.

jeonghan lined himself back up, slipping inside of you with ease at this point. the sensation of being able to feel his cock sliding in and out of you through your ass with his thumb was a feeling he didn’t know he needed. he threw his head back, slowly pulling himself out almost entirely before steadily pushing himself back into you, pushing down with his thumb to feel every inch through your gummy walls. “god dammit, y/n. you’re gonna be the death of me,” he snarled before once again picking back up to his animalistic pace from before.

you both were a moaning mess, in your own bubble of euphoria when suddenly, you were rudely interrupted by an annoyingly familiar voice.

“okay you fucking psychopaths, your point has been made. can you shut the fuck up now?!” josh yelled from down below. if you two were being honest, the moment jeonghan had you crawling across the floor to his bed, you’d forgotten all about josh and the others.

“no. you can come close the fucking door!” jeonghan yelled back trying to keep his voice steady when in reality, he could fall apart here and now. fall to his knees and cry at how amazing you were making him feel. you’re the reason he can fuck you so good. you make it impossible not to.

“god you guys are fucking obnoxious…” josh’s voice trailed off at the end of his sentence as he reached jeonghan’s door. he froze in his tracks. his drunken state didn’t really allow him to comprehend that he was going to be walking in on jeonghan absolutely wrecking you. he was just coming up to close the door, but he couldn’t stop staring.

he was snapped out of his daze when jeonghan whipped his head around, making immediate eye contact with him, not slowing down his thrusts in the slightest, completely unfazed.

“the fuck do you want?” he spat. you managed to turn your head to the side to catch a glimpse of the boy in the doorway. your vision blurry from being completely fucked out of your mind. you knew it felt wrong that he was seeing all of this, but your brain was so fuzzy you couldn’t really focus on anything else other than jeonghan.

“i- i was just closing the door,” josh managed to mutter out. as he reached for the doorknob, jeonghan spoke up again.

“no. you wanna watch so bad?” he slowly took his thumb out of you first, then his cock. you subconsciously whimpered at the sudden empty feeling. you knew you should move, knew you should adjust so you weren’t so exposed for josh to see but you couldn’t bring yourself to in your sex drunk (and still literally tipsy) state.

jeonghan, dick still out, made his way over to josh. “then come have a seat,” his tone was bitter as he grabbed him by the shoulder and walked him to his desk chair, nearly throwing him down.

“dude i don’t-“

“i dont want to hear it. you’re the one that stopped to watch so im giving you what you want, yeah?” suddenly jeonghan had dominance over everyone in the room. all josh could do was nod in response.

with the main reason for all of this absurdity now sitting in the room, jeonghan felt it was appropriate to shut the door. he did so forcefully, then made his was back over to you.

your head already being turned to your left where jeonghan’s desk was, you were looking right at josh. you quickly flipped your head the other way, embarrassed by your state. jeonghan took a fistful of your hair and slowly pulled you up so your back was flat against chest.

“i want him to watch me make you fall apart,” he whispered so gently in your ear for no one else to hear. “is that okay pretty girl?” the nickname making your tummy do flips all over again. of course that was okay. sure it would be embarrassing for the first 5 seconds, but josh pissed you off tonight more than anyone. so yes, yes of course he could be put in his place with a front row seat to the show.

“jeonghan yes,” you breathed desperately, clenching around nothing.

“good,” you wish you could see the smile on his face that you could hear when he spoke. “now, when you lay back down, turn your head back toward him so he can watch your face while i claim what’s mine.”

what’s his?

you did as you were told and when jeonghan loosened his grip on your hair, you lowered yourself back down with your face in the sheets facing joshua once again. he looked at you with a stare that was incomprehensible. was it lust? embarrassment? anger? probably all of the above, but you didn’t care. all you cared about was jeonghan filling you back up.

jeonghan started to make a snarky comment to joshua when you interrupted him.

“hannie p-please who fucking cares i need you to fuck me please please please!” you were on the brink of tears. so desperate for him, to feel his cock deep inside you again.

“oh someone’s needy hm? good girl asking so nicely.” his voice something carnal. he took barely two seconds to line himself up with your soaked, swollen, reddened and abused core.

you didn’t think he was holding back before but holy shit were you wrong. his hands were basically imbedded into your waist. his hips snapping with even more determination and vigor than before. it took no more than 20 seconds for him to get that knot forming in your tummy again.

“is this what you wanted, you fucking whore? such a whore for my cock aren’t you.” he growled. “tell me baby, has anyone ever fucked you this good?” he whined out, his own orgasm approaching.

you must’ve taken a millisecond too long to answer him because he harshly smacked your ass making you cry out in pain (in a good way of course). “answer me.”

“yes!” your voice coming out in a mix of whimpers and pure air. “no one c-can f-fuck… fuck me like you do hannie!”

“not even josh over here?”

your eyes had been shut since jeonghan started fucking you again… you forgot josh was in the room. when you opened them you were met with the sight of him shamelessly palming himself through his sweats. “especially not josh,” you managed to spit out rather clearly. it was a somewhat mean statement but the mother fucker was getting off to watching jeonghan literally prove that he can fuck you better than josh ever could’ve, so why not humiliate him a little more?

sure enough, josh groaned out in pleasure. sick.

“that’s fucking right.” jeonghan managed to pull out, flip you onto your back, and start fucking you again so fast you got dizzy. the new angle allowing him to hit a new spot, one that was bringing you closer to the edge, much faster than before.

“mmmmffff h-hannieee~” was all you could manage to get out, but he knew exactly what it meant.

“gonna make a mess all over my cock baby? hm? gonna show josh what a fucking idiot he is?” he whined once again. he moved his hand down and began rubbing circles on your clit, bringing you to your breaking point.

you turned into an illiterate wreck. somewhere laced in your desperate noises were traces of jeonghan’s name. you physically couldn’t bring yourself to unscrew your eyes to look at him. you knew he loved it when you made eye contact whenever you came undone for him, but you just couldn’t. you suddenly felt a soft hand gently grab your neck.

“i fucking love your face, y/n,” he whispered as his hips started to stutter. you managed to open your eyes to look at him right before he started to come undone himself, you still coming down from your own state of euphoria. when your eyes locked, he immediately crashed his lips into yours, his hand on your neck tightening as his hips thrusted into you one last time. you couldn’t help but clench around him when you felt his warm seed fill you up. his mouth fell open letting out a feral noise as you two lay forehead to forehead, jeonghan slowly moving himself in and out of you letting you milk his cock for all it’s worth. his hand that was around your neck moved up to cup your face instead, wiping your tears that you didn’t even realize had fallen from your eyes during all of… that.

“josh?” jeonghan’s voice was low, and he never broke eye contact with you. “get out.”

you heard josh shuffle out of the room shutting the door behind him. it was nice for it to just be the two of you again… not that you didn’t enjoy the game you two just played.

jeonghan’s eyes were piercing into yours with something different than you’d ever seen. it was a content look which you were used to but…

“i-“ he paused, scanning your eyes to see if he should even say such a foolish thing.

“you what, jeonghan?” you said delicately, running your fingers through your hair.

“i love you, y/n.” he whispered. he sunk his head down to the rook of your neck as if to hide. it was the most precious thing you’ve ever seen this boy do.

“jeonghan…” you shifted to grab his face and bring it back up to look at you. “i love you too.”

how were you two sharing the most soft, comforting moment with each other right after having sex that you felt would have the devil himself appalled?

“really?” his eyes lit up, a smile growing on his face. he showered every inch of your face in kisses as you giggled through every second of it. once he finally stopped you nodded silently with a soft smile plastered across your face.

most normal people in such a situation would be asking all sorts of questions, but you didn’t care to. you knew you guys would talk about it at the right time for both of you, that time just wasn’t now.

-

“BREAKFAST!!” mingyu yelled from the kitchen. you were barely managing to open your eyes as you heard footsteps running down the hall. for these men being well past their teenage years, you always found yourself thinking of them as boys. always so cheerful and full of energy, even first thing in the morning.

once you “came to” if you will, you realized you were being spooned by the boy that confessed his love for you last night… or early this morning. the moment he ripped you away from the table you’d lost track of all time.

you both were naked but you felt clean. you vaguely remember in your post-fucked-out state, that jeonghan had carried you to the bathroom with him to shower.

“hannie,” you spoke just above a whisper.

“hmmmmmm,” he groaned, pulling you closer to him.

“gyu just said breakfast is ready and.. i’m hungry.”

“i don’t blame you.” you could hear the smile on his face even tho your back was turned to him. his morning voice was husky, the sound of it immediately going to your core, but you were too hungry to do anything about it.

“shutup,” you giggled. “let’s get dressed.”

“ugggggh okay fine, fine.”

he let you slip out of his arms to sit on the edge of his bed before… attempting to get up. your legs were so physically weak, you couldn’t bring yourself to stand. in that moment you knew jeonghan was watching you because he bursted out laughing.

“oh i’m so sorry,” he sighed once he finished his laughing session.

“for laughing at the fact that i can’t stand? or for being the fucking reason that i can’t stand?” you jokingly scolded.

“both,” he shrugged with a smug smirk on his face before getting up and grabbing two pairs of briefs from his drawer, one for you and one for him. he put on a pair, then threw a baggy t-shirt on and called it good. “i hope you’re okay twinning with me,” he teased as he got on his knees to slide the underwear he grabbed for you onto your legs. once he got to your thighs you took over.

“i don’t mind in the slightest,” you gave him a cheeky smile. he shifted closer to you on his knees so he was between your legs, then gave you a tender kiss before he spoke again.

“good. now what shirt of mine do you want to wear, princess?”

you looked up at the ceiling, cartoonishly thinking even though you both knew what shirt you wanted to wear.

“maybe that really really baggy sweater with that ‘message of’ whatever on it?”

he gave you another kiss with a smile before moving to his closet. “message of ames it is, pretty girl.”

once he helped you put the sweatshirt on, you still sitting on the bed, he kneeled backwards in front of you so you could hop on his back.

“we were taking bets on if you two were gonna come down,” minghao deadpanned from the table, taking a bite of one of mingyu’s pancakes.

“the princess was hungry.” you lightly hit him upside the head before he carefully set you down right next to the chair he just pulled out for you. once you sat, he pushed you in.

minghao smiled at you. he spoke up once jeonghan walked into the kitchen to fetch your plates. “i’m glad he treats someone nicely.”

you two giggled together. “and i’m glad it’s me.”

“oh… something happened last night.” he paused with his forkful of hash browns in front of his face. “well, beside the obvious.”

your face grew hot. “ha, yeah you wouldn’t believe.”

“can’t wait to hear about it,” he whispered, then shoveling the hash browns into his mouth.

“hey,” jeonghan blurted setting your plate down in front of you. “you guys, where’s josh?” he asked casually as he sat with his own plate as if what happened last night just simply… didn’t happen. you could imagine he was hesitant to face you both.

but then…

“y/n! jeonghan!” josh yelled from his room. “what the fuck are these?!”

you and jeonghan slowly turned to look at each other, both wearing the words “oh fuck” on your faces without muttering a word. jeonghan shot out of his chair and ran up the stairs to save both of your asses.

you turned to your food, silently poking at a piece of your scrambled eggs. minghao leaned in close, so you turned to him. “what did he find?” he whispered.

as if on cue, mingyu ran over from the kitchen to lean his head in. you leaned close to the boys so you knew any lingering ears wouldn’t hear. “jeonghan threw my underwear in his room,” you whispered back.

minghao bursted out laughing, mingyu stood up dumbfounded. exaggerated shock displayed on his face. anyone else in the room who was trying to mind their own business was now staring.

“you guys are too fucking much,” minghao sighed while holding a smile on his face. mingyu silently kissed you on the top of your head before walking back into the kitchen.

“you have no idea,” you smiled back, taking a bite of your best friend’s homemade pancakes.

˚₊��꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱‧₊˚

tag list: (i tagged everyone who reblogged the teaser) @jenoslutie @goblynnrockz @iluvhoshi @shinaely @squishysquishjimin @sana-is-ms-rmty @wonusfavgf @httpjeia @chanichanvhan @133456789000000000000 @4shypotato @meowwiie @lethia-killua @asyre @jeonghnie @starcandybby

[nekovmancer]

overwatch headcanons: how they say "I love you" with Ramattra, Reaper, Reinhardt, Cassidy and Hanzo

a bit angsty and some curse words ahead, but still sfw. don’t blame me, I enjoy the suffering and since you're still reading I bet you also do

also silly little juno was SMASHED by writer’s block again, please help sending a headcanon request, but read rules first

Ramattra

doesn’t say it at all, actually

he was shaped for violence, hands carefully constructed to murder

the sentience came with grief, sorrow, rage… but love? this big fella doesn’t even love himself, to begin with

it’s hard for him to cope with affection, to learn the aspects of it, mostly the very subtle nuances of reciprocation

but it’s you, and since you came along, this foreign feeling haunts him 

and when you say “I love you” first… he’s so silent you’re scared you’ve broken him with this three words alone

“How is it possible for you to love a being as myself?”

he feels the urge to say something back, but simply can’t vocalize the words he’s dying to say

you know he’s overwhelmed already, his pride contrasting his feelings, so you don’t push him too far: Ramattra shows you enough

but your words echoes in his systems for days

in one of these, he’s with you as he always do before you fall asleep, and the words just came out

“I may not have a heart, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be mine: it would be yours. It always has been.”

it’s not an explicit I love you

no, it’s much better

Reaper

you know what happens between you two must stay secretive

it’s… casual, if you can name it such

I mean, he comes to you every damn night, and most of them aren’t for sex, but for company 

and the cuddles, of course

you see him past the scars, the shadows… what lies beneath it as the ghost of a man 

and you love him nonetheless

despite all the danger that comes along with him being one of Talon’s counselors and a declared enemy to Overwatch

until one night, when he doesn’t show up and never let you know why

and this one night turns into tons

you’re broken, to say at least

he avoids you, not even a single stolen glance through briefings, no more missions together

you don’t know where you manage to find the courage to confront him, but somehow you do, so you’re cornering Reaper himself and demanding an answer 

“Isn’t it obvious?”

well, of course: you were dumb enough to get to attached

but he steps closer, so surprisingly close you can hear a shallow breath muffled by his mask

the shadows engulf you both before you can blink, and his ghostly touch stops just inches away from your cheek

“I’ve risked too much so far… but not you, not anymore”

you know what he means, you just wish you didn’t

he departs with a last glance over his shoulder, to never look back again 

if he wasn’t who he was, maybe things would be different

yet if things weren’t the same, you two wouldn’t even met

in the end, you’re left to grief in the graveyard he paths on his way away from you

Reinhardt

he’s a hero and will always be

but that doesn’t mean Reinhardt is invincible

that’s why you’re laying by his side, taking extra care to not accidentally touch the bandages covering his torso

you’re little injured from the last mission, a few scratches maybe

thanks to him, who jumped right into the moment to keep your head glued to your neck

per usual, he would be flourishing the battle tales and his epic acts, his thunderous laugh echoing through the HQ, but now?

the sadness contorting his face breaks your heart 

he stares down at you, one calloused thumb tracing under the thin line of the stitches on your cheekbone

“I’ve let them hurt you”

oh… so that’s it

“If I was a second late… I hate to even think of what could've happened”

he groans, retreating his hand and looking away 

if he could ever be more dearing, you would’ve exploded 

you cup his face and make Reinhardt look at you once again, reassuring him you’re here, safe and sound, thanks to him 

it takes a bit of convincing, but soon enough you hear one of his deep chuckles resonating in his chest and know that you’ll be just fine

“I will always be there to protect you, liebling, no matter what it takes. For I could never live in a world where there is no you by my side.”

Cassidy

he’s always flirting and teasing, so you would assume it’s all a joke

despite him throwing his arm over your shoulder and resting his head on yours every goddamn time he has a chance

and if you’re quiet and close enough, you can hear his fast heartbeats pulsing

maybe… he’s just affectionate, yeah

not that you see Cole like that with anyone else, but

you could never take him seriously, because he can never be serious for once

it’s always a wink here, a smooth darlin’ there

yet he never makes a move on you that gives you the clarity you need

so it’s it, an eternal what if

until one days he comes from a mission, all dirty and hurt

you’re surprised to see he came straightforward to you, still trying to catch his breath while holding to his injured side

but before you can drop any question, Cole smashes his lips against yours

and it feels holy 

he keeps you close when you break the kiss, trying to remind yourself how to breath

his breath is so warm against your face, and that familiar scent of smoke makes your knees weak

“I fucking meant everything I’ve ever said, doll”

for the way he just kissed you, you’re now sure he does 

Hanzo

Hanzo isn’t one to speak about his feelings openly

you’re actually surprised you’re now tiptoeing around some sort of serious relationship

at least, you think it’s serious since you barely leave each other’s side

it’s extremely hard for him to be vocal about his affection, though

sometimes, he would still flinch when you touch him out of blue

but he loves to run his fingers along your hair, your face…

your body is his to worship

and there’s this lazy morning, where he’s kissing your knuckles and embracing your waist…

you just feel you could melt right here, into him

until something cold circles your finger and your eyes snap open

a ring

a FUCKING ring

you stare at him in pure disbelief, eyes so wide they must pop out by any second

Hanzo shows the most loving smile you had ever seen, kissing your ring finger

that now has an actual engagement ring 

“Being with you everyday is still too little time. I wish nothing but foreverness with you”

[saiintofdiirt]

Summary: Ken walks into the aftermath of Parrot finding out Wifies is actually a clone. He should be given sainthood for how little he kills Parrot.

notes: this is so not edited lol i wrote this in like. 3 hours between tasks at work. rip. this is vaguely set in the most recent UU episode in that i needed a setting and also a reason for ken wifies and parrot to be in the same place at once. no spoilers for the episode its just alluded to being the setting. uhhhh. i think thats it. enjoy.

word count for the curious: 2678. allegedly.

~~~~

Ken arrives in the meeting room with a hop in his step. He’s been looking for Wifies everywhere, but Dean let him know that Wifies was talking with Parrot, and now Ken can finally show him the little tricky trap he’s been working on! He’s proud of himself. It’s a really good design! So he’s hopping into the room like a rabbit instead of a cat.

Parrot stands alone at the head of the table, back to the door. Just Parrot.

Bleh.

“Yo,” Ken greets even though he still feels the urge to whack Parrot across the head occasionally. “I thought Wifies was here?”

“Did you know?” Parrot asks.

Ken can feel every single part of his body prickle with discomfort. He’s glad that Parrot isn’t looking at him, so he has a chance to lower his shoulders, and tail, and ears. And attitude. He knows, somehow, what exactly Parrot means by knowing. Ken shuts the door silently.

“Know what?” Ken asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Don’t play dumb Ken. Did you know about Wifies being a clone?”

Ken breathes in slowly. He pulls his comm out and checks the playerlist. Wifies is gone. He was here only a few minutes ago when Ken last checked, which means that whatever happened, just happened.

“Did he tell you that?” Ken asks, opening Wifies’s chat.

[_Kenadian_]: where are you?

“You know, I was so confused,” Parrot turns around, eyes distant and face blank. “When I first met him, he was such a fucking asshole. Entirely full of himself. Still the smartest guy I’d ever met, though, so when all this stuff started happening on the server, I couldn’t help but think of him. I thought I was gonna regret inviting him, yet he was so quiet and nice now.”

[_Kenadian_]: wifies

[_Kenadian_]: seriously where are you

“He was always reserved, even before, but all these little things started coming up— he couldn’t remember things well, he’d talk about weird things in his sleep, things like that. And I couldn’t even. . . I didn’t know how to piece it together, and he wouldn’t talk to me!”

[_Kenadian_]: wato

[Wato1876]: Hey!

[_Kenadian_]: have you heard from wifies

[Wato1876]: No?

[Wato1876]: Isn’t he on unstable w/ you right now?

[_Kenadian_]: he left and isnt answering my messages

[_Kenadian_]: parrot found out, idk how, and now wifies is /gone/

[Wato1876]: ok I’ll check around for him

[_Kenadian_]: thx

“Are you even listening?” Parrot asks, and Ken finally looks up at him. His expression is one of desperation. It disgusts Ken.

“No,” Ken says, voice bone dry. “You yelled at him didn’t you? God Parrot, and I was just starting to respect you.”

“He lied to me this whole time!” Parrot explodes, eyes wild as he leans his hand on the table. “From the start, he hid this from me, and I only found out by— by sheer coincidence! He was talking to someone on his comm, and said something about being a clone, and I just—”

“Wait, who was he talking to?” Ken interrupts with a frown.

“I— I don’t know, they had a deep voice, talked really particularly?”

“Must’ve been Retro. . . Retro knows?” Ken mutters to himself.

The shame Wifies stews in every day because of his clone status is something Ken hasn’t been able to push past; Wifies always says he owes his life to Ken, but rarely does he bother to share his burdens with him either. Which means at least Retro seems to be getting through to him. . . It stings a little, but Ken has bigger fish to fry.

“So you did know!”

“Parrot, why do you care!” Ken snaps, turning back to his comm and searching for Retro’s contact information. Shit. He should’ve nabbed it off of Wifies earlier. “You drove him off! He’s not your fucking problem now, shouldn’t you be happy?! There! You cleaned your friends list of liars! Aren’t you satisfied with your work?!”

“I just wanted to know the truth, I didn’t want to drive him off! He's not a problem to get rid of!”

“Well great fucking job, man, go kick rocks or something. Fuck, where did he go?!”

[Wato1876]: Found him. He’s at the factory.

[Wato1876]: Ken, his comm is cracked right in half. He’s stuck here again.

Ken feels everything in him rear like a lion. He closes his comm and tucks it into his pocket. Slowly, oh so slowly, he stalks around the table towards Parrot, holding the hilt of his sword in a loose grip. Parrot follows his path with his eyes, feathers puffing out and fists clenched.

“Did you break his comm, Parrot?” Ken asks casually.

“No,” Parrot replies.

“Parrot. Tell me the truth. Did you break Wifies’s comm? Even by mistake?” Ken’s gums ache. He’ll dig his teeth into Parrot’s thin throat. He’ll rip his flimsy little esophagus out.

“No, no. I didn’t. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t know if you wouldn’t, Parrot, but I swear to everything you hold dear, if I find out it was you who broke his comm, you are going to wish I had just killed you instead,” Ken hisses out.

“His comm is broken?” Parrot echoes faintly, and it’s like gravity returns to his world, his feet landing back in reality.

“I don’t think you deserve an answer, Parrot, but yes.”

Ken tries to breathe through his anger. He’s going to believe Parrot for now.

[_Kenadian_]: ill be there soon

[Wato1876]: Bring a replacement comm?

“I was mad,” Parrot sounds wretched. “But not— I don’t care that he’s a clone Ken. I just felt like he didn’t trust me.”

Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder. Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder. Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder. Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder. Killing Parrot would make Wifies even sadder.

“I never trusted you, Parrot, not once, not for a single moment, but you made Wifies happy. I don’t know what he sees in you, but he was happy playing second fiddle to your stupid little orchestra on here, y’know? So I tried very hard to get along with you, so Wifies could stay happy,” Ken lets go of the hilt of his sword to press a sharp nail into Parrot’s chest. “You don’t understand the state I found him in before he came here, before you roped him into your stupid little games. He—”

Ken’s voice cracks and he curses, indistinct and abstract. He hates this. Leave it to Parrot to fuck everything up, just like Ken always knew he would with his lack of foresight and planning and brain. Parrot snaps up to grab Ken’s hand in a tight grip.

“Ken, I didn’t want him to leave me,” Parrot chokes out. “I just wanted to know, I just—”

“And look at where your wanting got him!” Ken spits out, yanking his hand away. “You want, and want, and want, Parrot do you even care what your wanting costs the rest of the world? What it costs Wifies?”

“He never says anything to me, he never—”

“Do you ever ask?! God Parrot, get out of your head for a minute!”

Ken runs a hand through his hair. Where is he gonna find a replacement comm? He might have something in one of the prison servers he frequents, but his head is scrambled, he can’t quite sort through his inventory in his head to figure out what he has right now. He may have one in his escape kits. . .

“Ken,” Parrot breathes. He finally realized what he’s done, it seems. Ken wants to stab him in the stomach. “Ken, I care about Wifies more than anyone else. You know that right? He knows that right?”

Ken pulls at his roots.

“I don’t know anything about Wifies right now,” Ken finally says, exhaustion creeping into him as his adrenaline runs dry. “I can’t contact him right now. He gets. . . bad, when it comes to the clone stuff. God, Parrot, what the hell have you done?”

Ken doesn’t wait for an answer. He leaves the server and lands in his solo world, scrambling around his storage before finding a dusty old comm he hasn’t used since he customized his current one. Landing near the factory is always a displeasure, but he pushes his feelings aside and enters. It takes a little searching, but he finds Wifies and Wato in the office, laid out on the floor next to each other.

“Wifies,” Ken says, more to say something than having anything to say, and he sits next to Wifies.

“Sorry for scaring you,” Wifies says. His voice is hoarse, and his eyes are bloodshot. “My comm broke. I dropped it while it was open, and I fell on it.”

“I brought you an old one I had laying around,” Ken says, bringing a hand up and running his fingers through Wifies’s curls slowly. Wifies closes his eyes. “What happened?”

Wifies doesn’t answer at first, just breathes evenly and relaxes each part of his body. He's so tense. Ken wishes he had killed Parrot.

“Parrot found out,” Wifies whispers. “I was talking to Retro. He’s been. . . helping me decipher some stuff from the notes. It was important. And I called him, and Parrot heard, and he was livid. That I hadn’t told him. That he couldn’t trust me. So I left.”

“He’s an asshole,” Wato says, and both Wifies and Ken turn to look at him in shock. “What?”

“Wato, there’s a reason why we’re such good friends,” Ken says with a grin. “Because I, too, believe Parrot is an absolute asshole.”

“You guys always knew, but I lied to him,” Wifies says. “I don’t know if he’s an asshole for being upset I didn’t tell him.”

“Yes he is,” Ken and Wato say together.

“There’s no reason to defend him out here,” Ken scolds, scratching Wifies’s scalp lightly.

“I don’t hate him, Ken,” Wifies lets out a deep, winding sigh before sitting up slowly. “Can I have the comm? I need to message Retro. Tell him everything’s okay.”

“Fine.”

Ken hands over the comm and Wifies thanks him faintly. As he boots it up and logs in, Wato sits up and gives Ken a look. Ken returns the look. Before they can descend upon Wifies and force him to talk about his feelings, the comm begins pinging wildly, messages flooding in and not stopping. Peeking over Wifies’s shoulder, Ken makes a disgusted expression at Parrot’s chat being at the top of Wifies’s DMs. Parrot is absolutely spamming Wifies’s inbox. Ken’s going to eat him for dinner.

“Ah,” Wifies says. He then proceeds to ignore Parrot to text Retro. Good. Fuck that guy.

“What does he want?” Ken asks, not because he really cares but because if Parrot pisses him off again, he can justify going at him with an axe.

“Maybe. . . Maybe not right now,” Wifies’s voice is weak.

The messages roll to a stop. Good! And then Ken’s comm starts ringing off like shots. Goddamn it. Ken pulls out his comm. It is Parrot. Awful. Now Wifies and Wato move to peek over his shoulder as his inbox becomes utterly unusable.

[Parrotx2]: Ken

[Parrotx2]: I’m sorry

[Parrotx2]: not to you

[Parrotx2]: well I can be sorry to you too but I’m sorry that I reacted like that to Wifies

[Parrotx2]: and I just need him to know that I’m sorry

[Parrotx2]: and I know you hate my guts

[Parrotx2]: but you said he was happy right? I made him happy

[Parrotx2]: I don’t think I’ve ever made someone happy by just existing

[Parrotx2]: cause fuck, it’s not like I’ve done anything for him

[Parrotx2]: Ken what the fuck did I do

[Parrotx2]: please just let him know I’m sorry

[Parrotx2]: and that I didn’t mean to blow up

[Parrotx2]: you’d think I’d be used to betrayal but with him, it felt so much worse than betrayal

[Parrotx2]: like I had failed to be trustworthy

[Parrotx2]: the reveal was a lot, but I felt more hurt than disgusted or scared

[Parrotx2]: I don’t care if he’s a clone

[Parrotx2]: I mean I care if he wants me to care. I want him to want me to care about him.

[Parrotx2]: I care about him in general

[Parrotx2]: plus whoever the guy before him was was a bitch

[Parrotx2]: he’s like so much better in a million ways

[Parrotx2]: not the point

[Parrotx2]: the point is my caring of him is not reliant on his clone status

[Parrotx2]: I can tell he’s got a comm now cause my messages are showing up as received

[Parrotx2]: does he hate me now?

[Parrotx2]: he has every right

[Parrotx2]: I can’t even pretend that he shouldn’t hate me

[Parrotx2]: Ken I don’t want him to hate me

[Parrotx2]: I don’t know if I can live with that

[Parrotx2]: I fucked up so badly

[Parrotx2]: the worst part is I trust him

[Parrotx2]: I made this whole fuss about trust and I still trust him

[Parrotx2]: of course I do, he’s the single most trustworthy person I’ve ever met

[Parrotx2]: I’ve slept in the same room as him for months and I never even worried

[Parrotx2]: he could’ve left or betrayed me or killed me literally at any point

[Parrotx2]: and he never did! even if it would’ve made his life easier

[Parrotx2]: what the fuck was I thinking?

“Ugh. Do you wanna talk to him right now?” Ken asks, turning his head towards Wifies. He gets a face full of sweet smelling curly hair.

“. . . I don’t know,” Wifies says, resting his chin snuggly onto Ken’s shoulder.

[_Kenadian_]: can you shut up. jesus.

[Parrotx2]: sorry

[_Kenadian_]: yes he has a comm now

[_Kenadian_]: he’ll talk to you when he talks to you

[_Kenadian_]: you made him cry yknow

“Ken!” Wifies hisses, cheek warming up where it’s now pressed to the side of Ken’s throat. “Why did you tell him that?”

[Parrotx2]: fuck I’m sorry

[_Kenadian_]: yeah he knows

[_Kenadian_]: just

[_Kenadian_]: give him some space

[_Kenadian_]: also dont text me like that whats wrong with you

[_Kenadian_]: i want you so dead its not even funny

[_Kenadian_]: this is the SECOND time you make him cry

“Ken!!”

[Parrotx2]: I

[Parrotx2]: what?

[_Kenadian_]: wouldnt you like to know bird boy

[Parrotx2]: why would you tell me that

[_Kenadian_]: you need to understand the consequences of what you do

[_Kenadian_]: wifies never lets you see but i do and i think you should writhe

[_Kenadian_]: you care so much? lets see.

[_Kenadian_]: writhe bird boy writhe

“That’s mean,” Wifies says as Ken closes his comm, but he doesn’t move a single muscle.

“You should’ve made it worse,” Wato says. “Should’ve told him Wifies was comatose or something.”

“Jeez, since when are you so vicious?” Wifies asks, but Ken is almost certain he and Wato are holding hands behind Ken’s back.

“I approve,” Ken says, bumping his head into Wato’s lightly. “Anyway, take as long as you want to ignore Parrot. Forever, even. I’d also approve of forever.”

Wato hums in agreement. Wifies sighs again, much lighter than before.

“Just a little while,” he says to Ken’s vast displeasure. “Just until I can stomach it. I shouldn’t have run away.”

“You’re allowed to do whatever you want, actually. Forever.”

Wifies giggles, and Ken finally feels himself relax a little. If Wifies is laughing, then it’ll be okay. He still feels anger pulsing within him like a second heartbeat, but it softens when Wifies bumps the top of his head into Ken's cheek. Not gone, never gone, but quietened enough to let Wifies speak for himself.

Ken trusts Wifies despite his own opinion. So he'll keep true and hold Wifies close no matter what.

“We still gotta talk about your feelings,” Wato says, and Wifies whines, trying to hide his face further into Ken's shoulder. 

“It's so embarrassing,” he murmurs.

“I'd be embarrassed too if I cried over Parrot of all people,” Ken deadpans. 

Wifies groans. Ken won't let him get away this time.

[kacievvbbbb]

Okay so I’ve spent the last couple days on Twitter (@kacievvbbbb if you wanna join me 👀) just fucking yapping about my new found obsession with the idea that Mihawk not only reads but is an active and well loved contributor to the pirate smut genre all across the blues. And I just needed to bring this to tumble to get more thoughts on it.

Here are mine;

- he obviously writes under a pseudonym would be funny if it was an anagram of like Worlds Strongest Swordsman or something.

- he writes essentially y/n fanfiction but he is always the reader.

- he is heavily perfectionist about his detailing of things like bodice ripping and that has lead to many a fun night for Shanks as he discreetly tries to rest just how exactly a bodice ripping would look and feel. Or if this sex position is even plausible.

-this one was a combined effort between @Dior and myself but he writes all the lovers as much more of an active participant in sex than the pillow princess himself actually is and this is because he thinks he is putting in exactly the same amount of work into sex as Shanks is which is laughable.

-Benn features heavily in alot of these RHP smut books. Benn

-He mostly writes RHP smut but he will branch out to other pirates like Crocodile maybe Doffy 👀. This gives Shanks heart palpitations when he finds out all this smut has been written by Mihawk.

- Mihawk almost kills both himself and Shanks by drowning the first time he finds out that Shanks knows about his little hobby.

- Shanks regularly requests they try something from the book and Mihawk has to stomp down the urge to throttle him. But again Mihawk’s reader is a much active participant in sex than he is and he is not a fan of all this work he has to put in even though he enjoys the results. Shanks is highly amused.

- Shanks for the first time in his life becaomes an avid reader with a habit and this confuses everyone that doesn’t know what he is reading and suffers Benn greatly who does.

- Shanks is lowkey very into the stories where the “reader” has sex with other men. He starts setting plans in motion.

- Mihawk also collects a lot of pirate smut a lot of it is about himself as well and this is his equivalent to jerking off. His next favorite people to read about are of course Shanks, Cricodile he is ashamed of just how much Doflamingo smut he owns. Lowkey maybe some King smut too.

- a contribution from someone on Twitter tha I live is that he also grades said smut about himslef and then sends the notes to the authors.

- he pseudonym is well known and well lived in the community.

-this is infact where more than half of his riches comes from.

- yes he also does read marine porn. He steers clear of anything that even remotely mentions garp tho. His favorite marine to red about is Sengoku I don’t fucking know 😭. I can just imagine him seating in warlord meetings shipping Sengoku with random fucking marines and pirates as he is trying to talk about very serious business

- he sure write the well known and well loved “the red haired emperor & me” series which is published in Morgan’s magazine or whatever and Shanks always seeks him out no matter where he is and fucks him good and hard everytime a new chapter goes out.

- he continues to do this while at Cross Guild Buggy and Crocodile are non the wiser. His crocodile descriptions start to get more detailed a clown pops up every now and again in his writing Shanks might be on the verge of a heart attack.

- shanks is a little too invested in the situation some (Benn) would say.

[lilbittymonster]

Day 18: Hackneyed

Read on AO3

Aymeric was on the couch reading when Kitali finally emerged from the bath, still squeezing water from her hair.

“You have a letter,” he said, nodding to the sealed envelope on the side table. “It arrived a couple days ago.”

“Who’s it from?”

“No idea. Some secret admirer, by the looks of it.”

She scoffed, and then made a noise of disgust when she held up the letter. Aymeric chuckled, knowing how the address of “Dearest Warrior of Light” with a dramatic heart beneath would be received. The snap of the wax seal being broken was followed by the sound of papers shuffling against each other.

“Four pages,” she said. “Front and back.”

He looked up from his book to see her holding the letter as though it were a rotten head of chyshal greens. The curl of her lip did not lessen as she read first one page, then the back, then the second, before at last she rolled her eyes and marched across the room to throw the whole bundle into the fire with a shower of sparks.

Aymeric nearly choked on the mouthful of tea he had just taken.

“That bad, was it?”

She settled onto the couch, rubbing a hand across her eyes as she laid her head in his lap.

“Yeah, that bad. I don’t know why people keep sending me shit like that, it’s not as if it’s a secret we’re married.”

“What, you don’t think you can do better than a bastard from only a minor house?” he joked. “I’m sure you could if you tried.”

“But I don’t want to do better than a bastard from a minor house,” she said, looking up at him. “I want you.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest, as it always did when she looked at him like that. He leaned into the hand that she brought up to his cheek and pressed a lingering kiss to her palm.

“And what, pray tell, did your mystery admirer say to you to earn such a fiery rejection?”

Kitali sighed. “So. He started with an actual introduction.”

“Already better than the last one,” Aymeric remarked.

“Better than the last one,” she agreed. “Then the first page or so was spent extolling my many virtues-” she rolled her eyes mockingly- “half of which were exaggerated and the other half were entirely fabricated. Then he started making all sorts of assumptions about how I must surely be a ‘woman of the world’, whatever that’s supposed to mean, and how I would surely be in want of a partner who could match my sense of adventure. And then he suggested that I run away with him, at which point I threw it in the fire. I have no interest in reading what he thinks would happen on such an affair.”

“Hm. Not very original, I must say,” Aymeric hummed. “I think I have…...no less than three books on that shelf alone that follow the very same plot.”

Kitali chuckled.

“The whole thing read like a bad soup of every two gil romance book I’ve ever read. It was so-” She stopped, motioning searchingly in front of her. “What’s the word. There has to be a word.”

“Hackneyed,” Aymeric supplied. “Cliched. Trite.”

“Sure, one of those.” She sighed again. “I leave for a tenday and this is what I come home to.”

[izzylegrand]

The Night Before

Five Hargreeves x(?) Reader . Part 1/?

Warnings: second person, adopted siblings, reader is an umbrella academy member, unreciprocated love(by reader)

_________________________________________________

There he was. Five. Back like he’d never left at all.

We all were crowded around him, watching him casually mousy around the kitchen to make a sandwich as if it was any other day. As if he hadn’t just fallen from the sky like an omen after six years of being missing.

The other students were talking to him but I didn’t hear a word. I was just staring. He’d been missing from our lives for six years after being woven so well he was involved of every aspect of it. He wasn’t here for Ben’s death, he wasn’t hear for all the fighting after Vik’s book, he was just…gone.

That night, the night before…before he ran away, he talked to me.

Me and Five were always a bit closer than I was with the other siblings. He was an ass, sure, but I knew he had my back. I could trust him.

That night I was laying in bed when the door creaked open. The lamp turned on and I saw Five. I sat up against the headboard and he came to sit on the foot of my bed, both of us facing each other with our legs crossed, a common routine.

“What’s up?” I whispered

“Dad’s pissing me off again. He’s such an ass. He thinks he knows everything, but he doesn’t.”

I laughed and leaned back against the headboard

“This is about time travel again, isn’t it?”

“It’s my power, not his, so how the hell would he have any say in when I should use it?? It’s not like he can do it. Why’s he so sure I can’t?”

“I think he doesn’t understand it so he wants you to stay away. It’s him protecting you…probably.” I shrugged

Honestly, we’d had that conversation too many times. I sat there wishing he would just get over it. The irony of that is, I would spend the next six years wishing to have any conversation with him again.

I expected him to keep complaining but he didn’t. He grabbed my hand and rubbed his thumb against the back of it, his eyes looking tenderly in mine.

“I want to time travel, Eight. I’m going to. I want you to come with me. We can go somewhere—sometime where dad won’t be able to control us! We can be together, without everyone else.”

I just stared completely frozen. I couldn’t see my face but I could only attribute it to a deer in the headlights look. There was a thick silence for a moment and it felt like my heart was higher in my chest, like everything was about to change.

He leaned in slowly and pressed his lips to mine. I wouldn’t call it a kiss. He probably didn’t know what kissing was and just took it as how he’d read it in some book. It was the most literal definition, simply pressing his lips to mine.

“Come with me.” He whispered

“I-I”

He pulled away and started to look angry. He was never angry at me but he was then. He was angry I didn’t agree immediately. He was angry I didn’t feel the same. I wanted to feel the same, but I didn’t.

“Five…we’re siblings…”

“No we’re not! You know we’re not! Don’t say crap like that!” He whispered angrily

“We might as well be. We have the same parents, grew up together, everyone calls us siblings—“

“But we’re not!” He interjected “I don’t love you like that!”

I looked at him solemnly.

There was a thick silence for a moment and it felt like my heart was higher in my chest, like everything was about to change.

“…Five, I don’t love you like that…” I whispered, my voice wavering with the threat of tears

After that, he stormed out. That was the last thing I said to him. The next morning he wouldn’t talk to me. At breakfast, he stabbed a knife in the table and declared that he wanted to time travel. Everyone just sat and silently stared while he ran off, never to be seen again.

Until today. Until now. Now, where I sat and silently stared while he gave uninterested responses to good questions. Then he looked at me. He was older now but his eyes looked the same as that night. With one stare he answered the question that had been panging in my head since he left: Was it my fault?

“Eight, I want to talk to you privately.”

_________________________________________________

A/N: Hi!!! I haven’t written a story in years so sorry for however it turned out :’) I was going to just make this a one parter but then I realized how long the flashback was so…sorry.

[into-deepspace]

Hello! Hope you're having a great day!

May I request for Rafayel's reaction when MC comes out as non-binary? It's something that's never left my head since I started playing lnds. I can't help but worry if it'd change things for him even though I know it won't (insecurity did a number on me🥹). What if MC wanted to present themes as masc/femme? How would he react?

Sorry if this is too long and complicated and I understand if you don't want to write for this but if you do write it it'd mean the world to me. Thank you for reading this ask🌸🌸

aaa of course!!! dw it wasn't long or complicated at all! i had a lot of fun writing this, and i rlly hope i did rafayel justice here <33 i feel like it ended awkwardly but ah what can u do. anywayyyy:

as you are

rafayel/mc • nonbinary mc • 1.6k • ao3 link requests open, reblogs appreciated! mild hurt/comfort || coming out || tooth-rotting fluff || established relationship

MC stares at themselves in the mirror fixing their hair nervously. In twenty minutes, they’re meeting Rafayel at a cafe, one of their favourites. They’d made the plans several days ago, and have been nervously thinking through every possibility ever since. After all, coming out, no matter who it’s to, is nerve wracking.

“I need to talk to you,” they’d sent him, late in the evening when both of them really should have been asleep. Despite the late hour, typing bubbles immediately popped up from Rafayel’s end. He sends a sticker of a distressed yellow bird, then a message.

Rafayel, 11:48 PM are u breaking up with me :(

A bit frantic, MC typed back a quick response. Of course Rafayel, ever dramatic, would assume the worst.

MC, 11:48 PM No omg?

Rafayel, 11:48 PM DUN SCARE ME LIKE THAT THEN???? Those are FIGHTING WORDS. fighting words i tell u!!

MC sighed, but couldn't help but laugh a bit. It was never a dull moment with him around, one of the things they have always loved about him. They explained that no, they're not breaking up with him, but they did have something a little more serious they needed to talk with him about.

Rafayel, 12:03 AM okayyyy spill the beans cutie wait no serious I Am Prepared To Listen To Your Words. Please Begin.

MC, 12:04 AM Actually, i wanted to talk in person Can we meet @ our usual cafe on saturday

They waited nervously for Rafayel's response, picking at a stray thread in their blanket. But as usual, they had nothing to worry about

Rafayel, 12:05 AM ofc ofc ill buy u a tea and a cake and we can talk <3

They couldn't help but smile at their phone. He was always so sweet, so ready to adjust and accommodate. They just hope he’ll be the same way about this new revelation.

Now, MC has been going by their chosen name for a long while, so long that most people don’t even know the name they were given at birth. They’ve always presented a little more [femme/masc] than their peers, and Rafayel didn’t seem to mind any of that. If anything, he encouraged it, saying that the way they expressed themselves was art in it of itself. But would this, their coming out, be a piece of the puzzle that he wasn’t okay with?

MC sighs, smoothing their clothes one last time and telling themselves that they really do need to get going. Sitting here and stewing in their anxieties isn’t going to make anything better. They grab their bike helmet and make their way down to the street, setting off.

An uneventful drive later, they arrive at the cafe and park, fixing their hair in their phone camera after they take their helmet off. It seems Rafayel hasn’t arrived yet, which means they can go in and order for themselves. Usually, they’re fine with Rafayel paying for their treats, but what if he’s upset this time? What if he realizes he’s spent money on someone he can’t accept.

Just as they’re pulling their card from their wallet to pay for their drink and pastry, an arm wraps around their waist and lips press against their cheek, startling them.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Rafayel says, tone light and joking as he slips their wallet from their hands, tucking it back into their pocket. Ignoring their protests, he turns to the person at the register. “Add a vanilla iced coffee to that please, with… hm, six sugars.” MC can only watch as his drink is added to the total and he slots his card into the reader, looking pleased with himself.

Rafayel takes their hand and walks them over to a table by the window, pulling out their chair for them with a dramatic flourish. Normally, MC would laugh at his antics, but they’re too nervous right now to manage anything more than a tight smile. Rafayel, of course, notices right away.

“What’s wrong, cutie?” he asks, taking their hands as he kneels in front of their chair. MC takes a shaky breath, trying to school their expression into something at least neutral.

“I’m okay,” they say. “I promise.” For a moment, Rafayel tilts his head and searches their face. Then, with a sigh, he stands, pressing a kiss to their knuckles as he does.

“Okay,” he smiles. “We’ll talk once you’ve got something tasty to keep you company, okay?” This prompts a smile, a little more real this time, from MC.

“Okay,” they whisper.

Ever the gentleman, Rafayel goes to retrieve their order, tasting his own drink before adding two more pumps of sugary syrup to it and sprinkling cinnamon across the top. He comes back to their table, setting MC’s portion in front of them. They taste their own drink and nod in satisfaction, cutting a piece of their pastry to place into their mouth.

“Do you want some?” they ask, offering a forkful to Rafayel. With an easy smile, he waves away their question.

“Nah,” he says. “This here is sweet enough.” He shakes his drink, the ice in it rattling as specks of cinnamon swirl around. MC nods, taking the bite for themselves.

They let themselves savor the moment for a bit before speaking. After all, they don’t know if this is something they’ll ever have again. They make their way about halfway through the pastry before they take another long sip of their drink and fold their hands in their lap.

“I have something I need to tell you,” they say, before they can lose their resolve. “...Please don’t be upset with me.” Rafayel smiles, reaching across the table with his palm up, gesturing for their hand. MC obliges, tangling their fingers together, and Rafayel squeezes reassuringly.

“I won’t be,” he promises. “You can tell me anything. I swear.”

MC takes a deep breath. They appreciate that he’s putting his usual jokes and quips aside, sensing the nervous gravity of the moment, but it almost makes them even more anxious. Biting their lip, MC decides it’s better to rip the metaphorical band-aid off in one go.

“I’m nonbinary,” they say simply. “And I’m sorry I’ve been keeping this from you.”

Rafayel blinks for a moment, silent. MC feels their eyes sting.

“What?”

“Uh.” Out of all the scenarios they’d mentally prepared for, this wasn’t one of them. “You know,” they begin, “like, I’m not a guy, but I’m also not a girl. It’s-”

“No, I know what nonbinary means, silly,” Rafayel grins. “Why would you ever think I’d be upset at you over this?” MC feels the sting in their eyes become welling moisture, and Rafayel scrambles to drag his chair around to their side of the table and pull them into a tight embrace.

“I thought you were gonna tell me that you were moving away, or that you lost your job or something!” he says, rocking them back and forth, gently, slowly. With a shaky breath, MC tucks their face into Rafayel’s shoulder, smiling to themselves. But he’s not done, continuing as he pulls them tighter.

“And if you come to me tomorrow and say you feel some other way, or that you want to change your name or buy new clothes or change your hair, that’s okay! MC, I love you no matter what. I promise, something like this is never ever going to come between me and you.” They’re full on sobbing now, the relief that comes with acceptance and the lovely promises spilling from Rafayel’s lips making all sorts of emotions surge in their chest.

Rafayel pulls back, cupping their face with one hand and wiping their tears away with the other. He smiles, a radiant and loving thing, and MC can’t help but give a breathy, relieved laugh as he leans in to place light little kisses along their cheeks.

“I don’t know why I was so nervous,” MC admits. “You never did anything to make me worried about this.” Rafayel shrugs.

“It’s a big thing to tell someone,” he says. “I’m proud of you. I know this took a lot.”

“It really did,” MC acknowledges. Rafayel ruffles their hair affectionately before scooting his chair back over to his side, keeping one of MC’s hands in his own.

“Okay, okay,” he says, buzzing with energy now that the serious moment is waning. “Finish your pastry and then we can go shopping.” MC blinks, surprised.

“We weren’t planning on going-”

“Uh-uh!” Rafayel cuts in, waving a hand in their face and startling a laugh from them. “Shhhh, we’re going shopping. You wanna go buy pretty things with me soooo bad. You would never think of saying no to this lovely face of mine.”

“Oh, my god,” MC laughs, nearly dropping their fork. “You’re so dramatic.” In response, Rafayel gives a pleased smile and makes a motion as if flicking hair behind his shoulder. MC shakes their head good naturedly, taking another bite of their pastry.

They do, in fact, end up out in the shops, and Rayafel buys them a jacket they’ve been eyeing for a long while. The two of them swing their intertwined hands between them as they walk, enjoying each others’ presence. It’s late in the evening by the time they decide to part ways, and even then, Rafayel convinces MC to sleep over at his house.

A couple hours later, laying in bed, MC watches Rafayel’s sleeping face with a soft smile. They never thought they’d be lucky enough for a relationship like this.