#and maybe wanting to be a part of that a little

[freakalot]

“satoru gojo if you don’t shut up i am banning you from sex for an entire year.” ☆

satoru frowns against your neck, where he tries hopelessly to stifle his own moans. he’s spooning you in a tangled mess of limbs and bedsheets, almost pathetic in his attempt to restrain himself. he feels like a hormonal teenager all over again.

“you know,” he half-whispers, half-moans into your ear. “i don’t think he’d care all that much if he woke up. i think he’s in love with you actually, i’d probably get to watch nanami kento beg on his knees to join us. ohh i like that idea actually, we should wake him—ah!”

you don’t know how else to quieten him down, so you reach behind you to pinch his side. all it does, really, is make him yelp and drive his cock even deeper into you, which makes you moan in turn.

you and satoru hadn’t had sex in so long, what with missions taking up so much time and the threat of societal collapse being somewhat of a libido-inhibitor. so when your joint mission with nanami ran over, and the higher-ups put you in a shared hotel room, satoru took opportunity as it struck. and you didn’t stop him.

now he’s balls deep inside of you as you lay facing the sculpted back of kento nanami. he’s laying with his back to you, breathing evenly in his sleep—each breath he takes pronounces the muscles of his back beneath the thin grey sleeping shirt he’s wearing. it does more to you than it should.

“you’re so fucking wet,” satoru whispers in your ear as his pace quickens. “what—you like this or something? being fucked five feet from nanami like this? hell, i like it. like showing you off. i'm like... sticking it to the man right now, babe.”

“he’s not even awake,” your eyes roll back as his tip brushes mean against your g-spot. satoru teases you with an open mouthed kiss to your neck, and then nips at the same spot.

"you sure, pretty?" he practically coos. "i think he's fighting for his fucking life right now. he was breathing like a monk until i mentioned him joining us."

you narrow your eyes at the sleeping man on the other bed. he's stilled and silent and obnoxiously toned and you swear you're getting wetter by the second and you also swear gojo can feel it because he's grinning against your shoulder like a fucking lunatic. you're about to brush him off, defend your coworker and friend and tell satoru to hurry up and make you cum so you can sleep when you see it: nanami shifts his hips.

it's so small of a movement that you might have imagined it, but you're too busy imagining how hard he must be to have to readjust like that. what must be going through his mind... listening to the two of you fuck like you're trying to get over something. he's either torturing himself with want right now or drafting up a letter to the higher ups in his head. maybe both.

"he's either awake," satoru reaches down and lifts your leg a little to reach sweet new depths inside of you. "or having the nastiest wet dream of his life."

something churns in your stomach, apprehension if you were a better person, and you part your lips to tell satoru to stop being an ass, but what comes out instead is a breathy moan so desperate it makes both men stiffen.

and nanami exhales. loudly. not in the sleeping man sense, this is choked out and heavy with something you don't dare name.

"oh nanamin," satoru sing-songs. "if you're going to cum in your boxers, come here and do it with a better view."

“satoru—” you hiss, mortified, melting at the same time, “stop—”

divine intervention is the only explanation. you must have some serious karma point stacked up and pocketed for a rainy day because, just as your breath hitches again, kento nanami is sitting up and planting his feet on the floor, eyes set dead on the two of you.

his pyjama pants are tight. when you let your gaze fall from his messy hair to the complete and visible outline of his hard cock, you think your heart stops. this is unseemly, and unprofessional, and everything that could be considered inappropriate. and if kento decides to walk out and complain, you and satoru are fucked, special grade status be damned.

“…you’re both ridiculous,” he says flatly, voice sandpapered. "this is wrong. abhorrent. foul."

he sounds exhausted. morally affronted. except his dick is so hard it must hurt and his eyes haven't once left where satoru's cock disappears inside of you. his gaze is heavy on you like a second set of hands. it's ungodly. you feel blasphemous, like maybe if nanami just looks at you a little longer you'd cum from that alone.

satoru thrusts deeper into you, but speaks to nanami. "you're hard."

"and you're loud." nanami exhales slowly, like he's giving himself a full ten-count to resist the urge to murder or run or maybe both. then he stands, finally meets your eyes, and softens his gaze a little. "you want this?"

your body answers for you, hips rolling back and pushing yourself deeper on satoru's cock. your thigh trembles where gojo holds it up and your voice comes out breathless and wrecked. "yes."

satoru groans, of course, and makes a show of squeezing one of your boobs in his hand. nanami doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t need to. his attention is all on you now, laser-focused and reverent like you’re a fucking sacrament. he reaches for your jaw, guiding your face up until your lips part just from the force of his presence.

“good,” he murmurs. “because i’m going to fuck you, both of you, until i can think straight again—and if i have to hear your voice even once during it, satoru, i will be gagging you."

your heart-eyed boyfriend cums inside of you at the implication alone.

and that is how you end up on your hands and knees in a twin hotel room in the dead hours of the night. kento nanami fucks his cum back inside of you for the second time that night, fingers digging so tightly into the fat of your ass that you don't doubt satoru will be teasings the marks left behind for days to come.

you splay your fingers over your boyfriends thighs, which is the only touch he's been granted since cumming inside of you. you stare up at him, he's got lidded eyes and this desperate look on his face as he watches nanami fuck you from behind, each thrust pushing your face just that little bit closer to his painfully hard cock.

though he can't complain, not with nanami's tie rolled up and stuck between his teeth. he tries, though, guttural moans and half-discernible pleads for more can hardly be heard over the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

you don't know why you never thought of satoru as a cuck. oddly, he's the type. still, that pretty look of desperation on his face is enough to have you squeezing around nanami's fat cock.

"settle down, gojo," nanami chides, squeezing your ass as if your boyfriend could feel it. "you're taking me next."

[erwinsvow]

𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠

summary: jack abbot really needs to stop overhearing conversations that he's not a part of.

author's note: here it is!! my first ever jack abbot fic ♡ thank you to everyone who has been reading the little paragraphs so far! hope you all like it!

word count: 9.7k

warnings/tags: virgin, fourth year med student reader and attending jack. age gap relationship. loss of virginity, oral sex, lots and lots of praise kink <3 normal hospital lingo and descriptions of procedures.

jack abbot knows better than to listen to the nurses gossiping. he does—because listening to them never leads to anything good. if he’s caught eavesdropping, he gets dragged in. loses money that was never meant to be spent on the bets—and seriously, the employees of this hospital have a gambling problem. 

other times he hears things he really wish he hadn’t heard. it’s just not relevant to him, he doesn’t want to know things about people that he’s not meant to know. maybe it’s a military thing, but he can’t really explain it. maybe jack is just used to keeping secrets and minding his own business. 

and the last thing that jack really doesn’t like about overhearing gossip is that sometimes, rarely and reserved only for special information, it gets trapped in his brain and becomes the only thing he thinks about for the rest of the shift. 

this is one of those times. 

he knows better—that’s what keeps coursing through his mind when he stands on the opposite side of the nurse’s station at central. keep his ears shut, eyes down, because the last time he was standing here unarmed, he learned about a pregnant technician upstairs and the married surgeon who was the father. information that he did not, does not, want to know. nor did he want to learn about the surgeon’s wife who was a nurse in the pediatric ward, or the technician’s boyfriend who is on a work trip in florida.

he thinks that was child’s play compared to this conversation. 

when jack glances up, he sees you on the other side of the desk, leaning forward on your elbows, smiling and laughing with the nurses. 

you’re a fourth year—he should let you smile and laugh while you can. you’re in that perfect, peaceful transition period between your audition rotations ending and finding out where you’re going for residency. it’s supposed to be an enjoyable time—there’s no exam prep waiting for you at home, no stressful surgery rotation coming up next week. 

jack didn’t know too much about you—you’d mostly been on the day shift for the duration of your rotation. that was normal, keeping all the students together when the majority of the doctors were there too. made it a little easier to manage.

you were a little different though. just a little. you’d specially asked to try out the night shift for the rest of the time you’d be at the hospital. it’s not the weirdest request they’d ever heard, but just unusual. fourth years cherish sleeping and spending time with family and boyfriends and organizing their life before being thrown head-first into intern year. 

(at least, that’s what jack thinks you’d cherish. the little he knows about you has been transferred from robby and a comment from the residents every now and then. all good things, and when he’d told you the night shift was your chance to prove all the good things he’d heard about you, you had beamed at him.

a smile so bright he had lost his train of thought and had to walk back to what he’d even said to begin with. he tries not to think about it when he sees you smiling like that to your patients or the nurses, like you are now. but it’s not the same one, he can tell. the one you smiled at him had been a little different, something in your eyes had lit up too, you had stood up straighter, like a current had made its way through you at the compliment. or something like that.)

and you had definitely been proving yourself. jack had learned maybe last week that you had applied emergency medicine. it made sense then, why you wanted to try out night shift, since first year interns eventually do night float. it was just practice for the future. which was great, and very exciting for you, but just not what he had expected. 

you were just so… happy. patient. you had seemed disappointed on your first day to learn that most of the emergency docs only wore black scrubs. you made up for it in other ways—a pink stethoscope, colored pens, a badge reel with a little cartoon on it. 

even looking at you now, fiddling with the pulley on your badge, listening intently to whatever the nurse was telling you, and then smiling in that reassuring way that he’s seen you do, you look like you shouldn’t be here. he briefly considers finding that surgeon’s wife, the pediatric nurse, to take you up there for a couple of hours. jack doesn’t think you would want to come back down, but, well, what does he know about you?

certainly not much. even if he had noticed the way you are with your patients—filled with an abundance of caring, a melodic tune to your voice, trying your hardest to comfort, repair, heal. he had seen you fetch cups of water and sandwiches yourself, not wanting to bother nurses. every sentence had a please and thank you attached. it didn’t take long for you to win over the patients. then the nurses. then the residents, and the attendings.

it seemed that your goal was to win over all the attendings. 

jack is still staring at you. but you’re so focused on your conversation with the nurse that you don’t even notice. and he has to stop before someone else notices, forcing himself to look down at the chart in front of him, trying to remember why he’d even come over here in the first place.

and that’s when he hears it. 

“-but i would have never guessed. you’re so pretty!” the nurse says, and he knows she is talking about you, because, well, who else would she be talking about? 

you are pretty, as unprofessional as the thought feels even entering his head. you’re very pretty, and the way you talk to everyone like they’re the most important person in the world to you only makes you prettier. 

jack almost clears his throat, before realizing that he is, in fact, eavesdropping. he can’t interrupt a conversation he’s not even a part of. and much to his chagrin, realizing that he is terrible at this, he tunes back into your conversation. 

“yeah, but it’s not about that,” you say, and you sound a little different. like you’re flushed. the words come out hesitantly, quietly. “it’s about... finding the right guy, right? i didn’t want to rush it and then regret it.” 

he hears the nurse laugh, and you laugh a little too, followed by a little groan. “i guess it is embarrassing,” you continue, before stopping, interrupted by the nurse. jack looks up briefly—you’ve got your head resting on your forearms, leaning down against the counter. he keeps looking until you bring it back up.

“no, it’s a good thing. especially in hospitals. keep your legs closed otherwise you’ll end up like that pregnant tech upstairs-”

“but that’s so horrible. his poor wife works here. and she has a boyfriend, how do you do that-” 

he keeps listening, his own face a little flushed. he both wants to and absolutely does not want to hear the rest of your conversation, but even through the fog, he thinks about how your only reaction to that bit of circulating gossip was how bad you feel for the wife. his heart beats a little faster.

“well don’t worry about that, you won’t have to deal with it as long as you stay a virgin-” you and the nurse laugh, and the phone starts ringing, and the charge nurse answers. 

she calls out, yelling for dr. abbot, and so lost in his thoughts—in your thoughts—he doesn’t even hear his own name being called for a couple of car accidents that were incoming. when he turns back to look, you’re already gone.

he needs to shake off whatever you’ve just done to him. his feet automatically take him to the trauma bay, gearing up for whatever is coming, but when he gets there, you’re standing there, waiting. a yellow gown already on you, gloves pulled. and in your hands, another gown and set of gloves—extra large, he can tell from the color. the ones that he wears. 

“dr. abbot,” you say, handing both items to him. “i heard from bridget, is it okay if i assist?” 

“yeah, sure, kid-” he thinks for a moment that he hasn’t felt this way in a long time. and how the hell is one tiny piece of gossip enough to have his head spinning like he’s some teenage boy? how does that work, when he’s never cared about workplace rumors or any of the other hundreds of medical students he’s worked with before? 

you beam up at him again, saying thank you. eager to prove your worth like always. you disappear behind him, and jack is confused for half a second before he feels your fingers on the skin of his neck—briefly, just another half of a second. you’re tying the gown for him.

how is that you’re this kind, this pretty, and you’ve never had someone to take care of you the way you take care of everyone else? that can’t be right. that can’t be fair. 

oh god.

jack wants to tie the back of yours, thinks that maybe twenty years ago he’d be a lot quicker on his feet to do what he wants with the information he’s just learned. but instead he hears the ambulance sirens pull up, and he sees the back of your head while you rush out to meet them, and he actually, for the first time in years, has to force his feet to move. 

you were so close behind him, he could smell it. not perfume, that would wear off quickly with how much they run around. it was your soap and your shampoo. clean and sweet and something like strawberries lingering in the air after you’ve taken off.

but he’s stood next to you before—how is it that this is the first time he’s noticed?

half way outside, you turn around, realizing jack’s not right behind you.

“dr. abbot?” you question, taking half a step towards him, the opposite direction. 

“yeah, coming,” jack answers and he follows you outside.

-

the mvc’s weren’t in the worst shape jack’s ever seen, but still bad enough that he needed to snap out of it. he doesn’t even want to think about how bad the rumor mill would be if word got out that he lost a patient because he couldn’t stop staring at the twenty-something medical student. (though it is hard to stop staring. how the hell did robby ever work with collins? how did he get anything done?) 

it’s not like jack is going to find out. you are strictly off limits. 

he tries to do what he always does—asks you questions. how many milligrams should you give the patient? what are the three things you should be the most worried about? the patient’s got a broken wrist from trying to brace for the impact but that’s the least of your worries, so how do you deal with it for now? 

the first one gets stable pretty quickly. the second one is where there’s more concern. he comes in, ellis saying something about the patient’s crashing and there’s a big piece of debris jammed in his chest. 

jack goes in there and he spares a glance at you. the intensity of the situation is enough to make you a little flushed, even though you’ve done an emergency rotation during third year and two auditions already this year. but it’s a good thing—you take every case as seriously as though it’s your first. worry about each patient like they’re your own family, like each step is your responsibility. 

he calls you over, asks you what medications you would give if you had to intubate. 

“uh, etomidate a-and rocuronium?” it comes out like a question, like you’re still a little uncertain, even though you’re right, like you don’t believe in yourself enough to say confidently.

he’ll have to change that. help you work on that. he can think of it now—maybe you would learn best if you had some kind of a reward system. you seem like the kind of girl who would benefit from that. maybe if he asked the questions from between your thighs and your reward was—

“dr. abbot?” the sound of your voice snaps him out of it.

“yeah. good. very good,” jack says, and he turns his head just slightly, just so he can see you beam again. “you heard the doctor. let’s get prepped for the intubation.” you move out of the way for ellis to come in, when he stops you. “no, you’re going to be doing it.” 

you pause, uncertain eyes staring up at your attending.

“a-are you sure? don’t you think you should-”

“i think you’re perfectly competent to intubate.” “you guys got this,” ellis says, taking her stethoscope around her neck and heading out. the nurse tells you that they’re all set up. you hear the blare of the heart monitor, another nurse reading off the vitals, all the way to the pulse-ox that’s too low. 

“i’ll be here the whole time,” jack says, and you really, really wish he hadn’t said that. he’s close to you, handing you the laryngoscope. 

in moments like these, you realize why you were always meant to do this. you pick up the scope, carefully lowering it into the mouth and the top of the patient’s throat.

“don’t make any sudden movements. you don’t want to break his teeth,” jack instructs, his voice a gentle guide. you do know how to intubate, you must have done it a hundred times on the dummy in the skills lab. but you’ll never get over how different it is when it’s a real patient, how scared you get even when you shouldn’t be, because the doctor should never be scared like that.

but then you hear dr. abbot’s voice again. quiet, maybe even quiet enough that the other people in the room can’t hear. 

“i-i don’t see the cords-”

“take a breath. use your hand to extend the neck, get it straighter.” you listen to his instructions, hands moving by themselves to comply. “try again.” you’re looking down, and the nurses are looking at the video, and jack is looking at you. “past the epiglottis.” you push the tube a little further. “past the larynx.” a little further. “and cords.” 

you take a breath like you’ve never taken one before. the capnometer turns yellow and you finish out the steps, the rest feeling like muscle memory before handing it over to the nurse. the patient’s going up to surgery, but you make it outside the trauma room taking deep breaths to ground yourself.

“you okay?” dr. abbot asks from somewhere behind you. 

you turn to see him taking off the gown and gloves, the ones you had handed him. maybe you’d never noticed it before, but he’s got freckles over his forearms. maybe he spent a lot of time in the sun as a kid. when you don’t reply, thoughts trapped in your head and words not forming, he speaks again.

“come here,” and he guides you to the empty corner between the trauma room and the hallway. his hand hovers over the small of your back as he leads you there.

you’re going crazy—there’s no way you could feel his body heat through your scrubs. and yet the sensation lingers. he faces you, and you look up, blinking quickly. you don’t think you’ve ever been close enough to dr. abbot to see the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, or how the hair along his temples is more salt than pepper. his eyes bore into yours, and you stare up, forgetting the reason that you had even needed to speak to him. 

“are you sure you’re okay, kid?” he asks again, and you nod quickly.

“yes. yes, i’m sorry, dr. abbot.” you turn to look at the trauma room, looking at the nurses hovering over the patient you had just intubated. when you turn back to look at your attending, you realize he’s staring, just like how you were staring. 

“what are you apologizing for?”

“i-i forgot the steps. you-you had to talk me through it. i should have known,” you try to explain, though words and sentences become harder to form with each passing moment. 

“you’ve done how many of those, now? a handful? less than ten?” you nod. “you don’t have to be perfect here. you just have to try. and keep going, which you did.” you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. “good job, doctor. you saved the patient.” 

“thank you dr. abbot.” you smile, beaming again, just not in the way you usually do. you’re still not that proud of yourself, jack can tell. 

the voice in the back of your head tells you that you should have been better, faster, more confident. you can’t imagine that ellis or shen or even your attending had been this hesitant as a medical student. 

“it’ll come with time, you know. no one’s perfect when they start out.” 

“did i say that out loud?” you question seriously, confusion spread all over your pretty features.

“no.” 

you’re so stupid—but maybe being so close to your serious, yet growing kinder by the millisecond attending was getting to you. the attending that you really want to impress, for reasons still unbeknownst to you. you want him to like you, to take you seriously, to think that you’d be a great candidate for their intern class starting in july. 

and then you lose your train of thought, staring at his eyes. it’s been too long, people are going to wonder where the two of you went.

but his eyes aren’t actually brown, like you thought. they’re hazel. 

“yeah,” he says, with a laugh. “they are.” 

your own eyes go wide like coins, and then you run straight to central to find a patient to preoccupy you from the embarrassment that is seeping out of you, leaving jack abbot laughing to himself in the empty corner between the trauma room and the hallway. 

the rest of your night shift is surprisingly uneventful. you had heard it was a bit calmer, but you didn’t expect such a drastic difference. but maybe it was just one of those nights. ellis wouldn’t let shen say the actual word, but you were all thinking it. it was kind of quiet tonight.

and normally, jack appreciates a quiet night. it’s like a little peace offering from god, akin to a slap on the back and a ‘thanks for your service’. he needs one every now and then, it’s the way only way to make sure for certain that he doesn’t end up on the roof a step closer than the last time.

though, staring at you from across the emergency room, watching you drink from your colorful water bottle and smile at shen and ellis, thanking them for their help while you work on notes, is certainly another way to make sure that jack abbot doesn’t think about that roof.

it’s only three in the morning though. there’s always time for the night to get worse. they’ve got four hours left, and he knows you’re off tomorrow.

well, he knows that he’s off. and then he took a peak at the schedule in one of his many free minutes tonight to see where you’ll be. he hopes the answer is at home, sleeping and eating and letting your body recover from the damage night shift does to your circadian rhythm. 

(he needs to cut it out. attendings have no business wondering what their bright eyed and bushy tailed fourth years are doing on their days off.)

but god if it doesn’t plague him—the fact that unlike what he thought, there’s no boyfriend waiting for you at home. no one to hear about your stressful day at work, the intubation that you did—perfectly, just with a little help from your overbearing attending, all the patients that you helped, and the great impression you made on the night shift. how he sees you answer every nurse carrying a question from patient with all your energy, even in the middle of the night. how you fill up a cup of ice chips for the patient waiting to go up to surgery, comforting them while knowing it’ll be sunlight outside when they’re finally taken up. 

and then he sees you sit down, taking a breath like you need to remind yourself to breathe sometimes. 

it’s just a little bit wrong. whatever he’s thinking, before he’s even thought it, it’s wrong. but how is it that you have all these things to be proud of, and no one at home to be proud of you? jack can sense it in the way that your smile grows every time you find out someone has something kind to say about you. every good job and well done is catalogued somewhere in your mind, and you wait ceaselessly for the next one, like an addiction. 

jack would spoil you, he thinks, for other people. for other men. he would praise you. he would tell you how perfect you are so many times that you wouldn’t be able to forget, that you would never doubt yourself again. that’s what you need waiting for you at home—the thing that can make it all better. 

and as wrong as it is, he knows he could do it for you. 

you look around the room and find hazel eyes staring right at you. your heart thuds in your chest. 

you smile at dr. abbot, and then look back down your notes. a minute later, you look up again, and he’s still looking. smiling. and now you can’t look away either. you had heard about the eye contact thing from other residents, it’s just a habit, they had said. you try not to flatter yourself that your attending is looking at you like he knows everything about you, including the things you don’t say out loud.

why does he have to be so nice to you? why does he have to laugh and smile even when you’re making an idiot of yourself? you should go up and apologize for that bit about the hazel eyes, though you think you might collapse into a puddle and melt into the ground if you have to bring it up again.

but you’re on for six more night shifts before the audition ends, and you ranked ptmc pretty high on your list—which may have been a mistake if you can’t stand in the presence of one of your attendings without turning into a flustered mess.

he hasn’t even done anything besides be nice to you. of course it’s that easy to unnerve you. you keep looking, watching the nurse who stopped to ask dr. abbot a question, how jack turns to talk to him, making eye contact that you were just at the receiving end of.

when the nurse walks away, jack turns back, looks right at you again. you can feel your face heat up like you just ran a mile. is this one of those things that’ll go away when you’re not a virgin anymore? that’s a heavy question for three-thirty in the morning.

here’s another one—how is every person in this hospital not in love with him?

you fluster and turn, breaking eye contact and keeping your head firmly staring at the computer screen. he laughs to himself again, walking off to check on a patient from earlier. the next time your eyes look up, they automatically go to the counter where jack was. you turn back and finish your notes.

“hey,” shen says, sliding into the empty seat next to you a while later. he opens the drawer under the desk, lifting up papers and pulling out a packet of goldfish from underneath. “forget what all these other people told you. your first rule is eat when you can.” you smile at that.

“noted. that’s a good hiding spot. inconspicuous.”

“that’s the goal. don’t tell the day shifters. it’ll be empty in an hour.” 

“i won’t. promise.”

“is your mvc still waiting for surgery?” 

“i think so, yeah,” you sit up a little straighter. you have this fear that you’ve done something wrong, that it’ll all be revealed in time.

“don’t worry, that’s normal this time of the night. i’d go check on him like once an hour and report to abbot. just because it’s-well, i’m not gonna say it.”

“right. got it. will do.” you get up, feet stumbling a little. it is pretty late. your watch says four-thirty, but you’re not tired. you’re just anxious.

you make your way to the patient’s room, the nurse filling you in on the updates in the last hour. there’s not many, thank god. you stare at the pulse-ox on the monitor for way too long, going over and checking to see that he is, in fact, still breathing. it’s silly. you know it is.

the nurse says she’ll be right back, and you look at the chart for another minute or so, trying to formulate the words you’re going to say to dr. abbot now so you don’t have to form them on the spot—god only knows how that might go.

you turn to head out, looking at the notes on the tablet in your hand, when you run into a brick wall.

“oh my god-” you almost drop the ipad, clutching onto it while it nearly tumbles out of your grip. jesus, how tired were you? walking into walls? but then the wall brings a hand to your shoulder, and that voice that’s been haunting your thoughts all night speaks.

and for what can only be the hundredth time that night, dr. abbot asks you if you’re okay.

you stare up at him. 

“you okay, kid?” 

“yes. i’m so sorry, dr. abbot. i was coming to find you.” 

“i figured. how’s your patient?”

“stable. waiting for surgery. i-i… nevermind.”

“you what?” he asks, gently taking the ipad from your hand and reading. he uses one hand to wipe his eyes, like he can take away the tiredness that way, and then runs a hand through his hair. you put your trembling fingers to your sides. he brings his eyes up from the screen to look at you. you really wish he wouldn’t.

“i was just making sure he was still breathing.” 

dr. abbot smiles at you. you smile back, but it’s half-hearted. your chest is thudding so loudly you can hear it in your ears. but his smile fades when he catches a glimpse of your shaking fingers.

“have you eaten today?”

“i had some coffee. and some water.” 

“the patient looks great. he’ll be fine. let’s get you something to eat.” 

you shut your eyes tightly, but your brain is so tired you don’t even know what you’re thinking. you’ll have to get better at this if you want to keep working here someday.

mindlessly, you follow dr. abbot. 

“between five and seven is the hardest part of the shift,” he says, opening up another drawer, different from shen’s. he hands you a protein bar. “and too much coffee is a bad thing. we don’t want your hands shaking if you need to put in a chest tube or thirty sutures at six am, do we?”

you shake your head, taking the protein bar from his hand. your fingers brush for all of two seconds. jack feels like he just touched a live wire.

“eat,” he says, and you listen. “you’re doing good, you know. it’s not supposed to be easy.”

“thank you,” you say, though your mouth is full. you lift your hand to cover, because even though it’s five am, you cannot embarrass yourself any further. “sorry about the hazel eyes thing.”

jack laughs and you smile. he has a really nice laugh, the kind that can make you calm down and forget what was bothering you all night. it really is a wonder that everyone here isn’t in love with him. you don’t even know how much longer you’ll be able to last.

“that’s okay. you’re tired.”

“everyone’s tired,” you clear your throat, sitting up straighter. “i think i’m just going crazy.”

“yeah, why’s that?”

“because i can’t stop thinking about you.”

well. looks like that’s about how long you were able to last.

you put the protein bar down on the counter. hands trembling again, mouth dropped open.

“dr. abbot, i am so sorry-” the words come out in a shaky breath, but when you look at him, when he finally moves his gaze back to your eyes, like he’s been doing all night, you see that he’s not mad. he’s not even upset.

“that’s okay-”

“no, no that is so not okay,” you blubber, words and sentences becoming harder to find by the second. “i am so sorry. that is so unprofessional.”

“well, i-”

“b-but it’s not like it’s just my fault, you’re being so nice-” 

“it’s not anyone’s fault, kid, it doesn’t work like that-” “if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours,” you say, unsure of where you’re finding these words. “you keep staring at me. what am i supposed to do?”

“have you tried looking away?” he quips, and you laugh at that. jack thinks for a moment that it’s a really beautiful sound. he doesn’t get to hear it often enough. maybe he can change that.

“am i?” you ask, after a small silence. “going crazy?”

“no. you’re not,” he replies. 

“oh. that’s good, at least.”

the two of you stay like that for a moment, shoulder to shoulder against the counter, your protein bar long forgotten. jack’s looking at you and you’re looking anywhere but him.

“dr. abbot?” you say, but before he can answer, there’s a phone going off. he hears it in the distance—mvc, truck driver, incoming, five minutes out. 

“come on,” he says, doing that thing again, guiding you but not really. even if anyone noticed through the haze of five am, he finds that he doesn’t really care right now. you wear the same flustered, confused, guilty expression until he ties the gown behind you this time, which makes you a smile.

a real one this time.

“what do you think about breakfast?” jack asks, snapping on his gloves and heading outside to meet the ambulance.

“i like breakfast,” you answer, not nearly as hesitantly as you thought you would.

“great. i’m of the belief you should always eat breakfast after night shift. there’s a place down the street.”

“do they have french toast?”

“i’m sure they do. you like sweet things?” and you can’t believe the conversation is still going, the paramedics are opening up the doors in front of you. you turn to jack, nodding to answer his question. “makes sense. alright, what’d we have?”

mouth still open, you follow him out to the bay. 

-

an hour later, both of the drivers from the accident are stable. you’re yawning at central, saying goodbye to the nurse you were chatting with earlier, and without even looking, you know jack is looking at you.

you’re too tired to be anxious. all you want is to go to breakfast with him and figure out what the hell happens after breakfast post night-shift with your attending who knows that you can’t stop thinking about him. 

he brings over a cup of coffee for you. you look up quizzically. 

“i thought you said no more coffee?”

“it’s decaf. but you need something to get you to breakfast, right?”

“shouldn’t i have a coffee at breakfast?”

“no, because then you won’t be able to sleep after.” the way he talks, you believe everything he says. you smile at him. someone from the other side of the room calls him over. 

“i’ll, uh, be right back.”

“dr. abbot?” you say, right before he leaves.

“yeah?” “thank you for the coffee.”

the last hour drags. particularly, six to six-thirty. the second half of the hour, the day crew rolls in slowly, one by one. the day shift counterparts take over patients and beds, get their debriefs. you follow around behind the residents, inform the other medical student about what you had done throughout the evening.

and around seven-fifteen, you pull on your jacket, grab your backpack, and wait for jack. you don’t know who else has left yet, who else might see you two together, but you don’t really care.

you walk to the breakfast place together, your eyes stuck anywhere but on your attending, and now it feels weird, because you can’t get his name to come out of your mouth. the idea of saying jack rather than dr. abbot feels inherently wrong.

the place he takes you to is quaint. it smells of espresso and bacon, and you smile brightly at the waitress when you order a latte, not decaf. 

“what did i tell you, huh?” jack asks, and you bring yourself to finally look back at the hazel eyes that started this whole thing.

“i never said i was sleeping after this.” 

in hindsight, the coffee was a great idea. the food would have made you sleepy, and you would have missed out going back home with jack. he lives in a nice brownstone, much nicer than your tiny apartment.

it also gave you just enough nerve to ask jack if he wanted to try your french toast. to hold his hand on the walk back. to lean against his chest while he opens the door. 

“i can still walk you home, y’know,” he says, but you shake your head, watching him get his keys out. 

“unless you want to meet my roommate, i don’t think that’s a good idea.” and inside jack abbot’s apartment is everything you had been imagining for the last twelve hours. shelves filled with records, big windows, a couch that looks tantalizingly comfortable. but you have ulterior motives today. 

you keep looking around, perusing through his records while he takes a seat on the couch. you inspect with a tilted head, warmth spreading through your chest and radiating out at his music taste. such an old man, you think briefly, looking back at him sitting on the couch in his civilian clothes. your old man.

you pick one out, the first album that’s familiar to you, and bring it over jack on the couch. you sit next to him, thighs touching, resting your head on his shoulder.

“are you gonna put on music?” he laughs, and you can feel his chest vibrate with the noise. this close, you can feel his heartbeat if you place your head just right. every word that he says, you can hear the rumble first. it’s so soothing, you’d fall asleep if you weren’t so wound up.

“how are you not tired?” he questions, and you look up at him.

“i had a latte, remember. you had coffee too. how are you still tired?” you go silent for a moment, trying and failing to conceal a laugh.

“don’t even say it,” jack says, and he’s laughing too.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you’re thinking it.”

“i’m not tired enough anymore to believe that you can actually read my thoughts.”

“i can’t read your thoughts.”

“that’s a lie-”

“no, promise. i can’t. i can just tell.”

“how is that possible?”

“you want me to teach you?” you prop yourself up, leaning against his forearm while you do it. his skin is warm, and somehow despite everything you two went through the last twelve hours, he still smells good.

“if you’re not too tired, old man.” jack shuts his eyes, groaning. you laugh again, biting your cheek, wondering what he’ll say when—

he opens his eyes.

“i was gonna go easy on you, kid. but you’re in for it now.” 

“yeah?”

“yeah.” 

“promise?”

jack makes another noise—something in between a groan and a sigh. and then before you can think about it again, he takes your face in between both hands and kisses you.

and you’ve been kissed before. not well, but you know what it’s supposed to be like. after a date once you think, a date that had been pretty mediocre. you felt a spark a hundred times stronger in the last couple hours with jack than any date you’ve been on in your life.

at least—you thought you knew what being kissed was supposed to be like. as it turns out, while kissing jack, you realize that you didn’t know shit.

the way he kisses you leaves your lungs void of any air. he doesn’t pull away, not once, and you don’t either. you don’t want him to pull away, you think you might die if he does. he moves his hands slightly, one on your cheek and the other on the back of your head, holding you in place, firmly, gently. and he kisses you like he wants you to forget what being kissed is like, as though you should have no memory besides this one. 

your hands rope themselves on his arms, hard muscles tense under your touch. you move them up and down, brain so empty after the night you’ve had that you don’t know how to signal to him that you want him to take his shirt off. so you pull on his short sleeves and feel his bicep strain against your palm until you give up. you’d rather go at his pace than make any decisions at all, and somehow, you know that jack abbot won’t let you make a single decision, not if you don’t want to. he’ll decide everything, he’ll know what’s right for you, just like he has all night.

your hands finally leave his arm and wander to his hair, fingers working their way through the salt and pepper that you’ve been admiring for so many hours. his curls are messy, and you’ve ruined them, you’re sure, but you can’t stop. 

you don’t know how long it’s been since either of you came up for air, but then you hear the record drop to the ground and you pull away quickly, turning your head to see where it went.

jack doesn’t stop kissing you. his mouth is hot and his touch is lava, moving to your cheek and your jaw and then down the column of your neck. 

the moans you’ve been singing into his mouth are now out in the air, noises sweet like honey coming back to his ears.

“y-your record, i-i dropped it,” you get the sentence out in gasps. jack has his mouth over the place where your carotid pulses. he sucks hard on the skin there and your eyes shut instantly, the record leaving your mind as quickly as it had come in. he makes his way back through your cheek, back to your mouth. 

and you could almost die at the sight—jack abbot, lips red and swollen, darkened eyes looking at you like he’s going to make you pay for that ‘old man’ comment, though you can hardly remember what you had even said.

this time you lean back in to kiss him again, and he lets you control the pace for all of thirty seconds. you kiss him until your lips hurt, until your tongue is tired—but then again, so is every part of your body. but it doesn’t matter, not when you’re so close to getting what it is that you want. 

you don’t actually know how you got to his bedroom. you would have been content on that couch, or on the rug on the floor. against the door or on the countertop in the kitchen, but you guess you’ll have time for all of those things one day. 

there’s black out curtains in jack’s bedroom. they’re not shut all the way, so you look around while he stands in front of you, pulling off his shirt in one motion. your eyes are big, heart thudding while you take it in. his room is simple, just like you had imagined. the sheets are soft under your skin and everything smells good, like linen and sandalwood. you bring your gaze back, bringing a hand up to touch his chest, like you need to make sure that he’s really in front of you. 

jack takes his hand and puts it on top of the one you’re touching him with, pinning it above your head while he hovers over you. you bring the other one up voluntarily, letting him clasp it down, while he leans in to kiss you again. you keep moaning, not sure of how loud you’re being and not entirely sure if you care anymore. 

and then he stops. pulls away from the kiss, unpins your hands. you whine in frustration, shut eyes opening quickly to meet his.

“you sure about this, hm?” he asks, bringing his lips to your jaw again. he hovers there too, not pressing down enough for it to be a real kiss. you can feel his stubble rubbing against you. 

“i’m sure,” you whisper back, eyes shutting again. jack’s hands roam down, wandering over your waistband.

“there’s no going back,” he says, just as quietly as you had.

“jack, please—” and for the first time that morning, you hear dr. abbot break.

“oh fuck. say my name again, angel,” and you comply, repeating the syllable once, and then twice. it tastes weird on your tongue—like you’d get in trouble for saying it.

the thought makes you laugh. you keep giggling, unable to stop. you hear jack breathe into your neck, laughing with you.

“what’s so funny, hm?” he brings himself back over you, noses almost touching. you look straight into hazel eyes, bringing your hand to his cheek, running your fingers over the short hairs there.

“a couple hours ago i was calling you doctor abbot. now i’m in your bed.”

“you want me to stop, baby? i can. we can just go to sleep,” and you shake your head quickly. 

“no, please don’t stop.”

“well, since you asked so politely.” he starts again, kisses up and down your neck, hands pulling off your bottoms. his fingers tease over the hem of your shirt and you raise your arms so he can pull that off too. his eyes rake over your entire body and unlike what you’d imagined, you don’t feel the need to hide. you don’t want to cover yourself up, or feel embarrassed, or anything else. you want jack abbot to keep looking at you like he’s looking now, like he can’t believe what’s in front of him. you can’t believe it either.

and somehow, this is even funnier. now you’re naked in front of your attending, the very one who has been making your heart race since you met him during your third year rotation. you laugh again, before clasping a hand over your mouth.

“i think you might be a little too tired for this,” he says, and you regret your laughter right now.

“no, no, i want this. i’ve been waiting so long for this,” the last part comes out as a whisper. you tilt your head up, pressing in for another kiss. jack’s hands—hot like every other part of him—roam the bare skin of your hips and waist, all the way up to your ribcage and then back down. 

“yeah? how long?” he asks. his kisses go lower now, down your neck, onto your collarbone. he goes down to the smooth skin above your breasts, between them. everywhere except where you need him. you can feel the anticipation thrumming under your skin. “i asked you a question.” he pulls away, waiting for his answer.

“s-since i met you.” 

“i think it’s been longer than that, hasn’t it?” 

you look at him confused, but then the bastard actually smirks at you. and suddenly you’re back to ten o’clock last night, when the nurse was telling you to keep you legs closed—sorry, couldn’t help myself—and you saw someone in the corner of your eye but you didn’t want to be rude and look away, but when you left for the incoming trauma, you had seen—

“you dick-” you yell, sitting up in jack’s soft sheets. “you heard that whole conversation?” jack’s laughing and you start laughing too, taking one of his pillows and smacking it across his chest. 

“not-” you get him with the pillow again and he grabs it, wrestling it out of your hands. you realize how much stronger he is than you for a split second in that moment. “not the entire thing. just the important bits.”

“well at least now i don’t have to figure out how to tell you,” you reply sheepishly, feeling particularly vulnerable. you bring your knees in to your chest, watching jack in front of you with big eyes. “do you feel weird about it?”

“weird about what, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, placing one of his warm hands on your knee and rubbing the skin there.

“the virgin thing. do you not-”

“hey,” he says, and with so much caring behind his voice that you feel whatever’s left—if there even was any—of your resolve break. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. we can shower and go to sleep. i can take you home. whatever you want. and we can pick up where we left off when you’re ready.” 

“yeah?” you ask. 

“yeah.” 

you move back towards him, shutting your eyes and leaning in for another kiss. this time you crawl into his lap, feeling his hands roaming all over your body again. you can feel him under you—rock hard, pulsing, incredibly hot even through his pants. your hips move on their own while your hands fiddle with the tie before he takes over, undoing it for you. you hear jack groaning in your ear, and you’re positive that you’re wet enough to leave a wet mark on him. the noise is so exhilarating to you that you have to stop yourself from doing whatever it takes to get more out of him.

jack keeps one huge hand on your back, keeping you steady while he kisses you. you lock your arms around his neck, not letting go incase he tries to pull away. he flips you over in one motion—you on your back, and him hovering over you.

you don’t like this nearly as much—you want it back, the insanely rough pleasure of grinding yourself down on him. you whine again, but he murmurs one word in your ear over and over again—patience.

you’ve waited this long. you think you can be patient a little while longer.

jack goes back to whatever was on his long list of things he wants to do to you. he starts with pinning your hands down, locking you in place so you don’t flail around too much. he starts at your chest, his hot mouth working down to your nipple. he takes one in his mouth and you arch up off the bed, making saccharine noises that no one besides him has ever gotten to hear. that no one besides him will ever get to hear. 

“jack, jack,” you say his name over and over again, like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t. your body reacts just like he thought you would, only taking what you’re giving, waiting patiently for more. 

“you’re being so good, sweetheart,” and he thinks the words alone are enough to make you come. he switches over to your other nipple, and he hears you curse, the swear ripping from your mouth.

and he hasn’t even touched your cunt yet. but he knows already that he’s going to drag this out, that he’s going to make sure you can never forget it. that he’ll spent the rest of his life trying to top this moment, give you something to compare to forever.

hot kisses down your stomach while your chest heaves. he watches from his position between your thighs, hands reaching out to play with your tits while he finally does what he’s been thinking about since that trauma yesterday night. 

he moves your hands for you, putting them to work, making you tease your nipples while he spreads open your legs further. 

he stares up again, watching you comply with his instructions wordlessly, being such a good girl without even needing to be told. he needs to tell you, but he doesn’t want you to come until you’re coming on his tongue.

without waiting, jack licks the length of your pussy and makes your entire body tense up, back rising off the bed again. he uses one hand on your stomach to keep you pinned down, to make sure you keep taking whatever he gives you. he can’t talk like this, but he’ll talk you through it when he makes you come all over his dick. 

that’s what he’s thinking about while he starts to stretch you out. one finger, then two. your cunt is soaking wet, leaking down and making a mess of your thighs and his sheets and his face. he teases your clit more than he should, but how can he not? when you thrash so hard that you’d fall if he wasn’t holding you down? when you have no choice but to take it, to lay back and feel jack’s tongue on the most sensitive part of your body, the part that no one but him has ever gotten to touch? 

two fingers become three, stretching you out for him while he sucks on your clit hard, finally giving you what you’ve been begging for. 

one of your hands makes its way down to his hair, pulling on it while the other stays on your breast—you want to have both in jack’s hair but you can’t just ignore what he told you to do. 

you don’t know what the punishment would be, even though you’re sure you’d enjoy it. but that’s going to be saved for another day.

right now, you were so close to cumming, so close that you could feel yourself hurtling over the edge, and then you pull on jack’s hair harder than you meant to and he moans around you.

it’s something entirely different—the vibration from his mouth and the fact that he’s moaning while he does this to you, and whatever the combination is, you feel it split you apart. the electric current that you felt earlier when you brushed hands with jack is nothing compared to this, lightening coursing through every part of your body, head to toe, inside and out. the white hot tension in your stomach snapping makes you cry out against jack’s pillows, toes curling while he keeps going all the way through it. you can hear him, and it only makes you cum harder, encouraging you, telling you how good you’re doing, how good you’ve been all this time. the only thing you can hear after it stops is your own heart inside your ribcage, bursting like it’s going to come out.

you let go of jack’s hair, bringing your exhausted hand to his shoulder instead. he comes up to where you are, meeting your eyes and leaning in for a kiss that leaves you breathless and thoughtless all over again. 

“thank you, jack,” you whisper, too tired to say it any louder. jack laughs against your skin.

“you tired, sweetheart?” the answer is yes and no at the time, but you shake your head. you move closer to him, bringing your hand to his boxers, palming him. you can tell he’s big—big in the way that’s going to hurt, big in the way that his fingers can’t compare. big like you’re going to have trouble walking tomorrow.

“please, jack?” you say, and honest to god, how is he supposed to say no to that? even in your post-orgasmic state, tired as you can be, every muscle probably screaming at you to let you sleep, you’re so sweet in your request, so polite. just like always. he can’t say no to you even if he wanted to.

jack positions himself on top of you. this is it—what you’ve been waiting for. the result of one harmless conversation half a day ago. 

jack brings your knees to your chest, and you loop your arms around them, holding yourself in place. his arms cage you in, and you look up, meeting hazel eyes. and even though you should probably be nervous, you’re not, not at all. because you know jack will take care of you. 

he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, making your eyes shut.

“you ready, kid?” the nickname makes your heart flutter. you open your eyes, nodding again. “take a deep breath for me,” jack says, and you comply. and when he pushes inside of you, you swear everything in your body stops working for a second. 

every thought leaves your head, every muscle goes lax. your eyes rolls back, mouth dropping open. there is nothing left to think about, nothing to feel except jack abbot inside of you. 

“breathe for me,” he instructs, and you have to remind yourself to listen to him, that he knows what you need in this moment. jack abbot knows everything about you—even the things you don’t know.

you hear him—groaning and whispering things that you’re sure would make you pass out if you were in a state of mind that could understand him, but you’re not. so you wait for his kiss, take another breath, and feel him push inside of you all the way.

“jack,” you cry out, toes curling and head spinning. “jack, jack, jack-”

“i know, i know,” he says, and gives you another kiss. “you’re doing—fuck, you’re doing perfect.” he pulls out and thrusts back in, and the stretch is enough to make you cry out again. he’s going slowly for you but you don’t know how to tell him that you need more, that you might die if you don’t get more. but then again, you don’t have to tell him anything. 

he picks up the pace, eyes stuck to where he’s filling you up. he can’t stop watching, seeing inch after inch disappear inside you, like you were made for him, because fuck, you were. your hands claw at his back and you pull on his neck to kiss you again, and when he does, you moan into his mouth. but he can’t just let you take it like this, he needs to tell you, all the things he’s been wanting to say.

he pulls away from your mouth and you make another noise, upset. he smooths down your hair and kisses your forehead, working down to your temple and then your cheek and to your ear. 

“you’re being so good for me,” those six words that you love hearing so much make your entire body tighten up, including your cunt. you pulse around him as he pauses for a minute, taking in how you react to it. you moan against his skin, crying out when he resumes. 

“so perfect for me. you’re taking me so well, baby. like you were made for it.” another moan, more crying. but he knows—knows there’s something else still.

you had once thought your first time might be gentle, candles and flowers. you don’t think you would trade jack abbot and his bedroom and his half-pulled black out curtains for anything in this world.

he keeps fucking you, brutally and deliberately, each thrust telling you something different. you squeal out his name like it’s the only word you know. but it’s when he starts speaking again, when you clench down against him, pulsing so tightly, that he knows he’s figured it out.

“good girl,” jack says, and you have to press your mouth against his arm to stop from screaming out loud. “you’re doing so good, so perfect. my good girl, aren’t you?” 

“j-jack, jack, jack, i’m gonna-” 

“come on, angel. come for me. i want you to come around me. can you do that for me?” you can’t answer, though it’s on the tip of your tongue, and then it happens again—the lightening, white hot, running through you. even stronger than the first one—it rips through you. jack’s in your ear  and you can understand him this time—good girl. so perfect. you did amazing. 

you don’t think you can feel your legs. your eyes want to flutter shut but you still feel the aftershocks each time jack thrusts inside of you—and when you open your eyes to stare up at him, you lean up, silently asking for a kiss. 

he complies, pressing his lips against you. you don’t let go, keeping it going, until you whisper against his lips. 

“thank you doctor abbot,” and that seems to be the last straw for him. you wish you could engrain it into your brain forever, how jack sounds when he cums. you’ve been listening to him all morning but this, this was different. a real moan, wrangled from the back of his throat, from his chest. as good as he’s made you feel, now you get to help him, your cunt clenching around him while he finishes. you press back for another kiss, and jack deepens it, until he pulls out.

you suddenly feel so empty.

he collapses next to you, ushering you onto his sweaty skin. you’re sure that you’re drenched too, and you can feel the back of your head where hairs have stuck to your neck. 

you find jack’s hand, holding onto it like letting go might make all of this disappear. he presses a kiss to your forehead, fingers rubbing the skin of the dorsum of your hand.

“you okay?” he asks again, and you nod against his chest. glancing up for a moment, you catch hazel eyes looking at you already.

“are you okay?” he gives you another kiss to your forehead.

“you need to get some sleep.” 

“i’m not tired,” you lie.

“yes you are. why do you keep thinking you can lie to me?” he asks, still staring into your eyes. you want to look away but you don’t think you can. you lay down against him, so you don’t have to look away.

“i’m not lying.” you take a pause, take a breath. “do i still have to call you dr. abbot at work tomorrow?” jack laughs. you can feel the vibration on his chest. it makes you smile.

“close your eyes, kid. i promise we’ll talk about everything in the morning.”

“jack?” 

“yes?”

“you wanna go again?”

♡

[beloveds-embrace]

(p2 of this poly fae 141 x human reader (different take)) cw: bittersweet

The palace breathes for you.

It bends around you like soft wind around reeds, gently guiding your dazed steps through moonlit corridors and blooming halls. Time has no anchor for you anymore. Some mornings, you wake to suns that burn blue instead of gold, moons that double and chase each other through the sky. But it doesn’t matter, because the castle knows where you are meant to be even if you don’t.

When you rise, the curtains part without a hand to touch them. They sigh open like petals, letting soft light bathe the velvet floor. Your robe- light as spider’s silk- slide from their hooks on their own, floating to wrap around your body with reverent care. Your slippers are waiting at the side of your bed when you swing your legs over. They’ve been warmed by the hearth, and when your toes slide in, the threads whisper your name back to you in tiny, enchanted stitches.

The walls pulse faintly with warmth when you pass, as if the stone itself loves you. the chandeliers above never burn too bright; their glow always softens when your gaze turns up, as though they remember you used to hate harsh light when you read.

A cluster of servants waits quietly at your chamber doors- not because they must, but because they care and they want to, and had eagerly offered to be of service when you’d requested your own chambers. Gentle-handed dryads with hair like woven moss, old pixie seamstresses who chatter softly in riddles, even a hulking troll-footman who ducks his head so low it scrapes the frame. They do not speak unless you speak first, for sometimes you forget words, and silence is a safer thing to carry.

Then, soak in a bath drawn by nymph-handmaidens who speak in ripples and laughter, though mirror clouds when you stare too long- it doesn’t want to upset you, doesn’t want you to see how much time has tried to touch you, even when magic holds your youth like a fragile glass.

Today, your steps take you toward the gardens. The floor glows faintly under your feet- not because it needs to, but because the castle thinks maybe it helps you find your way. Everything- every stone, every breath- remembers you, even when you don’t remember yourself.

Or maybe you meant to go to the library. You aren’t sure- but the will-o-wisps know.

They flit ahead of you, little balls of mischievous light usually known for luring travelers into the woods until their bones turn to moss. But not you, never you.

They hover like faithful stars orbiting the sun, bobbing through the air with a delighted hum, zigzagging ahead in slow trails so your wandering feet follow the right turns. They tinkle like laughter when you stumble near a wrong archway and dart to the correct one instead.

You find yourself in your garden, after all, where the gardeners wait. Not the usual ones- no, the Queen's Garden has been assigned only to the most trusted now. A century-old elf in gloves of woven bark, a dryad who grows her own apron from her chestnut branches, and even a silent golem of moss and marble who only speaks in scents. They have trimmed the hedges into soft spirals and arranged the blooms into delicate mosaics.

Today, they have laid out a path of starpetals- tiny, glimmering flowers that shimmer faintly under moon or sun. Once, long ago, they were your favorite.

But now-

“I don’t like those.” You murmur as you pass, staring at the trail.

The golem stills, the elf looks up sharply, and the dryad tilts her head, concerned.

Kyle, who’d been a quiet shadow just behind you from the moment you stepped out of your chambers, slows his steps. “You always used to ask for them,” he says gently. “Had us plant ‘em everywhere your shadow touched.”

You frown. “… I don’t remember that. I don’t like them.”

“It’s alright,” he says after a short pause, and offers you his arm. “We can pick new ones. Whatever you like, love.”

You nod, but you don’t take his arm. Your fingers drift toward the flowers, brushing one before you turn away again.

Later, as your thoughts begin to drift again, the flowers are gone without fanfare. By the time you return to the courtyard, it is filled with soft white ferns and wandering frost-ivy that glows faintly in the dusk.

The castle heard you. It always does.

You wander deeper into the woods near the edge of the palace, where the magic gets older, thicker- where even the bravest guards rarely step.

A warm breeze carries the scent of jasmine and crushed duskberry petals. The patient trees sing here not with voices, but with the rustle of knowing leaves, always parting to give you gentle shade or letting sunlight filter through just when you like it.

There stands a shadow that heralds the first whispers of death.

Thrain.

The phantom stag, horned and enormous. He stands between two trees gnarled by age and shaped like reaching hands, his antlers scraping the sky, mist curling around his hooves.

But for you?

He bows his head.

You smile and reach for him as if you’ve done it every day of your life- and maybe you have. Maybe there’s no need to remember if the body still knows. And he lets you pat the velvet between his antlers, lowering his massive head so you can nuzzle your cheek against him. His body radiates cold like the mountain peaks, but it doesn’t sting. It soothes. Your hands slip into the thick mist of his mane, and you close your eyes.

You nap there, nestled against the beast feared by all.

When you stir again, you’re no longer alone.

“Thought we’d find you here.” Gaz murmurs, his voice quiet like the wind between reeds. He kneels beside you, offering his usual steaming cup- tea brewed with memory-moss and lemon-pearl leaves.

You drink. You always do, when he brings it.

“You missed lunch.” Simon says gently. He’s seated on a nearby root, his mask still on, though you know his eyes soften when he looks at you.

Johnny is already braiding moonflowers into your hair, humming a fae tune that turns the leaves brighter with every note. He doesn’t say much, just keeps you close with the warmth of his touch.

You blink slowly at them, still a bit sleep-soaked. “…Thrain didn’t want me to leave.”

“Aye, well,” Johnny grins. “He’s protective, tha’s all. You’ve got everyone wrapped ‘round yer little finger, haven’t you?”

Your head droops again. The fog curls soft around your thoughts. But then- you feel it; the weight of a gaze like a promise, like a spell woven in devotion.

John.

You don’t turn, but you feel him draw near. You always do, always will. His presence thrums like a second heartbeat in your chest, steady and storm-deep. He places a warm hand on your back, the other sliding under your legs as he lifts you into his arms.

“Time for rest, love,” he murmurs into your hair, the crown of your head. “You’ve wandered far enough for today.”

Thrain snorts, mist coiling between his antlers, but does not follow. He only watches as your husband carries you back into the palace, trailed by your silent protectors and glowing will-o-wisps.

“I don’t like the starpetals,” you say again, feeling the need to inform him. “They make me sad.”

His steps falter once, but then he is gently pulling you closer, his forehead against yours. “We’ll find new flowers, then,” John whispers. “And you can love them for the first time. As many times as you need.”

And the castle sighs with peace. Its walls bend again, opening the path home.

[shy9-29]

ONE NIGHT STAND ⟡ psh

professer sunghoon x collage student ୨ৎ

⟡ synopsis: You let a stranger ruin you one night — then he turned out to be your professor. Now every class feels like foreplay. ✉️ wc. 10350 ⚠️ tw smut, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (wrap ur willies), professor/student relationship, one night stand, fingering, oral (m. receiving), spanking, dirty talk, handjob, overstimulation, spit kink, possessiveness, jealousy, public teasing, rough sex, aftercare, slight angst, emotional manipulation, implied age gap, power imbalance, strong language, alcohol use (basically just porn)

genre. smut, (mdni!) romance, drama, angst, forbidden love, slow burn, erotica, university au, power dynamics, emotional tension, secret relationship, student/professor romance

It’s your last night of summer. Tomorrow, you move into your dorm, trade your parents’ house for a tiny twin bed and a stack of syllabi. So tonight — just for tonight — you want to forget about responsibility. About expectations. About the version of yourself you’re supposed to become.

The club is loud and packed, the bass from the speakers deep enough to rattle in your chest. Lights flash red and purple overhead, casting shadows that move across the crowd like ghosts. Bella clutches your wrist, pulling you deeper into the sea of people with a giggle.

“You’re not allowed to be shy tonight,” she shouts over the music, leaning close so you can hear her. “It’s your last night of freedom. Go flirt with someone. Get drunk. Maybe get laid.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. She’s already halfway to drunk, her glossy eyes and flushed cheeks proof of that. But she’s right. You didn’t dress like this to be a wallflower. You came out in a tight black dress that hugs your curves just right, your makeup smoky and bold, your legs aching slightly from the heels you swore you wouldn’t wear and did anyway.

You make your way to the bar to order something — anything — that’ll warm your throat and lower your inhibitions just a little. That’s when you feel it.

Eyes on you.

You turn your head slightly, pretending to scan the crowd, but you already know exactly where it’s coming from.

He’s sitting at the bar alone. A half-finished whiskey glass in front of him, one elbow resting lazily on the counter. His hair is dark and parted just enough to fall over one brow. Clean-cut, but not preppy. Dressed in all black — a simple shirt, watch glinting at his wrist, rings on two fingers. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze?

Intense.

You don’t know how long he’s been looking at you, but he doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t wink. Just watches. Calm. Curious. Like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

Your heart skips a beat.

You look away first, pretending to fidget with your phone as you wait for the bartender. But your pulse is racing, and you can still feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

“Vodka soda,” you say when the bartender finally notices you. Your voice is slightly unsteady, and it annoys you.

You don’t look back until the drink’s in your hand — and when you do, he’s still watching. But this time, he’s moving.

Straight toward you.

You freeze. Instinctively fix your hair. Sip your drink too fast. Then he’s there, standing beside you at the bar like he’s been invited.

“First drink of the night?” he asks, voice smooth as silk, low enough that you have to lean in to hear him.

You glance up at him — and now that he’s close, you can really see him. Sharp cheekbones. Full lips. Eyes so dark you’re not sure where iris ends and pupil begins.

You try to play it cool. “Second.”

He nods once. “Good. First would’ve meant I was a little early. Second means I’m right on time.”

You raise a brow, trying not to let your smile show. “For what?”

He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest whiff of cologne — warm, musky, expensive. “For meeting you.”

The line should be cheesy. It should make you roll your eyes. But it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the way he says it, like he actually means it. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, gaze flicking from your lips to your eyes like he’s cataloging the way your mouth moves when you smile.

You take another sip of your drink. “Do you always hit on girls at bars?”

“Not always,” he says, not missing a beat. “Only the ones who can’t stop looking back.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. He saw that?

Before you can come up with a response, he extends his hand. “Sunghoon.”

You hesitate — just a second — before slipping your hand into his. His grip is firm, but not too tight. Warm. Steady.

You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you like he’s tasting it.

And then he leans in again. “Let me buy you your third drink.”

You’re not drunk — not really — but there’s a buzz in your blood, a warmth that runs deeper than alcohol. It’s in the way Sunghoon keeps watching you, the way his eyes drop to your lips every time you speak. His voice is steady, smooth, but there’s something beneath it — a restraint. Like he’s holding himself back.

You talk. About nothing, mostly. Music, favorite cities, late-night cravings. You learn he’s a little older, but he doesn’t say exactly how much. You don’t ask. You don’t want to ruin the spell by making it real.

At some point, you end up on the dance floor. You didn’t plan to — you never really dance — but he takes your hand without asking, and suddenly you’re there, surrounded by pulsing lights and bodies and heat.

He doesn’t keep his distance. One hand finds your waist. The other drifts low, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of your dress. He moves slow, but deliberate — his chest against your back, his lips ghosting near your ear.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, voice low, breath hot against your skin.

You laugh — breathless. “Why’s that?”

“Because I don’t usually do this either.”

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze. “Do what?”

He leans in. His mouth grazes your jaw, then your cheek, then finally — your lips.

It starts soft. Testing. His hand slides around your hip, pulling you closer, and then he kisses you deeper — fuller — like he’s been waiting all night for it. You don’t even realize your fingers have curled into his shirt until he pulls back just slightly, lips still brushing yours.

“My place is five minutes from here,” he says. “Say the word.”

You hesitate for half a second. Not because you don’t want it — but because you want it too much.

“let’s go,” you whisper.

The ride to his place is a blur — fast, silent, electric. He doesn’t touch you in the car, but his knee brushes yours, and it feels more intimate than anything else so far.

His apartment is clean. Minimalist. Expensive-looking. You barely notice any of it.

Because the moment the door clicks shut behind you, he’s on you.

His hands cup your face as he kisses you again, harder this time. Hungrier. He backs you against the door, lips crashing into yours like he can’t get enough.

Your fingers slide into his hair. His hands drop to your hips, then lower — gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you effortlessly.

You gasp against his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist. He carries you like you weigh nothing, walking you through the apartment until you’re in his bedroom.

He drops you gently onto the bed, standing over you for a second. His chest rises and falls with every breath. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room — like he’s starving and you’re the meal.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod. “Please.”

He smirks — just a little. “Take off your dress for me.”

Your breath catches. But you do it — slowly, fingers slipping beneath the straps and easing it down your body.

Sunghoon watches the whole time, not blinking.

You’re left in nothing but a lacy black bra and matching panties. You start to reach behind to unhook it, but he stops you.

“Let me.”

He steps forward, kneeling onto the bed between your legs. His fingers find the clasp, and the bra falls away. His eyes darken.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, leaning down to kiss between your breasts. His hands trail up your sides, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arch into him.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, mouth dragging lower, tongue flicking across one nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

Your back arches, a soft moan slipping past your lips.

His hand moves between your thighs, fingers tracing over your panties. You’re soaked.

“You want my fingers?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

You nod — desperate now.

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want your fingers,” you breathe. “Please.”

And that’s all it takes.

He pushes your panties aside and runs two fingers along your slit, groaning at how wet you are. Then he slides one finger in — slow, deep — and your body trembles.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re tight.”

He adds another, curling them inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.

Your hips start to move with his rhythm, grinding against his hand.

“Touch yourself,” he says suddenly. “I want to see you do it.”

You hesitate, flushed, but obey — hand slipping between your legs to rub slow, needy circles over your clit while he pumps his fingers in and out of your pussy.

The sounds — wet, messy, obscene — echo in the quiet room.

You’re close. So close.

“Come for me,” he says, lips against your ear. “Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

And you do.

You’re still catching your breath when Sunghoon pulls his fingers from your dripping cunt, glistening with your orgasm. He brings them to his mouth, lips curling around them without breaking eye contact.

“Taste so fucking good,” he murmurs. “Could eat you for hours. But right now…”

His voice trails off as he sits back on his heels, tugging his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. His chest is toned, lean muscle carved beneath smooth skin. His belt comes next, then his zipper—

And when he pushes his pants down, your mouth goes dry.

Holy. Shit.

He’s big. Thick. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, hard and flushed, a single bead of precum glistening at the tip.

You stare, stunned for a second, and he notices.

His mouth curves into a dark smile. “Too much?”

You shake your head, eyes locked on his length. “No. Just…” Your voice trails off, and you bite your lip. “Big.”

He groans softly, palming the base of his cock. “Come here, baby. Let me feel that pretty mouth.”

You crawl toward him, sinking to your knees at the edge of the bed. He stays standing, hand stroking his cock slowly as you settle in front of him.

“Spit on it,” he says, voice rough. “Then use your tongue.”

You obey. Spitting into your palm first, you rub the wetness over the head of his cock, then down the shaft. He hisses under his breath, hips twitching.

Then you lean forward and press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the tip.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand slipping into your hair. “Such a good slut.”

You wrap your lips around him, tongue swirling over the sensitive head before sinking lower. He’s thick — you can barely fit him in your mouth — but you try, inch by inch, letting your saliva drip down to make it easier.

Sunghoon groans, fingers tightening in your hair. “Fuck, just like that. You look so fucking good on your knees.”

You moan around him, and the vibration makes his hips jerk. You bob your head slowly, using your hand to stroke what you can’t fit, drool running down your chin.

“Look at me,” he commands, voice like gravel. “Eyes on me while you suck my cock.”

You lift your gaze, lashes wet, cheeks hollowing around his length. He growls.

“God, that mouth. I could fuck your throat all night.”

He starts to guide your head, setting a rhythm — slow but deep, letting you feel every inch. Your throat tightens around him, but you don’t pull away.

“You like this?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Like choking on my cock like a desperate little slut?”

You moan again, louder this time, and he groans — head falling back for a second before he looks down at you again.

“Bet your pussy’s still dripping,” he says. “Bet you’d let me bend you over right now and fuck you until you forget your name.”

You whimper, sucking harder, desperate for his praise — for more of that filth spilling from his lips.

Then suddenly, he pulls back. His cock slips from your mouth with a wet pop, and you blink up at him, confused.

“On your hands and knees,” he says. “Now.”

You scramble onto the bed, body aching for more, cunt still pulsing from your earlier orgasm.

Sunghoon climbs behind you, running a hand down your back, then up again — slow, possessive.

Then—smack.

You gasp as his palm lands on your ass, the sting sharp and sudden.

“Too much?” he asks, even as he squeezes where he just spanked.

“No,” you whisper. “Do it again.”

He groans. “Fuck, you really are perfect.”

Smack. Again — harder this time. Then he soothes the spot with his palm, leaning down to murmur against your ear.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” he breathes. “Stretch this tight little pussy open with my cock, fuck you so good you’ll still be shaking in your dorm tomorrow.”

You moan — loud, desperate — pushing your hips back against him.

“Please, Sunghoon,” you whimper. “Need you inside me.”

His voice is a low growl. “Beg prettier than that.”

You shudder. “Please. Want you to fuck me. Want your cock, please—”

He growls again — deep, raw — and grabs your hips, lining himself up.

You feel the head of his cock slide through your folds — slow, teasing — dragging against your already-sensitive clit before he lines up at your entrance. He pauses, both hands gripping your hips.

“Deep breath, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m not small, remember?”

You barely have time to nod before he pushes in.

Your gasp is instant. He’s thick, stretching you open inch by inch, and the burn is sharp in the best way — the kind that makes your back arch, your mouth fall open, your eyes roll back. He goes slow at first, letting you feel every inch, and your body clenches tight around him, trying to adjust.

“Shit,” Sunghoon groans, voice strained. “You’re so fucking tight—trying to suck me in.”

He bottoms out with one final thrust, hips flush to your ass. You cry out, gripping the sheets.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low.

“N-no,” you stammer. “Just—so full.”

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth right by your ear. “You can take it. And you will.”

Then he pulls back — just the tip — and slams back in, hard enough to make you moan. He starts moving, hips snapping forward, fucking into you with smooth, relentless strokes. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with the filthy wet noises coming from between your legs and your own desperate moans.

Sunghoon’s grip on your hips is bruising. He fucks you like he owns you, like you’re his toy and no one else’s. He leans back just enough to admire the way your ass bounces with every thrust.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Taking all of me like a good little slut. You were made for this cock.”

You whimper, trembling, already close again — the stretch, the pressure, the filthy words all pushing you toward the edge.

“You gonna come again?” he asks, breathless. “Already?”

You nod, too far gone to answer properly.

He slaps your ass again — smack. “Say it. I wanna hear you beg.”

“Please,” you gasp. “I’m gonna come, Sunghoon—fuck, please let me.”

He growls, pounding into you faster. “Come for me. Now.”

You break.

Your second orgasm crashes over you hard, clenching around him like a vice, and he doesn’t stop. Keeps fucking you through it, unrelenting, merciless. Your arms give out, and you collapse onto the mattress, trembling and whimpering.

But he doesn’t let up.

“Oh, we’re not done,” he pants. “Not even close.”

He pulls out suddenly, and you barely have time to catch your breath before he flips you onto your back. He grabs your legs, spreads them wide, and lines himself up again.

“Want to see your face this time,” he murmurs. “Want to watch you fall apart.”

Then he thrusts back into you, hard and deep, making you cry out. Your body is already too sensitive, your pussy still fluttering from the last orgasm, but he doesn’t care. If anything, he likes how overstimulated you are.

“You feel that?” he grits out. “How your pussy’s still squeezing me like it never wants to let go?”

You nod frantically, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Too much—fuck—it’s so much.”

“But you’re taking it,” he says. “Taking it so well.”

He fucks you like a man possessed, like he’s trying to carve himself into your memory. Every thrust hits deep, the angle perfect, and your legs start to shake.

“I can’t—” you choke out. “Gonna come again—”

He grabs your throat — not hard, just enough to hold you in place. His other hand finds your clit, fingers rubbing fast, merciless circles over the swollen bundle of nerves.

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re gonna come again. You’re gonna soak my cock. I want to feel you milk me.”

You shatter.

The third orgasm hits you like lightning — hot, electric, impossible. Your vision blurs, body writhing beneath him, voice cracking into a broken moan as your pussy clenches around him like a vice.

But he still doesn’t stop.

Sunghoon fucks you through it, hips slamming into yours, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he groans. “Wanna come all over this tight fucking pussy. You want that, baby?”

You nod, unable to speak.

“Where?” he grits out. “Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Please—come inside me.”

His eyes darken.

He slams into you one more time and groans deep in his chest as he spills inside you — hot, thick, and endless. You can feel it, the way he pulses inside your overstimulated cunt, and it makes you moan all over again.

He stays there for a moment, both of you panting, sweaty, trembling. Then he leans down and kisses you — slow and deep, like he’s trying to remind you that he can be gentle, too.

When he finally pulls out, your thighs are sticky, trembling. You’re completely wrecked — legs spread, sheets soaked, lips swollen, hair a mess. And Sunghoon just looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You okay?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back from your face.

You nod, exhausted. “That was… insane.”

You wake up sore.

Between your legs, mostly. Every shift of your thighs reminds you exactly what happened last night — the ache, the stretch, the way he didn’t stop even after your legs were shaking. You wince a little as you turn over.

The bed beside you is empty.

Sheets crumpled, slightly warm, but no Sunghoon.

You sit up slowly, the duvet slipping down your bare chest, blinking against the morning light that filters in through half-open blinds. The room’s unfamiliar. Sleek. A little too neat to feel lived in.

Strange. Isn’t this his place?

Your clothes are scattered across the floor, but none of his are. No signs of a toothbrush on the bathroom counter. No jackets hanging by the door. No photos. No clutter.

Airbnb, maybe. Just a place he rented for the weekend.

You frown as you rub a hand over your eyes. Your head is foggy, still wrapped in the lingering haze of alcohol and sex. You try to piece together last night — the way he looked at you at the party, the feel of his fingers, his mouth, his cock — and then… it’s all just heat and noise and black.

You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You sigh. Hard.

Your phone’s nearly dead, and the time glares back at you: 11:02 AM.

Classes start tomorrow. Perfect.

No note. No message. Not even a name.

You don’t even know his last name.

You pull your dress on — wrinkled and inside-out — and shove your heels into your bag. You call an Uber before you’ve even finished brushing your hair with your fingers.

The car is quiet. You don’t talk.

You lean your forehead against the window, eyes half-lidded, sore and still a little hungover, the ache between your legs throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

One night stand. That’s what it was. Nothing more.

Still… you can’t help thinking about him. About the way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. The way he—

You shake your head.

It was one night. You’ll never see him again.

Tomorrow, university starts. Time to focus on new things.

You have no idea what’s coming.

You’re late.

Of course you’re late.

Your phone had died overnight, and you’d barely dragged yourself out of bed in time to throw on the cleanest outfit you could find and rush across campus with half-brushed hair and your coffee still in a to-go cup. Your legs are still sore, your thighs brushing uncomfortably with every step, and you haven’t stopped thinking about last night.

Or him.

The guy you let wreck you in a stranger’s bed. The guy who disappeared before morning. The guy you’ll never see again.

Right?

You shove open the door to the lecture hall, breathless.

“Sorry, sorry,” you mumble as you slip inside, your voice echoing faintly. The place is massive — a hundred seats, maybe more — and every single one of them is already filled with someone more punctual and better-rested than you.

You find a seat near the middle, head ducked, ignoring the stares as you slide your bag off your shoulder and collapse into the chair. You’re still trying to catch your breath, sipping your lukewarm coffee, when a voice carries from the front of the room.

“Glad you could finally join us.”

Your stomach twists.

That voice—

No way.

You blink.

Then slowly — so slowly — you look up.

And your heart stops.

There he is.

At the front of the room, standing beside the projector screen with a laptop open on the podium, is him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes.

Sunghoon.

Your one-night stand.

Your mystery man.

Your professor.

You blink again, hoping you’re hallucinating. That you’re still in bed. That you’re still dreaming.

But he just stares back at you — a flicker of recognition in his eyes, so fast and so subtle that if you didn’t know, you’d miss it.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t react.

He just says, cool and calm, “As I was saying — welcome to Modern Media Theory. I’m Professor Park. This semester, I expect you to show up on time, be prepared, and keep your personal lives out of my classroom.”

You go still.

The air in your lungs vanishes. Your cheeks burn.

He didn’t just fuck you.

He’s your professor.

And he’s pretending nothing happened.

You don’t hear a single word of the lecture.

Not a single one.

Your eyes stay locked on him the whole time — on Professor Park — trying to reconcile the man in front of the class with the man who had you bent over a bed less than twenty-four hours ago.

He’s even more handsome when you’re sober. Clean lines. Sharp cheekbones. That same deep voice, now filled with authority instead of filth. It should be illegal to look that good in front of a classroom.

And the worst part? He acts like you’re no one.

Not a glance. Not a flicker of amusement or recognition. Nothing.

You spend the next ninety minutes trying not to squirm in your seat — from nerves, from heat, from the dull ache still between your thighs. His voice carries over the room in calm, measured tones, talking about frameworks and theory and authors you can’t even remember, because all you can think about is his hand gripping your throat, his cock in your mouth, his voice in your ear telling you to beg for it.

By the time class ends, you’re practically vibrating with frustration. The students file out one by one, chatting, oblivious, until finally the room is empty — except for you.

And him.

You wait until he’s closed his laptop before standing.

He doesn’t look up. “Class is dismissed.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice tight. “I got that.”

That makes him pause. Slowly, his eyes lift, meeting yours. The coolness in them is surgical. Detached.

You swallow. “So… you’re a professor.” He doesn’t react. “Looks that way.” Your heart pounds. “You didn’t think that was something worth mentioning last night?” Sunghoon tilts his head, finally closing the distance with his eyes, not his body. “You didn’t ask.”

You laugh — sharp, disbelieving. “Seriously?” He slides his laptop into his bag. Calm. Controlled. Like this is nothing to him. You take a step closer. “You just left. No note. No text. You didn’t even tell me your last name, and now I find out you’re standing at the front of my class like nothing happened?”

He sighs — not guilty, not even annoyed. Just tired.

“Look,” he says. “Last night was a mistake.”

The words hit like a slap.

“A mistake,” you repeat, voice flat.

“Yes.”

He zips up his bag and slings it over his shoulder, then finally — finally — meets your gaze with something resembling emotion. But it’s not warmth. It’s not regret. It’s caution. “You didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know who you were. But now we do. And nothing else happens. Understood?” You blink at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Sunghoon—”

“Professor Park,” he corrects, firm. “From now on, in this room, on this campus — you will refer to me as Professor Park. You will not speak of last night. And you will not treat me like anything other than your professor.”

Your throat tightens. “So that’s all I was to you?” His jaw flexes. Just once. “I’m not here to discuss feelings,” he says. “I’m here to teach.” He moves to leave, but you step in his path.

“One night,” you say quietly. “That’s all it meant to you?” He pauses. Doesn’t look at you. Then—

“Yes.”

And then he walks past you, out the door, gone before you can even breathe out the response stuck in your throat.

You’re alone. In your first lecture hall. On your first day. Still sore. Still remembering. Still burning. And now you can’t stop thinking about him. Not because he touched you. But because now, he won’t.

You practically collapse into your dorm room chair.

The walk back from class did nothing to calm you down — not with your thoughts spinning and your thighs still sore. You’re halfway through Googling Is it illegal to hook up with your professor if you didn’t know he was your professor when the door swings open and Lily walks in, dropping her tote bag with a sigh.

“Please tell me you didn’t fall asleep in the middle of class like I almost did,” she groans.

You shake your head. “No. I… had Modern Media Theory.”

Lily perks up instantly, eyes wide. “Wait—wait—don’t tell me you got Professor Park?”

You freeze.

She gasps. “You got Park? Are you serious?”

You just blink at her, unsure how to answer.

Lily throws herself onto your bed dramatically. “Oh my God. Half the campus is obsessed with that man. Like, seriously. Even the guys think he’s hot.”

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re still trying to figure out if this is hilarious or humiliating.

“And people say,” she lowers her voice like she’s sharing top-tier gossip, “he’s huge.”

You sip your water slowly, hiding the way your breath catches. Yeah. You wouldn’t need rumors to confirm that. You still feel it.

You try to play it cool. “Huge how?”

Lily looks scandalized. “Y/N. Please. You know how.”

You choke on your water, coughing as Lily bursts out laughing. “Seriously! That man has big dick energy like—actual BDE. Someone in second-year swore he stretched her friend so bad she couldn’t sit for two days.”

You look down at your lap. Yep. Sounds familiar.

“Didn’t know the media department had this kind of drama,” you mutter.

Before Lily can reply, Kitty walks in with a protein shake and zero chill.

“Wait, are we talking about Professor Park?”

Lily lights up. “Y/N has him!”

Kitty gasps. “No way. The hot one?”

Y/N stays silent. Kitty throws herself into the chair across from you.

“I heard he’s really good in bed,” Kitty says casually, like she’s talking about the weather. “Like, life-changing. My cousin said her roommate slept with him at some faculty party or something—pre-semester—and she still can’t shut up about it.”

Your jaw clenches.

Yeah. He is.

Too good. Too cocky. Too unforgettable.

You cross your legs without thinking — a weak attempt to soothe the ghost of last night’s ache still pulsing between your thighs.

“Anyway,” Kitty says, oblivious, “you’re lucky. Most profs are ancient or weird. If I had Park as my first Monday lecture, I wouldn’t even be mad.”

Lily grins. “I wouldn’t even miss a class. Ever.”

You force a tight smile. “Right.”

They move on to some other topic — campus events, party rumors, who hooked up with who — but you barely hear it.

Your mind’s still stuck on his voice. His hands. The way he called you a good little slutand then looked right through you the next day like none of it mattered.

Your friends think he’s a fantasy. You know he’s a mistake. And yet, you can’t stop thinking about him. Still sore. Still remembering. Still wanting more.

“Y/N… can we talk?”

His voice is low, almost gentle. You turn around and he’s standing there — in the doorway of your dorm, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.

You don’t say anything.

Sunghoon steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s afraid you might run.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For being so cold. Yesterday.”

You cross your arms over your chest. You want to be mad — you should be mad — but all you can do is stare at him. The way his jaw clenches. The way his voice dips when he talks to you, like you’re the only one in the world who can hear him.

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say. I panicked.”

He’s inches away now. You can feel the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne — clean, warm, familiar. He reaches out slowly, fingertips brushing your wrist, trailing up your arm like he’s checking if he’s allowed to touch you again.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs. “About that night.”

Your heart pounds. His touch burns.

“I wanted to forget,” he admits, voice rough. “But I can’t.” Your back hits the wall. He cages you in without touching you — one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just inches from your waist. His breath fans over your skin.

“I still remember how you sound,” he whispers. “How you taste. How your body felt under mine.” You shiver. Your eyes flutter closed, just for a second. “I should stay away,” he breathes. “But I don’t want to.” His lips are so close. His mouth hovers over yours, not touching, not yet — just letting the moment drag out, all heat and tension and want. You reach for him first.

Your fingers curl into his shirt. He groans into your mouth when you kiss him, slow and desperate, hands grabbing at each other like you’ve both been starved. His body presses against yours and you feel it immediately — hard, hot, eager. Just like before.

He lifts you easily, and your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. His mouth moves down your neck, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, and you tug his shirt up, frantic.

“I missed this,” he murmurs. “Missed you.” Your hips grind against his, and he groans again, rutting forward like he can’t help himself.

“I’m gonna take my time with you this time,” he says against your skin. “Gonna fuck you slow… make you cry for it…” He lays you down, starts kissing down your body, eyes dark with hunger. You moan his name.

“Sunghoon…”

But then—You wake up.

Your sheets are twisted around your legs, your body damp with sweat, and your hand is fisted tightly in the fabric of your tank top like you were reaching for something. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. You stare at the ceiling.

He wasn’t here. He didn’t say anything. It was just a dream. And now you’re even worse off than before.

You don’t say anything the next time you walk into class.

But you don’t have to.

Your skirt is shorter than usual — just enough to ride up when you sit down — and your legs are crossed deliberately, slowly, as you ease into your seat near the front. No tights. No leggings. Just skin and confidence.

You feel his eyes on you the second you walk in.

He doesn’t look at you directly — of course not. He’s smarter than that. But you can see the way his jaw tightens. The way his fingers hesitate on the mouse before clicking to the next slide. The way his throat bobs when you shift in your seat and uncross your legs, only to cross them again.

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes locked on him like he’s the only thing worth watching.

Sunghoon keeps talking.

But now, there’s a pause between his sentences. A slight rasp in his voice. A subtle glance in your direction every few slides, never lingering too long — just enough for you to catch it.

You smile.

It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong.

You’re just a student in his class. Listening. Participating. Sitting there in a skirt that barely brushes your thighs, biting your lip every time he says something remotely commanding.

“Pay attention,” he says at one point, when a group in the back is whispering.

You straighten in your seat, lifting your eyes slowly.

“I am, Professor,” you say, soft and sweet.

His eyes flicker.

You don’t miss the way his grip on the podium tightens.

By the end of class, you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. His sentences get shorter. His lecture speeds up. His eyes don’t meet yours again.

When the students begin to pack up, you move slower than the rest. You lean forward, elbows on the desk, letting your skirt ride up even higher as you adjust your bag. You can feel his stare this time — heavy, hot, lingering.

You don’t look at him. Not until the last of the students file out and the door swings shut behind them.

Then — and only then — you turn your head, lips curled into the faintest smirk.

“I liked today’s lecture,” you say, casual.

He exhales slowly, not moving from behind the desk.

“Did you.”

You stand, swinging your bag over your shoulder, stepping just close enough that the air between you feels like a challenge.

“I liked the way you said my name during attendance,” you murmur. “You sounded… tense.”

His eyes are sharp, unreadable. “You think this is a game?”

You shrug. “Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t move, but the heat in his stare makes your skin prickle. “You’re playing with fire.”

You take a step back toward the door, still smiling.

“Then burn me.”

And just like that — you’re gone.

Leaving him standing there, pulse racing, jaw clenched, hands braced on the desk like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You can feel his gaze on your back the whole way down the hallway.

You don’t expect him to follow you.

You think he’ll stay behind like always — composed, in control, untouched by the things you do just to watch him flinch.

But the second you turn the corner into the empty hallway, you hear it.

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Determined.

Before you can fully register it, a hand wraps around your wrist and yanks you back — hard. You gasp as your back hits the wall, your bag slipping off your shoulder, your heart slamming against your ribs.

Sunghoon towers over you, eyes blazing.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You blink up at him, playing dumb. “Walking.”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t play games with me.”

You tilt your head, letting your skirt shift just slightly higher as you shift your weight against the wall. “You’re the one who said it was nothing, remember? One night. A mistake.”

His jaw tightens. His hands are still gripping your wrists — not hard, but firm enough to make your pulse stutter. His body is so close you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, caging you in.

“You wore that on purpose,” he mutters, eyes dropping to your legs.

“Wore what?” you ask sweetly.

He scoffs, low and dangerous. “You think I haven’t noticed? The skirts, the looks, the way you sit front row with your legs wide open like you want me to do something about it.”

You stay silent — because he’s not wrong.

Sunghoon leans in closer, voice like a growl in your ear. “You want to get fucked over a desk, is that it?”

Your breath catches.

“You want your professor to lose control,” he continues, his mouth just shy of touching your neck, “to bend you over the nearest surface and remind you exactly how good it felt to be ruined by me.”

You’re shaking now — but not from fear.

From how badly you want him to do it.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Then do it.”

He freezes.

You swear you see the moment something in him breaks.

Sunghoon grabs your chin, tilting your face up to his, and crashes his mouth onto yours.

There’s nothing soft about it — no hesitation, no pretending this is still something he can control. It’s heat and teeth and frustration, his tongue sliding over yours with a groan like he’s been holding this in for too long.

You gasp as he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters against your mouth.

“But you are,” you whisper, tugging his hair, grinding down on him.

And fuck, he’s already hard — painfully hard, pressing against you like he’s seconds from snapping all over again.

“I tried to forget you,” he breathes, dragging your skirt up.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “Neither did I.”

His mouth crashes onto yours again, more desperate now — hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your panties to the side like he can’t even wait to undress you.

“You think teasing me was a good idea?” he growls. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing when you act like a little slut in my class?”

You moan. “Then teach me a lesson, Professor.”

His eyes burn.

“Oh, I will.”

Sunghoon doesn’t take you to his office.

He doesn’t even bother finding a classroom.

He kicks open the door to the nearest supply closet — small, dark, barely wide enough for the both of you — and presses you against the wall before it even shuts behind you. His mouth is back on yours, rough and hungry, hands everywhere, grabbing and pulling like he needs to feel all of you at once.

“Turn around,” he growls against your lips.

You obey, chest heaving as your hands brace against a metal shelf full of paper and printer ink. He pushes your skirt up roughly, revealing the soaked fabric clinging between your legs.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging his fingers up your inner thigh. “You were dripping through this during class?”

You moan when his fingers brush your slit, teasing the soaked fabric. “I couldn’t help it.”

“You wanted me to see, didn’t you?” he says darkly, yanking your panties to the side. “Wanted me to lose it in front of everyone and fuck you over the desk.”

You whimper, pushing back against him.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” he mutters, pressing two fingers inside you without warning.

You cry out, gripping the shelf tighter as he curls them deep inside you.

“So tight… shit, you’re perfect,” he groans, fucking you slow and deep with his fingers. “Still so wet for me. You missed this cock, didn’t you?”

You nod frantically. “Yes—God, yes.”

He spanks you once — hard — and you gasp, the sting sharp and delicious.

“Say it properly.”

“I missed your cock, Professor.”

He groans low in his throat. You hear the sound of his belt, the zipper, the shuffle of fabric. Then his hand returns to your waist, and the thick head of his cock presses against your entrance.

You barely get a breath in before he thrusts inside.

“Fuck—Sunghoon—!”

“God, you take me so well,” he hisses, slamming into you again, and again, until you’re gasping with every thrust. “This is what you wanted, huh? To be bent over like a bad student and filled up with my cock?”

You can’t even answer. He’s too deep. Too thick. Stretching you open so perfectly your knees almost buckle.

He grabs your hair, pulling your head back just enough to whisper in your ear.

“Not gonna stop this time. You’re gonna take it all.”

And you do.

Every thrust slams into you, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the tiny closet, filthy and raw. Your walls flutter around him with every stroke, clenching tight like your body’s desperate to keep him there.

You don’t even care that you’re in a damn supply closet — not when he’s fucking you like this, like he’s punishing you and worshiping you all at once.

“Can feel you squeezing me,” he groans. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod, crying out when his hand slips between your legs and rubs circles against your clit, fast and unforgiving.

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Let me feel it.”

You break with a scream, your orgasm ripping through you like fire — legs shaking, walls spasming around him, soaking his cock as he pounds you through it.

But he doesn’t stop.

“Too much—!” you whimper.

“You can take it,” he growls. “One more. Be a good girl.”

You’re already too sensitive, your body twitching with every thrust, but the way he fucks you — like he owns you — has you falling apart again.

“Please—Sunghoon—!”

“That’s it,” he pants, thrusting even deeper. “Such a good little slut for me. Letting me fuck you where anyone could walk in…”

You cum again — hard, sudden, your moans cut off by the hand he slaps over your mouth as you scream into his palm.

His hips stutter.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up—fuck, take it—”

You feel him twitch inside you, hot and thick, and then he’s spilling into you with a deep, broken moan, his cock throbbing as he presses deep and stays there, panting against your shoulder.

You both stay like that for a moment.

Breathless. Sweaty. Soaked.

Then he pulls out slowly, and you both groan at the mess — his cum dripping down your thighs, your panties ruined, the air thick with sex.

He zips up without a word. You adjust your skirt with shaking hands.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

You smirk over your shoulder. “And you’re weak.”

He glares.cYou wink. And you leave him there — still flushed, still catching his breath, already addicted again.

The next morning, you walk into class like nothing happened.

Your skirt’s a little longer today. You’re not wearing lip gloss. You even show up on time, quiet and composed.

But nothing feels the same. Sunghoon doesn’t look at you once during the lecture.

Not when you raise your hand. Not when you bite your pen. Not even when you catch his eye on purpose and hold the stare. He acts like you don’t exist. But you know better.

You can feel the tension in the way he paces the front of the room. The way he rushes through the slides. The way he won’t call on you even though your hand’s been raised for five minutes. He’s avoiding you. And it’s almost funny, how obvious it is.

When class ends, you take your time packing up, but he’s already halfway out the door. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t glance back. Doesn’t say a word.

Coward.

You don’t chase him. You don’t have to. Because two seconds after you step into the hallway, your friend Lily grabs your arm with a smirk.

“You look like you got wrecked,” she whispers, dragging you to the side. “Don’t even lie. You’re glowing.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“Bullshit,” she grins. “Is this about Professor Park?”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“You’ve been acting weird since the semester started,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “And don’t pretend you didn’t notice how he was looking at you the other day. I was two seats behind you. The man looked like he was about to explode.”

You say nothing. Your silence is enough. Lily’s eyes go wide. “No fucking way.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“You fucked him?!”

“Lily.”

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Was it hot?” You hesitate. She laughs. “That good, huh?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” She ignores you. “Okay but like… is what they say true?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m serious,” she whispers. “Is he… huge. Like huge. Like, wreck-your-life huge.”

You don’t respond. You don’t have to. Her eyes go wider.

“Wait. He is, isn’t he?!”

You just shrug, lips twitching.

“And really good in bed?” she adds. “Like, dangerously good. Like… ruin-you-for-everyone-else good.”

You don’t even try to hide the way your thighs press together.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “No wonder you’ve been walking funny.” You slap her arm. She laughs louder. “You lucky bitch.” You groan, covering your face. “It was just a one-time thing.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” You want to believe it.

But then you get to your next class and open your laptop, and the first thing that flashes through your mind isn’t the lecture — it’s the way Sunghoon’s hand had clamped over your mouth while you came around his cock.

And when you pass him in the hallway later — by accident, this time — he barely glances your way.

But his jaw clenches. His hand balls into a fist. And you know he remembers. You bite your lip as you keep walking, not looking back. You don’t need to. You already know he’s watching.

Class is halfway through when Sunghoon finally breaks.

You can feel it before it happens — the way he keeps glancing your way, how his words are sharper than usual, how his hand keeps flexing on the desk like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You’re sitting near the front again. Of course you are.

Legs crossed. Skirt riding just a little too high. Innocent face like you’re not begging to be noticed.

And he does.

“Y/N,” he says, voice casual. “Can you help me with something for a second?”

Heads turn. You blink up at him, playing your part perfectly.

“Sure, Professor.”

You rise slowly, adjusting your skirt with deliberate care, and walk to the front like you’re not already soaking through your panties. You can feel the stares on your back, but all you care about is his.

His jaw is tight. His eyes flick down your body once — fast, hungry, dangerous — and then he steps back, motioning toward his desk.

“Over here,” he murmurs.

You round the desk, heart pounding as he opens a drawer, pretending to rifle through it.

“I need you to grab—” he starts, but you cut him off with a look.

“Don’t lie,” you whisper, stepping closer. “You just wanted me near.”

His breath hitches. “You’re insane.”

“You asked for help,” you say sweetly. “I’m just being a good student.”

Your hand brushes over the front of his pants — and sure enough, he’s already hard.

He grabs your wrist. “We’re in the middle of class.”

You look up at him, eyes wide and innocent. “So stop me.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he groans — low and harsh — as you sink to your knees behind the desk. The rest of the class is quiet, heads buried in their notes or staring at the projection screen. No one even notices you’re gone.

No one can see.

Your fingers undo his belt with practiced ease, and when you free his cock, you have to stifle a gasp.

You forgot how thick he is.

How heavy he feels in your hand.

How your mouth waters at the sight of it.

“You’re fucking insane,” he mutters again, voice strained now.

You pump him slowly, dragging your hand up the length of him, thumb teasing the slit at the top. He’s hot and pulsing in your grip, already leaking, and it takes everything in you not to take him in your mouth.

But you want him squirming first.

You tighten your grip slightly, stroking him slow — too slow — watching his stomach tense, his breath catch.

“You like when I touch you here, Professor?” you whisper.

“Fuck,” he mutters, gripping the edge of the desk. “Keep your voice down.”

“You like when your student gets on her knees for you in the middle of class?” you tease, twisting your wrist at the top just how he likes.

His hips twitch.

You speed up, stroking him faster now, loving how he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. He looks down at you once — just once — and you see it in his eyes.

He’s right there.

You lean in, spit on your hand, and stroke him harder — faster — and he curses under his breath, head falling forward.

“Shit—Y/N—stop—gonna—”

You don’t stop.

You squeeze, twist, stroke him right through it, and he cums hard in your hand, biting his lip so hard you think he might bleed. His cock twitches as you milk every last drop, your hand warm and wet with him.

You look up at him, breathless.

“Still need help with anything?”

He glares down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild.

“You needy girl,” he whispers.

“And you’re obsessed,” you whisper back, standing and licking your palm clean with a slow swipe of your tongue — just because you can.

His eyes darken like he wants to drag you under the desk and fuck you right there.

But he doesn’t.

He swallows, adjusts his pants, and turns back to the class like nothing happened.

You walk back to your seat with your legs trembling — and the biggest fucking smile on your face.

He calls you to his office after class. Not right away — no, he waits a full ten minutes after the room clears, like that’ll somehow make this less obvious. You knock once, and when you step inside, he’s leaning against his desk, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“Close the door.”

You do.

“Lock it.”

You hesitate, then click it shut behind you. He exhales sharply. Doesn’t look at you.

“We can’t do this anymore,” he says, voice low. You blink. “Can’t do what?” He glares. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not,” you shrug. “You’ll have to be more specific. Do you mean the part where I made you cum in the middle of a lecture? Or the part where you let me?”

His jaw clenches. “Y/N.”

You take a step closer. “Or do you mean the one-night stand? The closet? The fact that you begged me not to stop?”

“Stop.” His voice cracks on the word. You smile sweetly. “You dragged me into this. Not the other way around.”

“I’m your professor.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, desperate. “This has to end before we get caught. Before I lose my job. Before—” You cut him off by sliding between his legs, standing so close your thighs brush his. His hands are still clenched at his sides, like he’s holding on to the last bit of control.

“Then why did you ask me to come here?” He says nothing.

“You could’ve ignored me. Failed me. Told me to stop. But you didn’t.” His eyes lock onto yours, burning with something darker than anger.

“Because you can’t,” you whisper. “You don’t want to.” His breathing is ragged. “That’s not the point.” You lean in, voice softer now. “So make a rule. Try.” You watch him fold, just a little. He grabs your waist and spins you — suddenly, roughly — pinning you between him and the desk.

“No more games,” he says, voice low, lips inches from yours. “No more teasing. You come to class. You do your work. You don’t speak to me unless it’s about the course. Understood?” You raise your chin, defiant. “And if I break the rules?” His grip tightens. “Then you won’t like the consequences.” You smile, slow and wicked. “I think I will.” He growls under his breath, turning away like he needs the space, like he can’t breathe when you’re that close.

You take one step toward the door. Pause. Glance over your shoulder. “Oh,” you add innocently, “I won’t be wearing panties next lecture.” He doesn’t move. But his fingers twitch. And when you finally leave the office, you know you’ve already won.

You knew he wouldn’t last.

Sunghoon made it exactly three days before he cracked.

You showed up to every lecture like the perfect little student.

Took notes, nodded along, answered questions.

Sat right in the front, of course — legs crossed, skirt a little too high, no panties underneath.

You saw the way his eyes lingered.

The way his voice faltered every time he called on you.

You didn’t even have to touch him. Just existed. And watched him unravel.

So really, you weren’t surprised when class ended and he barked your name in front of everyone.

“Y/N. Stay behind.”

You fought your smile. Nodded. Waited.

The second the last student left, he grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward his office — not saying a word, walking fast, grip tight like he was scared he might change his mind.

The door slammed shut behind you. Locked. And then he shoved you against it.

“I told you to stop,” he growled. You smirked. “But you didn’t want me to.” He kissed you before you could finish the sentence — all tongue and teeth and frustration, like he hated you for what you did to him. His hands were already under your skirt, shoving it up, confirming exactly what he’d been suspecting all week.

“No fucking panties,” he muttered against your lips. “You really are a little slut, huh?”

“Only for you,” you whispered. That’s what did it. He spun you around, bent you over the desk without warning, and shoved your legs apart with his knee. You gasped at the cold wood against your cheek, his hand pushing down between your shoulder blades to keep you there.

“No teasing this time,” he hissed. “You want to play games? Fine. But you’re not leaving this room until I’ve ruined you.” You whined when you felt his fingers glide between your folds — soaking wet, dripping for him already.

“Fucking knew it,” he growled. “You like being used, don’t you?” You nodded desperately. He spanked you, hard. “Use your words.”

“Yes, hoon, yes—!”

He groaned and unzipped his pants so fast it was like he’d been holding back for days. Probably had. You felt the thick head of his cock press against you, tease your entrance, and then— He rammed into you.

No hesitation. No warning.

Just one rough, brutal thrust that had you screaming his name against the desk.

“God—Sunghoon—”

“That’s Professor to you,” he growled, grabbing your hips and slamming into you again.

You were soaked, your body clenching around him like it couldn’t get enough — and you couldn’t. His cock stretched you so deep, so perfectly, it was like your body was made for him. He fucked you hard, fast, filthy — the desk creaking under the weight of it, your nails clawing at the wood, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Thought you could tease me?” he hissed in your ear. “Sit in my class like a good girl and pretend you’re not dripping for me?” You moaned — helpless, breathless, aching for more.

“You don’t get to tease me,” he growled. “You don’t get to fucking win.” He fucked you harder, his cock slamming into your soaked cunt with punishing thrusts, the sound of your bodies echoing off the walls like it was the only thing that mattered. You could feel him everywhere — hands, hips, voice — all of him taking and taking and taking. And then his hand snaked around your front. Two fingers on your clit. Fast, rough, no mercy. You sobbed.

“Too much—!”

“Take it,” he snapped. “You wanted this.”

Your body was already on edge — too sensitive, too full, too overstimulated — and you shattered around him with a scream, legs trembling, pleasure ripping through you like lightning. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through it, not slowing down, not letting up, chasing his own release with the desperation of a man possessed.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growled. “So deep you’ll still feel me in the morning.”

You whimpered, overstimulated and aching and still somehow needing it.

“Beg for it.”

“Please—fuck—fill me up—need it, please—” That was all he needed. He cursed, shoved deep one last time, and came with a low, broken groan, spilling inside you so hard you could feel it flood your insides — hot, thick, endless.

You stayed there — bent over, legs shaking, completely ruined — as he caught his breath behind you. And then, when he pulled out, his cum dripped down your thighs and onto the floor, and you knew this was it. There was no going back now. He was yours. And you were so far from finished. 

It had only been three days. But you missed him like it’d been weeks.

He was sick — a bad fever, rough cough, too weak to teach, let alone sneak off to fuck you breathless behind his desk.

Still, you called. Every night.

At first, it was innocent. How are you feeling? Are you redtng enough? Do you need anything?

But tonight, something was different.

His voice was lower. Rough from congestion, but still laced with that dark, velvety tone that made your stomach flutter.

“I miss you,” he rasped into the phone. Your breath hitched. “I miss you too.” You were curled under your blankets, phone to your ear, nothing but a t-shirt and your own restless thoughts keeping you company.

“What are you wearing?” he asked suddenly, voice a little more awake now. Teasing. Familiar.

You bit your lip. “Just your shirt.” He groaned quietly. “Fuck.” There was silence for a beat — hot, heavy.

“Touch yourself for me.”

Your heart thudded.

“Sunghoon—”

“Please,” he whispered. “I need to hear you.”

Your hand slipped beneath the covers before you could think twice, fingers grazing your thighs, your core already warm and aching. You let out a soft sigh, just for him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me hear you, baby.”

“Are you…?” you breathed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice strained. “Got my hand around my cock right now. Thinking about how wet you probably are.”

You whimpered. He knew what to say. Even sick. Even over the phone. He had you melting with nothing but his voice.

“Are you teasing yourself?” he asked. “Or are you already fucking those fingers in deep like I would?”

“Just rubbing,” you gasped. “It’s so sensitive.”

“Wish it was my mouth,” he growled. “I’d suck your clit nice and slow. Keep you spread open and messy for me.” You moaned louder now, fingers working faster, thighs shaking.

“I miss your tongue,” you whimpered. “And your cock. I miss everything.” He groaned again, breath stuttering. “I’m close. Just thinking about you falling apart for me.”

“I’m gonna come,” you panted. “Sunghoon, I—”

“Do it,” he whispered. “Come for me, baby. Let me hear it.”

And you did — hard, trembling, breath catching as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave.

You heard him gasp, a deep, raw sound on the other end. Then silence. Just heavy breathing. You clutched the phone tighter, flushed and buzzing.

“I can’t wait to fuck you when I’m better,” he said finally, voice thick and low. “Gonna make up for every night I couldn’t touch you.” You smiled, cheeks warm. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Now go to sleep, baby. I’ll dream about you.”

And you did — still aching, but content. Because even when he wasn’t here, he still was.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was little things. The way his voice softened when he said your name, even when he was pissed. The way he always made sure you got home safe, even if it was just a quiet Text me when you’re in bed.

The way he kissed you when no one was watching — not hurried, not hungry. Just… like he wanted to remember it.

You didn’t mean to fall for him. You knew what this was. A mistake. A fling. A secret that could ruin both your lives. But somehow, between the stolen glances and the late-night fucks in his office, you started to feel it. That pull. That ache. It wasn’t just lust anymore. Not for you. So when he texted you at 11:42 PM — come over. need to blow off steam — your heart stupidly fluttered.

And when you showed up at his apartment, when he pulled you in without a word and kissed you like he missed you, you let yourself believe, for just a second, that maybe… maybe he felt it too. You made love that night. Not rough. Not fast. Not like every other time. His hands were gentle. His kisses slow. His body moved with yours like you were something precious — not just a girl he wasn’t supposed to touch.

And afterward, when you curled into him, bare skin against bare skin, you whispered it before you could stop yourself.

“Sunghoon.”

He hummed, half-asleep, arm draped over your waist.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

Silence. Not a breath. Not a blink. Just… nothing. You turned your head to look at him. He was wide awake now.

“Y/N,” he said carefully. Too carefully. Your chest tightened. “Say something.”

He sat up, rubbed a hand over his face. “You weren’t supposed to—” You pulled the sheet up around your chest like it could protect you from the sharpness of his words.

“Wasn’t supposed to what?” you asked quietly. “Catch feelings? Think this meant more than just… late-night texts and quick fucks between lectures?”

His jaw tightened. “You knew what this was.”

“Did I?” You blinked at him, heart splintering. “Because it didn’t feel like just sex.”

He didn’t look at you. And that told you everything. You swallowed hard, throat burning.

“You don’t feel anything for me?”

He paused. And then he shook his head once. Quick. Cold.

“I can’t.”

It hit like a slap. You nodded slowly, forcing down the sting. “Right. Of course.”

“Y/N—”

“No, I get it,” you said, getting up and grabbing your clothes. “You’re just my professor. And I’m just the dumb girl who thought maybe this was something.”

You didn’t wait for him to say anything else. You didn’t look back. Because if you did — if you saw even an ounce of regret in his eyes — you’d break. And you were already breaking. 

You didn’t go to class the next day. Or the next.

You stopped answering his texts. Left them on read. Blocked the number, even — not because you didn’t want to see them, but because you knew you would.

And you were done giving in.

He didn’t love you. He didn’t even like you, not really. To him, you were just a distraction. A body. A pretty little secret to keep him entertained. You weren’t going to be that anymore.

So you went quiet. Silent.

You didn’t show up to his lectures, didn’t sit in the front row in those too-short skirts, didn’t flirt with your eyes across the room. You handed your assignments in online. You stayed invisible. And for a while, it worked.

You didn’t cry anymore. You didn’t dream about his mouth on your skin. You didn’t ache at night thinking about the way he used to look at you like he needed you.

You even let Lily drag you to a party.

He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. Why would a professor hang out with freshmen? But someone else was. He was tall. Soft brown eyes. Big hands. Good Looking

Nice.

You let him kiss you. Let him press you against the wall. Let him fuck you in some stranger’s bedroom with your skirt bunched around your waist.

It wasn’t like Sunghoon. Not even close. But it was something. And for a few minutes, it helped you forget. Until the next morning — when you checked your phone, and saw his name lit up the screen.

Park Sunghoon [3 messages]

Where are you?

You missed another lecture.

Y/N, please.

You stared at the screen for a long time. And then you deleted them. Sunghoon was losing his goddamn mind.

The first day you skipped, he told himself it was nothing.

Maybe you were sick. Hungover. Avoiding him. Whatever.

By the third, he was pacing in his office, checking the attendance sheet, rereading your last assignment just to see if there was a hint — anything — in your tone.

By the fifth, he was showing up to dorm buildings and walking past study halls just to maybe catch a glimpse of you. He didn’t know what the fuck was happening to him. You’d said you were falling for him.

And he’d brushed it off. Because he was scared. Because it wasn’t supposed to happen. I mean, what was he thinking? Fucking his student relentlessly thinking she wouldn’t fall for him? But now? Now he realized he’d been lying to himself the entire time. He missed you.

More than just your body. More than the games. He missed your laugh. Your attitude. Your soft little sighs when you fell asleep against his chest.

He missed you. And when he saw you again — two weeks later, walking across campus in a low-cut top and short skirt, laughing with some guy he didn’t recognize — it hit him like a fucking truck.

You were moving on. And he was still stuck in the night you left. He waited until the guy walked off. Then followed you.

“Y/N.”

You stopped. Turned. Your expression shifted from surprised to cold in half a second.

“I’m busy.”

“Can we talk?”

“No.”

“Please—”

“You made it clear how you felt,” you said, voice sharp. “Don’t backpedal now.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—” You crossed your arms. “You meant it enough to let me walk out.” He hesitated. “You blocked my number.”

“You said it was just sex,” you snapped. “So why would I stay?” He looked at you — really looked at you — and something in his face cracked.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “That’s not an excuse. But I didn’t know what to do. I’m your professor. I could lose everything.”

You stared at him, trying not to let your heart soften.

“And now?”

He stepped closer. Slower this time. Careful, like you might run.

“Now I don’t care,” he whispered. “I’d risk everything if you’d just look at me the way you used to.”

You looked away.

Because you still wanted to.

But he’d already broken you once.

And you weren’t sure you could let him close enough to do it again.

You lay there in the dark, chest heaving, body limp from everything he’d just taken from you — and everything you’d given him.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking absently over your skin like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. Like if he kept touching you, maybe you wouldn’t disappear again. You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve said this doesn’t change anything. But it did. It changed everything.

And when you finally found your voice, it was quiet. Fragile.

“You can’t keep doing that.”His thumb stilled. “Doing what?”

“Acting like it’s nothing one second, then showing up the next like you’d burn the world down for me.” He turned toward you, arm curling around your waist.

“I would,” he said simply. “Burn it all down.”

Your chest tightened. “Then why did you let me go?”

He exhaled, forehead pressing gently to yours. “Because I thought I had to.”

“But you don’t now?”

“I can’t let you go again,” he whispered. “Not after that. Not after this.”

You searched his eyes.

And this time, you didn’t find silence. Didn’t find cold. You found regret. Longing.

Something that looked too close to love to ignore.

“Say it,” you breathed. “Say it wasn’t just sex.” He didn’t even hesitate.

“It never was.”

The breath you’d been holding spilled out all at once, shaky and full of every broken piece you’d been holding in since the start. You closed your eyes, voice cracking.

“Me either.” He kissed your temple, your jaw, your lips — slow and reverent, like he finally understood what he’d almost lost. And when he pulled you against him, wrapping himself around you like a shield, you knew something had shifted for good.

This wasn’t a game anymore. This wasn’t a secret. This wasn’t a one-night stand stretched into months of denial. This was real. And this time, neither of you was running.

was so horny writing this (send req)

perm taglist 🏷️ @kristynaaah @firstclassjaylee @chvconn3 @wonzzziezzzz @sheseung @blvengene @gvtdoll @a3r4-for3ver @sunghoon-cam @luvksnn @aaaaarmiiiiin @blckorchidd @gyulune @zerere @marimariiisblog @pinknjm @bloomiize @flwwon @ziiao @heelovver @sxie-txt

💌 perm taglist request

[slutforformulaone]

Hi! How are you? Can i request a tiktok trend to f1 grid were the girl says that another men paid for her gas? Thank you

F1 GRID || when another man pays for your gas!

MAX VERSTAPPEN – possessive, low and serious he walks out of the shop with two bottles of water and a bag of snacks. he nods at the car like “you good?” you lean against the door and say it casually. “yeah, some guy paid for my gas.” he slows down immediately. “what guy?” “just some guy. he was cute, actually. said it was on him.” max stops moving. stands there staring at you like he’s trying to work out if this is a joke. you hold his gaze. “is he still here?” you shrug. “i think he left?” he clenches his jaw a little and nods once, sharply. walks over to the pump, like he’s checking if the guy’s still around. you call out, “max, it’s fine. it was just a guy.” he doesn’t answer. tosses the snacks in the car, gets in without saying much. quiet for a minute before he mutters, “you don’t need anyone else paying for you.” then adds, “especially not some guy who thinks he can impress you at a petrol station.”

OSCAR PIASTRI – jealous but trying to act like he’s not he comes back holding a blue gatorade and a bag of sour patch kids. “all sorted?” you nod. “yeah. some guy paid for it. really attractive guy, actually.” he stops halfway into the driver’s seat. “what?” you look at him. “he said i shouldn’t have to pay for gas. said it was on him.” he’s frozen for a second, lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to sound annoyed. “right.” he gets into the car, starts it, and hands you the gatorade. he’s quiet. you glance over. “are you okay?” he nods, but he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. finally he says, “i mean… who does that? just pays for someone’s petrol like that?” you smile. “you jealous?” he scoffs gently. “no. i just think it’s weird. and he probably wanted something. people don’t just do that.” he doesn’t bring it up again, but he holds your hand a little tighter than usual the whole drive.

CHARLES LECLERC – visibly annoyed, soft type of angry he’s walking back with a coffee and a red bull, sunglasses pushed up in his hair. you say it as he gets to the car. “some guy paid for my gas while you were in there.” he blinks. “he what?” “yeah. he said i looked too pretty to be filling it up myself.” charles frowns. the soft kind of frown, where it’s more confusion than anger — but his tone shifts. “and you let him?” “i mean… he already paid.” he’s quiet for a second. then, “you didn’t think maybe to say no?” you tilt your head. “it felt rude.” he breathes out, clearly irritated but trying to stay calm. “next time, you wait for me. i don’t like that.” he doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s tension in his jaw. “you are mine, amour. no one else gets to take care of you like that.”

ARTHUR LECLERC – already knows the trend, gets defensive anyway he comes out holding pringles and an iced tea, squinting against the sun. you grin. “some guy paid for my gas while you were gone.” he pauses mid-step. “are you serious?” you nod. “he said it’s not every day you see a girl like me at a gas station.” arthur just blinks. “non… i’ve seen this video. you’re doing the thing.” “what thing?” “your stupid tiktok. the prank.” you keep a straight face. “no, this was real.” his expression drops. “wait… actually?” you nod again, biting your lip. he stares toward the shop, scanning the people still inside. “was he tall?” “kind of. really fit, too.” he scoffs. “this is so dumb. i should’ve stayed in the car.” he shoves the pringles into your lap. “i’ll be watching you next time. no more solo missions at the pump.”

GEORGE RUSSELL – gets protective but stays polite (sort of) he returns with a bottle of water and a protein bar. walks up with that proud little strut. “all filled up?” you nod. “yeah. some guy paid for it.” his brows pull together. “sorry?” “he said he’d take care of it. tall, looked like a model. super kind.” george’s mouth tightens. “where is he now?” you shrug. “probably left.” he turns around, scans the forecourt like a man on a mission. you call after him, “george—” he looks at you over his shoulder. “don’t worry, darling. i just want to say thank you to him.” but you can hear the sarcasm in his voice. when he gets back in the car, he buckles in and says calmly, “just so you know, no one needs to be doing that for you. i’m here for a reason, yeah?” he’s completely polite about it — but he doesn’t smile again for the next ten minutes.

LANDO NORRIS – angry but confused about it he walks back from the shop with one of those tiny juice boxes and a packet of crisps. you smile sweetly. “i didn’t need to pay for gas. some guy did it for me.” he stops. “huh?” “he said i shouldn’t have to pay. said he wanted to do something nice for a pretty girl.” lando looks at the pump. then at you. then at the pump again. “what do you mean he paid?” “like… went in and paid. it’s done.” he lets out a sharp breath and starts scanning the area. “who the hell just does that?” he mutters under his breath and opens the door a bit too hard. “you should’ve told him to mind his own business.” you blink. “it was nice though?” he glares out the window. “no. it’s weird. i don’t like it.” he doesn’t talk for a while. and then finally, very quietly: “he better not have flirted with you.”

OLLIE BEARMAN – goes into full search mode he’s got a chocolate bar and a red bull. bouncing back to the car like he’s got all the energy in the world. “some guy paid for the gas,” you say. he freezes. “what?” “he just walked over and said he’d take care of it. really attractive guy, too.” ollie turns around immediately. “where is he?” you laugh under your breath. “he left.” he’s already halfway back to the shop, looking around, checking the cars. “ollie! he’s gone.” he turns back with a look of pure disbelief. “what the hell? who does that?” when he finally sits back down, he’s fidgety. leans over and kisses your cheek. “you didn’t give him your number, right?” you snort. “no.” he nods slowly. “good. ‘cause i was ready to have words.” he’s dead serious.

CARLOS SAINZ – protective, goes quiet but tense he walks out with a smoothie and a sandwich, chill as ever until you drop it on him. “i didn’t have to pay for the gas,” you say, leaning against the car. “a guy came over and paid for me.” he slows his walk, brows knitting. “what guy?” you shrug. “some guy. looked like a model. said i shouldn’t have to pay.” carlos stops in front of you, staring. “you didn’t say no?” “he was already tapping his card. what was i supposed to do?” he doesn’t respond. just quietly opens the door, puts the smoothie in the cupholder, gets in. you follow, and he starts the engine without looking at you. you glance over. “are you mad?” he keeps his eyes on the road. “i’m not mad.” a beat. “but next time, wait for me. i don’t like you out there by yourself, especially if guys like that think they can just… walk up to you.” his grip on the wheel’s tighter than usual. and when you get to the next stop, he insists on doing everything for you.

ALEX ALBON – jealous and passive-aggressive but playful with it he comes back with a bottle of fanta and a kinder bueno, grinning. “i didn’t pay,” you say, playing it off. “some guy did. said i was too cute to be out here alone.” alex stops dead in his tracks. “sorry… someone paid for your gas?” you nod, smiling. he blinks. “did he want your number too? or just your hand in marriage?” you laugh, but say nothing. he sits down in the car, shuts the door and just sits there for a second, staring ahead. “you know, i get out of the car for two minutes and suddenly there’s a whole queue of men fighting for you at the petrol station.” you bite back a smile. “he wasn’t fighting.” alex shoots you a look. “yet.” he shakes his head and mumbles, “i’m getting you a sticker. ‘taken. don’t even try.’” but he doesn’t drop it for a while — keeps bringing it up in stupid ways. “you want me to fill up again or should i call your secret admirer?”

LOGAN SARGEANT – confused, insecure, gets really quiet he walks over with a monster and a bag of cheetos. “i didn’t pay for gas,” you say casually. “some guy offered. said i looked pretty.” logan pauses. “huh?” “yeah. he just walked up and said he’d take care of it.” he’s clearly trying to process that, eyes flicking toward the pumps. “what… why would someone do that?” you shrug. “he just did.” logan gets into the car slowly, like he’s in his own head now. he doesn’t say much for a few minutes. just stares out the window. then, so quietly it almost surprises you, “do guys really just… say stuff like that to you?” you glance at him. “what do you mean?” “i mean, i wouldn’t blame them. but… like. was he your age?” you press your lips together. “he was fit, yeah.” logan just nods, chewing on the edge of his nail. you poke him. “you okay?” he finally looks at you and smiles weakly. “yeah. just didn’t know i needed to bring a baseball bat with me when we stop for gas.”

DANIEL RICCIARDO – tries to joke but he’s fuming underneath he walks back with snacks like he’s hosting a party — arms full, big grin. “you won’t believe it,” you say. “some hot guy paid for my gas while you were gone.” daniel’s still smiling. “oh wow. was it his idea or did you drop your number first?” you raise a brow. “he came up to me. said it was on him.” he laughs. but it’s that weird laugh where you know he’s not actually laughing. “you know what? good for him. love that for him. hope he enjoys spending my fuel money.” you blink. “he didn’t know you existed.” “yeah, well, now i know he exists. where is he? i’ll buy him a drink. maybe a knuckle sandwich too.” you try not to laugh. he shakes his head, muttering, “this is what i get for being five minutes late with a packet of doritos.” he makes it a bit over-the-top funny, but later, when he’s driving, he asks: “would you have let him do more than that? like… if i hadn’t come back?” and you can feel he’s being serious now.

LEWIS HAMILTON – quietly scary, doesn’t like being disrespected he walks over with a smoothie and a protein bar. calm as always. you look up. “some guy paid for my gas. really attractive guy, actually.” he stops. “what?” “he said he wanted to. thought i shouldn’t have to worry about it.” lewis’s face doesn’t change. but his eyes do. he steps around to your side. “you let him?” “he already did it. he was nice.” lewis stands still for a second, silent. then: “was he still here?” you nod toward the car park. “maybe. i think he left.” lewis doesn’t say anything. just gently puts the smoothie down, scans the area slowly. you call after him, “lewis, it’s fine.” he glances back. “no, it’s not.” his voice is quiet. calm. but sharp. “i don’t like strangers thinking they can treat you like that. like you’re theirs to impress.” he doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t snap — but there’s that cold edge to him now. he doesn’t even want to get in the car right away. just walks a few steps and breathes. “next time,” he says eventually, “you wait for me. alright?” and it’s not a request.

speaking of requests, thank you so much for this – i had so much fun writing it! ^^

[lockefanfic]

Translate

Part One of Three. 12k words.

---

The day before the trip, you’re turning a corner at the office and she’s spilling an iced caramel macchiato - extra whipped cream, extra caramel drizzle - onto your clothes.

“Oh my god-” she spits, mouth frozen open as the reality of what she’d just done dawns on you both. She sees the suit, sees the ID card dangling on a lanyard from your neck, sees the Director title on it - and freezes.

After you both overcome your momentary shock, she steps close, producing napkins from her blazer’s inside pocket and using it to wipe uselessly at the whipped cream and caffeinated sugar-water soaking into your jacket.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” you say, genuinely. You were late to a meeting, and it was probably your fault for turning the corner too quickly without looking. You notice the equally wet patch on her own blazer, and notice her napkins quickly shredding into wet pieces as they try and fail to absorb the rogue caffeine stain. You reach into your pocket for your handkerchief and offer it to her.

“I- shit, I’ll, uh,” she stammers, even as she takes your handkerchief.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, slipping the jacket off, offering a crooked smile. For the first time you look up at her. She’s an unfamiliar face, and her ID card isn’t immediately visible. She’s slim, with dark hair, and beneath the awkward, worried look on her features is the kind of face that belongs on a magazine. You smile sheepishly.

“I’m so fucking sorry, I’ll get it cleaned, oh my god-”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” you say, already heading down the hall. “Late to a meeting. See you around!”

She watches you leave, still a little frozen in shock. She clutches what’s left of her macchiato in one hand, your handkerchief in the other.

She sighs.

---

“Seoul. Tokyo. Two weeks each. You leave tomorrow.” Taeyeon slides a tablet across her desk, just past the Vice President, Strategy name plate. On it are graphs and spreadsheets, numbers generally in green and arrows pointing generally upward. She spares a glance at the clearly dripping blazer folded over the back of your chair, and the corresponding damp spot on your chest, before leaning forward and threading her fingers atop her desk.

“Seoul is doing fine. Tokyo needs to pick it up a little,” she continues, tone sharp and direct, business persona fully on and engaged. “Either way, the CEO wants a status report on both offices by end-of-month so he can decide whether to expand ops in either country. We already have the hard data we need for a business case - we just need someone on the ground to confirm the numbers. Meet with the directors of each office, let them wine and dine you, take a tour of the facilities and offices, slap together a report for me to hand to the boss when you get back. Piece of cake.”

“Sounds like a month-long vacation,” you reply, relaxing a little further into the leather chair opposite her desk.

“Consider it a thank you for the good work you did on the Hirai deal,” Taeyeon says with a shrug, taking a sip from her mug - double-shot Americano, black, extra hot. You smirk as you recall the details of the deal, which took every ounce of your attention and time for a couple of months. There were too many long nights spent in this very office, the two of you working away at this document or that. “And you’re too busy?” Taeyeon glares, but there’s no heat in the frown on her lips. “I’m going to London to check up on the office there. I’d spend too much time in Seoul fielding ‘why aren’t you married to a chaebol heir and popping out kids yet’ questions from the family.”

“Coward. Come to Seoul with me. I’ll play the handsome foreign fiance in front of your parents. Maybe we tell them there’s a bun in the oven. Maybe in the hotel room-”

Taeyeon throws a paper clip at you. Her faux-serious frown becomes a reluctant smile to mirror the one on your own. Thankfully, her promotion to a VP position a year ago didn’t change the close relationship you’d forged over almost a decade of working together, especially now that you technically reported to her. HR would’ve had a field day with the things said and done in this twentieth-floor corner office, had even a fraction of it somehow leaked beyond its walls. 

“You had your shot with me,” she says, mostly-jokingly, under her breath. You don’t miss the wistfulness in the corners of her eyes as she crosses her arms and makes a playful show of looking out of her office’s floor-to-ceiling windows at Vancouver’s dark, cloudy afternoon. “I’ve moved on.”

Silence reigns for a moment that felt longer than it actually was. The I haven’t on your lips dies there, unspoken.

“Anyway, you’ll need a translator,” Taeyeon continues, eager to change the subject before it drowned you both in memories of years past. She shuffles a few papers around randomly on her desk in an attempt to alleviate the sudden tension in the air. When she looks up at you, the wistfulness isn’t entirely gone - just pushed down by the professionalism she wore like armor. “Her file’s on the tablet. Some new kid from Marketing.”

Your eyes linger on Taeyeon’s for a moment longer before you pick up the tablet. There is something behind her eyes in that split-second - thoughts she perhaps wants to turn into words. But the moment passes as quickly as it comes. She turns her eyes to her laptop, and you return yours to the tablet.

A swipe left reveals a resume and an unfamiliar name.

“Ryujin Shin.”

“Brand new to the company - only been with us less than a year, but apparently she’s already a bit of a rock star. Got promoted to Marketing Lead in six months. Her manager says she volunteered for this assignment. She was pretty insistent that she get it, apparently. Maybe she thinks overseas experience will be good for her career.”

“Hmm,” you muse, as you review Ryujin’s resume. Degree with honors, top of her training cohort, gleaming reference letters. 

“She’s fluent in both Korean and Japanese,” Tayeon continues, “so make sure you get your translations directly from her. CEO wants real shit in the report, not a sugarcoated version from the local translators.”

You place the tablet back on her desk as you rise. “I’ll get it done, ma’am,” you state, before straightening up and giving her an exaggerated military salute. 

Taeyeon returns the salute with one of her own, a soft smile perking up the corners of her lips. For a moment she’s twenty-six again, bright-eyed, greeting you with a smile at the company orientation that she was in charge of organizing. You feel something stir in your chest, somewhere deep down where the past still lingered.

“Dismissed, Director,” she answers.

Her smile follows you out the door. It lingers even after you leave, but tinged with a sadness that she’d fought to keep hidden while you were in the room.

---

Ryujin Shin was late.

You weren’t exactly sure what to expect - her profile didn’t include a photo or even so much as a birthdate, so you treated every female that approached within twenty feet as potentially being your translator and guide for the next month. This resulted in some awkward eye contact and equally awkward smiles with random female travellers making their way through Vancouver International Airport’s departures terminal.

You’re directing one such awkward smile toward a middle-aged woman when the actual Ryujin Shin approaches. “Director?”

You turn your head to the sound and there she is - the girl from the morning prior. The one that had left half her drink on your suit jacket.

“...Ryujin Shin?”

“That’s me,” she says, shyly. She fidgets with the slim silver chain around her wrist. She’s dressed casually, in an oversized navy cardigan and wide cut jeans, but looks just as fitting for a magazine cover as she did when she was spilling iced caffeine on you the day before.  “Shall we get going?”

---

The thirteen hours over the Pacific are relatively uneventful - hours of movies on your iPad, a microwaved but surprisingly edible bibimbap, and dying more than you’d like in the latest Souls-like to test your blood pressure. Ryujin spent most of it asleep, snoring softly in the seat next to you.

It’s near midnight when the two of you arrive in South Korea’s capital city. The bright neon lights of downtown Seoul paint Ryujin’s soft features in bright blues and pastel pinks as she stares out the taxi windows with wonder, awe, and nostalgia clashing on her soft features. The taxi pulls up in front of a high-end boutique hotel that your assistant had insisted was popular with travel influencers.

Ryujin slipped into her translator duties early, helping the two of you check in to your rooms. You don’t miss the blush on her cheeks and the embarrassed wave of her hands when the desk clerk sheepishly asks her a question in Korean before shooting you a glance heavy with implication. Eventually, Ryujin receives two key cards from the clerk and hands one of them to you as you both make your way to the elevator.

“She thought we were married,” she admits, shyly, as she pushes the up arrow button on the wall. “Thought we were here for our wedding or something.”

“Cute,” you say, shooting her a smile. The blush lingers.

The elevator dings on the 10th floor, and the doors open. Ryujin heads out first, but when you make to follow her, she stops you with a raised hand.

“Company got you a suite. You’re on the 14th floor. Room 1421.”

“Oh,” you admit. “Got it.”

“Don’t forget - first meeting tomorrow is at 9am. See you in the lobby at 8?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good night, Director,” she says with a slim smile, before disappearing behind the closing elevator doors, leaving you still a little unsure as to what to make of her.

--

Your first day in the Seoul office is filled with introductions and greetings - it wasn’t your first time in the city and you were used to the overly formal introductions, but it didn’t make things any less awkward. The day starts with a meeting with the office’s leadership, each of whom rise from their seats in turn and provide you with their name, title, and what you assume to be the usual corporate platitudes and greetings.

At your shoulder, Ryujin translates.

“...Shin Yuna, Marketing Lead. She’s looking forward to working with you. Lee Chaeryeong, Operations Lead. She’s looking forward to working with you. Hwang Yeji, Legal Counsel. She’s looking forward to working with you. Choi Jisu, HR Head. She’s looking forward to-”

You turn your head to Ryujin and give her a smile. She looks sharp in a white blouse, navy blazer, and charcoal pencil skirt, hair pulled up into a professional bun atop her head. 

“I get it,” you whisper, softly, with a small smile. “They’re looking forward to working with me.”

Ryujin nods. Her cheeks blush slightly and there’s the ghost of a smile on her lips, but she otherwise returns to translating as the office director begins his opening speech.

---

“...profitability is up eighteen point nine five percent - primarily driven by… logistics improvements- no, a better word would be enhancements… that allow for faster- actually, no, I mean smoother transport of goods up from the port of Busan to manufacturing and distribution facilities in Seoul,” Ryujin says, softly but clearly. At the head of the room, the Operations Lead continues her presentation in rapid-fire Korean, gesturing to a bar graph that emphasizes the eighteen point nine five percent increase in large green numbers.

“Ask her to elaborate on what she means by ‘logistics enhancements,’” you ask Ryujin, turning your head to speak softly to her. You watch as Ryujin nods and frantically jots down notes in a messy looking notebook.

Ryujin raises her hand, interrupting the presentation, and asks your question in Korean. She corrects herself with a couple of her word choices, as though a better word had come to her just as the previous one had left her mouth. The Operations Lead takes a moment to consider her response before answering. “She says they found a way to… get better pricing agreements- no, contracts- from their suppliers - no, I mean, she used the term suppliers, but I think she means shipping specialists. The big difference that resulted in the increase was how they went from relying on trucks -I mean, truckload shipping, to high-speed rail to send goods from the Port of Busan to Seoul. The costs for shipping via trains are lesser than shipping via trucks due to-”

“They went from trucks to trains, got it,” you say, with a grin.

Ryujin nods. “Yeah,” she agrees, with a flustered smile.

“Thank her, and ask her to continue.”

The smile lingers on Ryujin’s lips as she asks the Operations Lead to continue. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as she scribbles “trucks to trains” in her notebook.

---

The setting sun is painting Seoul in gold and amber by the time the day’s meetings have wrapped up. You were used to the long working hours involved with working in Asian offices, but the jetlag made the first afternoon especially draining.

Next to you, Ryujin stifles a yawn as you both step out into the early summer evening. 

“Jetlag?” you ask as you both head towards the street and the taxis waiting there.

“Jetlag,” she repeats. She fidgets with the silver chain bracelet again, fingers tracing the delicate links - a habit of hers, you’d noticed. She flags down a waiting taxi, and you follow her into the cab as she gives the driver the address of the hotel and the car pulls away from the curb.

“Dinner plans tonight?” you ask as you watch Seoul’s downtown whiz by in a blur of concrete and glass.

There is a moment of silence. When Ryujin doesn’t answer, you give her a glance to find her eyes already on yours. She looks away shyly, fingers playing with the glimmering silver wrapped around her wrist.

“Uh, probably just going to grab something from the convenience store,” she says. “Kinda tired.”

“Gotcha. I suppose I’ll do the same and call it a night early,” you admit. “Jetlag’s a bitch.”

There is an awkward, uncomfortable silence for a few more blocks. At a red light, you watch as the neon sign above a fried chicken and beer restaurant beckons weary office workers into its doors. On the outdoor tables, tired-looking office employees tuck into delicious looking chicken wings and frosted mugs of beer.

“I wouldn’t mind some of that right now,” you say, hoping to break the tension.

Silence for a few more seconds. You watch as Ryujin peers out your window and notices the sign. Her lips curl up into a small, cautious smile.

She asks the driver to pull over.

---

The fried chicken and beer restaurant is busy but comfortable, the kind of neighborhood place that catered mostly to local employees from the surrounding corporate towers grabbing a bite and a drink on their way home. Ryujin orders in Korean, and soon enough you find yourselves presented with that heavenly combination of fried chicken and light beer. A side of fries and mozzarella sticks accompany the main course at Ryujin’s insistence.

The conversation is light and casual, mostly about the day’s meetings. It’s towards the end of the meal that you muster the courage to broach the topic that had been weighing on your mind for the whole trip.

“Hey, Ryujin,” you begin. “Are we… cool? I dunno, just wanted to make sure you didn’t secretly hate me or something.”

Ryujin takes a sip of beer, likely to buy time for her to form a response. She places her mug back on the table and examines the half-eaten piece of chicken thigh on her plate for a few seconds, as though she could find the right answer to your question somewhere amidst the delicious breaded and fried poultry on her plate.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asks, cautiously.

You smile to yourself as you take a sip of your own beer.

“Hmm,” you begin, feigning ignorance. “I don’t think we’ve met prior to this trip. Your file says you’ve been with the company a year or so?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmmmmm,” you continue, tapping a finger on your lips for emphasis. “No, I think I’d remember if I bumped into someone like you. So no, I don’t remember. But my suit jacket might.”

A moment passes before Ryujin’s lips break into a tentative smile.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she says, covering her face shyly with her hands. “I felt so bad.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, happy to have lightened the mood somewhat. “I didn’t really like that jacket anyway.”

“I could pay to have it cleaned?”

“Naw,” you assure. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked. It was due for a visit to the dry cleaners, anyway. Dropped it off on my way to the airport.”

Ryujin nods, returning to pushing the chicken thigh around on her plate. “Alright,” she says, “but drinks after this are on me. Least I could do for leaving half a macchiato on your jacket.”

“Sure,” you agree, excited at the prospect of getting to know her better over drinks. You take your corporate credit card out of your wallet and place it on the table before excusing yourself from the table to hit the washroom.

The waiter comes by and Ryujin uses your card to pay for the meal. She gathers her things and waits for you outside the restaurant.

Outside, she lets a long, sad sigh escape her throat, wishing you had a better memory.

---

“I was born here,” Ryujin begins as she pours you a shot of soju from the second bottle the two of you were working on. “Family moved to Vancouver when I was six, so I essentially grew up there - but somehow, coming back always feels like coming home.”

“Ahh,” you say, taking the small shot glass and tapping it to hers before downing the shot. The soju here is harder and less sweet - unlike the overly sugary versions back home. You pick at the seafood pancake on the table with your chopsticks, chasing the burn of the alcohol with the grease of fried batter. “So - what brought you to the company?”

Ryujin takes her own bite of the pancake before refilling your glasses with another shot. She takes a moment to swirl the alcohol around in the glass, not quite bringing it to her lips just yet.

“It’s the biggest game in town,” she begins. “Wanted to work with the best.”

“Fair enough. How has the first year been?”

Ryujin’s eyes leave yours for a moment, drifting to the space between you.

“Good,” she begins, the word leaving her mouth in a measured, careful way. “The orientation week in particular was… fun.”

You perk up at the mention of orientation week. The company had a mentorship program wherein every new employee was matched with a senior leader for a week during their company orientation  - one of Taeyeon’s ideas. It was during the inaugural orientation week, almost a decade ago, that you and Taeyeon had begun your friendship. You’d since taken over leadership of the program following her promotion to VP a year ago.

“That’s good to hear,” you begin. “I really enjoyed my own orientation week, and I really wanted to make sure new employees get the same experience. I’m glad yours went well.”

Ryujin nods, a soft smile perking up the corners of her mouth. The sight of it stirs you, because you’re convinced it’s the first genuine smile you’ve seen on her lips.

“It was great,” she says, eyes suddenly bright, smile a little more authentic, a little more real - as though she were waiting the whole trip to bring up this topic. “I really liked getting to know-”

Your phone, on the table between you, vibrates. The message preview on your lock screen shows a message from Taeyeon, asking if the weather in Seoul is as good as it is in London. Attached to it is a selfie - her in front of Big Ben, half a world away.

“Sorry,” you say, grabbing the phone and putting it on Do Not Disturb before replacing it face down on the table.

“It’s fine,” Ryujin says, not having missed the brief message preview or the attached photo. She downs her shot of soju - without tapping her glass to yours. “It’s getting late, and we’ve got meetings tomorrow. Shall we?”

---

“That was fun,” you say as the two of you wait for the elevators back at the hotel. “Thanks for translating those menus for me. Would’ve been microwaved rice and a can of tuna for me otherwise.” Ryujin smiles, but even the blush of alcohol on her cheeks fails to hide the awkwardness that is still lingering somewhere behind the curve of her lips.

“No worries,” she says, as the two of you step into the elevator and she hits the button for her floor. “Thanks for the food.”

“Thank the company card, not me,” you say with a grin.

She smiles back, politely, but doesn’t say anything more. The elevator doors open to her floor, and she steps out.

“First meeting’s at 9-”

“-see you at 8,” you finish.

She smiles a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. You wave good night. As the elevator door closes again, the forced smile leaves her face, replaced quickly with a frown - just a moment too soon, just long enough for you to see. 

The elevator rises to your floor, leaving you no closer to figuring out Ryujin Shin than you were the day before.

---

“Director!” Shin Yuna exclaims, the title overly sweet and saccharine, almost sing-song in its delivery. “Do you… want to drink? With us?”

The Marketing Lead is standing a few steps apart from a dozen or so members of the Seoul office that are seemingly debating which dinner and drinks spot to hit first. Yuna - bright, cheery, and a little too handsy - skips over to you, wrapping her forearm around yours.

“Team bonding,” she says, her accent giving the English words a pleasant lilt. Her smile is wide and cheerful, and for a moment you lose yourself in the fact that an attractive young woman is asking you to join her for drinks.

“Uh-” you stammer, even as Yuna forcefully drags you towards the rest of the team, who have begun to wander towards the first destination of the night. 

“What’s wrong?” Yuna asks, lower lip extended in an exaggerated pout.

“Nothing, Yuna - it’s just-”

“Ah, I see,” she says, turning back towards where Ryujin is just appearing from the revolving door entrance to the office, eyes glued to her phone. “You need her. To… translate.”

Ryujin looks up from her phone to see you, Yuna’s arm hooked in yours.

“Ryujin-ssi!” Yuna exclaims, waving at Ryujin with her free hand more frantically than was actually necessary. “Come join us!”

Ryujin’s eyes flit to you, then at Yuna’s arm around yours, then back to your eyes.

“Sure,” she says, before moving toward you.

---

It’s somewhere between the second and third stops of the night that you finally find yourself alone with Ryujin. She is trailing just behind the crowd as it sings off-tune k-pop ballads into the warm Seoul evening. Yuna is at their head, leading them to the bright red pocha tents like a conductor leading an inebriated orchestra.

“Having fun?” you ask.

“Yeah,” she answers, turning to you with a smile that betrays the lie.

Silence for another few steps.

“Hey,” you start, stopping in place. “Ryujin,” you add, when she continues without you.

“Yeah?”

The questions come to your lips - What’s wrong? What’s your problem? Did I do something? Is this going to be the month-long business trip from hell with a translator that hates me?

“Can we talk?” you manage.

Ryujin glances over at the crowd of your colleagues as they disappear into one of the pocha tents.

“Sure,” she says, stepping towards a different one.

---

The soju arrives quickly. She hadn’t bothered to ask you what you wanted before ordering it. The bottle hasn’t been on the table for a second before Ryujin picks it up, twists the cap, and pours you both a shot. Neither of you move to take it.

“Ryujin,” you begin, cautious, wary of your word choice. “I… I’m a little confused,” you admit, honestly. “I thought things were cool between us after dinner last night. I liked… getting to know you.”

Ryujin can’t hide the small quirk in her lip, as though what you’d just said had physically hurt her.

“I-” you begin, “I feel like maybe there’s something you’re not telling me? Or something I’m missing? Because after we had drinks you seemed kind of… upset. We’re going to be working together for a month, and-”

“-and you don’t want things to be awkward,” she finishes. Her eyes finally find yours, an unreadable, blank expression on her face.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Did I fuck something up? Say something that upset you? Is this about the drink you spilled on my suit? Because I’m trying to remember if I-”

“No,” she interrupts. She takes a sip from her soju glass, but her eyes don’t raise from the table between you.

“Then what is it?” Your glass of soju sits on the table, untouched.

Silence for a few more seconds, each one far longer than it had any right to be.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, eyes rolling, before finally settling on you. “You really don’t remember me.”

“What? I just said I did. You spilled your drink on my jacket and-”

“I’ll see you at the office tomorrow,” she states, before she stands, her plastic chair scraping loudly against the concrete. She steps out of the pocha and raises her hand to flag a nearby taxi.

The silver chain on her wrist catches the fading Seoul sunset.

And you remember.

---

“My mother gave it to me,” she says, eyes dropping to the delicate silver on her wrist. “When I graduated. First one in the family to get a degree! She wanted to commemorate it somehow. It means a lot.”

“That’s awesome,” you reply, watching her fingers play with the glimmering links. “I bet she’s real proud of you.”

“She is,” she replies, eyes forlorn for a moment. You sense that she wants to tell you more, that there are thoughts right there on her lips that she debates turning into words.

She wants to tell you how much she’s looked forward to your one-on-one meetings, how she’s laid in bed at night going over everything you said and did that day with a smile on her lips. She wants to tell you about how she’s memorized the flex in your forearms as you point something out on your laptop, the way you tie your tie, the scent of your cologne. She wants to tell you that the way she bumped her knees against yours under the table “accidentally” that morning wasn’t really accidental at all. 

But she settles for something less. Something more professional, more fitting for an orientation week spent with a senior leader she only just met a few days ago.

“Anyway - you were telling me about our distribution channels in Korea?”

“Right,” you say, glancing back at the PowerPoint in full screen on your laptop. “Our manufacturing happens all over the world, but our main distribution centre is in Seoul. Goods come up from Busan…”

---

“Ryujin!” you say, throwing some cash on the table before leaving the pocha tent and catching up with her on the curb. “Ryujin. I remember.”

She turns to face you, arms crossed, upset.

“Do you?” she asks, unconvinced.

“Orientation week,” you blurt, ashamed. “We were matched up.”

Relief and disappointment war on Ryujin’s features. When she speaks, the words leave her mouth with intent, as though she’d been waiting to say them for a while. “I couldn’t give less of a shit about that corporate bullshit,” she spits. “And I get that people like you are too busy to give a fuck about lowly Marketing drones. What I care about is-”

A vehicle pulls up to the curb. The door opens. A taxi.

“-when people break their promises,” she finishes, her tone suddenly sadder. “Or forget they made them in the first place.”

She gets into the taxi alone, and it pulls away from the curb. For a second, you catch the way Seoul’s streetlights make her eyes glisten.

---

“I had a great week, Director,” she says, hands clasping her tablet to her chest like it were some sort of life preserver. “Thanks for… taking me seriously.”

“Pleasure was all mine. You’re gonna kill it in Marketing. Your comments on the Hirai marketing campaign materials were visionary - I’ve forwarded them to your boss and he’s pretty impressed. I think they’ll make a difference when it comes to the bargaining phase. And please, drop the title. I have a first name like anyone else.”

She smiles, a hint of a blush on her cheeks. She says your name out loud, as though she were testing the way it sounded. You feel something stir inside you at the sound of your name, and the smile it leaves behind on her lips.

You want to tell her that the week flew by, and that you’d wished you’d had more scheduled one-on-ones with her to look forward to next week, where you’d start discussing market demographics and somehow end up discussing which of the Sailor Scouts was your favorite. You want to tell her you are a little in love with the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, or the cute burrow in her brow when she’s concentrating on logistics figures and graphs. You want to tell her that you’ll miss her perfume - something between caramel and vanilla? - and the way she laughs at your terrible puns. You want to ask her if she’ll have lunch with you next Tuesday - and maybe dinner the Friday after that.

But you settle for something less - something more fitting of a leader during a brief, HR-mandated mentorship with a new recruit.

“Anyway,” you continue, eager to make sure she doesn’t catch on to your sudden nervousness. “Tip #2,391 before you go: the ramen place a block away from here has a pretty great tonkotsu.”

“Ooooh,” she coos. “My favorite.” She plays with the bracelet on her wrist, fingers pinching the silver links as though she could squeeze the courage she needed from them. “...I don’t suppose you’d want to join me tonight after work-”

A woman approaches - Ryujin recognizes her from the executive introductions earlier in the week; the new VP of Strategy, Taeyeon Kim. She’s all poise and professionalism, corporate success in a tailored black pantsuit. She gives Ryujin a brief nod and a token smile before turning to you.

“Budget meeting for the Hirai deal in five,” she says to you, before heading off towards the meeting rooms.

“Duty calls,” you state to Ryujin. “Ramen sounds good, though. See you at six?”

“It’s a date,” she says, smile bright.

The Hirai deal budget meeting takes all night. Ryujin eats alone.

---

It takes three knocks for her to open the door.

“Yes, Director?” she asks, arms crossed, frosty emphasis on your title. Gone are the crisp pale blue blouse and heather grey pencil skirt, replaced with a navy blue oversized hoodie and strawberry-print pajama shorts. Her hair, released from the corporate bun she wore during the day, falls in dark waves around her face.

“The ramen date. I remember. I’m sorry. I was in a meeting that day that-”

“It’s not that that fucking matters,” she interrupts, the curse word somehow sounding sharper than you’d expected coming from her. “It’s the ghosting afterward. I wasn’t expecting a Director to give two shits about a lowly newbie in Marketing, but an apology would’ve been nice.”

“That deal took every ounce of my attention for a few months,” you protest. “I’m sorry, Ryujin. I really am.”

She seems only slightly placated by your apology. Her crossed arms tighten around her small torso, as though tightening her plates of armor. “And you just totally forgot about me afterward, huh? Even after I spilled a drink on your chest accidentally-on-purpose? Even after I volunteered for this assignment, hoping you’d remember me when saw my name on the brief?”

You frown, unsure of what else to do or say.

“Do you know how it makes me feel to have someone I was into ask me who the fuck I am? Twice?” she continues. “Make me feel like I’m top of the world one moment, then forget I exist the next? No one I’ve ever known has made me feel… seen like you did - and then you went and forgot all about me the second your precious VP smiled at you.”

There is silence for a moment. She was into you? A hand uncrosses itself from her chest and moves to her mouth, as though she regretted saying the words. 

“Ryujin, I… I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say,” you manage. You look up at her and she’s covering her face with her hand now, brow furrowed, as though she were suddenly fighting a headache.

“You don’t have to say anything, Director,” she says, arms crossing again. “I’m used to not expecting anything from you.”

More silence. Her words hit you with the force of a punch to the gut. She lingers there for a moment, as though gauging your response and finding none. She moves to close the door.

“I… I’ll see you at the office tomorrow,” she says, defeat and disappointment in every syllable.

Your hand, operating out of instinct, holds the door open with your palm. She looks up at you, surprised. Your feet carry you forward until you’re standing in front of the door frame.

“I’m here now, Ryujin,” you say. “I see you.”

“Do you?” she hisses. “Did you ever? Or was I just-”

You step forward, and you kiss her.

Your hands drift to her sides, holding her close. After a moment, her hands find their way to your chest, and you fear that she’s about to push you away - but instead they wind around your neck, fingers sliding into your hairline. She kisses you back, and your tongues find each other.

You pull away first. “Fuck, Ryujin, I’m sorry. That was-”

“Stop fucking apologizing,” she spits, and then she’s kissing you again, leaving one hand around your neck to pull you into her hotel room and using the other to shut the door behind her. You both stumble backward, lips locked, until her butt brushes up against her room’s desk.

You break the kiss. You look into her eyes and find them half-lidded, full of need. You smile, and she returns it, before she leans to kiss you again.

Your hands find their way under her hoodie. You grasp its hem, testing the waters and her reaction.

“Quickly,” she says, taking the hoodie by the hem and peeling it off her body herself, “before I realize how monumentally stupid this is.”

You smirk as your mouth finds her neck and she leans her head backward to allow you better access. A soft gasp leaves her lips as you find a warm point on her neck, kissing and suckling, leaving a mark on her.

She’s topless - not having worn a bra beneath her hoodie - and you want more of her, want to taste her on your tongue. Your hands find their way beneath her butt and you lift her onto the desk, depositing her on it with a soft thud. She yelps - and you silence her with a kiss before bending to kiss a trail down her neck and to her heaving chest. Your hands snake up her sides, cupping her small, round breasts, teasing but not touching her nipples.

“Fuck, just-” she begins, the words turning into a wordless gasp as you capture one of her nipples in your mouth, tongue slick and wet and licking a flat stripe across it. You close your lips around the bud, swirling the tip of your tongue around it, feeling it tighten quickly with arousal. Her hands snake into your hair, her back arching as she offers more of her body to you.

You switch, suckling her other nipple, closing your lips around it and sucking hard. Your free hand reaches up to tease and pinch her saliva-coated breast, not leaving it unattended.

“Oh god,” she gasps, “like that, like that.” She says your name and it’s breathless and airy, the best possible iteration of it you’d ever heard.

She’s writhing now, a mess of sighs and gasps atop the hotel desk. You could’ve stayed there all night, suckling from her small, cute little breasts and the tight nipples atop them - but she has other ideas, other needs. Her hands find themselves flat against your chest and with a regretful sigh she finally pushes you away from her chest. She hops off the desk, pushing you back against the bed.

Ryujin straddles you as you sit atop it, and you’re kissing again - passionate, intense, wild. She breaks the kiss first - and when you angle your neck to resume it, she smiles and steps off the bed, standing between your spread legs.

“Off,” she hisses, bending to help you get your pants and boxers off your legs after you undo the belt buckle and zipper. You take the opportunity to rid yourself of your button-up while she lets her shorts slide down her legs to pool at her feet - and you’re both naked. She’s so slim and small and tight, her tiny waist and the fullness in her hips and thighs forming a perfect hourglass in the dim light of her hotel room.

She’s straddling you again - naked, this time, and you both let a deep sigh escape your lips as the heat between her legs makes contact with your stiffened shaft. Almost immediately she begins to gyrate and writhe in your lap, hips sliding her slick heat against your hips and cock.

“Fuck,” she hisses from behind gritted teeth, between frenzied, urgent kisses. “Fuck, I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Me too, Ryujin. Fucking need to be inside you-”

“Now,” she snaps. “Fuck me now.”

“Condom,” you say, almost regretfully. “My jacket pocket.”

Ryujin lets out a sigh, hopping off your lap for a moment to retrieve your jacket for you. You fish it out of the wrapper, placing it on your tip - and you sigh, softly, as Ryujin straddles you again and rolls it down your shaft. You gasp as her slim fingers wrap themselves around you, giving you a small squeeze.

“Fuck me,” Ryujin hisses into your ear.

Your arms wrap around her and you turn her over on the bed so you’re on top. Your hand reaches between you, placing your tip at her opening. Even through the latex you can feel the heat of her, almost feel the slickness of her body as your tip divides her lips.

Your eyes find hers. She tells you without words what she wants.

You slide inside her, and she’s tight and hot, the thin barrier of latex doing little to dampen the sensations of her body wrapping itself around your shaft. You give her a moment to adjust to the stretch, the fullness - before you’re pulling out slowly, leaving just the tip inside her, and sliding back in, filling her again.

“Fuck, fuck yes,” she’s hissing into your ear, arms wrapping around your neck, thighs parting and lower legs pulling against your butt. There’s a hint of relief in the words and sighs spilling softly from her mouth, as though she were finally receiving something she’d wanted and waited for for so long. “Yes, yes, you’e stretching me out, fuck--”

Ryujin’s voice is like silk, smooth and light, and you find it difficult to reconcile the filth leaving her lips with the perfect, business-like translations she whispered in your ear from earlier in the day. To hear that voice now, urging you, begging you to fuck her harder, faster - it drove you insane.

“Harder, please, harder.”

You comply, and soon you're thrusting in and out of her cunt at a firm but consistent pace, her tight walls squeezing around you on each entry and only reluctantly letting you go on the backstroke. You kiss her again and it’s frantic, fevered. When your lips part your eyes remain locked on each other, inches apart.

“So… fucking tight, Ryujin.”

“Mmmmph,” is the only reply, at least initially - a soft, wordless moan after a particularly deep thrust that leaves her eyes rolling back into her skull for a moment. Her eyes close shut, her head tilted back to reveal the pale column of her throat. She lets a long, languid moan leave her lips when you place yours on her neck.

Your pace continues - in, out, in, out - each thrust sending another spike of pleasure up your spines. She brings her mouth close to your ear.

“I’m gonna cum soon,” she hisses. “Gonna cum on your cock, Daddy-”

The word unmakes you - ignites something dark and primal inside you that sends a jolt of sheer pleasure up your spine and into your brain. You increase your pace, her voice and the words they form giving you a high you want to chase. She moans louder, sighs louder, curses sweet words into your ear. Her walls tighten around you, pulsating; her legs lock themselves around your hips; her nails dig sharp furrows into your scalp.

“Fuck, Daddy, fuck--”

“Cum for me, baby,” reply, bringing your own lips to her ear - your turn to torture her with words. “Cum on my cock, Ryujin. Cum on my cock like a good little girl.”

Calling her that must have similarly ignited something dark and primal inside her, because almost as soon as the words leave your mouth, she cums. Her entire body spasms, her back arching off the now-sweaty mattress, her cunt pulsating and tightening exponentially around your shaft as you fuck her through the orgasm coursing through her veins.

The moan of pleasure that leaves her mouth is unholy - a wordless sound of uncontrolled pleasure tumbling wildly from her lips and into your ear. 

Your pace slows, eventually, probably for the better as a few more moments of thrusting inside Ryujin’s pulsating, vice-tight cunt probably would have undone you. She comes down from her high, aftershocks still sending involuntary spasms through her limbs. Her eyes, shut throughout her orgasm, eventually open to find yours. 

She pulls your head to her lips and you kiss, her tongue finding yours quickly and resuming the duel it had been waging for the past half hour. 

“Fuck, Daddy,” she begins, the use of that word sending a little tremor of pleasure straight to your groin. “Fuck, that felt so good.”

“You feel even better, baby girl,” you reply, burying yourself into her neck again and planting small kisses onto the side of her neck.

“Did you--?” she asks.

“No, not yet,” you reply, emphasizing your response with a twist of your hips that sends another soft moan tumbling from her lips.

“Mmmmm,” she sighs. “We better fix that.”

Her palms find your chest and she gently pushes you away. You get the hint and slowly ease yourself out of her, sitting back on your haunches. You watch, in awe, as Ryujin turns onto her hands and knees.

“Fuck me like this, Daddy.”

You want to savor the sight of her - on all fours, that round, full ass of hers presented to you, the slick, dripping cunt between her thighs begging to be filled again. You last only a second before your urges overcome your self-control. Before you know it you’re positioning yourself behind her, hands giving her firm cheeks and a soft spank that wrests a yelp of surprise from her. She looks over her shoulder back at you and the image of her - naked, back glistening with sweat, eyes half-lidded with want - is one you want to remember forever.

You bring your tip to her opening - only to find her easing away from you. Puzzled, you find her eyes still locked on you.

“Not like that, Daddy.”

“What do you mean, baby?”

Her lower lip curls under a tooth for a moment before she licks her lips - another small, lustful gesture that drives you insane. 

“I… I want-” she begins. “I want it. You. I want to feel you.”

You catch on to what she means, and know what she wants you to do, but you want to hear it from her. Want to hear that voice - the same one whispering business and corporate in your ear during the day - to say it.

“Tell me what you want, Ryujin. Use your words, baby girl.”

Ryujin’s lips curl into a wry smile, her tooth biting into her lip again. Her back arches, like a cat stretching. She pushes her dripping, slick cunt back toward your latex-covered cock, capturing your shaft between the cheeks of her ass and gyrating against it. You moan - long, low - as she grinds against you. She’s hot and slick against the underside of your shaft and you find yourself groaning at the feel of her grinding away against you.

She straightens up, presses her sweat-slick back against your chest. You reach around and wrap your arms around her torso on instinct, your hands finding and cradling her soft, small breasts, capturing and teasing her nipples between your thumbs and index fingers.

“Ryujin-” you begin, a token protest, as you place kisses on her neck and shoulder. Even though you can’t see it, you know she’s smiling. She lets a hand drift back between your bodies, cradling your trembling, covered cock.

“Daddy, please,” she says, half-gasp, half-demand. Her fingers curl around your cock. “I want to feel you inside me. Raw. Fuck me raw, Daddy.”

You tremble. Your cock twitches in her grasp.

“Fuck, Ryujin-”

“Take it off, Daddy. Let me feel you. Let me feel you cum inside me. Don’t you want to…”

“I do, Ryujin, fuck-”

“Do it, Daddy. Cum inside me. Breed me.”

That’s what undoes you. Your fingers work quickly, peeling the condom off your needy, trembling cock. 

You push her back down onto the mattress, and she lets a soft, playful little yelp out at the sudden forcefulness. Her back arches. Her eyes find yours over her shoulder.

“Daddy, please-”

You slide your bare cock inside her. She’s sublime - tight, hot, so very wet. Your hands find her hips, and you’re fucking her again. 

“Fuck!” she spits, as you fill her to the hilt for the first time - raw, uncovered - the new angle allowing you deeper inside her than you were when you were on top of her. “Yes, fuck me!”

You comply, your hands anchoring yourself on her hips as you begin to thrust in and out of her tight, slick cunt. You want to pace yourself, want to relish every entry and exit, but the tightness, the wetness, everything about Ryujin Shin is too much, too much to handle. Before long she’s throwing her hips back against you, firmly but steadily, matching you thrust for thrust.

You watch her, burn every inch of her body into your memory - the arch of her back, the sweat dripping down the column of her spine, the way the neon of Seoul’s skyline is striping her skin in alternating lines of shadow and pastel blue. You relish the feel of her body, the tightness of her velvet cunt wrapped around you, the softness of her hips, the moans and sighs that continue to spill wildly from her lips.

For a few minutes you fuck her. Minutes that feel like hours, your pleasure-addled brain suddenly unable to parse the passing of time. The sounds of your bodies meeting, her moans and your grunts, the ridiculous, sublime sight of her bent over, taking your cock - it’s all overwhelming, a heady mix of heat and wetness and pleasure that drives you insane, pulls you into a glorious high that you never want to come down from. 

For a few brilliant minutes all that exists is Ryujin Shin’s body. Not the consequences of raw sex, not the complications of your work relationship, not the obstacles in your personal relationship that you’d both have to hurdle once the high of sex has worn off - none of that exists, right here, in this moment. She’s it, she’s all.

Your hands wander her body - gripping her hips and pulling them back toward you, or placing a palm flat on her lower back, or reaching forward with one hand and grasping one of her trembling shoulders - but they settle on her wide, firm hips. Your fingers dig deeper into her skin, surely leaving bruises she’ll feel in the morning. She takes it as the sign of your impending orgasm that it almost certainly is.

“Are you- are you close, Daddy? Fuck, you’re gonna… gonna make me cum again. Don’t stop, please.”

You grit your teeth. There was no denying the pleasure quickly building to a boiling point between your legs.

“Fuck, yeah, baby girl. Getting close. Where-”

“You know where, Daddy,” she hisses, hair whipping around her as she turns her head to look over her shoulder at you. Her eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes you tremble, her gaze holding firm on you even as her body is rocked back and forth with each thrust you make into her cunt. 

“Ryujin-”

“Cum inside me, Daddy. Breed me.”

“Fuck-”

“Daddy, please - breed me, breed this cunt, cum inside me please, fuck I’m gonna cum too cum with me please, breed me-”

Ryujin cums - and you do too. Her body spasms, quivers, turns into a tight, wet, slick vice around your cock and all you can do is bury yourself as deeply as you can inside her before you let go. 

Your cock pulsates as it sends thick, warm ropes of semen into Ryujin’s cunt - each one drawing a soft gasp from her, each one sending a jolt of pleasure up her spine that heightens her own orgasm. Your mind blanks, and nothing else exists aside from the pleasure coursing through your body.

When your eyes finally open some indeterminate amount of time later you look down to find another one of the many sights you wanted to burn into your memory - Ryujin bent over on the bed, chest and head pressed to the mattress. Between the reddened cheeks of her ass, your cock slowly withdraws, slick and wet and glistening. The well-used lips of her cunt grip your cock tightly, as though not wanting to let you go just yet.

When your tip finally slips from between her lips it’s quickly followed by a rush of warm, thick cum, dripping freely from her cunt and onto the pristine sheets below her.

Ryujin finally falls onto her side. You fall onto yours beside her. Your eyes find each other. Her hand comes up to your cheek, cradles the side of your face with a tenderness that surprises the both of you.

There is a warm smile on her lips. Her eyes glisten for a moment in the low light of the bedroom before she brings her body close to yours, tucking her head beneath your chin as your arms wrap around each other.

There are words to be said, conversations to be had. But all that matters now is the warmth of her body against yours, and the feel of her breath against your chest. Everything else can wait, and so it will.

“Stay,” she says into your chest, and so you do.

---

“I’m on the pill,” she says, on the taxi ride to the Seoul office. The morning after was awkward in some parts, sweet in others; after an uneasy parting so you could go back to your room to shower and change, you’d both met again in the lobby - both a little unsure how to navigate the uncharted waters, but knowing only that things had changed for the better between you.

“Would’ve been nice to know that before I went in raw,” you say, in English - sparing the driver an awkward few blocks of Seoul rush hour traffic.

Ryujin smiles, slyly. “Sure, but it was hot not knowing, wasn’t it? Knowing you could have bred me last night?”

She leans in closer to whisper into your ear - the way she whispered business translations, the way she whispered how close she was to orgasm.

“...knowing you could have put a baby in me?”

She leans back in her seat, giving you one last look before turning her attention to the buildings of downtown Seoul.

Your pinky fingers brush against each other on the seat. You hook yours in hers, and she doesn’t pull away.

---

To her credit, Ryujin was professional and effective with her translation duties throughout the day - mostly. It’s during a presentation by the Seoul office’s Legal lead that her facade cracks.

“...There have been some issues related to IP that they’ve had to deal with,” she says softly in your ear. “But they’ve been dealt with- …fuck.”

You turn to face her. There’s a small grimace on her face. She adjusts the way she’s sitting on her chair, her legs crossing and uncrossing beneath her pencil skirt.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, bringing her lips close to your ear as if to continue translating whatever the Legal lead was droning on about. “But every time I move, a bit of you leaks out of me. Gonna need to clean up in the washroom after this meeting.”

You’re speechless. The smirk on her lips is a victorious one.

“Anyway,” she continues, “the other thing they’ve had to deal with is patent trolls…”

The rest of the meeting goes in your ear and out the other, every small movement Ryujin makes in her seat stealing all of your attention. When the presentation ends Ryujin stands, gingerly, and excuses herself to the washroom. You watch her leave the room with a slightly awkward gait.

Across the room, Yuna catches your eye. She flashes you a knowing smile.

---

The work day ends, eventually - not that you got any work done at all. 

After work, Ryujin is waiting for you in the lobby, scrolling her phone. As you approach she holds it out to you - on it is a Google search listing of several nearby restaurants. 

“Feeling like burgers? Or more Korean food? It’s Friday night, so it’s gonna be busy, but there’s a place nearby-”

“No,” you answer, firmly, already walking past her and out the door.

“But dinner--?”

“Room service,” you answer. “Hotel, now.”

A devilish smile pulls at the corners of Ryujin’s lips as she hails a taxi.

In the hotel elevator, you don’t bother pushing the button for her floor.

---

You’re on each other from the moment you cross the threshold of your suite - lips crashing against each other, hands wandering, undressing. You only get as far as her blazer before she’s pushing you down onto the chair facing the floor-to-ceiling window that makes up one side of your suite. 

She stands in front of you, silhouetted by Seoul’s glass and concrete skyline, and undresses.

The tight white button-up first, each button revealing a little more perfect vanilla skin, marred only by the marks your lips and teeth left the night before. Soon it’s a pool of white cotton on the floor, joined quickly by her white lace bra. Her small, perky round breasts tremble slightly under your gaze, her nipples already taut and tight.

She turns to face away from you, topless, exposing herself to the city - as she undoes the zipper holding her pencil skirt tight around her wide hips. She takes her time, making you watch, making you want, as the skirt finds its way onto the floor. 

When Ryujin faces you again she’s naked save for lace panties that have been tormenting her all day with their damp stickiness. Eyes locked on you the whole while, she hooks her thumbs into the thin lace and slides them down her full, round thighs, then past her knees, until they pool on the floor and she is naked, with only Seoul’s fluorescent and neon lights to clothe her.

She steps toward you, straddles you in the chair. Your hands find her hips, soothing the bruises your grip had left there hours before.

Her hand drifts between her spread thighs. You watch, enraptured, as her middle and ring fingers slide inside her cunt for a moment. Her eyes shut, her head tilts back as she touches herself. 

When her fingers emerge, they glisten.

“Look what you did to me,” she says, softly. “I’ve been dripping you all day, Daddy. But now… now I’m empty. Need you to fill me up again.”

“Ryujin. Fuck,” you stammer, because it’s all you can say, all your brain can muster for a response.

She smiles, your weakness giving her confidence. Her hands work quickly at your belt and slacks, and soon she reveals your cock, already stiff and weeping pre-cum. You groan at the feel of her soft fingers around your shaft as she strokes you softly, timing each movement of her wrist to the sultry words leaving her lips.

“Want you to fuck me again, Daddy, and raw and deep and hard. But first…”

She bends to kiss you - only to ignore your lips entirely, as she slinks down off the chair and onto her knees.

“-first, I want to taste you.”

She licks a long, slow stripe from your base to your tip, her tongue flat and tight against your cock. 

“Wanted that for so long, Daddy. During orientation. Watching you in the office. Been dreaming about what you’d taste like-”

“Do I taste like you dreamed, Ryujin?”

“Fuck, yes, Daddy,” she says, after another long, slow lick. “Even better.”

“Suck my cock then, baby girl. Show me how much you wanted this.”

The words spur her, challenge her - and soon she’s taking your cock into her mouth. It’s all you can do to lean back in the chair and sigh as she works between your spread legs, taking you in and out of her wet, slick mouth with an enthusiasm that had been boiling over months of want and need.

When you open your eyes again it’s to look out at Seoul’s skyline. You watch as cars move on distant roads, as signs for restaurants and stores light up, as people on faraway sidewalks make their way home. You do anything but look down at Ryujin, knowing that the sight of her combined with the pleasure she is conjuring between your legs would be too much to handle, all at once.

You sigh. This was messy. Complicated. Might end up ruining one or both of your lives. But fuck if it mattered at all, right here, right now - with your cock in her mouth and a soft sigh escaping her lips as you finally look down and watch as she begins to finger herself.

She lets your cock slip from her lips after one last, slow suckle. Her tongue flicks around your tip one last time. Then she stands, eyes half-lidded, filled with want and need. She straddles you again and lowers herself onto your cock.

You think of bending to suckle from one of her soft, perky little breasts as they bounce up and down, inches from your face. You want to reach a hand up to that pale, thin throat of hers and squeeze with just enough pressure to make her gasp for her next breath. You want to reach down with both palms and squeeze her ass, thrusting up with your hips each time she impales herself on you - but you do none of those things. 

You watch. Watch as she rides you, takes you in and out of her dripping, pulsing cunt. Watch as Seoul paints her slim, tight body in gold and shadow. Watch as she ruins herself, ruins you with something that is reckless, stupid, and utterly irresistible, all at the same time.

Her hands aren’t idle, like yours are. They fondle her own breasts, pinch her own nipples. They reach forward and anchor herself on your shoulders, or dig furrows into your hair when she brings you close and increases her pace. They lie flat, palm against your chest, feeling your heart hammer a wild beat as she slows down again, bringing her face in front of yours so your noses touch, fucking herself slowly, passionately on your cock, making you feel everything. 

You wanted to talk to her, wanted to discuss this idiotic thing that you were both giving in to. You want to have a conversation about what it would mean for your professional and personal relationship. You want to ask her if this was a stupid fling borne out of a stupid week of meetings that happened a year ago. You want to ask her if this was just sex or-

“Fuck, Daddy, I’m gonna-”

Her voice - her perfect fucking voice - shatters any thought you might have had that wasn’t focused on the pleasure she was creating for the both of you with every movement of her body.

“Me too, Ryujin, fuck, you’re too-”

“Daddy, breed me, give me a baby-”

A lie, a pretend act - but no less arousing. No less utterly devastating to what remained of your self-control.

“Gonna cum, Ryujin. Ryujin--”

“Daddy--!”

She cums. You spasm beneath her as your cock fills her up. Afterward, when you’ve both stopped trembling, you feel your cum drip from her stuffed cunt, down your balls, and onto the leather of the couch.

She slides off you - and you both watch as her cunt drips more of your cum onto the couch and the slacks that you never bothered to remove. She takes you by the hand and leads you into the bedroom, into another terrible mistake, another act you will probably both regret later, when sanity somehow finds its way back into your lust-addled minds.

You follow her willingly into ruin.

---

It’s not until the next morning, as you wander a morning market together after breakfast, when you finally have your talk.

“Ryujin,” you begin, as the two of you walk down the street, past stalls selling vegetables, treats, and souvenirs. “We should talk. About this. About us.”

She sighs, takes a sip from her caramel macchiato - extra whipped cream, extra caramel drizzle - as though the caffeine and sugar would fortify her for what was about to be said.

“I want you,” she says, confidently, as though it were a phrase she’d rehearsed with her eyes closed as she lay in bed alone, dreaming of a moment like this. “I’ve wanted you since the second you walked into that meeting room in that stupid-hot suit on my first day and said your name. I’ve wanted you every second since. I want to be with you.”

You take a moment. Your heart leaps, but your brain fears.

“I want you too,” you admit, the words leaving your mouth quickly, even before you knew you were speaking them - your heart outpacing your brain, as it had gained the habit of doing around her. “But-”

“-we work together,” she interrupts. Another sip of her caffeine. Her eyes remain locked on the stalls hawking hotteok and japchae. “You’re a Director in Strategy, I’m just some newbie in Marketing. You’re older than me. Your boss is holding a torch for you, and she’s fucking perfect - ‘girlboss’ in all caps. HR will have a fit. Our colleagues will whisper; say you’re taking advantage of a younger girl, or that I’m sleeping my way into a promotion. And maybe one day we’ll end up hurting each other, and ruin one or both of our careers and/or lives in the process.”

You don’t reply. The list is long. Daunting.

Finally, she turns to you. There is a faint smile on her lips. “Did I miss anything?”

You return her smile with a slim one of your own. “No,” you admit.

“Are you for real, or do you just need a fucktoy to keep your cock warm while you’re working overseas for a month?”

Her question stuns you, catches you unprepared. But it takes you only a moment of consideration before you answer.

“I’m not sure yet,” you answer, honestly. “But I want to find out.”

Something between a smile and a frown forms her lips as she casts her eyes downward for a moment.

“That’s good enough for me,” she says. “Because that’s what I want too.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“But I want you, and you want me.”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s it,” she states, eyes forward, as though the future of your relationship existed somewhere amidst the winding lanes of the bustling market. “That’s all that matters.”

After a few more steps, your hand finds hers. Your fingers intertwine.

“That’s all that matters,” you repeat. “We’ll figure this out.”

She turns to look at you as you walk through the market. She smiles and says nothing further, because nothing further needed to be said.

---

A week and a half pass quickly. Meetings, meals, sex - it all passes in a long, hazy blur. There are candlelit dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants by the Han River, and there are nights having instant noodles outside convenience stores at 2am because you were both too lazy to have or make anything else. There is slow love making, hard, fast fucking, and everything inbetween.

The two of you navigate that first week together with the kind of eagerness and enthusiasm that is in great supply at the start of a relationship. In some ways it is like every other first week of every other relationship you’d ever been in - sweet, hot, exciting in a way that nothing else can be. In some ways it is completely different, completely unique. 

Ryujin was not like any other girl. She was professional and proper during the day and wild and needy at night - and you saw it all, every moment, a gradual transformation over the course of the day from dedicated and thorough businesswoman to the barely controlled wantonness of the night. Throughout it all she is confident, self-assured, assertive. 

But she was also sweet, caring, and thoughtful in her own unique way. She knew you, already. She asked questions during presentations even before you voiced them to her, because she knew they were questions you would ask. Without telling you, she bought you a spare charger for your phone when yours broke five days into the trip - and made sure a charged power bank was packed in your suitcase when you left the hotel room in the morning. She showed genuine interest in you - your childhood, your family, your quirky hobbies, as though she were writing a book on you and wanted to know every single detail, every single story you had to tell.

“I want you,” she said once, sometime during the second week of this ridiculous, dangerous, stupid thing you were both undertaking. Her head was on your chest as you lie together in bed atop a mattress soaked with evidence of recent lovemaking, her finger tracing random patterns on your skin above your heart. “And that includes figuring out what you keep in here.”

Neither of you knew what this was, where it would go, even how long it would last - whether the other was a terrible mistake, the love of your life, or something inbetween. You only knew you wanted to find out together, one day at a time.

It’s not until your last day in Seoul, when the two of you attend an industry gala, that Ryujin Shin inched a little more towards the ‘love of your life’ end of the scale.

---

The elevator door opens - she insisted you meet in the lobby, as she needed a few more minutes to get ready - and there she is, in a little black dress that steals the breath from your lungs. Simple, demure, utterly captivating. You realize that the ‘few more minutes to work on her hair’ was an excuse, and she just wanted to make an entrance.

The smile on her lips is confident, assured, as is every click-clack of her heels on the marble of the hotel foyer as she walks up to you, takes your hand, and leads you out to the waiting taxi - all without saying a word. 

The gala, held in an outdoor venue with plenty of string lights and stand-up tables, is busier than you’d expected. Colleagues from the Seoul office are in attendance, including Yuna in a bold red dress that’s one inch off the hemline away from sparking multiple emails to HR - if it hadn’t already. She comes close to the two of you and says she’s happy for you, shooting you both a wink as she saunters off to chat up a group of investors that spend the rest of the evening vying for her attention.

For most of the evening your mind is elsewhere - on Ryujin’s dress, and what it will look like hiked up around her hips or on the floor of your suite. Your thoughts drift to the trip to Japan, and the two weeks to follow. A new country to explore with her by your side.

You’re mid-conversation with a couple of staff from the Seoul office, and about ready to lean over to Ryujin and ask if she’s ready to head back to the hotel, when a commotion at the entrance to the venue steals your attention for a moment.

Yuna and a couple of the other leads are huddled in a crowd around a figure that has emerged from a sleek black sedan. They chat excitedly, as though they were meeting a celebrity for the first time.

“Go see who it is,” Ryujin urges. “I’ll get us a drink for the road, then we can hit it.”

You excuse yourself from the conversation to join Yuna and the others. The crowd parts, and she emerges.

“Sorry I’m late,” Taeyeon says, smile beaming. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

At the bar, Ryujin turns, drinks in hand, just in time to watch Taeyeon embrace you.

---

Author’s Note: Whelp that pretty much wrote itself. Ryujin best girl. 

Get ready for more “Business Trip but with Ryujin lmao” no but fr this will only be 3 parts max I promise <3

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Twenty One

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 3.1k words - AO3 CW: 18+ mdni, discussion of kidnapping, sedation. Angst.

“Da?” Penny points at the guest room. “Bunny?” 

“Aye lamb, Bunny.” He tries not to look at the door, tries to push away the avalanche of despair. If he could dig it free it from his brain, he would. He’d take it away from everyone, you, Si, himself. He’d rewind time, take it all back, start from the beginning and fix it all. 

The memories burn like fire. They’re ash in the back of his throat. 

“We’d never hurt ye, we jus’ want to take ye home.” 

 What a lie. Who were they kidding, doing this? Pretending they were some knights in shining armor, coming to rescue you? 

They became everything you feared. 

Pen nestles into his neck, gripping his shirt as she wiggles. “Story?” 

“Jus’ one alright?” She signs okay, and sighs. 

“Gus?” He grits his teeth. Penny's love for Gus has been a tiny bright spot in an abysmal expanse of misery, but her obsession just reminds him of everything else. 

“Gus is downstairs, it’s nap time.” He can feel the tumultuous slope of a tantrum, Penny’s mood ratcheting up and up until it explodes. She’s tired, and stressed, too much like her Dad, reading the emotions in the house like its second nature. She knows something is wrong. 

“Gus Gus,” her lower lip trembles, legs kicking. “Wan’ Gus Gus.” 

“Ye’ll see Gus later.” She doesn’t understand anything that’s happened, and the guilt eats at him, at what they’ve done to their family, what they’ve brought into their home. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

He holds her tight, kisses her forehead. “I love ye, Penny.” She sniffles. 

“Luh you.” 

 “Not at all?” 

“No idea mate. Looked at me like she’s never seen me a day in her life. A bit bizarre if you ask me.” Simon rubs a hand over his face. “But she also pointedly avoided looking at me. Tried to make herself smaller.” Johnny grimaces. They've moved as fast as they could, but you didn't make it easy.

In a weird way, Johnny is proud of you.

“How does she seem?” He knows this answer. To not recognize Kyle you must be tired beyond belief, operating on autopilot, frozen stiff with fear. 

“Skittish. Exhausted. Scared.” His shoulders slump, entire body sinking into the cushions of the couch. Your frightened face haunts his dreams, a little rabbit running for her life. He can't imagine how you must feel, believing you were betrayed by them, running away with their babe in your belly.

In another life, maybe they’d stay in Scotland with you. He’d show you all the things he loves about it, all the things he still calls home, the same things he showed Pen. Maybe it would be different. 

“Did you get it done?” Simon interrupts his spiral, redirects their focus. 

“Yeah, managed to slip it into the little pocket at the top, she had no idea. It’s online and I sent you guys the link; you should be able to see the ping. I’ll stay on her until you get here.” 

“From a distance.” Simon reiterates, and Kyle scoffs. 

“Do you think I’m an amateur?” 

Penny isn’t in her room after her nap. 

She gets up at the same time everyday without fail, dependable clockwork that they work their lives around. 

Johnny’s heart jumps into his throat. Logical thinking starts to fade away into panic, fear, his fumbling fingers swiping at his phone just as her little giggle echoes from down the hall, and relief rushes through his bones.

She's in your room. Curled up in your side, feet in your lap, little palm on your belly, staring up at you like you hung the stars in the sky. 

“And then the cow said-” 

“Moooo!” He’s sick at the sight, another tidal wave of grief pulling him out to sea, reminding him of things they’ll probably never have now, your love, your trust, a family with you.

But you haven't left, a desperate voice in his head reminds him, you've had plenty of opportunities, but stays here. Why? 

Maybe all hope isn't lost.

“That’s right,” you brush her wispy curls back from her face and smile, “you’re such a smart girl Pen.” She pats the curve of your stomach, and then signs. 

“Baby?” Your hand folds over hers, and Johnny’s throat is so tight he can barely breathe. “My baby.” You laugh, and she giggles as you hug her close, kissing the top of her head. 

“This is your baby brother or sister Pen. What do you think? Boy? Or girl?” Penny shrugs, giving you a sheepish look. 

“Gus?” 

“Didn’t you see Gus earlier? Did you feed him breakfast?” There’s some shuffling, and she wiggles down to the floor, waiting patiently as you groan and swing your legs over the bed. “Alright, he could probably use some more fish flakes anyway.” You look tired, weary, but still your smile is soft for Penny, gentle and encouraging. 

It fades when you catch him in the doorway. 

“Hey.” You nod, the small spark in your eyes dying immediately as you watch him cautiously. Like he’s a threat. 

“How long have you been standing there?” 

“Er, not long.” What’s another lie in the long list of transgressions at this point? 

“Pen wants to see Gus so… I thought I’d take her downstairs.” You shift uneasily, and he steps aside. Penny’s hand is tucked in yours, and a vision of one of you falling, tripping, and taking the other down flashes in his mind. 

“Be careful on the stairs Pen.” She goes down on her knees now, backward, sliding her stomach across each step in a slow but methodical process. One that could trip you up. “I can take ye down-” 

“No,” she vehemently refuses, “I do it.” 

“She can do it on her own.” You back her up immediately, both of his girls united in solid opposition against him. Bleedin’ Christ. Penny points downstairs. 

“Da. Gus.” She signs for both, for once oblivious to your agitation, and he winces when you shoot him an annoyed look. 

“I’ve got her Johnny.” 

“Okay,” Penny’s already started on her descent, and you hold onto the banister, still glaring at him. He gulps. “Ye be careful too.” For a second, the storm breaks, the thunder rolls over the hill into the distance, torrential downpour turning a drizzle, and the sun tries to peek through the clouds. Sadness and longing, flickers in your eyes, so clearly displayed that it urges him forward, a step too close. You back away. 

The sun is gone, and the storm rages. 

The prefilled syringe glints in the sunlight where it sits on the table. Johnny tries not to look at it. 

“Are ye sure-” 

“No,” Simon snaps, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, I’m not. But I don’t see what our choices are. We can’t leave her on her own with Graves at large. I promised… I promised she’d be safe. That I’d take care of her.” 

“We both did.” 

“Well we did a shit job.” He pales when he looks back at the needle. “We’re one hundred percent sure? It’s not going to harm them?” 

“Aye, triple checked. Safe for mum and baby.” They sit across from one another in silence. Simon is far away, somewhere even Johnny can’t reach him, and when he speaks next, his voice cracks. 

“She’s going to be so scared. She won’t understand what’s happening.” He covers his face, heels of his hands pressing into his eyes. “She already thinks… she thinks we’re a threat. She’s not going to listen to anything we say.” 

“I know.” 

“We have to do it this way.” He’s whispering, locked in an endless battle of wills with himself, and Johnny reaches for his hand. He doesn’t know what else to do. Sick with dread twisting his heart, he knows the options are limited. He knows this is a good course of action, possibly the safest, the most rational. 

Even if it will turn them into your monsters.

“I know, Si. I know.” 

You’re on the patio. 

He’s found you there a few times, curled up on the outdoor couch, sun on your face as you read or scroll on your phone. 

He wants to go to you, encouraged by the sliver of something he saw in your eyes earlier, but he knows he can’t. If he pushes too hard, it will only make you retreat.

“She’s been out there for an hour.” Simon stands at his side, and if you look up, you’ll see both of them staring. Watching. 

“Did ye talk to her?” 

“Tried. She ignored me.” 

“Did ye actually?” His patience is thin today, a fine thread threatening to fray. “Try?” Johnny knows what it truly is, this avoidance of you. Simon brings you meals, checks in, but keeps away, holds his position at a firm distance. 

He can’t live with himself. 

“Johnny,” it’s a warning shot, but he chooses not to pay it any attention. 

“Did ye? Try at all? Because I haven’t seen ye try since we got home, since that day she woke up.” Simon stiffens. 

“She doesn’t want me.” 

“She doesnae want either o’ us Si. What did ye think would happen? That everything would be fine and she would forgive us? She would trust us automatically?” He’s on the verge of yelling now, and instead of trying to soothe him as usual, Simon scowls and turns away. Johnny snaps. “We said it’d take time an’ work but ye’re jus’ runnin’ away now, every chance ye get, an’ leavin’ everything to me!” 

“I…” He’s never seen his husband so lost. These past two weeks, every day he’s slipped further and further away, and nothing Johnny says or does brings him back. “I can’t, Johnny.” 

“Ye have to try.” For her. For me. For your family. Simon shakes his head. 

“I can’t.” 

“Jesus.” The heel of your palm goes to your temple, and he holds his breath. “What-” You trail off as you look up, take them in, guilty as sin. 

If only his Ma could see him now. See what he’s done. 

You shoot upward, scrambling towards the head of the bed, eyes wide and frozen with fear. 

Shaking and terrified. A little rabbit caught in a snare. Their snare.

You watch them like they're executioners leading you to the block. 

“Wh-what…” 

“Listen to us sweetheart, just listen,” Simon soothes, voice low and cautious but fast because he knows they’ve got to get it out, establish the truth right away. “You’re safe, everything’s okay, you and the baby, you’re safe here.” You shake your head, tears rolling down your cheeks. 

“You… b-brought me back?” Your voice cracks. “You brought me back and n-now he’s…” you break apart on a sob. 

“He’s never going to touch ye ever again, bunny. We swear it. I know,” you try to scoot off the bed, but Simon holds you still by your shoulders. They have to get this out, have to get through this part no matter how difficult it is, no matter how much you don't want to listen. You have to hear the truth, the reasoning.

“I know you don’t believe us, but we can prove it.” Johnny pulls out his phone and clicks open the secure email attachment. It’s the mission report from when Graves betrayed them outside the Mexican Special Forces base, and it’s only partially redacted thanks to Kate.

It’s a risk. 

It will confirm your fears and dissolve them. It will tell you who they truly are, what they truly do, while proving they’re telling the truth. 

It’s a gamble. 

“Read this,” Simon pushes it into your hand and you recoil. It doesn’t stop him, he wraps your brittle fingers around it and then stands, Johnny right behind him. “Take as long as you need. We’ll be here.” 

“Did ye like it?” You refuse to look at him, half of a pot pie eaten and sitting at your side on the tray. No answer. 

You blink at the ceiling. 

“Wanted to check in, see if ye needed anything?” Please, say something. Say anything. “Somethin’ else to eat, maybe? Si said ye didnae eat much of yer lunch. Are ye feeling sick again?” You’ve been having bouts of nausea, which you’ve told them is normal. You said you brought it up with your midwife at your appointment last week, she wasn’t concerned, and left it that. He knows you only supplied the information because they were badgering you about it, and as you told them the other day-

“I’d do anything to get you to leave me the fuck alone.” 

When you turn to look at him, he almost wishes you hadn’t. 

There’s a lifetime of pain in your eyes. Anger. Distrust. Hurt. All of it caused by their hand, their decisions. 

He tries anyway. He has to. 

“Did ye know goldfish can grow up to ten inches? Researched it when we…” he swallows the lump in his throat, “when we got home.” Still nothing. Your fingers twitch on the edge of your kindle, and he’s overcome with the urge to place his hand there, to hold yours. “Ye know, Si an’ I were talking, it might be good for you to come down for a meal? Maybe ye could come downstairs for breakfast tomorrow? Pen asked.” Using Penny is wrong, he knows that, but he’s drowning and he doesn’t know how much farther they can sink at this point. 

But it all falls on deaf ears. 

You give him one last long look, another glare overflowing with malice, more rage, more despair, everything twisted up into a complicated knot. 

He's well practiced with bombs, confident, rarely makes a mistake-

but this is one he's terrified to defuse.

“Johnny… just... leave me alone. Please.” No, he wants to tell you, no, I'd rather have you scream at me for hours on end, I'd rather have you throw another mug at my head, over all of this... this agonizing silence.

“Okay,” he whispers, “I’ll… leave ye be.” 

“Upset?!” You cover your heart with your palms. “Upset…” 

“Sweetheart-” Simon hangs back behind Johnny, allowing him to take the lead, again, but still trying to coax you to calm, and you look at one then the other, shaking your head, tossing the phone on the bed.

“You… you hid all of this from me. I knew you were military but this…” You’re angry, but beneath it, fighting for freedom, is pain. Pain caused by them, by this betrayal. “Phillip aside, you kidnapped me!” 

“We had no choice,” Johnny’s voice wavers and he scrambles for control. “We couldnae leave ye alone and unprotected, an’ we knew ye wouldnae listen to us if we just… showed up.” 

“I wish I had better aim,” you spit, staring daggers at where Simon’s arm sports a fresh bandage, covering the stitches. He flinches. 

“We would never hurt ye-” A bitter laugh cuts him off, and you throw your hands up, gesturing around the room. 

“What do you call this then, Johnny? What would you call drugging me and hauling me away from my home?” 

"That wasnae yer home! Yer home is wit' us, bun." You stare at him in disbelief.

"You're out of your fucking mind if you think this... this could be my home now."

“I promise-” Simon starts again but you glare at him. 

“Your promises mean fuck all, Simon Riley.” 

“We’ve never lied to ye, bunny, an’ if we had known from the beginning, we could have protected ye, made sure he never came near ye again.” It’s low to use your own evasion against you, your own survival instincts, but he’s grasping at straws. He’s not sure it’s possible to tell you how sorry they are anymore, they’ve said it a thousand times. You snort. 

“You’re unbelievable. Both of you. And you’re no better than him.” 

“That’s not true.” Simon cuts, sharp edge slicing through your declaration. “We would never, ever hurt you. We love you.” Your swallow is audible, and for a second, you falter. A tear falls. Johnny steps forward. 

“Bun-“ 

“I want you to go.” 

“Ye have every right-” 

“Get out!” You scream it, pointing at the door with a shaking finger. “Get the fuck out.” Simon doesn’t take a single second before turning his back and disappearing, leaving Johnny alone with you. 

Defeated. 

“I love ye.” He murmurs softly, and you scoff. 

“Fuck your love, Johnny. It means nothing.”

The scream wakes them both at zero two hundred. 

It’s blood curdling, could shatter the windows, shake the house down to the studs. 

Simon’s faster than him lately, gets the drop- 

But he bypasses your room. 

“I’ll take care of Penny.” Of course. She’d be awake. That would’ve woke anyone. 

The door creaks when it flings wide, and then he’s sitting at your hip on the mattress, holding you, calling your name. The whites of your eyes shine in the dark, pupils slowly adjusting as he flicks the light on next to the bed. 

He braces for a fight, shores his defenses, readies himself for the venom, but the only thing you give him is the trembling of your lower lip, and your tears, your hand stretching for his. “Shhh, ye’re okay, it’s okay. Was jus’ a dream bunny, jus’ a dream.” Your chest heaves. 

“I… Phillip...” 

“He’s no’ here, it’s just ye and me. Simon and Pen down the hall.” He’d be lying to himself if he said this isn’t making a sick part of him happy, this need you seem to have for him, for comfort, even if it may be fleeting. “Ye’re safe, pretty girl.” A moan escapes you, working its way into a sob, and you curl forward. 

Into him. 

In this darkness, the early hour of the morning, the two of you are suspended in time, alone in this world where nothing bad ever happened and you’re safe in his arms. Like the man he sees in the mirror doesn’t disgust him, like his remorse isn’t a living, breathing thing, a reaper waiting to take him away. 

And when your nose presses to his chest and you wet his shirt with tears as he rocks you, promises you’re safe, that they’ll take care of you, that he loves you, all the words they’ve said since the day they met you, the guilt threatens to drown him-

And his own tears drip from his face. 

[ashwhowrites]

Hi there! I love your work, I was wondering if I could request a virgin Eddie who’s a lil bit of a perv who is in love with his best friend (the reader) and when she tells him she likes him and they eventually have sex Eddie’s all nervous. Maybe starting off a lil angsty and then fluff?? Thank you!!

I LOVE perv eddie.

I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it. Thank you for requesting ❤️

⚠️Smut!

His first time

Eddie was a basic man who had basic needs. He enjoyed adult magazines, he wouldn't deny it. He saved up to buy the newest issues, pleasuring himself to all the different women and their breasts.

He enjoyed checking the girls out, loved watching the cheerleaders perform and sex scenes in movies. But he got bored of the same things.

He blasted music through his speakers as he tried to focus on making himself cum. But he was getting frustrated as nothing seemed to get him there. He tossed the magazine on the floor, closing his eyes as he tried to picture the cheerleaders from before.

His hand moved fast on his cock as he clenched his eyes. His body was covered in sweat and his body was cramping from how hard he was trying to cum. He tried to imagine the scene like he was there again.

He sat next to his best friend, Y/N, as the cheerleaders warmed up. Their long legs stretched out as they bent over. Eddie noticeably checked them out, along with every boy in the crowd.

The bleachers were uncomfortable as Y/N tried to shift. The popcorn in her hand spilled as she did, landed right at Eddie's feet.

"Oh fuck!" She groaned. It caught Eddie's attention, before he could ask, she was reaching down to grab the pieces. Her body was right between his legs. He felt his breath get caught in his throat as her hand rested on his knee to balance herself. Her head between his thighs.

Eddie moaned as he felt his body melting into the mattress. Finally relaxing enough for him to feel true pleasure as he jerked himself off.

He looked down, enjoying the way her shirt dipped and he could see the top of her breasts.

Eddie sighed in pleasure as cum shot out of his cock, painting his hand as he worked himself through it. His hair sticking to his sweaty body as he thanked God he was finally cumming.

Then he realized what made him cum.

His best friend.

~~~

Eddie felt a little bit ashamed about masturbating to his best friend, but not ashamed enough to stop doing it. She was behind the greatest orgasms he's ever felt and he couldn't give that up.

It had been months since he first did it, and now he didn't see any worthy of girl compared to her. He was captivated by her. He began falling for her.

Suddenly her smile made his stomach flutter. The way she laughed made him smile. He wanted to feel her skin against his. He was curious to know how her lips felt.

He wasn't the best with feelings so he didn't bother to tell her how he felt. Plus, there was no way she'd be into him. She was out of his league even as friends. He kept his feelings to himself, torturing himself every second he spent with her.

She was ranting about a teacher. Her mouth moved but Eddie heard silence. Her hands were waving around as she cussed but he was focused on the deep cut of her T-shirt.

He tried to keep his eyes on her face, but he couldn't help but look down at the small part of her bra that was showing. He tried not to whine when she crossed her arms, squishing her delicious breasts against each other.

Fuck he craved to stick his head right between them. Or his cock. He felt himself twitch at the thought. Oh, he definitely wanted to push his cock between her tits.

~

"Wanna play a game or chicken?" Steve asked Eddie as they swam around the neighborhood pool.

"Depends, who's on you and who's on me," Eddie said.

"I'll take Dustin," Steve said as Dustin jumped in. "YO, KID! GET ON MY SHOULDERS!"

Eddie looked around for a partner, a smile on his face as he swam to the edge. He propped his arms up on the concrete, whistling to gain her attention.

Y/N opened her eyes under her sunglasses, looking towards the pool from her spot on the chairs. Eddie was looking at her with a suggestive smile.

"Oh God, what?" She sighed. She pushed her glasses up on her head and sat up. Her day of tanning seemed to be cancelled.

"Be my partner and beat Steve's ass?" He asked, he had one eye scrunched as he looked up at her. The sun beamed right on him.

She knew she could never say no to Eddie. And truthfully, sitting on Eddie's broad shoulders sounded like a wet dream. She stood up and discarded her sunglasses. She quickly took off her shorts and Eddie clapped as she walked towards him.

He whistled as she began to walk into the water. She flicked him off as her body felt the cold water.

"Damn, always looking good in a swimsuit," he winked. She rolled her eyes, hoping the sun was the reason her skin heated up.

Eddie plunged under the water, letting her sit on his shoulders as he stood up. She loved the feeling of his arms holding down her legs. The way they were wrapped around her.

He loved every second of her legs wrapped around him. The feeling of her cunt on the back of his neck. He wanted more than anything to lay her on the concrete and turn around, dive his face in her cunt as he ate her out in front of everyone. He hoped the splashing of the water hid the growing erection in his swim shorts.

~

It was a Friday night and Eddie was getting ready for a party that Y/N was dragging him to. It wasn't something he wanted to do but he had a hard time looking at her and saying no. Plus, if he didn't go she'd still go and he wasn't in the mood to hear about how she got hit on all night.

She's had boyfriends before and they never had Eddie's approval. Which made much more sense now that he knew he was in love with her.

He shoved a few pre rolls in his pocket and ran out the door.

~

About an hour into the party, he lost her. They were outside where he could smoke freely, she went in to get a drink and hadn't come back out. He was getting slightly worried so he stood up from the grass and began walking towards the house.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned. He thought maybe it was her but another girl stood in front of him.

"Hi sorry, but I was wondering if you had any of what you were smoking left? Or even a cigarette?" The girl asked

Eddie wasn't sure who she was, digging into his pocket as he grabbed his cigarettes. "Can't share the good stuff, but I can offer this." He smiled as he passed one over.

She smiled and took it, "lighter?" She put the cigarette between her lips, Eddie flicked his lighter the flame coming to life as he lit the end of the cigarette. She inhaled the smoke. She sighed from the taste. "Thank you. I needed this."

"Not a problem," he smiled. He prepared to turn around and leave but she spoke up again.

"Are you here alone?" She asked

Eddie was a little confused. It felt like she was hitting on him. "Uh no, my friend is inside getting drinks. Which is where I'm heading because it's been like an hour," he said as he checked his watch.

"Well if you don't find your friend, come find me," she winked as she turned around and walked off. The cigarette smoke following her. Eddie was stunned, he barely got hit on.

"Sorry!" Y/N said as she appeared in front of him. "You can't imagine how busy that kitchen is," she noticed the weird look on his face as she handed his drink over.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just think that girl over there was flirting with me," he said as he nodded his head in her direction. Y/N felt her stomach turn as she followed his head. She didn't like knowing someone was showing interest in him. She felt jealous as she spotted the girl smoking a few feet away.

"Oh! Well...she's cute, I guess," Y/N shrugged as she looked back at him. She didn't like how his eyes were still on the girl. "Did you, um, want to talk to her?" She cursed herself for asking. For giving him the option because she didn't want him to.

"Should I? I'm not sure how to talk to girls," Eddie said nervously. He took a swig from his red cup as the alcohol burned down his throat.

"You talk to me," Y/N said, once again not sure why she was trying to help.

"Yeah but that's different. You aren't into me and looking for like... something," he coughed, feeling uncomfortable at the idea.

Y/N figured this was the chance to say something. She could correct him, tell him she was into him and she wanted something with him. She opened her mouth, weight on her chest.

"Eddie, loo-"

"I'm going to do it. Hold this for me," he said as he handed her the cup. He wiped his hands on his jeans and took a few deep breaths. She frowned as he walked away, heading to the pretty girl.

So much for telling him how she felt, she thought. She carried their drinks towards the small bench in the backyard. She wasn't sure if she should watch or stare off into space. She tried to drink away the lump in her throat. Hoping the alcohol would kill all the shit she felt inside.

She finished off her drink, her eyes flicking to where he was. He was smiling as the girl laughed, shoving his arm. She quickly looked away, the sight alone hurt her more than she would like to admit. She chugged his drink, getting up as she went to fill the cups again. Fuck, she needed many drinks to survive this.

She debated going back outside, but figured inside was safer. The air was thick as there wasn't much room to walk around. She escaped to the front yard, letting herself sit on the grass.

She knew she should have said something sooner. Now he was probably going to come ask to bring the girl home. And Y/N wanted to cry at the thought.

She wasn't sure how long she was out there, but she knew it had to be over an hour. At this point she was sad and alone. She was ready to go home and cry herself to sleep. She stood up and dusted off her clothes. She prep talked herself as she walked to the backyard.

She tried to blink away tears as he was still with the girl, much closer than before. Maybe she was jealous, or maybe she was tired, but she didn't find a problem with walking right up to them.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I want to go home," she said. Her tone was serious and it worried Eddie as he looked at her.

"Are you okay?" He asked

"Yeah, just not feeling well," she wasn't fully lying. She did feel like she could puke right at their feet as their fingers were inches away from each other.

"Yeah, here are the keys. I'll be there in like a minute?"

She nodded as she grabbed the keys. Completely ignoring the girl as she began her walk to the van. She made it down the street when Eddie ran after her, throwing his arm over her shoulder as he panted.

"Sure you're okay? Need to get water or something?"

"Yeah, I'm fine Eddie," she softly smiled. She handed him the keys as they arrived where he parked. They climbed in but Eddie wasn't making any moves to drive off.

"What's going on?" He asked as he looked over at her. She looked straight ahead.

"I said I'm fine, can we please go home?"

Eddie sighed and started up the van, driving off.

The ride was silent. Y/N spent the whole drive forcing her tears to stay in her eyes. And Eddie kept glancing her way.

~

They entered his empty trailer, still silent as she worked her way into his bedroom. He took off his jacket and threw it somewhere on the floor. He walked to his room, freezing as she had her back to him as she unclipped her bra. He gazed at the naked skin, wanting her so badly to turn around. But one of his T-shirts was tossed on. She collected her clothes and put them in a small pile. Turning around, jumping as Eddie stood here.

"Jesus. You move like a mouse," she laughed. But Eddie's face was hard to read as he looked at her. She didn't say anything, just threw herself on his bed. She sighed in relaxation as she cuddled into his pillows.

Eddie removed his shirt, unaware of her watching eyes as he moved into the bathroom.

She tried to calm down her racing heart as he changed. She hoped she could avoid talking but she had a feeling he still didn't believe her.

A few seconds later he walked out, only in boxers. She chewed on her bottom lip as he joined her in bed. The small lamp beside him was the only form of light.

They stared at each other, both softly memorizing each other's faces. "You sure you're okay?" He whispered, his hand moving to softly rub her hip. She melted into his touch.

"Did you like her?" She whispered. Her voice horse as she tried not to cry.

"Not really," he admitted honestly. He continued to rub her hip as he shifted closer. His face right in front of her as he frowned. "Is that what this is about?"

She closed her eyes as she had to face it. She opened her eyes, Eddie was quick to wipe away the tears that began to fall. "Oh baby," he whispered as he pulled her into him.

Her nose was pressed against his.

"You know how you said I wasn't into you so talking to me was different?"

He nodded, thumb rubbing her cheek.

"I do like you," she whispered. She hoped he didn't hear it, but that was impossible as there wasn't any space between them. "I wanted to tell you but you know," she sniffled.

"You do know that if I knew, no way in hell I would have bothered with her," he admitted. She felt herself smile.

"Yeah?"

"You don't know how long I've been thinking about you," he whispered. His heart raced as she smiled. He couldn't believe it after all this time, she liked him.

Her smile slowly fell as she looked at his lips. She didn't say anything as she leaned in and pressed her lips against his. He gladly kissed her back, rolling on his back as she rolled on top of him. He moved his hands on her back as her tongue slipped in his mouth.

He whined at how incredible her lips and tongue felt. The feeling of her hands moving into his hair made him clench. His mind already raced with dirty images of them, his cock growing under her as he couldn't fight them off.

She could feel his cock growing hard underneath her, pride in her chest as her kiss seemed to do enough to drive him insane. It did the same to her, she didn't want to wait for anything. She wanted him to fuck her and kill the tension she always felt with him.

She rolled her hips against him, moaning into his mouth as his cock rubbed against her thin panties.

She pulled away for air, moving her lips to his neck. He shivered as she sucked on his skin. He didn't know what any of this felt like, but damn it felt good coming from her. He didn't care how noticeable her marks would be, he wanted to be covered.

His mind was clouded with pleasure as she kept rocking against his cock. Barely noticing her hands moving to strip off her shirt.

Wait, was this happening? Right now? He thought. His cock twitched seeing her bare tits. He stared in awe as his hands dropped to her hips.

She patiently waited for him to touch her, but he quite literally looked like a deer in headlights.

"Eds?" She asked

He looked into her eyes and she could see the nerves in his eyes.

"Shit! I'm sorry," she said as she climbed off his lap. Her face burned with embarrassment as she covered herself with his blanket. She closed her eyes as she wished to disappear.

"No, it's okay!" He reassured her. He sat up.

"We don't have to do any of that. I got way too caught up" she uncomfortably laughed. She felt like an idiot.

"I want to. Fuck, I want to so bad. I just have no idea what I'm doing," he admitted. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

"Have you ever done it before?" She asked, no judgement in her eyes.

"No," he said quickly, "but I promise I know I want to. And I'm ready right now," he rushed out. He was so desperate as his cock throbbed under the sheets. He was far too gone to ignore it and move on.

"Are you sure? I'm fine with just going to bed," she offered.

"I want you," he confirmed, leaning in as he pressed his lips against hers. She gladly accepted the kiss, climbing back on his lap.

She pulled away. "I'll go slow, okay?"

He nodded, just wishing she'd sink down on him already.

"Do you have a condom?" She asked. He quickly turned to his nightstand, yanking it open. She eyed the amount of condoms scattered around and a pair of handcuffs. "I hope you weren't planning on using all of those immediately."

Eddie blushed as he handed her the wrapper, and shut the drawer. "I wanted to be prepared."

"And the handcuffs?" She teased as she tore the package open. He watched as she moved down his body, hands seconds away from touching him.

"To experiment," he said in a heavy breath. His eyes locked on her hands as she began to put the condom on him. He shivered as she rolled it on, the single touch was better than anything he felt by himself.

She climbed up his body and put her face up against his. "Don't think you'll ever do this with someone else, got it?"

He moaned at her possessive words, loving the heat behind her eyes. He gladly would submit to her anytime she wanted him.

She smiled at his reaction, moving her body to hover over his cock. His submissive eyes were staring, becoming glossy as he whined for her to do something.

She softly gripped his cock, slowly sinking herself down on him. He let out a loud long moan as he gripped her hips. She was so warm. She gave herself a second to adjust to his size, planting her hands on his chest as she began to roll her hips.

His head smacked his headboard with a thunk as he threw his head back. Her wrapped around him easily became the best thing he ever felt.

He pried his eyes open so he could watch her. She looked angelic on top of him. The way her tits moved, her hair, her scrunched eyes and mouth open with moans. He wanted to feel more of her, sitting up straight as his unrehearsed hands moved to her chest.

He froze before he touched her. His eyes look up to her for answers. She opened her eyes when she felt him moving. She looked down at his puppy eyes. She tried not to speak on how fucking adorable he looked.

She slowed down her hips as she pressed her forehead against his. With her lips being that close, he didn't second think of his movements as he kissed her. She moved her hands to wrap around his neck, deepening this kiss. She waited until he wanted to pull away, sitting still on him.

He pulled back, his hands still on her chest. "May I?"

She nodded, going back to moving on his cock. "Yeah, baby. Touch me."

He growled at her words. His eager hands massaged her breasts, making her arch into him. He moaned at how they felt in his hands, so warm, and full. He hated how close he was, wanting this to never stop.

Y/N changed her pace as she went faster. He felt incredible inside of her. He was a perfect fit and she loved the way he kissed and touched her.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he moaned. His brain only focused on how amazing the build up was, and how he never felt anything like it. He wrapped his arms around her and flipped them over. He didn't know how but he fucked himself into her, doing something right as she moaned out.

He fucked her, head dropping into her sweaty neck as he felt his final thrusts shake. He panted into her neck, she greedily wrapped her legs around his waist to shove him deeper inside her.

"That's it, Eddie," she praised. He gave his final thrusts as he came inside the condom. His orgasm ran through his whole body, he felt it everywhere.

He pulled out of her, body feeling like jelly. "Holy fuck," he chuckled out of breath. "That was the best thing I've ever felt."

Y/N squirmed as he shifted, his cock still inside of her. He wanted to continue but the more he moved, it began to hurt.

"Pull out, Eddie. It's okay," she smiled. He nodded and pulled out, already missing how she felt around him.

"But you didn't cum," he frowned.

"That's okay! This was about you," she said as she rubbed his cheek. But he wasn't having it. No way he was leaving her with nothing.

He wasn't sure what to do, but he's seen enough movies to have a slight idea. His hand skimmed down her body, sliding two fingers inside of her.

She gasped as his long fingers moved inside of her. She moved her hand down to her clit but Eddie slapped it away. He was determined to do it all on his own.

He added a third finger as he used his other hand to circle her clit. She softly put her hand over his to show him how. He enjoyed the way her breathing increased and she began to moan more. He kept a steady pace with his fingers on her clit, and fucking her as fast as his fingers would allow.

"Fuck that's it, don't change anything," she said, throwing her head back as she moved herself on his fingers to feel him deeper.

"Yes ma'am,"

Her eyes rolled in the back of her head from the name, feeling loved by the way his eyes watched her. And how badly he wanted to make her cum.

She focused on her orgasm as it began building. Her hands stretched out to grip his shoulders as she began to shake.

"Gonna cum," she warned, immediately soaking his fingers as she came.

Eddie continued, loving the sounds of her wet cunt, until she pushed his hands away.

He cleaned them both up before he crawled to lay next to her.

"I love you," he whispered as he cupped her cheek. He left a small kiss to her lips.

"I love you, too"

[spaceyaemonds]

pairing: dr. jack abbot x reader

sum.: you meet a few of jack’s coworkers.

warnings: age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is 23), slightish angst?? just incase?? i don’t think it is but just incase, unplanned pregnancy, jack is divorced, not a widower, and it is mentioned that he previously did not want kids. minors DNI.

notes: okay so this is not what i had initially planned for this part, but i could not get what was supposed to be the second half of this to flow how i wanted so i am scrapping some of it and putting into part 6! also, there will definitely still be a lot of teasing and stuff said by the ED staff!!! i just didn’t know how to incorporate everyone here quite yet, but it’ll come! starting with part 6, they will be slightly longer pieces (but all less than 4-5k words) so we can get more into the drama of the story. in the next part, there will be slight angst (that was supposed to be here LOL, i’m sorry!) AND smut! i also have a few more drabbles for this universe that i hope to post this week, but parts 6 (and possibly 7) will be taking priority along with the schedule i posted yesterday. unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc: 1k

prev next

Unfortunately, immediately after getting off the phone with you and getting his keys to Dana, an ambulance pulls up with a trauma, which not only means he is probably not going to be able to see you, but you’re meeting Dana alone.

Which leaves you in your current situation, standing awkwardly in front of said nurse while she looks you over, studying you.

Of all the things she was expecting when Jack Abbot told him a girl was coming to pick up his keys and drop hers off, you are not at all what her brain came up with.

Not that there’s anything wrong with you, except for the fact you look a little young for Jack. But she definitely didn’t imagine you.

“So, you’re borrowing Jack’s truck?” Her tone is friendly when she asks.

She seems nice, but she makes you nervous. Being here makes you nervous. You don’t know what Jack has or hasn’t told his coworkers about you or this situation.

You nod, a small smile on your face despite your discomfort, “Um, yes. I’m buying a new desk and my car is too small to get it home,”

She nods politely, “Are you neighbors?”

She knows the answer, that you are definitely not neighbors, but she’s curious about what you’ll say.

You bite your lip, “Uh, something like that?”

She raises her eyebrow at the way you word your answer as a question, but before she can speak up, Samira says your name.

She’s smiling brightly, “I thought that was you! Are you doing okay?,”

You smile back at her, “I’m good,”

“How’s the baby?”

You freeze, glancing at Dana out of the corner of your eye, praying to god that she doesn’t put it together.

Dana’s brows raise to her hairline, looking between you and Samira, and then briefly glancing at trauma two. No fucking way.

“Um, good- great actually. Just a little grape in there,” You chuckle, gesturing to your abdomen before turning to Dana, digging your keys out of your purse and clipping the key to your apartment off the chain.

“Anyway, um, can you just make sure Jack gets these, please?”

Dana nods, “You sure you don’t wanna try and wait for him?”

You look between her and Samira, a slightly anxious look in your eyes, “Yeah, no. He’s gonna be by later anyway so I’ll just see him then,”

You wince, why the fuck did you say that?

That causes Dana to smirk, “He’ll be over later,”

“Yeah, well I mean, maybe. He’ll have to get his truck back at some point. Probably tonight, but I mean who knows, ya know?”

In the midst of your rambling, you don’t realize Jack has finally wrapped up his case and is standing right behind you.

“What are you going on about?”

You about jump out of your skin, “Oh my god!” Your hand is on your chest as you take a deep breath, dramatically trying to calm yourself down, “You scared me,”

He laughs with a cheeky shrug, mumbling a small sorry as he squeezes your shoulder gently before taking your keys from Dana. He bites back a laugh at the lip gloss attached to your keychain, “You aren’t gonna need that?”

You smile, the anxious feeling finally leaving you, “No, I have a few in my purse.”

Jack briefly catches Dana’s eye as he places his hand on your shoulders and guides you out of the ED, her eyebrows are raised in question, glancing between the two of you. He shakes his head at her and mouths later and continues walking you to where he’s parked, not realizing the storm he’s started up at the nurses station.

“Now, don’t go lifting this desk by yourself or anything like that. It’s not good for you or the baby,”

You glance up at him, “I already places the order for it, they’re just going to put it in the truck when I’m ready and a neighbor said he could get his son and they can bring it up for me,”

He tries not to bristle at the mention of your neighbor that he hasn’t met yet.

“Alright, well I can help you get it put together tonight and make sure your equipment gets all set up.”

His offer makes you smile brightly at him, “Are you sure? I know you’ll be tired after working,”

He shakes his head, “I wouldn’t offer if I couldn’t do it, honey.”

There’s that name again. You love it when he calls you that, it makes you feel warm inside.

He bites back a smirk as he watches you squirm, already knowing you well enough to know your cheeks feel hot.

“Well, if you insist. I’ll have dinner and beer ready when you get to my place,”

“You sure know the way to a man’s heart, honey.”

“Just yours, anyway,” You don’t give him time to respond, leaving quickly and not even realizing the impact your words just had on him.

When he gets back inside, Dana is giving him a side eye, and try as he might, he just can’t ignore it.

“Just say what you need to say,”

Dana hums, “She’s young,”

Jack sighs, running a hand down his face before scratching at his jaw, “Yeah,”

“She pregnant?”

There’s no judgment in her question, she watches silently as he pulls out his wallet to hand her the photo of your ultrasound.

“Yeah, ten weeks.”

She sighs softly, looking at the baby, “Yours?”

Jack just grunts in response. Not sure what to say or how to say it.

Dana puts a hand on his arm, squeezing softly, “I thought you didn’t want kids?”

He closes his eyes, “I didn’t. This wasn’t exactly planned. But I’m taking responsibility for this, for her,”

“Does she want you to take responsibility for her?” Dana’s question is valid, and Jack knows that.

“I told her I wouldn’t abandon her. And I won’t.”

“You’re a good man, Jack,” She gives his arm one final squeeze before pulling her hand away, “She seems nice,”

He smiles, “Yeah, she is. Real fucking smart too. And funny,”

Dana feels her chest squeeze at how Jack looks when he talks about you, unable to recall if he’s ever been this way before.

They sit in silence for a few moments before glancing up at Robby when he makes his way up, devilish glint in his eyes.

Jack sighs, already knowing what’s coming.

“I didn’t realize your babies mom is in her twenties, Jack,”

“You mad I got more game than you or something?”

Robby laughs, “Is that what we’re calling it?”

[dior-luxury]

i dont know if your requests are open but if they are can you pretty please make a part 2 of the how they'd propose to you with other characters like Sebek and Ruggie and anyone else you would like? (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

How'd They Propose To You

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] cater . ruggie . floyd . kailm . vil . rook . idia . lilia . sebek

- [𝐩:𝐬] nothing . just the boys being romantic

Note: This series like my 'Kiss And Make-out' series was heavily request so... Part two, here we go!! Also everyone, get your tissues out cause this is going to be an emotional one.. 😭

Cater Diamond

Cater always made everything look effortless. From his impeccably filtered Magicam photos to his playful, lighthearted persona, he was the guy who breezed through life like a summer wind — colorful, vibrant, and hard to pin down. But the moment he realized he wanted to spend his life with you, the thought terrified him. Not because he didn’t want it — but because he did.

You’d been together for a while, enough to see past his curated charm and into the subtle sadness he kept hidden behind his eyes. You saw the moments when his smile faltered just a second too soon, when he stared at old class photos for a beat too long, when he tried too hard to make everyone like him. And despite it all, or maybe because of it, you stayed. You loved him, not the persona.

He wanted to return that love with everything he had.

So he planned it down to the second. Not flashy, not performative, but genuine. A proposal just for you two — no hashtags, no likes, no audience.

You were led on a surprise “casual date” through campus, each place tied to a memory: the greenhouse where you first studied together, the corner of the courtyard where you surprised him with lunch one day, the little music room where you once caught him playing guitar alone. At each spot, he left a small printed Polaroid of the memory, with scribbled notes like “Can you believe you caught me blushing here?” or “Still the best sandwich I’ve ever had, btw.”

Finally, you arrived at the abandoned tower that overlooked the rose gardens. It was dusk — golden hour. A string of soft lights framed the edge of the balcony, and a blanket lay spread out with two drinks, his favorite strawberry soda, and your favorite too.

Cater stood there, not in any extravagant outfit, but in his everyday clothes, a little flushed, a little nervous. His Magicam was nowhere in sight.

“I know I’m not always easy to read,” he began, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “I’m a master of filters. And honestly? I’ve spent most of my life trying to be someone that other people like. But with you… I don’t have to be anyone else. You make me feel like being just ‘Cater’ is enough.”

He knelt, pulling out a small velvet box that he almost dropped because his hands were shaking.

“So… if you’ll have me, for all the mess, the moods, and the million selfies — will you marry me? And keep reminding me that being myself is okay?”

His voice cracked, and you could tell it wasn’t a line rehearsed for flair. It was Cater Diamond, bare and honest.

You said yes, of course.

And that night, he took one photo — just one — of the two of you silhouetted against the golden light, laughing through your tears.

No filters. No edits.

Just love.

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie Bucchi never thought he’d be the type to propose. Where he came from, marriage was practical, not romantic. You partnered up, you made it work, and you did your best to survive. Love? That was a luxury. He grew up knowing how to scrape by, how to hustle, how to keep smiling when your stomach was empty.

But then he met you — and everything shifted.

You saw past his tricks and street-smart charm, past the sly grin and the mischievous glint in his eyes. You saw someone capable. Someone worth loving, not just useful. And that meant more to him than he ever let on.

He saved for months. Scrimped every madol he could without you noticing. Side jobs, extra errands, even turning down a few schemes with Leona when they felt too risky. He wanted this to be his, something he earned with his own effort. Not flashy — but real.

One day, he invited you to his hometown. He played it off as casual — “Hey, wanna see where the magic began?” — but you could tell he was more nervous than usual. His tail twitched a little more. His jokes came faster. He wouldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

You arrived in the Slums of the Sunset Savanna, where he grew up. It was loud, dusty, and full of kids shouting and running barefoot in the alleys. But Ruggie looked… peaceful. At home. He gave you a tour like it was the royal palace — proudly showing you the bakery where he got day-old bread, the crumbling wall he used to climb for fruit, the school where he taught himself to read better.

That evening, he brought you to a quiet hill just outside the neighborhood. It overlooked the city, bathed in orange from the setting sun.

There was a picnic spread, nothing fancy — some homemade snacks, cold drinks, and a little bread pudding he tried (and failed) to make look neat. The bread was a little burnt. He kept muttering that it wasn't perfect.

And then, out of nowhere, he said:

“Y’know… I used to think I’d just grow up, keep scrappin’ my way through life, maybe end up old and alone with a bunch of stolen pies under my belt.”

He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

“But then you came along and messed it all up — in the best way.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny, slightly lopsided ring box. Inside was a simple band with a small, pale gem. Not expensive. Not glittery.

But made with his whole heart.

“I don’t got a palace. I don’t got riches or magic castles or nothin’. But I got you, and I wanna spend every day makin’ you smile. So… what do you say? Wanna keep causing trouble together… forever?”

His ears were flat against his head, and his tail was still as stone.

When you said yes, he lit up like the stars were inside him.

And he never stopped smiling after that.

Floyd Leech

Loving Floyd was like dancing with a storm: unpredictable, wild, sometimes overwhelming — but breathtakingly beautiful. He could be sweet one second, biting the next, and then melting into your arms like seafoam. And through it all, there was something real behind his mercurial moods — a strange, raw devotion that ran deeper than the ocean.

So when Floyd started acting… weirdly consistent, you knew something was up.

No wild mood swings. No threats to squeeze someone into a pretzel. Just this quiet intensity in the way he looked at you, like he was memorizing your every blink.

He’d drag you along for “dates” that were more like mini adventures: exploring underwater caves off the Coral Sea coast, racing each other through twisted kelp forests, picnicking on giant sea turtles (you hoped it was legal). He’d laugh, splash you, nibble your ears when you weren’t looking — but then fall completely silent when you watched the sunset over the waves.

That silence carried something unspoken. Something serious.

Then one day, he brought you to the edge of the Mostro Lounge after hours. No lights. No music. Just the dark water shimmering under moonlight. Jade had subtly cleared the area, probably under Floyd’s “friendly encouragement.”

Floyd stood by the pool, barefoot, wearing loose, sea-salt-dried clothes. He looked wild and untamed, like he’d just swum from the abyss.

“Ne~ shrimpy,” he started, voice low and lilting. “You really stuck around this long, huh?”

He didn’t look at you at first. He stared at the water, watching it ripple like something might rise from it.

“Most people get scared. They say I’m too much—too loud, too weird, too hard to keep up with. Even Jade gets tired of me sometimes, y'know?”

He turned, and for once, his eyes weren’t playful. They were clear — crystalline, serious.

“But you… You let me be me. Even when I’m a pain in the tailfin.”

He stepped forward and pressed a tiny shell into your hand. At first glance, it looked ordinary — until it opened with a soft click, revealing a shimmering, black pearl nestled in its center like a star trapped in the deep.

His hand slipped into yours, fingers squeezing tight.

“So, what d’ya say? Wanna be my forever shrimpy? I can’t promise I won’t get bored sometimes or drag you into weird stuff… but I can promise I’ll never leave. ‘Cause when I say you’re mine, I mean it.”

He grinned then — sharp teeth and all — but there was a rare softness to it.

When you said yes, he scooped you up, twirled you into the air, and shouted your name into the sea breeze like it belonged to him now.

Because, well… it did.

Kalim Al-Asim

His love was the kind of love that sparkled — joyful, loud, radiant. He loved with everything. And when he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, there was no hesitation. No fear. Just overflowing excitement and the desire to make it perfect.

So naturally… the entire city had to know.

You started noticing little hints. He’d smile at you longer than usual. Ask strange questions like “What’s your favorite kind of flower, just hypothetically?” or “Do you like fireworks or doves better? No reason!”

But the day of the proposal? He kept it hidden perfectly.

You were invited to a “casual dinner” at the Al-Asim family estate — nothing fancy, he swore! When you arrived, the garden was transformed into something out of a dream: floating lanterns bobbed gently in the air, casting a golden glow; fragrant jasmine vines curled around the trellises; rose petals lined the walkways in careful spirals.

And in the center of it all stood Kalim, wearing a white and gold sherwani embroidered with intricate sun motifs — custom-made, obviously.

He took your hand and pulled you close, his smile so big it looked like it hurt.

“Surprise!! Okay okay, I know I said this wasn’t a big deal, but I might’ve lied a little,” he admitted, practically vibrating with excitement. “I wanted this to be special. Because you are.”

He led you through the garden, pointing out little scenes — memories you’d shared together recreated in glowing, magical dioramas. The first time he gave you a ride on his flying carpet. The time you accidentally got stuck in the rain together and danced anyway. Even the first time he tripped and landed face-first in a pile of fruit during a festival. Each one floated in a soft golden shimmer like preserved dreams.

Finally, at the very end of the path, the lights dimmed. Music began — a quiet, melodic tune played by a live ensemble hidden behind silk screens.

Kalim dropped to one knee, pulling out a ring so stunning it looked like it belonged in a treasure vault: warm rose gold shaped like the sun, with a diamond center surrounded by sunstone and opal, glowing faintly with enchantment.

His voice trembled slightly, but his eyes never left yours.

“I know I’m… a lot. Loud, excitable, maybe too much sometimes. But my heart? It’s yours. Every day. Every moment. I want to fill your life with so much joy you forget what sadness feels like. Will you… will you marry me?”

You could barely answer before fireworks burst overhead in a dazzling cascade of color — forming your name, a heart, and then the words “Will You Marry Me?” again for good measure.

He laughed, teary-eyed, pulling you into a spinning hug the moment you said yes, nearly tripping over a pile of lanterns.

And he swore — over spiced sweets and glowing stars — that loving you would always be the most joyful celebration of his life.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil Schoenheit had always been perfection incarnate.

He chose his words carefully, curated his life down to the last detail, and ruled over every room he entered with grace and quiet authority. But love? Love was unpredictable. Messy. Vulnerable.

And yet… with you, he chose it anyway.

For months, he kept the idea of proposing buried beneath a polished exterior. Not because he doubted your love — no, never that — but because he feared imperfection. What if the moment wasn’t enough? What if his words failed him? What if he wasn’t enough?

But one morning, as you were wrapped in a robe, sipping tea while lazily flipping through one of his scripts, looking utterly unbothered by the world — his world — he knew. No stage could rival this.

Still… he had to make it perfect.

The proposal wasn’t sudden. It unfolded like a symphony — days of subtle preparation, each moment building toward the crescendo. First, a handwritten invitation slipped under your door, sealed with gold wax in his personal crest. It read:

“You are cordially invited to an evening of celebration — for a love that deserves the finest stage. Wear what makes you feel radiant. The rest… is mine to handle.”

You arrived at a private rooftop garden in the heart of Maquillaville— Vil’s favorite filming location. Every inch of it had been transformed: strings of enchanted lights that pulsed like heartbeats, violet roses laced with flecks of gold, a crystal runway leading to a single, candlelit platform under the stars.

Vil stood at the end of it, not in a costume, not in a role — just himself. Beautiful, yes, but bare. No stage makeup. No lenses. Just Vil, with his natural elegance and a look in his eyes like he was seeing you and only you.

As you approached, music swelled from invisible instruments — soft piano and violins, as if the stars themselves were holding their breath.

Vil took your hands, his thumb stroking your wrist gently.

“I have played many roles,” he said quietly. “A prince. A villain. A monarch. But none… none compare to the part I’ve played in your life — myself. No masks. No script. You have loved me.”

He lowered himself to one knee, not out of tradition, but reverence. The ring was an opalescent band shaped like a flower in full bloom — not ostentatious, but hauntingly beautiful. Regal. Just like him.

“And I want to spend the rest of my days proving that I am more than a face on a screen. That I am yours — wholly, imperfectly, and honestly. Will you marry me, my dearest?”

Your yes was the kind of answer that echoed through your soul. And when you kissed — fireworks didn’t go off.

But you could’ve sworn the stars shifted.

Rook Hunt

To love Rook Hunt was to walk the edge of obsession — not in a dangerous way, but in a way that made you feel seen. Utterly seen. No piece of you, no habit or flaw, escaped his gaze. And he loved every detail with fervor and poetry.

So, when Rook decided to propose, it wasn’t a question of if or even how. It was a question of when the moment would feel like destiny.

And he waited for it with the patience of a hunter watching from the trees — breathless, quiet, focused.

It came during an autumn evening. The forest outside campus was bathed in gold and amber light, the air crisp and still. He asked you to take a walk, his tone casual, but there was a certain gleam in his eyes. The kind that made your heart stir.

He led you into the woods, deeper than usual, through a path dappled with falling leaves and faint trails of candlelight — candles placed just out of reach, like fireflies guiding you toward something sacred.

Eventually, you came upon a small, open glade. In its center stood a circle of white lilies and dried pampas grass, arranged with almost ceremonial care. Strings of paper birds fluttered from the trees — cranes, owls, hawks — each meticulously folded and each with a word written inside: Admiration. Fascination. Devotion. Enchantment.

You turned to Rook, who now stood behind you with that soft, unreadable smile.

“Mon trésor,” he breathed, voice velvet-smooth. “You are my greatest muse. The most magnificent mystery I’ve ever encountered. I have followed your footsteps, your laughter, your sorrow — and I find myself always… captivated.”

He circled around you like a dancer, his hand brushing your cheek, then resting over your heart.

“To hunt is not merely to chase — it is to understand. To behold. And I understand now that no beauty compares to yours. No thrill equals the way my heart stirs when you smile.”

Then, with the flourish of a magician revealing his final act, he drew from his coat a black-velvet box — aged and worn, like an heirloom passed through generations. He knelt, the golden leaves falling around him like confetti from the sky.

Inside, the ring was unlike anything you’d seen: a twisting band of silver and moss-green enamel, crowned with a delicate white diamond shaped like a feather — symbolizing the pursuit, the admiration, and finally, the surrender.

“Would you, my radiant one, do me the indescribable honor… of being mine, forever? Not as prey. Not as an object. But as the one I choose to walk beside, for all my days?”

When you said yes, Rook exhaled — deeply, reverently — and kissed your hand as if pledging allegiance to a monarch.

Idia Shroud

Proposal? Marriage? Social interaction? That was high-tier anxiety content for him. Even the thought of confessing to you, back when it all started, had nearly sent him into a shutdown spiral.

But now, here you were — his person. The one who understood his silences, who gamed beside him through 72-hour dungeon crawls, who sat beside him in eerie, comforting stillness while the blue glow of his hair flickered in thought. Loving you felt like logging into a private server only the two of you could access — quiet, secure, and safe.

And Idia, for all his dramatics and gloom-posting, loved you with an intensity that didn’t need fanfare. Just… data. And intention.

So, when he decided to propose, he made it a quest.

Literally.

You received a handmade invitation on your phone one morning: "Player 2, your presence is requested for a legendary raid. Final boss: Emotional Vulnerability. Rewards: Eternal Love + Rare Ring Drop. Do you accept?"

He built the whole thing himself: a pixel-art RPG styled just like your favorite fantasy games. The title? “Shroud.exe: A Love Story.”

As you played through it, you encountered your story together — from your first awkward hangouts in the Ignihyde dorm, to the moment you held his hand during a panic attack, to every late-night cuddle session where his hair dimmed peacefully beside you. Every NPC was a digital recreation of your favorite characters (Ortho, obviously, had an adorable role as the overly enthusiastic love-coach sidekick).

Each level was built with custom dialogue, full of Idia’s signature wit and fourth-wall breaking commentary:

“This is the part where MC doesn’t leave me despite my trash social skills. Truly S-tier behavior.”

“Warning: Final boss approaching. His defense stats are ridiculous but he’s got a glass heart. Weak to unconditional love.”

Finally, at the end of the game, the final cutscene began. And instead of sprites on screen, the video feed switched to live camera.

There he was.

Idia. Sitting in his room. Nervously fiddling with something in his hands — a small velvet box. His flame-hair flickered erratically, and he was in a carefully chosen outfit you’d never seen him wear before. Formal, but still unmistakably him.

He looked directly at the camera — right at you.

“I, uh… I figured I should do this in a way that makes sense for me. For us. Not in some overhyped, real-world, normie way with candles and violins and… people.” He cringed just saying that last part.

“But I wanted it to be real. So… here I am.”

He opened the box with trembling fingers. Inside was a ring shaped like a circuit loop, inlaid with glowing lapis and delicate code etchings — the ones you both designed together for fun once. The pattern pulsed faintly with light.

“I’m not good at words IRL, but I can say this: You’re my favorite co-op partner. You made all my side quests feel like main storyline material. So, will you… like, marry me? And maybe keep patching me for the rest of our lives?”

You didn’t even need the dialogue box to appear.

You just whispered "Yes" to the screen — and moments later, Ortho popped into the game world cheering with pixel fireworks in the background.

You looked up — and there Idia was, standing awkwardly in your doorway, holding the ring in real-time. Blushing furiously. Looking like he’d risked everything.

And when you kissed him — he glitched. Heart racing. Code crashing.

And he didn’t want to reboot. Ever.

Lilia Vanrouge

He had watched centuries pass like seasons. He’d lived through empires and starlight, laughter and war. He’d known many things — joy, grief, loyalty, loss — but love? True, soul-deep love? That was rare. Precious.

You, however, had changed that.

He never planned to fall for you. It simply happened. Like a song that begins as a hum and ends in a chorus that takes your breath away. With every shared moment — your laugh, your clever comebacks, your kindness — you pulled him out of memory and rooted him firmly in the now.

And so, one day, when the time felt quiet and right — he began to prepare.

The proposal wasn’t flashy. It was intimate. Lilia’s style had always been part mischief, part myth, part poetry. And so, he invited you to a place he hadn’t shown anyone in centuries.

A clearing deep within Briar Valley’s forest — hidden beneath vines and weeping trees, where the moonlight filtered through like silver lace. Fireflies lit the air in lazy constellations. In the center stood an old, stone ruin covered in moss — a place once sacred to the fae.

Lilia held your hand and stepped into the clearing with you, a small smile on his lips.

“Do you know what this place was?” he asked, voice soft like dusk. “It was a fae courting ground. We used to come here when we were ready to say, ‘This is it. This is the one I’ll write songs about.’”

You blinked at him — heart stuttering.

He stepped back from you, then lifted his hand. Magic shimmered like crushed moonlight around his fingers. With one slow motion, the ruins bloomed to life — glowing vines wrapping around pillars, flowers that hadn't blossomed in centuries opening in a swirl of glowing petals. The whole grove sighed, as if exhaling from a deep sleep.

“I’ve done many things,” Lilia said, stepping closer again, eyes shining. “I’ve lived through battles and lullabies. But I’ve never done this. Never wanted to. Not until you.”

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a delicate silver ring carved in the shape of intertwined bat wings and thorns, centered with a faintly glowing green stone that looked like a captured firefly.

Kneeling — he looked up at you, unguarded and eternal.

“You have made my immortality feel like a blessing again. Would you walk with me through what years I have left, and let me love you through each one? Will you marry me?”

The forest held its breath with you.

When you said yes, his smile was the softest thing you’d ever seen. He pulled you close — kissed you slowly — and whispered, “Then we’ll write a love story even time won’t forget.”

Sebek Zigvolt

For a long time, Sebek Zigvolt didn’t understand love. Not in the way he understood duty, or training, or the fierce loyalty he bore for Lord Malleus. Love was… unpredictable. Emotional. Disruptive.

But when he began to feel it — first in small ways, like watching you speak with others and getting irrationally flustered, or the way your touch lingered in his mind for days — he was angry at it. Frustrated.

And yet, you stayed. Through his yelling, his dramatics, his constant declarations of greatness on behalf of Malleus. You never teased him. You understood him.

One evening, after an exhausting mission outside Briar Valley, you found him standing guard alone under a stormy sky — soaked, grim, but stubborn as ever. You put your cloak around his shoulders and stood beside him in the rain.

He never forgot that moment.

It was when he realized: You are who I want to stand beside forever.

Sebek’s proposal took months of planning. Everything had to be worthy — of you, of his feelings, and of the future he wanted to protect. He asked Lilia for advice (and immediately regretted it after hearing “fake dragon attack for dramatic flair” — no thank you), trained twice as hard every morning, and spent evenings carving something in secret.

When the day came, he invited you to the castle gardens of Diasomnia at sunrise. The sky was still dark and quiet, a soft mist curling between hedges and dragon statues.

Sebek stood waiting at the center, in formal attire — the ceremonial armor of the Draconia Guard, silver and forest green, etched with runes that glowed faintly with magic. He turned when you arrived, eyes wide and serious, breath fogging in the cold air.

“I… I wanted to say this in the place where my heart was forged — under these towers, in these shadows, where I learned what it meant to serve.”

He stepped forward, taking your hands in his own — warm despite the chill.

“But then I met you. And I learned something greater than duty. I learned love. Fierce. Relentless. Protective. The kind I would fight for. Die for. Live for.”

From his belt, he drew a small box. Inside it was a ring made from polished emerald steel — hand-forged, slightly rough around the edges, but unmistakably beautiful. It bore his family crest inside and tiny runes around the band for strength, loyalty, and passion.

“I will not promise perfection. I am loud. I am difficult. But I swear to be yours with every heartbeat I have. To protect, to cherish, and to learn. Always.”

He dropped to one knee — knight-like, formal, trembling — and looked up at you as though you were the most sacred being in the world.

“Would you do me the extraordinary honor… of becoming my partner? My future? My heart?”

Your “yes” rang through the mist like sunlight.

When he stood, his composure nearly broke — eyes damp, mouth trembling — and when he kissed you, it was with the passion of someone who had finally learned what it meant to love freely.

And though he never said it aloud again in front of others — in private, every night after, he whispered: “Thank you for choosing me.”

[dazedantics]

Mark remembers being your husband.

Well, okay, he was never actually your husband.

But when you played house in the comfort of backyards and playgrounds, he never had an issue assuming that role in your game of make believe. Whatever it took to just to keep his friend.

You'd use whatever you had around as your "kids." New action figures, old dollies, spare blankets, the poor dog who wanted no part in being dressed up.

It wasn't Mark's thing, no. But he played along properly each time just to stay with you till the sun went down.

He'd fix the house, go to work, play hero with your kids, take you on pretend dates, he'd even pick you up and spin you around as a greeting for when he got home! Well, okay, maybe he wasn't quite strong enough to do that yet. But he certainly tried! Giggling when you two tipped over, talking about his supposed day at work.

He didn't stop you if you had an idea either.

You want to pretend you're going to the store? Sure thing, he'll push the basket. You stuff a ball under your shirt to pretend you got a baby in there? Okay, he'll do the chores while you sit 'n sew. You want to kiss him cause you just love your husband oh so much? Uhh ... well, maybe that's a bit ... oh, and now you're kissing him anyways. Super.

Admittedly, he didn't like that part at first, cooties and all, but his admonition went out the window as you huffed and started chasing him round and round until you landed a successful one on his lips.

He soon got used to it though, even puckering up before you had put your kids to sleep. He even found himself thinking about it when it was time for you two to hit the hay.

And even now as he got older.

When he sat there at his desk, spacing out. First wondering about what's for lunch, then the latest comic waiting for him at home, then you.

He hadn't seen you a long time. You probably forgot about him by now. Or maybe not? You two did spend a lot of time together and you seemed to have about as many other friends as he did (which wasn't a lot). But you guys were more grown up now, you'd probably repressed those memories, right?

Yeah, that seems more likely.

I mean, why worry about that one scrawny boy when you were probably surrounded by lots of hot guys now.

One who'd be your real husband someday. That you'd make play with your kids and cuddle up to and kiss over and over again.

Mmm ... for some reason Mark didn't like that thought. Nose scrunching up and brows furrowing.

You'd been his first kiss, you know. And probably his only one. That thought made him feel strange too. Though in a better way that turns bittersweet in the end.

Did you ever think about that?

How he could technically have been considered your first boyfriend?

Oh no, well now he hopes not. Cause if you did, you'd have to tell your current boyfriend, right? Then he'd want to come beat up the punk who knew his girl.

Mark rubbed his eyes, trying to get that out of his head. It'd suck if he'd made an another enemy he didn't even know existed. A guy could only take so much locker shoving, you know?

He sighed and looked up to the front of the class. He hadn't heard a word the teacher said and could only hope it wasn't important.

They guestured to the door.

A surprise principal meeting? Hadn't had one of those in a while. He should probably look at the other kids' desks to figure out what he should be pretending to do.

The door's opening.

Okay, no one has their notebooks so maybe he should- wait. Is that you!?

You were taller than back then, but he could recognize you from anywhere! He watched as your lips started moving, those lips that had countlessly kissed his. He blanked on what you were saying, but he heard your voice. The sound just made all those random specifics details of you appear in his mind all at once.

And he may have been making things up at this point, but he swears your eyes were on him the moment you walked in.

You remember him? Even if it is just a little vaguely? You don't know how high that'd make his heart rocket.

Did you maybe want to sit by him? He wouldn't mind. Maybe you couldn't play house anymore, but you could still do things as you used to right?

Or maybe he could work his way up to becoming your actual husband now?

That was why you were suddenly here, right? The fates decided you weren't done playing pretend. Was he cool enough to talk to you now? Could he even bring up what had technically happened between you?

Would you bring it up?

Or does he have to keep sitting here, reliving those tender moments till the rest of his days?

Please don't make it come to that.

Please ...

[sparklingchim]

reckless | jjk

pairing: idol!jungkook x producer!reader

word count: 3.7k

tropes: idol!jungkook, producer!reader, established relationship, childhood best friends

rating: pg

warnings: smooches!!, jungkook’s being very touchy <3, smoking, lots of pda, one (1) butt squeeze, lots of teasing n flirting (they're in love ur honour), mentions of jk being on a diet, mentions of oc being bullied in the past, just soft lovesick jk <3

summary: a casual date, the skirt’s a little too short, the night a little too quiet, and jungkook's hands on you like he's never going to let go.

a/n: writing this was so therapeutic im this 🤏 close to breaking no contact ❤️ (also dare i say this is the maybe in another universe couple <3)

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

When you round the corner of the building, it’s not hard to find Jungkook.

He’s leaned against his Harley, dark clothes hanging easy on him, making him blend into the night. He has a faint frown on his face as he scans the empty street, toying with his lip ring like he’s lost in thought.

Once he spots you, though, everything softens. His eyes go all boba-round and warm, crinkling at the corners as a smile stretches across his face. That stupid pretty one that makes your chest feel full. He straightens up a little.

“Sorry for making you wait,” you say when you reach him, rising on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck. You hug him tightly. You melt into him without thinking. His hands naturally land on the small of your back, holding you close in his embrace.

“It’s okay, baby.” Jungkook leans back just enough to press a little kiss to your lips.

One of his hands dip even lower, brushing over the curve of your butt and the light fabric of your skirt. It doesn’t take long before he grazes bare skin, catching just the edge where the hem ends and you begin.

“How did it go?” he asks.

“Oh, it was so fun!” you beam, hands coming together in an excited little clap in front of your chest. You bounce slightly.

It had been a long day filming at one of the major companies in Seoul, part of that new show about the behind-the-scenes process of producing k-pop songs. The set was huge – too many lights, too many people, and so many cameras that you couldn’t even look around without feeling watched.

Everything felt loud and fast and intimidating, like you were going to mess up just by standing there.

“I was still really nervous in the beginning because there were a lot of people, but I did what you told me over the phone this morning and reminded myself that just being there already meant I belonged. That in a little while this would be just another thing that I’ve overcome.”

Dare you mention that just this morning, you felt like throwing up at the thought of today’s schedule – and yet, somehow, it turned into something you ended up loving. Getting to work on something you’re genuinely passionate about, surrounded by new people who love it just as much as you, felt amazing, inspiring.

“I told you it wouldn’t be as bad. You wanted to call in sick,” Jungkook reminds you, teasing you with an arched brow.

“I felt so anxious this morning!”

“You underestimate what you’re capable of.”

“Anyways.” Your shoulders slump slightly. “I’m exhausted now.”

“We can just go to my place if you want.” He gently tucks your hair behind your ear, cupping your cheek.

“No. I wanna go to the Han River with you,” you say, lips tugging into a pout.

Jungkook grabs the collar of his hoodie and pulls it over his head. A glimpse of his toned abdomen flashes before his black tee falls back into place. He swings the hoodie around your waist, draping it carefully before tying it snug at the front.

“Can’t drive my bike in a short skirt like this,” he explains in a mumble, smoothing the hoodie down over your butt.

“You helped me pick out this outfit this morning.”

If you’d been left alone in your anxious spiral this morning, you probably would’ve just thrown on whatever comfy thing was closest. But after Jungkook talked you down over the phone, his voice all soft and steady, you felt a little more okay. Okay enough to want to feel pretty, at least. So you stood in front of your overflowing closet, doors hanging open, letting him help you pick something out over facetime.

“Yeah well. You look pretty. I wasn’t thinking about logistics.”

You roll your eyes, but your face warms anyway. “You’re the logistics.”

“Sue me for getting distracted.” He pecks your temple, grinning as he pulls back.

Then he crouches next to the Harley, lifting the seat to reveal a small storage compartment. With a bit of manoeuvring, he pulls out a black helmet, matching his own.

He turns back to you and holds it out like it’s something delicate. “C’mere,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back gently before slipping the helmet over your head and securing the strap under your chin.

“Too tight?” he murmurs, adjusting the strap with the pads of his fingers.

You shake your head.

He grabs his own helmet from the handlebar, slipping it on with practiced ease. The engine rumbles to life with a twist of his wrist, loud and steady. He swings one leg over the bike and settles in before turning to glance at you over his shoulder. He holds his hand out to you.

“Hop on, baby.”

You take his hand, grabbing his shoulder with your other one for leverage as you climb on behind him. Your hands move to circle his middle once you’re properly sitting.

“You good?” He cranes his neck back to you, looking you over.

“Yes,” you reply, hugging his back. “Drive safely, please.”

The engine hums beneath you, the vibration slipping through your legs and settling in your chest as Jungkook coaxes the Harley onto the road.

The wind rushes past in silky ribbons, threading through your hair and curling under your skirt, making you curl closer into his back. His hoodie sways around your legs, and his scent, clean laundry and the last bit of cologne clinging to his skin, fills your lungs. You rest your cheek against the strong curve of his back.

Seoul twinkles around you in bits and pieces, like someone sprinkled glitter across the skyline. Streetlights blink down like stars with somewhere to be.

At a red light, Jungkook reaches for your hand without even looking, like it’s second nature. His fingers find yours and give them a slow, reassuring squeeze that makes your chest flutter. Then his hand drifts upward, trailing a lazy path along your arm before slipping behind him. His touch lands on your thigh, gently brushing his thumb over your skin. It’s just a small stroke, but enough to send a little spark dancing up your spine.

Eventually, the buildings thin out, replaced by the open stretch of the Han River, glistening under the city’s glow. Jungkook rolls into a quiet patch near the railing and cuts the engine.

“My mum would kill me if she knew I was riding a bike with you,” you say.

Jungkook huffs a laugh as he slips off his helmet. With a little shake of his head his hair falls back into place. “My mum would kill me for letting you ride it with me.” He turns slightly to look at you, flashing his soft dimple as he reaches to unclip your helmet.

“And yet,” you retort as he helps lift it off your head, “here we are.”

“Reckless,” he grins, brushing your hair back into place. “But cute.”

~

After a quiet walk along the river, you settle onto a bench facing the water.

“I even got a bit of the lyrics done for the song we finished producing,” you say, tucking your hands into your sleeves

Jungkook hums, slinging his arm over the back of the bench and letting it rest behind your shoulders, pulling you closer. “You need to let me listen to it.”

“I’m not giving you the song.”

“Ah, it’s always worth a try.”

“I’ll start working with you when you guys are over this...era of music you’re in right now.”

“Era of music?” Jungkook scoffs. “You find new words how to describe the fact that you don’t like the new music every time.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you whine, falling into his teasing. “It’s not that I don’t like the new music. It’s just not my type of production,” you quickly defend, truthful.

“At least let me listen to it.”

“When I’m finished you can.”

He lets out a small groan. “I’m terrible at being patient.”

“Oh, I know. Don’t have to remind me.” He’s an impatient boyfriend disguised as your number one fan (which, let’s be honest, he is). Always acting like he’s not trying that hard – when really, he’s the most obvious about it.

You roll your eyes every time he launches into a totally casual, totally unplanned, “hey, wanna show me a little something?” but you love it, every time. You love the way he sneaks into your world like that. Softly, stubbornly.

The sneaky bribes, the casual shoulder nudges, the way he tries to coax you into playing something, anything, even if it’s unfinished. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s just a late night, the two of you curled up on the couch, guitar perched on your lap, him humming half-written lyrics with his knees touching yours and a smile tucked into his voice. Songs that only live between you two.

“I’ll show it later to you,” you finally say. There’s not much of a fight when it comes to Jungkook. “Missed you.” You rest your head on his shoulder, hugging his arm.

“We should do something before my schedule gets crazy again.” Jungkook pats down his front pockets. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Like a small vacation?”

“I’d love that.”

You eye him as he slips a cigarette between his lips, cupping the flame with one hand as he lights it. The cigarette glows at the tip, smoke curling past his cheekbones and drifting in the opposite direction as he tilts his head to avoid blowing it your way. You still wrinkle your nose and lean your head away, your clutch around his arm loosening.

“You’re buying me ice cream for smoking next to me,” you mutter, half playful, half serious.

He exhales to the side again, then flicks the ash off the end with a small grin. “I was already gonna.”

You give him a look. “Not the point.”

“I know.” He tilts his head toward you, eyes tracing your face like he’s trying to read something only he can see.

You sigh, the slightest hint of annoyance seeping through, but your fingers find his again anyway, slipping between them. He’s warm, even with the breeze coming off the water. The smoke lingers in the air between you, but his scent cuts through it – familiar, stupidly comforting.

“I say we go on a weekend trip to Jeju,” Jungkook says, his gaze fixed ahead.

Your head pops up. “That seafood restaurant,” you gasp, eyes widening.

He watches you, smiling at your excitement.

“We have to go,” you say, tugging his arm. “I still think about that abalone porridge from that tiny place by the harbour, you remember? With the old lady who called us lovebirds.”

“How could I not?” Jungkook laughs. “She told me to marry you or someone else would.”

You laugh too. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Jungkook snorts, flicking the half-smoked cigarette away and stubbing it out under his shoe. He turns back to you, and you feel his finger brush over your ring finger – it's a subtle, fleeting touch, but you wouldn’t dare miss it.

“I wouldn’t ever let that happen.” He leans in, catching you in a warm kiss.

“I love you,” you murmur against his lips, then pull back slightly. “But don’t kiss me after you’ve just smoked.”

Jungkook sighs like you’ve wounded him. Dramatically. Then he leans back in, peppering kisses along your cheek, down the slope of your jaw, and onto your neck, ignoring your protests with every one.

“Jungkook,” you warn through laughter, swatting at him half-heartedly. “We’re not at home.”

“But I still love you the same.” It’s a gentle murmur against your neck, nuzzling the skin there before leaving one last kiss just below your jaw.

“Jungkook.”

He finally pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, and his teasing fades into something more softer, more quieter.

“I love the way you say my name.”

His mouth curves into the faintest smile, just slightly lifting the corner of his lips. But his eyes hold the sincerity behind his words, the soft glow of them making you feel like you’re the prettiest girl he has ever seen.

Every time Jungkook says this, you’re reminded of when you still wore uniforms and shared secrets in the quiet spaces between classes. When he said it for the first time, you thought he was poking fun at you like the others for pronouncing words differently because you grew up abroad, in the US.

He told you it sounded softer, rounder, like it meant something more when it came from you. He said it made him feel like someone safe. Someone yours.

He doesn’t say it often, but every time he does, you’re reminded of the past. And a soft, nostalgic feeling settles in your chest at the memory of fifteen-year-old Jungkook and you falling in love for the first time. It’s a bittersweet ache because when you think of that time, all you see is blue, but Jungkook was the one thing that still felt warm. Like hope tucked into a person.

And now, years later, even with everything you’ve both grown through and grown out of, that version of him still lives in moments like this. In quiet confessions and shared glances.

Heat nestles in your cheeks. You look away – straight at the river with the twinkling lights reflecting off of it. They remind you of his eyes.

“What?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, like he can’t quite place where your sudden shyness is coming from, but he’s definitely enjoying it.

“I dunno,” you mumble under your breath, hiding your face on his chest while keeping your eyes trained on the water. “I just get overwhelmed sometimes.”

“By what?”

“By how much I love you.”

“Wanna know something?”

“Hm?”

“I do too.”

You smile into his shirt, warmth blooming in your chest.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “You really know how to kill a man,” he murmurs, voice low and a little awed.

You look up at him at that.

“I love you more,” he says eventually, like it’s the simplest truth. “Like... stupid amounts. Heart-aching amounts.”

You giggle, nose scrunching. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You started it.” He peers down at you, eyes soft. “Now let me be in love with you in peace.”

“I’ll let you love me in peace after we get snacks.”

“Will I ever witness a day where you don’t want something sweet?”

“Nuh-uh.” You shake your head with exaggerated seriousness. “The day can’t successfully end until you’ve had a sweet treat.”

“I actually think you’re singlehandedly keeping the candy industry alive.”

“I should be thanked, honestly.”

You rise to your feet, brushing invisible dust off your skirt as you stand in front of him. Jungkook doesn’t move right away. His eyes trail down to your legs, then to the hem of your skirt, fingers reaching out to tug it just a little lower with that automatic protectiveness he tries (and fails) to hide.

“You’re not cold, baby?” he asks, nodding toward his hoodie tossed over the bench behind him.

“No, I’m okay.”

Still sitting, he tugs you gently by the hips until you’re standing between his knees. His hands find your waist like magnets, thumbs stroking slow circles against the sliver of skin where your top has ridden up.

“I like this spot,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your stomach, right above your belly button. You flinch a little, giggling, fingers slipping into his thick hair.

“You’re such a menace,” you say, voice light, but you don’t pull away.

“And you’re so pretty,” he says, looking up at you from where he’s still crouched against your tummy. His eyes are warm, sparkling. “Like... dangerously pretty. You know that?”

You bite your lip. “Stop.”

“I’m serious.” He rests his chin just above your waistband, arms looping around the back of your thighs like he’s not letting go anytime soon. “Sometimes I think you’re not even real.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hold back your smile. “That’s what people say right before they do something stupid.”

He grins up at you, squeezes your thigh just enough to make you squeak. “Then I must be about to do something really stupid.”

“I feel like that’s something for home. Not public.”

“You think so?” He tilts his head slightly.

“Jungkook.” It’s meant to be a chiding. But instead, it escapes softer than you intended, more like a puff of air. Like we shouldn’t but I wanna know anyway. Like stop talking... but actually, no – keep going please.

Instead of backing off like any reasonable person would, he smirks, then has the audacity to give your butt the lightest squeeze, fingers quick and shameless.

You squeal, jumping back. “Jungkook!”

Flashing you a smile that’s somehow both innocent and guilty, he casually grabs his hoodie from the bench and stands up.

You stare at him, half scandalized, half trying not to smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Come on,” he says, slinging the hoodie over one shoulder glancing over at you with that smug softness that drives you crazy. “You wanted snacks, no?” He grabs your hand.

You narrow your eyes, but your feet already fall into step beside his.

~

It’s not a long walk until you reach the next convenient store.

“It looks kinda busy in there,” you tell Jungkook, peering through the glass. “I’ll just run in real quick. You can wait out here.”

Jungkook squints into the store, brows furrowed. “Who’s in there? I don’t want you going in alone if there’s some creeps.”

You roll your eyes and nudge him with your elbow. “It’s just a group of girls. Relax,” you say. “What do you want?”

He pulls his black card from his pocket. “Nothing for me. Just treat yourself, baby.”

You snatch the card from his hand. “Don’t mind if I do.”

~

You exit the store with a slightly overstuffed plastic bag tugging at your wrist. Being a girl who loves snacks, is hopelessly indecisive – and has her boyfriend’s black card – is a dangerous combo.

Jungkook tilts his head, trying to sneak a look inside the bag. “What’d you get?”

“Too much to name,” you say breezily, fishing out the ice cream resting right on top. “Got this for us, though.” It’s the ice cream that comes with two sticks so you can snap it in half and share. “I always think of you when I see this,” you admit, passing him one half after cracking it down in the middle.

“Ah, I didn’t want to eat any sweets today.”

“Too late,” you tease, nudging it closer to his mouth. “You already kissed me, so that’s off the table.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “That counts?”

“It absolutely does.” You raise your brows. “Now eat, please.”

He leans forward and takes a small bite straight from your hand. “Happy now?”

“Very much so.” You swipe the pad of your finger over a smudge of ice cream at the corner of his mouth, then lick it off with a grin.

He huffs a quiet laugh, head tilting as he watches you with that impossibly fond look. “You’re trouble.”

“Says you!”

With a sigh, he takes it from you. “You’re only getting away with this because you’re cute.”

“I know.” You smile around the ice cream in your mouth. “I can’t have a boyfriend who says no to a sweet treat.”

You fall into step beside him, walking slowly as you both nibble at the halves in your hands.

“I’m dieting.”

“For what?”

He doesn’t answer, just shrugs, proving your point.

That’s when your mind slips, just a little, to all the ways you used to be like this. All the self-destructive habits he had to gently pry from your grip. Jungkook has saved you many times. And you want to be there for him just as much he was there for you when no one chose you. When he was the only one who saw you – really saw you – and still chose to stay.

You reach for his hand, linking your fingers through his.

“I feel like sometimes you live your life like it’s harder than it has to be. Like you’re holding yourself back, setting rules that you don’t have to follow.”

Jungkook lets out a quiet breath. “I know,” he mutters, squeezing your hand. “You’re the first person who made me think maybe I deserve ease too. You make it feel okay to slow down.”

“Am I?” you ask sceptically. You hope you do, but are you actually?

He tips his ice cream in your direction.

You laugh. “Baby steps.”

You glance up at him. He’s licking his ice cream, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth like he doesn’t even realize it’s there. It makes your chest ache a little. In that sweet way.

“Jungkook?”

His head turns slightly, face lit soft by the golden glow of a nearby streetlamp. His eyes flick to you, a soft, curious glint catching in them as your gaze meets his. You lean your head against his arm.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for sticking with me through every version of myself.”

It’s a thought that catches you off guard – maybe not entirely, you’re not sure – but suddenly it’s there, clear and undeniable. A reminder that, through every change, every version of yourself, he’s never left. Whether you’ve been at your best or your worst, he’s always stayed. And sometimes, it’s hard to wrap your mind around the fact that someone can love you through all of that.

“There’s never been a version I didn’t love,” he says quietly, like it’s not something he even has to think about.

Your heart stumbles a little, eyes stinging in that warm, fuzzy way that only he can cause.

“You make it really easy, you know,” he adds, brushing his thumb gently across the back of your hand. “Loving you. I don’t even think about it. I just do.”

You blink up at him, lips twitching into the kind of smile that only he gets to see. “I still don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

He tugs you closer to him, your sides brushing with each step.

“You existed.”

[littlelovelunette]

Hellooo, could I request a reader getting over a heart break and deciding to wear her sluttiest outfit to go out drinking and Sevika who can’t keep her eyes off her cause she’s wearing a short skirt that barely covers her ass?

Eye-Fucking Ya’

Sevika x Recently Broken-Up!Reader

Sex with plot, fingering in a bathroom stall, fondling and kissing, teasing, Reader is a mood, mentions of being caught, biting and hickeys.

Even though, you missed your ex dearly you forced yourself out of it. Your friends had been blasting your cell for the past hour, trying to get you out of your little depressed shell.

"Let's go get drinks," one of them had suggested but you were skeptical. Should you?

As you showered, the cold water cascaded down your frame. You sighed a little, picking up the shower gel resting on the rack, you squirted some on your hand. "Maybe I should go." You mumbled to yourself.

Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea after all, you did need the time outside. You'd been drowning yourself in work to distract yourself from the pain of your breakup. With a groan, you wiped your hand off on the towel and grabbed your phone using your other hand to part the shower curtains.

As you picked your phone up, you saw there were around 26 missed calls from your friends. "Hey," you gingerly put the phone to your ear.

"Hi, girl! We've been calling for hours! Why are you ghosting us?" Kayla asked, you could hear the other girls giggling in the background. Of course, they were probably getting their nails done for their outing today.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see the messages, I've been off my phone since the morning." You replied, looking at your sleep deprived reflection on the mirror. Your eyes were swollen and bloodshot from crying.

"Off your phone? Are you okay, girlie?" Kayla asked, her voice lowering in worry.

"Yeah... Just a hard time coping after the breakup, I guess." You answered, using your other hand to prode at your own face as if testing the skin.

"That's why we keep tellin' you! Come to Last Drop and have a drink with us. Maybe dress up a little and you might even get laid." Kayla said, her tone taking a suggestive turn.

"Get laid? I don't want sex right now. I'm barely even outta the woods." You laughed bitterly.

"Oh, c'mon, maybe just dress up for us girls then, okay?"

"Yeah, okay fine."

You both paused and you could hear Kayla asking the other girls if they could delay their outing so you get off your work shift and join them. The others sounded so excited you'd be there— so much so that you almost felt guilty for cancelling on them so many times earlier because you were busy grieving your breakup.

"Does 8 pm work for you?" Kayla asked.

"It's a bit late but uh, yeah. It's not like I'll be having company rather than y'all anyway," you laughed slightly.

"Maybe soon," Kayla said, letting her words linger before she cut the call with a last, "See ya' there!"

You pulled the shower curtain back and put your phone on the counter again, resuming your shower silently as you thought what you'd wear. You couldn't think of any bar-worthy outfit in your closet. You'd thrown most of them out anyway because they no longer fitted you.

As you stepped out of the bathroom in a towel, you rummaged through your closet only to find a very short black dress. You sighed softly and tried it on, it barely covered the swell of your ass. You tried to pull the hem down more but it didnt budge. You groaned, turning to see your butt in the mirror. Well, it did look good.

You shrugged, zipping the dress off and putting it on a hanger so you could dress for your job first. You left the room, phone in hand and key jingling from the little ring on your belt. Work was the usual, serving tables and sucking down the inappropriate even hurtful remarks of paying customers. And Karens. You were grateful when your shift was over and you quickly walked to your house to get ready. It was 6 pm by the time you reached. You didn't take long to get ready, putting out hair up so you could flash those shoulders.

You put the black dress on, it was a sleek, satin dress with spaghetti straps and a cowl neckline. The daring side cutouts were pretty much flashing most of your skin anyway, the chains that adorned them barely covered and only added to decor. You put on some long silver earrings and sighed, "Bold or natural?" You asked yourself as you opened your eyeshadow palette. After a while of contemplating you decided one night of a bold smokey eyeshadow couldn't go wrong.

You left your house in a leather jacket that covered your body just right, heels clicking as you walked down the pavement of Zaun. The cold night air licked your skin and gave you goosebumps, but you tried to ignore it. When was the last time you actually felt independent since that toxic relationship of yours that fell apart? You don't remember.

When you opened the door to Last Drop, you immediately noticed the table your friends were seated at. They were chattering loudly as they ordered drinks. Kayla spotted you and waved at you obnoxiously as if they were hard to miss.

Sevika wasn't one to ogle, she never did. In fact, it was almost always the other way around so she didn't bother trying hard when it came to women. But seeing the way your butt squished against your seat seemed to shake her the wrong way.

"Fuck, who's she?" Sevika questioned one of the henchmen. He took a long stare at your figure before looking back at Sevika with a shrug.

Sevika groaned and finished her game of poker before she got up, walking upto the bar to get a drink refill. The bartender refilled her glass without her needing to ask him to. She turned, elbow leaning against the bar as she looked at your frame. "She's smokin' hot," Sevika thought.

"You see that?" Kayla smirked, "Silco's right hand woman is checking you out, girl!"

"No way," you glanced at Sevika who was staring at you blatantly. You couldn't decipher whether she was planning out how to murder you and bury your body or if she was just staring at you, appreciating the view.

"Go, talk to her!" Kayla said with a full blown grin.

"But Kayla, she has a history of— um— y'know paying for sex at a brothel. I'm not sure if she'd even take me seriously or just want a taste of my—"

"Hey, pretty," Sevika's voice cut you out, sounding out right behind you as she pulled up a chair, sinking down onto it causing it to let out a creak.

Her mechanical arm was well tucked away under her poncho, a soft smile playing on her lips as if she knew her charms were enough to sway you. With a nervous clearing of your throat, you answered, "Hey...." Your tone was so awkward.

"What brings you here in such an interesting outfit tonight?" Sevika asked, leaning back in her chair, legs manspread and her juicy thighs seemed like they were just asking to be sat on, claimed.

You blushed without even realising it, hiding the side of your face using your hair. As you fiddled with the hem of your dress you answered, "Just... Recently had a bad falling out with my girlfriend so, just getting my head back in the game, I guess."

"Doll, you date for fun?" Sevika crossed her legs, raising a brow. There was no judgement in her tone. Only amusement. As if any answer that you'd give her, regardless of the level of devotion, she'd still hit it with you.

"Oh, no, no," you giggled, "You got me all wrong. I date to marry."

Sevika smirked lazily, "Is that right?"

Small talk turned into deep meaningful conversations about how the both of you would spent your lives after getting married and settling down. You wanted to settle down for the purpose of starting a family. Sevika? Not so. Sevika expressed how she was sure anyone who she dated was likely to be far younger than her and so, she expected to get cheated on. It was heart shattering to hear her speak so lowly of herself, she claimed she wasn't worth the effort of love.

Suddenly, before even realising it you both were kissing in the bathroom if Last Drop, Sevika's hand was in your panties from under your dress as her fingers worked to rub your pussy in slow, determined strokes.

"Tell me, what do you need?"

"Besides a healthy relationship?" You giggled shakily, arms coming to wrap around her as you kissed her. The kiss was heated, Sevika wasn't a gentle soul normally but for you she toned down her game, taking her time to actually explore your mouth and focus on your pleasure.

You both parted for air. Well, you parted for air, Sevika could keep going. She continued nipping down your neck, "I need your fingers." You whispered.

Sevika's thick fingers parted your pussy lips and her thumb pressed your clit while her middle and index fingers found your slit, dipping only the tips of her fingers inside. "Sevika, don't be a bitch." You said in a warning tone.

Sevika glanced up, chuckling, "Don't play around, do ya'?" She pulled you close earning a gasp from you due to the suddenness but she didn't let go, her fingers starting to pump inside your hole. "Now just imagine if someone walks in and finds us."

"Shut up," you hissed, grabbing her shoulders tightly, your nails digging into her skin as your eyes closed, "Oh, fuuuuuuck."

Your pussy clenched around Sevika's fingers, clit twitching under the calloused pad of her thumb. You were close and you knew it but you didn't wanna finish so fast and make a fool of yourself. You told yourself to hold on just a bit more.

"You're close, aren't ya'?" Sevika asked in a breathy tone, her teeth sinking down at the curve of your neck illiciting a gasp from you. She didn't stop, her teeth digging deeper and leaving an imprint of them, sucking the area to form a dark hickey.

"I am," you admitted, burying your face in Sevika's neck to muffle your moan, "Oh, right there—" Sevika curled her finger and that's all it took, you whined loudly as you came undone all over her fingers, soaking them.

"There we go, what a good girl," Sevika pulled them out with a wet schlik and took a good lick of them, maintaining eye contact with you. You flushed. "You're so sweet, pretty girl." Sevika commented as she continued licking her digits clean.

"Wanna clean up or continue?" Sevika asked, her grey eyes glinting with mischief.

"Does that offer have a bedroom version? I'm tired of standing upright, y'know."

[luveline]

hi jade I would love to see spencer post mexico with a BAU intern who’s nervous about her first few weeks, maybe he makes it his mission to see her settle in? 

ty for requesting! fem, 1.2k

“I still can’t believe I missed out on working with Aaron Hotchner.” 

Spencer nods as he stirs a spoon around his fiftieth cup of tea this week. “It’s genuinely a shame. And he worked here for more than half of the BAU’s lifespan, so if you look at it through a–”

“Mathematical standpoint?” you ask. 

“Exactly. It’s a statistical improbability to work at the BAU without him. Even when he wasn’t unit chief, he was still a profiler.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek, glaring down at a tray of coffee and tea, your note resting beside it. 

“If Aaron were here,” Spencer says, taking his spoon to the sink for a quick rinsing, “he’d tell you that you don’t have to make the coffee for everyone. You don’t have to ask who wants a cup every time you make one. That’s… not very American.” 

“Who cares about being American? I’m trying to be polite.” 

“You’re being taken advantage of.” 

“Thank you for helping.” 

Spencer has taken the tea side of things. “You’re welcome.” And he knows a part of him has changed now after the last few shitty months, a confidence at having seen the worst scenario of your life playing out while you’re completely powerless to stop it, but Spencer has friends who love him, and he’s not really as powerless as he thinks. So when he looks at you and he thinks about how worried you are every day that you aren’t doing enough to belong here, he knows he can change that. “Maybe tomorrow, you can make coffee for you and nobody else.” 

“They like me.” 

“Well, yeah, but everyone will like you tomorrow when they have to make their own coffee.” 

You slow your stirring. Under your lashes, your eyes carry a dark sort of glow, mid-lit kitchen and— Spencer doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks you might have the loveliest eyes in Virginia. “Is it really stupid of me?” you ask quietly. 

Spencer shakes his head. 

Your shoulders relax. You’re wearing this cutesy long sleeve shirt, cream with black piping along the neckline cross-crossing below your chest with a little black bow nestled at the valley, accentuating the line of your shoulders, and the lengths of your arms. Spencer tries not to stare, but you catch his looking and peer down. “What?” you ask. 

“Nothing.”

“Do I have coffee on me?” 

“No.” 

“Spencer, were you…” 

“Don’t even joke about that,” he says, glad to hear you laughing, then, to know that you know he’s not a perv. “I was just thinking that I like your blouse.” 

“Blouse. You must be older than you look, Dr. Reid.” 

“How old do I look?” 

You huff a laugh under your breath and pick up your tray of coffee. “I’m gonna start passing these out. You don’t have to do the tea, I’ll come back.” 

There’s far less tea than coffee. “No, I can do it.” 

You nod with determination and turn away. ”Thank you!” you call as you go. 

Spencer takes the tea out. The second to last is for Emily, who’s digging at her forehead with a fisted hand when he gets through the door of her office. “Hey, Em,” he says quietly. 

“Spence.” 

“Brought your tea.”

“Jesus, thank you.” 

He lingers by her desk, glancing over her things. She kept some of Hotch’s stuff before he left. Spencer knows she can’t part with the photo of the group of them at their favourite bar a few months after JJ had Henry, even if she made a bunch of jokes after Hotch left it behind. Good boss, terrible guy. How could he just leave this here? 

Spencer sees it as a passing of the baton. You’re in charge. “You okay?” 

“Headache.” 

“PMS?” 

“Sure, but you shouldn’t ask me that, Spencer,” she says, laughing and taking her mug of tea eagerly. 

“You’re always tired at the start.” 

“Can you stop? You’re being creepy.” 

“Did you want a hug?” 

Emily sips her tea. “Mm, ask me later. So, who made this?” 

“Me. Why?” 

“The new girl steeps it for too long.” 

“Come on, don’t call her that.” 

Emily’s brows rise. “I don’t. To her face, I don’t. She is the new girl, though.” 

“I think she’s more than aware of it.” 

“Oh, you have a big crush on her, huh?” Emily leans back in her chair, her dark hair curled lightly against her shoulders. “She’s pretty.” 

“If it were that easy, I’d have a crush on you.” 

“You don’t?” 

Spencer rolls his eyes lovingly. On the landing, he looks out over the office and follows you moving from desk to desk. You’re quick, and you sit at your own desk to dive back into ViCAP chores glaringly without your own cup of tea or coffee. 

Emily’s right. He does have a crush on you. But it’s not something any of his friends need to know yet. He knocks Luke’s desk lightly as he passes and grabs his tea where it’s still steaming on his own. As he comes up behind you, he notices your fingers clenching and unclenching on your thigh, the tight knot of your neck. God, he’s not good at this, but he’s gonna try. 

“Hey, angel?” he asks quietly. 

You don’t realise he’s talking to him for a few seconds, then your head tips back, and you’re all softness in the April gloom when you smile shyly. “Yeah?” 

“Tea.”

Your lips part. “Oh. Oh, thank you. I forgot my coffee.” 

“Tea has an amino acid called L-theanine. It’s rare in that it can actually cause relaxation in the body. In comparison, coffee–”

“Sucks?” 

He grins. “Sucks. S’that why you forgot yours?” 

“I forgot mine ‘cos Anderson looked like he was gonna collapse, he’s so tired. Is that my future?” 

“Maybe. But it’s worth it. If you can’t do it that’s fine, obviously, the turnover rate isn’t exactly low, Emily told you that herself. But it’s worth it, I promise.” 

You hold his gaze. “I know.” 

Spencer clasps your shoulder, tentative and deliberate at once. He feels the bone when he squeezes, but he doesn’t do it too hard. 

“Sorry about all the fuss.” 

He strokes your arm with his thumb. “It’s okay,” he says, hand falling down the curve of your shoulder to warm your upper arm, “I don’t mind it.” He takes his touch away, not necessarily because he wants to. It’s too early to know what you’re feeling; he hasn’t learned your tells or whiles yet, but he hopes he will. 

Your face drifts toward your shoulder, as though following his touch unconsciously. Spencer’s heart races like a blinker circuit at the thought. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “I appreciate it, Spencer. All your help. I really do.” 

“You’re more than welcome.” 

As he stands up, he rubs your shoulder again, a half a seconds touch he thinks Hotch would be proud of, if he were still there to see it. 

(And you —ViCAP is kicking your ass and the smell of coffee makes your head hurt, but your hot new coworker makes each day easier, ‘cos he touches like he talks. Soft, and gentle, and eager to please.)

[landologged]

Out Lapped | Part One

pairing: lando x reader

genre: toxicity, shit aint sweet sorry, like 85% porn and arguing????, its hot tho, angst? i guess, monaco beinf monaco, possessive and hot lando, readers a dumb hoe (but i get it)

description: You sure as hell didn’t expect to find yourself at Lando’s door after promising your therapist you wouldn’t see him again. But your thighs remember things your brain pretends to forget, and Monaco is a dangerous place to have free time and a hell of a lot of unresolved trauma.

So, here you are, stuck in a loop you swore you’d escaped: he wins races, goes home to her, and calls you at 2AM like you’re the reward. You know it’s toxic. You know he’s lying. But every time you try to walk away, he says your name like it still means something. And every time he touches you—you forget how to leave all over again.

WC: 19k

notes: want to preface this is extremely toxic, i dont hate magui but needed her for the plot sorry, this is not a healthy relationship its just toxic n sexy im sorry i have issues, enjoy tho xx | had to repost bc tumblr put a warning on it

You tell yourself it’s just a building. Just concrete and glass and overpriced furniture, just one of dozens of sleek high-rises dotting the cliff-edge of Monaco’s coastline like little temples to wealth. But that’s a lie you started telling before the plane even landed, and now—standing outside of his door, heat curling around your ankles and your jaw locked so tight you can feel the tension in your teeth—it’s all unraveling way too fucking fast. This isn’t just a building. This is a goddamn shrine. To every version of you that lost and begged and bled behind those walls. And the worst part is you let all of it happen. Over and over and over, like some stupid animal who keeps going back to the cage because it’s the only place she remembers how to breathe.

You stand there too long. Not knocking. Not leaving. Just standing like a goddamn idiot. Sweating in your blouse,  clutching your phone like it might ring if you squeeze hard enough, though no one’s called you in hours. You’d deleted his number. Blocked it. Then unblocked it. Then memorized it, like that made you the one in control. The gate code, too. You remembered that one without trying. 

Inside, you imagine he’s probably shirtless. Or worse—fresh out of the shower, towel slung low, smirking at his own reflection in the mirror like he’s still a teenage boy. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s got someone over. That girl he was seen with last week, or the one from before. Some Portuguese model with a body like a Victoria Secret angel and a face the camera loves. Long legs, soft mouth, always sun-kissed and unbothered. She’s been rumored with him for months—not that you’ve been reading, obviously. Not that you have the search saved. Not that you zoomed in on the photos where he’s walking three steps ahead and still somehow looks like he belongs to her.

She has no idea what he sounds like when he’s angry. No idea how fast his mood can turn—how one second he’s teasing, laughing, and the next his voice goes low and hard and mean. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be devoured by him, not kissed but taken, not fucked but owned. She’s never had to piece herself together in his bathroom afterward, thighs shaking, mascara wrecked, trying not to cry just because he simply didn’t stay.

There’s no breeze in the hallway, just stillness. Expensive stillness. Climate-controlled. Smells like fresh-cut flowers and clean linen and the faintest undercurrent of chlorine—like the building itself is trying to convince you nothing messy ever happens here. No broken glasses or slammed doors or whispered confessions between kisses that feel like the end of the world. 

The walls are paneled in soft blond wood, warm under the overheads, you shift your weight, and the tap of your heel against polished wood echoes too loud. Sharp. Embarrassing.

A laugh bubbles up uninvited. Quiet, bitter, barely audible, but still real. What the fuck are you doing here? You told your therapist—once—that you were past this. That you’d written it off for what it was: a phase, a crash, an experiment in self-destruction that just happened to have a face. His face. His voice. His hands. You’d said it with conviction. You’d almost believed yourself.

But that was when you hadn’t counted in the photo.

It wasn’t even new. Just some grainy tabloid resurrection of last summer—him holding your wrist outside the back of a club, the tension in your posture so clear it almost hurt to look at. And his face—god that fucking face. Golden tan, summer-slick skin that caught the flash of the camera like it knew exactly where to land. That haircut—fresh, sharp, fade carved clean down the sides, but the top left long, soft, curled just enough to look effortless. Like he’d rolled out of bed into a suit and made it look intentional. 

White shirt open at the throat, no tie. Slim-fit navy blazer that hugged his frame like he’d been sewn into the thing. And that expression—cool, calm, always calculated. He looked straight into the lens, jaw set, eyes unreadable, like he knew they were watching and didn’t give a single fuck about it. Like he knew you wouldn’t leave. Because you hadn’t. Not really. Not for long, and sure as hell, never for good.

You don’t knock. You can’t. Your hand hovers near the wood, fingers curled like a fist you don’t have the strength to make. You stare at the door like it might open on its own. Like maybe he’ll feel you on the other side and save you the choice.

So when the door finally opens—slow, quiet, just a few inches at first—it doesn’t feel like an invitation. It feels like a trap you’re already halfway inside.

Warm light spills out into the hallway, catching the edge of that honeyed wood paneling behind you, and suddenly you’re in it again. His world. The clean, curated silence of it. Not cold—just impersonal. Too white. Too perfect. A mirror near the entry catches the edge of his shoulder, and for one disorienting second, you see both versions of him at once.

He’s barefoot, of course. Hair damp and pushed back like he’s just gotten out of the shower or maybe just doesn’t give a shit anymore.  Black long-sleeve shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows like he’s mid-recovery from something. The fabric’s soft, lived-in, probably smells like skin and detergent. There’s a ring on his finger now—something thin and silver, catching the light as he leans one shoulder against the frame. Something that definitely wasn’t there before.

And just under his collarbone, a flash of color. Sunburn maybe. Lipstick, if you let yourself believe in worst-case scenarios. You don’t want to know. You do want to know. It burns both ways.

Behind him, the apartment stretches long and quiet. Pale floors. White cabinets. Stainless steel fridge that reflects the open-concept kitchen like a showroom. Heineken keg on the counter. DJ deck in the corner. Stacks of papers on the island that say he’s busy. Clean sink that says he’s not that busy. Trophies in the other room. Art that’s mostly just versions of himself—cars, helmets, movement frozen mid-victory.

“Well, well,” he says, mouth curling slow. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You raise an eyebrow, defaulting to sarcasm like muscle memory. “You think too much of yourself.”

He leans against the frame, lets his eyes drag over you like it’s nothing. Like it's a habit. “And yet, here you are.”

You hate how calm he sounds. How unsurprised. Like he knew. Like he felt you coming before you even booked the flight. You step forward without meaning to, past the threshold, into the coolness of the apartment that smells like bergamot and money and something darker underneath. Something familiar. Like heat after sex. Like you.

“Are you gonna say why you’re here,” he says as he closes the door behind you, voice low, smooth, almost bored, “or just continue to stand there?”

You shrug. You’re already halfway to the couch. “Didn’t think I needed a reason.”

“You always had one,” he says, following at a lazy pace. “Even when you lied about it.”

You don’t sit. You don’t take your shoes off. You just stand there in the middle of all that soft lighting and polished calm like you’re something feral that wandered in off the street. Your arms cross without thought, instinctive, defensive—like maybe if you press hard enough, you can hold yourself in. He notices. He always notices. That was the problem, wasn’t it? How seen he made you feel. Not loved. Not even wanted. Just known. 

“You look tired,” he says. Not kindly.

You stare at him. Let your eyes drag over every inch of him. The tan. The jaw. The lazy posture. The fucking confidence. You try not to let it show—how familiar it all is. How foreign it feels now. Like you’ve studied it in photos more recently than in person.  “You look the same.”

He grins. “You mean perfect?”

There it is. The smirk. The bait. The comfort in knowing exactly which part of himself still gets to you. He tosses it out like a joke, but his eyes don’t leave yours. He’s watching your mouth. Your shoulders. Your tells.

And fuck—you wish it didn’t still work. And so you do what you always do, you deflect. You roll your eyes, but the sting hits anyway. He’s always been beautiful in that arrogant, accidental way—like he never had to work for it. You always had to work for everything. But he just was. That was half the danger, all of the problem. 

“You must’ve seen the article,” you say, even though you’re not here to talk about the article. Even though this whole thing has nothing to do with whatever the press dug up and everything to do with how quiet your apartment’s been. How empty your chest’s felt. How loud he still is, in every fucking corner of your mind.

“I did,” he says, shrugging. “You looked good. Even when you’re pissed off.”

You laugh once, sharp. “You looked like a fucking asshole.”

“Branding,” he replies, with that infuriating grin, the one that used to mean you’re not really mad at me and you’re not really leaving. The one you used to fall for. The one you feel yourself slipping toward again, like gravity. Like his goddamn dog. 

You inhale through your nose, slow. Careful. Like control is something you can hold in your lungs.

“Don’t get excited,” you tell him.

He steps closer. One, then two. Not touching you. Just standing there, inches away, his presence thick as smoke. “You came back,” he murmurs. “That’s all I need.”

And your heart breaks a little, just enough to make room for something worse. Because this is the part you forgot—how he looks at you. Like nothing else exists. Like you’re a secret he’s been keeping warm in his mouth this whole time. There’s something about his eyes up close. Something impossible. They make you forget all the bad endings and bruised mornings. They make you think you might want it again. That maybe the problem was never him. Maybe it was you. Maybe you were too scared to be kept.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, voice raw around the edges. But it’s not a real protest.

He moves like he hears it for what it is. Like he knows the thread is already pulled, and you’re unraveling in his hands. He steps closer. Close enough that his breath ghosts against your cheek. Close enough that you can feel the burn of him without needing to touch. But then he does touch—just one hand, slow and certain, curling around your hip like he’s staking a claim he never stopped believing in.

“You always say that right before you kiss me,” he says, low, like a dare he already knows you’ll take.

Your breath catches. Just a subtle hitch in your chest that betrays you more than any yes ever could. Your mouth parts like instinct, like muscle memory, like maybe it remembers how good it felt to fall apart under his mouth. His hand moves, slow. Deliberate. Thumb grazing over the front of your shirt, dragging downward. Just enough to make your skin burn under the fabric. It’s not a grope. It’s worse than a grope. It’s casual. Familiar. Possessive in the quiet way that says I’ve had you like this before, and I will again.

His touch isn’t asking. It’s remembering. You swallow. Your heart's trying to crawl up your throat. You should move. Should say something colder, sharper, final. Instead, you just breathe out—

“Don’t.”

Barely audible. Not even a command. Just a plea. God, you’re an idiot.

He tilts his head, like he wants to get a better angle on your mouth. His nose almost brushes yours. The space between you contracts until it’s only breath and tension and history.

“Don’t what?” he asks, and his voice has that low, slanted softness—curious, cruel. Like he knows exactly what you meant but wants to hear you struggle to say it. The kind of voice that used to unravel you in dark corners, in backseats, in beds that didn’t belong to either of you.

He leans in. Just a little. Enough that you feel the heat of his breath against your mouth—warm, embarrassingly warm, laced with mint and something sweeter underneath. Familiar. Him. That exact blend you used to chase in the dark like a hit you didn’t want to quit. It makes your knees weaken. Your jaw tighten. Your pride splinter.

Your eyes flick to his lips. Mistake. They’re right there. Parted. Wet. Waiting. And the space between you shrinks until it feels like a trick.

“Don’t make this something it’s not,” you manage, barely above a whisper, every word scraped from the raw edge of restraint.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans in further, and fuck—his mouth grazes yours. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a ghost of one. A threat.

His voice is so rough now—like it’s been worn down by every time he’s said your name in the dark. “You mean something it is.”

You shiver, and you hate that he feels it. You want to hold out. You want to keep control. You want to say something biting, something final, something that makes him feel the way you’ve felt since he let you go. But then he exhales—slow, hot, right against your tongue. And just like that, you’ve lost.

You kiss him, hard. Desperate. Like a dam breaking. Your hands are in his hair, dragging him in, and his body collides with yours like he’s been holding back since the moment you walked in. It’s all heat, no space. His mouth opens against yours and the taste of him hits like hunger—like rage, like missing something for too long. You chase it. You give him your teeth, your tongue, your breath. He takes all of it like it’s owed.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, your ass, sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the skin he used to fall asleep on like he’s checking to make sure it’s still his. You make a sound in your throat, somewhere between shock and surrender, and he groans into it—deep, guttural—like he’s been waiting months to hear it again.

He pushes you back until your spine kisses the wall, the impact muffled by the heat rolling off him. And you—God—you don’t even think. Your legs part without hesitation, hips tilting, instinctive. You wrap them around him like that’s where they’ve always belonged, thighs locking tight as his hands slide lower. And then you feel it—how hard he already is against you, thick through his pants, straining with a pressure that feels dangerous. You gasp. His hips grind forward, slow and deliberate, dragging that heat against the softest part of you. All muscle. All him.

He’s solid everywhere, unyielding, his abs pressed tight against your stomach, his chest hot through the thin fabric of your shirt. You can barely breathe. He’s all around you, above you, inside you already without even being there yet.

“You miss me?” he growls into your mouth.

You don’t answer. Your answer’s in the way you arch into him, nails raking down his back, pulling his shirt up and over his head like you need to feel every inch. It hits the floor. He’s warm and solid and panting.

“You fucking miss me,” he says again, dragging his mouth down your throat, sucking hard enough to mark.

You nod. A tiny motion. Barely there. Then—brrzt. brrzt.

His phone. 

You freeze. Just for a second, enough for the thoughts to collect. Lando, however, keeps going. Grinding against you harder. Hand shoved between your thighs, fingers pressing through denim like he wants to rip it off with his teeth.

brrzt. brrzt.

“Your phone,” you pant.

“Fuck it,” he mutters. “Ignore it.”

It buzzes again. Long this time. He doesn’t even look. Just lifts you higher, his mouth dragging over your jaw, your cheek, back to your lips. “Come back to bed,” he whispers against you. “Let me show you how much you fucking missed me.”

Your heart stutters. The phone won’t stop. You twist your face away, breathing hard. “Answer it.”

He growls low in his throat. Frustrated. Presses his forehead to yours. “It’s nothing.”

brrzt. brrzt.

You push against his chest. Gently. Not to stop. Just enough to see his face. “Lando. Just—answer it.”

Silence stretches. He stares at you. Jaw tense. Then—without a word—he reaches into his pocket and pulls the phone out. Glances at the screen. Jaw flexes again. You see it before he hides it.

Magui? The model. He doesn’t answer right away. Just holds the phone like it’s radioactive. Then, slowly, he presses accept. Puts it on speaker and doesn’t look at you.

“Lando? Where are you?” her voice asks, soft, breathy, sweet like something that doesn’t know how sharp the blade is. “You said you’d come back.”

Your stomach drops. Something ugly twists in your chest. He looks at you. Finally. Lips parted. Chest heaving. Guilt doesn’t even register on his face.

And you—you just stand there, legs still wrapped around his hips, his hand still under your shirt, his mouth still wet from your kiss.

Listening. Like a fucking idiot. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until it starts to burn. His name is still hanging in the air between you, but you’re not looking at him anymore—you’re staring at the phone, your body gone still in his hands, your heart pounding like it’s trying to scream over her voice.

You said you’d come back. He doesn’t say anything. Not to her. Not to you. And then she says it. Soft. So soft you almost miss it.

I love you.

Your brain doesn’t register it right away. It glitches. Like static. Like maybe it wasn’t real. Like maybe your ears are just cruel. You blink, but your face doesn’t move. Your jaw’s locked so tight it feels like your teeth might break.

And he—he just ends the call. Like that. Like nothing. No goodbye. No excuse. No tone shift, no sigh. Just a tap of his thumb and the silence is back, louder than before.

Your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You look at him, really look, and you don’t know what the fuck you’re expecting. Remorse? A joke, maybe? Something to soften the way that name is still ricocheting around your skull like a pinball.

But he just breathes—deep, shuddering, like he’s swallowing down the instinct to pull you back in. Like it physically costs him to let go. His chest rises too fast, too hard, like he’s been running, like holding you against him took something out of him. His breath hits your cheek in short bursts, humid and sharp, laced with the taste of everything you almost let happen. It’s the kind of breathing that isn’t just from need—it’s from restraint. Barely-there control. Like his whole body is buzzing with the effort not to drag you right back against the wall and finish what you started.

You slide off of him. Feet hitting the floor like reality. You fix your shirt automatically, hands shaking, lips buzzing from where his mouth had been, skin hot and damp and stupid.

“Are you serious?” Your voice comes out raw.

He watches you, eyes dark, unreadable.

“She—she loves you,” you spit, breath catching as you take a shaky step back, heart still racing, hands still curled into fists. “She said that and you just—what the fuck was that?”

He exhales sharp through his nose, then drags a hand through his hair—fast, rough, like he’s trying to get a grip on something he can’t hold. His curls fall right back into place, but his jaw’s tight, his eyes flicking toward the floor like maybe he’s trying not to look at you. “She doesn’t mean it.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

He exhales, sharp through his nose. “She doesn’t know me like you do.”

“That’s the problem,” you snap. “She doesn’t know what you are.”

“And you do,” he says, voice quiet. Still dangerous. “So why are you here?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again, and this time it’s just a laugh. Ugly. Bitter. “Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what? Don’t realize what this is? That I’m your dirty little relapse while your soft little girlfriend plays house and says I love you into your voicemail?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he barks. Too fast. Too defensive.

You stare him down, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t say that a second ago.”

He comes toward you and you stumble back.

“No,” you say. “Fuck no. You don’t get to touch me right now.”

He freezes. Stops dead, just a foot from you, close enough to feel the heat of him, too far to do anything about it. His chest rises and falls like he’s running—he’s not. He’s just feeling too much, too fast, too late.

“Look at me,” he says.

You don’t. You stare at the floor like it might save you. Like if you don’t meet his eyes, you won’t fall back into the same goddamn loop that’s already eaten you alive twice over.

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You flinch, but you don’t move away. Of course you don’t. Because part of you is still standing in the wreckage hoping he’ll lie to you sweet enough to make it okay. His touch is soft now. Thumb tracing your cheek, then dragging down your throat, slow and reverent, like he’s memorizing you again.

“She doesn’t know what I sound like when I’m inside you,” he murmurs.

Your knees almost give out.

“She doesn’t know how you taste when you come.”

Your stomach flips, hard. Heat coiling down your spine, settling between your legs.

“She doesn’t know how wet you get for me, even when you hate me.”

Your thighs clench—reflex, muscle memory, betrayal. His grin brushes your cheek without even forming. He doesn’t need to see it. He feels it. He steps closer. Just one inch. But it’s all it takes. His mouth brushes your ear, hot breath curling into your neck.

“But you do,” he whispers. “Don’t you?”

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe. Just to pretend.

His hand slides under your shirt again. Palm flat over your stomach, fingers splayed, dragging up—slow, heavy, deliberate. Every inch he takes feels like a claim. Like he’s reminding your skin who it belongs to. He reaches your ribs. Stops there. Presses in. Just enough to make you feel the weight of it. The heat. The power.

You should pull away. You want to pull away. But your body’s already arching into it. Already melting.

“You’re not some side piece,” he says, low and rough, his mouth dragging along your jaw. “You’re not a fucking mistake. You’re the one I can’t seem to get over.”

You shake your head. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

His mouth finds yours again. Softer this time. Slower. Like he’s trying to rewrite the last five minutes with his tongue. Like if he kisses you deep enough, long enough, you’ll forget her name. Forget what she said. Forget what you heard.

You moan into it. God help you.

He lifts you again. You let him. Your legs wrap around his hips like they never left. He presses you back into the wall and grinds against you, and you’re gasping again, already soaked through your jeans, shame melting into heat like sugar over flame.

“You still want me,” he says. “Even after all this.”

You nod before you can lie. Before you can save face. Because the truth is—it’s not that you want him. It’s that you need him. Like air, you want him more than anything else.  And when his hand slips down, tugging open your fly, fingers sliding beneath the fabric like a claim, you whimper.

Because this isn’t healing. This is a fucking possession, and worst of all you’re still letting him in.

His fingers are in your jeans, dragging them down with that reckless one-handed pull like he can’t wait anymore. As if he’s been fucking starved. The denim catches at your knees, then your ankles, and you almost trip trying to step out of them, but he catches you—of course he catches you—because the fall is always part of the game with him.

“You still get wet for me so fast,” he murmurs, thumb pressing into your underwear, slow circles right over where he knows you’re already soaking. “Just like that. Just like you used to. I didn’t even have to try.”

Your breath hitches. Shame and arousal flood through you in equal measure, but it’s not enough to stop you. He watches you fall apart with that cocky, ruined grin—like he’s proud of what he does to you, but not even remotely surprised.

“Bet you touch yourself thinking about this,” he adds. “About my mouth. About my cock.”

Your mouth opens to protest, but he slips a finger beneath the fabric and slides through you—wet, thick, slow—and your entire brain short-circuits. Your knees buckle and he fucking laughs, low and mean and gorgeous.

“You’re so full of shit,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You don’t mean any of this.”

His mouth finds yours again, teeth scraping your lip. “Maybe,” he says against your tongue. “But it’s working, isn’t it?”

You shove his chest, but it’s not a real push. It’s nothing. You’re already grinding against his hand, thighs trembling, cunt clenching around his fingers as he adds another. The stretch burns in the best way. Your head falls back against the wall.

“Lando—”

“I missed this pussy,” he cuts in, voice rough now, his own breathing ragged. “Fuck. I thought about it every time she opened her mouth. Had to stop myself from saying your name when I came.”

That hits like a slap. Your jaw drops, your stomach lurches, but the worst part—the most humiliating part—is how much wetter you get hearing it. You hate him. Hate yourself more. He drops to his knees before you can think. Yanks your underwear down and apart like he owns it, spreads you open with both hands and groans when he sees how wrecked you are.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” he mutters. “You’re dripping. Look at that. She’s got no fucking clue.”

Then his mouth’s on you. You cry out, hands flying to his hair, trying to push him away and pull him in all at once. His tongue is relentless—circling, flicking, sucking your clit with practiced, hungry precision—and your thighs are already shaking. His fingers pump into you hard, steady, curling just right. It’s disgusting how fast you’re close. How desperate you are. How your hips are fucking chasing his mouth like he’s the only thing you’ve ever needed.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks, voice muffled against you. “Show me how bad you still want it?”

You nod frantically, too far gone to pretend. He chuckles darkly. “Then fucking do it. Let her hear you next time she calls.”

And then he sucks, hard, and everything inside you snaps. Your legs shake, your vision whites out, your body jerks against him with a guttural, broken moan that you couldn’t stop if you tried. You’re still shaking when he stands. Licks his lips, smug. Unbuttons his jeans like it’s nothing.

“Still think I don’t mean it?” he asks, pulling his cock out, hard and leaking, dragging it against your thigh. 

You should run. But instead you grab his face and kiss him again—deep, messy, tasting yourself on his tongue—because if you’re gonna go down, you’re gonna burn on the way.

“Shut up,” you whisper against his mouth.

He grins like he’s already won. Next thing you know your panties are hanging from one ankle, forgotten. He’s panting into your mouth, hand gripping the back of your neck like he wants to fuck you with your face pressed against the wall and your spine bent backwards. His cock is hard against your thigh, leaking, twitching, so ready, and your nails are in his skin, already dragging, already marking.

Then he pulls back.

“Hold on,” he mutters, breathless, and turns away.

You blink. Chest heaving. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer. Walks toward the bedroom. Opens a drawer. You don’t move, frozen in that second of hot disbelief, like maybe you didn’t just see what you saw.

Then he comes back. With a condom. And your blood boil over, you were going to fucking murder him. You stare at the plastic like it had personally slapped you. 

“Seriously?” you spit in utter disbelief. 

He shrugs, casual, tone light like it won’t explode the whole fucking moment. “What? Just being careful.”

“Careful?”

He shrugs again, tearing the foil open with his teeth, cock still hard in his hand. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”

The silence that follows doesn’t hang—it slams down between you. Sucks the oxygen out of the air. You just stare. Your mouth doesn’t work. Your chest doesn’t move. Rage rises slow in your throat, heavy and hot, turning your blood molten. It crawls up the back of your neck, behind your eyes, makes your vision pulse at the edges.

You take a step. Then another. Close enough to see your own slick glinting on his skin. And then your hand flies. The slap cracks across his face—flesh to bone, skin to heat—and his head snaps with the force of it. The sound ricochets off the walls, brutal and final.

He doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t flinch.

He just laughs. Low. Dark. That sharp, broken sound that says fuck yes. Mean. Worse, turned on.

“Oh, that’s what does it for you?” he breathes, eyes flicking back to you, wild now. “Getting offended that I don’t assume you’ve been sitting at home like a fucking nun?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“So are you,” he snaps back, grabbing your face with one hand, gripping your jaw. “But you’re the one who keeps coming back. Not her. You, princess.”

You’re both panting. Still half-dressed. Still drunk on whatever shit-show occurs whenever you two are in the same room. 

“You think I’m letting you fuck me with a condom now?” you hiss. “After all this? Go fuck yourself.”

“You’d rather I come in you just to prove a fucking point?” he growls.

“Yeah,” you snap. “I fucking would.”

He doesn’t put it on. He just lets it fall. Condom hits the floor with a whisper and then he’s on you—slamming you back against the wall with the weight of his whole body, his mouth crushing yours, tongue and teeth and spit, hands everywhere, gripping your thighs, your ass, your jaw like he can’t decide what part of you he wants first.

He’s cursing into your throat, your name half-spoken—spit out—like a threat, like worship, like an apology he doesn’t fucking mean.

And then—

He shoves into you.

Raw. Bare. Deep.

You gasp—no, scream—your legs snapping tight around his waist, head thudding back against the wall as your body stretches around him with that slick, aching slide that feels like pain, like home, like fuck, finally.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t check if you’re okay. Doesn’t have to. Your nails are already dragging down his back, hips tilting into his like your body’s starving. He grabs your ass and drives into you again, again, harder—grinding deep like he’s trying to split you open and crawl inside.

You bite his shoulder. He groans loud, then fucks you harder.

“This what you wanted?” he snarls. “This what you fucking needed?”

“Yes,” you moan, breath caught, body stretched and shaking. “Yes, yes—fuck, yes.”

He pulls out mid-thrust and drags you down the hall, arms still locked under your thighs. You’re dizzy, dripping down his stomach, mind gone. Then he kicks the balcony door open.

You jolt. “Are you serious—”

It’s too late. The breeze hits your sweat-slick skin. Warm air, salty from the sea, cool on your flushed face. He presses you to the glass, your chest against it, city lights glittering like stars below, and pushes back inside you in one brutal stroke.

You scream. Palm slaps the window. He fucks you like he wants Monaco to watch.

“You don’t care if anyone sees, do you?” he hisses, snapping his hips. “Fucking exhibitionist slut.”

You’re moaning into the glass, fogging it up with your breath, clawing at the railing.

“Say it,” he growls into your ear. “Say you like getting fucked in front of the world.”

You can’t even form words.

“You’re mine,” he snarls. “Say it.”

His hands grip your hips like handles, like he’s steering the whole scene, and your face is pressed to the cool glass, moaning open-mouthed against your own reflection. You can barely see the city anymore—just streaks of light and shadow and your own shame, smeared across the surface in fogged breath and desperation. Your knees are going numb. Your thighs burn. You can’t stop clenching around him.

He’s fucking brutal now. Deep. Deliberate. Each thrust hitting with the full weight of him—hips slamming into your ass, chest flush to your back, breath hot and ragged in your ear.

You shudder. Grip the railing, knuckles white, thighs shaking. And all it takes is one more thrust—one more brutal drag of his cock inside your soaked, ruined cunt—and your body fucking shatters. You come with a sob that scrapes your throat raw, clenching down on him, pulsing so hard it feels like you’re trying to pull him deeper.

“Fucking—fuck—I’m gonna cum in you,” he grits, voice torn, no space for permission, no pause for protest.

You don’t say no. You can’t.

He slams forward one last time and stays there—buried to the base, cock twitching inside you, and then he lets go.

You feel it hit. Feel him spill, thick and hot, spilling into you without hesitation, no condom, no fucking thought. Just heat. Just need. Just him.

His entire body shudders against yours, mouth open against your shoulder, groaning low and wrecked, every pulse a brand.

It’s silent for a moment after. Just heavy breathing and the muffled throb of music echoing up from the street below. You can feel him softening inside you. Feel him pulling out, slow. Lazy. Like he’s done. Your legs shake. You press your forehead to the glass, body humming, raw and wrecked.

And when you turn—he’s already walking away. Without a single word, he begins adjusting his waistband. Grabbing a towel. Scrubbing his face like he just finished a workout. Not even a glance back in your direction.

You blink. Still half-naked. Still leaking.

Still there.

“Lando,” you say. Quiet. Maybe it’s not even his name—it’s a plea. A question.  He doesn’t respond. Just walks into the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Drinks straight from a bottle of water like your body wasn’t just wrapped around him minutes ago.

That’s when it hits. The shift. The drop. On queue. You wrap your arms around your chest. The breeze brushes your thighs, sticky and exposed, and you feel it—his cum sliding out of you, running down your inner leg in a humiliating heat.

You feel empty. Not the kind that hums. Not the kind that settles sweet and fucked-out in your bones.

No. This is raw. Open. Like something vital’s been scooped out and left behind. You’re still dripping from him. Still shaking, breath catching in your throat like a secret you didn’t mean to tell. Your legs are barely holding. Your heart’s trying to pretend it’s fine.

He leans against the counter. Phone in hand. Scrolling. Laughing under his breath at something you’re not a part of.

Like he didn’t just fuck your soul out against the glass. Like you didn’t say yes to all of it.

And now—he’s done. And you’re just there. Still wanting. Waiting. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, barefoot and half-naked, the breeze licking at the mess between your thighs, spine still curved from where he bent you against the glass. The city glows on without you. Somewhere below, people are drinking champagne and laughing under golden light. The world keeps turning. You peel yourself off the railing. Limbs heavy. Walk stiffly back inside, legs aching from the way he held you open like a vice. You grab your jeans from the floor and pull them up without really thinking, fabric clinging to sweat and everything he left inside you. You’re dizzy. It doesn’t feel real. Or maybe it feels too real. Like the high’s just starting to rot from the inside out.

He’s still in the kitchen. Shirtless, scrolling. Water bottle on the counter, beads of condensation sliding down the side. He hasn’t looked at you once.

You watch him for a second, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold your insides in. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just scrolls.

You clear your throat.

“I… guess that’s it, then?”

His eyes flick up. Casual. No longer interested.

“Thought that’s what you came for,” he says. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just flat, just honest.

Dismissive. Like the fuck was the favor. Like this was a transactional itch, not a relapse that shattered something in you.

You blink. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He goes back to his phone.

You step forward. One bare foot against the marble tile, cold and slick beneath your toes. “So what now?”

“Now nothing.”

He says it like it’s funny. Like you’re the one being too dramatic. Like you didn’t just let him inside you. Like you’re not still stretched around the memory of him.

Your stomach tightens.

Of course. Of course. Because his is how it’s always been, isn’t it? Because he fucks you, and then he pulls away. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. Every time. He rolls off. Goes quiet. Distracted. Picks up his phone like your body didn’t just bend around him like it remembered how. Like you didn’t give him everything—again. And on the rare nights he let you stay, he wouldn’t touch you after. Wouldn’t hold you. Wouldn’t even turn toward you in the bed. Like warmth was permission. Like kindness meant commitment. God forbid he see you after.

And still, you stayed. Every fucking time. Still hoping that one day he’d kiss you on the forehead instead of just your mouth. That he’d trace your back after instead of zipping his pants. That he’d make breakfast. That he’d ask you how you felt.

But he never did. He never wanted that part. And still—you came.

“I came here because of that photo,” you say, quietly. “Because I thought—fuck—I don’t know, I thought maybe we should talk. About what we were. About what we never really finished.”

That gets a reaction, but not the one you want. He exhales sharply, smirks at the counter. Shakes his head.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Your jaw tenses. “No. I’m not.”

He sets the phone down, finally looks at you, and the look is pure Lando—half exasperated, half smug, like he’s above it all. Like he’s already out of reach again.

“What did you think this was?” he says. “Closure? A love story?”

Your throat closes up. You swallow hard. “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t think. Okay? I just missed you.”

The words feel pathetic in the air. He tilts his head. “Yeah, and now you don’t have to.”

And that’s it. That’s fucking it. No tenderness. No gratitude. No I-missed-you-too or it’s-complicated or even a lie to soften the blow.

Just that. He picks his phone up again. You start to say something—maybe don’t make me feel used, maybe tell me this wasn’t nothing, maybe just lie to me—but you stop.

Before you can even finish inhaling, he’s pressing the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he says, soft.

So. Fucking. Soft.

Your heart caves. It doesn’t break. It caves. Like something imploding from the inside out. It’s not the volume of his voice—it’s the tone. The shift. Like he’s wiping you off his skin and putting on someone else’s smile.

He turns his back to you, leans against the counter. “Yeah… I know. I’m sorry, baby.”

You just stand there. Your arms still crossed, but now it’s because if you don’t hold yourself together, you’ll fucking fall apart. You feel the cum drying between your legs. You feel it leaking into your jeans. You feel like a mistake wearing your own skin.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Just had to handle something real quick.”

Your breath stutters. You’re not a person. You’re not even a memory. You’re a thing he had to handle.

He glances over his shoulder. Sees you still standing there. He turns back, still murmuring sweet nothings into the phone, and you’re left standing in the middle of the room with your mouth full of dust and your thighs still slick with the lie you let back in.

You stare at the back of him, phone cradled to his ear, voice soft in that way you haven’t heard in months—not since he used to call you at 1AM, whispering like a promise. He’s murmuring something now. You catch pieces. Missed you too. No, just tired. I’ll come by tomorrow. Yeah, I will.

The words don’t even hurt as much as the tone. That casual affection. The tenderness you’ll never get again.

Your body aches. Not from pleasure, not anymore. From the aftermath. From the sharp reminder of how quickly he empties you out and walks away. You’re still sticky with him. Inside and out. You don’t say anything. No dramatic line. No last jab. That would give him too much. Let him think you still want a reaction. That you’re still clinging.

Instead, you start collecting your things. Quietly. Your shirt’s wrinkled where he tugged it. Your panties are still damp, shoved in your back pocket with shaking fingers. Your shoes by the door—you slip them on without a sound. Your bag. Your phone. What little dignity you can scrounge from the marble floor.

You glance back once, not because you want to, but because your body betrays you even now.

He doesn’t look. Still on the phone. Still laughing quietly. Still calling someone baby like it means something. Your throat burns. You swallow it down. You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You told yourself it was just to talk. Just to finish what never got finished. Just to say goodbye properly.

But you knew. You knew the second you saw him. This was never going to end clean. Not with him. Not with you.

You open the door. His voice fades behind you as it clicks shut. You hold your bag close to your chest as you walk down the hall, staring straight ahead, blinking fast and hard.

Because if you cry now, you’ll never stop. And he doesn’t deserve to know that he still has that power. He already knows.

You don’t even remember walking back. You must’ve called a car. Or maybe you walked half the way and then gave up. Maybe you blacked out the drive, staring out the window with your lips still swollen and your thighs still sticky with him, flinching every time a memory passed too close. Maybe you held your phone in your hand the whole time and didn’t unlock it once. You can’t remember. You don’t want to.

You’ve never felt less like a person and more like a ghost dragging her ruined body across white marble and velvet hallway carpet. Everything at the hotel is too pristince. Too quiet. No one at the front desk looks at you, but you feel like they know. You feel like you’re wearing it—like guilt is a stain bleeding through your clothes, like they can smell him on you.

You ride the elevator in silence. Your reflection stares back from the brass paneling. Eyes rimmed red. Lip a little bitten. Hair half-wrecked from where he’d fisted it. You don’t fix it. What’s the point? There’s no one left to impress. You get into the room and it feels smaller than it did this morning. Like the walls have leaned in, closing around you. You don’t turn the lights on. You just stand there for a second, letting the dark settle. Your bag slides off your shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud. Your phone clinks against the dresser when you set it down too hard. And you’re still holding your shoes.

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare into nothing. The shame doesn’t come all at once. It creeps in. Starts as a whisper behind your ribs, an ache behind your eyes, the slow, growing awareness of what you just did. And who you did it with.

Lando.

Your heart clenches at the sound of his name in your own head. Not because it’s romantic. Because it’s sick. Because you want him still. Want more. Want his mouth, his hands, his fucking voice even now—like he didn’t just toss you aside like old gum. Like he didn’t walk away mid-mess and call her. Like he didn’t say nothing when you stood there, humiliated and half-clothed.

You drag yourself to the bathroom and flick the light on. It’s too bright. Makes everything worse. The mirror is a crime scene. Your makeup is half-gone. Mascara smudged. Lipstick faded and smeared. You can still see the mark on your collarbone where he bit you. You run cold water. Cup it in your hands. Splash your face. It does nothing. You strip slowly. Shirt. Jeans. Bra. That ruined pair of panties you shoved into your back pocket like a secret. You drop them all onto the cold tile, one by one, and stand there naked, not touching the towels. Not stepping into the shower. Just standing. Letting the air hit your skin.

You feel used. Your thighs are sticky. The inside of your cunt aches, sore in that way that used to make you feel desired, but now just makes you feel stupid. You stare at the spot on your hip where he used to kiss you, back when it meant something. Back when it felt like worship instead of a routine.

Your exes never fucked you like this. Not even the worst ones. Not even the ones who said all the right things with their mouths and none of it with their eyes. They fucked you politely. Or carelessly. Or selfishly. But never like this. Never like they needed you to feel it days later. Never like they hated you and loved you and wanted to punish you for both.

Lando does.

Lando always did.

You sink to the floor. Slowly. Your bare ass hits the tile and you curl your knees to your chest like you can somehow close yourself off from the parts of you that are still open. Your hair falls in your face. You don’t move it. You just breathe.

You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You said it out loud. Like a spell. Like if you repeated it enough, it would become a truth. I won’t let him do this to me again. I won’t let myself want him. I won’t go back.

But here you are. Back. Fucked. Full. Empty.

And still—wanting.

You reach for your phone. Not to call him. Just to look. Some part of you is already anticipating it. Hoping for the text. The breadcrumb. Some half-assed “You okay?” that’ll make you hate yourself more because you’ll respond to it. You always do.

You unlock the screen. Nothing. You check the signal. Perfect bars. You wait. Another minute. Five. Still nothing.

You open his contact anyway. Just stare at it. That stupid name. The photo you should’ve deleted months ago—him grinning at some party, hand in your hair, that cocky fucking smile. You remember the moment. You remember thinking this might actually work.

You close the app. Open your messages. Type something.

“You didn’t have to call her while I was still in the room.”

Delete.

“I know what this was, but you could’ve at least—”

Delete.

You lock the screen. Drop the phone next to you on the floor.

You sit there, knees tight to your chest, bare skin on cold tile, heartbeat echoing in your ears like a countdown to nothing.

You won’t cry. But the part of you that still aches for him—still wants him—knows the truth. This isn’t over. It never is. And when he calls again, you’ll answer. Because you always do.

The morning’s too bright. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Just literally—too fucking bright. The Mediterranean sun punches you in the face the moment you step out of the hotel, and you’re instantly sweating through your shirt. You should’ve worn black. You should’ve stayed in bed. You should’ve never come to this country in the first place.

The streets are already buzzing. Tourists, locals, teams in branded polos. You can hear the distant whine of an engine on a test run somewhere, that sharp scream of speed slicing through the heavy, salt-thick air like a knife. The city’s waking up, but not slowly—Monaco never does anything slowly. She wakes up hungry, already half-drunk, already waiting for someone to crash.

You hope it’s him. You hope he hits the wall. You hope he qualifies dead fucking last. P20. God, give him P fucking 20. It’s petty. It’s cruel. But it’s all you have left. You wrap your arms around your stomach like it’ll hold in the sour twist of jealousy and hurt and sex you still haven’t scrubbed off. He’s probably already awake. Already laughing. Already sending her good morning texts while stretching in those silk sheets you bled yourself into last night.

You duck into a small shop near the marina—overpriced bottled water, sunscreen, last-minute branded merch. A cap with his fucking number is front and center on the rack. You want to set it on fire. You want to smash the display. You want to grab it and scream at the teenage girl fawning over it, he’s not a hero, he’s a fucking coward.

You buy gum and painkillers and overpriced sunglasses you don’t need.

At the register, the clerk asks, “You here for the race?”

You smile too hard. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Your body’s sore in that deep, intimate way. Not just your thighs, not just your hips—but your core, your chest, your fucking heart. Your insides feel rearranged and not in the poetic way. Your stomach is tight. Your mouth is dry. You didn’t even eat dinner last night. Just swallowed him. Let him fill every empty space. Let him win. You keep walking. Past yachts bobbing in the harbor, past velvet ropes and security guards and women with lips like weapons. Everyone’s beautiful here. Everyone looks like they belong. 

Your phone stays cold in your pocket. No text. No call. No you okay? You imagine her posting something. A soft-boiled egg on a white plate. His wrist in the corner of the frame. His smile. Her caption: my love.

You hope the car catches fire. You hope he gets lapped. You hope he feels a tenth of what you’re swallowing with every step. 

You sit at a café just off the main street. Order espresso. Black. No sugar. Your phone’s on the table. Face up. Still nothing. You chew your gum until your jaw hurts. You glance around. Every man in the city looks like a ghost version of him. Curls and sunglasses and soft voices ordering oat milk lattes. Every laugh sounds like the one he gave her. Your legs are crossed tight. Like if you keep them that way, it’ll keep the shame in. You still feel it. Every time you shift in your seat, you feel the dull ache of him. The stretch. The emptiness. Like he’s still inside you, just in the form of silence.

It’s not that you wanted love. You just wanted to not be discarded. Not like that. Not so fast. Not so quiet.You check your phone again.

Nothing.

You sip your coffee and watch a woman walk by in a Ferrari shirt, her toddler in tow. The kid’s got a tiny McLaren cap on. Your stomach flips. You wanted to be seen. Instead, you were handled.

Just another fucking pit stop. You close your eyes. Inhale. Count backwards from ten.

But the only thing that fills your mind is his voice from last night, low and smug in your ear.

You almost don’t go.

The cab ride feels long. The restaurant feels too much. Too much candlelight, too much glass, too much silver on the table, like it’s all trying to distract you from the fact that you’re still aching in all the places he touched. Your body’s clean, but it doesn’t feel that way. The shower didn’t help. The makeup didn’t help. The dress—tight black silk, slit to your thigh, halter low enough to tempt—feels more like armor than anything else. You wore it to forget, not to remember.

The guy across from you—what’s his name again? You haven’t said it out loud since you saved it in your phone—he’s sweet. Easy laugh. Well-dressed in a way that’s intentional but not obnoxious. Confident, but not a narcissist. The kind of man who should be able to make you forget. You’re nodding along to something he’s saying about race weekend logistics, sipping cold white wine and tasting nothing.

You laugh when he laughs. You answer questions. You twirl your fork in risotto you’re not hungry for. And you look fucking good. You know you do. Hair pinned. Collarbone sharp. Lip gloss like lacquer. There’s a version of you here that could do this. Who should be doing this. Being adored. Taken out. Picked up and shown off. A version of you who isn’t still bleeding for someone who left her dripping on a balcony.

But you’re not her. Not tonight. Not when your heart’s still a clenched fist in your chest. Your phone lights up once.

You glance down.

Lando.

No message preview. Just the name. Just the knot that forms instantly in your throat—tight, familiar, awful.

You don’t react. Not outwardly. You don’t flinch. Don’t gasp. You lift your glass like nothing’s wrong, like your whole body isn’t already curling inward from the contact.

The guy across from you is still talking. Still smiling. Still thinking you’re here.

“—so I told him, mate, you can’t just buy the yacht, you actually have to learn how to drive it,” he’s saying, laughing at his own story, voice too loud, too clean. “Rich kids, man. No sense of reality.”

You nod. Smile, maybe. You’re not sure what your face is doing. Everything sounds underwater.

Your phone lights up again.

Lando.

You shift in your seat. Cross your legs tighter beneath the table.

“Anyway, so we ended up in Saint-Tropez for the weekend—crazy, right?—and I swear to god the guy tried to dock it by just, like, aiming.”

You pick up your drink just to keep your hands busy. The rim touches your lip but you don’t sip. The screen lights again.

Lando.

And again.

Lando.

“Have you ever sailed? I feel like you’d be good at it. You’ve got that… I don’t know, that calm presence. Like you’d be the only one not panicking.”

Your fingers twitch on the stem of your glass. Calm. He has no fucking idea of the whirl-wind occuring in your head this very moment.  Your phone buzzes again and this time you don’t even look. Because you don’t need to.

Lando.

Lando.

Lando.

Your hand tightens around the stem of your glass. Your lips part like you might say something. Like maybe you’ll stand up and run before this moment becomes what you know it’s about to be.

You look over your shoulder.

Not because you want to.

Because you have to.

That awful sixth sense prickling at your neck, crawling down your spine. Your body stiffens before your eyes find him. Because somewhere inside you, you already know.

And then—

There he is.

Far end of the restaurant. Slipping in through the private entrance like the front door was beneath him. Like he hasn’t made a mess of your insides. Like he didn’t fuck you breathless against his balcony railing not even twenty-four hours ago.

Tan coat. Dark trousers. Curls pushed back like he ran a hand through them on the drive over. Jaw tight, smile easy. There’s a laugh in his throat—God, that laugh—like he didn’t tear yours out with his fucking teeth. She’s with him. Magui. In the flesh. Long legs. Loose hair. White silk dress, delicate little thing hanging off her body like an afterthought. She’s laughing at something he said, hand on his arm, and your gut plummets.

He doesn’t see you yet. Or maybe he does, and he’s just pretending. Your face burns. You want to disappear. Melt into the leather of your chair, vanish into the floor. The guy across from you says something about dessert. You smile. You think you do. Maybe you grimace. He excuses himself to the bathroom, promising to be quick.

You’re already grabbing your phone the second he stands. And now you look, you read, properly. 

Lando [9:37 PM]

nice dress

Lando [9:39 PM]

trying to impress him or just make me crazy?

Lando [9:40 PM]

it’s working

Lando [9:41 PM]

you think I won’t walk over there?

Lando [9:41 PM]

you think I won’t remind you what you begged for last night?

Lando [9:42 PM]

you can’t fuck him. you won’t. i can see it on your face.

Your heart pounds so loud you can feel it in your throat. Your hands are trembling against the phone. Your thumb hovers and then you type it.

go fuck yourself

You don’t even get the full breath out before another text lights up.

Lando [9:43 PM]

already did. thinking of you the whole time

Your stomach turns. You look back across the restaurant—and now he’s looking at you. Head tilted. Smile carved into his mouth like a dare. His hand rests on Magui’s lower back as he murmurs something in her ear.

She doesn’t notice you. But he does. His eyes are locked on you like a blade. You want to stand. You want to scream. You want to slap him across the face in front of everyone, tear the candle off your table and set that fucking smile on fire.

Instead—you grab your wine and down it.

Pick up your phone and you type.

what do you want from me, Lando?

Because you know exactly what he’s going to say. And you know you’ll give it to him anyway.

You don’t send another text. You don’t need to. Because you already feel it—his eyes. Continuing to burrow into you across the room. You don’t have to look again to know he’s watching your every move, jaw tight, tongue pressed hard behind his teeth. She’s still talking to him. Smiling. Leaning close like she’s won something.

But you know better. You’ve played this game before.  He’s not listening to her. He’s watching you.

Before you know it, the bathroom door swings open and your date returns, all warm smiles and lightly cologned confidence, none the wiser. He slides into the booth beside you now instead of across. And you—oh, baby—you let him. You lean in. Just enough. Just close enough that your perfume slips into his nose and your thigh brushes his. Your knee rests against his under the table and you don’t pull away. You’re smiling now—really smiling, lip caught between your teeth, eyes bright with something vicious.

“Miss me?” you murmur, voice syrupy.

He laughs. “Was only gone a minute.”

You rest your hand on his forearm. Light at first. Then you drag your fingertips down to his wrist, slow and soft like you’re mapping out where you’ll bite later. He pauses, eyes dipping down to your hand, then back up to your mouth.

“You’re… different all of a sudden,” he says, smiling. “Something change?”

You shrug, eyes hooded. “Just realized I like this table better from this side.”

You know what you’re doing. You tilt your head, your mouth just a little too close to his neck, and you laugh at whatever he says next—something harmless. A joke. A compliment. It doesn’t matter. You laugh like Lando isn’t sitting ten tables away, burning. You laugh like you’re not already thinking about unzipping this poor man’s pants just to get revenge on the one who broke you.

You rest your chin on your hand and trace circles on the inside of his knee. You cross your legs in his direction and let your dress slip higher. You sip your wine with your lips parted, slow, tongue flicking the rim.

And then—your phone buzzes again. You check it casually, still smiling.

Lando [9:51 PM]

what the fuck do you think you’re doing

Oh, there it is. The leash pulls tight. Instead of answering, you reach for your date’s collar and straighten it instead, gentle, intimate. He’s blinking at you now, almost stunned, not quite believing his luck.

You feel Lando watching. You can taste it. Your hand drifts down to your date’s thigh. Not obvious. But not subtle either.

“You wanna come back to mine?” you ask, quiet, like a secret.

His breath catches.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

You feel the heat in your cheeks. Not embarrassment—arousal. And rage. And something darker. You want Lando to lose his fucking mind. You want him to picture it—the way you’ll moan for someone else, even if you’re faking it the whole time. You want him sick with it. You want him to feel what he did to you.

Yo grab your bag and stand, letting your hand trail down your date’s chest as you say, “Come on, then.”

You don’t look back. But you don’t have to. You can feel Lando watching you walk away like he’s about to snap a wine glass in his fist. And for the first time all fucking day, you feel a little bit like you won. The cool air hits you the second you step outside, crisp with salt and a faint hint of fuel—Monaco always smells like money and speed. You’re holding his hand. This new guy. The sweet one. He’s talking about the afterparty, asking if you want champagne or tequila when you get there. You nod. Smile. Pretend.

But it’s all wrong. Every step you take feels heavier. Your stomach twists once. Then again. Sharp, then dull, then sharp again. It’s not the wine. It’s not the food. It’s the lie you’re living inside, stretched too tight around your ribs.

By the time you reach the curb, your throat is dry. He’s hailing a car, jacket off, offering it to your shoulders like a gentleman, still thinking this night is going somewhere good. He’s got no idea you’re two seconds away from falling apart.

You stop and pull your hand back.

“I can’t,” you say, voice too small.

He looks over. “What?”

You shake your head. Your smile’s already cracking. “I’m sorry. I just—I can’t.”

He takes a step closer, brows pulling together. “You okay? Is there something wrong?”

You press a hand to your stomach. It does hurt now. Real pain. Not from food. From grief. From self-disgust. From the way your body still remembers another mouth, another weight, another name.

“I thought I could,” you say, voice barely above a breath. “I thought I was over it. But I’m not.”

He just watches you. Confused, maybe. Definitely kind, and kind in a way that only makes it worse. You hate that he’s decent. Hate the way he listens without interruption, the way he offers space for your sadness without trying to fix it. He’s doing everything right and it still feels wrong. Because no matter how gently he holds you, how safe his hands are, your mind always drifts elsewhere. Always pulls back to something sharp. Something dangerous. Something that doesn’t even belong to you anymore.

To Lando. To the way his name still lives under your tongue like it has a right to be there. To the taste of him, the weight of his stare from across a room, the way his laugh ruins you even now. To the memory of his hands on your body while someone else wears his heart in public. It’s shameful, the way you crave what hurt you. The way your skin still prickles for him while someone good stands in front of you trying to love you without a fight. And still—he’s the ghost you reach for in the dark. Even now. Even here.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, stepping back. “You don’t deserve this.”

And before he can speak, you turn. He calls your name once. But he doesn’t follow.

You walk. Fast at first, then slower, then fast again. The city glows around you—buzzing, alive, gearing up for a weekend of victory and champagne, of golden boy headlines and photos that will never include you. The heels you wore start to hurt. You carry them, bare feet on warm pavement, heart thudding in your ears like a warning bell.

You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You don’t throw your phone or punch a wall or sink to the floor in some kind of cinematic collapse. That would require an emotion that hasn’t already been wrung out of you. What you do is walk. Barefoot. Purse in one hand, heels in the other, dress still clinging to your skin like it knows it’s part of the performance you didn’t get to finish. You walk like you’re being timed, like if you slow down even a little you’ll notice what your body’s doing—shaking, buzzing, trying not to feel anything too loudly in case someone hears it. In case he does.

You walk back to the hotel. Back to the quiet. Back to the too-cold lobby where the concierge doesn’t even glance up. Back to the elevator that moves too slow, back to the room that feels too clean. Back to the bed where you let him inside you, to the window you pressed your palms against, to the glass that still holds the outline of your spine. You walk back to where last night still breathes in the sheets, where the air remembers what your mouth sounded like when he pulled you open.

You unlock the door with shaking hands. Not trembling—shaking. That kind of shake that lives in the marrow, in the hollows between bones, the kind that doesn’t show up until the moment things go quiet. You twist the handle and step inside like the room might have changed, like maybe it’s not the same space where you peeled yourself out of his grip hours earlier, where your knees hit the carpet and you thought maybe, for a second, that he might look at you and see something. The door closes behind you with that soft hotel click, and it sounds too final. It sounds like the kind of soft that doesn’t care how heavy the silence is on the other side of it. You don’t turn the lights on. You don’t move beyond the threshold. The air feels stale even though the window’s cracked. The sheets on the bed are still half-pulled back from when you rushed to get dressed, from when your fingers fumbled over your bra strap like it mattered, like decency was something you still had access to.

And that’s when it hits you—that feeling. That pulse. That presence.

Not the man you left at the restaurant, not the one who leaned into another woman’s ear while staring straight through you across the room. Not the one who smiled like he hadn’t had his face between your thighs the night before. Not the one who let you walk out without chasing. That version of him is for the public, for the cameras, for the kind of girls who don’t know better.

The one you feel now is the one who told you, under his breath, that no one would ever fuck you the way he does. The one who kissed your throat like it was an apology, like it was a promise. The one who held your hips in both hands like he needed to brace himself against the want. The one who said I love you with a groan and meant it in the filthiest, most broken way. The one who left you full and aching and ruined and somehow still wanting more.

He isn’t here. He isn’t anywhere. But his name is still wet in your mouth, and his breath is still in your lungs, and your underwear is still sticking to you from where he finished without asking, and every part of your body still feels like it belongs to him. And maybe that’s worse. Maybe this—this absence, this phantom weight—is heavier than the act itself.

Because this is what he does. He invades. He stays. He lingers. And when he goes, he never really leaves.

The phone rings just past two a.m.

You stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen, not moving. You don’t answer right away—not because you’re trying to punish him, but because it’s a moment, and it’s yours. The quiet just before. The breath held. The anticipation curled at the bottom of your stomach like something alive. You hate how much you want this. Hate how your body remembers his name before your mouth does. Hate how none of it has dulled, not even now.

It rings again, softer somehow, though you know that’s impossible. It’s just the hour. The way silence thickens around sound this late, the way everything feels heavier when you’re alone. The way he feels heavier when you’re alone.

You press accept on the third buzz.

You stare at the ceiling while the line connects, the glow of the screen fading into the dark again as your hand drops back to the mattress. Your fingers brush the edge of the pillow but you don’t turn over. You don’t shift. You stay exactly as you were—still, flat, undone. He doesn’t say your name. He never does right away. That’s part of the performance. That moment he lets the silence settle just long enough to remind you that he holds the leash, that if you want anything—words, answers, closure—you’ll have to crawl for it.

He sighs, soft, like he’s tired, like it’s been a long day, like this is normal. “Hey.”

Just that. Just hey.

And it’s nothing. It’s nothing and it’s everything, because your chest tightens immediately, stomach flipping like you were still twenty minutes from him and not lying here in the wreckage of what he left behind. His voice sounds rough, maybe from the champagne, maybe from her, maybe from the way he always sounds when he’s just had something and still wants more. You want to hate it. You want to pretend it makes your skin crawl. But all it really does is make you ache.

“You alone?”

The question lands too gently, like he’s not really asking. Like he knows.

“Yeah.” Your voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else. Brittle. Caught in your throat.

A pause. You can hear him breathing. That quiet, familiar rhythm that used to mean something. That used to make you feel safe before it made you feel like a fucking joke.

He clears his throat, and the smirk is audible even over the line. “So? How was he?”

You flinch. You don’t know why—you should have expected it. It’s exactly the kind of thing he says when he’s trying not to ask the real question. When he’s trying to keep the power even while he’s already lost it.

You pause. Too long. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” His voice drops, dark amusement curling at the edges. “You let him fuck you, then?”

Your jaw clenches. You know what he’s doing. You know exactly where this is going. You roll onto your side, tuck the phone closer to your ear, press your thighs together without thinking.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. You swallow. Hard. “No.”

He laughs. Just once. Dry. “Didn’t think so.”

The silence stretches again, and it’s worse this time, heavier, like it’s his. Like he brought it with him and left it in your lap and now you’re the one holding it. You shift onto your side without meaning to, knees curling into your chest, hand still clutching the phone like it might anchor you to the bed.

“Hmm,” he hums, dragging the sound out like he’s picturing it. “Thought so. You always tighten up when you lie.”

You don’t respond.

“You were thinking about me the whole time, weren’t you?” His voice is softer now. Dangerous in a different way. Not sharp. Sweet. “Sitting there all pretty, playing the part, but your pussy was still sore from me.”

You swallow hard, lips parted, phone hot against your cheek. It feels heavier than it should—like it’s holding his whole mouth on the other end. Like if you press it tighter, you might feel the weight of his breath against your skin, humid and amused.

“Lando…” You don’t mean it to come out like that—weak, soft-edged, needy—but it does. It always does when he says your name first, or doesn’t say it at all. When he lets the silence settle until you have no choice but to fill it.

“I bet you didn’t even want him to touch you,” he murmurs. Not a tease. Not even mean. Just certain. Like he’s telling you something you haven’t admitted to yourself yet. “You sat through dinner, acting like a good little date, and all you could think about was my hand on your throat. My mouth on your cunt. The way you begged for it on that balcony.”

Your breath catches. The kind of catch that expands across your chest and makes your lungs feel too full too fast. You shift—barely—but the movement gives you away. Your hips tilt into nothing, like muscle memory took over. Your chest rises too quickly. You’re trying to hold it back, but your body’s already mid-confession. You make a sound, low in your throat, too soft to call language. Half protest, half surrender.

And he hears all of it.

“You touching yourself right now?”

You don’t say anything and he takes your silence as a yes.

“Do it.” He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t coax. He never has to. His instructions always sound like they’ve already happened, like you’re just catching up to the inevitable.

“Slide your hand down. Just one finger.”

You move slowly, not because you’re trying to be seductive, but because there’s shame in the familiarity. The way your body responds without hesitation. The way the sheets shift as your hand disappears beneath them. The way your fingertips graze your stomach and you pause—not out of modesty, but reverence. Like you already know what you’re going to find. You press your thighs together, the way you used to when you were trying not to let him see how bad it got, how fast. You hesitate. You want to blame him. But you’re already wet. Already ruined. Your panties cling, soaked and still warm, like your body’s been waiting for this call all night.

“Lando,” you whisper, but it’s not a plea to stop. It’s a surrender.

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, and it lands deep in your ear, rough and syrup-slick at the edges. His voice has thickened—fuller, slower, like the sound of someone wrapping their palm around a want they’re trying not to show. “That’s right. Show me you still fucking need me.”

You hate how good it feels. Not the words. The tone. The certainty. He never doubts it. Never doubts you. Your need. Your body. He speaks to it like it’s his, and the worst part is—it still listens. God help you—you do.

Your fingers hover beneath the sheet, suspended above your stomach like they’re waiting for permission. Caught there in limbo. Not quite obedience, not quite defiance. The space between his command and your compliance is thin, delicate, the place you always seem to fall into first.

His voice lingers, curls around you like a second skin. Honey-laced gravel. That sound you’ve heard pressed to your shoulder, your mouth, the inside of your thighs. It tugs. Not gently. Not violently. Just effectively. It would be so easy. To give in. To surrender under the guise of pleasure. To let your body chase his voice and pretend—for five minutes—that this is love. That he means any of it. That wanting you is the same as keeping you. That this ache, this pull, is more than just habit wrapped in heat.

But something clenches in your chest. Sharp. A tightness just behind your sternum, hot and specific. A different kind of knowing.

You pull your hand back. “No,” you say, quiet, but not soft. A whisper, yes—but one you mean.

The line stills. His breath shifts—no longer seductive, just audible. A pause, an exhale, the kind that happens when someone wasn’t expecting a refusal.

“No?” he repeats, slower now. 

You swallow. Your throat tightens. “Not like this. I’m not—” You sit up in bed. The sheets slip down your chest like they know they’ve been dismissed. Cool air replaces the warmth of your body, and it feels like stepping outside of something. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to say that shit to me after what happened.”

You wait. Expect the smirk in his voice. The pivot. The sarcasm. The cruel, clever deflection that always comes when you try to reach for something with weight.

A beat passes. Then another. You brace yourself for the mockery, the deflection, the teeth. But instead, he sighs. Honest. A sound you’ve only heard a handful of times before. The sound he makes when his armor slips, when he thinks no one’s watching.

“I know,” he says snd it sounds like truth.

You blink.

“I just— fuck,” he mutters, voice dropping low again, but not to seduce this time. Just honest. Raw. “I keep trying to not think about you. I go to sleep next to her, and it’s you I’m dreaming about. I kiss her and it doesn’t taste like anything.”

Your breath catches.

“I thought maybe if I pissed you off enough, you’d stop being in my head. But then I saw you tonight.” He laughs under his breath. “You looked so fucking good. I hated it.”

You’re quiet. Staring at the far wall of your hotel room like it might give you answers.

“I don’t want to keep doing this,” you whisper.

He doesn’t protest. Doesn’t try to sell it as love or misunderstanding or timing or fate. He just waits, still on the line, still breathing, letting the weight of your words—and his silence—do what it always does. Fill the room with him.

“I want to stop,” you say again, but it sounds different this time. Smaller. Your voice loses its bite somewhere on the way out, like your throat already knew it was a lie.

“So stop,” he murmurs. “Block my number. Forget my name.”

You don’t answer.

“Exactly,” he says, softer now, and the smile bends downward in his tone, into something resigned, something rotted. “You won’t. You fucking can’t.”

You close your eyes, let your head fall back against the pillow. The ceiling’s too white, too still. Your chest feels hollow, carved out with something blunt, something dull and wide. Like he reached in with both hands and took, not just the good parts, but the name you say when you’re alone, the thoughts you think when you’re cold, the you that existed before him.

“I miss you,” you admit, and it guts you to say it.

He breathes in like you just unzipped his skin. Like you reached down the line and dragged his ribs apart with your teeth. “Say it again.”

You shake your head, lips parting, but no sound comes.

“Please,” he says, quieter now, the way he gets when he really means something. Like you’ve just put your hand on the door, and he’s begging without pride. “Just once.”

The silence feels like it stretches forever, like the night itself is holding its breath just to hear what you’ll say next. Your fingers tremble where they rest on your chest, tracing the curve of your collarbone like distraction could be enough. It isn’t. You should hang up. You should. But your throat is tight and your stomach’s hollow and your whole body feels like it’s still locked in the shape of his. You wish it didn’t matter anymore. You wish his voice didn’t still pull at the part of you that needs to be seen. You close your eyes and inhale through your nose, a sad attempt at trying to ground yourself in this moment. “I miss you,” you whisper, again. And it cracks something in your own voice—thin and breaking, like you hate yourself for meaning it.

You hear him groan. Deep. Loud. From the chest. The kind of sound that doesn’t start in the throat—it starts lower. Beneath the ribs. That heavy, involuntary kind of noise that escapes before it can be shaped into something cooler, something controlled. It scrapes up through him like the words pulled something raw out of him and left it there, exposed.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You picture him—eyes closed, jaw tight, knuckles white around the phone. Picture him tilting his head back, one hand dragging over his face like he’s trying to shake it off, like the sound embarrassed even him. Like your voice still reaches places he keeps locked and your thighs clench instinctively, traitorously from the thought of it. Something inside you twists, low and hot and helpless.

“You can’t say that to me and expect me to stay quiet,” he mutters, voice ragged now. You can hear the shift in him, the sudden tension coiling under his words like a wire pulled too tight.

You bite your lip, but you don’t interrupt.

“I’ve been thinking about it since you walked away tonight,” he says, lower, slower, each syllable like a bruise dragged across your skin. “How your hips moved in that dress. How empty your hand looked without mine in it.”

Your fingers slide beneath the sheet again, slow this time, like surrender—like there’s no point pretending you won’t. Not when he’s already in your ear, in your body, in the rhythm of your breath. You barely brush your own skin, but it’s enough to light up everything he left raw. You don’t stop. You can’t. Something in you has already given way.

He exhales, sharp and sudden, like he felt it—like he knew the moment your hand moved. “Are you touching yourself now?”

Your breath catches in your throat, tight and unsteady, and you hate the pause that follows. Hate how long it takes you not to answer, but not to lie either. The silence is its own admission.

“Yeah…” he says, voice dipping. “You are.”

You swallow hard. Hard enough that it hurts.

“I can picture it,” he murmurs. “Your legs spread just a little, that pretty little cunt already soaked for me. You’re rubbing slow, aren’t you? Just like I taught you.”

Your hand obeys without permission, palm pressing down over the thin cotton of your underwear. You gasp—quiet, quick.

“God, I miss the way you taste,” he groans. “I’d fucking die right now to have you sitting on my face, one hand in my hair, grinding like you always do when you’re too far gone to be shy.”

Your hips jerk.

“I’d tongue-fuck you ‘til your legs shake,” he growls. “Wouldn’t even stop when you begged me to.”

You moan, involuntary, soft and choked.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear you, baby.”

You slide your hand lower. Inside. Fingers sliding through slick heat. Shame and need pulsing together under your skin. You want to stop. You don’t. Because his voice is the only thing that feels real right now.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick now, every word catching on the edge of a groan. “Nice and slow. Fuck yourself for me.”

Your fingers move without thought, caught between his breath in your ear and the ache blooming low in your stomach. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet of your room—shameless, slick, and sinful. And he knows. You haven’t said a word in minutes, but he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“I bet your thighs are shaking,” he says. “Bet your fingers are slipping because you’re so fucking soaked. You always were, weren’t you? Always such a desperate little thing for me.”

You bite your bottom lip, hard, your free hand grabbing the sheets beside you, twisting them as your hips start to move.

“Are you gonna come for me?” he asks, voice low and reverent now, like it’s prayer instead of poison. “Yeah? You’re close, aren’t you? I can hear it. I can fucking feel it.”

You moan. Soft. Broken.

“God, I miss how you sound,” he groans, the sound raw in your ear like he’s fisting the phone. “I used to make you scream, didn’t I? When I had you bent over the edge of the bed, dripping, wrecked, begging me not to stop.”

Your back arches off the sheets.

The room is too still—dim and expensive and wrong, like every object inside it is holding its breath with you. Fingers move frantically between your thighs, slippery with sweat and want, chasing that high you swore you wouldn’t let him give you again. The bedsheets twist beneath you, cool against your calves, sticky at your back. You’ve kicked them off entirely now, one leg stretched toward the edge of the mattress like you’re bracing for impact. You are.

Outside, the faint drone of the sea whispers through a cracked window. Somewhere in the distance, a car rips down the avenue too fast, tires humming against wet asphalt. Monaco never really sleeps—just hums at a lower frequency, like even the city is in on it. Like the architecture itself is bent toward indulgence and regret. And then his voice drops again—low, measured, threading into the stillness like silk soaked in kerosene. Almost tender.

“You wanna know something?” His voice drops even lower, into something almost tender.

You make a noise. Can’t speak. Don’t trust yourself to. Your eyes are closed but you can feel him—his voice in your ear, his name still carved into the rhythm of your breath. He doesn’t wait.

The words drop like fire in your chest. They land hard. Searing. Like you swallowed something molten and now your lungs are screaming, your spine melting into the mattress. Your thighs jerk. Your fingers falter. The ceiling above you stays dark, indifferent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, this time harsher. Desperate. “I hate how much I do. But I do.”

It’s not soft. It’s not romantic. It’s a wound splitting open in real time. A confession flung into the dark because he can’t hold it anymore. And you—you shake. You can’t breathe. You can’t stop. Your fingers stop and then start again, harder, faster, like maybe if you come it’ll drown it out. Like you can flood it out of your bloodstream, sweat it out of your skin. But it doesn’t work. It’s still there. In every heartbeat. In every gasp.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

“You’re mine,” he breathes. “Even when you’re not. Even when you walk away. I still feel you. Every fucking day. No one else even comes close.”

And your orgasm hits like a crash.

It’s violent. A wave slamming your body against itself. Your legs tense. Your stomach seizes. Your breath breaks into pieces. A sound claws its way out of your throat, and your hand flies up—reflex—trying to cover your mouth, trying to keep it in. You can’t. It’s too late. He hears it. Of course he does. He always does.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Fucking knew you’d give it to me.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. The words won’t come. They’ve drowned under the weight of him—of this. The way his voice still owns the oxygen in the room. The way your body still says yes when everything else is screaming no.

The line is quiet.

You can still hear him breathing, but it’s distant now. Removed. Not soft or hungry anymore—just there. Like a metronome ticking at the end of a hallway. Background noise in a house that doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

You curl onto your side, away from the phone. Away from him. The sheets are cold on this side—untouched, undisturbed. Your arm tucks under your head, and your legs curl toward your chest on instinct, like your body’s trying to hold itself smaller. Contain the ache. The trembling hasn’t stopped yet, a slow pulse beneath your skin like something sacred was scraped out with a dull edge.

He should say something.

You should say something. But neither of you do.

The heat is already fading from your skin. It evaporates too fast, like it was never yours to keep. The chill that replaces it seeps under your ribs—quiet and surgical. It settles in your throat like a question you don’t want to ask. You blink at the wall. At the dark. At the soft glow of the city bleeding in from the window. The room’s filled with dim gold and ghostlight, shadows cast by luxury fixtures and memories you didn’t mean to resurrect.

Everything is still. And wrong, you fucking hate how familiar this feels. The after. Always the after. That hollow stretch of silence where he pulls away—not with excuses. Not even with guilt. Just absence. Just a breath you can’t sync with anymore. A distance so thick it presses against your chest like a hand. You’re alone in a room that smells like him. On sheets that remember your back arching. And now it’s quiet. And cold. And exactly like the last time.

When he finally speaks, it’s low. Measured. Like he’s collecting himself. Like the version of him that just broke you apart is already folding itself back into something clean, something that won’t ruin the rest of his night.

“You still there?”

When he finally speaks, it’s low. Measured. Like he’s collecting himself. Like the version of him that just broke you apart is already folding itself back into something clean, something that won’t ruin the rest of his night.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

You wait.

You try not to. You tell yourself not to. But you do. Of course you do. For softness. For proof. For anything that makes what he said—I love you—feel like a truth and not just a well-aimed knife disguised as comfort. You wait for the voice that said it to come back with warmth, with meaning, with something that makes the wreckage worthwhile. But all you get is silence.

And then—his voice again. Casual. Neutral. Airy, even. Like a light switch flipped somewhere between your thighs and his pride.

“You gonna be at qualifying?”

It hits like a slap. Not a sharp one. A dull one. Open-palmed and slow, the kind that comes after the fight’s already over. The kind that reminds you who’s still standing. You roll onto your back. Stare at the ceiling like it might peel away and let you float out of this. Your chest aches, hollow and wide. Your thighs are still slick and parted and ruined. Your mouth still tastes like his name. And he’s asking about fucking qualifying. Like this was a meeting. Like this wasn’t a bloodletting.

“No,” you say. Flat. Tired. Honest. Like your voice has finally given up trying to be anything else.

He doesn’t argue. Of course he doesn’t. That would require effort. Would require remembering that you just let him back inside a body that still flinches from the last time.

The pause stretches. Long. Unearned. The kind of pause that should hold regret. But doesn’t. You wonder if he’s already looking at her. If she’s asleep in his bed right now, one leg kicked out from under the covers, soft breathing and sheets still warm from her skin. If he’ll crawl back in like this was just a break. If he’ll kiss her shoulder and curl into her like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just call you from the next room and come in your ear while whispering your name like a prayer. If she’ll roll over and whisper I love you back.

“Okay,” he says, finally.

That’s it. No pause. No catch. No sorry. You don’t say goodbye, won’t allow yourself to give him the satisfaction. So instead, you just hang up. Slowly and quietly. Like if you move too fast, the grief might notice you. Like if you make a sound, whatever just died might come back and ask for more. And then you lie there. Alone. Cold. Numb in the exact places he made you feel again. The wet between your legs isn’t even arousal anymore—it’s humiliation, pooling like proof. The room feels too big. Your skin too tight. Your heart too loud for how little it’s getting back. You close your eyes. And you try—god, you try—not to remember how good it felt to believe him.

You told yourself you wouldn’t watch. Told yourself you’d go out during the race. Walk the port. Maybe take a train out of the city. Catch a ride into Italy, buy a coffee in some no-name border town where no one gives a fuck about Formula One. You told yourself if you left early enough, you wouldn’t hear the engines start.

But you did. You heard them. Sharp and brutal. Like the city itself was exhaling all at once. The engines howled to life like beasts shaking off sleep. And the streets—those narrow, glittering veins winding around the harbor like silk on bone—filled instantly. People spilled out of hotels, bars, yachts. Laughter carried down alleyways. Shoes clacked against marble and cobblestone. Horns. Screams. Sirens. The whole city vibrating in a single fevered pitch, like a heartbeat you couldn’t separate from your own.

And that was it. You felt it again.

That tug. That sick little string wound tight through your ribs. Strung there by him. Still holding. Still pulling. It didn’t matter how much distance you told yourself you needed—when the world turned toward him, you did too.So you ended up outside a bar near the track. Not the private ones. Not the ones with velvet ropes and industry passes and terrace views. Just one of the ones carved into the street-level buildings, open to the chaos, full of heat and sound. Flat screens bolted above the bar. Fans shoulder to shoulder. Bottles sweating in metal buckets. Flags tied like bandanas. Champagne already foaming across tabletops like victory was a guarantee.

You stood by the railing. Arms crossed. Sunglasses still on even though the sun was behind the buildings now. Shadows stretched across the street like tired ghosts. Your foot tapped against the base of a rusted stool, your hip leaned just barely into the edge of the counter like you weren’t really here. Like maybe you were just watching a version of yourself watch him.

The race blurred by.

It always does. Too fast, too clean, too cinematic. Like it’s not real. Like it’s something you could turn off if you found the right remote. He looked good—of course he did. He always does when there’s something on the line. Fast. Confident. Hungry. His car didn’t take corners. It swallowed them. He moved like he was dancing with the track. Like he could feel its heartbeat better than his own. You didn’t blink when he overtook on Lap 42. Didn’t flinch when the leaderboard adjusted like it had been waiting for him all along.

But when the checkered flag dropped? When the whole bar erupted—glasses raised, hands slapped to backs, phones held high and recording?

That’s whens something inside you cracked. It was clean and silent. Like glass under pressure. You watched the screen. Watched him throw his fists into the air inside the car, helmet still on, adrenaline turning his voice to something breathless and boyish through the radio.

“Fuck, man! We did it!”

And he sounded happy. Not like he’d sounded on the phone. Not like last night. Not like someone torn in two. He sounded whole. He sounded free. You stood still while the rest of the bar screamed and spilled and toasted and laughed. While confetti machines burst at the table beside you. While someone popped a bottle and poured foam into a stranger’s cup like they’d both waited their whole lives for this.

And you—still in your sunglasses, arms locked across your chest like armor—you felt like you were being erased. Not slowly. Not softly. Violently. Like the footage of him crossing that line was actively overwriting you. Like every frame of his win was bleaching your name from his mouth. Then you saw her.

Not up close. Not at the podium. Just a flicker. A flash of white on the screen behind him. Behind the fence. Her hair. Her silhouette. Her hand.

Raised in a wave. And the way he looked at her—god. You thought you’d collapse. 

You don’t know why you’re here. You already booked your ticket back to Italy. You packed your bag with one hand while brushing your teeth with the other, You checked out of the hotel like it was a fire you had to get away from. You had a plan. You were going to leave before the city woke up, before the papers hit the stands, before your own stomach could catch up to the shame curling in it.

But then you didn’t. You didn’t leave. You didn’t get in the car. You didn’t do the smart thing, or the sane thing, or even the thing you promised yourself you would. Instead, you walked. Shoes in your hand, face bare, heart kicking like it wanted out. You walked past the marina. Past the crowds still drunk off the race. Past the café where your phone first lit up with his name. You told yourself it was a loop. A muscle twitch. A final look.

You knew it was a lie and now you’re here. You ride the elevator in silence, arms crossed, your teeth sunk so deep into your lip you can taste blood. The hallway stretches out in front of you like something cinematic—floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, pale wood on the other, recessed lights humming low like they know what you’re doing. You don’t even knock. The apartment door is already cracked open.

Of course it is.

He’s inside. Shirtless. Sweaty. Champagne-drenched hair curling messily across his forehead. Still wearing his fireproofs, halfway unzipped. His chest rises with breath that’s only just started to slow. He smells like victory. Like sun-warmed metal and sweet rot and something you used to beg for. He looks good.

Of course he does. He turns when you step in. Smiles. The real kind. That one that used to mean I knew you'd come.

But it fades the second he sees your face.

“Hey,” he says, cautious now. “You okay?”

You shake your head once. Quick. Like it might stop the tears from crawling up your throat.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” you say. But that’s a lie.

He steps forward, slow, cautious, like approaching an animal he’s already wounded once and isn’t sure won’t bite again. His arms stay loose at his sides, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to reach for anymore—your waist, your wrist, your forgiveness.

“You—uh, did you see the race?” he asks, and it’s not small talk. Not really. It’s a test balloon. A toe in the water. Like maybe if you say yes without venom, maybe if your voice stays level, he can convince himself none of this is a disaster.

“Yeah,” you snap, the word scraping up your throat like it came with splinters. “You were amazing. Congratulations.”

His smile twitches back onto his face, but it doesn’t land properly. It hovers at the corners like a glitch in the system. Like he knows it’s too late to fix the part of him that doesn’t know how to be soft when it counts.

“Thanks,” he says, and it should mean something. Should carry weight. But it floats.

You step closer. Not because you want to be near him, not anymore. But because the distance feels dishonest. Like if you’re going to bleed in front of him, he should at least have to watch it happen up close. Your voice shakes when you speak, but you don’t try to hide it. You don’t care if he hears what it costs you. You want him to.

“Why wasn’t I ever good enough?”

He blinks. His head pulls back just slightly, like you slapped him. Like the words hit somewhere he wasn’t guarding. His brow creases—not out of confusion, but something worse. That dawning realization that this conversation isn’t going to end where he thought it might. That this isn’t another soft landing.

“What?” he says, but it’s not really a question. More like a deflection. A delay tactic. Something to stall the blow he knows is coming.

Your heart’s beating so hard it feels physical now—like it’s trying to break out of your chest and throw itself at his feet in one last act of desperate, humiliating honesty. Like it still wants him even as you drag yourself through the fucking wreckage of that want.

“Why have I never been enough for you to choose?” you ask, and your voice cracks on the word like it’s never been said out loud before. “Not fuck. Not sneak around with. Not call when you're lonely or bored or drunk at some goddamn afterparty. I mean choose. I mean claim. Why have I never been the one you tell people about?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes. His throat works around it. His eyes drop to the floor and back up again, and for a second—just a second—you think he might lie. Might try to salvage this with some half-truth about timing or image or circumstance.

“Why her?” you whisper, and this one hurts more than the rest—not because of what it means, but because of how quietly you ask it. Because it comes from the part of you that’s already accepted the answer. “Why does she get to be seen?”

He looks at you like you’ve just thrown a grenade at his feet, like he doesn’t know whether to jump on it or run. And maybe that’s always been him—too cowardly to save you, too selfish to leave you alone.

“I let you inside me,” you say, and now your voice is breaking for real, cracking down the middle like an old fault line that’s finally splitting open. “And you walked away. I let you hear me. I told you shit I’ve never said out loud before, not even to myself. I gave you everything. And I didn’t say I loved you, not because it wasn’t true, but because I knew it didn’t fucking matter. Because I knew, no matter how much I gave you—no matter how deep I let you in—I’d still just be the thing you come back to when you’re bored. Or lonely. Or drunk. Or broken. But never when it matters.”

He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Just stands there in the center of his spotless, silent apartment—an altar to success and self-control—still radiant with the remnants of the win. His chest rises in slow, shallow pulses, adrenaline still flickering beneath skin damp with sweat and victory. There’s a gleam across his collarbones, the faint shimmer of champagne that never got wiped off, dried sugar crusted along the edge of his jaw like celebration had kissed him and refused to let go. His hair’s a mess—curling, golden, clinging to his temples like he earned the chaos. And maybe he did. Maybe he earned every fucking second of it. But all you want is to ruin it. To drag your hand across his face and wipe the triumph off like it’s blood that doesn’t belong to him.

Because he looks too happy for someone who’s left you bleeding this many times. But when his eyes land on you—finally, fully—something shifts. He’s not smiling anymore. Not smirking. Not playing cool or disinterested or oblivious. He’s just looking. At you. Carefully, as if he’s cataloguing damage. Like he’s not sure if you’re about to cry or scream or throw a glass, and the fact that he doesn’t know is maybe the only honest thing he’s ever done in your presence.

You step further into the apartment. The floor is cool under your feet, too clean. Everything here is intentional—curated—like even his grief would be expensive. Your arms are still crossed tight over your chest, but it’s not a defense anymore. It’s just something to hold while the rest of you starts to come apart in slow motion. The tension in your shoulders doesn’t brace you—it betrays you. It trembles loose. Not strength. Not anymore. Just unraveling in real time.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, and your voice barely makes it past your teeth. It sounds like someone else said it first and handed it to you to carry. “I told myself I wouldn’t. I watched you win and I felt sick.”

He shifts his weight, opens his mouth, but you hold your hand up. You’re not finished. If you stop now, you’ll never say it.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t care. Tired of pretending that what we had was just sex. You know it wasn’t. You know. We talked. We laughed. You let me in. You made me feel like I wasn’t crazy for needing you. And then every time I get close to believing you—really believing you—you disappear. Or worse, you show up like nothing happened and expect me to melt for you. And I do. God, I always do.”

His gaze drops. His jaw clenches. But he still doesn’t speak. And that silence—it’s not passive. It’s precise. It’s brutal in its precision. Like he’s figured out by now that anything he says will only confirm how much worse he made it. So he doesn’t say a word. Just lets the weight of what you said sit there. Lets you carry it alone, like you always have. And that silence? It hits harder than anything he’s ever said. Than every lie. Than every I miss you that came too late.

You take another breath, but it doesn’t settle. It just wobbles on the way out, shakes loose in your throat like it’s trying not to turn into a sob.

“I just want to know…” you start, and your voice is thinner now, worn down to something soft and splintered. “Why I’ve never been enough. Not once. Not for a full day. Why I’m always good enough to fuck. To call. To cry to when you’re falling apart at three in the morning. But never good enough to stand next to in daylight.”

Your hands shake, but you keep going.

“Why it’s always her when I’m the one who knows how you take your coffee. When I’m the one who told you to breathe before qualifying, when you couldn’t stop pacing. When I’m the one who stayed.”

That’s the part that undoes you a little. That last word. Stayed. You weren’t supposed to say it—not out loud. It’s too naked. Too pathetic. But it tumbles out anyway, like the truth was tired of waiting for permission. And it lands. You see it shift something in him. His eyes flick toward the floor, then back up. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling briefly into fists, then flattening again. His shoulders rise with a breath too deep to be casual—like he’s dragging something up from the part of him that doesn’t usually speak.

“I never meant for it to get this far,” he says finally, voice raw around the edges, like he’s chewing on the words even as he gives them up. “I didn’t think I’d need you like that.”

You almost laugh, but it’s not funny. It’s sharp. Bitter. It curls in your mouth like acid.

“You needed me,” you echo. “But not enough.”

He steps toward you then. Slowly. Cautiously. Like he’s approaching a live wire. Like he thinks there’s still something left to salvage in the wreckage.

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

But you shake your head before he can finish the thought. “Yes, it is.”

And this time you don’t snap it. You don’t spit it out like a weapon. You just say it flatly. Like a fact that doesn’t care how he feels about it.

“You either love someone,” you say, “or you don’t.”

“I do love you,” he replies. Just like that. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true, and always been enough.

But it costs you everything to hear it. Every little ounce of composure you’ve been clinging to. Every version of yourself that held out hope. It’s not relief that hits you—it’s grief. Not longing. Not even disbelief. Just loss. Again. All over again. Because now that he’s said it, now that the words are out, you know for sure: his love was never the kind that saves you. Never the kind that holds you in the light. His love only ever lives in the dark.

You look at him, and something twists in your chest—not from happiness, but from mourning.

“Then why has it always felt like I had to beg for it?” you whisper. “Why has it never once felt like it came freely?”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t lie. Doesn’t soften. Just stands there, mouth parted like he wants to say something, anything, but he knows. He knows whatever he gives you now will only make it worse. So he says nothing. And the silence between you—thick, heavy, final—says everything.

You stare at him—not the Lando the world loves, not the polished boy in champagne and fireproofs and grins for the cameras, but the one in front of you now. Quiet. Flickering. Human in the worst way. The kind that disappoints just by standing still.

Your arms drop to your sides. Not in surrender. In exhaustion. Your limbs feel too heavy to hold upright, your ribs ache from holding in this pain for too long. You’re sagging under the weight of it.

“You love me,” you repeat, hollow now. Like the words are ash in your mouth. “But you’re still with her.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just lowers his eyes, clenches his jaw, like maybe he hates himself for it. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just tired of pretending it’s not true. And that’s the answer. That’s the only answer you’re going to get. There’s no grand speech. No twist in the narrative. Just the sharp silence of reality pressing down on you like gravity finally remembered your name.

And somewhere behind you, the elevator dings.

[tattered-cynic]

Yet another example of completely incorrect assumptions from the gender crowd. Maybe try actually asking gender critical people what they believe before just totally making shit up. GC people (like myself) aren't "unquestioningly enforcing the gender binary" you fool. We reject gender entirely. We reject the "social construct" of gender, precisely because we recognise it as a social construct. What we do believe in, because it's scientific fact, is biological sex. We fight against the notion that just because someone is born female/male that they must behave a certain way (femininity/masculinity), because that is the social construct of gender, and it's above all misogynist. We believe that a person, male or female; can wear what they want, do whatever job or hobbies they want, but it doesn't make them not male or female. It is the gender binary that has caused hundreds of years of untold suffering for women across multiple cultures. We believe a person is deserving of respect regardless of their sex and how they choose to live as that sex. It is deeply ironic that you should bring up religion, since religion has played a huge part in reinforcing the gender binary across the centuries, punishing those who attempt to break out of it. It's your lot who are still trying to uphold the gender binary in a pseudo-religious, almost cult-y way. Look at the trans flag if you need any base-level proof - "blue is for boys and pink is for girls"... who does that sound like? Not us, the gender critical people: we reject that ridiculous concept. You're the one in the clown shoes, convinced that liking trucks, tank tops and football makes you a boy whilst liking dresses, dolls and make-up makes you a girl. Misogynist little shit.

"gender critical" is such a funny term for people who base their whole identity around unquestioningly enforcing the gender binary they were raised with. the patriarchy set up a binary and you're like "I will defend the sanctity of this social construct in the name of feminism" Absolute clown shoes. Imagine a tradcath calling themself "religion critical"