#because he is cap and they want him under their thumb

[padmesweetheart]

The Stage, the Smile, and the Surprise

Pairing: Hayden Christensen x Reader (Younger!Girlfriend x Older!Boyfriend)

Genre: Fluff | Romance | Slice of Life | Surprise | Graduation Day

In Honor Of Me Graduating on Friday And It Being Grad Season

You had told him not to come.

Not because you didn’t want him there God, nothing could be further from the truth but because he was filming across the country, busy on location, stuck in 14-hour days with call sheets and action sequences and a million obligations you never wanted to get in the way of your moment.

“This is your day,” you’d said on FaceTime two nights ago, sitting on your dorm bed in your wrinkled honor cords, fidgeting with your cap. “You don’t need to drop everything for me.”

He had just smiled, soft and knowing. “You really think I’d miss you walking across that stage after everything you’ve done to get there?”

You’d blushed and looked away.

And when he didn’t mention it again, you assumed he really couldn’t make it. You understood. You told yourself it was okay.

But still your heart sank a little as you stood in your gown, shoulder-to-shoulder with your classmates, trying to focus on the long-winded speeches echoing through the stadium.

You scanned the crowd, trying not to look for his face.

——

Earlier That Morning- Unknown to You:

Hayden had taken a red-eye.

He hadn’t even slept just packed a carry-on with wrinkled dress clothes, a bag of snacks he knew you liked, and the handmade card he and his daughter had written together the night before.

The card was crooked and sweet:

“You did it! We’re so proud of you! Love, Hayden & Briar

(P.S. Let’s celebrate with pancakes!)”

He’d shown up to campus early, hiding out behind sunglasses and a baseball cap, weaving through crowds of proud parents and sleepy grads. He hadn’t told a soul except your best friend, who helped sneak him a seat in your family’s section.

He watched as you walked the stage, beaming.

He watched your name echo over the speakers, watched the way your eyes glittered beneath your cap. You scanned the crowd as they called your name and when your gaze passed over him, he pulled the sunglasses down just slightly.

You froze mid-step.

And then your hand flew to your mouth.

Hayden smiled, and your knees almost gave out.

——

After the Ceremony-Stadium Lawn

He found you under a tree behind the crowds, half-hiding from the chaos, holding your cap to your chest.

“You came,” you whispered.

He smiled and opened his arms.

You were in them instantly, crying and laughing and swearing you were going to ruin your makeup, but he didn’t care. He just held you like he had all the time in the world.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmured into your hair. “God, baby, you did it.”

You pulled back just far enough to look up at him, your eyes red but glowing. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

He grinned. “Wasn’t gonna miss this. Not for anything.”

You kissed him hard your diploma still clutched in one hand, his collar balled in your other fist.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I love you more,” he replied, brushing your hair from your face. “Let’s go celebrate, graduate.”

——

That Night-Your Apartment

You’d changed into comfy clothes. He’d ordered your favorite takeout. There were flowers on the table, a soft movie playing in the background, your cap and gown tossed across the couch like a memory already fading.

You sat curled into his side, the weight of the day catching up with you.

“I didn’t think I’d make it,” you admitted sleepily, tracing circles on his chest. “This degree. Everything. There were days I wanted to quit.”

“But you didn’t.” He kissed your forehead. “You kept going.”

You looked up at him. “Because of you. You always believed in me.”

He smiled, his thumb brushing your jaw. “Always will.”

Then he pulled something from his pocket.

Not a ring not yet but a delicate silver bracelet with a tiny charm shaped like a graduation cap.

“For the girl who never gave up,” he said softly.

Your eyes welled again. “You are so much better than a party.”

He laughed. “You can still have a party.”

“Nope,” you said, snuggling closer. “Just this. Just you. This is all I want.”

——

And that night, as you fell asleep against his chest, the bracelet still warm on your wrist, you felt like the luckiest girl in the world not just for the degree you’d earned, but for the man who never let you forget your worth.

You didn’t just graduate.

You arrived.

And he was right there waiting for you.

[alltimecharlo]

First I just want to say how obsessed I am with your writing and how amazing it is. Having said that I know you already write mic’d up Mack but could you write about mic’d up Will?

thank you so much!!! 🥹 yes, i certainly can! this is a follow-up to the mack mic'd up fic! under the cut :)🩵

Mack swears he’s only ducking into the media office because Maggie texted urgent in all caps. Otherwise he’d be shower‑napping like any sane person thirty minutes after practice.

But Maggie’s the in‑arena video wizard who controls how the internet sees him, so he figures he’d better answer the bat signal.

He finds her and Max hunched over the big editing monitor. A waveform snakes across the timeline, Will’s voice chattering bright and fast in the speakers.

“—I’m just saying, if Mack had been born in like, Arthurian times? Knight. No question. Probably Lancelot.”

Mack stops in the doorway. “What did I just walk in on?”

Maggie jumps. “Perfect. You’re here.”

Max swivels, grinning. “Congrats, Mack, you’re the secret protagonist of Mic’d Up: Will Smith Edition.”

Mack pinches the bridge of his nose. “He talked about me the whole time, didn’t he?”

Maggie gestures helplessly at the screen. “There are chirps. Good ones. But also… this.”

She rewinds a few seconds and hits play.

Will (recorded): “Look at Mack’s edgework on that last turn. Guy’s poetry in motion. Hate him.”

Someone off‑camera laughs.

Will: “Seriously, watch him cut back on the next rep—boom, gone. It’s illegal to be that smooth.”

Mack’s ears go hot. “Oh my god.”

Max scrubs forward.

Will: “Hey, Toff, you ever notice Mack smells like cookies and good decisions? No? Just me? Cool.”

Mack buries his face in his hands. “Delete it.”

“Can’t,” Maggie says, eyes gleaming. “League content team wants sixty seconds by tomorrow. The fans will riot if we leave this on the cutting‑room floor.”

Max thumbs the space‑bar again.

Will (whisper‑level): “There he is—look at him. Number 71, love of my life, destroyer of worlds, holder of the best backhand in the Pacific Division—”

“MAX,” Mack snaps. Max cackles and pauses the clip.

Maggie props her chin on her fist. “We can trim out the Shakespearean sonnet bits. But… it’s kind of adorable. And fair is fair—you soft‑launched him last week.”

Mack groans into the sleeve of his hoodie. “He’s never living this down.”

“Pretty sure he doesn’t want to,” Max says. “Listen to this last tag.”

Play.

Will: “—anyway that’s Mack. Best part of my day. Don’t tell him I said that, he’ll get all grumpy and pretend he’s not blushing.”

The feed clicks off.

Silence.

Mack’s heartbeat is in his ears. He risks a look at the screen freeze‑frame: Will on the bench, cheeks flushed, grin wide as the bay while he tugs at a water‑bottle lid. Happy. Talking about him.

Maggie’s voice drops. “We’ll blur whatever you want, but… honestly? People love you two. Feels good, letting a little of it show.”

Mack exhales slowly. “Fine. Keep thirty seconds. Lose the cookies line.”

Max mock‑salutes. “Aye‑aye, First Overall.”

Mack turns to leave, then hesitates. “Can you export that raw file to my phone?”

Maggie smiles. “Already AirDropped.”

—

He sends the clip to Will with no caption. Three dots bubble, disappear, bubble again.

Will: soooooo you saw the advanced scouting report huh

Mack: i smell like cookies??

Will: thought YOU said that once in the room?? i’m just agreeing 😌

Mack: i’m going to dunk you in the cold tub tomorrow

Will: promise?

Will: (also you look stupid handsome in that b‑roll, just saying)

Mack pockets his phone, cheeks still on fire, and heads for the showers. He’s got practice in the morning, chirps to endure, and one over‑eager boyfriend to toss in seventy gallons of frigid water.

For some reason, the day suddenly feels perfect.

♡

[littlelamy]

title: he tries to come back

warnings: 18+, language, angst, part 1 part 2 part 3

your phone won’t stop buzzing. text after text, call after call, rafe’s name flooding your screen like a goddamn sickness. your stomach churns at the sight of it, thumb hovering over the block button, but you don’t press it—not yet. not because you’re entertaining the idea of listening to his bullshit, but because blocking him feels like an admission that he got to you. and fuck that. he already took enough.

you let the phone ring, his name flashing, vibrating against your nightstand like an incessant mosquito. eventually, it stops, only to be followed by a long string of texts, desperate and fractured:

rafey: baby, please

rafey: i swear it was nothing

rafey: just pick up, just let me explain

rafey: i can’t fucking lose you

rafey: fuck

you squeeze your eyes shut, inhale deep through your nose. the audacity of this motherfucker. after everything—after sofia, after his bullshit excuses, after the way he snapped at you like you were the one out of line—he still thinks he has the right to your time, to your attention. to you.

you sit up, grabbing your phone, thumbs moving before you can second guess it.

you: your shit is at my house. pick it up and leave me alone.

his response is immediate, like he was just waiting, holding his breath.

contact name changed ✓

kook bitch: baby, please, don’t do this

kook bitch: just talk to me

kook bitch: where are you? i’ll come now

you toss your phone onto your bed with a scoff, standing too fast. your head spins slightly, but you ignore it, already moving. you don’t want to see him. you don’t want to hear whatever manipulative garbage he’s rehearsed. you just want him out of your life, out of your space.

so you gather his things. the hoodie you used to sleep in, the cologne bottle he left in your bathroom, the stupid baseball cap he always made you wear backward when you rode him in his truck. it all smells like him, like cedarwood and something inherently rafe, and it makes your stomach twist.

you shove it all into a bag and dump it on the porch.

a knock rattles the door not even twenty minutes later.

you hesitate, breath catching in your throat. then you force yourself to move, to unlock it and yank it open. and there he is—disheveled, breathless, storm-blue eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for a crack in your armor. his hands are shaking.

“baby—”

“don’t call me that.”

a muscle in his jaw twitches. “just—just let me talk, okay? just five minutes.”

“no.” your voice is cold, steely. “your shit is there. take it and leave.”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even glance at the bag.

“i fucked up,” he says, voice thick, eyes glistening under the porch light. “i know that, i swear to god, but i love you, and i can’t—i can’t fucking breathe without you.”

his desperation is palpable, clawing at your skin, but you don’t let it seep in. not this time. because it’s not love. it’s possession. it’s selfishness. it’s rafe being rafe, taking and taking and never thinking about the wreckage he leaves behind.

you exhale sharply, shaking your head. “you don’t get to say that to me. not after what you did.”

“it didn’t mean anything,” he pleads, stepping closer, hands twitching like he wants to touch you. “i was drunk, i was stupid, i—fuck, baby, please.”

before he can reach you, before he can spill more poison into the air, your hand flies out.

smack.

the sound rings sharp between you, echoing off the house, slicing through the thick, humid night. his head snaps to the side, a stunned silence stretching between you. his cheek blooms red where your palm met his skin, and for the first time, he looks like he understands.

he doesn’t deserve you. not even a little bit.

his chest rises and falls, his lip quivering, but he doesn’t say anything. he just stares at you, his world shattering in real time. and you watch, unblinking, unfeeling.

“don’t ever come back here,” you whisper, voice steady, unshaken. “we’re done.”

he swallows hard, something breaking behind his eyes. but he nods. because he knows.

he knows.

tags: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt

[snail-day]

Okay, Satoru. It’s just a thought. Just a tiny little passing thought that’s totally not turning his insides into goo. You should move in with me.

He thinks it once. Then again. Then another twelve times before lunch. Tossing and turning in bed, kicking the sheets off in frustration because the thought keeps trickling back.

He’s lying flat on his back in bed, hair a mess, blindfold askew, thumb mindlessly scrolling his phone while you hum in the kitchen. And it hits him again - soft and sudden - how nice this is. How perfect. How stupidly, heart-warmingly good it feels to have you here.

You’re wearing his shirt. His biggest one. It swallows you whole, slipping off one shoulder, sleeves dragging past your fingers. And you look so at home like that. Humming and barefoot and sleepy-eyed, stealing strawberries from his fridge like you belong here.

And maybe you do.

He makes a list in his notes app again. Title: Reasons you should move in Beneath it:

No more goodbyes

No more packing bags

No more waiting for a “made it home safe” text (even though he loves them. But he’d rather hear you say it in person. Whispered, sleepily, into his chest.)

No more having to wait when he has missions to come see you

No more nights without you

And then, after a pause:

I love you.

He stares at it too long. Taps the screen a few times. Doesn’t delete it.

Then, Shoko. Of course it’s Shoko. At the worst possible moment, over coffee, just sips and goes, “Most couples break up when they move in together, y’know.”

And now Satoru is spiraling. What if you hate his weird dish organization system? What if you think he takes up too much of the closet? What if you want to split rent even though he just wants to spoil you rotten and give you everything? What if you get tired of him? What if he says the wrong thing and ruins it?

He’s big. He’s loud. He forgets to put the cap back on the toothpaste sometimes. He talks too much when he’s nervous (which is always, around you). He’s him.

But then - you’re here again, on his couch, laptop propped on a pillow, mumbling at apartment listings with the cutest frown on your face.

“This one’s tiny.” “Why is there carpet in the bathroom?” “Three stars and one said ‘roach army.’ I can’t do roach armies.”

And something in his heart just snaps - in a soft, trembling, full-body kind of way.

He watches the way your nose scrunches. The way you tuck your feet under you. The way his hoodie dwarfs you completely. With the throw blanket you always leave thrown across your lap. You belong here. He wants you here. Desperately.

So he says it. Barely above a whisper. Practically choking on his own heartbeat.

“…You could just move in with me.”

And then he’s frozen. Stiff as a board. Sweat prickling at his neck. His pretty mouth parted like he wants to suck the words back in.

You blink up at him. And then that smile. Bright. Full of surprise and something sweeter, something soft and glowing and yes.

“Are you sure?”

His heart stutters. Then melts. Then does something violent and romantic in his ribcage.

God, you’re so pretty. Why are you so pretty? He swears the sun could retire, you’re smiling so bright.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “I mean - only if you want to. I just thought... it’d be nice. Y’know. To have you here. All the time. With me.”

And then you’re in his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, giggling into his hair, and he’s pretty sure his soul just left his body.

He clutches you, hands slightly trembling, grip lacking because he's scared this is some dream. Hides his face in your shoulder. Mumbles something pathetic like, “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh. “In a good way?”

He nods into the hoodie you stole. “The best way.”

He doesn’t let go for a long time. Anytime you move away, he brings you back. Hopefully so you don't see the mess he's become. He's the strongest. Yet you make him weak.

Later that night, you’re lying in his bed again - your bed now too, maybe - and you’re talking about what corner your books would go in and whether he has space for your desk, and he’s just watching you, glassy-eyed and stupid in love.

Your fingers graze his jaw, after tracing a few scars on his body, brush his snowy hair from his lashes. And he just… melts. Turns into a puddle right there.

“I can’t believe you said yes,” he whispers. Slow and full of disbelief.

You giggle, a soft gentle noise that somehow still makes his heart stop, brushing your nose against his. “I can’t believe it took you this long to ask.”

Satoru smiles, wide and sleepy and helpless. He’s flushed pink all the way to his ears. He wants to bottle this feeling. Keep it forever. Because for once, everything is quiet. Safe. Full of love. That this is what forever feels like. New list: The proposal.

[aphelionwrotes11]

(MDNI 18+) (unedited)

Trucker!simon x reader (afab)

CW: smut, unprotected PiV penetration, dubcon (slight alcohol consumption, not a lot)

Part 3

Trucker!simon, as puntual as ever, raps his heavy fist against your door at 7pm sharp. You have to take a final look at yourself in the mirror to ensure you still look well groomed.

When you open the door Simon’s huge form takes up nearly the entire doorframe. He’s wearing heavy dark blue jeans, a flannel button up, and a thick leather jacket. He has a bouquet of red and pink roses. You get to enjoy his uncovered smile as you fawn over them.

He lifts them for you to smell, but the only thing you catch of whiff of is his musky cologne, rich and deep. Once you get the roses settled into a vase, Simon walks you to his pickup with a warm hand resting firm on your hip.

When you ask him where he’s taking you, he just glances your way with a smirk,

“You’ll see, lovey.”

You giggle and ask him how much longer it’ll be.

“Wot’s the matter? Just can’t wait much longer for it to be over and be in my bed?”

You gape at him, your face flushing red, and he chuckles. He must notice you squeezing your thighs together, because a moment later he plants his massive hand on your thigh, giving you a gentle squeeze.

By the time you two make it to the restaurant, you’re certain there must be a puddle on his brown leather seats with how much he was squeezing your thigh, teasing his fingers just under the skirt of your dress. Your legs feel like jello as he helps you out of the truck.

The place he’s taken you is a lot prettier than you imagined, cute and atmospheric. You’re a bit shocked that a gruff man like him would know any places like this.

Has a reservation for the two of you, at a table he specifically chose. A private table in the corner, nestled between two large plant covered windows. You gasp at the view, looking out over the well lit street.

When you ask him how he found such a lovely place, he tells you he knows the owner’s husband.

“S’my ol cap’s wife, used to be in the force with em’. Same team. Lovely couple, they’ll like you.”

You listen to him speak, asking him questions about his time in the military. When it’s time to order, you take a final glance at the menu, your brows furrowing. It’s a real nice place, and the prices reflect that.

“You can get whatever you want, lovey.” He says, but you just frown. So he looks up at the waiter and tells him to give you both another minute.

You explain that you’re sorry, everything’s just so expensive, you don’t want to cost him too much. He looks offended and grunts, leaning over to you.

“Money ain’t an issue f’me.”

“I’ll get you anything you want, anything at all, bird.” He says so gently, you’re unsure he’s even talking about food.

By the end of dinner, your belly is full and your cheeks are warm, from him or the glass of wine, you aren’t sure. The two of you talked for hours, and your stomach still hurts from how hard he made you laugh with his ridiculous dad jokes.

You feel giddy as he walks you out to his truck, arm around your shoulder. You nestle yourself into his side, taken in his heat and his smell. The mood shifts once the two of you get into the truck. Suddenly the air is too hot, and you would really love to lose a few layers.

Just like before, he plants his warm palm on the fat of your thigh, massaging his fingers into it. But this time, as his fingers breach the skirt of your dress, they keep inching up until his thumb is pressed up against your clothed sex. You suck in a breath as he applies some pressure to your throbbing clit.

“So wet already, ain’t ya bird?” He whispers, his voice thick.

The only response you can give him is a whine as he shifts his hand till he’s grinding his palm against you. You meet his pace, moving your hips against his hand, grasping his arm as you whimper.

His other hand grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. He struggles to even keep his eyes on the road, and when he finally glances at you, just to see you looking up at him all needy and flushed, he has to resist pulling over and taking you right here in his truck. Instead he just presses harder on the gas and on your wet pussy.

By the time you’ve made it to his home, you’ve already cum twice. Your gasping and twitching as he jumps from out as soon as he puts the truck into park, speed walking to your side and ripping the door open to smash his lips against yours.

Carries you up the front door, your legs wrapped around his waist. He parts from you only once to unlock his door and take you both inside. He pushes you against the wall, tearing of his jacket as you pull off your own. His hands grab the hem of your dress, you help him pull it over your head. You blush as he pauses for a moment to take in your matching set, red lace bralette and panties.

“This all f’me? So perfect.” He groans. Hand coming up to cup your tit and press a wet kiss to your lace covered chest.

By the time he has you laid out in his bed you’re naked and hot. You claw at his shirt, whining at him to take it off.

He complies without second thought, ripping it off and revealing a muscled, scarred chest. You can’t help how you practically mewl at the sight of him.

He bends down as he’s removing his jeans to press kisses down the expanse of your throat. His mouth finds a nipple, sucking it into his mouth. He licks your chest sloppily, groaning as he sucks hickies on your tits. He stands straight as he pulls off his boxers, revealing a thick cock, the tip an angry red as it leaks precum.

“Look a’ what you do to me love. Never been so hard.” His voice is low and nearly whiny near the end of his sentence.

Spends a real long time stretching you out on his thick fingers. Sucks on your tits and neck the whole time. He’s almost as loud as you, watching you as you squirm beneath him with groans falling from his lips. You cum at least 2 times, but you aren’t sure, your bones feel like jelly and your vision is so blurred from tears you can barely see Simon’s face. If you could see it, you would see how pussy drunk he looks, absolutely love struck.

When he finally lines himself with your entrance, he gently squeezes your hips and presses a few sweet kisses to your mouth.

“You ready bird? Think ya can take some more?” He asks softly.

Yes, yes, please. You tell him. Finally.

Doesn’t waste another moment and finally pushes himself into your slick cunt with a low groan. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, gently thrusting himself into you at first.

“Feel s’good.. so so good.” He mumbles against your skin, halting his movements for a moment.

He lifts himself to his elbows, analyzing your face to ensure you’re comfortable. With your approval he starts moving, fucking you with long and languid thrusts. Pulling his cock all the way out before pushing back in.

After a while of him moving like this, you feel like you’re about to fall apart again. You claw at his back, legs wrapped around his waist as he hits a gooey spot within you that has you clenching on his cock.

“Give it t’me sweetheart, please, I need it.” He says, sounding utterly wrecked.

And once you come on his cock, he loses it. He starts humping himself into you at an ungodly pace, one that has you crying and mewling his name. Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire, you can’t even form the words to ask him to slow down, but given the look on his face you aren’t sure if he’d even hear you.

He looks so out of it, practically drunk. His eyes are half lidded and lips parted as he grunts and gasps. His hands hold your hips in a vice grip that you know will leave marks, not like it matters though, he’s already marked all over your chest and throat.

“Been- been waiting to take ya out fer- fu-uck-“ he pauses, his hips snapping against yours, “since I saw ya bird- knew you were mine. All mine.” He growls out.

His eyes nearly roll to the back of his skull as you clench down on his length, he lets out a breathy moan as he slows his movements.

“W-where you want it birdie? Where y’want me to cum?” He gasps out.

Blows his load as soon as you squeak out a quiet “inside.”

He’s growling, gasping and panting, as he pumps his load into you. Keeps thrusting even after he’s cum, pressing his nose into your hair and whining.

Once the two of you have come down, and you finally stop seeing stars, he quickly hops up to get a wet rag and cold glass of water. Cleans the both of you up and urges you to take a few sips, finishes what’s left of the glass once you do.

You practically pass out as soon as he’s got you wrapped up in his warm, burly arms. He stays awake though, petting your hair and gazing at your pretty face. He’s finally got you, and he’s never letting you go.

Note: it was HELL trying to get this done for you guys today :((( my wifi decided to die once I was halfway through with the first part of this fic, which then deleted everything and I had to rewrite EVERYTHINF. That and my poor doggy has been losing his mind over the fireworks going off every ten mins (curse you Fourth of July). It’s fine tho, cuz I think it turned out so cute. Ofc I had to add in the fluffy ending, also please forgive the repetitive word use and unnecessary commas!! I’m planning on coming back and editing this one hardcore, if I end up adding any major things to it I’ll just post the updated version (as well as this one) but this will do for now!! Just wanted to give u guys something to chew on cuz I left you all high and dry with the first part lol

Simon Riley master list

[bi-writes]

ok wait pause i have a question. first date, but like, real, you are my girlfriend date ? or like how'd they define their relationship (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)

he's...fun.

it's just sex. mind-blowing, back-numbing, pussy-destroying sex. this man is pushing 40, and you swear you've never felt so out of breath. you convince yourself it's the military thing--he's used to pushing himself, exerting energy, testing the limits of his stamina. but holy shit, you'd think after round four, this man would take a quick nap or something, but no.

he's still balls-deep, hitting it from the back since you can't even keep yourself upright any longer. your skirt lays haphazardly thrown onto the floor, and oh--there's your panties, too, ripped to lacy shreds.

holy shit, this man is more than ten years older than you, and you've never been so out of your fucking mind--

"tha' the spot, love?" his voice is so condescending. he knows he's got you brainless. there's drool staining your lips, and you paw at the sheets for a better grip, but it's useless.

"y-yes, captain."

the low groan that leaves him makes you smile. he might have the upper hand, but if you really wanted to, you could make him come right now, too fast, too much.

you're in bliss. everything is bliss. you're still recovering from what must be the fifth or sixth orgasm--not as good as the second or third one, but still enough to make you cry fat, pleasured tears. you're shaking, in a good way, sinking to your stomach on the bed and pressing your face into his pillow.

"hmm..." your voice is soft and gooey, and when you take a deep breath, you get a long whiff of him. he smells good. clean. earthy. you tasted cigar smoke in his mouth earlier, and you can smell it here, too. just as you relax, you feel the weight of him on your back, and then his lips. he's kissing along your shoulder to your neck and then up your jaw. you tilt your head to give him room, your eyes shutting as his beard scruffs against your skin and his mouth laps at your chin. "i gotta go, john."

you giggle when he lays his entire body on top of yours, trapping you there. you reach up and grip the back of his neck, whining as he flattens his tongue against your jaw and swirls it there.

"john...i gotta go."

"why?"

"mmm..." you thumb at the hair along his scalp, shaking your head. "don't do this, john."

"not doing anythin'."

"we don't sleep over, john."

"what, is tha' some kind of rule? sounds mad."

you turn over a little, looking up at him. you cup his beard in both hands, giving him a chaste kiss.

"don't ruin it, john," you say softly. "this is supposed to be fun."

he tilts his head to the side. he looks so funny without a hat. you've seen him in a beanie, a boonie hat, a cap, you love them all on him. he looks nice like this, too, though--ass naked with his dog tags dangling against his sweaty pecs.

john's eyes twitch a little at your indifference. he settles on his side, leaning over you, and just as you move to get up, he reaches and grips at your face with a big paw of a hand. you clutch at his forearm, big and solid, and your lips pucker as he pulls you closer to him.

"y'r a bad liar, love," he mutters, shaking his head. "fear doesn't suit you."

"i'm not fucking scared."

"who was it?"

you glare up at him, struggling a bit under him. it's a stupid thing to think that you could get away from him. john is not moveable. he's a big fucking tree trunk of a man, with roots that burrow, and you are truly naïve if you think he'll let you up without an answer.

"shut the fuck up, john," you spit at him, but all he does is raise a brow. he's immune to your bite. he's not phased by your sour attempt at insulting him. in fact, it's what drew him to your bed in the first place--certified brat-tamer, captain john price. "you think you're so fucking smart. think you know everything, just because you've got a few years on me, well let me tell you, john--not everything is a fucking lesson learned. you're a military muppet with a decent cock, and that's all you'll ever be to me."

"tha' right?"

"you'll never put me first. you've got one woman, and that's the job, and that's fucking fine, john, but don't make this something it's not. you're lonely, and old, and your failed relationships don't make you wiser, they make you delusional for thinking that doing this again could ever--"

your breath falters when he kisses you. he squeezes your jaw a little harder, forcing your mouth to open, and you moan, squeezing your thighs together when he licks into your mouth and holds you there for him to play with.

"i do have other obligations. my men, the job..." he brushes the hair out of your eyes, and he presses his forehead to yours when he sees the tremble of your bottom lip and the wet look in your eyes. "but i don't do casual, sweetheart. it's all or nothing f'me."

your hand grips his wrist, squeezing tight, and you blink up at him. he's so close. he's right here. blue eyes, greying beard, a sad expression. he's not afraid of dying alone, but he is afraid of wasting time.

"please don't do this to me, john." your voice cracks, and he shrugs. he's sorry, but he's not sorry enough. not enough to let you go--and you're not strong enough to tell him no. it has to be him, but it won't be.

"it's alright," john whispers, but he knows it won't be. he's known you not but a few weeks, but he's made up his mind. he doesn't understand casual. even from the moment he saw you in that bar, it wasn't fleeting, it was definitive. it would be his. you would be his.

even if you were actually someone else's. even if you were bound to someone else. even if you weren't alone, it was already decided.

john's teeth are stuck here, right here, in the hollow of your throat. his fingers are twisted between the chords of your heart and in the spaces between your ribs. if he lets go, he'll break you apart.

so he's never going to let go.

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

fill with fire, exhale desire, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: He smokes cigarettes. You hate it. You always have a lighter in your pocket. He is pissed off because it isn't for him, you say. So much is said, but the truth is in the silence.

wc: 26.7k; warnings: rated M (18+) for language; smoking cigarettes, negative attitudes about smoking, quitting smoking; mentions of misogyny in South Korea; slow burn; constant bickering, tbh; smut (fem reader, striptease (?), heavy making out, scratching, penetrative sex, he puts his hand over her mouth and she licks it, multiple orgasms, handjob, fingering); non-idol!AU - smoker, pining, bratty!JK x cold, independent, insomniac!reader; reader's POV

--

“Got a light?”

You reached in your pocket and pulled out the lighter that you always kept on you. It had a dragon insignia etched into the black metal. Heavy and substantial. Serious enough to bruise if thrown with enough force. You flicked it open with your thumb and raised it.

Jeon Jungkook leaned in, holding a cigarette between his lips expectantly.

You made your distaste evident in your expression.

He smirked.

You pressed the button and the orange flame shot up. Burning paper and tobacco. The end of the cigarette glowed red. You pulled your hand away, flicking your wrist to extinguish the flame. Slipped it back into your pocket and resumed not looking at him. You heard him inhale with a satisfied sigh before bleeding out smoke to the sky.

“You smoke too?”

“Fuck no,” you snapped. “I’m not disgusting.”

There was a sharp sucking sound of Jungkook’s incredulous annoyance. “Hm. Then the lighter’s just for me, huh?” His voice was throaty with nicotine. You hadn’t moved away yet. He nudged your shoulder with his knuckles. You didn’t react. “You like me that much?”

You could smell the fumes in the air even though he was attempting to be careful about it. That was the thing about smoke. It got everywhere. A gaseous parasite. You didn’t reply. Instead, you stuck your hands in your denim jacket pockets and acted as if he wasn’t there. Predictably, not a single person looked your way, even with your pleated blue plaid miniskirt was grazing the bottom of your ass and your black pleather corset showing off the ample curve of your breasts.

No one wanted to deal with the big tattooed guard dog smoking just behind you.

He was trying to stand close but not too close. You wondered if Jungkook was aware of how much subtilty he lacked. He likely had no clue. He called your name, casually, desperate for some sort of attention.

“Just say it.”

You turned your head maybe an iota of a degree in his direction, glaring at him from under your black baseball cap. Seething.

“The lighter is not for you, Jeon Jungkook.”

His lips twisted into a pout. He ran a hand through his shaggy black hair which definitely worked on other people. Just not you. He held the lit cigarette away from you, and so you spared him a little more of your gaze, pivoting your black boot to view him at an angle.

“You’re lying,” he asserted with false confidence. “You’ve always got it when I ask.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t mean that it’s for you. Could be for someone else.”

This revelation did not pacify him. The opposite, actually. His brows knitted together. The corner of your lips ticked upward. This pissed him off even more as you seemed to imply scenarios that he very much did not like. You were curious on what how he would approach it.

“Yeah, right. Sure.” He took a quick drag and blew it towards the sky. His dark eyes locked on you. He called your bluff. “You don’t like smoking. There’s no way you would hang out with anyone else who does. You already told me that’s the reason we’re not dating.” Uncertainty etched into his stern expression. “… Right?”

You tilted your head at him.

You watched your silence infuriate Jungkook. He puffed up his chest a little, which was admittedly impressive even in his oversized black t-shirt. He had big pectoral muscles. He had picked up working out to add an addiction in attempt to subtract one. He did smoke less in your presence. But not zero.

“Right?”

He was being very demanding and prissy right now.

You pursed your lips and sucked on the side of your teeth. Then you said, “Yup. That’s the only reason.”

Despair ghosted over his features. He glanced down at the cigarette in his hand. There was slightly more than three-fourths left. His eyes went from you to the concrete sidewalk and then back again. You frowned.

“Don’t even think about littering,” you warned.

He clicked his tongue and flicked ash behind him. “So? Who is it?”

“Who is who?” You taunted back in the same irked tone, minus the underlying insecurity.

“The other person you’re cheating on me with,” Jungkook snapped.

You weren’t bothered by his fury. “I’m not cheating on you if you’re not my boyfriend to begin with.”

He shot you a look that could have scalded most. “And whose fault is that?”

“Yours.”

“Tch, then be my girlfriend and take them from me.”

“Not how this works,” you countered, shifting your stance away from him. Slight panic flashed over his features. You ignored it. “My bus is coming soon.”

“Ugh,” he tutted. “I hate that you go to concerts alone.”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t spend your money on smokes, you could join me.”

“I asked,” he growled. “I have the money. You said no.”

You sent him a soulless smile. “Because you smoke.”

Jungkook looked ready to put out the cigarette on his own arm. But you were already backing away. He half-followed, still talking.

“You’re going dressed like that? You’re going to get groped.”

You did your best to not call him stupid. You settled for an eye-roll. “Why do you think I stuck around after you asked for a light?” You stopped. So did he, avoiding closeness. He looked confused. “Men stay away from me when they smell smoke on my clothes. Either I smoke or I’ve got a boyfriend who does. Either way, not attractive.”

He flinched at your double-edged comment. Then, with a measured amount of bravery, Jungkook took a step forward and tapped your chest with his hand that held the cigarette. You made a displeased face. A tendril of smoke drifted upwards for the suspended second that he held his fingertips to your skin. You narrowed your eyes at him. He backed up, lifting both hands up in defeat. He licked his lower lip, looking down at you.

“If the lighter’s not for me, then what’s it for?”

There was a metal screech of heavy brakes behind you, closer to the street.

You glared up at him, wishing he picked better addictions.

Only time could tell.

“Arson,” you replied, and turned around to step onto the bus, leaving Jungkook alone once again. He would tire of it soon enough.

-

You scowled.

“Why the fuck are you here?”

The crowd was parting as you were heading to the train station. Just before you were meant to enter, a man approached you with a plastic bag and a bottle of water. He looked almost as aggravated as you felt. His hands were occupied so for once he couldn’t ask for a light.

“Is that any way to greet someone waiting for you?” Jeon Jungkook growled.

You were far from impressed. “Did I ask you to wait for me?” You answered yourself. “No, I didn’t. So, you’re the stalker here.”

His dark eyes shifted over the passerby you had no interest in. He looked back at you with a peeved expression. “Better me than an actual creep.”

“Spoiler alert: you are an actual creep.”

You kept your distance, wary, and made to walk around him. Something flashed in his gaze but he shut his eyes and sucked in the side of his cheek with a sharp sound. His body turned, semi-following you. You noticed he was wearing a black leather jacket, a different cream shirt, and dark olive cargo pants. Same black sneakers from earlier though. His black hair seemed faintly damp. He must have taken a shower. Perhaps he went to work out while you were gone for hours.

“At least take the water and food,” Jungkook scoffed, holding out the items. “You’re probably dehydrated and hungry. Don’t your feet hurt from standing so long?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing.”

You stopped and stared him down. He rolled his eyes. He seemed hurt. It didn’t matter if he was avoiding your gaze; you could tell. There was no reason to soften your tone, but at the very least you reached out and took the water bottle from him. The condensation felt nice on your palm already. You unscrewed the cap with a cold expression and heard the plastic crack. He hadn’t tempered with it, at least. A part of you felt bad for assuming the worst, but, then again, this was South Korea. You took a sip and pointed with the cap to the plastic bag.

“What food?”

Jungkook started, diverting his peek at your reaction in hopes you didn’t notice. You had. “Pan-fried tteokbokki,” he mumbled.

One of your favorites. At least he used his ears sometimes. “You really balled out, huh. How much I owe you?”

He took offense. “You think I don’t make enough money to treat you?”

“What do you need to treat me for?”

“Aren’t we friends?” Jungkook shot back.

You were mid-sip when the damage was already done. You saw him freeze up and then quickly look away. People walking past were giving you both weird looks, splitting around the two of you as a river does to a pesky rock stuck in the middle. You lowered the water bottle. He shoved his free hand into his front pant pocket. His knuckles indented the fabric. You looked from them, to back up to his face. His brows were knitted together and he appeared to be biting back an insult.

Or something else.

You reached for the bag.

Hooked your fingers around the handles. He didn’t let go. Nor acknowledge you. You tugged lightly. He remained an immovable statue. You took a step forward and pulled up, turning your face away from his chest in the process.

Jungkook whipped his head back and glared down at you.

His grip tightened. You pressed your lips together as the side of your fingers touched the side of his. He smelled fresh. He had definitely showered. The stale scent of his cigarette from earlier still lingered on your denim jacket. You shifted your eyes and made eye contact. Close. Not touching, though. Just enough for a misunderstanding that wasn’t going to happen because both of you were crystal clear on your stances.

He let go of the bag.

The weight fell onto your fingers.

He was searching for the words but you interrupted his thoughts.

“You gonna make sure I get home safe?” you asked.

He looked away. “Don’t be stupid.” Tightened his jaw. “What kind of man would I be if I just let you wander around at night by yourself?”

You watched his profile. He didn’t turn back. You stepped back. His eyes followed, as unnoticeable as he believed, and you let him have that, choosing instead to start walking.

“Might as well eat while it’s warm. I could sit down for a bit.”

You didn’t look back to see if he was after you. You heard him bite back his reply and swiftly pivot, and then it was both you against the night of blaring headlights and a dissipating crowd, feeling two kinds of alone despite all the people around. You ended up at the underground food court. Probably where he purchased the tteokbokki to begin with. Found a table and unwrapped the container. A paper-sleeved wooden skewer was tucked against the lid.

Jungkook threw himself into the seat across from you and pulled out his phone, beginning his doomscrolling.

It was still warm. Lightly spicy. Probably a bit too heavy for late night but that was why it tasted better than usual. You caught his darting glimpse as you ate. Raised an eyebrow. He pretended not to notice. Or was it that he pretended not to care? You raised the skewer and tilted it towards him. He continued to ignore you even though his body was halfway turning.

“Want one?”

“I’m fine,” he instantly answered. Almost smugly.

You knew what he was doing. Still, you acted as if you didn’t. “I can’t eat it all anyway. Don’t waste.”

Those dark brown orbs shifted back. His eyebrows furrowed. He did his best to sound annoyed. “You don’t eat enough.”

“Even if I didn’t, I should eat something healthier,” you pointed out, keeping your face neutral.

He reached for the skewer and you pierced one of the rice cakes instead. Soaking it in the sauce and holding it out. Jungkook locked eyes with you. You slid the container closer so he could lean over it.

He took the skewer from your fingers and fed himself.

All while staring at you.

The eye contact was broken by his eyes closing. Enjoying the food. Crispy, warm, spicy. Chewy on the inside, in that satisfying way that one could enjoy the seeping heat all over the tongue. He stabbed another and ate that too, without asking. You hadn’t expected him to. You hadn’t expected him to do any of this, actually. You drank another sip of water.

“I’ll take the train home.”

“I don’t think so,” Jungkook grumbled with full cheeks, sliding the container back to you and shoving the wooden skewer in your hand. His brief touch lingered. You searched for his expression but he covered the lower half of his face with his other hand, keeping his eyes shut and chewing as he spoke. “I came on my bike. I’ll drop you off at your place.”

Now that was sounding a little too familiar. “I’ll be fine on my own. I’ve done it before.”

He cracked open an eye and you could tell he was frowning even though his hair had fallen over his temples. “Just because you’ve done it before doesn’t mean it’s smart or safe.”

He underestimated your resting psycho bitch face. You speared two pieces of tteokbokki and crammed them in your mouth. Chewed with irritation. You swallowed. “No one is out to get me.”

Those three-quarter moons remained unconvinced. “That you know of.”

You raised your eyebrows and moved to continue eating. “You watch too much true crime.”

“You don’t watch enough. You are the one that should be cautious,” Jungkook retorted.

“I am cautious.” You glanced at him above pan-fried rice cake. “But you can’t live always being afraid of possible horrors. If I did that, well, I would sleep even worse than I already do.”

You ate.

Jungkook lowered his eyes and went pensively silent.

There wasn’t anything to say. You cleaned up. Threw away the remains appropriately. Began to walk with him subtly leading the way. The night felt darker. Quieter. The concert crowd was gone and now the streets were full of night owls on their own lonely missions. You pretended passersby parted to let you and him through. The more likely answer was avoidance though. There wasn’t anything that friendly about Jungkook’s rigid presence and your inherently cold one.

In a parking lot now.

His black and chrome motorcycle was parked. A beast in its own right. Lately, you had been thinking of his addictions. Tattoos. Motorcycles. Cigarettes. Chasing after the un-chasable. Was he simply a thrill seeker or was he attempting to break an internal perfection that he had been living by for far too long? Or just doing anything that came to mind to try and feel something? You stopped walking when he did. He did his thing. And then Jungkook held out a lump of black fabric to you.

You raised your eyebrows.

He half-shrugged. “You can’t get on the bike in that skirt.”

He was right. You didn’t want him to be right. You took the lump that turned out to be a pair of his sweatpants. The Nike ones he usually wore to work out. You made a face. He rolled his eyes as he produced the helmet.

“They’re clean,” he huffed. “I ain’t nasty.”

You had quite a few comebacks for that but you kept your mouth shut. You wondered if he noticed how he slipped out of his practiced Seoul dialect for half a sentence. You noticed. You averted your eyes. It was late. The adrenaline was wearing off to soreness. You could only give about a rat’s ass of a fuck right now. Fuck it. You started bending down.

“Woah!”

All of a sudden you felt a strong grip on your forearm, pulling you back up and dragging you forward, sandwiching you in between the large motorcycle and Jungkook’s scowl, quickly letting go once you glared. You narrowed your eyes. He gave you a disapproving frown.

“I’m wearing shorts under this,” you hissed under his chin.

“Booty shorts, maybe,” he snapped back. “Also, shorts or not, they don’t hide your shape. Idiot.”

He was wrong. You were wearing black boyshort-style panties. Semantics. Instead of bending down, you raised one leg to lower the inner zipper of your boots. Immediately, Jungkook caught your shoulder, steadying you. You didn’t thank him. You glowered. He glowered back as you undid the other one. You stomped down and bunched up the legs of the sweatpants, first sticking in one foot and then the other, doing a little dance in and out of your boots, before forcefully yanking them up your legs. He didn’t let you fall, but he also didn’t look either, swiftly turning his head to stare out into the street. There was a brief moment where you had to decide to tuck in your skirt or let it flare out over the top of the pants. You opted for the latter, straightening and smoothing out the pleats over the crotch of his borrowed sweatpants.

He glanced back and frowned.

You noticed. “What?”

His eyes drifted up. Brow knitted together. He let go of your shoulder. “Not fair that you look cute,” he muttered.

“I look dumb as hell.” You bent over and rezipped your boots, adding under your breath, “But it’s better than nothing. I guess.” You stood up again.

There was a shifty, expectant silence.

You wanted to go home and sleep. At the same time, you wanted to be awake. Jungkook hesitated for a moment and then handed you the helmet in his hands before circling around you to grab the other one he had stored, leaving you to figure that shit out on your own. He avoided your gaze as surely as you did his. The whole scene looked less weird that it felt. You heard the engine purr to life. He said something and you ignored him, buttoning up your jacket so your valuables wouldn’t fall out. Not your best look, however, you had not planned any of this in any capacity.

Jungkook was already seated, his long legs extended to the asphalt to steady himself.

“So, you–”

You placed your hand on his bicep and stepped onto the footpeg, nimbly swinging your leg over to balance behind him. Underneath your hand, you felt him stiffen as you settled, sliding your other arm around his back and temporarily landing on his hip before you removed the hand on his upper arm to grip his waist.

“O… Oh.”

He cleared his throat.

“I’m good,” you confirmed even though he hadn’t asked.

He felt warm and solid and you did your best to ignore it.

“R-Right.” A pause before he said, “Hold on, alright?”

You squeezed his waist.

“Mhm.”

Jungkook took you home.

-

“I’ll get the pants back later,” he said as you handed him the helmet back. “Go on up.”

You observed him. Jungkook did his best to be calm and not jittery. He gave you a strange look, realizing that you were analyzing him. He had killed the engine so he didn’t have to shout. He cradled the helmet you had borrowed with one hand, the other on the handle of his motorcycle for a moment before using it to raise the visor to uncover his dark eyes.

You paused.

Then, you unbuttoned your denim jacket, reaching into the inner pocket for your lighter.

You held it out to Jungkook.

He glanced at it, and then at you.

You ticked your head. “You’ll need a light again. Inevitably. Take it.”

His gaze sharpened. He looked away quickly, and you could tell by the contortion of his features that he was shoving his tongue into his cheek, letting out an annoyed huff. Then, he shook his head, as if your audacity was something to behold. Jungkook then transferred the helmet to the crook of his arm and shoved his dominant, tattooed hand into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, ripping out a slightly crumpled cigarette box with one corner torn open.

He slapped it over your dragon lighter.

“Shit.”

You stared at your palm. And then at him. Jungkook glared back, exhaling hard.

“Take ‘em,” he mumbled. His Busan dialect was even more obvious now. His voice was gruff and his manner blunted. “Just fuckin’ take them.”

“I don’t want these,” you retorted.

“Yeah?” His eyes narrowed to daggers. “Neither should I.” His eyes shifted down and then back up. “Inevitably. You’re so fucking full of it.”

You almost flung both objects at his face. Almost. Yet something made you reconsider. Something about Jungkook’s demeanor shifted. He tried to keep his tone sharp but it was dulled by his body language. He cocked his chin in the most falsely cocky way.

“You think I’m gonna want ‘em?”

Your gazes locked.

“Then I’ll have to come to you to get ‘em.”

You pursed your lips. “I’m going to throw them away.”

He dared you. “Do it.”

“You’ll waste your money and time.”

“And I’ll be reminded you’ll never let me live it down,” Jungkook growled. “I’ll think twice before putting myself through that fire.”

Silence.

Eye to eye.

You held his stare.

Then, you lowered your hand, clutching his cigarettes and your lighter, backing away, and quickly spinning on your heel, striding into your apartment building. You punched in the code. Behind you, you heard the swift kick of an engine roar and then a fading zip away as you yanked open the glass door. You didn’t look back. You pocketed Jeon Jungkook’s cigarettes.

-

Nights later, you sat on the floor next to your bed, flicking your lighter on and off to kill the flame and revive it. Over. And over. You stared at the tiny orange burst. Then extinguished it. Then ignited it again. Such a small light. So fragile and yet so capable of burning this entire apartment down. You breathed out. Fixated on the dancing flame. Time passed.

You sat in silence.

You snapped the lid closed, snuffing it out.

The room was semi-dark. Your bedside table lamp was the only light on. The curtains were open, giving you a view of the city skyline etched into the black sky. The area was actually pretty quiet. You got lucky with a neighborhood full of older folks who mostly minded their own damn business. The apartments were older in a homely sort of way. The most telling trait of the apartment complex was the general unease in the air. Probably because some of the older folks had died in their apartments before. People could be superstitious like that. Maybe you were too. You just didn’t see it as a negative.

Which said a lot about you.

You looked up to your nightstand. Next to the dingy chrome base of your lamp was an open pack of cigarettes. The box was missing maybe three or four of them, you guessed. You hadn’t torn it open to confirm.

Behind your head, your phone began to vibrate.

You lifted your hand and placed your lighter on the nightstand. The lines of the dragon engraving caught the low light, casting shadows over it. Your hand pivoted and you felt around the bed. Found the smoothness of the screen and pulled your phone to you, lowering it to your lap before looking at the caller ID. You frowned slightly once you noticed the time. That late, huh? And this person almost never called or texted. Well. At least not to you.

You accepted the call and brought it to your ear out of habit.

“Ya. You,” mumbled the slurred, distorted voice of Jeon Jungkook.

You responded just as politely. “What?”

He let out a huff. There was a fair bit of rustling and maybe the sound of glass on table. “I want you to know something.” You didn’t reply to that. It wasn’t a question. He paused anyway. Maybe expecting you to reprimand him. You stayed silent. “Ah, fuck.” He exhaled hard into the microphone. You held your phone slightly away from your ear even though you couldn’t smell the alcohol on his breath. “Look. I’m not drinking because I need a smoke.” You doubted it. “I just felt like drinking. It’s Friday.” He wasn’t wrong. “I… I get it, okay? I get why you don’t like it. Makes sense and all. I…” He trailed off again, struggling to find the words. “But I’m not like you. I’m not. I don’t have my shit together.”

“I don’t have my shit together,” you interjected. Should be obvious from you answering his call perfectly awake at three in the morning. He didn’t seem to be thinking rationally at the moment though. If he ever did.

“Fuck off.” He lost control of his Seoul dialect. Kept going back and forth between upstanding citizen and gruff Busan satoori. You wondered if he was aware. Probably not. “You have it way more together than me. I’m fuckin’ trying. Ugh.” His tone tightened. “It’s not… It’s not how you think it is. It’s not.”

You weren’t sure you thought it was anything but you let him talk. Nothing else to do, after all.

“I have great parents, you know.” He sighed. Despondently annoyed. “They’re awesome. I wanted to be a good son. That’s… I mean, doesn’t everybody? I listened to them. I listened to be teachers. I listened to my classmates. I wanted to be a good person, so I did everything asked of me from others.” His voice deepened to a soft growl.

“But… People take. I didn’t even realize it.”

You realized that Jungkook sounded sad.

“They take when they know you give. And I gave, because my parents taught me to be a good person and I didn’t want to disappoint them by people calling me heartless or cruel. But…” Mumbled something you didn’t catch. Cleared his throat. “It was becoming too much. I got fed up. I had to start saying no. But not before I had already said yes to a lot of stuff that I shouldn’t have said yes to. I had already developed bad habits by then.”

A few seconds of silence.

You broke it. “You’re too easily influenced,” you accused.

“Yeah, fuck me,” Jungkook grumbled. “Fuck me for not knowing that there are people are out there don’t have my best interests at heart and want to see me fucked up because they feel some type of way. My bad.”

You figured that was common sense. But maybe not. Maybe not, considering the way he talked about his parents. You pushed back your own personal biases despite their intrusive nature.

“Is your family disappointed in you?” you quietly asked.

“Me?” He let out a humorless laugh. “No. No, they’re supportive. Even if they don’t like my tattoos or the piercings or whatever, no one has ever made me feel shit about it. Everyone is positive. Even began to like those things about me when most elders would lose their shit.” He sighed. “But… I still didn’t quit the cigarettes. Just didn’t smoke around them, because I didn’t want to see my mom sad. But still. I didn’t even want to try to quit.”

A moment of reluctance.

“Until… Until I met you,” sighed Jungkook, his deep voice heavy.

Was that supposed to be flattering? You didn’t have time to ponder it.

“Hmph… I’m so envious of you.” A light thud. More rustling. He sounded a little muffled and a lot out of it. “You’re never ruffled. No matter what anyone says or does, you’re always yourself. You don’t relent even when I act like a prick. It’s so… Hah. I can’t do that.” He sounded defeated. “I try to not care too. I’m trying. I’m trying so fucking hard. The second I think I’ve got it, yes, this is me, I remember it’s not. It’s not. I just copied someone else I saw that I thought… Copying you… You’re right. Lots of people told me to quit. Or keep going, it’s not that bad. They can all fuck right off, until…”

A weak shuffle and then you could barely hear the whisper in between the phone lines. His face was seemingly buried into something. He sounded both far away and so very close at once.

“What am I doing…? It doesn’t… Doesn’t make sense.”

You almost said something. It wasn’t the right time. You shifted your position on the floor, leaning back against the bed. He must have heard that you were still on the other side of the line. He dragged more strength into his voice. As much as he could muster, anyway.

“How…” He shuddered. Whispered your name under his breath in the same way sailors called to stars to navigate the sea on a cold night. “You told me I should quit and… Yeah. I know you’re right. I know. I… The other night…”

The night you attempted to give him your lighter to keep.

Jungkook sniffed. “You can’t… Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter how you do it,” he mumbled. “You do. You just do. And so do I. I gotta just do.”

You finally spoke.

“Yes,” you sighed. “That’s the truth.”

Cradled the phone, leaning it against your temple.

“The world doesn’t care.” He sounded resigned but no longer on the edge. “Everyone just does what they wanna do.”

A long pause. For some reason, you had the impression that both of you were curled up somewhere at home suddenly feeling not at home. Maybe it was the time of the night. Or the alcohol on his end. Or the insomnia on your end. The long seconds marched on. Then, Jungkook asked you a question with a statement.

“I wish I knew what… What I wanna do.”

Silence.

You half-smiled knowing he couldn’t see it. Preferred, actually, that he didn’t. “Gonna be honest,” you chuckled. “I don’t know what I want to do. I follow my instincts and accept wherever I end up.”

He snorted. Haughtily. It was meant to dent to your demeanor and it was about as effective as a puff of popcorn. “Of course. Hah.” Exhaled hard, taking the fight out of himself. “You really… You really don’t know…?”

You debated what you did and didn’t know. “About what?”

An irritated huff. Something about your tone seemingly made him hesitate, though. He caught the gist of what was unsaid. Maybe it was because he was drunk. Sober Jungkook could never.

“If.” Just that. If. “Ah…”

He breathed out your name. It was very late. The darkness was at its peak. But Jeon Jungkook breathed your name with the capacity of a dreamer, half-conscious and losing fast.

“I won’t let it end like this.”

There were a few minutes of quiet.

You hung up before he could start snoring in your ear. A small part of you kind of wanted to hear it. But, instead, you hung up. Placed your phone on your lap. Stared straight ahead, to the windowsill and the peek of the city skyline against a black sky. You thought about his voice on the other end. Calling for you. You sat in silence. Night bled away. You wanted to reach for the lighter again. Your instincts told you not to.

So, you hoisted yourself up and crawled under your covers, giving in to exhaustion’s embrace.

-

The next time you saw Jeon Jungkook was an evening at a convenience store. It was a coincidence. Or perhaps one of fate’s great jokes. You spied him the second you walked into the small establishment. He was talking to a tall man with a sun-kissed tan and longish black hair in soft curls. They obviously knew each other. Jungkook’s laugh was his typical bright guffaw that he tried to stifle to not be a public disturbance.

For a second, you almost forgot that call from a few nights ago.

You looked away, heading to the other side of the store.

Before you did, though, he had glanced in your direction and done a double-take. You moved into an aisle, out of sight, heading to the back, changing your original intent for being here. This particular convenience store was family-owned. It had a small section where the owner’s wife prepared fresh gimbap daily. You wondered how many people knew about this, because it was always stocked. Maybe they preferred to buy from bigger stores, not trusting a small business. You grabbed a tray of heftily-filled tuna gimbap before heading to the fridge section for drinks.

Jungkook was standing there.

You pulled back into the aisle.

His back had been to you, so he didn’t have the chance to notice. Half-in the fridge, picking something out among the electrolyte replenishers and flavored waters. He carried a black backpack that seemed heavy with things. Workout stuff, you assumed. His companion earlier had a towel around his shoulders and had worn a red tank top with exaggerated armholes, revealing a built chest and defined arms. Jungkook’s black hair looked slightly damp, possibly sweaty, pushed back and away from his forehead. He was wearing an open navy hoodie, white tank top, gray sweatpants, and white sneakers. It was safe to assume the backpack had workout shit in it. You wondered where the other guy was. He had been very tall. Easy to spot over the tops of the aisles, but he seemed to no longer be in the store. He must have left, then. No one to distract Jungkook any longer. Hm. You still wanted a drink, but.

Not that badly.

You zipped your black hoodie over your exposed stomach once you noticed the cashier was the elderly woman. You probably would have zipped it no matter who it was. The older generation just tended to be less subtle about their judgements. You approached the register and she smiled, greeting you. You slid the tuna gimbap over to her.

He was behind you.

You glanced at the glass behind the cashier. The cabinet held various brands of cigarettes. It was very well-polished, and you could see Jungkook behind you, sternly staring at the back of your head. You turned around.

He shot you a questioning look, furrowing his eyebrows.

“The total is–”

In his hands was a big bottle. Some kind of sports drink. You took it from him, and put it next to your tuna gimbap. The old woman didn’t quite register the speed of your action, blinking several times.

“Sorry,” you said. “Could you please add this too? Thank you.”

Clearly, she could only focus at one thing at a time. She did not realize you had snatched the drink from the man behind you, which would immediately raise eyebrows. Instead, the older woman was preoccupied with searching for the barcode, turning the bottle this way and that, poking the scanner against it.

Adding it to your receipt.

You felt a hand on your shoulder.

You pulled out your card as the cashier stated your new total. Tapped it as Jungkook hissed your name under his breath, but you ignored him, accepting the purchase as the cashier carefully packed up your meal and someone else’s drink in the same small clear plastic bag. She smiled her customer service smile and then noticed the disheveled punk behind you with a slight widening of her eyes.

You thanked her again and wished her a nice day before gripping his hoodie sleeve and dragging him with you.

Immediately let go when you exited the establishment, finally paying heed to the muttering of curses behind you. You reached into the thin plastic bag and pulled out his drink, pivoting slightly to give it to him. Jungkook snatched it from your hand, scowling.

“I don’t need your fuckin’ charity,” he snapped.

You wondered if he even remembered his drunken laments. “It’s not charity.” You affixed an impassive expression. “Not for you, anyway. Just making it easier for the cashier.” You began to take a few steps in the direction you needed to go.

He scoffed, “What are you doing, anyway?” and cocked his chin at you. “Stalking me now?”

You wondered if he was wishing for that. “I’m retrieving dinner like everybody else at this hour. ‘Cept you, I guess,” you added, unzipping your hoodie again even though the sun was dropping fast.

“What the–”

And Jungkook quickly jogged up beside you, shielding your body with his.

“The hell you doing?”

You glared but didn’t stop walking. “What?” Impolitely.

He pointed to your sports bra with a flick of his wrist. “Uh, you can’t leave the house like that.”

“I already have,” you pointed out. His eyes were glued to your sports bra and the low-waisted black Nike sweatpants clinging to your hips.

“And you think nothing is going to happen to you?” Jungkook indignantly shot back, blocking your way and darting his gaze around as if offenders were already on the horizon.

“Whether it does or not has no bearing on what I’m wearing,” you dryly replied. He was repeating a tale as old as time. Not that that made it any less real. It was all heard before, though. “You act like I haven’t lived for decades knowing the horrors of the world.”

His expression changed. Still frustrated. Slightly put off by your wording. And, sadly, comprehension. “That’s not what I mean.”

“That’s what you’re coming off as.”

“Not my intention,” he grumbled.

“Intentions don’t mean much in the face of what actually happens,” you said, glancing at him.

He shut up.

You almost regretted spilling your honesty.

“Sorry,” he said softly.

He seemed beaten down by your response. Eventually he shook his head and ran his free hand through his windswept black hair, trying to sneak a glimpse at your face. You were already staring at him. That threw him off. He looked away, flustered.

“Can I at least accompany you back?” he offered. Awkwardly.

You ticked your head. You knew that his gym was near that convenience store. “Don’t you live around here?” He had mentioned it, once. “I need to take the bus.” Earlier, you were aware that there was definitely a chance for you would run into him once you chose your destination. But it was the closest spot to buy liquor, and you hadn’t felt like traveling further. Then the original plan changed once you encountered Jungkook. Remembering all that made you pause. You diverted your gaze, adding, “Forget it. Go home.”

Monotone.

Your dismissal clearly annoyed him. He let out an exaggerated exhale and blocked you again when you tried to walk around him. You narrowed your eyes but didn’t raise your head. His tank top was tight, revealing the contours of his muscle. The shoulder of his hoodie had slid down, exposing part of his tattoo sleeve. Dark rings of petals in a hypnotizing mandala. The artist was talented enough to make you pause to admire. Then you swiftly looked away, anywhere else, shifting to his jaw. He stuck his tongue in his cheek and steeled himself.

“Fine.” He came to a conclusion, apparently. “I need a smoke.”

A ripple of aggravation shot through your temple. You turned your stare to fixate on Jungkook. He glared back, twice as stubborn.

“You serious?” you snarled. “Go back to the store then and buy some yourself.”

He rolled his eyes. “The fuck is the point of giving them to you, then?”

You jerked back, disgusted. “I didn’t fucking want them, asshole.”

“Yeah, well,” he pressed, becoming more resolute by the second. “That was the deal.”

You planted a palm on his chest and shoved him out of your way. Unbelievable. “There was no fucking deal,” you retorted, walking fast. He kept up because he was an annoying prick. You glowered, bristling at his presence. “What? You think you can do whatever you want, Jeon Jungkook?” The audacity of this bitch. “I’m not gonna fuckin’ give them to you anyway. So, promptly, fuck off.”

His fingertips touched your shoulder.

You yanked your body back as if scalded.

“Don’t touch me.”

He pulled his hand out of the air but didn’t back down. Those dark brown eyes narrowed. His lips thinned. Anger clouded his features. And. You felt your icy composure become brittle when you observed the distressed sadness poorly hidden underneath said anger.

A tense stillness.

“They’ll kill you,” you steely stated.

His gaze shifted. Contorted. The expression of all too well.

“Yeah.” He exhaled hard. “That’s the truth.”

Then his eyes drifted back to you.

All the fight in the air drained out. Neither of you dared to speak. There were volumes written within this shared quiet. Strangers walked past, sending you both strange looks. You and him were too busy being struck in three-in-the-morning thoughts shared during an impromptu phone call. You looked away. So did he. There was a loud screech of metal and heavy tires on asphalt. You didn’t say anything. You only had time for an instinctive decision.

You tapped Jungkook’s forearm and waved, quickly running to catch up with the bus.

Less than a minute later, him and you stiffly sat next to each other on worn seats, trying your best not to glance at one another or make eye contact with anyone else. It was mostly successful, other than a strong-smelling middle-aged man that was eyeing everybody a little too closely. He settled on you for an unknown but undoubtably nefarious reason. Jungkook shoved you against the side of the bus and firmly put his backpack in his lap, blocking the view of your torso from the stranger’s perspective. Either the random man noticed the silent hostility or lacked object permeance when drunk. He changed course.

Both of you relaxed slightly.

You zipped up your hoodie anyway. Couldn’t hurt. You lifted your head. By mistake, your eyes locked with Jungkook’s. He looked like he wanted to say something but he stayed mute for now. It was a quiet bus ride, leaving both of you in roads of thought neither of you wanted to be in.

-

“You can go home now.”

Jungkook reminded you. “I need a smoke, remember?”

You held your apartment keys and frowned at him. He gave you a casual shrug you didn’t trust. He held onto his backpack and the drink you had bought him, now half-empty. You turned away, licking the side of your teeth. Glanced from all the closed doors around you. You couldn’t shake the tension at your shoulders. Passed by his face. There was something in his expression. You let out an exhale through your nose and shoved your key into the lock, harshly twisting it.

“Fine. Go look for them,” you invited not-so-invitingly.

The door was old and jammed in the frame. You shoved it, hard, and it swung open with almost too much force. You grabbed the knob before it could hit the wall in a practiced motion, crossing the threshold to remove your shoes and scoot them by the wall. He followed, somewhat startled by your daily habits. You ignored him. Instead, you headed for the tiny kitchen with your tuna gimbap, intending to devour it as Jungkook did his search. Chopsticks from the drawer. Taking out the tray of food and placing it on the counter while you balled up the plastic bag to put it in the correct recycling bin. Yanked off the lid and picked up the end piece to eat.

You chewed.

It was fresh. Pretty good.

Without turning around, you removed your hoodie and threw it to the side. It shot to the back of the sofa and clumped. You kept eating. You had already heard Jungkook lock the door, remove his shoes, and dump his backpack on the hardwood floor with a thump. The cigarettes were exactly where you left them. Next to your bedside table lamp with your lighter leaning against them. You ate another piece, staring at the bottom of your gray-stained cabinets, and only now realizing how hungry you were. Huh.

It was eerily quiet.

Weird.

You chewed on your third piece and twisted your body to find Jungkook still standing by the door, staring at your living room with wide eyes. The apartment was quite small. Maybe a little bit crammed. The living room had a black fabric sofa, a dark-stained coffee table that had seen too many late-night dinners, and the TV on a low storage unit.

And mirrors.

Mirrors all over the walls. Most of them were small. Some were vintage with aged metal frames or darkened bamboo frames. Some of them weren’t in the best shape, the reflective glass becoming patchy and spotted. Some were a little more than smoked glass. They were all from thrift stores or resell markets. There was no real rhyme or reason to their placement all over the living room other than chaotically aesthetic. The ones on the bookshelf unit by the window were all lined up. Unique pocket mirrors with various shapes. There were a few anime and cartoon character motifs sprinkled in.

“What the fuck…?”

He finally gave you a look slight frightened concern but mostly confusion.

You shrugged. Casually. “I like to collect mirrors.” You munched.

“No shit?” Jungkook still looked mildly appalled. He furrowed his brows to regain some sort of control over his face. “And you called me a creep.” Still, he shuffled further in, peering over them. “There’s so many of them… The fuck you need all this for?”

“Nothing.”

He shot you a look over his shoulder and quickly diverted his eyes once he noticed your exposed shoulders. “Nothing?” he echoed indignantly.

“There’s no real purpose,” you reaffirmed, grabbing another piece of gimbap with a click of your chopsticks. “Why does anyone have a collection?”

Jungkook snorted. “Collecting music albums or even plushies is less weird then…” He paused. Then angled his body slightly, as if to listen to what you had to say without directly viewing you. “Is there a reason you collect mirrors?”

You, too, stilled. Seeing the back of his head and his broad shoulders suddenly reminded you that this was the first time you had ever invited Jeon Jungkook into your space and rather impulsively at that. You faced the counter again. The gimbap was about three-fourths gone. It was probably a good idea to finish it all now. You chewed on your lower lip, debating on whether or not to tell him the reason.

“When I was young,” you said, directed to the unfinished gimbap. “I didn’t like looking at myself in mirrors. Guess I had some kind of complex about them.” You didn’t elaborate. You positioned your chopsticks over another piece of the roll but didn’t yet pick it up. “When I moved in here, I didn’t really care about decorating it either. Figured it didn’t matter. At some point, I got tired of the blank walls, so I went to a secondhand shop to find something to put on the wall, and I remembered I don’t like mirrors.”

Hated them, really.

“So, I brought one because I thought the design was cool. And kept buying them.”

You half-laughed, mirthlessly.

“I decided it’s stupid to hate something like that, anyway,” you muttered, and chomped down another piece. You should have gotten out the soy sauce. Hah. With self-exasperation, you opened a cabinet to take out the small glass dispenser. Poured a little on the edge of the tray to dip the last few pieces in.

“That’s cool.”

His voice seemed louder, somehow. “You called me a creep,” you hummed.

“I didn’t call you a creep,” Jungkook said behind you.

You turned around, bristling. He was distracted, looking around your relatively neat kitchen. Probably taking note that there were no mirrors here. You restricted your collection to the living room walls to prevent overbuying. His eyes stopped at the gimbap on the counter at waist height. His dark eyes raised. Tentative. Your pulse accelerated a bit. You kept your expression neutral, chewing slowly.

“Thought you needed a smoke?” you asked after swallowing. You waved your chopstick towards the bedroom. “Be my guest.”

The tips of his ears flushed pink. He was sort of looking at you but also not. You tried not to notice that his navy hoodie had fallen off his shoulder, revealing his defined, tattooed right arm all the way to his elbow. His hands were shoved into the side pockets of his sweatpants. He was in the middle of scrutinizing yours.

“Are those mine?” Jungkook asked, completely ignoring your question.

You flicked the side seam by your thigh. “I’ll wash them and give them back. Seemed pointless to wear them for only a short while and wash immediately.” You leaned against the counter. “I haven’t forgotten. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

His eyes shot up to your face at your comment. You shared a glare. Both of you held it more out of stubbornness than intimidation. For what reason, you weren’t sure. There were only parts of him you disliked. Not all of him. Well. Maybe if you and him dialed back the hostility, then.

Both of you broke eye contact at the same time.

“They… They look good on you.” It wasn’t said in a sarcastic way. The sincerity was somehow more alarming. “Keep them.”

“No thanks,” you retorted with more familiarity than you intended. “I don’t need your charity.” You shouldn’t have said that.

It didn’t end up mattering, though.

“Do you remember when I called you a couple nights ago?” Jungkook suddenly blurted, thrusting you both into whiplash of conversation topic change.

You froze.

There was no cue to tell you what was the right thing to say. It was best to glance at his expression to find out, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to. There was something about the distance of a phone call that made deep conversations easier. But you realized from his abruptness that he, too, must have been struggling to bring up the elephant in the room. Could have let it sleep, but this guy wouldn’t let it be.

Still, you understood him.

You pursed your lips and rubbed your collarbone with your free hand. “Only one of us was drunk and it wasn’t me,” you finally sighed. Raised your head.

His ears were very red now. You saw Jungkook battle between being a smartass and his natural self. You saw him wish he was a natural smartass. He cleared his throat, his chest tensing. “Uh… Sorry,” he mumbled. “Sorry about… Calling so late.” He cleared his throat again despite his discomfort being purely emotional. His eyes shifted. “I didn’t think you’d answer… But you did.” He chanced a glimpse at your reaction.

You shrugged.

Casually.

He nodded quickly even though you hadn’t said anything. “I don’t remember everything I said,” he rambled in a tone that clearly indicated he did. “So, don’t, uh, don’t take it too seriously.” He was taller than you but it didn’t feel like that right now.

You considered his words and quietly replied with, “Okay.”

His eyes drifted to the kitchen counter. Lingered on your waist, but not for long. He ticked his chin towards the leftovers. “Can I have a piece?”

Wordlessly, you held out the chopsticks so he had access to the other, unused end. He hesitated. Then pulled a hand from his pocket. You moved out of the way as he retrieved the chopsticks from your grip and took a step to be closer to the counter.

It was weird.

Standing in your small kitchen next to Jeon Jungkook eating your dinner leftovers.

Mostly it was weird because it didn’t make you highly uncomfortable or positively annoyed. It felt normal, which is what made it otherworldly odd. As if you were getting used to his presence beside you. You winced and tried not to make it obvious. You heard him try to say your name between bites.

“Chew your food,” you muttered, angling your face away but not your body. Couldn’t bring yourself to watch him eat. You heard the rattle of the plastic tray against the counter as he dipped in the soy sauce. Then you felt a nudge by your arm.

Before you could stop your natural reaction, you were face-to-face with Jungkook who was holding out the last piece to you with full cheeks and an expectant expression. You blinked at him. The blunt end of the chopsticks was used, but he was holding out the gimbap with the slender side. The end you had been eating with. The seaweed glistened with soy sauce. His free hand was under the chopsticks, cradling air in the dire last resort that it fell. He roughly swallowed, looking more annoyed with each passing second.

“Open up.”

“No,” you automatically replied.

He rolled his eyes. “Come on.”

You made a face. “This is weird.”

He made a face back. Disturbing. “Shut up and open your mouth.”

“I wo–”

That was precisely the moment Jungkook shoved the chopsticks into your mouth. Instinctively, you lowered your jaw to catch it all, glaring at him. He scowled back, about to remove the chopsticks before you caught them in your teeth with your mouth full of tuna, vegetables, and rice. There was a brief, pointless tug of war before you pulled your head back rather than let him perform the action. Jungkook squinted at you, irritated, and you were just as perturbed, chewing decidedly before swallowing.

Sudden silence.

He lowered the chopsticks to balance them on the empty tray. You ran your tongue over your teeth to catch any rice stragglers. It became hard to maintain eye contact. Now he was facing the cabinets and you were facing the living room of mirrors. Minutes ticked by.

The quiet became violent.

You whipped your head to Jungkook. “So, what–”

He spoke at the same time. “You know I’m not joking, right?” he asked softly.

His profile was statuesque. Instantly recognizable. Imprinted in memory. And then his dark eyes shifted, his black hair framing his temples, and now Jungkook was searching for your eyes that remained on him. You shut your mouth. He realized he had interrupted you.

“What did you want to say?”

You faltered and then shook your head. “Not important.”

His brows furrowed. “Don’t–”

“Joking about what?” you interjected. “Don’t try to distract me.”

He was, rightfully, irate. “You–”

You wrapped an arm around your midsection, suddenly feeling cold. “Is this about you quitting smoking?”

Immediately he noticed. Your demeanor demanding him to answer was a little too intense to be ignored, though. “That’s…” He tutted, his voice deepening slightly. “I’ve already quit.” You raised an eyebrow. “What?” He was trying to unconvincingly convince you. It had barely been a couple weeks, anyway. ‘Ugh, okay, fine. Maybe I bummed a cig a couple of times. But only for a couple puffs. Don’t fucking look at me like that,” Jungkook snapped. “Like you don’t have any bad habits.”

“I have bad habits,” you answered coldly. “But I also deal with how I feel. Something you should get started on.”

He threw up his hands and began to back away from the counter, until.

“Is this how you want to spend your life?” you asked.

His back was to you now. Reluctance took over, rendering his movements as statuesque as he looked moments before. You stared at his back, wondering if you had gone too far. Wondering if these shared moments were all for naught. Not really in the very real chance that he could leave and never look back, but in the very real chance that he did and nothing changed for him. Or for you. In the chance that your interactions would ultimately mean nothing in this life when it was very clear that both of you wanted to mean something. Anything.

“I don’t.”

You looked up and Jungkook was looking back at you over his shoulder. He lowered his gaze when your eyes connected before half-turning to face you, halfway between running to and running from. You asked yourself, if it was anyone else, would you stay this silent? Before it registered, you reached out and tugged his hoodie sleeve.

After all, you did always have a light for him.

He raised his eyes.

“You’re trying. Aren’t you?” You gave him a dry smile before letting go.

His lashes lowered to waning half-moons. Then he ticked his head, asking, “Do you really hate it that much?” His eyes found yours. He already knew the answer and was asking it anyway.

You told him the truth. “Yeah.”

The corner of his lips flicked upwards wryly. “Damn. So honest.”

You almost laughed. “Well… You wouldn’t like me at all if you knew I was a liar.” Then your words caught up to you. “Not that you do,” you added after a beat.

“I do,” corrected Jungkook before looking away.

Maybe he was embarrassed by his admission. You, however, were preoccupied with other thoughts. The mirrors. Your insomnia. His tattoos. His cigarettes. Your coldness. His fire. The way you tended to lock down your deep emotions and the way his tended to spill out when they overflowed. You held the lighter. He longed to burn. You liked him. That thought lingered. You hated the smoking, true, not only because of all the obvious discomforts, but also because you had a feeling that he knew he could quit and only did it to further punish himself for things he didn’t do.

You just had a feeling since you, too, punished yourself for things you didn’t do.

You felt something soft brush against your shoulders.

His hoodie smelled like him, herbal and fresh with depth, with a vague hint of washed-out acid smoke. You glanced over. He looked apologetic, gesturing to your arm over your midsection. His built chest and sculpted shoulders were mildly distracting. His white tank top clung to his body, not leaving much to the imagination. You frowned. Jungkook saw your face and braced himself for a reprimanding.

You asked him a question you had been wondering for a while now.

“Did you plan this?”

That wasn’t what he expected. His features twisted into confusion. “Uh?” He seemed to forget his anxiousness for a moment. “Plan what?” The perfect deer-in-headlights look.

You angled your body to better face him and held the edge of the hoodie, narrowing your eyes. “You know what I mean,” you warned.

He sensed danger and held up his hands in defeat. “I don’t?”

Those big brown eyes begged you to believe him. Either he was stupid or a really good actor. You relaxed slightly. You weren’t banking on the latter and really hoped you were right. You grimaced, backing away. It wasn’t fair to let learned behavior judge him yet constant vigilance was also needed for survival. You sighed, stepping around him.

“Never mind. It’s late. Just sleep in my bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“The fuck?” Jungkook followed, infuriated, much like the rest of the night. “I can’t do that.”

“The buses aren’t running this late,” you stated matter-of-factly. You waved him away, plopping onto your sofa with a tired exhale. “Or you can call a taxi, I guess. You want money for that?”

He smacked his hand down on the back of the sofa and scowled, bending down to intimidate you.

“I am not some kid!”

You looked up at him.

Jungkook froze, realizing the closeness.

He was naturally a very handsome man. You had always thought so. Never told him. He had probably heard it enough. He faltered, losing the fight but not yet letting go of the sofa. You observed the line of his jaw and thought about how hard he had to work to fulfill the image others had of him. How hard he worked to break that image, only to shoulder a different set of expectations, for only a certain level of coolness could combat the goodness he lost. If not one thing, then another. He must not have felt that he fit those ideals either. He couldn’t win.

You worried that he simply liked you in a vain attempt to feel some level of control.

Crestfallen, his eyes wandered, then realized he couldn’t because then he would be staring down your chest or at your thighs. He pretended that he wasn’t looking and raised his head, saying the first thing that came to mind.

“I feel like I don’t know you at all.”

It wasn’t so much accusatory as it was a revelation.

You lowered your gaze and realized you were staring at his chest or his crotch. That was out of the question. You almost wished he would sit down next to you, but he was right. There was a moment where you considered brushing him off as you did with everyone else. Your eyes connected. As you stared into those dark brown orbs, your instincts taunted you, asking you want you were afraid of.

“There’s nothing good to know,” you admitted. “Better to keep things to myself.”

His expression told you he fucking hated that.

He looked up to the mirrors around the room. You could see he was still a bit creeped out by them and tried very hard not to say it. Your elderly landlord did often joke about how you were inviting spirits into your home with these old mirrors. You usually countered with they also symbolized fate, to which he guffawed and asked how many fates you needed.

Sometimes, it felt like you needed every chance you could get.

“I can’t sleep in your bed,” he finally concluded, steeling himself.

“Your smokes are on my nightstand. So is my lighter.”

The door to the bedroom was partway open but Jungkook even didn’t look in that direction. His ears were slowly turning scarlet. He distracted himself with your statements. “What? Why?” He frowned. “I thought you threw ‘em away.”

You shrugged. “Seemed like a waste of money.”

He muttered under his breath. “Yeah. That’s what they are.” He looked a little ashamed. Shook his head, trying to convince himself. “Even more reason not to go in there and be tempted.” He began to step around your legs, shooing you away with a gruff, “Move.”

You didn’t move.

“You hate my bed that much even though you want to get in it?” you quipped.

Jungkook started. “That’s–”

You stood up abruptly.

It was so fast that he had no time to react. One moment you were sitting and the next you were standing right up to him with only a whisper of breath between your bodies, peering at his face. His hoodie fell off your shoulders and onto the cushions. His eyes widened, lips parting, and you witnessed him holding his breath as if that would somehow stop time.

Seconds that felt like hours ticked by.

You wondered how it would feel to be held by him.

“Fine,” you whispered, staring into his eyes. “I’ll get you a blanket and a pillow.”

And you walked around, letting him breathe again.

-

Being awake was torturous due to constantly fighting invasive thoughts. Being asleep was worse due to remaining imprisoned in those intrusive thoughts blended with uncontrolled imagination, which was your presumed explanation for your insomniac nights. Yeah. And people wondered why you kept to yourself. Such was being human, so once again you gave into the insanity of doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result because it could not be avoided.

Everyone had to sleep, after all.

And you woke up a few hours later, as predicted, wrenching yourself out of a dream you didn’t want to be in, trying your best to remember none of it. You were used to it. Routine of the night, so to speak. That made it more annoying than anxiety-inducing. You laid on your back in relative silence, staring into the darkness of the ceiling and running your fingers over your sheets. A folded portion of the duvet was trapped under your left side and you impatiently yanked it out from under you, forgetting the images of betrayal in the wake of another’s selfishness.

For tonight, anyway.

There was a loud snore on the other side of your bedroom door, offending your ears at this late hour. You sat up. You had been a little surprised at Jungkook accepting your offer. Then again, everything was happening because of split decisions and obvious desires. And some logic. Just not much. You hadn’t talked much after you handed him the extra pillow from your bed and a soft fuzzy blanket. There wasn’t much to talk about, not to mention both of you were trying to pretend as if this wasn’t happening. In movies and television shows, this would have gone in a whole different direction. In reality, it was a lot more awkward and untimely.

You glanced over to the nightstand that held his cigarettes and your lighter, barely making out the outlines of the items. Maybe his initial intention really was to come just to get them. Or maybe it was to put you in a compromising position or something like that. Neither of those things happened because neither of those things were who he was, only ideas of what he thought he could be, but he hadn’t thought any of it through, so now he was snoring up a storm on your sofa without a care in the world.

Unlike you, it seemed like his sleep was solace rather than a battleground.

You tapped a finger against the bed and then sighed, pulling yourself out from under the duvet to grab a large t-shirt to pull over your head. Headed to the bedroom door and opened it quietly, slipping out to the kitchen accompanied by Jungkook’s noisy and uncoordinated nose symphony. He was facing the inside of the sofa but, unfortunately for you and fortunately for him, had powerful lungs. There wasn’t much worry about rousing him. You opened the fridge and took out a bottle of water, hoping the cool liquid could refresh you somehow.

You faced the sink and took a few sips.

Was friendship even the correct word for what you and Jeon Jungkook had? It was more closeness from coincidence rather than a direct seeking out of the other. Closeness that became closer before either of you realized it, slowly losing all the people in between until only you and him were left. Maybe that was why he had a sort of fixation on you since everyone had distanced themselves for various reasons, relationships, careers, adventures. Then again, fixation seemed to be his defining feature.

You almost snorted, and would have if he wasn’t sleeping on your couch.

But maybe not, as he had paradoxical, flighty tendencies too. Always influenced by someone or some media he consumed. You weren’t without your own flaws, you knew. Deep thought and constant existential crisis didn’t exactly make for good company. Sometimes it was better not to think so much, which was why you tried to fight your instinctive nature at times. You looked over to the mirrors on the living room walls, taking another drink. They were small, not very useful as a looking glass or for nitpicking an outfit before leaving. You had not been lying when you told Jungkook that you bought them to get over your hatred of them. There was a time when you hated seeing your reflection because the person in the mirror wasn’t matching up with the person in your head.

Irrational, yes.

Reality was irrational.

You rested your ass against the bottom cabinets of your kitchen and sipped from the water bottle. You knew you weren’t a good person since you had long given up aspiring for something great. Anyone worth anything aspired for something great. Not even failure was frowned upon the in the presence of a dream nowadays. You didn’t understand why Jungkook was snoring in your apartment right now, why he cared if you got home in one piece, why he was trying so hard to quit smoking for someone like you who lived in irreverence. South Korea valued productivity, beauty, and giving away one’s humanity for the cause. Not giving a fuck made you no better than the bottom of the barrel.

You couldn’t answer what he so heavily hinted at because it just didn’t make any sense.

Maybe he was just dumb.

Jungkook snored particularly loud and choked, throwing himself into a coughing fit.

You frowned and made your way over to him as he shrimped up and groaned, highly displeased and groggy from this turn of events. There was no obvious reaction to you approaching him. Either he didn’t hear you or didn’t register where he was.

You placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Nrgh…”

“You alright?” You kept your voice low, a level above a whisper. “Want some water?”

He said your name as if underwater. Muffled and out of it. You pulled your hand away as he turned over and sat up, squinting hard. “Uh?” He was still wearing his tank top which was now wrinkled around his waist. The top of his chest glistened with sweat. He probably usually slept shirtless and didn’t do so to be polite.

You held out the plastic bottle in your hand. “Water.”

He wasn’t thinking straight because he grabbed the bottle from you without objection, as if he wholeheartedly accepted you were the cold-water fairy of his dreams. He drank without so much of a thank you and with his lips right against the opening, crushing the latter half of what was left in only a few seconds.

“Uwah…!”

He dropped his hand, breathing out hard. You glanced at your empty hand. Comtemplated on giving him a reality check of what he just did but instead decided to let it go.

“Uh… Why are you awake?” he asked you blearily, becoming more awake by the second.

Some truths were better left unsaid for now. “Getting used to your snoring,” you mused, dropping your hand.

Jungkook seemed embarrassed. Looked from the water bottle to the coffee table behind your legs. The distance was too great for it to be casual. He clung onto it for emotional safety. “S-Sorry about that,” he mumbled, straightening his tank top and rubbing his neck.

“It’s probably a side effect of your smoking,” you commented.

He shot you an angry pout but there was no retort when you were right. “It’s probably my rhinitis,” he huffed. An uncomfortable, short silence.

Once again, both of you were reminded of a late-night call in the dead of night.

You held out your hand for the water bottle. After a moment, Jungkook handed it back. Apparently, it still hadn’t occurred to him why it was half-empty.  He seemed more curious about you being awake. You wondered that too. You gestured to the pillow.

“It’s not comfortable, is it?”

He followed your gesture and half-heartedly shrugged. “I’ll be okay.” He shot you a look. “Worried about me?” His deep, sleepy voice sounded a lot cockier than he looked. He looked like a puppy that had just woken up after napping in a weird position. His black hair was sticking up every which way.

“I’m always worried about you,” you replied with a deadpan face.

His eyes widened.

You followed up with, “You’re an idiot.”

That pissed Jungkook off. He reached up to smack you and you caught his hand in the air. That woke him up. But honestly you were losing sleep and energy fast. It made you catch his fingers at an odd angle, almost a caress, and you were too tired to care, sighing before backing away, slowly letting go of his hand. His fingertips slid over the inside of your wrist. You turned your back to him.

You headed to the kitchen and tossed the bottle in the proper recycling bin.

He called your name.

“What?” you grumpily replied, straightening.

“You’re not wearing pants…” Jungkook reminded you.

You had to bend over to access the sorted trash. “Lucky you.”

His tone became gruff. “Don’t be so reckless in front of a guy.”

You half-turned and raised an eyebrow. He was still firmly seated on your sofa. “You act like I’m not standing in my kitchen next to my knives,” you pointed out, ticking your head in the direction of your knife block. “Also, are you implying that you’re a trashy guy?”

“I’m not a trashy guy,” he snapped angrily.

“Then what do I have to be worried about?” You took the steps towards your bedroom door.

“I just don’t like how you obviously have no interest in me,” Jungkook muttered under his breath, throwing himself down onto the sofa and turning his back to you.

You stopped in the doorway.

He was not provoking you. He sounded more like a kid that didn’t get his way rather than an adult trying to reverse psychology you. His words were not meant to change your mind. Yet, all of a sudden, you began to wonder what the fuck you were dancing in this limbo for. All because you didn’t want to be someone’s reason for anything? Well, congratulations, you failed. You failed your dream of a pointless existence. Woohoo. You rolled your eyes to the sky and turned around.

He was still pill-bug-positioned when you grabbed his shoulder and yanked him from the cease in the sofa, lowering your head to hiss, “Stop being a fucking brat.”

You expected him to tense up. His head jerked around and Jungkook stared at you. Wide-eyed, as if you had just pulled him out of a top hat by his ears. You glared, physically tired and tired of this shit, sliding your hand down his collarbone and cupping his chin, pulling him to better face you, tilting your head to narrow your eyes at him.

He sputtered. “W… What?”

“You heard me,” you answered in a clipped tone. “Get up.”

“Huh?”

You let go of his chin and slapped his upper arm. “Get up.”

In a tangle of long limbs and bewilderment, you yanked him up by his forearm, snatching the pillow from under him. Dragged him and his twisted blanket skirt into your bedroom. You hadn’t given him enough time to unravel himself. You let go of his forearm and slammed the pillow onto the empty right side of the bed, pointing rudely to the rumpled poof.

“Lay down,” you ordered.

Jungkook waved his hands, panic rising in his gravelly voice. “I can’t–”

“I don’t give a fuck,” you interrupted and marched behind him, shoving the small of his back. He got the hint after a short flailing about, shuffling towards the side of the bed before flopping onto the duvet like a caught tuna. He tried not to make eye contact, but you weren’t looking anyway, too busy crossing over to the other side and slinking under the duvet.

He squeaked out an, “Um…”

“Shut up,” was your automatic grumble. “Go to sleep.”

He answered in a small voice. “But… What if I snore…?”

“I know you’ll snore,” you grunted, reaching to him and pinning his shoulder down. He was above the duvet, half-wrapped in the blanket you had given him earlier. You had noticed he was still wearing his gray sweatpants so he wasn’t indecent. Not that it mattered. “I’ll get used to it.”

“I…”

You made a growling noise in warning, squinting at his face.

He gulped. “I just… Wanted to say thanks…”

You let go of him and turned your back, firmly closing your eyes. Jungkook was right there. You had a queen-sized bed. Big enough, but not so big that he could pull himself far away from you. You could feel his presence. It wasn’t a bad thing, though.

“You’re welcome,” you mumbled curtly and didn’t say any more.

-

When he opened the door, he looked disheveled and distractable, noisily chewing gum, jerking his head around your periphery as if he expected you to bring an entourage to shake him down. You stood at his doorstep, perturbed. His dark eyes flickered to you and nearly bulged out of his head.

“The hell are you wearing?” Jeon Jungkook blurted without any formal or informal greeting.

You thought you would be used to it by now. It was becoming kind of funny, in a way. “These are my work clothes,” you calmly explained. It was true that he hadn’t seen you in a nice silk blouse and fitted pencil skirt before. Dark teal and jet black, respectively. “I have a job I go to.”

This was the logical answer but it was not exactly the answer Jungkook wanted. You could tell by the knitting of his brows, his still open mouth, and the way he was just staring at your hips instead of continuing the conversation. His black hair was sticking up in the back. As usual, he was wearing casual clothes. A big, light gray t-shirt and charcoal sweats.

You raised your hand and shut his jaw so you didn’t have to view his half-chewed pink gum. “You’re going to the gym, aren’t you?”

It broke him out of his trance. He looked irritated, chewing again. More than that. He looked jittery. “Yeah.” He seemed to be having a mental debate. You wanted no part of that. “I was about to drink a protein shake while waiting for you.”

“Cool,” you said in an impassive tone that indicated you had no interest in protein shakes. You reached into your mid-size black leather bag and pulled out his black sweatpants, now clean and smelling of dryer sheet. “Here, then.” You lifted your head to hold them out.

Jungkook had abandoned his front door.

A muscle in your cheek twitched. His apartment was more modern, although about the same size as yours. Space was a luxury. The door was slowly closing without the aid of someone holding it. You smacked your palm against the light wood and pushed it open, your black heels clicking on the dark gray hardwood. Or was it vinyl? Hard to tell and you didn’t care to inspect. The walls were bright cool white. His big black backpack was on the floor of the short entrance hall. It was slightly open. Black boxing gloves with yellow accents and white towels were shoved in there. You expected him to be messy but all of his sneakers were lined up against the wall. Could use a shoe rack, though.

Jungkook reappeared, gum-less this time, carrying a shake tumbler with a vanilla-colored substance in it, clanging it about with one hand and trying to be chill. As chill as a nonchalant freak-out would be.

He coughed and asked, casually, “You go dressed like that to work?”

You weren’t sure why he gave a shit about what you were wearing. “Perks of an administrative desk job. Dress code.” You waved the rolled-up sweatpants in his direction. “Take these.”

He gave you a suspicious look as if you were the one to decide societal expectations for female office wear. “Who are you trying to impress?”

“The HR department,” you replied, deadpan. “I’d get fired if I showed up to work dressed like you.”

He nodded, agreeing but not convinced. “What if someone hits on you?”

“I set them on fire.”

Jungkook gawked at you.

You dropped your outstretched arm and clicked your tongue. “I don’t do anything. No one is allowed to date a co-worker and I’m not interested in any of them,” you explained. If only he knew that you sat alone in a cramped office and reviewed budgeting for university laboratories so no one was heedlessly using government funding. It was thrilling stuff. “Why do you care if someone hits on me?”

His eyes narrowed. “Of course, I care. I don’t want some asshole harassing you.” Before you could tell him to look in the mirror, he muttered, “Do you really think you won’t get hurt looking that hot?”

The real answer was that you didn’t care.

You tossed his sweatpants onto his backpack while saying, “Workplace harassment is very serious. I doubt my superiors want a scandal. You’re right. I’m considered attractive, so they want to keep me as a model employee and for gender equality points.”

“What about the train?” Jungkook pressed, stepping closer.

You almost rolled your eyes. “The subway is always shitty. Everybody knows that,” you said. “I’ve been taking the subway since high school. I’m pretty good at spotting psycho now.” You looked up at him with contained venom. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know that,” he snapped, placing his protein shake on the floor before confronting you again. “I just don’t like it.” He glared back.

You raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like that I can take care of myself?”

“No,” Jungkook stubbornly repeated. Frustration crept into his features. “It makes me mad.”

One look at his face and it was obvious what he was implying. There was no reason to give in, though. “That sucks.” You patted the top of his chest condescendingly. “Maybe you need to see a therapist for that.”

He jerked his head towards the mound on his backpack. “Take the pants back and put them on.”

You wondered if he was being this way because he had paranoia or because he had nothing better to do. “No,” you refused. You crossed your arms. “Don’t be this way only for yourself. Plus, I just washed them.”

Like an ox, he didn’t relent. “Then I’ll get you a different pair.”

You noticed you didn’t smell the scent of smoke on him. Not strong or faint. It was obvious he didn’t smoke in his apartment, but he probably did at the roof of the complex or somewhere similar. You didn’t know him to be a heavy smoker, but it inevitably got onto his belongings. You tilted your head. There hadn’t been any smell that night a couple weeks ago when he slept over at your apartment where you had eventually forced him to snore on the bed.

You had woken up to Jungkook sprawled out, snoring into the pillow and one arm on your tits.

Explained your dream where you felt annoying pressure on your chest. That morning had been rather uneventful other than waking him up and kicking him out of your apartment. You had the decency to be more polite than that, but neither of you were in a state to talk about it. Neither of you seemed to be morning people. You simply told him you had work. He had mumbled he did too, and he had to race out to get ready in time. Only now had you found time to stop by his apartment to return his borrowed sweatpants. Maybe you had been avoiding it a little bit. Texts between you both were sparse. Asking for his address and asking if he’d be home. You peered into his dark eyes. Jungkook paused. He seemed to sense that you weren’t walling him anymore.

“When was the last time you smoked?” You made sure not to sound accusatory.

He started. “Uh…” He looked sheepish. “I’ve been trying to last a month at least…” He gestured behind him to what you assumed was the kitchen. You could see part of his living room from here but not much. His couch was cognac brown leather. “Been chewing gum and going to the gym a bunch to fight the cravings.” Frowned and sighed. “It’s hard,” Jungkook bitterly muttered. He glared. “Bet you’re loving this.”

Unluckily for him, you weren’t intimidated by puppy growls. You nodded, noncommittal, and looked down. His charcoal sweatpants looked soft. Worn in with wear. Your eyes flickered back up. His followed with slight confusion etching into his expression. You held his gaze until you felt his discomfort.

And then you made an impulsive, instinctive decision.

“I’ll agree to borrowing another pair of your pants,” you finally said. He looked relieved. “As long as I get to pick which pair.”

He seemed puzzled but shrugged. “Sure?”

You pressed for confirmation. “Agree or not?”

“Yeah, sure,” Jungkook responded sharply. “What, you that desperate to raid my closet or something? Go ahead, then.” He waved a careless hand into the apartment.

But you stayed where you were. You stepped forward with a click of your heels. He stepped back in his house slippers, bewildered but still defiant, not yet realizing that you were not herding him further inside. He moved as if to let you lead the way, except you turned your body to block him, watching his every move.

His shoulder blades hit the wall.

Those big brown eyes blinked slowly. “Uh…”

You glanced down and then back up at his face.

Jungkook’s eyes tracked your movement. Didn’t get it. You repeated the dip of your chin and lashes, then back up. Dead silence. It slowly dawned onto him. You cocked your head, removing your crossed arms as his eyes became wider.

“W… What…?”

You didn’t let him hide his reaction, tracking every quiver of his lip and awkward chuckle. “They’re clean, aren’t they?” you asked as if it was the most sensible question in the world.

“Uh, well, yeah, b-but…” Jungkook stuttered, trying to decipher how serious you were or if he was even understanding the implications of your stare. “T-That’s…”

You backed up a step. “Then it’s a no?” you offered. “And you will stop trying to white knight my outfit choices?” You made yourself clear. “I won’t be changing them simply because you hate my clothes.”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t hate your clothes. I like them. That is the problem,” he barked.

You gave him a blank look.

Jungkook sighed out of his nose before looking away and saying in a clipped tone, “Fine. I’ll change. Whatever.”

You moved before he could, blocking his way again.

He growled under his breath, glaring down. “What?”

You held aggressive eye contact. “We’re behind closed doors,” you reminded him. Gave him the pointed up-and-down. “Go on.”

Slight panic laced into his expression. “Uh… Are you serious?”

You already knew Jungkook wasn’t commenting on your fashion because he thought it was inappropriate. It was for the same innocuous reason that you were asking him for the charcoal sweatpants he was wearing right now. Well. Demanding.

“Deadly,” you answered him with a deadly smile.

He might be bigger and stronger than you, but he lacked the imposing audacity. You waited. He didn’t move. Ten full seconds passed. You had your answer, then. You gave him a curt nod and readjusted your grip on your work bag, about to turn away.

A strong hand wrapped around your wrist and gently pulled you back.

You backtracked to stand in front of him again. His eyes darted about somewhat nervously. “I get it…” he mumbled, still holding onto your wrist. His other hand was drifting down. He seemed uncomfortable but not in a bad way, which struck you as odd. He lifted the hem of his shirt a bit. It caught on the front tie of the sweatpants. The tips of his ears were pink. Jungkook hooked a thumb under the waistband and averted his eyes.

You reached forward and pulled on the end of the looped strings.

He nearly yelped and jerked back, causing the tie to come unraveled. You had leaned over a little to get access. Lifted your gaze to look up at his shocked face. He was speechless. You didn’t straighten up yet. Just stared into his eyes. His lips parted but no words came out.

You smiled.

He uneasily let go of your wrist. You backed out of his personal space. Jungkook gave you a strange look and stripped off his pants with a swift tug downwards, bending a knee to kick them up and into his hand, immediately holding them in front of his body.

“Here.”

He thrust the balled-up sweats into your chest. You looked at it. Then at him. Then tried to crane your head downwards.

“H-Hey!”

He waved wildly. You stumbled. He tried to catch you without dropping anything. Your hand came up to press against his chest, causing him to back against the wall again, clutching his pants in front of his crotch. You paused and searched his expression as you pulled back your hand. He was in between conflicted and stunned. His legs were quite defined. At least he didn’t skip leg day. You decided to do it. Lowered your bag to the floor so you had use of your two hands. You reached behind you for the invisible zipper of your skirt and pulled it down. Jungkook seemed to be in a perpetual state of silence. You had to wiggle slightly to free yourself of the tube of black fabric, stepping out of it primly before standing back up, leaving you in your sheer black stockings and with your blouse barely skimming the tops of your thighs.

Now both of you were holding your bottoms. One of you was simply dumbstruck. The other folded and rolled up the skirt, tucking it into your elbow, and stepped up to him. Immediately, his free hand shot up, planting right above your left breast, dark tattoos stark against his tan skin from the overhead light.

“W-Whoa, wait…!”

You tilted your head and rested your hand on the sweatpants he was now desperately clutching to his lower body. You tugged. He did not let go. You raised an eyebrow and began to lower your head. His fingertips hooked under your chin and yanked you back up to his terrified expression of wild eyes and fish mouth. You remained emotionless, giving him nothing. His cheeks flushed pink.

“I… I just need a second–”

You closed more of the distance, placing a leg in between his slightly open ones. His grip on your chin tightened. It didn’t scare you in the slightest. In contrast, big bad Jungkook looked like he was about to sink into the floor. You stilled. Maybe this was too far.

You leaned back a little but didn’t remove your leg. “A second for what?”

He swallowed hard, averting his gaze again. “U-Uh, j-j-just a s-second to breathe… that’s all,” he muttered.

“What’s the issue?” you calmly inquired.

“N-Nothing,” and that sounded like a whole lot of something.

You shifted your leg and your stocking-covered shin rubbed against his calf. Jungkook made a very strange noise and hastily pulled his hand back. You did not stop the contact. You simply watched the emotions play across his features as he shut his eyes, wordlessly mouthing swears before clenching his jaw and sliding up the wall to delicately back up.

“You sure it’s nothing?” Twice as unassuming and immediately tipping him off that you were aware of his predicament.

His brows furrowed. “Shut up.” He took in several deep breaths.

You hummed. “Is it that big of a deal?”

“Yes, it is,” Jungkook hissed. He cracked open one eye. “Have you no sense of danger?”

You did your best not to smile. Failed, but only just. “Not with you.”

Relief and annoyance washed over him. “Shut up,” he said again and you were beginning to realize he did not really mean for you to shut up. “Ugh.” He thrust the charcoal ball of fabric into your chest. “Here. Put it on.”

“No longer embarrassed?” you asked, catching a glimpse of his partial erection.

Jungkook pointedly looked away from you and stared at his own front door. “I’m not embarrassed. Put the pants on, damnnit. I can’t look at you.”

“Sure, you can,” you quipped as you slipped on his sweatpants. “I’m sure you’ve checked me out at some point.”

He sucked in the side of his cheek sharply. “It’s not the same. And, besides…” He trailed off.

You smoothed out the front and tightened the strings. Jungkook reluctantly brought his gaze back to you, checking you out. You tugged your blouse out of the pants a bit to give the two disharmonious pieces more balance. You filled out the top of his pants a bit more because of your ass. The whole ensemble was a little odd, but only if one looked too closely.

He frowned. “Why do you look good?”

“It’s the heels,” you absentmindedly replied. “Besides, what?”

For a moment, you thought Jungkook wasn’t going to respond. But then his eyes raised, locking to yours determinedly. “If I can make it to a month, then…” He faltered before regaining his composure. “No, I will make it to a month. And all the rest. But when you see how serious I am, then… Then I want you to seriously consider me.”

Now it was your turn to avert your eyes. You didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Guilt settled as you realized that he was more intuitive than you gave him credit for. But you came back to him, eventually. His dark brown orbs lit up as you spoke.

“Sure.”

-

In a surprising turn of events, Jeon Jungkook actually greeted you with a breathless, “Hey,” for once when you answered his call, only to follow that up with, “The fuckin’ gym is closed, fuck.”

You blinked at your phone, put it on speaker, and tucked it into one of your upper kitchen cabinets to prop it up. It was not a video call. However, your hands were currently occupied. “I’m sorry,” you replied dryly, turning down the vent fan.

“Ugh, I really needed it today,” he grumbled, mostly at himself rather than at you. You heard the sounds of traffic and the white noise of wind. “And it’s cold tonight, hmph.”

You mentally calculated the day as you picked up the plate and tongs again. “Why was it closed? It’s not a holiday as far as I know.”

“I dunno. Note on the door said family emergency, so I guess I’ll find out later from the manager,” he said absentmindedly. It was a bit weird that Jungkook was treating this like small talk when he almost never called. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to do or say about his predicament, so you began to place the slices of meat onto the hot pan, which immediately began loudly sizzling with popping oil. It must have picked up on the microphone. You heard a startled noise and then, “Whatchu doing?”

“Making dinner. And meal prepping at the same time, since I’m already cooking,” you replied, nudging the slices to fit all the meat in. Hm. Wouldn’t be the first time. Hm.

“What are you making?” He was sounding a bit too eager.

“Braised vegetables and pan-fried samgyeopsal,” you answered, reminding yourself to check under the lid. The bok choy and enoki mushrooms were just barely done. You quickly removed it from the heat before returning it the sizzling pork belly.

“Ugh.” He sounded jealous. “I’m jealous.” Guess he was. You found yourself smiling and quickly stopped, lightly adding a little flaky salt before starting the process of turning them over. You might die from a heart attack but not without a full belly of pork belly. “You’ve made me hungry. Maybe I’ll go get some ice cream.”

You mused. “Gym closed, so ice cream on a cool night is the solution?” The edges of pork belly were becoming that sweet golden caramel. Your kitchen was becoming decadently fragrant.

“This night is shit, anyway,” Jungkook complained. “I’d come over but you’d kick me out.”

You paused at his words. Then you busied yourself with taking the plate to the sink while raising your voice so he could hear you. “I didn’t kick you out last time.”

There was a short muteness that your both mutually agreed on before he sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. I’ll go home without the ice cream.”

You tutted. “I’m not the food police. Go get your ice cream if you want to.” You began to portion out the vegetables into the glass tupperware that you had already lined up.

“Nah,” he muttered. He really enjoyed this seesaw, huh. To be honest, you didn’t mind it. Maybe calling it fun too out of line, but. “I shouldn’t go into the convenience store, anyway. I don’t wanna break my streak.”

Only stubbornness could solidify self-restraint, it seemed. You checked the pork belly. It was done, so you turned off the fire and began to plate up your soon-to-be and future meals. Took less time because you had boiled the samgyeopsal first to keep the meat tender, removed it before it was completely cooked through, sliced it, and then pan-fried to completion. You plated the last of the vegetables, added the final helping of pork belly, and drizzled a bit of soybean paste on top. A small part of you wanted to take a photo and send it to Jungkook. Rub it in, perhaps. You picked up your phone and opened the camera app.

“Hey.”

“Uh?”

You filled the photo space with a close-up shot of your simple meal and sent it to him. “Check your messages.”

There was a scuffle and Jungkook grunted before gasping and then bringing his phone back to his ear. “Hey, fuck you.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed.

“Man… You suck.” He didn’t know the half of it. He was mumbling a tantrum on the street. “Ugh, now I’m so hungry... And mad. I’m mad at you.”

In between tee-hees and bites of your dinner, you placed your phone onto the counter. “If you buy me lunch, I’ll let you have one of mine,” you joked. Mmm, the meat was cooked just right. You mentally patted yourself on the back.

“No… I can’t do that,” he grumbled, taking your joke seriously. He scoffed. “Instead, I’ll bring a steak and make you cook it for me.”

“Steak?” You considered his suggestion. “Sure, I can cook steak.”

“Hah, see, you won’t – wait…” You heard a sputter and what sounded like a tumble. Or maybe the beginnings of one caught in the middle. He did have good reflexes. “O… Oh.” He sounded winded. “I thought you were… Thought you were gonna refuse.”

You nibbled on some delicious enoki mushroom. “Why?” You knew full well why. Just wanted to make him squirm. Also, him thinking you couldn’t cook a steak annoyed you. As if you didn’t know the value of medium rare. Hmph.

“A-Ah… Well.” He coughed and promptly changed the subject as embarrassed people do. “Are you eating right now?”

“Mhm,” you hummed. “It’s very tasty. I did a good job.”

You could him suck in an inhale of childish disappointment. “I’m suffering here.”

“No one is asking you to.”

“Hmmmm, I don’t like this.” And yet he stayed on the line. It sounded like he was jogging the streets. Maybe trying to arrive home faster and keep his body temperature up.

You imagined it. Then you told yourself to stop that. “Do you have something to eat at home?”

“There’s probably something,” Jungkook puffed. “Probably not as good, but I’ve got freezer stuff. I can cook, though,” he insisted.

You hadn’t questioned it. But you did now. “Hm, really?” You half-smiled in between bites of bok choy.

“Yes, really.” Very adamant. “Someday,” he added, in the tone of someday proving it.

You remembered the last time he was in your kitchen. The last time he was in your apartment. You looked down to the cropped black t-shirt and the familiar charcoal sweatpants you were wearing. The scene was set. Still, it didn’t clarify how to feel about it. Answers were usually simple. Believing them was a different story. He called your name. Without thinking, you answered right away.

“Mhm?”

“I’m home,” Jungkook grunted.

Maybe you supposed to pop confetti. You let it go and asked, “Less angry about your lack of gym time?”

“Not really.” But he did sound less stressed somehow. Maybe it was the cardio of the jog. “I guess I gotta find something to eat now. Lemme put you on speaker.”

The number of times he could have hung up increased. And yet he hadn’t done so yet. You were almost finished eating. You could have ended the call right now. Said you were busy and done your chores without further distraction. It just didn’t feel right. That said enough. Well, at the very least, you thought you should accompany him on his food adventure.

He exclaimed loudly. “Ah! I found some corn ice cream at the bottom of my freezer! Nice!”

Your palm made contact with your forehead. “I guess you must be the gods’ lucky one,” you mused, mopping up your last bite. Time to clear the kitchen. Sad.

“You know it,” he cheered.

You heard him ripping open the plastic with gusto. Would have sounded cocky if it wasn’t for his barely audible happy noises. You began to tidy up the kitchen to distract yourself. Putting away spices, collecting the various cooking utensils into the sink, wiping down counters, putting the lids on the now cooled-down meals. You stacked them in the fridge. You didn’t try to hide what you were doing but, then again, Jungkook was seemingly too mesmerized by his ice cream to speak. Amidst your domestic tasks, you saw the parallels of being in the same place in your respective apartments, both together and apart at the same time with only a thread of technology connecting each other, and you glanced at your phone screen, wondering if he had hung up on you. The call was still active.

Such a mundane existence.

And yet.

You stood by your sink, the washing up the last to do, and you abandoned it to stand by your phone. It seemed so… annoying to have simple enjoyments taken away by complicated thoughts. Maybe there was a better word for it. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that you were listening to Jungkook enjoying his small happiness of the day and wondered if he intentionally or unintentionally shared it with you. Wondered if the intention even mattered in the face of what was.

You broke the relative silence. “When do you want me to cook that steak for you?”

The faint sound of licking lips. He must have scooted closer to his phone, because the volume of his words was louder than the sounds from earlier. “Uh…” You waited. “I think my one month of no cigarettes is coming up soon. Maybe then…?” He trailed off awkwardly.

The crumpled pack was still on your nightstand next to your lighter. You hadn’t touched either. They were collectively collecting dust. You opened your mouth, reconsidered, and then said what was on your mind.

“I never hated you just because you smoked.”

Maybe it was better that you couldn’t see each other. “Yeah, but…” He let out a breath. “It was the reason why you didn’t want to be around me.”

You couldn’t deny it.

“I get it, though,” Jungkook muttered softly. “I didn’t really want to be around myself either. Maybe I haven’t had any great failures, but… That means I haven’t had a chance to grow from hardships. Coasting, sort of. I need to push myself to be better, because I’m definitely not where I’m supposed to be.”

Your eyes raised which caused you to realize you had dipped your head. You wondered who put those thoughts in his head, but the answer was all around you. In the subtext of conversation of strangers, friends, family.

“It’s weird,” he continued, maybe forgetting you could hear him slurp in between words or because his ice cream was rapidly melting. “I was talking to a friend about you and he asked me if you ever needed anything from me, ever.” He sucked in a breath. “Tch. I kinda hate that, but also it made me realize… Isn’t that the most natural I’ve ever been with anyone? No expectations… Maybe even negative.” He laughed a little, and you could imagine him shaking his head. “Is this how you want to spend your life? No. I want to be someone that you might need someday.”

You didn’t say anything about him talking about you to other people. It was slightly funny of him to think of you as an enigma when you felt that you were so simple, really. Maybe that made you the root of his complicated thoughts. Maybe not. He was right in that you did your best to not depend on others, even going out of you way to not need others. Not expecting anything from them to not be disappointed. You didn’t see that changing anytime soon, but, an exception?

All rules had them.

“I’m looking forward to making you that steak,” you chuckled. “I need to finish up the dishes, so I’ll let you go. For now.”

“A-Ah…” Jungkook cleared his throat. “Okay. S… See ya.”

You half-smiled. Even though he couldn’t see it, you were sure that he could hear it in your tone. “You will,” and you ended the call.

-

You found a small package addressed to you in your mailbox. No return address, no postage, but it had relatively neat handwriting that seemed familiar somehow. You tucked the soliciting letters under your arm as you re-locked your postage box. The packaging was brown paper. You turned it over in your hand.

For your collection. Jeon Jungkook.

You almost snorted. He could have. But he didn’t. You suddenly felt odd, so you quickly walked back to your apartment, shouldering your mail and your work bag, fitting the small package into your palm. The mail room was on the ground floor. You went up the flights of stairs to the far-left unit. Unlocked your front door and went in, using your shoulder to push it open.

You closed the door behind you before you opened the brown-paper wrapped parcel.

The outside packaging unfurled. Tissue paper and a bit of foam. Something told you he didn’t pack this. This was the work of the elderly who sold it to him. Smooth steel. But you felt something on the side against your palm. You turned the disc around. It was one of those snap-close clay art mirrors. The kind delicately handmade by a practiced artisan’s hands. You ran your finger over it, entranced by the ridges and matte texture. The focal point was the gradient of orange depicting tiger lilies. The background was black, making the small imagery stand out.

Tiger lilies, huh.

You opened the pocket mirror and saw your bewildered expression staring back at you. Your initial compulsion was to look away. Your intrusive thoughts interrupted, asking you if you really hated what you saw. You looked and your reflection looked back. You lifted the mirror slightly, inspecting your makeup. You barely wore any to just barely get away with it at work. It still looked good.

You half-smiled.

“You’re so fucking full of it, Jeon Jungkook,” you chuckled, tucking the mirror into the pocket of your work bag before going about the rest of your night.

-

He was quite excited for steak day until you made him speechless.

“U-uh, hey! Ahem. Hey. I have the steaks. You didn’t say if I should bring vegetables, so I also got cabbage, carrots, shitake mushrooms, I didn’t know, I guessed, sorry, and I can help cook if you need someone to watch the vegetables while, uh, I can chop or clean or anything at all… um, why are you dressed like t-that…?”

If it was his plan to greet cool, calm, and collected, he failed. You opened your apartment door to gum-chewing, wide-eyed, rambling Jeon Jungkook wearing a baggy but heavyweight white button-up and dark blue jeans with white contrast stitching. Black belt with a bright gold buckle. The hem of the jeans draped well over his black laced boots. His black leather jacket was jammed in the crook of his elbow with the groceries. His jacket had silver zippers, which didn’t match his belt. The button-up was done all the way up to his neck, which didn’t suit him.

You let him go on his rant and tried not to smile.

The situation was not exactly funny. It was obvious that he was out-of-sorts by the frantic way he was gnawing on his gum like his life depended on it. You had to wait for him to take a breath. He was too far gone in his speech for you to interrupt him. You almost dared to call it adorable. Didn’t because that wasn’t part of your image even though clearly Jungkook had completely broke the image he wanted to craft for himself over his entire time of knowing you. For his sake, you pretended nothing was amiss. You simply took the groceries from his hands while saying, “Change of plans.”

His jaw was slack. You could see the pink wad of gum stuck to his molars. Lovely. “E-Eh?”

You noticed his black hair looked a little messy and windswept. It was longer now, too, giving him an unintentional rockstar vibe. Thankfully his brain was too preoccupied with being unable to catch up to the moment to notice you noticing him. You backed up into your apartment to place the bags on your kitchen counter, busying yourself with putting everything into your refrigerator.

“I want to take you somewhere,” you said to the shelves of your fridge, clearing out space. Oh, wow. He really did buy high-grade steak. Two of them. And a giant head of cabbage. “I don’t like carrots,” you commented. “But I’ll make them for you and you can take home the rest.”

He sputtered with the elegance of a caught bluefin tuna. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t – T-Take me somewhere?”

In the middle of placing the last thing, the bundle of carrots, into the fridge, you said it.

“Yes. I want to take you on a date.”

To be honest, you weren’t sure if it would come out as confidently as you heard yourself, but there was no going back now. You had debated before this day had come, turning over the tiger lily pocket mirror in your hand at night. Debated if the unwillingness was worth it and decided it wasn’t. You weren’t sure if Jungkook was thinking the same thing you were, but then he showed up. Over-dressed. Vibrating with nervous energy. Talking too fast. One look at him and you knew. You could think you had all the time in the world, but it wasn’t true. You turned around to see Jungkook’s dumbfounded expression at the entrance of your apartment and you knew.

Despite never believing in anything and thinking everything was going to shit, well, you might as well go down with a feeling of a life well-lived.

“A d… date…?”

You closed the door of your refrigerator. “A date. You’ve heard of those, haven’t you?”

He looked like he hadn’t. “I… uh… Yes?” You had meant the light jab to bring Jungkook back to Earth but both of you were currently stuck on cloud nine. “Is that why you…?” His hand raised and made a vague gesture.

Your own hand raised to smooth back your hair from your bare shoulder. “Ah. Yes.” Since your closet was mostly made up of comfy, work, and concert outfits – in that order – that amount of classy date pieces were slightly nonexistent. You had one black dress made of a slinky soft ribbed texture that was what you ended up wearing. It reached the floor, which suited the night climate of this time of year. The rest of it was quite sexy, though. The fabric made the dress cling to and accentuate your curves. The straight neckline and thin straps were maybe too flattering. Jungkook’s eyes were certainly wandering to the general area of your collarbones. You usually wore this dress in a very specific way, which you intended to do so tonight, but it couldn’t hurt to let him admire.

Yeah.

Admire was definitely the word.

Just like how you were letting him admire you walking up to him, sending him into a mild panic, knowing exactly what you were doing but trying not to think about it, instead focusing on what had been bugging you ever since you had seen it. “This… I’m sorry, but this doesn’t suit you,” you muttered, unfastening the first few buttons of the shirt and shaking it out to a more relaxed collar. He smelled good. Oh, wow, he smelled very good. Bergamot and cedarwood, it seemed. “It looked too stuffy.” You noticed the thin gold chain underneath. Oh. Perhaps the unintentional mixing of gold and silver was intentional after all. You righted the chain so it was more visible, his warm skin under your cool fingertips, and maybe you were imagining it or was that a shiver between you and him at the contact?

Your hands awkwardly hovered over his chest.

It was hard to look up but you made yourself do it.

Jungkook seemed startled but at the very least thawed from the initial shock. “O-Oh, but…” Surely he was not staring at your cleavage. Surely. You might have put it right in his line of vision, but, surely. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “It’s c-cold outside. At least…”

It was certainly an exaggeration to call it slow-motion, and yet somehow that was the only way to describe it because now you were the one frozen in extended seconds as he tumbled his leather jacket into his palm, grabbing it by the collar and lifting it up, up and to his left hand, flaring it out with a loud flap before draping worn-in warmth over your shoulders. The sudden weight caused you to tilt forward lightly. Your open palms pressed against his chest to steady yourself. His hands stayed on your shoulders. Both of you were staring at each other for too long.

At least no one was here to record it.

He spoke first. ‘I, uh, I took a lot of my clothes to professional cleaners,” Jungkook said quietly. “Since… It gives me a good reason to not… It cost a lot.” His ears were probably as red as yours.

You inhaled, raising your chest, and noticed how new the leather smelled despite him owning it for a while now. Your faint smile was now inevitable. “I really appreciate it,” and you did. He didn’t have to, and he did.

The light in his eyes must have been your imagination. “R… Really?” Or maybe not. He was breathless and there was no obvious cause for it.

Never in wildest dreams and insomniac nights and daytime silence full of running thoughts could you have created this present time where you felt that you saw him and he saw you. From all the gray haze moments of the past to those bright uncertain days of small happiness in the future, you knew you could do it alone, but, for once, it seemed unbearable to do so.

You leaned up and kissed him.

Your eyes had closed as you tilted your head to close the distance. Maybe you should have considered seeing his surprise. Maybe you were too nervous to. It was only a simple press of lips-to-lips. Still, you found respite. A strange tingle shot through you as you felt Jungkook kiss you back. Somehow, you felt his relief of you taking charge of a moment that he had wanted to happen for a long time.

After a savored moment, both of you broke apart.

Afraid to overstep. Slightly shocked that that just happened. You snuck a peek. It was impossible to not call him adorable and thankfully you were too high off the moment to say anything. He caught your eye. You let him, gracing him a coy curve of your lips.

His cheeks bloomed pink. “Y-You… You wanna wear my jacket?”

You lightly shook your head, reaching up to touch the back of his hand. “You’ll be cold. I was going to wear a sweater over my dress,” you explained. His expression fell a little bit despite your logic. “But I wanted to wait to see what colors you were wearing so that I could choose something that pairs well. It would be nice to match somewhat, right?” Immediately Jungkook perked up again.

It was just a damn hot pot date. Why were you both grinning like idiots? The world never did make any sense, hmph.

-

In spite of best efforts, you dozed off on his shoulder.

Dinner had been a little bit awkward. Not so awkward it was unpleasant, but enough where you had to pull yourself together to bring him back to his usual self. You wore a fluffy, thick, cropped white sweater over your black dress, giving you some much needed warmth for the cool night and giving Jungkook back his sanity. Then you took it away by hooking your arm into his, holding onto him as you both rode the train in thoughtless silence. The hot pot restaurant had newly opened and was packed with curious customers. In a stroke of luck, the host managed to find seating due to your small party size. After a brief explanation, you made a beeline for the lineup of ingredients. It had taken a mountain of vegetables, shrimp, and fishcakes on a plate to break Jungkook out of his trance.

“W-Woah! You eat that much?”

You had tilted your head. “We’re sharing. Duh.”

A flash of annoyance. “How do you know what I like to eat?”

“What don’t you like to eat?” you countered.

Jungkook puffed a cheek. “That’s not the point!”

It wasn’t the most deep of conversations. Still, it did bring you both some peace to know that you hadn’t lost what you already had. There was always that fear and it was good to know that the fear was unfounded.

“I only want one egg.”

He spoke over you, “Too bad, you’re getting two,” using one hand to crack another to poach in your boiling bone broth. You made a face at him as you mixed minced onions and garlic into your chili oil, sesame oil, and soy sauce combination. He waved a third egg at you threateningly. You were adversely terrified. He became distracted by your concoction. “Let me try.”

“No. I’ll make you your own.”

“We’re sharing.”

“There are limits,” and you promptly walked off to do just that. For his credit, he didn’t snatch your hard work. Might have been because his food wasn’t finished cooking yet. Semantics. “It’s my treat, by the way.”

Irrtation was going to permanently furrow his brows if he wasn’t careful. “I don’t need your charity. Besides, you’re hurting my pride as a man.”

You cried for him. “Boo hoo.” Sarcastically.

“You’re not paying.”

“You wanna fight?”

His dark eyes narrowed. “Kinda if you keep this up.”

You pretended to lift your sweater.

Jungkook almost threw himself over the two boiling pots of broth. “Gah! What do you think you’re doing?!” He tried not to yell, hissing low between his teeth. “You’re crazy!”

“Putting you in your place,” you answered dryly.

His expression was between flabbergasted and aghast. “D-Don’t do that!”

Not the deepest of conversations. You smiled. He noticed, and looked away quickly, his ears turning pink as he busied himself ordering plates of meat. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to cook the steaks like you had originally promised. It would have made a great first date, even. And yet. Yet, you didn’t want to, because for some reason following the original plan felt symbolic of something ending instead of a beginning. You were confident in your cooking, and still the possibility of even the slightest failure made it so that you couldn’t relax. Maybe it was selfish to drag out a promise. Nothing about Jungkook’s demeanor indicated he was against it, though.

“What?”

You blinked, realizing you had zoned out in his direction. “Nothing. Just…” He frowned. You almost wanted to ask him if he was disappointed by this turn of events. He was already shoving a plateful of thinly-sliced flat iron steak into his hot pot. “Just realized we’re only here now because of a cigarette and a lighter.”

His eyes cast downward. “I’m sor–” he began.

“Who knew a bad decision could turn into such a good one.”

Jungkook snapped his head back up, surprised. You gave him an impassive expression complete with a raised eyebrow. The corners of his lips tugged upwards. He tried to hide it. He wasn’t as good at it as you were.

“Yeah. I guess…”

He sounded a little too happy for that lukewarm response. You reached into your bag, pulling out a pocket mirror to needlessly check your makeup. He noticed the tiger lilies nestled in your palm and positively beamed. You did your best to wipe your stupid smile off your face and clipped it closed to resume the meal. The rest of the dinner was similar. Well, largely focused on how many plates of shabu-shabu meat both of you could consume to make the restaurant regret seating you. At the very least, Jungkook had been impressed with your gall.

Points gained there, heh.

So, now, in spite of best efforts, Jungkook leaned his head against yours and dozed off with you on your sofa, curled up under the same blanket he had used to sleep over some nights ago. Sleep came a little too easily with full bellies. He had asked if he could sit down for a bit before heading back to his place. Because, you know, it wasn’t good if he became drowsy while driving his motorcycle. You had shrugged, casually, turning on your television to whatever late-night show was on to provide some form of mild entertainment. Distraction, really, so neither of you felt pressure to talk.

Turned out, falling asleep told you more than any conversation.

It might have been the food. The comfort of the blanket. Someone familiar being there. Whatever the cause, the stars aligned and you knew what it meant. One instance of sleep arriving quickly did not mean that you would never have a restless night again. It did not mean everything was different. But it did mean that what was already there wasn’t a lie. You thought you had done enough to spite him, but best efforts were useless in a wake of loud, hard-headed, brash Jeon Jungkook. It shouldn’t work. You were reclusive, blunt, guarded. An unfathomable match, and yet you could never seem to shake him. Apparently his fondness for you was so strong that continued meetings were inevitable. The prospect of the next time had become a regular instance. Monotone days were suddenly saturated with unexpected melodies. You kept telling yourself there was nothing else better to do than to put up with his antics.

There had been no real reason for you to believe that he would change.

He just did so he could define his own ideal of worthy.

Unconsciously, Jungkook was sinking into the cease of the sofa, into dreamlessness, taking you down with him into the cushions. You dozed practically on top of him, unknowingly nestling into his waning embrace. If you had your wits about yourself, you might have given him more conspicuous space, but he was so warm that you forgot that you didn’t typically like physical touch. Or maybe you didn’t mind as much because you knew deep down that he liked it. It was a small sacrifice for his happiness. Something like that. Ah. Right. Anyway, eventually you awoke to no-context ruckus on the television screen. Annoyed, you pawed for the remote on the coffee table and blindly turned it off. You wouldn’t have even bothered to open your eyes except for the fact that you were clearly on top on Jungkook, oh, and so you blinked slowly, line of vision shifting, realizing he wasn’t asleep.

He was pretending to be.

You placed a hand on his chest. One of his eyes cracked open. You raised an eyebrow. He almost jumped out of his skin. Probably not expecting you to be staring at him.

“Were you watching?” you asked.

“N-Not really…” Discomfort laced into his expression. “Um… You’re on my left knee a little weird.”

You shifted quickly. “Sorry.”

Relief. “No, uh, I fucked it up a bit while boxing a couple days ago,” Jungkook sighed. You could feel his inhale through your hand on his chest that you still hadn’t removed. “Think I hit it at a weird angle.”

You pointed out the obvious. “You’re not supposed to use your legs in boxing.”

He sent you the gift of a classic eye-roll complete with the bow of a scowl. “I lost my balance and fell.”

You calm expression didn’t change as you added, “Bad knees are the first sign of aging.”

His dark eyes narrowed into slits. “You–”

And proceeded to grab you by the waist. You shot up instinctively, straddling his hips, and your hand on his chest slid up. His eye went wide. He froze. You froze, realizing what you were doing. His hands were loosely around your waist with his fingers flaring out over the top of your ass. You moved your hand, resting it on his shoulder. Not on the offensive but on edge. You did your best to hold his gaze while in the precarious position. He immediately apologized.

“S-Sorry.”

“No, ah…” You shook your head. “I’m sorry.” You shouldn’t have moved to choke him out just because he was horsing around yet it was hard to really know with men these days. Still, thinking of Jungkook in that way after everything he had done for you was unfair. “I’m too used to having to protect myself.”

There was a sea of regret in those dark brown orbs. “I wasn’t going to…” Hurt you, and that part was obvious. He frowned, realizing your reaction and words said what needed to be said without saying it. “I promise. I’m not like that.”

You stared into his eyes. “I know,” and you did.

His expression became determined. “No, really.” He frowned. “I can’t help–”

You cut him off. “Is that why you have a hard-on right now?”

Dead.

Silence.

The cushions of your sofa were old, causing your knees to sink in further due to the prolonged concentrated points of pressure. You looked down. He looked up. Nobody moved. You had thought about it. Maybe. Not in any deep sense so as to not set any unrealistic expectations. He had very clearly thought about it if the rising tent of your dress in between your legs was any indication. You weren’t able to fully sit down on his crotch due to space constraints, but, even with jeans on, the distance down there was dwindling.

In short, Jungkook was obviously packin’.

You raised your eyebrows. He grimaced. He was trying not to stare at your thighs spread over him or how easily your waist fit in his hands. “Listen… Uh.” Brave of him to break the silence. “I… I’m not a disgraceful kinda guy, okay? I wasn’t planning anything. And I’m seriously serious.” His voice deepened as his eyes darted about. “Serious about…” His gaze lifted, navigating to yours.

Your lips parted, understanding him perfectly well.

However, your dress was stretching too uncomfortably. Distracted, you broke eye contact, reaching down to yank the hem from under your knee while extending your other leg to the ground to maintain balance. The fabric bunched up to your hips, draping over his lower body. You felt the friction of his jeans against your bare inner thighs. Then, you felt the friction in his jeans pressing up in between your legs.

Well.

That would be the expected result, huh.

Jungkook was beside himself. “W-W-What are you do–”

You raised your head. He stiffened. Everywhere. He was still holding you by the waist. Time was moving too fast and too slow at the same time, much like whatever this was. You made eye contact, diving into those wide eyes, searching for something to be afraid of. The scariest thing about all this was how readily he matched up with your intent to cross all the lines.

“Do you wanna kiss me?” you asked him.

His voice quivered. More out of poorly contained excitement rather than anxiousness.

“Are you crazy? Of course I wanna fuckin’ kiss you.”

There was no good reason for care-about-nothing you and caring-too-much Jeon Jungkook should match up well, and yet perhaps that was precisely the reason these puzzle pieces fit together. He lifted his torso from the sofa far too easily, meeting you halfway. With one hand on the back of the sofa and the other on his chest, your lips brushed against his. Inhale, and his warm citrusy cologne mixed with his natural scent filled your lungs. He tilted his head, closing the distance. There was no pressure of a good first kiss as it was already over with. He pulled you closer.

A kiss was not particularly special, but everything about him was.

Terrifying.

As the saying went, you felt the fear and did it anyway.

Lips to lips, electric. Your fingertips gliding over his skin, spreading the button placket before descending, unraveling him like a flower, your tongue tracing the edge of his lips. His breath hitched. His hands on your waist tighter, turning, and you adjusted accordingly, letting him sit back against the sofa with you on his lap. His fingers slid under your sweater, fanning over your back like unraveling petals as you unbuttoned his shirt, drinking in his gasps. Sinking deeper. He tugged your sweater upwards and you released him for a moment to lift your arms, arching your spine, shedding the white onto the floor. His hands on the small of your back lifted you in return, and you arrived to the view of his own white shirt barely clinging onto his shoulders, revealing tan skin and his hard work at the gym.

Your eyes trailed upwards and Jungkook hesitantly smiled, uncertain of what you were thinking.

You dipped your head and licked up his chest.

“Whoa, wha–aah, f-fuck…”

Perhaps this was a strange thought but you felt this compulsion to taste his skin. You pushed his head back and crossed his neck with kisses. Teeth. Tongue. You felt his fingertips press into your back, his hips rise, a moan bubble up in his chest. He tried to speak between gasps, his hands sliding down to your ass as you licked up to his jaw, intoxicated by the taste of his skin.

“I didn’t r-realize… o-oh…”

You flicked his earrings with the tip of your tongue, dissipating your breath so it was whisper soft against his jaw. “Deep down, you knew there was more under this surface,” you murmured and as you said it you thought of black water but the reality was reflected all over the walls, in small snapshots of mirrors from older and modern times. Yes, a mirror was the more apt imagery. Your tongue coiled around his ear, whispering his name low and slow. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t think you were crazy…” Jungkook gasped. He pressed you down onto his lap, hiking your dress up further. An exhale drifted past your ear. “I didn’t say I didn’t l-like it…”

With a single finger, you turned his head to face you. Half-moon eyes hazy with lust. He ticked his head, putting on the bad boy front you always knew was a front, and you rocked your hips against his to create the rhythm. He sucked in a breath, your name on the tip of his tongue, and you placed your lips against his temple to ensure that he could feel every word as much as he could hear it.

“No matter who came before you, I hope you outmatch them all.”

He viewed you from his periphery.

You smiled in a dangerous way.

There was the briefest moment where he mirrored your smirk and then he lowered his head, catching you off guard with his lips against your pulse. By instinct, your fingers laced into his black hair, tilting your head to give him more access. Your eyes wandered among the walls. In smoked glass. In craved frames. From every angle, snapshots of Jungkook kissing down your neck and you pulling the straps of your dress aside, pressing his head downwards. His lips over your collarbones created an intricate network of pinpointed pleasure, blossoming, overlapping, your nerves singing. You hooked a finger down the center of the neckline, dragging it to a risqué level. His warm breath washed over your skin.

Anticipation on a knife’s edge.

You gazed down through the shadows of your lashes. He was watching you through his own. Wondering without words. So many times Jungkook had asked for a light to ignite his addiction. You saw the writing on the wall before he did.

You tugged the top of your dress downward.

“Fuck…”

You fanned your hands over your ribs pushing your bare breasts upward. Little did he know there was a shelf bra in the dress. Probably didn’t care. He clenched his jaw and frowned slightly, his cock throbbing from below. You could feel it because you were sitting on it.

“It’s annoying that you know how hot you are. Stop knowing how to act hot too.”

You wondered if he ever looked in a mirror. “That’s rich coming from a guy that works out to make his chest big.”

He pressed his lips together before grumbling, “So…?”

You lifted you body and put your tits right in front of his face. He tried to throw you off as his lips made contact, but then was immediately distracted with the taste, running his tongue over your nipple with a moan. Strong hands on your waist again. Your own hand slid down the crown of his head, sliding in between the collar of his shirt and his shoulder muscles, caressing them as you felt sparks from his light sucking. He kissed across your chest to access the other and you breathed out, electric and erotic, your nails turning inward.

His groan was gravelly, rough from pleasure.

“Ugh, fuck, scratch me.”

You dug your nails inward and he whined into your chest, sucking harder, flicking his tongue against your nipple. You moaned to the ceiling, arching your back, and now both of your hands were on his shoulders, creating a crisscross pattern of pink under his shirt collar. There was no rhyme or reason, only instinct. Jungkook growled, taking a swift moment to yank his arms out of his shirt before pawing at your hands to explore more, touch more, repaying you with divine lips and tongue. Either he liked pain or he loved pain. Hm. You had your opinions but you kept them to yourself.

You laced your fingers into his hair, arching your back. He extended his tongue and instead of him licking upwards, you curved your body downwards, only losing contact when it was physically impossible. You lowered your head slowly. Your tongue traced your lips. He was breathing in shallow, perfumed breaths tainted with your taste. Pupils dilated. Under the influence.

You stared into his dark eyes. “You can still stop.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, right. I was in it before you were.”

He wasn’t wrong. Time moved too fast and too slow at the same time. You slid off his lap, gripping the side of your dress and pushing them down your hips. He rose, entranced, and you backed up, out of the way of the coffee table. In the room of mirrors – the living room – clothes began to slide to the floor one by one. Your tousling of his black hair had made it gone rogue, draping over his eyes as he tugged the back of his shirt out of his pants and let it fall. You took another step back while reaching forward, pulling apart his belt buckle. He glanced down as he was tugged forward. With one eye on you, he pulled the strap from the pin. You held the buckle. Pulled. He guided the black leather to smooth exit. For a few moments, you had him by the leash of his belt, dragging him into the bedroom.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

From the look on his face, he remembered.

You held onto the belt after it made its escape, twirling it around in your hand. Jungkook’s dark eyes narrowed. “Don’t.” You didn’t say anything and that was more alarming. “Do not even think about it,” he warned, his tone becoming lower, gruff. You smiled. You flicked your wrist and he halted.

You coiled the black leather around your thigh.

Tightened it by crossing the ends.

Oh, he was looking now.

“Don’t what?” you taunted, turning as you reached the end of the bed. Instead of lifting your knee to the edge of the mattress, you gripped the crossed straps of his belt and hoisted your leg upwards, adding a little bounce of your ass as you looked over your shoulder.

He didn’t expect the showmanship. His mouth squeaked out an, “Are you serious?”

Muscles, tattoos, and he still didn’t know what to do with all that. Your other hand grazed the curve of your ass to the hem of your seamless panties, hooking a finger over the edge and tugging it towards the center dip.

“Okay, fuck, you’re gonna make me bust in my damn jeans,” Jungkook muttered, looking annoyed at the tent in his pants. His hand was already undoing the button. You smiled, releasing your leg, walking over to the nightstand by the bed. The box of unused cigarettes was still there along with your lighter. You only glanced at them, dropping his belt to the side and opening the drawer, pulling out a string of condoms.

Turned around and Jungkook shot you a disbelieving look with his cock sticking out of his pants. Still in his boxer briefs, so obviously hard that he was past the open zipper. You didn’t back down, approaching him with his death sentence dangling from your fingers.

He tried not to seem flustered. “You’re busy, huh?”

You stopped in front of him, tilting in your head. “Busy waiting for you to make a move.”

He sucked the inside of his cheek. “Tch. Am I supposed to believe that?”

“You tell me.”

You sat down on the bed, placing the condoms within easy reach. Crossed your legs. Stared into his eyes, daring him to believe that you were lying. You saw bite his lip. Looking you up and down, so you did the same, watching him shove his jeans down further. You ticked your head.

“Or maybe just don’t fall for my tricks, hm?”

And you fell back onto the bed, lifting your legs, reaching under. Put your weight on your shoulders while you hooked your fingers onto the sides of your panties, pulling up, up, slipping one leg out. Then the other. Flicked your wrist and sent it flying. Then you spread your legs to reveal his stunned face.

You pulled a condom oof the line and held it out to him.

He looked uneasy, stepping out of his jeans and kicking them away. “Uh… You sure?” He tried to sound calm but his voice was shaking. He was trying to flip it on you.

You smiled. Casually. “I give you permission to find out.”

This did not ease Jungkook’s worries. He was too busy to staring at your pussy to formulate any more sentences, though. He took the condom from your hand, pushing down his black underwear. You looked. He saw you look. Confirmed that he didn’t work out because he was lacking in his pants, that was for sure. Your gaze went back to his face. He didn’t know what to think about your reaction, because you purposefully didn’t have one.

Instead of speaking, you reached down in between your legs and spread your wet lips.

Lowering your lashes. Slow smirk. Jungkook sucked in a breath and ripped open the condom. His underwear was sliding down his legs, but you were too busy being fixated on the way his arms moved, carefully rolling down the condom as he watched your fingertips trace your slit, drawing circles around your clit. The heat turned into wetness. He moved closer. You curled a leg around his hip. He put a hand on your thigh, positioning himself over you. Made eye contact. You looked back curiously, spreading the upper lips of your slick pussy.

He slid the bottom of the slick head against your clit and made you both moan from the contact.

Rubbed, slowly. Your insides throbbed with need. The lubrication made it even better. You pulled your hand back and tipped your hips upwards, and then he slid in. He gasped, his inhale catching in his throat. The hand on your leg tensed. You pressed your calf into his ass, pushing him deeper.

“F-Fuck, what–”

Your expression must have indicated that you were going to shove him in yourself, because Jungkook took one panicked glance at your face and thrust in, loudly swearing. He shut his eyes but you caught a peek of them rolling upwards as you dreamily sighed from the feeling of fullness, squeezing all around to feel more, the pressure becoming pleasure.

“You can move.” Just in case he wasn’t sure.

“Shut up,” Jungkook snapped back, shifting his hand to grab your thigh, yanking you into his crotch. He cut off his own moan by clenching his jaw. You smiled. Sweetly. He glared as viciously as he could, which wasn’t much, and thrust hard enough to make you both gasp. He was resisting from commenting about your tightness. “Stop smirking at me like that.”

You tested fate.

“Make me.”

The light was playing tricks. Or maybe his hair was casting shadows over his darkened gaze. Or perhaps this was possession of passion that made him lean down. Locked gazes. He covered your mouth with his free hand. You let him, waiting to see where this would go. He began to move. Slow, deep, building the heat between your joined bodies. Staring into your eyes, and you stared back, clenching your core to increase the unfurling bliss, so damn good, watching his lashes lower, his lips parting, heated breath drifting out like invisible smoke. You raised your hips to meet him, moaning into his palm. He bit the edge of his lower lip, the tiny mole centered underneath suddenly visible.

Your tongue traced his fingers, dripping saliva.

He spread them, entranced by the way you thrust your wet muscle in time with his hips, coiling towards the small finger tattoos you knew he had. Jungkook swore under his breath, gripping your thigh harder, but he wasn’t reaching the force you both craved. With reluctance, he removed his hand from your open mouth, watching the charming curl of your tongue disappearing in between your lips before gripping your other hip with his wet hand, cocking an eyebrow at you.

You reached back and grabbed fistfuls of your duvet, bracing yourself with an open-mouthed smirk.

He thrust hard and you rose to meet him. Both of you cried out at the radiating smack of force between bodies. Nothing for show. Just pure raw lust, chasing the high, giving into the lust. Heat into tension. Your back arched. He pulled you to him. You squeezed him all around. With each loud slap you felt pleasure ripple through your body, making your breasts bounce to his rhythm, and you let out a soft moan, sensing the ripple turning into a cascade, your insides tightening, closing your eyes once the vicious throb overtook your hips, drowning in orgasm.

“Oh, fuck–”

Jungkook didn’t even get to choke out his surprise before his own orgasm hit him. You felt his fingers dig in, snapping your bodies together. His drawn-out groan became the sonata to the punctuated sensation of inescapable euphoria. Wet. Hot. You gasped at a jolt of ecstasy rattling in your ribs. You felt his cock jerk inside you as his hold on you lessened, switching to kneading your thighs. Your brain was so hazy that his touch seemed to amplify the addictive heat, your legs closing in, keeping him in place.

“Could’ve… fuckin’ warned me…”

He panted hard, squeezing your ass roughly. You didn’t care. It was hard to when his slip to his Busan dialect was so attractive. You reveled in the bliss for a moment longer before lowering your legs, realizing the source of the heat was Jungkook whose body seemed to be ten thousand degrees. He pushed back his hair, revealing his glistening brow and cheekbones. Gasping for breath. He pulled out before stripping off the condom with a hiss.

“What am I supposed to do with–”

You sat up, using your elbows to lift your body. It was harder than you thought because the aftermath of tension had left a residual tremble throughout your nerves, but you ignored it, living on determination alone. Jungkook started, not expecting you to move so quickly. You didn’t give him time to react, reaching down between your bodies.

“A-Ah, don’t…!”

He stuttered, gasped, then moaned, his eyes rolling back into his head. Slippery. Hot. Covered in lube and cum and now your fingers wrapping around his length, finding him half-hard. You gave him almost no pressure but all contact, glossing over the shaft until his cock swelled in your hand, ghosting over the head with your palm. He bit back a yelp, not yet opening his eyes, almost whining. His reaction drove you, sliding forward a bit to the very edge of the mattress. He held his breath. Snuck a peek. You angled your body to expose more of your inner thigh and lifted him.

His eyes widened.

You sandwiched his cock in between your palm and your inner thigh, sliding your body back and forth to stimulate him. He inhaled sharply, shooting you a look of indignation, and yet his hips began moving anyway. You gradually increased the pressure. His head tipped back, groaning to the ceiling, becoming harder and harder with each stroke.

You reached over to the condoms and held them out.

Jungkook lowered his head. “Seriously?”

You lifted your hand from his pulsing, wet cock. “Saying you don’t want to?”

“I didn’t say that,” he retorted.

You pulled one off. He handed you the used condom. There was maybe a second and then he gave back the empty foil wrapper in which you tucked the used one into, folding it carefully so there was no spillage. It wouldn’t take long, anyway.

Part of you wanted to say that, but you held your tongue.

Hands on the back of your thighs, lifting your legs. Jungkook pinned your knees to your chest and slid back in, lowly growling, “How the fuck are you so tight,” but you were too enveloped in the sensations, wet and hard and your inner muscles closing in, molding to the shaft. The swollen head hit that depth you could really feel, and you sighed, lifting your hips. His hands slid off your legs and hit the bed, sandwiching you in between the bed and his hard chest.

Your eyes locked with Jungkook’s.

It was intense, rough, carnal. You forgot your surroundings, clutching the duvet and his tattooed forearm, matching each slap of your bodies with a breathless gasp, your calves on his shoulders, his erratic breath melting into shuddering moans. You were moving up the bed little by little from the force. Your name slipped from his lips. Your pussy clenched involuntarily and then the rapid thunderous pulse overtook your senses. He lasted a little longer this time after your orgasm, but not much longer, succumbing to the vicious call, burying his entire length inside you and gritting his teeth to muffle his moan in his chest.

It should have ended there.

You could barely breathe. Suffocating from your own thighs. After an erotic, elated eternity, Jungkook lifted his upper body, gasping apologies. You could barely hear them, orgasm still ringing in your ears, having to relax your muscles one by one. The bed was a mess. Duvet bunched up. Condom wrappers garnishing the ground. Clothes all over the floor. Your legs crossed, sliding down. Jungkook was standing somehow and you could tell that even he thought that was a miracle. He offered a hand. You took it, letting him shakily pull you up to your feet.

His breath washed over your cheek.

You looked up at him. His dark orbs shifted towards you. Waning. You tilted your head. Half-moons. Lips to lips. You drank in his exhale, kissing him deeply. Still electrified. Hands all over, igniting fire over skin. His lower body bumped up against your thigh. Slippery hardness pressing into softness. The scent of sex clung between you and him. You reached down. Touching him. Stroking his cock with your fingertips while kissing him. You felt his hand snake between your legs, sliding two fingers into you. One by one, your fingers closed in. He stroked your clit before thrusting his fingers back in, swallowing your moan into his throat. You began to slide your hand up and down. The combination of lube and cum delivered that delicious friction that he was looking for. At this point, the fervor was so intense that the pace was fierce, fast, a contest of who could get each other off faster while in lip-lock.

You shoved your tongue into his mouth.

Jungkook sucked on it, pushing a third finger into your soaked pussy, all the way up to his knuckles. You welcomed it, working his entire length, jacking him off tight and harsh, and all of a sudden he let go if your tongue, gasping with a pinched moan, his hips jerking forward. Hot spurts of milky white shot down your inner thigh. Not much, but definitely enough to witness and feel. Something inside you snapped and you had to grab his shoulder to avoid falling over, your nails digging in a halo as your pussy spasmed, sucking in his fingers with a wet squelch, your legs snapping closed to extend the feeling. Breathless moan against his ear. You leaned against him with your juices leaking down your legs and sticking to his fingers.

Delicious.

Satisfyingly ragged. Blood pumping. Both of your bodies burning, or at least yours was and his chest was alarmingly sweaty. You slowly untangled your hands from each other but they lingered low, suddenly realizing how much needed to be cleaned up.

“Uh…” Jungkook panted. “I’ll help…”

He better. “Yeah. We should, hah, clean up.” Your tongue traced your lips. “Then sleep.”

“I didn’t bring clothes,” he mumbled distractedly.

You lifted yourself from his shoulder. “I still have your sweatpants,” you reminded him.

His dark eyes slid towards you. He tried to frown. His eyes were too eager and sparkly for that. “Oh. Yeah…”

“You can go home if you want,” you offered while naked and with his cum sticking to your thigh.

He sucked on the inside of his cheek sharply. “You can’t say sleep over and then take it back.”

“Then take it in the first place.”

“I was gonna,” Jungkook snapped, and grabbed your arm, pulling you in for another kiss.

-

“Did you mean it?”

The room was relatively clean now. The trash was appropriately in the trash. The clothes had been lumped into an ambiguous pile on your dresser. Teeth had been brushed. You had set aside a spare toothbrush for his use only. Seemed appropriate. He was not wearing his sweatpants. Turned out that was not his preferred way to sleep. It wasn’t yours either. He was only in his boxer briefs and you were only in your panties. Your bodies were now minus each other’s bodily fluids.

“Mean what?”

You tried to yank the duvet into a more acceptable orientation before climbing in. After a pause, Jungkook lifted the other side and tried his best to settle in.

“That you were waiting for me to make a move.”

Tried his best because he seemed to be distracted by the conversation. You adjusted your pillow and nestled in a section of the duvet that was not that close but not too far away either. It was a king-sized one for a queen bed. Plenty of sharable coverage. You didn’t interfere with his routine and he didn’t with yours. You took the time to think.

“Hm.” It wasn’t wholly true after all. “I didn’t know if you were going to make a move or not.” He snorted under his breath but you ignored it to finish speaking. “After the first time you stayed over… It was more that I figured being prepared was better than not being prepared.”

“That’s…” He sounded uneasy.

“I can’t live hoping for something that might or might not happen,” you said without facing him.

He seemed annoyed. “Why not?”

You pointed out the obvious. “I don’t think you should change your life only to appeal to me. You should do it for yourself.”

“Well, I did,” Jungkook grumbled. He cocooned himself in a good chunk of your duvet. That was the tell of a blanket stealer. You would have to keep an eye on him. “I quit for you. It was always you. It’s happened already, so accept it.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

He grunted. “Just like how I shouldn’t have started smoking in the first place. Guess that’s the kind of shitty guy I am.”

Silence.

He wasn’t facing you. You were looking up at the ceiling. Closed your eyes because there weren’t any promises up there. The promises were always next to you. He seemed cold, but you knew better. He didn’t know how to be a cold person. He tried his best and it was a constant failure.

“Aren’t you happy you broke that people-pleasing of yours?” you asked softly.

There was a short, reluctant pause before he muttered, “You’re a butt.”

You burst out laughing. Big, muscly, tattooed man curled up in bed with you retorting with a child’s insult was too funny. Jungkook growled, rolling over to shake your shoulder with contained fury. You kept laughing even when he gave up and took the pillow out from under him, repeatedly bopping your torso and legs with it. There was no strength behind it. Plenty of salt, though. You opened your eyes mid-snicker and looked over to him. His arm was extended over to you. His black hair was all over the place. He shook his head like a Doberman and scrunched up his face. Frowning. On the verge of a pout, really. He could have looked madder. He would never make it as an actor. Your laughter died out.

“You were gonna totally back off if I didn’t have condoms?” you teased.

He looked exasperated. “Seriously? I’m not some untrained dog who hasn’t eaten in days! You… There’s plenty of other choices we have! I’m a good guy!”

You smiled. “I know.”

He immediately stopped protesting. It was as if all the fight drained out of him. There was a whole universe in those big dark brown eyes. And then it occurred to you that, back then, Jungkook could never quite meet your eyes even though he was always looking your way. Every day came with a dark night. He would ask you, got a light, and you would hold up the flame, shining light into those dark eyes when he used to lean in.

It was strange, then, to see the light that was there when now his eyes locked with yours.

No lighter required.

“You really tried to pass off as a bad guy. Almost fooled me, even.”

His eyes narrowed into slits. “Ugh, fuck you.”

“You did,” you quipped.

Jungkook flung the pillow behind him and scooted alarmingly close. You instinctively tried to move out of the way but there was no more bed to escape to. His strong arms wrapped around your shoulders and dragged you back to him, threatening you with, “Shut up. I’m hugging you.”

You failed to listen. Classic. “I didn’t ask to be hugged.”

There was a foreign tingling feeling that raced all over your skin. Not from the physical closeness, but from the other kind of closeness. You felt your shoulder bump against his firm chest. He even threw his leg over your hip and yanked your legs closer, cocooning you with his frame. You almost thought he was trying to extend the night.

Instead, he simply latched onto you like a barnacle.

“I don’t care. I’m a bad guy. Hmph.”

Quiet.

You placed your hand on his forearm just under your breasts. This was going to become very hot and sweaty in the long run. But you let it be. You didn’t want to let go either, even though you weren’t exactly doing the holding on. You used your other hand to drag the duvet back up under your chin. He didn’t stop you. You felt him squeeze you a little tighter once you were comfortable, as if to confirm. You patted his arm.

“Your hand is too hot,” he complained in a mumble by your ear.

“That sucks,” you said and didn’t move it. He didn’t try to shrug you off either. “I’ll make your steak tomorrow.”

He pretended to gnaw on your shoulder. “We can’t have steak for breakfast.”

“Why not? We’re adults.”

“That isn’t what adults do.”

“Then I give up on being an adult.”

“Me too,” he huffed. He perched his chin by your head. “Alright, I’m down.”

You debated on telling him. Telling him why you purchased the lighter in the first place. Even before him, it constantly stayed in your pocket. It only came out on the darkest nights when the insomnia was the worst. A flame and a human life followed the same trajectory. At night was when the flame danced the brightest. You would watch the flame dance. Contemplated. Extinguished it. You even did your due diligence of refilling it when it was low. When Jeon Jungkook appeared in your life, you ignited the flame for him without much thought. That was, after all, the intended use the lighter. It made sense to use it as such. You found yourself reaching for it less because, well, what if you ran into him? He would always ask and you would always provide. When he had handed you his barely-used pack and said he was done, you too gradually began to leave the lighter behind. The two objects had begun to collect dust night after night. Untouched. Originally your lighter wasn’t for him, and yet.

That small flame had led him to you.

The universe planned well.

“Hey, Jungkook?”

“Uuh?” He sounded very sleepy and not quite conscious.

“My lighter was for you, after all.”

“Mmmm…” He nestled closer and squeezed your arm. “That’s good.”

You smiled as he drifted off to sleep. He still snored, although less intensely. His grip on you relaxed but was no less meaningful. Slowly, the exhaustion caught up to you, and you went willingly, following Jeon Jungkook’s path to dreams. You would have to get used to this new routine of the night.

--

masterpost

[salem-s]

09 ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, annnnnnnnnnnnnngst (sorrrry), descriptions of smut, physical violence and mentions of blood (brief). 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 12.7k. actually insane. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. apologies because this is very description heavy. ── SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER at your best by frank ocean (cover)

When you stir, you're met with Rafe’s broad chest.

His hands are splayed against your bare back, stuffed under your – his – sweater as if he sought out warmth in the middle of the night. Deep, steady breaths emulate from his chest, indicating he’s still fast asleep as your face is buried in the crook of his neck. You almost wish you could see his face, see if his hair is sticking out in all sorts of directions like it normally is, or if his puffy lips are parted or if he’s got that crease in his brow. 

Something ugly stirs in your chest at how badly you want to look at him right now, how strong the urge is to trace your finger along his jawline, over the ridge of his nose, across his cheekbones as if to memorize the features. You want to be able to study his face, to really look at him without consequence and admire his beauty.

Because after today, your deal is up.

Rafe will have done his part of the bargain and you’ll have gotten what you wanted. You can go back to how it was before: teasing and bickering and borderline friends who sometimes sleep together when you both need temporary fun. 

That’s the word you loathe. Temporary.

Because it indicates that there was something there to begin with.

You don't realize your nails lightly trace the hills and ridges of his chest until he’s stirring ever so slightly, sighing deeply through his nose that tickles the crown of your head.

You stop quickly, not wanting to get caught doing something disgustingly endearing so he has the opportunity to poke fun. That was something you learned the hard way, because one time at the library you just had to adjust the way his hair looked in a baseball cap, and he proceeded to tease you about it for a month straight.

At the time, you could handle the poking and prodding, but you aren't so sure you could now. 

For a moment, you think he’s fallen back asleep, but seconds later his hands are slowly rubbing up and down your bare back and he’s stretching his long legs, almost impossibly pressing himself closer to you. 

“Mornin’,” he mumbles above you, the deep grovel of his baritone voice sending a shiver down your spine. “How’d you sleep?”

God, the whole thing is so sickly sweet and casual that it makes your chest ache. “Good. You?”

Rafe only hums, taking another long, deep breath.

One of his hands leaves the warmth of your back and trails up your arm to cradle your jaw, running the pad of his thumb over your chin and brushing over your lip.

You stiffen, especially when he cranes his neck back so he can press his lips to your forehead, leaving gentle kisses against your hairline. 

It’s too much. 

You clear your throat, attempting to pull back to get ready for the day even though you have no obligations until the afternoon, but Rafe doesn’t let you, holding your body in place as his lips tickle your skin as he mumbles something incoherent, and you swear you're dreaming when it comes out like a whine, a protest. 

“We…we shouldn’t,” you whisper pathetically, trying to convince yourself of it. 

But Rafe shakes his head above you. “Five more minutes. Please.”

Every excuse in the book goes flying out the window at his words, you stilling at the thought of him begging to stay like this for a little while longer.

This is the shit that makes you spiral, how he’s so contradictory of himself.

One second he’s insinuating your emotional connection means nothing to him, and the next he’s gripping onto you as if you're a lifeline, as if you’ll drift away if he lessens his hold even a fraction. It’s supposed to be casual, fun, and fleeting. You aren’t supposed to be burdened with this dance of will you, won’t you bullshit. 

Nevertheless, you find yourself agreeing, staying put in his arms and continuing your feather-light traces on his chest. 

You definitely stay like that for longer than five minutes, simply laying and feeling the hills and ridges of each other’s bodies with low, syncopated breaths. No words are exchanged.

You're not sure if you're more content with or without the silence.

You spend so long looking at his neck that when Rafe inches back to bring his face centimeters from yours, it startles you.

Even in the dimly lit room with the sun poking through the thick curtains, you can still make out the blue of his eyes boring into yours, bearing a softness to them that has your heart melting. His hand still cradles your jaw, holding you there gently, eyes wandering all over your face from your own, your lips, your cheeks and jaw to where he has you, every inch not going unnoticed. 

You aren't sure how long he holds your gaze like this. It could’ve been five minutes or five seconds. But eventually he’s leaning in and capturing you in a hushed kiss that takes your breath away, physically and mentally, because a daunting realization strikes your chest like lightning, something that you've been trying to push and shove down in the depths of your mind in the fear of getting hurt.

This feeling towards him isn’t going anywhere.

It’s growing uncontrollably fast, and there’s no point of return. Your liking towards Rafe is treading into uncharted territory, transforming into something that makes you sick to your stomach. 

God, you want to pull away – no – you need to pull away.

You need to save yourself from falling into this again, from opening your heart up to someone who isn’t ready to accept it.

Truthfully, you can’t go through another rejection, another build up of believing someone cares about you all for it to be performative. It happened with your mother. It happened with Grant. And now it’s happening with Rafe. 

You're a fool. You never learn this damn lesson. The desire to be loved is stronger than your inhibitions, it has you crawling back every single time because the desperation is unfathomable. Every time you believe it’ll be different, it’ll be real, you’ll finally get what you've been praying for. But it never is. And it won’t be with him. You need to know that. 

It has to just be sex. It can’t be anything more than that. 

So you initiate it. 

You really try to ignore the shock on his face when your hands trail further down his chest, teasing the waistband of his boxers.

But Rafe’s surprise quickly morphs into desire, kissing you differently now, hungrily, as his hands stop touching you in the gentleness from before and instead grip, kneed, grope as he pushes you onto your back and hovers over your body. You immediately feel him harden against your touch, grabbing him to quickly speed things along and  making him moan into your mouth.

Every time he ventures into the princess treatment territory, you brush it off and swallow the lump in your throat, kissing him harder or squeezing him as if to snap him out of it.

He tries to initiate that once, twice, but you don't let him, instead dragging the sex into a different direction, a detached direction.

You can tell he’s confused, but he doesn’t ask, doesn't pry, and instead goes along in the orchestration of your intentions. He fingers you through your first orgasm, then prepares to fuck you in missionary until you stop him.

When you whisper in his ear that you want it rough, he complies, hauling you up on your hands and knees and balancing himself with one foot propped up and the other knee bent so he can fuck you hard and deep against the mattress. 

You try to ignore how the sheets smell like him, how his moans only spur you on further, how the vulgarities he spits at you teeter between filth and possessiveness to endearing. You try and ignore how nice he feels, how his rough fucking contradicts his saccharine words.

Rafe moans about how nice you feel, like you're made for him, how you're taking him so well. The second time you orgasm, he’s right there with you, spilling into the condom buried deep inside you, moaning your name over and over again with a whine so vulgar that it makes you shudder. 

Eventually, your body limps against the mattress when he pulls out, leaving the room momentarily only to return with a damp warm towel, cleaning the undersides of your thighs and cooing in your ear how well you did for him.

You don't even remember if you respond, maybe with a low hum or noise of appreciation.

He brushes the hair out of your face, placing another kiss on your temple before pulling the covers over you again, settling in behind you and pulling you close to his chest again. 

You let a tear slip out when you feel him fall asleep. 

Maybe another hour goes by as you lie there in his arms, and it dawns on you that no matter how rough and deep he’ll fuck you, it won’t get rid of your problem and it’ll make it harder for you to detach from him, especially when he says stuff like that or treats you like you're made of porcelain afterwards.

You want him to treat you poorly, like you're just another fuck, because it’ll make it easier for you to pull away. 

Eventually, you slip out of his arms and dress yourself in your bathing suit and cover up, quietly navigating through the room to gather your things. It’s surprisingly early, just barely nine, when you leave the room and take refuge on the beach. You're grateful that there aren’t a lot of people around you, seeming as if you have the entire shore to yourself with the exception of a few people. 

Before you enter the water, you send a quick text to Rafe to let him know where you are so he doesn’t worry.

A part of you hopes he doesn’t wake up for another hour or so, because knowing him he’ll most likely come and find you immediately. You almost dread his upcoming interrogation about your sudden departure, because you really don't want him to notice. Or care. Or at least pretend to. 

A little while later, you're coming out of the water when you notice him sitting on the chair with all of your stuff on it, clad in his bathing suit and a white t-shirt with sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He looks ridiculously handsome, even wearing a slight frown, so you have to look away and grab your towel to refrain from brushing the hair out of his eyes. 

You don't notice him relentlessly picking at his nail beds.

“Hey,” Rafe says cautiously, as if he’s testing the waters. “You good?”

You nod, putting on a soft smile that you hope looks genuine enough to get him to back off. “Yeah. I just wanted to take advantage of our last day in the sun.”

He narrows his gaze at you, wanting to press further. “Right.”

Then he scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tick of his, and places a hand on your knee when you eventually lie down on the chair.

“It wasn’t…I didn’t go too hard, did I?”

The concern in his tone makes your jaw slack slightly, heart lurching at the pinch in his brows, frowning as if he’s in pain. Rafe’s blue eyes search yours for an ounce of confirmation, almost desperately, as if the thought of hurting you makes him sick. 

It takes a moment for you to pull herself together, because that’s not at all what’s wrong, the reasoning being far, far worse than rough sex, being that you needed the rough sex to remind yourself that there’s nothing more than that between you two. 

You place a hand over his. “No, not at all. I’m…that’s not…” you trail off, brushing it off with a gentle squeeze to confirm. “I liked it. I’m alright. Honestly.”

“You’d tell me?”

You want to scream. It’s not about the sex, it’s about everything else. 

Of course, you can’t say that. “Yes. Promise.”

Rafe doesn’t look too sure, but backs off anyway.

He takes the vacant seat next to you as he lays in the sun with you.

Yet today’s quieter then usual, you two only talking about a few unimportant things or verbally observing the people around you. When you go in the water, he doesn’t follow, instead going in when you come out, claiming someone needs to watch your stuff, which truly has never been a problem before, but you can tell he's distancing himself.

You should feel relieved – he’s backing off, detaching himself like you want him too.

But you hate the way it makes your heart feel, as if this is the rejection itself. 

God, you need to get your shit together. 

God, he needs to get his shit together. 

When he wakes up alone, it stings.

Of course, he figures you're in the bathroom or something, but the elongated silence in the room leads him to think otherwise. In the realization that he’s, in fact, by himself, Rafe sits up and checks his phone, seeing a text from you that you're down by the water.

Confusion bubbles in his chest at your sudden departure, wondering why you didn’t wake him up or at least tell him you were leaving the room, slightly irritated that he has to find out through a simple text. 

Rafe throws his phone somewhere on the bed and sighs, looking down at the sheets as he smooths over where you once laid as if to mourn your absence. Eventually, his palm skims over your pillow and his irritation quickly morphs into panic when he feels damp droplets. 

Retracting his hand as if the pillow’s on fire, the ugly realization settles in his chest that you were crying. 

His mind reels. Why? Was he too rough?

Before he knows it, Rafe is changing into his bathing suit and throwing on a shirt, not even bothering to bring his phone as he barrels out of the room, desperate to make sure you're alright.

His chest blooms with guilt as he recounts the sex, trying to recall if he grabbed you too hard or what it was that warranted it to hurt. You didn’t say anything - god, why didn't you say anything? - or give any indication that you didn’t like it. He knows that because he was especially paying attention after you declined his soft touches, trying to initiate the more gentler sex that you admitted to liking. 

So when you brush him off and flash a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, Rafe doesn’t even know what to think.

Guilt plagues him all morning. There are some points where you're talking to him and he can’t even bring himself to look at you, knowing he hurt you. And you're acting like everything is fine, prompting nonchalant conversation and completing dancing around the elephant in the room.

He doesn’t know how to act. He engages in the topics as much as his brain will allow him to, but his thoughts always return to the inevitable and how your teardrops felt on the pillow. 

Of course, Rafe thinks bitterly. He has to go and fuck something good up in his life because that’s all he knows how to do. He’s a beacon of destruction, never being able to enjoy anything for longer periods at a time, because he knows, at some point, he’ll do or say something to jeopardize that. 

His chest pulls when he realizes he’s probably lost you for good. 

You won’t confide in him. You won’t tell him the truth. You won’t let him in.

Well, why would you? Especially when he hurt you. 

Rafe flinches when you nudge him. 

“What?” He doesn’t realize you ask him something. 

You eye him with a cautious smile. “I asked if you were gonna stay, I have to start getting ready.”

He brings himself to look at you for a split second, but the pang of pain in his chest makes him look away abruptly. “Uh, yeah. I’ll stay for a little.”

You simply nod, gathering your things and flashing him a soft smile before leaving him again. 

Irritation clouds his judgement, his mind shouting obscenities at himself.

How could he do that to you? After everything you've done for him, that’s how he repays you? He must be some sort of monster, or something, if this is how he treats the people he loves–

Wait, no.

Yes. 

That realization hits Rafe like a ton of bricks. 

No. No.

He can’t love you. He isn’t capable of that, of such fervor or intensity. Rafe doesn’t do love, he doesn’t do trust, he doesn’t do anything that would make him feel lesser then. Not only is he unable to do so, he won’t allow it.

Because what right does he have?

Rafe wouldn’t be able to treat you how you deserve to be treated, he would find some way to fuck it up – like he already has. He can’t give her what you need, what you want. 

You've only been sleeping together for three months, and have known each other for less than a year. You couldn't possibly want him. You're repulsed by him. All he does is hurt you, with his words, with his hands, with everything he has no matter how hard he tries not to. He’s accident prone, subjected to fuck up every single thing that he touches. All you see him as is a partial friend, someone you can find temporary solace with. 

This morning, Rafe thinks back to how you tried pulling away from his embrace, feeling humiliation rise in his throat when he didn’t let you, how he pathetically kept you closer. 

God, how can he be so stupid? 

His head hangs low when he heads back to the room, giving you more than enough time to get ready.

Rafe barely spares you a glance when he enters, immediately heading to the bathroom to take a quick shower to wash off all the guilt he’s endured today. He stands in there longer than he should, because no amount of water makes him feel clean no matter how hard he scrubs the soap against his body, no matter how red his skin gets, no matter how much it starts to irritate. 

Of course, all Rafe wants to do is wallow in his own self pity, but he can’t, because he has a part to play.

He needs to be there for you tonight, despite how fearful he is of touching you again after this morning, knowing it was his hands that hurt you, his body. All he wants to do is detach himself, distance himself to prevent it from happening again, and hopefully the space will allow him to get over his feelings, to get over this love, because he knows it’s a shot in the dark. He knows nothing will come of it. 

Rafe decides that tonight he’s going to try his best to be a gentle boyfriend, one that takes your hand only when you want him to, one that defends you from your brutal family, one that dances with you if you request a song with him. 

As he’s slipping on his suit jacket, you emerge from the bathroom wearing the wine red gown he bought you, and it takes his breath away. 

Thank god you don't notice him basically going into cardiac arrest at the sight of you, gulping the lump in his throat down and composing himself when you finally look at him.

Rafe’s chest swells with pride when he sees you're wearing the jewelry he gave you: a plethora of chunky metal rings, simple studs in your second hole and long dangly earrings in your first, and you're gently slipping on the heels he bought you. 

You look absolutely beautiful. He wants to tell you.

“Ready?” You ask simply, fixing your tied up hair in the mirror.

Rafe can’t find the words. He nods instead.

The wedding ceremony is a short taxi ride away.

It’s down by a cove cliff that overlooks the water, a hundred or so chairs neatly stretched out on the field that look upon the ocean and the altar. The sun beats down in its setting haze, casting a warm hue that contrasts the cool breeze brought by the shore. The beautiful bouquet arch that the priest stands under is adorned with all sorts of flowers, blooming in full blossom intertwined with vine and leaves. 

You and Rafe arrive with fifteen minutes to spare, and when you exit the cab onto the grassy field, you have to cling onto his arm so your heels don’t get stuck in the dirt.

The contact makes his head all fuzzy, but nonetheless takes pride in guiding you towards the seats, offering an elbow instead of throwing his arm around your waist as he would’ve preferred, or honestly carrying you. He figures it looks more gentleman-like, and you don't complain about it. 

Making your way to the bride’s side, you nearly double over at the sight of Yara. Sure, she looks beautiful, especially while wearing the silky lilac dress that was originally meant for you.

Your mind lingers to last night, that numbing feeling rising like bile in your throat all over again.

She’ll give it to someone who deserves it, is what Paulette told you about the dress, making you travel two floors up to hand-deliver the silky gown at your mother’s room just the other day.

Well, it seems like she’s found someone who deserves it. 

Rafe follows your gaze to the lilac dress and frowns. Gently, he guides you to turn away from the sight and focus on other people instead. 

And it works, because you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding at the sight of Lorenza making small talk with your father. Though the elderly woman abandons her practical-son the moment she spots you, excusing herself and pulling you into a warm embrace. 

Rafe doesn’t realize how much he missed her when she gives him a big hug as well, kissing his cheeks and gesturing to his body, most likely saying something about how skinny he still is despite her best efforts. 

In the corner of his eye, he spots Paulette and Patrick speaking in hushed whispers, the two of them, of course, in the very front row. Then, he locks eyes with your mother, narrowing his gaze in the slightest and hoping his coldness comes across very clearly, and he simply can’t help it when his arm naturally drapes around your waist, a blatantly possessive act that he should feel embarrassed about, but doesn’t.

Patrick follows his mother’s gaze and his eyes widen a fraction when they settle on Rafe, sucking in a deep breath and tugging his mother’s dress skirt like a child. Satisfaction blooms in his chest when they avert their eyes away from him, standing down. 

You talk to Lorenza, unbeknownst of his little act of dominance, and don't seem repulsed by his touch, so he doesn’t remove his arm. 

The three of you sit together, you in the middle, when the ceremony starts with the groomsmen and bridesmaids one by one shuffling down the aisle, lining up accordingly by the altar.

In his peripheral, he sees Lorenza whisper something to you, subtly pointing at one of the groomsmen. Whatever she says makes you stifle a laugh, which grabs Rafe’s attention.

Part of him feels silly, wanting to lean down and ask what’s so funny, but then composes himself and looks forward.

But you loop him in involuntarily. You're so close that your lips ghost the shell of his ear, sending a chill down his spine.

“See the second groomsmen from the right?”

He finds the guy and nods.

“Nonna said his fiance caught him taking it up the ass from her brother the day before they were supposed to get married.”

Rafe cranes his neck to look down at you in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

You shake your head at him, focusing your eyes back on the altar. “Isn’t that crazy?”

He simply hums, keeping his gaze on you for a moment longer before averting his attention forward.

Kevin walks down the aisle with his mother, soothing violins melodically playing off to the side. A particularly harsh breeze from the ocean wafts over the ceremony, causing women to duck their heads to avoid their hair getting messed up and some men to button their jackets. 

You shrivel up slightly. Rafe frowns. 

“Are you cold?” When you don't respond, maybe not hearing him, he says your name, getting you to look up with those pretty eyes.

“Hm?”

 “I asked if you were cold.”

You shake your head. “It’s like sixty five degrees out. I’m fine.”

But he notices the subtle goosebumps adorning your arms as the wind keeps picking up, and shuffles in his seat and peels off his jacket in an instant. 

“Rafe–”

Your words fall on deaf ears as he shoots you a glare, a warning, as he drapes the suit coat over your shoulders, making sure it’s snug and covering your arms. He pats it down once, twice, then retreats his hands, his fingers lingering ever so slightly along your shoulders before letting them fall into his lap.

You shrink into it, hating the way it smells like him. “Thanks.”

He can’t help but bite into the bit. “What? No bratty remark?”

“I’ve taken a temporary vow of kindness.”

“Careful, sweet girl. Don’t tell me you’ve gone all soft now.”

“Never,” you whisper playfully. “Just living up to my name, is all.”

Sweet fucking girl, Rafe thinks. He wants to continue playing, but the ever-so-familiar tune coming from the violins causes everyone to stand, interrupting his acute attempt to fall back into step with you. 

Sure, Jessa seems to look great with the two second glance that Rafe spares, but his eyes fall back to you, watching your cousin with a bright smile, admiring her hair, her dress, her veil as she slowly walks down the aisle.

He can’t help the way his chest pulls as he shamelessly stares at you, studying the bridge of your nose, the slant of your jawline, the delicate pieces of hair that frame your face, the slightest dimple on your cheek, the way his suit jacket seems to swallow you whole. The sight of you in his clothes, whether it be a t-shirt or a jacket or boxers, makes him dizzy nonetheless.

In the midst of his gawking, he thanks every higher being that you're facing away from him so you won’t notice.

But someone does notice. 

Lorenza. 

The older woman all but raises a knowing brow at him, a teasing one, as she catches him. It takes a minute to notice he’s been caught, but his cheeks burn at the discovery and he instantly looks away towards the bride. Rafe notices her stare for a few seconds longer before turning back to the main event. 

But the damage is done. 

Everyone sits back down, and Rafe picks at his nails as the ceremony continues. He doesn’t really care for weddings, the last one he went to being his father’s to his stepmother, who he definitely can’t stand. All he remembers is drinking and drinking during the reception that he eventually just staggered upstairs to his room and passed out. He was fifteen. 

A hand covers his own, stopping his bad habit. 

Your fingers separate his hands, shooting him a pointed look as if to slap his wrist for the careless handling of his cuticles. He rolls his eyes, trying to ignore the jolt from the skin on skin contact, but can’t help but pinch his brows when you keep your hand there on his lap, fingers spread wide as if you're prompting him to do something. 

When he does nothing, you wiggle your fingers and nods towards them, as if to say, here, fidget with these instead. 

So Rafe does. He slowly encases his hand with yours, fidgeting and playing around with the plethora of rings on your fingers, giving his poor nail beds a break as the ceremony continues in front of you. But his focus isn’t really there, it’s here in his lap, and you don't seem to mind being poked and prodded the entire time. 

Another thirty minutes go by and Rafe’s head snaps up when everyone starts cheering, seeing Jessa and Kevin locked in a passionate kiss at the altar. Your hand, unfortunately, leaves his to clap for the newlyweds, Rafe finding it in himself to do the same, primarily only finding joy from the giant smile on your face as you watch them. 

“Where would you want your wedding to be?”

You and Rafe sit in the taxi ride back to the resort, the sun’s setting gaze filtering through the window to overcast the wisps in your hair, the windows cracked open to give them a steady breeze as you ride along the coast. Some old Italian song plays low on the antique stereo, filling the prolonged silence before you – that is – before you ask that question. 

It startles him, pulling him from his shameless staring of your profile that once was fixated on the coast, your gaze now on him.

“Uhm,” Rafe scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“You haven’t thought about your own wedding?” You ask in disbelief.

Rafe only shrugs.

Weddings aren’t his thing. Birthday parties and other celebrations he can get behind a grand gesture for, but this type of event is different for him. His parents never ended up working out and he grew up hearing the tales of their wedding, how over the top and extravagant it was on the southern coast of France. But the money had been a waste, the exquisite food and dress and decorations didn’t matter in the end because she left. 

Every grand wedding he’s ever been to or heard of never lasted long, the couple eventually getting sick of each other or some scandal runs rampant. Rafe always thought of it embarrassing, to drop so much dope on a celebration that doesn’t last. If the day ever comes, he supposes he’d appreciate a small gathering with people he actually cares about. It’s hard to make a long list of those people. 

“I’d probably want a small one,” is what he settles on. 

You ignore his dismissive tone, his suit jacket still draped over your shoulders. “Where?” 

“Haven’t thought about it.”

“Seriously?”

Rafe cocks his head to the side, half in warning and half in curiosity. “Baby, are you asking me all this stuff so I’ll have to ask you?”

You scoff and cross your arms as if that’s the most offensive thing you've ever heard. “No.”

Turning away from him, you look back out onto the horizon with a quiet huff.

But he can’t stop the grin etching onto his lips. “Where’d you want yours?”

“Nope.”

Rafe laughs accusatorily. “Oh, c’mon.”

You don't budge, still faced away from him like a brat.

He takes another selfish moment to ogle at you, the orange hue of the sunset casting a shadow over your face, especially the adorable pout adorning your lips. You even lean your knees away from him, seemingly pressed against the car door to be as far away from him as possible. 

The stubbornness would’ve been annoying two weeks ago, and he probably would’ve gotten irritated and found a way to storm off at getting blatantly brushed off, but now he finds it endearing, especially when he swears he can make out a faint smile on your face.

He says your name teasingly. You don't budge. 

Shaking his head with a playful scoff, he backs off, mumbling something under his breath as he looks out the window on his side, admiring the way the sun’s glimmer shines on the mountains.

All he wants to do is pull you into his lap and figure out some overtly romantic way to tell you how beautiful you look, but knows all that lovey-dovey shit will sound disingenuous coming out of his mouth.

He’d probably stutter it, anyway, and that would actually kill him. 

You ride in silence until you're pulling up to the resort at the same time as your extended family, so Rafe pulls out the oldest trick in the book and gets out first, offering his hand to you. Sure, it’s seen as a formality, especially to Lorenza who notices from a far, but Rafe just wants another excuse to touch you again without breathing down your neck, knowing this act won't hurt you.

You slip your hand into his. “Rafe Cameron boyfriend experience?”

The teasing tone makes him roll his eyes. “Get out of the car.”

You snort and link your arm with his, letting him essentially escort you into the resort. Following the crowd, everyone slowly gathers into the same ballroom as the rehearsal last night with the exception of about fifty more chairs and far more tables to accommodate all the guests. There’s plentiful buzz and excitement from the ceremony that translates, the wedding guests looking for their assigned table and heading over.

As you approach your assigned table, he feels you straighten your posture and take a long breath at the sight of your parents standing at their chairs, engaging in conversation with Yara and Grant. 

As if Paulette senses them, she turns to greet you in her normal cordial manner, but Yara interrupts her with a gasp. 

“Ohemgee!” she toddler grabs at your gown. “That dress is so beautiful! The stitching is so clean, and the color is so elegant. Oh, don’t you agree, Paulette?”

Darting her gaze from your face to the gown and back up to Paulette's face, your mother manages to put on a tight smile that could pass for agreement.

You suck in a breath in anticipation. “It’s nice,” is all your mother offers.

But it's enough, because that’s probably one of the nicest things she's has ever said about you. Well, not about you but about something related to you.

And even though it’s said out of pressure, you can’t help but relax a little bit in response. As much as you want to throttle Yara more than half of the time, you're thankful that she albeit forced your mother to say something positive. 

Yara’s eyes dance over the gown in awe. “I have to have one. Did they have other colors?” You don't get the chance to respond before she’s asking more questions. “Oh, no, I actually quite like this color. Where did you get this?”

You rub your thumb along Rafe’s forearm where you still clutch to him. “A small shop by my nonna’s cottage. Rafe bought it for me a few days ago.”

Oh, he hates how his chest immediately swells with pride. 

Especially when Yara sighs dreamily, then snapping out of it to backhand slap Grant’s chest, who stands innocently behind her simply watching the whole interaction.

“Why don’t you buy me anything like that, babe?” 

It’s not like I made it easy, you think sarcastically. 

Grant surrenders within a second with a dejected sigh, looking tired of it all. He spares one glance at you before he shifts uncomfortably, noticing he’s under Rafe’s narrowed gaze, as if even looking at his ex-girlfriend is unacceptable. All he does is swallow the lump in his throat and shrugs, dismissing the conversation. 

Classic Grant, you snort internally. Offering absolutely nothing.

Yara doesn’t seem to acknowledge it, used to his quieter behavior, simply drooling over the gown for a few seconds longer before Paulette is stealing her attention away, showing her something on the phone that serves as the end of the conversation. 

With a long breath, you go to sit down in the same seat as you did last night, but Rafe stops you, motioning you wordlessly to switch with him with a simple nod towards his chair.

You frown at him. “But that means you’d–”

“Sit.”

“But–”

“Sweet girl,” he warns, not willing to hear another word.

Biting your lip, you reel back in his serious expression, squeezing his hand as a wordless thank you before going to take his seat.

You figure that sitting next to him and Yara is infinitely better than sitting next to your mother. On any occasion, you'd rather sit next to anyone else on planet earth if it meant not sitting next to Paulette. 

And – boy – even though the added space is one person away, it makes a huge difference. 

Jessa and Kevin have their first dance to a beautiful violin quartet piece, and it looks straight out of a movie: the details of her dress as she glides across the ballroom, his buff figure guiding her around as if she weighs nothing, the dimmed lights on the overhanging chandelier. The whole moment is so moving, so captivating, that you don't realize you hold Rafe’s hand the entire time. 

When the applause waves at the end, you pull your hand away with a sheepish smile, clapping along with everyone and avoiding his gaze. You figure he’s staring at you with that stupid knowing smirk, the teasing kind that he likes to throw at you when he catches you doing something disgustingly endearing, but when you meet his eye, his eyes soften and instead wears an indifferent expression. Adoration? 

Whatever it is, it makes you feel uneasy so you find yourself directing your attention to the maid of honor’s speech.

The formalities pass with laughter and awws and applause, and soon enough dinner is rolling around in flair fashion. The meal is extraordinary – no doubt overpriced – but nonetheless your plates are scraped clean.

It’s also lovely that Rafe informally places his elbow on the table and leans forward, further shielding you from Paulette’s stare for the entire time you eat. You're grateful for the wall, and feels like you can actually breathe.

Soon enough, people are flocking to the dance floor with their drinks and drunken splendor, and even your parents leave the table to go mingle with extended family. It leaves you and Rafe alone at the table, laughing over something stupid and sipping from your wine. The few songs you find yourselves alone for are comforting, not having any of your family around or breathing down your neck, just simply sitting here with him is nice. 

You swirl the wine in your glass, murmuring something playful to him that he doesn’t even hear, because his palms are getting sweaty and he’s just gathering up the courage to ask you to dance when Lorenza approaches you. 

“Andiamo,” she says to Rafe. “Vieni con me.”

Rafe looks startled, confusion and nerves prickling his chest as he darts his gaze between the two of you. “Uh–”

You save him, stifling a laugh. “She wants you to dance with her.”

He’s relieved it’s nothing bad, and lets out a breath. A protest rises in his throat, wanting to ask you instead, but he swallows it when he sees the gleeful smile on Lorenza’s face, anticipating him to get up and escort her with everyone else.

So, with a polite smile, Rafe stands and leads Lorenza to the dance floor, not before throwing a glance over his shoulder to see you unmoved from your spot, watching them with a soft smile.

You belly laugh at the sight of Rafe, because he definitely looks out of place – and is nearly a head taller than most of the people here – as he spins Lorenza around to the up beat song. Despite his reluctance at first, you can tell he’s enjoying it by the big, stupid grin on his face and how Lorenza shrieks in laughter every time he spins her around. They bump into neighboring dancers but don’t even flinch.

God, the sight is sickeningly delightful. You know you're down bad when you rest your chin on your knuckles, watching them with a proud smile. 

The moment is so captivating that you don't notice Yara sitting down next to you. 

When she nudges you, you're reluctantly pulled out of the trance and frowning at the intrusion. But when Yara looks at you as if she’s anticipating a response, you simply hum in confusion. 

It doesn’t faze Yara, instead she chuckles. “I said you two seem nice together.”

You dart your gaze between the girl next to you and the boy on the ballroom floor, and an objection rises but dies in your throat. For once, you swallow and take the compliment, offering Yara a kind smile in return for the nice observation. 

“I mean it,” Yara continues, softer, more teasing. “It, uh, seems like you have a lot of fun together.”

The tone makes you furrow your eyebrows. 

The confusion makes Yara continue. “Our room is right next to yours. We kind of…heard you this morning.”

It takes you a second to process what she’s saying, heart dropping at the insinuation.

You widen your eyes, horrified at the thought of Yara and Grant of all people hearing you have some of the roughest sex you’ve yet to have together. 

“Fuck,” you curse, slapping a hand over your eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

But Yara doesn’t seem fazed, instead laughing at your embarrassment and cheers-ing your glass in a way that makes it seem like you're relating to each other. “Don’t be. He actually seems obsessed with you. And I also think it’s kind of sweet how protective he is over you.”

That word grabs your attention. “Protective?”

“Oh my god, yeah!” Yara gasps in disbelief. “Girl, the look on whenever Grant is nearby is literally, like, so funny. If looks could kill…” she trails off, giggling like a schoolgirl. 

But your cheeks burn at the thought of it, and you damn near giggle too on how serious he’s taking this whole boyfriend versus ex-boyfriend stand off.

Part of that puts you at ease, because you've been wondering the whole time why Grant hasn’t even tried to talk to you or make conversation, and little do you know the reasoning this whole time was because of a certain blue eyed man shooting daggers at him. 

Another part of you stills at the possessiveness, arguing that there’s a piece of him that feels compelled to do so, obligated.

“Yeah, I guess he can be a bit…” You try to find the right word. “...cautious.” 

The blonde hums in agreement, then flickers her gaze between you and Rafe. “He stares at you, like, all the time.”

The confession makes you still again. Does he really?

No, he couldn’t have been. Yara’s making that up. 

But then you frown. How would Yara know that? Is she staring at him?

“Probably had something in my teeth,” you attempt to joke, swirling around the wine in your glass and wanting to drop the topic.

Suddenly, the blonde is sitting too close and smiling a little too sweet to be considered genuine. 

No, you think.

Despite how annoying she is, Yara has actually been relatively decent to her on this trip. She could’ve made your life a living hell, and part of her has in a way she can’t really control, but she’s been warm and cordial enough not to raise any red flags.

You need to grow up and put the petty high school drama behind you, because at the end of the day she’s given you no reason to shove her off. 

“How long have you been together?” Yara asks quizzically.

The question is so simple but you freeze. You decide to go with when you started fucking. “About three months ago. Beginning of the semester.”

By the way she opens and closes her mouth, it seems like Yara wants to ask something else but decides against it, instead shooting you a soft smile and placing her hand on your forearm.

“You guys are adorable. Seriously. Hold onto that one.”

Then she shoots you a wink, rising from her seat and disappearing into the sea of people mingling. 

You don't even have time to process the entire confrontation when Rafe is suddenly plopping down beside you, causing you to nearly jolt out of your seat. 

“Jesus!”

“I should be saying that,” Rafe pants, taking a long sip of his wine and downing it. “I think your nonna is in better shape than me. I couldn’t keep up.”

The chuckle escapes your mouth before you can stop it, taking a moment to study him. He leans back in the seat, slumped, chest rising and falling rapidly but slowly coming down. The red tint on his cheeks really makes you think that he was putting in the work, because you know your nonna, that woman has the stamina of a stallion despite her age. 

You pick up a napkin and mockingly press it to his forehead, cooing softly. “Aw, did my seventy-three year old nonna run circles around you, baby?”

“She did. It’s no joking matter.”

Rafe basically yanks the napkin out of your hands and hazardously throwing it on the table, replacing it with his hands instead and the softness of his fingers make your breath hitch. 

He gingerly plays with your rings, smoothing the lines over your palms and knuckles, boring his eyes so deeply into yours that suddenly it feels like you’re the only two people in the room, especially when the pop-upbeat song slowly fades into something calmer, slower, more romantic that it makes your heart lurch into your throat. 

Rafe’s blue eyes flicker with uncertainty. “Wanna dance?”

The intimacy throws you off, offering a quip. “You sure you’ll be able to keep up?” But your voice wavers, your faces being closer together than you thought. 

He doesn’t lean into the bit, instead nodding slowly, sincerely, as his lips press into a straight line. 

The intensity of his gaze, of his question, burns your skin. Nonetheless, you match his nod, not trusting your words, and soon enough he’s guiding you to stand by your elbow and escorting your to the dance floor.

You wedge into the sea of people, all slow dancing to a melodic tune that’s so fucking romantic that your heart races.

Wordlessly, you reach up and interlock your fingers behind his neck, not before neatly fixing the collar of his dress shirt while his hands settling modestly on your waist. You nearly jump when the tips of his fingers meet your bare back, almost cursing at the vulnerability of the dress. 

The violin and piano concerto echoes throughout the ballroom, and despite being surrounded by so many people, it feels as though you are alone, swaying with each other to the tune.

Sure, you've danced with boys before at prom and homecoming, but this is entirely different.

It’s breathtaking and anxiety inducing – holding each other so tenderly without the implications of sex coming right after. It’s intimate, far too romantic, especially with the way he’s looking at you, as if you've hung the sun and stars yourself.

He’s saying something to you, you realize.

“What?” You ask, breathless. 

Rafe takes a deep breath. “I said you look beautiful.”

You still. 

Beautiful? 

“I mean,” he adds, almost nervously. “You always do. Look beautiful. It’s just that tonight, you…” Rafe trails off, unable to wind the words. 

But you understand. 

And – god – your heart is pounding so loud he must hear it, or feel it given how close together you’re standing.  

“Thank you,” you say so quietly you aren't sure it reaches his ears. 

But it does. 

You can’t remember the last time someone ever called you that. Or if anyone’s ever called you that.

“It’s true,” he whispers back. 

The words spill out before you can stop them. “You look very handsome tonight.”

A small smile rises on his lips and Rafe looks away for a split second, almost shyly, before returning his focus back down to you. “Thank you, sweet girl.”

You hum at the pet name, biting your lip to refrain from saying anything more embarrassing and pulls him a fraction closer.

Your eyes search the features of his face, the edge of his jaw to the hair that falls onto his forehead, the dimples on the side of his mouth to the crease between his brows. It’s not fair. Every inch of him is pretty, blessed by the kiss of a greater being. 

The moment is perfect, you realize, being here with him in his arms, slow-dancing to an amorous classical piece, looking at him and only him as if nothing else around you matters.

For now, you forget you're not really his, nor is he yours.

It’s a problem for later, a problem that you're going to kick yourself for tomorrow, but right now it doesn’t matter. Nothing is of importance. 

The light feeling in your chest makes you feel good, and perhaps it’s the wine you've been drinking all night, but you have to admit that some part of it is emitted from him. He’s intoxicating, yet you can’t seem to come to your senses and pull away.

One thing does cross your mind, and it’s that Rafe Cameron should come with a warning.

He’s saying your name. 

You hum in response. 

Rafe looks both certain and uncertain at the same time, teetering between the two emulations that he wants to come across with, but eventually something fixed settles in his gaze: determination. The expression makes your heart skip.

Why is he looking at you like that? 

“I don’t think I can go back to the way things were before.”

The confession hits you like a ton of bricks.

“What?”

You hope your fearful tone deters him, but it only spurs him on further. 

“When we were…” Rafe searches for the right words, “...only sleeping together.”

You connect the dots. “You want…more?”

Panic arises in your throat at your biggest fear is coming true when Rafe slowly nods, a sliver of desperation hidden in his eyes that has you sucking in a breath. 

No. No. No. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. He isn’t supposed to actually want you.

There must be some confusion, or he’s been taking shots behind your back. The forced proximity is getting to his head, is all, and making him think he wants you solely for the fact you’ve only been graced with each others’ presence. You’re going to get back to school and you’re gonna fall into the same routine as normal, where you still see other people and sleep together when you’re feeling lazy and horny and don’t feel like going through the motions with someone else, and he’s going to realize how incorrigible the idea was and laugh at the implication.  

Because you can’t offer more. 

The concept in itself is foreign to you. You only know how to be casual, how to be intimate from an arm’s length away, because anything closer than that becomes uncharted territory.

The idea of being wanted by someone feels wrong, disingenuous. You're used to waiting for the big gotcha! that always happens with things like this, as you're constantly used to getting reeled in, toyed with, then released back without so much as a spare glance or a string of pity. 

How are you supposed to believe that he wants you?

Rafe Cameron doesn’t know you.

You don't know him.

You don’t know each other in the way that matters when it comes to being more.

Sure, he can tell when you're close to finishing and you understand how to get him riled up, but what else? You can’t name his favorite color or his birthday or his biggest fear or even begin to understand his family dynamics. He doesn’t know your secrets or your favorite animal or your middle name. You can recall the freckles on his back and map them from memory like constellations but don't know his sisters’ names. 

God, he’s saying your name again and you hate when he uses it. It makes this feel more real, as if it’s actually happening. 

The nausea mixed with panic makes your knees wobble. 

“You’re just drunk,” you meekly respond, no longer able to look him in the eye but instead settling on his tie. You hate the way your voice is so small, wavering, timid.

But Rafe hears you, and he says your name again. “I’m not. I’m serious.”

Fuck. 

He can’t be serious. There’s no way you can believe that he’s not setting you up for humiliation like everyone else. He’s just pussy whipped, it’s the only explanation. 

You swallow thickly. “You don’t…That’s not what you want.”

Suddenly Rafe’s hand is leaving your waist to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze to your utter dismay.

His brows are pinched in irritation, in offense, but his eyes gloss with worry. “I’m telling you what I want.”

You shake your head. “No–”

“I want you,” he says firmly. “Only you.”

The stake in the claim makes your knees nearly buckle. No. No. No.

This can’t be happening. He’s delusional, simply used to your company. The remedy is finding someone else to remind him that you're not what he needs, you're not what he wants, you're simply the closest person to him at the moment which makes it easier, more convenient, to get his dick wet.

That’s all. That has to be all. 

The concept of him only wanting you – wanting only one person after countless lewd comments on how he could never, ever, find the gall to settle down – makes your blood boil. 

This is mean. 

“No, Rafe–”

You pull away from him, taking an uncoordinated step back and thankfully the song has transitioned into something more upbeat and no one around you has noticed your lack of enthusiasm.

You look up at him, bewildered and offended, anger bubbling in your chest, heart rising to your throat. 

This is some sick fucking joke.

“I think you’re confused.”

He scoffs, matching your anger. There’s no doubt he’s embarrassed about getting rejected, getting left in the dust surrounded by strangers. 

You don’t even know what you want, you want to scream at him. 

“Tell me, then. Since you’re so sure.” Rafe takes another step forward to account for your step back and the invasion is daunting. “Why would I be confused?”

You aren't sure which way is up right now. People bump into you without consequence. Rafe stares at you so intensely that it burns into your skin.

This is suffocating.

“We’re playing a part…it isn’t right.”

“We’re playing a part,” he deadpans mockingly, unconvinced. “That’s your excuse?”

Someone dancing nearly knocks you over, and you stumble to regain your balance (and you ignore how he reaches out to steady you, despite his furrowed brows and up-curled lip). There are a hundred million reasons under the sun why you wouldn’t work, starting with the most obvious one. 

You push his hands away that reach out to attempt to steady you, pathetically fumbling with your words. “It’s not an excuse. After tonight, it’s done, there’s no obligation to continue acting like this.”

“Obligation?” he spats incrediously.

Eyeing his clenched fists, you feel your irritation skyrocket. “Yes, Rafe. You do know what that means, right?”

Rafe’s face contorts in confusion, and you hate the way he looks hurt. 

You swallow that thought harshly. “This isn’t…”

The steel expression on his face is making you nauseous.

You force yourself to take a breath. “Look, we’re gonna get back to campus, fall back into our routines and we’re gonna laugh about how stupid it would be if we…” You can’t even say the words, instead opting for a shaky exhale. “Everything will go back to normal.”

“You’re deflecting,” Rafe deadpans. Then, softer, “Just talk to me.”

You want to scream.

You cross your arms, creating one last ditch effort to barricade yourself. “I’m not deflecting. In fact, I’m doing you a favor.”

The humorless laugh that comes from him is nothing nice and it slices your heart harshly.

“A favor?” Another scoff escapes his lips as he runs a hand through his tousled hair. “What part of this feels like a favor? I’m telling you that I want you.”

A cold shiver runs down your spine at his words, the certainty behind them, the bright blue eyes that stare at you almost desperately. 

No. You need to stand your ground.

You know the outcome of this, and it isn’t pretty in your favor.

It’ll end with you grasping for straws, breaching the water for air, navigating through an unfamiliar room in the dark. You're not ready to go through that again, not ready to open up, not ready to trust. Not with him. Not with someone who has repeatedly said he doesn’t want this. 

“This is fake, Rafe.”

Rafe immediately shakes his head. “No, it’s not.” Then, he takes another step closer until he’s right in front of you, invading your personal space. “Not to me. And I know you feel it too.”

God, is it that obvious? Your longing, yearning, need to be around him? How fucking scared you are at how badly you crave him, body and soul despite every fiber in your body ringing the alarm? Can he hear your heartbeat? Can he feel the electricity coursing through your veins, the currents defibrillating your entire being every time you touch him?

It’s all you can feel. All the time. It’s exhilarating. 

It’s frightening. 

And the fear outweighs the excitement. 

You take a step back, creating more distance. "I don't."

Rafe’s hair falls in front of his eyes as he shakes his head. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then maybe you don’t know me as well as you thought you did.”

You do your best to ignore the heartbreaking expression on his face, how his lips part to say something else but no words come out, how his blue eyes glass over and widen in surprise, how his chest heaves at the emotional intensity between you. His loss of words, his silence, his hurt are the knives that leave jagged wounds in your heart, and, god, you can’t look at him anymore. 

There’s a voice in the back of your head that is telling you to take it back. And you wish you could rewind the last minute so you’ll never have to see this expression ever again. But no, he’s probably just upset that you saw right through him.

Life suddenly resumes around you. People dance, laugh, drink. Shoulders bump shoulders and drunken friends lock arms and sway to the beat of the song.

It’s all too much, too overwhelming, too loud. Your heart is thrumming in your chest and it feels like it’s about to leap out of your throat. 

“I’m…I need air,” is all you can say before turning your heel and bolting. 

You must be in the bathroom for ten minutes, solely gripping the sink so hard the counter may snap off. 

I want you.

Rafe’s words replay in your head, and the intensity behind them makes you nauseous.

You have to give him credit, he looked serious. But you know him on the surface level, or knows of his tendencies. He means that now while he’s trapped in a foreign country with you, but once you make it back to the States, he’s going to fall in step with how things used to be.

He’s going to come home from bars and parties with a new girl under his wing, and on the nights he doesn’t, he’s gonna shoot you a phone call or knock on your dorm door if he sees that the lights are still on. 

Only you.

You want to laugh.

Since when has he ever only had one girl in his life? And why does he think that should be you? What can you provide for him besides good sex? A couple of cheap jokes? You can’t even come up with a reasonable list of bullet points, and it only makes you angry, on the verge of humiliation. 

Why did he have to say that?

He’s getting your hopes up, you realize. He’s reeling you in just to cast you aside later on when you get too boring or familiar to him.

You'll run through each sex position until the time comes where it no longer brings any excitement, he’s going to pull away and leave you high and dry. The motions are all the same, but this time you know better than to wrap yourself up in a fantasy, then to feed into your delusions and pretend like this time is going to be different. 

How could he even fathom liking you?

You're defensive to him almost all the time and push him away for most of it. Rafe drives you up the wall every opportunity he gets, relishing in your embarrassment, teasing you about every little thing that you do as if he was put on this earth for that sole purpose. 

But despite it all, you can’t get the look on his face out of your head. 

It’s as if the wind had been knocked out of him, bewildered and breathless as he stared at you with wide blue eyes glossed with hurt. The expression felt like a punch to the gut, making you double over every time you replay the moment in your mind, as if your pulling away physically pained him. 

No, he’s just not used to not getting what he wants. 

I want you. 

You groan, pressing the heels of your palms over your eyes, trying to regulate your breathing as best as you can. Thank god you're alone, otherwise the concept of panicking over your fake boyfriend actually wanting you would be hard to explain. 

You just need to talk to him, that’s all, and explain to him that he’s not thinking straight.

You may have to put duct tape over his mouth to do so, but it could work, to get him to see the truth. You can use your words, you can worm your way out of this situation and persuade him to think differently, more clearly. It’s better to think of it as helping a friend, extending a hand to guide him in the right direction. 

Okay. You can do this. You can face him. 

It’s Rafe Cameron, for fuck’s sake. 

And – of course – when you gather the courage to leave the bathroom, you wish you hadn’t even moved. 

Because off to the side, behind glass doors down the hallway shielded away from everyone else, stands Rafe with a familiar looking blonde in a lilac dress. 

Standing too close to one another. 

Rafe looks down at Yara as they’re huddled together in a clear door storage closet, and all of your insecurities, doubts, suspicions come into fruition with this very image.

You can’t see his face from your vantage point, and something really, really ugly rises in your chest.

He’s probably charming his million dollar smirk, spewing out his lewd obscenities disguised as compliments to worm his way under her dress. But you can see Yara’s big, lovey-dovey smile grinning up at him, talking to him, peering up with hooded eyes.

When she places a manicured hand on Rafe’s chest and steps closer, you stagger.

Unbeknownst to you, a busser wheels a bar cart behind you, which you end up knocking into. A few bottles clink and clank together, but nothing spills or shatters, causing a few curious heads to turn at the noise.

You don't take the time to assess the damage, or even respond to the “are you alright?” from spectators, instead stumbling back into the bathroom. 

Thankfully, it doesn’t grab Rafe or Yara’s attention.

And now you're back, staring into the mirror in shock, anger, disbelief. 

Of course. This is what you get for trying to resolve things, for trying to make things relatively right.

All of your suspicions came true: Rafe doesn’t actually want you. 

It took him – what? – all of fifteen minutes to find someone new? Yara, for that matter? As if that doesn’t feel like a million stab wounds in your chest, going after the one person you constantly can’t compare to, the one person who gets everything without having to lift a finger, the one person who you've tried to rationalize is different but instead is everything you expected. The one person who shouldn’t have this much hold over you, but somehow prevails in every single category. 

You scoff bitterly. 

You should’ve known. 

No, you recoil. You did know, and still wanted to go and make things right.

God, you're such a fucking idiot to even consider believing his word, believing his plea that he wants you in a way that other people don’t. It’s no surprise he jumped ship so soon, scouting out his next opportunity to get his dick wet. 

When the bathroom door opens and closes behind you, you clear your throat and turn away, wiping a stray tear that managed to fall in hopes that the lady simply goes into one of the stalls and ignores your heaving figure. 

“Are you drunk?”

God. This night couldn’t get worse. 

Your shoulders slump at the sound of your mother’s voice, laced with venom that it stings deep and leaves traces of poison through your veins. 

Paulette hisses your name. "Cut the shit. Answer me.”

You find the strength to face your mother, who’s glaring at you with such intensity that it almost makes you cower in your spot. There might as well be smoke coming out of Paulette’s ears. 

But the energy to run through this bickering cycle has run thin, feeling utterly depleted and emotionally unavailable to give you mother the fight that she wants to have here in this bathroom. 

The sight of Yara’s hand on Rafe’s chest makes you wince again, the hurt stabbing you once more, harder than the last. Then, the horrific thought races in your mind: did they kiss? Are they kissing right now? Is he holding Yara like he used to hold you? Is he calling her sweet girl? Murmuring baby? Has his hand ventured up her dress yet?

“Mom,” you plead, voice wavering with defeat, blinking the hypotheticals away. “Can you lay off me? Just this once?”

Paulette scoffs, as if the request is far too attainable to achieve. “Do you know how many people saw that? Tripping over yourself like an old drunk. I’ve already had to hear it about you stealing a wine bottle the other night, and now this? People are talking about you, don’t you care?” she seethes.

“No.” You respond immediately. “I don’t. At all.” 

“Well, you should.” Paulette’s fuming. “These are the people who have influence, whose opinions matter. There are members of the PTO here, people from the city. Do you understand that your actions are a blatant reflection of me? Of my reputation?”

“Your reputation is fine.” You grab the counter to ground yourself, the porcelain surface contrasting against your ember hot skin. “No one cares.”

Your mother gasps with offense. “No one cares? No one–” she scoffs bitterly. “Everyone cares. Everyone is watching your every move. One night is all I ask of you, no, I beg of you, to be on your best behavior.”

You want to scream. You're not even drunk, barely even tipsy. Even if you were, no one cares, no one is watching you like a hawk. They’re simply not, and this attempt to mold you into a cookie cutter version of a daughter is getting abhorrently tiring.

There are so many other things that people pay attention to then you, so many other things going on in their lives that warrant a nice distraction from whatever Paulette thinks her daughter is doing so poorly. 

“You’re such an embarrassment.”

It’s too much. Rafe’s confession. Yara’s hand. Paulette’s words. It all comes crashing down at once. 

And you can’t help but laugh in your mother’s face. 

It only augments her anger. 

Here you are, doubled over howling at the kaleidoscope of misfortunes that have already happened this evening as one of the main culprits stands in front of you, manicured hands on her hips as a rain cloud storms above her head.

You can’t figure out which part of tonight hurts the most, each scenario taking turns in the spotlight and stabbing different parts of you: your mind, your heart, your gut. 

Pushing down the nausea, you manage to come down from your laughter and throw your head back to stare at the ceiling in disbelief. 

“I’ll never be good enough for you. Will I?”

Your mother is silent. 

“Even if I ended top in the class,” you whisper pathetically, “or cured world hunger, or fit into the fucking lilac dress.”

Sometimes when you look at your mother, you see yourself. You have the same eyes. Same color. Same shape. And you always wondered if Paulette hated herself, because how could she say and do the things to you while practically looking in a mirror?

“That’s why you brought Yara along, right?”

Your mother’s posture straightens, expression hardening.

But you continue. “To parade her around and show everyone how great she is. One that kisses your ass and plays dress up with you. Is that it?”

Paulette’s next words are ice. “She’s more of a daughter to me than you’ll ever be.”

You have to swallow the lump in your throat. 

“I know.”

And it’s true. You know, a part of you has always known ever since high school.

Deep, deep, down, that thought that bloomed in high school has resurfaced, lingering in the back of your mind ever since you saw the blonde, learned that she’s your mother’s assistant, saw the way she received the maternal care you've been searching for all your life. You didn’t want to accept it, pushing it further and further down. 

But now it’s solidified. 

Paulette straightens her posture, looking down at her daughter. “You could learn a thing or two from her.”

You nearly snort. What? How to be a homewrecker?

“Sure, I’ll ask her for a few tips on how to insert into another family,” you mutter quietly, but your mother hears it. 

“You know what?” The tone is accusatory. “Your attitude won’t fix things. It won’t make people like you.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper, voice wavering. 

The bitter scoff from your mother’s lips makes you flinch, curling her fist into a ball. “You should care. People don’t want to be friends with snarks. That boyfriend won’t stay if that’s how you speak to him.”

Boyfriend. 

Oh, that word stings. 

But for a whole different meaning. Because you remember his words, his proclamation of how he feels about you. You remember his face when you walked away from him on the ballroom floor. You remember how he stood inches apart from Yara, allowing her to touch him.

The word hurts, because you're not his, and he’s not yours. Rafe’s made that very clear. 

“Wallow in self pity, for all I care,” Paulette continues, moving to leave the bathroom. “Touch up your makeup before–”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” 

Your mother stops in her tracks.

“What did you say?”

The humorless laugh that escapes your lips feels foreign on your tongue, hating the way how defeated it sounds. 

“Rafe isn’t my boyfriend. He never was.”

Paulette narrows her gaze. 

If looks could kill. 

“He’s barely even my friend.” You toothily smile, but it’s out of mockery, humiliation, spite. You just want to hurt your mother, and you know how to make it sting: threatening her image. “We’re just fucking.”

The vulgar word makes your mother gasp quietly, and she says your name so low, so stern, it sends a shiver down your spine. 

But you're not stopping now. “We’ve been sleeping together for three months. And also sleeping with other people. You happened to catch him after he slept over.”

Your lips curl upwards.

“That’s dishonorable, don’t you think?”

“You tell no one,” Paulette hisses immediately, pointing a finger that might as well resemble the barrel of a gun. “This doesn’t leave this room.”

“I don’t know,” you ponder aloud, drawling it out and further pissing your mother off. “I think it could liven up the place, add a bit of drama."

"You wouldn't dare-"

"What would everyone think if I strolled around telling everyone Paulette’s daughter’s brought her fuck buddy across the Atlantic to taint the family reputation, or how Paulette’s daughter is such a whore that–”

The slap echoes off the marble walls.

And it stings more than usual. 

You stagger, a hand immediately flying up to cradle the right side of your chin, as your bottom lip explodes in pain. 

Wide eyes stare at your mother, who looks equally as shocked at the intrusive act as she cradles her left hand, the culprit.

For a moment, you two stand in complete silence, digesting what just occurred, what she just did, and how it carries more weight than it ever has before. 

But Paulette’s expression quickly shifts into something stoic, detached, as if to compose herself from the momentary hysteria. Her eyes harden as she recovers, straightening and smoothing out the ridges in her dress and taking a long, deep breath.

“Keep it to yourself,” is all your mother says before abruptly leaving the bathroom.

You're left in silence. 

Your lip stings. Your heart is racing. You're paralyzed in place, one hand clutching your face and the other gripping the counter, grounding yourself to refrain from falling onto the floor.

All you can hear is the thump thump thump of your heart up to your ears, pounding so intensely that they start to ring. 

Tears immediately pool your waterline. 

No. No.

You're not going to cry. Not right now. You'd rather die than give these people the satisfaction that they got to you, successfully sweeping the rug from out beneath you and sending you banana peel slipping into your own wallowing pit of self despair.

You pull your shaky fingers back, coated in blood. 

Then you find the courage to inspect the damage in the mirror, frowning at the gashed split lip.

Paulette’s wedding ring must’ve nicked you. 

Cursing, you grab a reusable hand towel, dabbing it in water under the sink before bringing it to cool your lip, wincing at the contact as you cover the wound.

All you want to do is curl up into a ball and wash this night away, wash away the grubbiness of the entire trip and let your unbridled sentiments drain into the ocean. 

God, you wish your nonna was here right now. 

Lorenza always says the right thing, regardless if it’s what you need to hear in that given moment or not. But you know your nonna would tear this place apart brick by brick if she knew what just happened, as it feels like she’s the only person you have left who genuinely has love for you.

Just that. Simply one person. And there’s no way to get to her, not right now, not while she’s surrounded by hundreds of people. 

A ragged sob escapes your mouth and you quickly cover your mouth with the back of your other hand, knuckles shaking against your swollen lip. 

There’s no way you can go out in that crowd and try to find your nonna, not without turning heads at your disheveled appearance. The thought of people staring at you right now, the thought of hundreds of eyes drinking you in at such a low point sets a pit in your stomach, panic rising as you realize you're stuck in this bathroom. It’s either wallowing here in a stall or leaving the ballroom altogether, the exit being just around the corner. 

Which is what you do. 

Because if you don't get out of here right now, you're going to scream.

With your head hung low, you slip out of the bathroom and beelines for the exit.

You hold your breath, slipping through the doors and drawing no attention. Panic arises in your throat as you stand still in the lobby, frozen, with tears pooling in your eyes.

The room isn’t an option. Your phone, wallet, and keycard are all still at the table. You can’t go anywhere. 

Anywhere except the beach. 

Your feet are moving before you can register it, pressing the cloth so firmly against your lip that it throbs achingly as your legs take you outdoors out of the lobby.

The cool air hits you immediately, but already feeling a sense of clarity that starkly contrasts the stuffiness of the ballroom. Your heels click against the cobblestone until you get to the edge of the walkway, wobbling in the sand. The narrow walkway to the beach is dim and sandy, and thankfully there’s no one around besides you.

Without a second thought, you kick off your heels, the heels he bought for you, leaving them to collect dust as you slip into the darkness and hoping the sand swallows them whole, and disappear into the inky night still cradling your jaw.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without given permission. mdni.

notes poor reader sorry????

[cressidagrey]

Bribery remains effective

We are interrupting our regularly scheduled programming to celebrate Oscar's 4th career win!

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar Piastri thought doing kindergarten drop-off for his daughter would be easy — until Bee negotiates like a Formula 1 strategist and declares that the chickens at home are better friends than her classmates.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Oscar knelt beside Bee at the gate, one hand steadying the tiny bee-shaped backpack on her back, the other gently tucking a rogue curl into her cap. The air smelled like damp grass and crayons, and the sound of squealing toddlers echoed faintly from the building.

Bee was not impressed.

Normally, Felicity did the drop-off. Normally, Bee clung to her mama’s leg until she was gently convinced inside with the promise of a post-kindy snack and a story. 

But Oscar was home for the day…and so he had decided that letting his wife sleep in and doing the drop off would be a simple way to make her week easier. 

So here he was, still bleary-eyed, in his team hoodie, coffee in hand—as the designated parent.

The other parents stared at him, and Oscar wasn’t surprised at all. He was pretty sure that he still looked like half a teenager playing at being a dad. Oh well. They could believe whatever they wanted. 

Bee stared at the school gate like it had personally insulted her.

“I don’t want to go,” she said, in that tiny, serious voice of hers.

Oscar sighed, crouching to her level. “We talked about this. You’re just going to be here until lunch.”

“I know,” Bee muttered, arms crossed. “But it’s so loud, Papa. Everyone is shouting. And they don’t even wash their hands properly.”

Oscar tried not to smile. “You don’t have to shout. You just have to be kind. And listen to Miss Eleanor.”

Bee made a face. “Miss Eleanor made me sit on the carpet. It was sticky. Someone put raisins in their shoes.”

Oscar blinked. “…Why would someone put raisins in their—never mind. Look, I know it’s not your favourite, but Mama and I just want you to spend time with other kids your age. It’s good for you.”

“I’d rather be with the chickens.”

He chuckled. “The chickens don’t teach social skills, Bumblebee.”

“Yes they do,” Bee said seriously. “Vettel always shares the feed. And Lauda only pecks if someone’s rude first.”

Oscar rubbed his face. “You named chickens after F1 legends. That doesn’t count as a peer group.”

Bee scuffed her boot in the gravel. “I just don’t like it here.”

Oscar softened, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “I know, sweetheart. I didn’t like school much either. But sometimes we do hard things because they help us grow.”

Bee gave him a withering look. “I’m already growing, Papa. Mama said I grew out of my shoes last week.”

“…Technically not what I meant.”

She looked up at him, frowning. “Are you going to leave?”

Oscar nodded slowly. “Just for a bit. Mama or I will pick you up. She promised mochi if you were brave today.”

Bee’s eyes lit up, but then she narrowed them suspiciously. “With sprinkles?”

“Yes.”

“And chocolate milk?”

“With the bendy straw.”

She considered this. Very seriously.

“…Fine,” she said at last, with the air of a queen making a reluctant royal decree. “But tell Mama the carpet was sticky again and I still think the chickens are better friends.”

Oscar leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Deal. Go be your brilliant self, okay?”

Bee nodded solemnly and allowed herself to be led inside by the cheerful classroom assistant, her boots squeaking slightly as she walked.

Oscar watched until the door shut behind her, then pulled out his phone and texted Felicity.

Drop-off complete. Still prefers chickens over humans. Also, she wants chocolate milk with the bendy straw.

A second later, Felicity replied:

My girl. Bribery remains effective.

Oscar smiled down at the message. 

***

The gravel crunched under Oscar’s tyres as he pulled into the drive of their home, the morning still misty with leftover rain and the gentle clucking of chickens from the coop drifting lazily through the air. He left the car with the windows cracked and the doors unlocked. No one around here stole things, and even if they did, they'd have to face Senna the Chicken first.

He toed off his sneakers at the back door, rubbed the sleep from his face, and called out, “Fliss?”

No answer—just the low hum of music coming from upstairs. The kind Felicity only played when she was home alone and getting things done. Oscar followed the sound of it, yawning as he went, and when he reached their bathroom door, it was fogged from steam and slightly ajar.

The shower was on.

He grinned.

The clothes she'd dropped on the floor were her pyjamas, an oversized cricket shirt of his from their school days, that by now was threadbare and thin, and  had a hole in one sleeve…and also had the name PIASTRI emblazoned over her back whenever she wore it. 

Oscar stripped off his hoodie and pants and quietly stepped inside the steamy bathroom, pushing the door open gently.

Felicity was already halfway through washing her hair, head tilted back under the stream of water, when she felt the shift of air behind her.

She didn’t jump.

“Morning,” she murmured, voice calm and lazy. “You’re late.”

“Bee negotiated hard,” Oscar said, stepping into the shower behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. “Full mochi package, plus the chocolate milk. With the bendy straw, or she said the deal was void.”

Felicity laughed, leaning back into him. “She’s terrifying.”

“She said the carpet was sticky again.”

“She always says that.”

Oscar nuzzled into the curve of her neck, pressing a kiss to her damp shoulder. “She also said she’d rather hang out with Vettel the chicken.”

“I mean,” Felicity said, turning slightly to look at him, “I get it.”

Oscar laughed softly, the sound muffled against her skin. “Hey… I was thinking.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“About Silverstone,” he said, tightening his arms around her. 

Felicity stilled just slightly. “…Oscar.”

“I think you should bring her. For the weekend. She would love the paddock.”

Felicity sighed. “You know what that means, though. If we bring her to a Grand Prix—that Grand Prix—she’s going to start asking the karting question again. And we both know what happens after that.”

Oscar was quiet for a second, his breath warming her spine. “I know. I just… I think we’re kidding ourselves if we pretend she’s not already five steps ahead of us. She’s been watching the telemetry from my onboard and taking notes since last year.”

Felicity groaned. “I know. She told me last week your braking into Turn 4 was ‘too soft.’ Then she decided to write a better strategy for you.”

Oscar smiled against her shoulder. “She’s not wrong.”

Felicity turned around, suds still in her hair, eyes serious now. “Oz, I don’t want her to think she has to be anything just because she’s good at it.”

“I know,” he said, brushing her cheek. “And we won’t let it be like it was for you. No pressure. No proving anything to anyone. Just… if she wants to try karting, we let her. That’s all.”

Felicity studied him for a long moment. “And if she decides she wants to race?”

Oscar’s voice was steady. “Then we’ll make damn sure she’s not alone doing it.”

There was silence, except for the steady stream of water.

Felicity sighed, a little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “She is going to ask for a kart for her birthday if we bring her to Silverstone.”

“Like Father, like daughter.”

“You’re unreal,” she muttered, shaking her head.

Oscar grinned, pulling her into him again. “So that’s a yes?”

Felicity groaned. “Fine. But you can explain it to our bank account when she wants a sim rig upgrade at seven.”

Oscar pressed a kiss to her wet forehead. “Deal.”

And just like that, she relaxed into him, the water still running, their quiet little world still intact—just with the inevitable reality that their tiny, terrifying genius was about to make her Silverstone debut… and probably ask for race gloves in size XXS.

Felicity was still smiling when Oscar leaned in again, water cascading down over both of them, warm and comforting. She had her hands flat against his chest, fingertips tracing the faint lines of his collarbones, her eyes searching his like she was looking at something she’d never quite get used to having.

He bent slightly, brushing his nose against hers. “I missed you this morning.”

“You were gone for thirty minutes,” she murmured.

“Too long.” His lips ghosted over her cheek, slow and tender. “You smell like my shampoo.”

“You used all of mine,” she countered.

“I regret nothing.”

She let out a breath of a laugh, but the sound caught slightly when his hands slid from her back down to the curve of her waist, thumbs tracing her hips with practiced ease. The tension that had been knotted in her spine slowly started to ease, the hum of the water drowning out everything else.

Oscar kissed her, finally—soft at first, a gentle press of lips that deepened as Felicity responded, curling her fingers into the damp hair at the back of his neck. The kind of kiss that wasn’t rushed or frantic, but warm and familiar, full of the kind of affection that only comes from building a life with someone.

Her back pressed to the cool tiles, the contrast against the heat of his mouth making her shiver. Oscar pulled back just a little, resting his forehead against hers.

“You know I’d do anything to protect her,” he whispered. “You too.”

“I know,” she said softly, voice barely audible over the sound of the water. “That’s why I said yes.”

His hand skimmed up the curve of her spine, drawing a quiet sigh from her lips. She tilted her face toward his again, their kiss deeper this time—slower, surer. They didn’t have to say much anymore. They knew each other’s rhythms. Knew exactly where to touch, where to pause, how to press close and just breathe in each other.

The steam wrapped around them like a cocoon. His hand cupped her cheek, the other still tracing the dip of her lower back, drawing her closer until there was no space left between them.

Oscar murmured something into the corner of her mouth—something about how beautiful she was when her eyes softened like this, how she always smelled like motor oil and vanilla, how he loved her more every time she argued with him about torque ratios.

She kissed the words off his lips.

The rest of the morning could wait. The mochi, the chickens, the race prep—all of it could wait.

Because right now, in the steam and the quiet, it was just the two of them. And the water, and the warmth, and the familiar ache of loving someone so deeply it made the whole world feel still.

And Oscar wasn’t going anywhere.

Felicity’s breath hitched as Oscar leaned in again, slower this time—his lips trailing from the corner of her mouth, down the curve of her jaw, to the spot just beneath her ear that made her knees weaken, even after all these years. She held onto his shoulders, grounding herself against the solidity of him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her chest.

“I didn’t expect you back this fast,” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

Oscar’s voice was low and warm, his hands firm around her waist. “Bee marched in like a soldier on a mission. She barely looked back. Well, after she remembered to negotiate for mochi.”

Felicity laughed softly, the sound turning breathless as his lips grazed her collarbone. “Our terrifying little extortionist.”

“Our terrifying little genius,” Oscar corrected, pressing a kiss to the top of her shoulder. “She’s so much like you.”

“She’d probably rather be here with the chickens and engine parts.”

Oscar smiled against her skin. “She’ll be in her own garage by seven at this rate.”

Felicity ran her fingers down his chest, slow and deliberate, tracing the path of a water droplet down his sternum. “You say that like it doesn’t terrify you.”

“I am terrified,” Oscar admitted, his voice husky now. “But I’m also completely in awe of both of you.”

She looked up at him then, her eyes softer than usual, something unspoken lingering between them.

Oscar leaned in again, this time with more urgency—his mouth claiming hers in a kiss that said everything he hadn’t. One hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, the other gripping her waist as she leaned into him, letting him anchor her against the tile.

Felicity kissed him back, slow and deep and unhurried, like they had all the time in the world.

Because for now—they did.

The water pounded around them, hot and steady, fogging the glass, fogging the mirrors, wrapping them in the kind of intimacy that didn’t need candlelight or silk sheets. Just warm water, a quiet morning, and the one person who had always chosen her—again and again.

When Oscar finally pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, they were both breathless.

She smiled lazily, the curve of her mouth soft and familiar. “Are you trying to convince me to bring Bee to Silverstone or seduce me into saying yes?”

He grinned, brushing his nose against hers. “Can’t it be both?”

Felicity hummed. “You’re lucky you’re charming.”

Oscar kissed her again, slow and lingering.

“Luck,” he murmured against her lips, “has nothing to do with it.”

Felicity’s laugh was quiet and close, her lips brushing Oscar’s as she whispered, “Mm. Arrogant.”

“Confident,” he corrected with a grin, kissing her again before she could roll her eyes.

She didn’t stop him.

The water kept streaming down over them, warm and constant, soaking her hair, running in rivulets over his shoulders. Felicity’s fingers found their way into his damp curls, and she pulled him closer—like she could anchor herself there. Like maybe she needed to.

Oscar felt it in the way she held him. Not urgent, not rushed—just present. Wanting to be known, held, seen.

And he did. He always did.

His hands slid lower, framing the soft curve of her hips, the dip of her waist. Her skin was warm and slick beneath his palms, and she leaned into him, kissing him like she wasn’t afraid of being vulnerable anymore. Like she trusted him to carry her weight.

“Do you really want her at Silverstone?” she murmured, her breath catching as he kissed her neck again, just beneath her jaw.

“I want her to see me win,” Oscar said against her skin. “I want her to feel what it’s like to be part of this. To know she belongs here if she wants it.”

Felicity’s hands stilled where they’d been trailing down his back.

“She’ll start asking about karts.”

“I know.”

“She’ll want to race.”

Oscar leaned back just enough to look her in the eyes. His thumb brushed a bead of water from her cheek. “Then we get her a kart. And we let her have fun. Not pressure. Not expectations. Just fun. We’ll protect her from the rest.”

Felicity searched his face for a long, quiet moment.

And then she kissed him.

It was slower than before. Deeper. Like a thank-you. Like a surrender. Like she was choosing this life again—messy, chaotic, tender, filled with love and sharp edges and tiny rainboots on kindergarten mornings.

Oscar kissed her back with equal reverence, pulling her fully against him until the water, the steam, and the rest of the world faded away.

Eventually, the water started to cool.

They didn’t notice.

Not for a while.

***

Oscar could tell something was wrong the moment they stepped through the kindergarten gates.

Usually, Bee came barreling toward them like a sugar-powered rocket, her little boots stomping across the yard, curls bouncing, arms outstretched like she might take off. But not today.

Today, she was sitting alone on the edge of the sandbox, clutching her bee-shaped backpack in her lap like it was armor. Her cheeks were flushed—not the sun-kissed kind, but the blotchy, too-still kind. Her mouth was set in a small, tight line. Her curls were messier than usual, and there was a faint smudge of dirt on her elbow.

Felicity saw it too. She didn’t say anything. She just handed Oscar her bag and strode across the yard without hesitation.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said softly, crouching beside Bee. “You okay?”

Bee didn’t answer right away. She just stared at the sand, her tiny fingers clenched tight around the strap of her bag.

Felicity’s chest ached.

Oscar arrived behind her, crouching too. “Bumblebee?”

Bee finally looked up at him, her lip wobbling. “Papa,” she whispered, and then, without warning, she lunged into his arms.

Oscar caught her easily, lifting her against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him like she was afraid the world might fall apart if she let go.

“What happened?” Felicity asked gently, brushing a damp curl off Bee’s forehead.

Bee didn’t answer at first. Her little voice was muffled in Oscar’s shoulder. “I don’t wanna come back.”

Oscar’s arms tightened around her. “Hey, hey. You don’t have to right now. It’s okay.”

“They were mean,” Bee choked out. “They said I was weird ‘cause I know stuff. One boy pushed me. I fell on my hands.”

Felicity’s face darkened with a fury only a mother could manage. She gently took Bee’s hands and turned them over—her palms were scraped, faint pink scratches just starting to sting.

Oscar looked like he might kill someone. “Who pushed you?”

“Oscar,” Felicity said quickly. “Not here.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tight. “Right.” He kissed Bee’s temple. “Did a teacher help?”

Bee sniffled. “Miss Eleanor said it was an accident. But he pushed me.”

Felicity looked at her husband. “We’ll speak to the school. Tonight.”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. We’re not letting this slide.”

Bee’s grip on his hoodie tightened. “I just wanted to talk about the moon. They said that was boring.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Felicity said softly. “It’s not boring. It’s amazing. You are amazing.”

Bee blinked up at her, bottom lip trembling. “Then why don’t they like me?”

Oscar felt something in his chest splinter.

Felicity stepped in close, wrapping both of them in her arms. “Because sometimes, people are mean to the ones they don’t understand. But that doesn’t mean you have to change.”

Bee buried her face in Oscar’s shoulder again, quiet now. Small.

Oscar looked at Felicity over her head. “No more kindergarten this week.”

Felicity nodded. “Agreed.”

“We’ll fix her hands, give her chocolate milk,” Oscar murmured, rubbing Bee’s back, “and tomorrow we can spend the day in the garage. Just us.”

Bee sniffed. “With the chickens?”

Oscar smiled. “With all the chickens.”

“And Mama?”

Felicity kissed her forehead. “Of course. I’ll even let you polish the headlamps.”

Bee perked up just a little at that, the tiniest glimmer of hope returning to her eyes.

Felicity smoothed her hair back. “Let’s go home, baby.”

Oscar stood, Bee still in his arms, holding on tight.

She didn’t let go the whole way to the car.

***

The kettle was humming on the stove. A mug sat on the counter, waiting for Bee’s chocolate milk. Felicity had already added the whipped cream and sprinkles, just the way she liked it. Bee sat on the kitchen island wrapped in one of Oscar’s oversized hoodies, sleeves dangling past her fingers, a chicken-patterned bandage on each scraped palm.

She was still sniffling occasionally, but the tears had stopped. Oscar leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching his daughter with a familiar ache in his chest.

He glanced at Felicity, who stood on the other side of Bee, gently brushing out her curls with careful fingers.

It was the right moment.

“Hey, Bumblebee,” Oscar said softly.

She looked up, lower lip still pouting slightly. “Yeah?”

Oscar came closer and tapped the tip of her nose. “How do you feel about coming to Silverstone?”

Bee blinked. “Like… the track?”

“Yeah,” Felicity said, setting the brush down. “Silverstone. We were thinking… maybe you’d come along.”

Bee’s eyes went wide. “Really?!”

Oscar grinned. “Really. You, me, and Mama. In the garage. With the team. You could wear a headset and everything.”

Bee stared at them both, her mouth slightly open. “But—Mama said it was too loud. And too busy. And there’s too many people.”

Felicity nodded slowly. “It is all those things. But… you’re a little older now. And you’ve been very brave lately.” She glanced meaningfully at Oscar. “And we thought maybe it was time.”

Bee’s whole face lit up like the sun had risen behind her eyes. “I get to come to the paddock?” she squeaked.

“Yes, you can come. You’ll be in the garage with me and Mama. You can watch the cars, take notes if you want—” Oscar said with a smile. 

Bee gasped. “Can I bring my whiteboard?”

Felicity smirked. “Only if you don’t correct Papa’s Boss in the middle of a briefing.”

Bee looked between them, her eyes glowing. “Wait, does this mean I get my kart now?”

Felicity groaned, eyes closing. “Called it.”

Oscar pretended to consider. “Maybe. We could go look at some after Silverstone.”

Bee gasped again, dramatic and joyful, and threw herself at Oscar with all the enthusiasm of a sugar-fueled missile.

“You’re the best papa ever!” she cried, hugging him tightly.

Felicity smiled behind her hand, watching the way Oscar wrapped his arms around their daughter like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I love you so much,” Bee added. “But also, I need to design my helmet tonight. It has to be perfect.”

Oscar kissed her head. “Start sketching after dinner. You’ve got some time.”

Bee nodded furiously, then paused. “Can the chickens come too?”

Felicity didn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely not.”

Oscar grinned. “Maybe just a sticker of Senna on your backpack.”

Bee gasped. “YES.”

And just like that, the scraped palms and unkind words from the morning melted into distant memory—replaced with whiteboards, karting dreams, helmet designs, and the quiet, unshakeable safety of being seen.

[lokisgoodgirl]

Deep in the Forest [Loki x Reader]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Just a short, smutty, imagine. You and Loki in a tent having feelings. Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Mild angst. (w/c 750)

Loki’s lips brush down the delicate skin of your throat; kissing slowly in time with his thrusts. You can feel your pulse inside his breath, flooding the sliver of space between you as his mouth comes to rest on your shoulder with a whisper of praise.

Quiet. You have to be quiet.

The way he moves inside you, the muted whimpers he stifles with every drag of his cock to the tip—if you could absorb a moment, wrap yourself in it forever, it would be this one.

Moments ago, his fingers burst through the thin bottom of your tent. He was willing himself not to explode, or moan so loudly the foxes would begin to howl. Either way, it amounts to the same.

They curl deep in the earth as he roots himself: his digits in soil, his cock in your cunt. The other hand plays with your breast, thumbing the nipple, and his sighs grow heavy while the humidity rises. “Darling,” he murmurs, and you comb damp straggles of hair from his face. His sapphire eyes find yours in the gloom of smothered torchlight; hooded, fogged with a desire he can never name. But you can: ‘love’—and so will he…eventually. The others are in tents dotted around yours.

Cap said, explicitly, ‘no, late night shenanigans’ while looking directly at Loki. And Loki had smiled, innocence swelling in his eyes as he pressed a palm to his chest: wounded. But he came, like he always does, because he can’t resist what you are together. He never can. “Darling,” he chokes again, as another liquid rock of his hips makes you forget your own name. Your legs tighten around him, pushing him deeper, and the torch rolls from its forgotten nest in the sleeping bag. “Shit, Loki…” you hiss, fumbling a hand towards the traitorous torch. Cap'll be all over that like nettle burn. He snorts against your hair, and in a flash, the clunky object vanishes. And with it—the sniff of light. “Hush,” he soothes, making you clench around the root of his cock. For some fucking reason his voice is even more devastating when you can’t see his face. “You wouldn’t want me to be discovered, would you? Deep inside you; deep in the forest of a strange land.” A shiver wrenches down your spine and makes your hips jolt.

Loki groans, stifled by a well-timed kiss. His tongue nudges deeper, a contented sigh rumbling in his chest as you arch into him and his palm slides under your head. Slowly, slowly, he rolls upwards, tugging your clit with his pelvis. It’s inevitable, now.

Climax sparks and begins to blossom outwards, licking between your thighs, tightening every muscle beneath your waist with pure pleasure. It’s inevitable, you think—as he pants quietly in time with your quickening breaths, as he smothers the need to spur you on with loud, filthy commands. A short whine slips between his teeth, and his back muscles tense. “Cum with me, Loki,” you whisper, and his heartbeat hammers against your chest. Long curls pool in your collarbone as his lips find yours in the darkness and Loki of Asgard groans his orgasm deep into your throat.

It’s inevitable, you think again, as your hand slides down his damp back, over the curve of his unbearably hard ass, clutching the twisted sleeping bag in a fist. The two of your are right together, and the world makes sense. He kisses the side of your nose as your silent gasps of orgasm ebb; the tip of your cheekbone, the shell of your ear. Loki's nostrils puff quietly in the humid silence. A droplet from the tent fabric drips onto your leg as you unwind from his body and he shifts to the side. He slips from inside you, seed hot on your inner thigh, and you miss him immediately: a particular kind of emptiness. You wonder if he feels it, too.   “I should go,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t want to. Resistance strings through the syllables like dew on spiderweb. You wait, just in case there’s something else he wants to add to that statement. A confession of love, perhaps. But in the pitch black, the only thing that follows is the trail of a long finger down your cheek, and a brush of his thumb over your lips. And then, his breath hitches. “I…” he starts, and then the words are eaten by the darkness in which they find themselves.

“Go,” you whisper. He leans forward, catching your lips like he’ll never leave. But he does, leaving a gap in the tent flap so you can see the stars. The tent smells of him. “I love you,” you whisper into the pillow with a smile, imagining Loki doing the same four tents over. You’ll say it soon enough. And so will he. It’s inevitable.

Tags in comments❤️x

[ahsokaismyqueen]

Death Wish Love Pairing - Tyler Owens x Reader Summary - You wake up in a hospital with no recollection of how you got there, only that you are now in pain. Thankfully, the presence of your boyfriend makes it a little better. Word Count - 1.1k Warnings - Language, but that's it! This is very fluffy and really just me dipping my toe in to see if I want to do more. <3

The first thing that you noticed when you woke up was the pain. It was dulled, no doubt by some intense medication, but it was there. Your head was pounding, your arm was aching and your knee might’ve been attempting to murder you if a limb could do so. What was worse than all that however, was the incessant beeping that told you where you had to be. 

The hospital. 

You hated the hospital. You were one of those people that would go weeks being sick and ignoring every symptom to avoid seeing  a doctor, something that drove Tyler crazy even though he knew you had a good reason for it. In fact, he never would have taken you here if he had a choice because he knew you wouldn’t want it. You tried to recall what that reason might be, but the last few hours of your mind drew up a blank. 

Realizing that no matter how long you kept your eyes closed, the reality was you were still in a hospital, you finally opened your eyes, looking up at the white spotted ceiling. It took a couple of blinks for your vision to come back into focus, but when it did, you took a look around the room, your eyes settling on the person sitting in the chair beside you. 

It was almost funny, seeing such a big man in such a small chair. While he was asleep, he didn’t look comfortable. His head was leaning against his own shoulder at an odd angle, his baseball cap clutched in his hands on his chest, and his legs spread as far as they could. He must have been miserable, sleeping like that. 

But he was here. 

It was a little bit selfish, you’d admit that. You had no idea how long he’d been asleep. It could have been minutes or hours, but either way, now that you were awake, you wanted some company. Your eyes landed on a cup that was laying at your bedside and a straw beside it. While it took you a couple of grabs to get it in your hands, your aim was remarkably good as you threw it at Tyler, the straw smacking him right in the face. 

He startled awake, and his gaze went straight to you. A relieved smile formed on his face, not even angry that you had just assaulted him with a straw. “Well, it looks like someone’s feeling better.”

“I don’t know if that’s the right term. Heavily drugged is more accurate.” You admitted, looking over at him once more and noticing the dark circles under his eyes and the state of his very creased flannel. “You look like shit.” You said. 

Tyler shook his head at you, but that smile you loved faded from his lips. He moved his chair closer to you, his knees bumping into the side of your bed, and you closed your eyes for a moment as he leaned forward and brushed some hair out of your face. “You scared the shit out of me baby.” 

“It must have been bad if you’re being so sweet to me.” You said, but you both knew that wasn’t true. Tyler was nothing but sweet to you, if not a bit protective. “I don’t remember anything.” You admitted. “Must have gotten knocked in the head pretty good.” 

“Yeah, stop signs’ll do that to you.” He said, sliding his hand down from your head to take yours in both of his. 

It took a minute for his words to sink in, and for you to realize what he was saying. “Are you telling me a stop sign-”

“Flew straight into your head, and then knocked you down on your arm and knee? Afraid so.” Tyler started caressing your hand with his thumb. “Haven’t seen that much blood in a long time, might’ve traumatized Dani a bit.” 

You let out a groan, and this time it wasn’t from pain. “They’re never gonna let me hear the end of this.” 

Tyler let out a short laugh of disbelief. “They��re just going to be glad that you’re okay.” 

“And then they’re going to tease me mercilessly.” You groaned again, putting your hand to your forehead dramatically only to wince when your hand touched a bandage. “Ouch.” 

He grabbed your hand with a sigh, pulling it away from your face. “Don’t do that.” 

You looked over at your boyfriend again, noting with a frown once again how stressed he looked. It wasn’t an emotion you saw often on his face. The few times you could recall seeing it were in the face of tornado damage. “Are you okay, seriously?” You asked, real concern in your voice. 

Tyler sent you a weak smile. “Carrying your bleeding body into the back of an ambulance wasn’t my favorite thing I’ve ever done.” 

You tried to put yourself in his shoes, imagining what it would have been like to see this man, this man you adored and loved with every fiber of your being, laying on the ground and not moving. It was a nightmare you had often with the line of work you were both in, and something you tried not to think about. Now though, reality had given you a slap in the face, and you knew that if you had seen Tyler like he must have seen you, you would have been hysterical. The thought of what he must have been through made you want to grab him and pull him into this tiny bed with you and hold him. But you knew that would probably break it, and this hospital visit was already going to be expensive, so you reached out with the arm that wasn’t hurting and cupped his handsome face in your hand. “I’m okay, baby.” You tried to reassure him, but at his look of disbelief, you backtracked. “Well . . . mostly.” 

He turned his head to press a soft kiss against your palm that still managed to send butterflies through your stomach, even with all the pain meds. “I’m getting you a helmet.” 

“Can it have your face on it?” You teased him. 

His genuine smile started to return to his face as he leaned forward. “Baby, it can have whatever you want on it.” 

Your fingers slid into his soft blonde hair, pulling him even closer until your lips were centimeters away. “I’ll take it under consideration.” 

Tyler’s smile was full on his face now as he leaned forward a little more to close the gap between the two of you when the heart rate monitor started beeping faster and faster. He pulled away to glance at it, then smirked at you. “That wouldn’t be because of me now would it?” He asked with a smirk. 

You shook your head at him. “Nope, definitely the pain meds wearing off.” 

But you were proven a liar as his soft lips pressed against yours. 

[littlelamy]

───beach day lewd language.ᐟ

even though the sun was slowly rising and the waves were breaking with a strong smell of salt, rafe was preoccupied with the beautiful and scenery that was you.

laid out on your towel, stretched long and golden, skin glistening with sunscreen and sweat. bikini tiny, barely covering shit, the kind he picked out because he likes to see people looking—just so he can remind them who you belong to. and people were looking, very much.

he sees it. he obviously sees the way some kooks glance way too long at you or the way a couple of pogues whisper when you sit up, adjusting the top that does nothing to hide the curve of your tits or the hardness of you nipples.

his jaw ticks.

“baby,” he murmurs, dropping onto his towel beside you, fingers trailing over your thigh. “you do that shit on purpose?”

you glance at him, confused, sipping your frozen strawberry (or whatever drink you enjoy) slurpee through the straw. “do what?”

he smirks, but it’s not friendly. his fingers tighten. “act like you don’t notice every guy on this fucking beach staring at you.”

you scoff, shifting to lean back on your elbows, chest pushing forward just a little. teasing. “what are you even taking about....they’re not staring, rafe.”

he snorts, eyes dark under the shadow of his cap. “bullshit.” his hand slides up, over the side of your waist, up to cup your jaw, turning your face toward him. “maybe i should give ‘em somethin’ to really look at,” he murmurs, voice thick.

your breath catches, heat curling low in your belly. “rafe—”

but he’s already leaning in, mouth slanting over yours in a kiss that’s deep, possessive, and meant to be seen. his tongue slides against yours, fingers tangling in your salt-sticky hair, his body shifting closer, practically covering you.

you hear some people whistle. a few laughs. but rafe doesn’t give a fuck.

when he finally pulls back, he looks pleased. cocky.

“there,” he murmurs, thumb swiping your bottom lip. “that should do it.”

you roll your eyes, but the warmth between your legs says you don’t mind.

later, when the sun is lower and colder, you stand at the shoreline, feet sinking into the wet sand, watching the many waves roll in—while rafe comes up behind you, arms looping around your waist. his chest presses to your back, skin warm from the sun.

“not getting in, pretty?” he asks, lips grazing your ear.

you shake your head. “too much effort.”

he chuckles. “you just like sittin’ there, lookin’ pretty, huh?”

you grin, leaning into him. “maybe, just wanna relax and enjoy the view.”

his hands slide lower, fingers slipping just under the waistband of your bikini bottoms. “do you like it when i watch you, the same way i watch the ocean?”

your breath catches. “rafey not this ag—”

he nips at your ear, fingers teasing. “you know i do, baby. fuckin’ love it. love knowing every asshole on this beach wishes they were me.”

he presses himself against you, just enough for you to feel how hard he is, even through his swim trunks.

“rafe,” you hiss, squirming.

he laughs, smug as ever. “what? we’re at the beach, baby. just havin’ fun. like you said, relaxing”

his hand stays right there, teasing you until you’re pressing your thighs together, eyes darting around to make sure no one’s watching.

tags (lmk if you want to be removed; using the list from my recent series): @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows

[glambots]

BUBBLE, BUBBLE, MOON'S IN TROUBLE

Moondrop/Reader

Rating: SFW

Wordcount: 5k

A commission for @semidemi-minigod !! In which you give Moon a bath. But from Moon's POV.

It was difficult to say when it all started.

When he’d allowed himself to become so complacent. So vulnerable.

It wasn’t an entirely pleasant feeling. But you made it easier. Somehow.

Even now, when all he wanted was to slink away into the dark, far away from your pleading eyes and pursed lips.

“Come on, Moon. Please? You can look at it all if you want to. I won’t stop you. It’s really good stuff. Like, expensive stuff.”

You moved around the cleaning cart, picking up and brandishing several different items in his direction, with all the nervous excitement of a salesman trying to land a deal.

His eyes moved over each object laid out, atop the cart’s surface. Towels, fluffy and white. Bottles of cleaning solutions. Metal polish. Different kinds of scrub brushes. A few toothbrushes…?

He didn’t recognize any of the brands, which meant that they came from outside the Pizzaplex.

“…You bought these?” Cautiously, he picked up one of the little canisters and held it between his thumb and forefinger, turning the balm canister round-and-round like it was an oversized coin.

Polish cream. The fancy aluminum tin flashed under the dim lights, like the spark of a distant star.

“Yeah, I got them all from a hardware place that was nearby.” You smiled, hands roving over the assortment to grasp one of the smaller hand towels. His head tilted a bit when you held it out to him, a lopsided smile gracing your flushed cheeks.

“Feel these! I swear, I have never felt towels as soft as these.”

Curiosity burning, Moon placed the polish back down and reached for the towel. He fingered the soft, fluffy fabric in a bit of awe. It was much nicer than the old, tattered rags they had stashed away in the Daycare. Cleaner, too.

“They’re Egyptian cotton.” Your grin grew wider. “I got you a couple of sets, so you can keep some in storage for when they each get worn out.”

“…Keep?”

“Well…yeah! I mean, they’re yours now.” You gestured at the whole of the collection. “All of this is. I mean, I can keep it if you don’t have any room. But this is all for you. You and Sun, I mean. Obviously.”

He looked back and forth between you and the cleaning cart, utterly bewildered.

And, more than that, suspicious.

“Why?”

He watched your expression twist into bemusement, before you sighed dramatically and rolled your eyes.

“Because I can.”

“What if we…don’t want it?” He couldn’t stop the hint of amusement that crept into his voice. Even if there was a little bit of truth to it. It felt…wrong to accept this.

You just pursed your lips, brows raising so high they nearly touched your hairline.

“Well, that’s too bad. Cause I already bought it, and the store won’t let me return it. Which means either you take it, or I’ll just throw it all away.”

He grunted, looking back over the collection.

“Liar-liar, pants on fire.”

“Nope!” You popped the “p,” giving him a little half-shrug. “I’ve got the receipt, and it says no refunds allowed. You wanna see it? I’ll show it to you.”

Moon grunted again, tapping his fingers rhythmically against his chin and cheek.

To take it…or not…

It would be a shame to let it all go to waste.

But! But. He had one more question to ask you.

“Why me? Why not Sun?”

He can’t help but spit the name with a bit of venom. Out of the two of them, wouldn’t Sun be the easier target? Easier to work with. Easier to talk to. A better fit.

Better…in every way.

The look you give him is hard to place. It’s not hurt, not pity…a little frustrated.

A little sad.

“Do you not…trust me?”

There it is again: that feeling of wanting to hide away. A little tickle of guilt burning through his wires and sliding between his gears. He didn’t like it when you looked at him like that.

“No.”

“No, you don’t trust me? Or no, you don’t not trust me?”

“…No.”

You sighed, pulling off the bear-eared cap on your head to run a hand through your already messy hair.

“Alright. Alright…I won’t force you to do it. I just…” You looked down at the cart, eyes misty and lip quivering a bit. Like you were trying not to cry. “I wanted to spend time with you.”

And like that, he feels something in him melt.

“Fine.” He folded his arms over his chest, as if they’d serve as any sort of defense. He hates the way his whole-body tickles with heat when the sadness on your face melts away into relief.

Because it’s unfamiliar. Different.

He knows for a fact that what he’s feeling is something that he’s not supposed to be able to feel.

And yet, you make him feel it.

And that frightens him.

“Make it fast.”

Guilt is there again, gnawing at his insides when you reach up to quickly wipe the rim of your eyes clear, a breathy laugh bubbling up from somewhere inside you. Just like that, you’re so happy.

“Alright! Okay. Okay. Um, I’ll start with the—I mean, what do you want me to start with? I’ve got all this stuff, and I didn’t even think about it. God, where do I start?”

Moon watches you flit around the cart, hands moving over each object in a frenzy. You finally look up after a moment, going still.

“Sorry. Just. Give me a second, I swear I know what I’m doing.” Your eyes move to the floor, like you’re searching for something. “Do you want to sit down?”

Silently, Moon reached behind him, grasping one of the small child-sized chairs, and pulled it out to sit on without breaking eye contact.

“Okay.” You chuckled, a rag in one hand, a bottle of cleaning solution in the other. He could feel the hesitancy in your movements as you approached, like you were afraid he’d bolt at any second. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

For a moment, you hesitated, as if trying to decide where and how to get started. Moon simply sat still, watching your hands and eyes shift from his face to his arms, to his chest, then back up.

“Hang on, I can’t do this kneeling—my back hurts too much for that.”

You grabbed an undersized chair and pulled it up across from him, gently taking one of his arms and spraying a light amount of the solution across it. Moon couldn’t detect any chemicals, but it did smell slightly…fresh?

“This is just water and soap,” you explained, gently running the rag across his forearm, rubbing it between his fingers and over his palm. “To get rid of the surface stains. After that, I’ll use the stronger stuff.”

For a moment, there was a silence that stretched between the two of you. He wasn’t sure if it was comfortable or not but was more than satisfied to simply watch your tiny hands work their way up and down his arm.

You swapped to the other arm, wiping it down gently from hand-to-shoulder, then paused.

“Do you want me to do your chest or back first?”

Your voice was soft, gentle and coaxing.

Moon looked down at his arms, flexing his fingers as he thought for a moment.

“…Back.”

“Alright.”

Carefully, you placed a hand on his shoulder for balance, running the washcloth over his broad back. Moon twitched, an odd tingle rushing through his wires at the sensation of your palm rubbing little circles around the spot where the hook to his line protruded. He tried to ignore it, but you stopped again, having noticed.

“Sorry, is that uncomfortable?”

“No.” He scrambled for an excuse. “…It tickles.”

“Oh.” From the corner of his eye, he could see a tiny smile cross over your face. “I didn’t know you were ticklish.”

“We’re not,” he replied, maybe a little too fast. “Just…sensitive.”

“Sure.” The tone in your voice betrayed that maybe you didn’t entirely believe him, but you didn’t push the issue. He was thankful for that.

The thought of your little hands coasting along his metal body, trying to find vulnerable spots to attack and manipulate—it made his head spin. That was the last thing he needed right now.

Things were quiet again, as you slid the rag over the thin pieces of metal that made up his hinged neck. Anxiety raced through his system as your hand moved dangerously close to the back of his face-plate—where the switch sat.

One wrong move (or maybe, one purposeful move) and he’d be forced into Rest Mode.

“Careful—” Before he could stop himself, his hand flew up, snatching your thin wrist. “Not there.”

“Oh! Sorry, sorry, sorry…” You quickly jerked back, panic flashing in your eyes. “D-Did I hurt you?”

He searched your face for any sign of wrongdoing. Something to latch onto.

He found nothing.

“…No.” Moon finally said after a moment, letting your wrist go. He felt a little bad as he watched you rub it, knowing that he’d probably held on a little too hard. “Just…not there.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.” You scooted around the edge of the chair, rag hovering just below the edge of his neck ruffles. “I’ll start on your chest now, okay?”

He didn’t say anything but leaned his head back to give you more room. That, and to keep from having to watch you run the cloth over the expanse of his chassis. Just the feeling of it was enough to have him balling his hands tight into fists at his sides.

There was so much intimacy in the action, as simple an action it was. Your face was so close, eyes squinted as you scrubbed at the stains splattered across his metal body. Sticky hands, paint, glue, dirt, grime—there was no telling what made up the mass of it all. But the feeling of it being wiped away was a very pleasant one.

He felt lighter, almost. Like the weight of the stains were being peeled off him.

You were extremely gentle when your hands moved down to his waist, one holding him slightly in place, the other moving the cloth down his sides and across his stomach.

Moon squirmed again. If he’d had a stomach, it would have been fluttering. Full of butterflies.

“Sorry, I’m almost done.” You breathed softly, looking up at him from beneath your lashes.

“It’s fine.” He lied.

A few more moments later, you finally leaned back, and Moon felt like he could breathe again. Not that he’d ever needed to in the first place. But whatever pressure had been hanging over his head was finally lifted away, if only momentarily.

You pulled out another bottle, gently drenching a small scrub brush across its surface with the oddly colored liquid. It smelled very strongly of disinfectant, and he flinched a little.

“This is the strong stuff.” You explained, offering him an apologetic smile. “It’ll get rid of the tougher stains—you don’t have a lot of them, so this part should be quick. I’ll try not to go too hard with it.”

“Do what you need to. We won’t run.”

This part of the cleaning process wasn’t quite as pleasant as the rag and soap. But you had been true to your word—your touch was gentle. Maybe too gentle.

“Harder.” He urged, after a while of watching you scrub at his arms. “We don’t have all night.”

You blew a few stray hairs out of your face. “I don’t know how you got this dirty. When was your last bath?”

He…couldn’t remember. So, he didn’t say anything at all.

You paused to glance up at him, but after it was apparent that you weren’t going to get a response, you turned back to scrubbing.

The bristles of the brush felt…strange, against his metal skin. Not painful. Just uncomfortable. It made him want to push your hand away, but he stopped short of doing so. You were just trying to help, and it wouldn’t do either of you good for him to make this difficult.

So, like a child sitting through a well-needed (but unwanted) haircut, he forced himself to simply sit there, squirming every so often.

“I really appreciate you letting me do this for you.” You finally said, your voice cutting through the silence. “I wish I could do something about the stains on your pants, but you probably wouldn’t want me to, uh…”

Your hands moved through the air, making vague gestures, before you just gave up and offered him a little half-shrug. “Mess with those.”

Moon had to think about it for a moment. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Once more, you paused, blinking rapidly. “What? Oh, uh—I was just joking!”

A spark of mischief fluttered in his chest. Your cheeks were flushing, the rosy color reaching all the way up to the tips of your ears. You couldn’t look at him suddenly, and his internals picked up a rapid jump in heart rate.

“Nervous?” A giggle bubbled up from somewhere deep inside him, and he clicked his invisible tongue, wagging a finger in your face. “Naughty thing.”

The color on your face deepened to a shade that rivaled the ruby glow of his eyes.

“No! I mean—that’s not what I meant. Just—I just—” Your lips set in a thin line, breath coming quick and heavy.

“Want me to take them off?”

“What?”

He giggled again, quite enjoying the way your voice cracked.

“My…” His hands hovered for a moment, just above the hem of his pants. Then, he flipped them upwards, as if offering you his wrists. “Ribbons.”

Your face was so red that he wondered if you could even breathe properly. Your heart was practically leaping out of your chest. Seeing you all flustered made that bouncy, electric feeling inside him tingle and spark.

For a moment, you just glared at him, shaking the scrub brush like you were considering smacking him with it. Then, you sucked in a breath, pinched the bridge of your nose, and slowly let it out again, lowering your would-be weapon.

“I hate you.”

He snickered again, reaching out a single finger to gently tap the tip of your nose. “Liar.”

You love me.

The words were caught in his nonexistent throat. He could say it, to push your buttons even further, but something held him back. Hesitation.

He wasn’t…quite ready to push it that far, yet.

You sighed dramatically, placing the scrub brush aside, only to reach for one of the toothbrushes he’d seen earlier.

“Are we playing dentist?”

“You’re half right.” Amusement sparkled in your eyes. “This is for, like, getting into the tiny places. The seams between your fingers and stuff. I’ll be using it on your face, too, so…”

“You came prepared.”

You grinned. “I told you I did.”

“All this for little old me?” He struck a bashful pose.

“Yes, you absolute goober. Now hold still…”

The feeling of the toothbrush sliding into his seams was much more pleasant than the scrub-brush. It still tickled, enough to make him twitch now and then, but it wasn’t overwhelming.

You were so gentle with the motions, making sure to get every nook and cranny that you could work the bristles into. Moon was a little shocked to see just how much grime the brush was picking up, but then again—it had been a very long time since they’d gotten any sort of attention in the “appearances” department.

Every time you swapped to a new area, you dip the brush into a small container of cleaner, swirling it around and wiping away the dirt from the surface of the bristles. But even with such meticulous attention to detail, it didn’t take long for it to become too dirty to keep using.

You ran through at least three brushes before you stopped to take a break.

“Seriously, how the hell did you guys get so dirty?”

Moon could only shrug. There were several components that contributed to their current state, but the biggest offender was plain out negligence.

You sighed and shook your head, grabbing a thermos from behind the stack of bottles and tipping it back. His eyes followed the movement of your throat every time you swallowed—a strange voyeuristic feeling.

A rivulet of water dripped from the corner of your mouth, rolling down your chin, then your throat, then over the dip of your clavicle and down beneath the collar of your shirt…he tore his gaze away. Focused on flexing his hands in his lap, then folded them together and squeezed, one foot tap-tap-tapping away, anxiously.

“Phew! God, I’m sweating like crazy. Is it okay if I take this off?” You fingered the neckline of your shirt with one hand, using the other to fan yourself with your hat.

He really wanted to say no. Because that would make him feel weirder.

But he couldn’t, when you looked at him like that. So earnest and innocent.

Moon nodded silently, looking away once more when you reached for the buttons. It felt…wrong, to watch you undo them. The sound of fabric rustling had his foot tapping just a bit faster.

“Okay! I’m good now.” You stretched your arms up above your head with a little moan. “God, that’s so much better.”

Moon found it hard to look at you directly, now that you were sitting there in a tank top. It wasn’t anything salacious, it was just. So intimate. There was so much more visible skin now, and his eyes kept moving over the muscles in your arms, across the curve of your abdomen…

The shape of your body was so much clearer now, and that made him feel…almost shy.

 “Alright, last up is your face. I’m gonna have to get a little bit closer—is that okay?”

That was not okay. His system was on high alert.

But what was he supposed to say? You’d already gone this far, he couldn’t just say no. Despite really, really wanting to.

For a moment he felt the gears in his head grinding, a substitution for the teeth and jaw he lacked. The tension in his body felt like a rubber band pulled too tight, seconds away from snapping. It got worse when he forced himself to nod, only able to muster up a little grunt of affirmation.

“Alright. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you. He did.

This was just. Too close.

You slid off the children’s chair, half-kneeling with one of your legs on the ground, a knee between his legs to balance yourself.

Too close. It was too close.

You reached up, rag in hand. Your fingers gently cupped the side of his face, feather-light touch sending sparks through his body.

Too. Close.

He felt his whole body go stiff as you pressed the soapy rag to his cheek.

Carefully, you moved it up to his forehead, then down to his chin. Warmth trailed down the metal of his face, burning in the wake of your touch. So hot that he almost couldn’t stand it.

Your eyes moved over his face as you swapped sides, smoothing down the crescent curve of his nose so delicately that it tickled. If he’d had the ability to sneeze, he probably would have.

“Sorry.” Your teeth dug lightly into your lower lip. “I know this is a lot. You’re doing a great job, Moonie.”

That did not help his situation at all.

Your praise struck him like a bolt of lightning, and he clenched his fists so tightly in his lap that he felt his metal knuckles pop.

“I really appreciate you letting me do this for you. I really, really care about you.” You paused to suck in a little breath. “I mean that.”

He could barely hear what you were saying. It was like static was buzzing in his ears, growing louder by the moment. All he could do was focus on the shape of your lips as they formed around each word.

“I…” The words refused to come out, caught in his nonexistent throat.

“It’s alright.” You laughed a little, placing the rag aside and reaching for the final toothbrush. “You don’t have to force yourself. I’m almost done.”

That wasn’t it.

You were just so close. The warmth of your body, your smell, the shape of you…it was suffocating him. If he leaned in, just a little bit more, he’d be able to wrap his arms around you, to feel the softness of your skin against his—

The abrupt tickle of the toothbrush rubbing against the seam in his faceplate made him jerk back.

“Sorry! Sorry.” You scoot forward, the hand on his cheek holding him in place a bit more firmly. “I’m almost done.”

Your body heat is suddenly all around him, then. You’re leaning up in his lap, both knees on the chair, straddling his leg. He can catch the scent of shampoo on your hair, scented lotion on your skin. He could count every lash framing your eyes. Feel the heat of your breath on his teeth—

His hands hover in the air, fingers twitching sporadically, just inches away from gripping you by the waist.

He wants to tell you to back up. But his invisible tongue is tied in knots.

He can’t stop looking at your face. Staring at you, as you maneuver the brush into the little dots lining his crescent-sloped nose.

“You have the cutest freckles.” You say, your lips turning up at the corners.

His body makes a strange noise. A low, grinding metallic sound that could be as much a growl as it could a whine.

That’s all the warning you get before he leans in, gripping you tight by the shoulders, and all but mashes his face against yours in a pathetic facsimile of a kiss.

It lasts for only a few seconds, but those seconds feel like an eternity. The softness of your lips against his hard, unyielding smile has his processor running at full tilt, fans blasting at full force inside of his chest, trying to chase off a heat that threatens to melt his insides into a gooey mess.

He was brought back to reality, then, as his brain caught up to his body.

Moon leaned back, shame burning through him. He slowly unfurled his hands from your shoulders, bringing them up to cover his face.

Why had he done that?

“M-Moon, I—what—”

Your voice is so small, trembling, and that just makes it so much worse.

“No, no.” He rasped, clawing at his cheeks. You stumbled back as he scrambled out of the chair, knocking it over in his haste to put distance between the two of you. “Against the rules. It’s wrong. Shouldn’t have done that. No, no, no—”

“Moon, stop.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have done that. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid—” Everything was spiraling. The gears inside his head grind so hard that it hurts.

He had you. He had something good. And he ruined it.

Sun was right. He ruined everything.

He always ruined everything good.

“Moon, stop!” Your fingers twine through his own, trying to pry his hands from his face. He can hear the panic in your voice. “Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself!”

“This is bad. This is wrong. It’s wrong.” He wanted to hide. He wanted to crawl into the dark, curl up in the shadows, and stay there forever. Away from you. Away from the good thing that he ruined. His fingers try to find purchase on something, anything, to grab and pull and break. “Wrong, wrong, wrong—”

“Moon…!”

He feels your fingers curl in the thin fabric of his neck ruffles—and then you yank.

The kiss is clumsy, teeth clicking against teeth as your lips smash against his plastic smile.

Everything in him screeches to a violent, almost painful halt. You’re kissing him.

And you keep kissing him.

Every kiss is hard and passionate, lips moving across his face as far as you can get to, standing on your tiptoes. He feels you stumble a little as you lean up into him, and his hands instinctively land on your waist to help you keep your balance.

“Wait, we can’t—”

“Sit.” You command.

He sits, following your will like the loyal, obedient dog that he is. He can see the chair he knocked over in front of him, sitting in what was your seat, but that view is quickly blocked when you climb into his lap. Your hands are trembling as they cup the sides of his face.

For a moment, your mouth opens and closes. Your brow furrows. You look like you want to say something, but no words come out.

So instead, you lean in and kiss him again.

And he lets you. He holds your tiny waist in his hands and leans into your touch, allowing the chaos filling his mind to simply melt away as you pepper kisses across his face.

Cheeks, nose, forehead, smile, eyebrows, chin. Back and forth and up and down and over and over—every kiss has his head spinning.

One of his large, metal hands come up to cradle the back of your head, urging you even closer. His fingers thread tenderly through your hair. Amongst the chaos, your hat is knocked free, falling to the wayside.

The heat of your body burns so hot through the thin fabric of your tank-top, and with the other hand, he gently squeezes the flesh of your side. A part of him wants to slide his fingers lower, to dip his hand beneath the shirt to feel the soft skin beneath.

It’s hot, it’s hot, it’s so hot he can’t stand it—

But then he feels your tongue slide across the thin curve of his lower lip, and he jerks back in shock. The thin line of saliva connecting your lips to his snaps.

“I, uh—ha..ha-ha…” You laugh a little as you rush to stand, quickly reaching up to wipe the drool from your mouth. Your lips are bruised red and a little puffy, cheeks flushed a pretty pink color. “Sorry, I-I got a little…uh, carried away.”

“Naughty.” Moon purrs, wagging a finger at you playfully. “Naughty boy.”

He feels so light and…and happy. That’s the only way he can put the bubbly, buzzy, excited feeling running all through his body. He’s happy.

“Was that…was that okay? That I…did…that?”” You can hardly look at him, eyes darting back-and-forth. He can feel you starting to pull back slightly, and his fingers curl possessively over the curve of your hip, keeping you tethered.

“…Maybe.” He muses, head cocking to the side. “Maybe not.”

“Oh.” Your face falls.

“Maybe you should…do it again.” His head tilted to the other side. “To make sure.”

He can’t help but giggle when obvious relief washes over your face.

“You…” Again, your lips move, not quite forming around words, like whatever you’re trying to say won’t quite come out. You settle with an awkward, lopsided smile. “So, it is okay? That I kissed you?”

Moon nodded, swaying lightly in his seat. “Yes. It’s…okay.”

He really wishes you would do it again.

“Okay. Okay! Good. I-I’m…yeah.” You laugh nervously, your cheeks still stained pink. Your grin stretches from ear-to-ear. Then you look up at him, and your expression morphs into an apologetic smirk.

“Cause now I’ve gotta clean your face off again.”

He stops swaying.

“Ah….” Moon can’t stop the little unhappy grunt that escapes him. He can still feel the sensation of each kiss buzzing against his metal skin. “Do you have to?”

“Yes, Moon, I have to.” You chuckle again, once more reaching for the cleaning supplies. “You can’t walk around with drool all over your face.”

“I’ve done it before.”

You fix him with a look. “You can’t walk around with MY drool all over your face.”

“Boo.” He crossed his arms, slumping back in a dramatic pout. His hat slumped over his face, the bell jingling as it bounced off his nose. “You’re no fun.”

A little whistle of air escapes your nose as you settled the other chair in front of him, scooting forward until your knees were touching. You reach up, gently moving the bell back over the curve of his head and beckoned him forward.

Moon, of course, leans into your hand without hesitation.

And so, you resume where you’d left off, with you gently wiping away the remnants of your improvised make-out session.

“So. Um.” Your voice cracks a little. “Are we, like…I mean. Do you…like…me?”

“Yes.” He says simply.

“No, I mean. Uh.” You suck in a shaky breath, still struggling to look him in the eye. “Like…like-like. Do you like me. In “that” way? Like—like “that”?”

He’s not sure how he didn’t make that clear. He thought that he had.

But you look like you want to sink into the earth right now, so he can’t help but tease you a little bit.

“Maybe.” Moon crooned, daintily folding his hands between his knees and swaying side-to-side. “Do you like-like me?”

He can hear the breath catch in your throat, and you look away quickly, face flushing an even deeper shade of red.

So very cute.

“Y-Yeah. I do. A lot.” You inhale slowly, forcing your eyes to meet with his. “I-I care about you, a lot, Moon. You’re…you’re my best friend and I…I like you. A lot.”

He stops swaying (again).

“Hm. Good.”

Before you can react, he leans forward to gently bump his smile against your forehead. You, of course, stare at him, wide-eyed and mouth agape.

 “I like you…too.”

For a second, you look like you’re thinking about saying something—and Moon simply giggles when you lean in to kiss him again.

Maybe, if he asks nicely, he can keep this one.

[deansbeer]

ೇ WORTH EVERY PENNY. ☆

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

📖 LIBRARY !

PAIRING. dean winchester x f!reader.

SYNOPSIS. he ruined your other sheer lace bra last time while cleaning baby, so you bought a new one. when he sees you in it, though, all he can think about is sliding his cock between your tits—you don't stop him.

WARNINGS. smut | s1 dean | titfucking | use of oil | praising | dirty talk | dean's obsessed with ur tits (as he should) | strong language.

KARI TALKS. the link below is what inspired me to write this filthiness. listen !!! do not come for me !!! or i'll shoot u w my glock <3 because 🖕🏻 n e ways … i love smookums SO bad !!! he's such a lil slut <3 + this is lowkeyyy ass … but in bree's words! fuck it we ball.

🔗 P LINK.

dean owes you a bra. or at least, he owed you a bra.

but instead of whining about it—because let's be honest, you didn't actually care—you just went out and bought a new one. a better one.

it wasn't like you couldn't afford it.

your dad was loaded, ran a huge company known around the world, and you were his only daughter. money was never an issue. but when he made you choose between your inheritance or dean, the choice was easy.

you cut him off without a second thought.

and yeah, maybe that pissed off dean at first—because he had his whole pride thing going on—but you didn't give a shit. you were happy. you had him.

and right now? well, right now, you had his full attention.

"jesus, sweetheart. that's new."

you're lying on your back, your arms bent at the elbows, biceps pushing your tits together, giving him a perfect view of the new sheer lace bra wrapped around you.

it's delicate, expensive, barely even there.

dean's staring. openly. shamelessly. his green eyes dark, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip like he's already imagining all the ways he wants to ruin you.

and honestly? you love it.

"figured i deserved a new one," you say, tilting your head, acting all innocent. "since you completely soaked my last one."

he smirks, kneeling beside you on the bed, his hands already reaching for you. "not my fault you looked so cute all wet and pissed off."

"you drenched me, winchester."

"and you loved every second of it."

you roll your eyes, but you don't stop him when his fingers slide along the lace, tracing the curve of your tits, palming them through the fabric.

he exhales hard, cock already hard in his boxers, straining against the fabric.

"baby," he mutters. "this thing's barely even doin' its job."

you grin. "good."

he groans, squeezing a little rougher, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin material.

"you know," he starts, voice dropping, "i've always wanted to try somethin'."

you raise an eyebrow. "yeah?"

dean nods, his smirk turning downright filthy.

"lemme fuck these pretty tits."

you don't even hesitate. "whatever you want, baby."

dean looks too good, sitting back on his knees, muscles flexing, his cock heavy and hard in his hand.

he groans at your response, muttering a low, "fuck, you're perfect," before reaching over to grab something from the nightstand.

you hear the pop of a bottle cap, and then suddenly, his hands are lathering something warm and slick over your skin—oil, maybe?

whatever it is, it makes his touch glide like silk, his fingers sliding over your tits, spreading the shine, making them glisten under the dim motel light.

you hum, arching into his hands. "this your thing now, winchester? oiling me up?"

he chuckles, but his voice is strained. "nah, just wanna make sure i can slide in nice and easy, sweetheart."

you bite your lip, heat pooling between your thighs.

he positions himself, straddling your waist, his cock nestled right between your tits, the tip red and leaking, aching for friction.

"press 'em together for me, baby," he murmurs.

you obey, pushing your oiled-up tits around his cock, squeezing just right.

dean chokes out a groan, his head tipping back, hands gripping your ribs as he thrusts for the first time.

"yeah," he breathes. "just like that, sweetheart."

dean is a mess.

he starts slow, watching himself slide through the tight, slippery space, his cock disappearing and reappearing between your tits.

his breathing is ragged, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the headboard behind you as he picks up the pace.

"jesus—fuck—"

his words send a shiver down your spine, and honestly? you're just as turned on as he is.

the sheer lace bra does nothing to hide the mess—his cock gliding between your slicked-up skin, the fabric barely covering your hard nipples, everything shiny with oil and precum.

dean loves it.

his eyes are blown out, fixated on the way your tits bounce with every thrust, his groans getting louder, rougher, more desperate.

"so fuckin' good—"

you giggle breathlessly, looking up at him. "you're really into this, huh?"

his eyes snap to yours, his hand is on your chin, tilting your face up.

"you have no idea," he rasps, before spitting right onto your tits.

you moan, clenching around nothing, the slick mess making everything even filthier.

"fuck, fuck—baby girl," he groans, thrusting harder now, his abs flexing, his hips snapping sharp and fast.

you love seeing him like this—wild, desperate, completely wrecked over you.

then—he loses it.

"shit—gonna cum—"

dean pulls back at the last second, his cock twitching, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he finishes all over your tits and that expensive, see-through lace bra.

he groans, long and deep, his head dropping forward, his body shuddering as he coats your skin in thick, warm ropes of cum.

you watch him, breathless, your thighs clenched, your own body aching for more.

"damn, baby," he mutters after a second, blinking down at you, his chest rising and falling.

you glance down at yourself, sticky and shiny, your new bra absolutely ruined.

"well," you hum, amused. "guess i'll be needing another one."

dean snorts, flopping onto the bed beside you, still catching his breath.

"yeah?" he smirks, glancing over. "that means i get to ruin another one, right?"

you roll your eyes, turning to straddle him instead.

"only if you make it up to me first."

he grins, grabbing your hips, pulling you down against his already half-hard cock.

"pretty girl," he murmurs, voice dripping with promise. "y'know, i can do that."

꒰୨୧꒱ SPECIAL TAGS. @titsout4jackles @daylighted @bluemerakis @beausling @aileenunfiltered @honeyryewhiskey @figthoughts @lacydollette @soldiersgirl @sunsbaby @abox-of-rocks @whisperingdaze @eepwtf @deanswidow @voidsuites @jasvtsc @cowboysandcigarettes @stereotypicalbarbie @unfortunate-brat

[sunshineangel0]

beach trouble 𓆉 . ݁𓇼

pairing- Lee Felix x Reader summary- What starts as an innocent sunscreen application turns into a full-blown game of teasing and tension when Felix decides to test just how much you can handle. The problem? You refuse to lose. genre- fluff, friends to lovers word count- 1.2k warnings- Felix being a menace, pet names, thigh-grabbing, almost-kissing, mutual pining but so much denial, your heart rate skyrocketing because LEE FELIX IS TOO HOT FOR HIS OWN GOOD, jisung and changbin being cockblocks, felix saying one suggestive word a/n- i cant wait for summer to come!!! so happy that its finally WARM where i live and the sun is shining

The sun hung high in the sky, beating down relentlessly on the golden sand beneath your feet. The beach was alive with laughter, waves crashing in a steady rhythm, and the scent of salt filling the air. It was supposed to be a normal, chill day—just you, Felix, and your friends.

But, of course, Felix never makes things easy for you.

You sighed, setting down your towel before rummaging through your bag. Sunscreen, sunscreen… There. You pulled it out and flipped open the cap, only to feel a familiar presence settle beside you.

"You need help?" Felix’s voice was smooth, casual—but something about it sent a shiver down your spine.

You looked up at him. His skin was already glowing under the sun, damp from the ocean, tiny droplets of water rolling down his chest. His black swim trunks clung to his hips just right, and his freckles—God, his freckles—were scattered across his nose like a masterpiece.

You swallowed. "I—uh, yeah, sure. Just uh— my back."

The moment you said it, you immediately regretted it.

Felix grinned, taking the bottle from your hands. "No problem, sweetheart."

Oh, no. Not the pet names.

You turned around, exposing your back to him as you sat cross-legged on your soft beach towel. The sunscreen felt cool against your skin as he squirted some onto his palms. And then—

His hands touched you.

You were expecting something quick, efficient, platonic.

Instead? Slow. Deliberate. His hands glided over your shoulders first, fingers pressing in just enough to make you exhale a little too sharply.

"You’re tense," Felix murmured, his voice dipping into something lower, almost teasing.

You clenched your jaw. "It’s because you’re making this weird."

Felix chuckled, but he didn’t stop—his palms smoothed down your shoulder blades, thumbs pressing into the knots near your spine like he was giving you a massage instead of just applying sunscreen.

And then, his hands dipped lower.

Your breath hitched.

"Relax," he whispered near your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "I gotta make sure you don’t burn, right?"

Right. Right. That’s why he was doing this.

Not because he was enjoying it. Not because he knew damn well what he was doing to you.

You closed your eyes, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped when his fingers skimmed over your sides, his touch lingering too long, moving too slow.

"Felix." Your voice came out as more of a warning than anything.

He hummed, still dragging this out, his fingertips barely brushing the curve of your waist.

"Problem?" he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his voice.

You turned around so fast that he barely had time to pull his hands back. Your eyes locked onto his, and—yep. That little menace was definitely smirking.

"You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?" you accused.

Felix blinked, feigning innocence. "Enjoying what?"

You huffed. "The way you’re—ugh. Never mind."

Felix bit his lip like he was holding back a laugh. Then, he leaned in, so close you could see the golden flecks in his brown eyes.

"If you wanted me to keep going," he murmured, "all you had to do was ask, love."

Your brain short-circuited.

Okay. That’s it.

You grabbed the sunscreen bottle and squirted a generous amount into your palm before smacking it directly onto his chest. Felix yelped, jerking back as you rubbed it in way too aggressively.

You thought that would be the end of it—just a harmless bit of revenge for all the teasing.

But Felix? Oh. He had other ideas.

His expression shifted—still playful, but now something darker flickered behind his chocolate brown eyes eyes. His lips curled into a slow smirk, and before you could even react, he grabbed your wrist.

"Oh, so that’s how we’re playing?" he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

Before you could pull away, Felix dragged his fingers along your arm, slow, warm, calculated. And then—

He pushed you down onto your towel.

Your breath hitched as he caged you in, one knee sliding between your legs, his hands planted on either side of your head.

"Felix—"

"You started this angel," he mused, his lips just barely brushing the shell of your ear.

Your pulse thundered. You could feel the heat radiating from his bare skin, his toned arms tensing slightly as he held himself above you. His chest hovered just inches from yours, his breath warm as he exhaled.

And the worst part? That bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

"You’re such a menace," you muttered, shifting beneath him.

Felix chuckled, his hips pressing just slightly into yours before he pulled back. "Hmm, you dont seem to mind," he murmured.

You tried to glare at him, but then—

His fingers ghosted along the inside of your thigh.

Oh, fuck.

"You good?" he asked, his voice too innocent for what he was doing. You clenched your jaw. "You’re ridiculous."

He just smiled. But instead of backing off, he dragged his fingers higher, his touch featherlight but so damn deliberate.

Too close. Too slow. Too much.

"Relax," he murmured, fingertips barely skimming over your bikini strap. "I gotta make sure you don’t burn, right?"

Your breath caught in your throat.

This wasn’t fair. This was not fucking fair.

Felix had always been a flirt—but this? This was an entirely different level of teasing.

Your thighs twitched, your body instinctively reacting to his touch. And you knew he noticed, because he let out the softest hum.

"You’re awfully quiet," he murmured, tilting his head. "What’s wrong?"

Your jaw clenched. "You know exactly what’s wrong, Felix." He grinned. "Do I?"

You couldn’t take it anymore. You grabbed his wrist, halting his slow, torturous movements. His eyes flickered with something unreadable—a challenge—as he stared down at you.

"You keep touching me like that," you said, voice low, "and people are gonna start talking."

Felix froze for a second. Then, his grin turned downright wicked.

"So?" His fingers tightened slightly on your thigh. "Let them talk."

Your breath hitched. Felix had been playing this game for weeks—teasing glances, lingering touches, flirty little comments that never went anywhere. But now?

Now, he was testing you. Your body burned, your mind racing as he leaned down, his freckles just inches from your lips.

His next words? Almost sent you into cardiac arrest. "You could just tell me to stop," he whispered. But you didn’t.

Instead, you wrapped your fingers around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Felix inhaled sharply.

Oh. Oh.

"Something wrong?" you murmured, throwing his own game back at him. His jaw tightened. "Trouble," he muttered under his breath.

"What?"

Felix suddenly dipped his head, lips grazing just below your ear. His voice was low, almost a growl. "You, angel," he whispered, "are fucking trouble."

Your stomach dropped.

And then—

"HEY, LOVE BIRDS! ARE YOU GONNA MAKE OUT OR WHAT?"

You jerked away from Felix so fast you nearly whacked your forehead into his.

Felix groaned, flopping onto his back beside you as Jisung and Changbin cackled from a few feet away.

"RUDE!" Felix shouted, throwing a handful of sand in their direction.

Your heart was still racing. Your thighs still tingled from where Felix’s hands had been. You turned your head toward him—he was already watching you.

He smirked.

"This isn’t over, angel."

And you knew—from the way his eyes darkened, from the way his fingers twitched at his sides—he was absolutely right.

You were so, so screwed.

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

skz general: @velvetmoonlght @scarlet789 @estella-novella

(if you want to be added to my taglist, please comment under the post.)

[wandaslittleweirdo]

A/N: just a little idea I had….. this is kinda intense, so viewer discretion is advised :p — masterlist.

tw: jealousy, toxic relationship, wanda holds your head under cold water, heavy dom/sub dynamics, pet names (darling, little angel, sweet girl, etc), dirty talk/coaxing, possessiveness, age gap > reader is 23 wanda is 36

dark!mommy!wanda ༝༝ fem!reader

ೀ The cool evening air clings to you as you step into your home, the light scent of rain sneaking it’s way through the open door. You had spent the day out with a friend, laughing and sharing stories that made your heart feel lighter than it had in months.

The air is heavy with the scent of incense and candle wax, and you assume it was Wanda trying new spells while you were away. You sigh, feeling the weight of the world lift from your shoulders as you kick off your shoes, your socks sliding along the wooden floorboards.

You pad your way into the kitchen and over to the fridge, the hum of its motor the only sound in the otherwise silent house. You cracked it open, the chill rushing out as you grab a bottle of water.

Wanda's embrace is sudden but comforting, her arms slithering around your waist, her chin resting on your shoulder as she breathed in your scent.

"How was your day, my sweet?" She asks as she sways you in her arms.

Her eyes look for yours in the reflection of the fridge door, a silent demand for details. You twist the cap off the bottle, the plastic crunching under your grip. "Hey, Wands," you smile, turning to face her and leaning against the fridge. “My day was nice. Met up with a friend, had dinner, watched a late movie. All that jazz.”

Wanda’s smile remained, but her grip tightens around your waist. "Which friend was this?" The sweetness in her voice now has a brittle edge to it, like a thin sugar coating ready to crack under pressure. You hesitate, the chill from the fridge seeping into your bones as your mind scrambled for the right words.

"A random one," you shrug, biting the inside of your cheek. She raises her brows expectantly, clearly not satisfied with your answer. "It was just a guy from work."

Her eyes narrow slightly, the green in them darkening like a storm approaching. "A guy?" she repeated lowly. "What's his name?”

You swallowed hard, taking a deep breath through your nose in an attempt to hide your rapidly increasing anxiety. "His name is Alex."

Her eyes search yours, looking for any sign of deception. "Alex," she murmured, tasting the name as her eyes fell to the pendant of your necklace. "I don't recall you mentioning him before.”

You feel your throat tighten, looking down at your hands and squeezing the bottle nervously. "He's a new friend. I've only talked to him a couple of times."

She purses her lips, running her tongue over her teeth. "And why didn't you tell me you were going out with this Alex guy?"

"Because it’s not like that, Wands—“

“Do you expect me to believe you went to a movie theatre, alone with a man, and that’s all you did? You just watched the movie and came straight home?” Her tone is accusing, her hand moving to play with the neckline of your dress, the action feeling more threatening than playful.

“Yes! He’s not like that, and you know I’m not.”

“You probably wanted him too. Because that’s what you sluts want, right?”

Panic floods your chest, your mind racing to find a way to reassure her. “Please, you know that’s not true!”

You try to pull away, but she holds you still, tutting you when she sees your lip quiver and your eyes water in fear of what she might do to him, or you. Her thumb traces your cheekbone, the gesture eerily gentle despite her harsh words. "You know I can read your mind," she reminds you softly, her fingers coming up to caress the side of your forehead. "So tell me the truth, Y/N—“

“I am, I didn’t do anything! Just fucking drop it Wanda!”

Your reaction surprises the both of you, her eyes widening and her hand pulling back slightly. You feel the blood drain from your face as you realise what you had said, your heart picking up its speed. A moment passes, and your words seem to finally sink in, watching as her jaw clenches and her nostrils flare.

Suddenly, her hand flies up, and she grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking you forward and pulling you away from the fridge. You gasp, stumbling as she drags you across the kitchen, the floorboards protesting underfoot. She stops at the sink, her grip unyielding as she twists the faucet handle.

The cold water gushes out, and you feel the first droplets hit your face, the chill of them making your breath hitch. She bends you over the sink and stands behind you, your shaky hands gripping the cold counter to keep yourself steady. “What are you doing?" you choked out, your eyes wide with horror.

“It seems to me you’ve forgotten your place, Y/N,” Wanda says, her voice deceptively calm. "Maybe after this, you’ll remember to watch your mouth."

Without warning, she plunged your head under the stream of icy water, holding you there as you sputtered and squirmed. Your lungs burn as the shock steals your breath away, the world around you reduced to a muffled roar as the water fills your ears.

“Shh, you’re okay. Mommy’s got you,”

“The more you fight me, the longer I hold you here.”

“I know it’s cold, honey, but it’s for your own good. Just a little longer,”

“Sweet girl, why do you always push me to this point?” Her voice is a mix of feigned disappointment and pity as she continues to hold your head under the frigid water. You struggle, your hands slapping against the sink and counter, trying to break free, but her grip remained firm. Your eyes squeeze shut as you choke on the liquid invading your nose and mouth, each gasp for air met with more water.

"I'm sorry, mommy!” you manage to gasp out, your voice high and desperate. She doesn’t flinch hearing you beg, cruelly watching the water soak your hair and distort your features.

Wanda didn’t move until your struggles weakened and your body went limp. She pulls you up from under the water, and you gasp for air, your vision blurry and your hair plastered to your face. You cough violently, a mix of water and blood splattering back into the sink.

"Look what you made me do," she murmurs, looking down at you with faux empathy. "You know better than to speak like that to me. If this happens again, you give me no choice but to teach you a lesson. Do you understand?”

You nod, hysterical as tears stream down your cheeks. Wanda turns off the faucet and tugs your head up, her voice like steel. "I said, do you understand?”

You let out a hiccup, your voice trembling as you nodded again. "Yes, mommy. I understand. I only want you, no one else, I promise.” The corner of her lips twitch into a small, proud smile hearing your frantic response, the storm in her eyes finally starting to simmer down. Her thumb strokes your cheek, smearing the mascara trails that the water had left.

“My little angel," Wanda whispers, her grip on your hair loosening. "You always know just what to say to make me happy."

She gently pulls you up from your position over the sink to turn you around, wrapping her arms around you and pulling your trembling frame close to her chest. "I know you don’t like when I hurt you, but mommy just wants what’s best for you, okay?”

"I know, I'm sorry," you murmured into her blouse, another sob rocking through you. “I won’t see him again.”

Wanda visibly relaxed hearing your words, letting out a soft sigh as she stroked your wet hair.

"That’s my girl.”

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･