#but for now i think this is a start. i think this is fine so far.

[cathnospam]

Bakugo wants sex, but doesn’t know how to ask

You’re fresh out the shower, too lazy to put on anything else so you throw on one of your boyfriend’s shirt that still lingered his scent you loved so much with nothing under and a bit of lotion on your arms.

Absolutely too weak to do your legs you plop on your side of your bed and sigh inching towards your Blondie that decided to spend the night in your dorm.

“Who would’ve thought a lecture would be exhausting. Ugh. Can’t wait to graduate from this damn uni.” You grumbled to yourself tracing against the scars of his biceps, smirking everytime he subconsciously flexes them.

Bakugo just grumbles, mindlessly playing on your gaming console and eyes fixated on the TV he actually wasn’t even paying attention, his mind was on auto pilot and you were the reason:

He’s horny.

All damn week he’s been trying ways to figure out how he can just….

Simply put: Fuck you.

Bakugo never actually initiated sex. You both only have done it 3 times and each time you’ve been the one to start it off. Whether he wants to admit it or not he’s a pussy when it comes to intimacy sometimes. But that doesn’t surpress his needs.

Last time you both had a moment of restless touching was a month ago and it was reasonable since you both been busy with classes and internships, but now that spring break is around the corner and your schedules have began to sync again he almost forgot how fine of a girl he had as a girlfriend.

“Can you lotion my legs oh sweet, strong and great Dynamight?”

He flinched, your words laced with honey even though you were just half joking as you threw your thigh over his bare legs, the contrast from his toned muscle thighs vs your thicker softer ones made him look down, but still not missing how your ass jiggled a little under his top.

“Whatever.” He snatched the bottle from you shaking it and rubbing it against his hands to half assly rub it on your calves.

“Uh helloooo I have a whole leg to prevent being ashy.” Wiggling your thighs against made him huff, are you doing it on purpose? Do you know how badly he wants to lay you on your back and stuff his head between your thighs right now?

His palms began to warm as they slid their way up and down , it was borderline a massage at this point and you wasn’t complaining since he did have a way with his hands.

And fingers.

You noticed his ministrations slowing down, thinking he wanted you to roll on your back to get the other leg he instead kept rubbing extremely close to the bottom of your ass.

“Y’know, you can touch it.” Catching his eye he stopped moving his hand, “You’re always free to touch me whenever….or wherever .”

He lips parted, almost like he wanted to speak, but instead pulled you closer to him to kiss the corner of your lips, it was so soft you nearly couldn’t feel him until he whispered in your ear, “….Are you sure.”

“Of course.” You nod, rubbing your hand on his arm as reassurance “my body….your choice.”

Bakugo’s eyebrows creased, confused why’d you even say that, “No it’s still your choice and rules, dumbass. You’re too trusting.”

“I’m only too trusting for you…” pecking his pouted lips you reposition yourself to allow your big Blondie to hover over you, “I trust you with my life…and my body. It’s all yours.”

Blood filled his ears and cheeks as well as his dick. Something about your trust in him drove him absolutely insane. His body moved before he could respond back latching onto your lips, adjusting his way in between your legs.

You trapped him inside earning a groan out of him when his body weight fell on top of you, “I could’ve crushed you.”

“So?” You tease. You damn tease. That fucking look in your eye gets him everytime when you get like this, wanting him almost as much as he wants you.

It didn’t take long until your laughs and jokes turned into cries and moans of his name.

It was probably one of the most intoxicating nights filled with taboo touches and loves bites everywhere. His hands captured yours when he let you on top, his eyes not tearing from yours, The way his mouth never left an inch away from your body, he actually felt way more needier than usual.

Surely everybody will question and tease you both in tomorrow’s lecture, but it was worth it.

Bakugo now had a new level of confidence when it came to asking you for sex.

[ceilidho]

fig. 2. teeth in crooked neck | Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Reader

MASTERLIST · AO3

Ten years is a long time to wait for the love of his life. So when you come to him to ask for his help with your heat, what can Gaz do but accept?

or: the forced mating omegaverse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Omegaverse, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB Reader, Dubious Consent, Forced Bonding/Mating, Heats & Ruts

His fortune turns when your name flashes across the screen of his phone for the first time in weeks. 

“Hey love,” Gaz says, answering on the first ring. “Haven’t heard your voice in awhile.”

“Hi Kyle,” you sigh, and it’s like life rushes back into him all in one word. 

It’s been a few weeks since you last spoke, the last time being a few days after Gaz returned from a work trip overseas. Since then though, he’s been in the city consistently, making your absence come as a gaping hole in the middle of his life. 

The first thing you do is apologize for the weeks of silence. “Sorry I haven’t reached out. Work was crazy for a bit, and then—…ah, it doesn’t matter. Sorry though.”

“That’s fine, love. Bit calmer now?”

“Uh…yes and no,” you answer cryptically. “That’s, um…that’s why I wanted to call you actually.”

“Yeah?” he prods, curiosity piqued. It’s second nature to always wonder what you’re up to. If it was possible to live in someone’s head, he’d make yours a second home.

“Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

He puts you on speaker phone so he can check his calendar at the same time. “I can move some things around. Can’t tell me whatever it is you wanna talk about right now?”

You’re quiet for a moment before you speak again, voice a little tinny through the speaker “I just…it’d be better if we could talk face to face.”

Words like those never bode well, but Gaz shakes it off, giving you the benefit of the doubt. It might just be embarrassing or sensitive news that isn’t easily disclosed over the phone. He’s never begrudged you your privacy before; it certainly isn’t going to start now. 

Besides, whatever it is won’t be private for long. 

“Sure, love. We can have lunch. What time?”

There are things he associates with time—seasons, death, taxes. Faces too, when they change with each time he sees them, months separating his visits and meaning that each time he comes home, there are new lines and new wrinkles in familiar faces. Piercings that weren’t there before. Tattoos and pregnancies and blemishes and drooping cheeks. 

Your face, however, is a constant. Not just in that it never seems to change, but that it never leaves his mind long enough to be forgotten. 

After all, how could it leave for even a second with what you are to him? 

He’s gotten that question before. What do you think you’ll do when you find your mate? When you come across an omega that smells just right, so delicious and ripe that you have no choice but to sink your teeth in and hold? 

Gaz doesn’t have to imagine. He’s known longer than most. It’s been more than ten years since he first met you—ten years since his keen teenage nose caught the tail end of your scent and followed it down the hallway and around the corner until he could put a face to the smell. 

His memories after that moment come in snapshots. A passing teacher dragging him into an empty classroom after recognizing the look in his eye, pupils dilated and mouth agape, his whole body thrumming with desire. Sitting in the principal’s office with his hands in his lap, fists clenching and unclenching while waiting for his mother to join them, the other adults in the room watching him with blatant distrust, as if he weren’t a child too; as if this wasn’t new and overwhelming and terrifying. His mother doing her best to console him in the car on the drive home, Gaz both too old and too young for the torrent of emotion washing over him. 

He blocks that week from his memory lest those same emotions surge up and paralyze him in his tracks. It gives him nothing but grief to remember that day. If the agony of an unconsummated mate bond weren’t enough, the sheer indignity of being treated like something to worry about even to this day comes as a crushing blow. 

It’s taken a lot to move beyond those years. 

It isn’t something Gaz would wish on anyone else. His life has been shaped by a very specific kind of longing. Agony in the shape of a neck. His burden since youth has been to stave off the hunger pangs, but that hasn’t always come easy, and it’s come at a cost. 

In the months following that day, he formed a kind of tentative friendship with you, trying not to let the devastation overwhelm him when you never seemed to recognize his scent as your mate’s. To just be in your orbit was better than nothing at all. 

He lasted all of a year at the same university as you before dropping out and enlisting, his instincts steadily becoming too powerful to ignore. The military was where he learned to manage the hunger—long, sleepless nights and rigid protocol hardening him, reinforcing his weak points. Learning to live with a certain kind of absurdity, and sucking up the urge to argue when given asinine tasks like mopping up rain water in a thunderstorm or being put on pencil sharpening duty. 

Since then, time and distance have helped him soothe the ache and leash his instincts. If he couldn’t be your mate, he could be your friend at least, and he’s taken to that role with zeal. 

Hunger still clings to the inside of his rib cage though. Cramped hunger crouched beneath his lungs. All breath, all pneuma. Tight clustered and tumorous. 

These days he’s just better at managing it. 

A day after your call, you meet on neutral territory, a coffee shop around the back of a busy street in Shoreditch, a neighbourhood he’s only visited a few times in years past when you felt inclined to drag him to the Sunday market. It’s not terribly busy for mid-morning on a Saturday, but the steam wand keeps hissing in the background and the music is cranked up a few decibels higher than Gaz would usually like. The whole place smells of hazelnut and toffee. 

You though—you smell like something indescribably delicious. Floral and fragrant, so succulent that his mouth waters when he inhales a lungful of your scent. Sweet like dandelion wine. 

Time has made it easier for his heart to cope with not having you, but not his hunger. 

You make pleasant conversation for a few minutes before addressing the elephant in the room, avoiding it at first in favour of talking about old friends and family—you ask him how his sister’s PhD defence went and light up like a thousand watt bulb when he tells you that it was successful—anything to avoid the real reason for inviting him to lunch. But there comes a point when you have no choice but to suck in a deep breath and finally get to it.

“I need to ask you for a favour.”

“Okay.”

“It’s a big one,” you warn him.

“Okay,” Gaz repeats, smiling. His acceptance comes easy because there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you.

“I wouldn’t—God, this is so awkward,” you start, a heavy sigh steaming up from the back of your throat, head collapsing into your waiting hands to hide your face. Anything to avoid looking at him. 

Gaz sits and waits patiently for your courage to return. Unlike you, he doesn’t fidget or cross and uncross his legs. His urges are strictly regimented, impulses beaten out of him after years of exposure therapy, so to speak. 

You pick your head back up and his heart thumps in his chest. Mostly beaten out of him. 

“Please don’t feel like I’m pressuring you into this.” His lips twitch with a suppressed grin. “I’m only asking because you were the first person I thought of, but I can always figure something else out, or go to, um…—go to a heat centre.” 

He straightens at those words. “Heat centre?” 

“Yes. My, um—” You go quiet again, the words not coming easily to you, but his mind is already racing, mouth dry when he considers the implications of what little information you’ve already offered up. “I’ve been on suppressants for a really long time. Ever since high school. I was supposed to get my prescription renewed with my doctor this week, but I’ve only been seeing her for a few months, so when she realized how long I’ve been on suppressants for, she…—it’s apparently not healthy to be on them for that long.”

“Not healthy,” Gaz repeats, his rational mind somewhere else. 

You shake your head in confirmation. “No. She said long term suppressant use can lead to different cancers and other health complications, and that I should’ve been spacing it out rather than just…suppressing my heats altogether.”

The shrill whistle of blood through his ears muffles all but your words. 

It barrels into him at full tilt. Drives the breath from his lungs and the thoughts from his head. 

“Your heat is coming up,” he finishes for you, lasering in on the microexpressions flitting across your face. Blinders on. Nothing else in the world matters as much as your next words. 

You swallow. Look away. “Yep,” you chirp, voice catching in your throat and breaking. 

A chair scrapes loudly against the floor when someone nearby scoots back. 

“You aren’t going to a heat centre?” 

“…No.”

His heart beats so hard against his ribs that his chest nearly hurts. 

“You want me to help you through your heat.” He doesn’t have to ask; your trepidation says as much, and he’s always had an eye for details. 

“I know this is awkward, and I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t an emergency.”

Gaz reaches across the table instinctively to take your hand. “No, love, it’s fine. You know you can tell me anything. I’m glad you came to me first.”

Glad hardly touches the depth of the emotion coursing through him. Honoured comes closer. It’s not like he’s never thought about you in heat before, but he’d been away so often and for such long stretches of time, that he assumed you’d gone the heat centre route. He would’ve known if you’d gotten an alpha to help you through it—would’ve smelt their stench on you whenever he was back in the city. 

But as grateful as he is that you entrusted him with this knowledge, it also nearly takes his breath away. 

“You’ve never had a heat before?”

It almost seems unfathomable. He’s had plenty of ruts before—a couple of times with a partner, usually another alpha or a beta—and never once assumed that you’d gone your whole life without experiencing a heat. 

You shake your head. “No. I got on suppressants as soon as I presented and it was just easier to live life without having to, you know…deal with heats and all of that. Just seemed like a hassle.”

His head is spinning. He grips the edge of the table to keep himself upright, but it’s almost not enough. At any moment, he might tip right over.

He won’t ask if you’ve ever slept with someone before. It’s none of his business. Even if it were, he wouldn’t want to know. 

Besides, even if you have, they haven’t had you in a way that mattered. There’s no mark on your neck or ring on your finger, and you’ve never spent a heat with someone else. 

Never until now, that is.

The answer is right on his lips when you cut him off at the pass. “Don’t answer now. I wanted to ask you in person, but I don’t want you to feel on the spot.”

“Love, you aren’t putting me on the spot.” Not when the choice is so obvious. 

But you don’t let him finish, holding up a hand to get him to stop talking. There’s a tremor in your hand, your fingers quivering slightly, and noticing that makes him pause. 

“Please just—just think about it,” you insist. 

“…Fine, I’ll give it a think,” Gaz rasps, acting like his whole entire world hasn’t changed in a blink. 

“Thanks, Kyle.” 

Your relief is palpable, so undisguised that he’d be insulted if he wasn’t viscerally aware of how much the conversation has taken out of you.  

You hug him on the way out—a gesture so natural to your friendship that you don’t notice the way he pulls you closer than normal, every inch of your body plastered to his—and he stays for a bit longer, finishing his lunch alone. He needs the time to think after what you just told him, time to digest that news without the blood ringing in his ears.

When he leaves, the sky is different. Silver sheafs of light paint the streets on the walk home, the noise of the traffic and clatter of conversation louder than ever before, the cacophony of a whole world happening around him. But it’s distant somehow, like the trickle of a brook off somewhere deep in a forest. 

He’s on the threshold of a new world, one foot dangling over the edge. For now, he keeps his balance. It remains to be seen in the days to come. 

A late, gold sun bathes the street with ribbons of light and warmth in the early hours of the evening. There’s a bistro across from the building where Simon works the evening shift in the underground parking lot, and they meet there once a week for food and a cig before Simon has to clock in. 

Gaz savours this hour and a half more than most. There’s never a guarantee that Simon will show up; his friendship is a deliberate and intentional act, not easily given but easily taken away. It’s not something that Gaz takes for granted. There may come a day when the other man never shows up again and Gaz eats at a table across from an empty chair. 

He has faith though. Their relationship isn’t so tenuous that every day he expects the worst. More than once, they’ve travelled together—one of Gaz’s fondest memories is sitting with Simon in a piazza in Florence and conversing over espressos and lemon tarallucci. For a time after leaving the military—close to around six weeks, give or take a few days—Simon even slept on Gaz’s couch until finding his own place. 

Suffice it to say, they’re closer than most people would guess. Close enough that Simon doesn’t need to be told that something’s up when Gaz is more brusque with the waiter than usual.  

“Are you ever gonna spit it out or what?” Simon finally asks, a touch annoyed with having to be the one to broach the subject of Gaz’s mood. 

The bigger man sits across the table from him with a mullish look on his face. Cantankerous as always, likely in a mood from a combination of bad sleep and old aches flaring up. He’s always touchier between the seasons, the sudden shifts making his skin go painfully dry and old injuries act up. 

Gaz’s smile is slightly sheepish when it creeps onto his face. “You could tell?”

“‘Course I can. You’ve got stupid look on your face,” Simon grunts, taking a messy bite of his sandwich. Pepperoncini slices and mayonnaise drip from the other end onto the plate. 

The one downside to eating with Simon is having to mask his reaction to Simon’s complete lack of table manners. It's a skill that's come with plenty of practice.

“My—” he pauses, choosing his next word carefully. “A friend of mine asked me to help her through her heat.”

It’s not a topic they’ve ever broached before. His raunchier conversations are usually relegated to Johnny, Soap usually the initiator. Simon keeps his exploits private, cards close to his chest; it doesn’t seem impossible that he has a girl squirreled away somewhere, but Gaz would never know if he did. 

“Ever fucked ‘er before?” Simon asks, blunt as usual. 

Gaz laughs, shaking his head. “No. It’s not like that.”

“But you’re gonna fuck ‘er now?”

“Yes. Maybe. It’s complicated.”

“What’s complicated about fucking an omega through a heat?” He talks with his mouth full for a second before pausing to finish chewing and swallowing. Then he takes another bite, talking through that one too. “Knot ‘er a couple times, wear a mouthguard if you ‘aven’t got enough control, then go home. Simple.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why the fuck not?” 

He mulls over the best way to say it before deciding to just mirror Simon’s usual blunt approach. “She’s my mate.”

Simon’s indifference sloughs off all in one go. “When the hell did you bag someone, Garrick?”

His laughter this time borders on derisive. “Haven’t yet, actually.”

Simon stills, staring at him from over his sandwich. More ingredients spill from the bottom and onto the plate but he pays them no mind. The silence stretches on for a while, long enough for Gaz to catch on to the fact that Simon has no intention of responding, either too baffled or appalled to muster up a response or simply waiting for Gaz to justify himself. Likely the latter. 

“We were both too young when we met,” he explains. “Must’ve just presented when I first scented her and everyone told me to wait until she made the first move. Then time passed and…obviously she didn’t, and I didn’t want to pressure her.”

“How young?” 

“Uh…” He doesn’t have to think, but he knows how Simon will respond and that makes him hesitate. “Eighteen?”

“Jesus fuck, Gaz,” Simon groans, letting go of his sandwich in disgust.

“Look—”

“You’ve waited ten bloody years to bite her?”

Simon looks at Gaz like what he’s saying is anathema, like even the thought of not mating his omega doesn’t compute. For him, it probably doesn’t. It’s not the way things usually go. Gaz knows he’s been more patient than most. 

“I didn’t want to force her into a mate bond.” He shrugs. His own sandwich grows cold on the plate, barely a third of it gone compared to the scraps Simon still has left to eat. 

Gaz knows the excuse doesn’t hold water, but for as close as he is with Simon, he doesn’t have it in him to get to the real heart of the matter, the truth that his heart is still bruised. That there’s still a part of him that doesn’t believe this won’t all get ripped away from him in the end. That his own doubts might be the reason it all falls apart. 

“Fuck that,” he scoffs, pointing at Gaz with a mayo and buffalo sauce covered finger. “Have you told ‘er yes then yet? Never mind, ‘course you ‘aven’t, bloody fuckin’ moron. You’re gonna call ‘er after this and tell ‘er yes. Then, on the day of, you fuck her and bite her.”

Gaz rolls his eyes. “I can’t make that decision for her.”

“Someone’s gonna eventually. Has to happen. If it ain’t you, it’ll be some other bloke who gets to fuck and pup ‘er while you sit around with your dick in your hand. That how you want this to play out? Cucked by some bellend who won’t treat ‘er right?”

He nearly gnashes his teeth at Simon’s words, but he’s more civilized than that. He goes stone-faced instead, nostrils flaring.

“What was I supposed to do? Bite her the next time I saw her in the hallway?” Gaz rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that would’ve played out really well for me. Not like I wasn’t on thin fuckin’ ice the whole time with everyone.”

“Been a few years since then.” Simon picks his sandwich back up and takes such a big bite that he squeezes most of the ingredients out, tearing off a chunk of bread and meat.

“Yeah, I’m aware.” His tone is abrasive, but Simon shrugs it off, unbothered by a little vitriol. “Seeing as how I’m the one who’s been suffering through those years. Nobly, might I add.”

“There’s nothing fuckin’ noble about suffering,” he scoffs, upper lip curled. “You do the hard shit and then you get out. No sense in letting it drag on.”

He very nearly argues that point. Has to bite his tongue at the last second to keep from being crueler than warranted. As if suffering weren’t Simon’s main export; his main claim to fame.

He’s better than that though. And, if he were being honest with himself, there might be some truth there. 

When Simon leaves for his shift, Gaz sits there until his coffee goes cold and the manager comes by to gently inform him that they’ll be closing shortly, offering to pack up the rest of his food for home. Gaz nods absently, still miles away in his head.

He drives home in that headspace, mulling Simon’s words over. 

Justice is a core tenet of his. Fairness another. He’s lived his life up to this point guided by a strict set of principles, hardly breaking his rules of conduct unless forced to do so, unless given no other recourse. 

But he’s given so much of himself to the world and asked for so little in return. Is it not fair that he receive this? 

And besides, the beast in his chest rumbles, licking its chops, did you not ask for his help? 

He clicks the button on his sun visor to let himself into his condo’s garage. In the elevator on the way up, he stares at his reflection in the door and chews the inside of his cheek. 

Ten years now he’s sat on his hands and waited for a sign, rejecting the urge to simply take what his beast sees as his. The patience of a monk. Now there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. A white flag waved to signal the end. And rather than take that white flag for what it is and head into the sunlight, he insists on staying put and ignoring the way fate beckons him forward. 

There’s no glory in torturing oneself, no prize to be won for self-abnegation. 

And though his answer was always yes, Gaz allows himself a moment to consider what it would take for him to say no and send you off into the arms of another man. 

He hasn’t got that kind of strength in him. He’s dangled out of helicopters with his head mere inches from the ground, jumped out of a chopper hit by an RPG, fallen through the floor of a building on fire, and been under heavy fire more times than he can count, but that would be the thing that killed him. Seeing you with someone else. Knowing that the opportunity to make you his was truly lost, beyond recovery. 

And he’s tired of the way things are, his sacrificial nature bleeding into every facet of his life. 

There has to be a time for change. 

The next morning, as soon as it’s socially acceptable, he calls you, holding the phone so tight that he accidentally lowers the volume all the way down before fixing it. 

“Thought about it enough. I’ll do it.”

Two weeks until the day.

He circles it in red on the calendar in his office and it colours his peripheral vision every time he turns his head. 

And every night leading up to that day, Gaz puts his head down on his pillow to rest and he dreams. 

Fragmented dream; images of soft thighs and sweat matted hair, lips and tongues pressed together, glutes and buttock squeezing with each thrust, panted breaths getting louder and louder, the air humid and electrified. 

Always, waking at some undetermined hour, jaw clenched, the flameform of a woman left burning in his throat. 

Anticipation whets his appetite. His stomach growls like the beast in his chest and it paces restlessly as the days stretch out endlessly, only stopping when the sun finally dips below the horizon, that time coming each day later and later like some sadistic torture levied on his soul. 

In the weeks leading up to the event, Gaz comes with you to pick up supplies even though you swear that you’ve got it all under control. A lot goes into preparing for a heat. You have to stock your fridge, make your nest, lock away your valuables in case you break anything in the throes of your heat. At the end of your Costco run, the trunk of his car is stuffed to the brim with water bottles, groceries, blankets, wet wipes, chafing cream, sports drinks, and moisturizer. 

At the door to your apartment, he moves to come inside with the bags and only stops when you protest, insisting that your nest isn’t ready yet. His lips twitch into a grin. 

“You don’t want me to help carry everything in?” Gaz asks.

“No, it’s fine. I’d rather—well, just bring everything to the door and I can do the rest.”

He humours you this time because things will be different soon. When your heat is over and he’s no longer just a friend that you can keep at a distance but a red blooded man who tended to your weeping cunt and kissed every inch of your body, things will be different.

Until then though, he can give you this. 

Sometimes he finds himself hypnotized by the tantalizing glimpse of skin that he gets when your neckline pulls and the mating gland sitting in the divot between your neck and shoulder is exposed. 

Every moment in your presence is excruciating now that he knows that the waiting has come to an end. The two week interim period feels almost flimsy, false; the veil has dropped though, and he knows what’s on the other side of it now.

Though his rut is months off, the resonance of your scent must rouse his dormant instincts and throw his hormones into whack because he puts on a couple kilograms with ease, his body preparing for your heat. He overstays his allotted time at the gym by half an hour every session, so lost in his own head that he runs ten kilometres without even realizing it. Sweat runs off him in rivulets, the front of his shirt stained a darker shade of its original colour. 

In the locker room, Gaz sets his towel down on the countertop and stares at his reflection in the mirror. The sudden uptick in mass that he’s put on in the last week is noticeable even to him, his thighs and arms bulkier, and his abs a little less defined with the added weight around his midsection. His skin is smooth and buttery from moisturizing religiously before bed every night, a nice sheen to it. 

He rolls his shoulders back and flexes, preening for the imaginary viewer in his head that looks remarkably like you. 

Johnny would taunt him mercilessly if he could see him now. As if Johnny weren’t twice as vain and pompous as Gaz on a good day. 

He looks good though. Strong. Virile. Capable of seeing his mate through her first heat. If that self-assurance makes him seem cocksure or arrogant, so be it. 

There are plenty of worse things to be. 

“Did you put in for time off?” you ask, still sweaty from a brisk walk through the park to meet him. 

“Yeah. Did it the same day I called you. Took the whole week off.”

Even for as early as it is, the park is busy. Mothers pushing prams jog by in front of the bench the two of you are sitting on, all dressed in the same leggings and puffy vests, headbands holding their hair back. The city has barely woken up from winter’s tight hold, the air brisk and the ponds gelid; small mounds of ice-encrusted snow spread throughout the park like an inverse archipelago. 

In a few more weeks, there might be buds on the trees.

The pretext for spending so much time together in the lead up to your heat is so you can integrate his scent into your system. Gaz barely suppresses a laugh when you give him that excuse. As if you haven’t had a lifetime of acclimation. As if his scent hasn’t immixed with yours by now, and yours with his. 

“I took an extra couple days off after. You know, just in case.” You shrug like it’s no big deal. 

Gaz knows better though. Your ambivalence doesn’t read as wholly true. He can see the way your throat bobs when you swallow and your fingers tighten around your coffee cup. You haven’t made eye contact with him yet despite ten minutes having passed since you sat down beside him. Despite the mild weather, your coat is zipped up to the top, the metal nearly biting into your throat.

You’re doing a bang up job of acting like this isn’t some long preamble before jumping into bed together. He can’t fault you for the fact that it’s all he can think about. It runs through his mind twenty-four-seven, running an endless track that only seems to get easier the more laps he does. 

It’s strange being with you now. Humbling. There’s almost something fascinating in knowing that though you now insist on keeping a polite distance, in a week’s time, he’ll have you flat on your back and whimpering. There’s no harm in allowing you this final bit of grace, so Gaz doesn’t protest, even though—

In a week, you’ll be his.

“Are you nervous?” Gaz asks.

You stiffen, either offended or shy. He settles on the latter when you hesitantly reply, “No. I think we got everything I needed. Um. Not much more to do now other than wait.”

“That’s good.”

“Plus…I trust you.”

His heart clenches at that, stunned into silence for once. 

“You’ve always smelled good too,” you admit. “From what I can tell. I’ve always had a pretty poor sense of smell—really, it’s shit—but you smell better than most people. And I know you’d never hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he stresses. 

You smile and finally meet his eyes. If only he could tell you it with his eyes alone. Nothing could be further from his intentions. If he has his way, you’ll be better off by the end of your heat.

“It’s going to be rough though,” Gaz says apropos of nothing when you go to take a sip, nearly making you spit out your coffee. 

“Huh?” you ask, looking over at him. You wipe your mouth off on your sleeve. 

“First heats always are.” A gust of wind makes you shiver. “You'll probably be worse too, since you put it off for so long—” He chuckles under his breath when your eyes widen. “Sorry, love, I’m not having a go—I’m just being honest is all. Have to know what you’re getting into before it happens; that way you don’t freak out when it’s too late.”

“Too late?” you repeat.

He nods. “Yeah, love. Once your heat hits and my…my alpha takes over, I’m not going to be able to, uh…control myself. I’m going to want to knot you as many times as I can. It’ll be the only thing I’ll want to do.”

All you can do is stare at him, beyond words. Mouth open, teeth separated. One day he’ll have you on your knees like that, tongue out as well to run up the underside of his cock. 

“But I’ll be good to you. I promise.”

He pats your knee before standing up, and you stare up at him with your mouth slightly agape, eyes round. 

“You’re leaving?” you croak, dry throat making your voice crack. 

Gaz smiles. “Gotta head out, love. Got some errands to run. Remember to do your stretches and call me if you need anything before Saturday, alright? And thanks for the coffee.”

He tosses his cup into the bin on his way out of the park, every instinct in him screaming to turn around and go back. It isn’t time though. 

It’s coming, he reassures himself on the walk home. It won’t be long now. 

How does it happen that an alpha can have his omega within biting distance for years and still keep their hands to themselves? He asks himself this question every day, but the answer remains out of reach.  

It takes a strength of will not easily called up. A sense of honour and duty that few can touch, never mind possess. He has it in spades though, chock full of the stuff, and it’s moulded him into the kind of man capable of taking care of you. 

The only thing left unanswered is whether that strength has served its purpose. Whether now is the time to let it go.

He runs his tongue over the point of his canines. 

It’s too soon to tell.

He wakes more alert than any time in nearly thirty years of life, daylight engraved into the side of his face.

Close enough to touch. Gaz’s skin itches when he brushes his teeth and packs his weekend bag with his last few things. An hour—two tops—and you’ll be under him, soft thighs parted and slick hole stuffed full of his cock. Then days more ahead of him to do the same thing over and over and over. 

He drives to your place with a sense of caution that borders on neurotic, coming to a full stop at every stop sign and yield, on the lookout for any reckless drivers lest today be the day that he gets into an accident. There’s no margin for error today. 

The roads are clear this early in the morning though, so he breathes out when he pulls into the parking lot of your building. It’s overcast now, the sun receding behind the clouds. Everywhere around him, life keeps on happening like the world isn’t about to irrevocably change. 

Gaz lets himself in using the spare key fob you gave him a week prior. Even the halls are quiet, the day not yet started enough for people to be on their way out. It’s a Saturday after all. 

His legs seem to move without conscious thought, like he’s being pulled towards your flat, a magnet of opposite polarity. There’s a prickling awareness of another consciousness at the back of his mind. He’s been aware of it all his life, but it’s as real now as it’s ever gotten, the prospect of its omega in heat at the end of a hallway and beyond something as trivial as a door giving it more cognisance, more influence. 

Even from the other side of the door, your scent sets his teeth on edge. 

You answer the door bleary-eyed and sweaty, housecoat cinched tight around your waist and fuzzy slippers making it look like you just woke up. Visibly teetering on the edge of your heat. It’s so obvious and the smell of it so fragrant that Gaz’s instincts kick in and he pushes you back into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him. His bag drops to the floor beside him. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, already palming your cheeks and tilting your head this way and that. He tugs down your lower eyelid gently, checking your sclera for anything abnormal.

“A bit hot,” you admit. 

“What’s your temperature?”

“Just a little over ninety-nine degrees. What’s the matter with you? Did you go to med school without telling me or something?” 

A slight temperature is entirely normal for a heat, the body working overtime to support the increased production of estrogen.

“It’s your first heat. I’m taking it seriously.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a baby. I don’t think you need to ask me every five minutes if I’m dilated enough.”

He ignores the baby joke because there’ll be danger if he doesn’t. The situation is already tense enough without thinking about you swollen with his pup. That’s a dream for a different day. Instead, he helps you take off the housecoat (which must have been adding five degrees to your internal temperature) and herds you into the kitchen for a cold glass of water.

It helps but barely.

Your first wave of your heat doesn’t crest until mid-morning, and by then Gaz is practically breathing smoke, the scope of his attention shrinking until you’re the only thing he can focus on. When you twitch, his head snaps in your direction, eyes vacant apart from a slight glimmer of awareness. 

It’s getting harder to think through the fog. It’d be worse if his rut overlapped with your heat, but even just being in proximity to an omega in heat—his mate, no less—forces him into an equivalent headspace. Ears peeled for any noises in the hallway outside your apartment. Wary of another alpha intruding on you in this state.

“C’mon, baby, we’re gonna get one last snack in you before it hits,” Gaz murmurs soothingly, urging you up off the couch and into the kitchen. You stumble slightly on your way there and his heart skips a beat.

You squirm in your chair while trembling fingers bring slices of manchego and chorizo up to your lips. His gaze is intense and unwavering. Any desire to glance down at the spot between your legs evaporates when your eyelashes flutter shut and your cheeks bulge as you chew. 

You’re so sweet like this. A tender thing for him to open up and ply with victuals.

“Just a couple more, okay?” he urges, pushing the plate closer to you and shushing you when you whine. 

You turn your head away when he brings a slice of cheese to your lips. “M’full,” you complain. 

“I know, baby, but it’s gonna be a long time before you’ll wanna eat again.”

“You smell weird,” you grumble instead, turning your head into his armpit and taking a deep inhale. 

“What do you mean ‘weird’?” he asks, slightly perplexed.

“Dunno. Different.” You drag another deep breath in. “Did you put cologne on or something? Smells…uh…really good.”

His dick throbs. “No, baby. Didn’t even shower before I came over.”

“Mmm. Good.”

His arm drops to the table, the force of it making the plate rattle. Fuck but how that nearly gets him. He’s not infallible. Eventually something is going to tip him over the edge from sanity into delirium. 

If this is any indication of the days to come, there’s a chance neither of you will come out entirely unscathed. 

It happens gradually, your sentences slowly degenerating and fragmenting, and your eyes glazing over. Even the smell of your skin gets richer. 

The effect that your heat is having on him is staggering. No one told him it’d be like this. No one told him it’d be like unzipping himself and letting you inside. Like sitting still as a fire blazes around him, the flames licking closer and closer to his skin.

Then your fever spikes and all bets are off. 

“Up,” Gaz growls. He doesn’t wait for you to listen, lifting you up from the chair from under your arm and hunching slightly to scoop you up into his arms. 

You moan, clinging to him. “It’s, uh—Kyle, I…I’m really hot.”

His legs are heavy beneath him, lead weights that he has to drag across the apartment, each step tougher than the last. 

Your nest is a soft, sumptuous garden of blankets and pillows and assorted clothes dragged out of the closet and spread across the floor and bed. You must have pulled the mattress off the bed frame at some point in the last two weeks because it’s pressed into the corner of the room, draped in every single sheet and blanket you own. The bed frame sits quite awkwardly on the other side of the room, pushed out of the way so as to not get in the way, and there are foam panels plastered all over to soundproof the walls. 

Clever girl, thinking of that. 

Everything’s been rearranged. He’d caught that you’d dragged a bookshelf into the living room when he came into your apartment, but even your dresser and nightstand are tucked away in the corner of your room. It’s like you took inventory of everything you own and moved everything apart from the barest essentials needed for your heat. 

He comes down onto one knee on the edge of the mattress before setting you down. You come up onto your elbows almost immediately. There’s a look in your eyes that he’s never seen before except in his dreams. Besotted, devotional. In his wildest dreams, he couldn’t have imagined that you’d ever look at him like this. 

You sit up when he comes down onto the mattress, constantly orbiting and orienting towards him. 

“Gonna take this a little at a time, okay, love?” Gaz rumbles. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you rasp, climbing into his lap when he softly urges you up. An arm braced behind him keeps him from collapsing when you sag into him. 

Pseudo-rut makes him a bit dumb, a bit clumsy. He palms the back of your neck a bit too roughly, murmuring an apology against your lips when you whimper before drawing you into a deep, toe-curling kiss. 

His stomach seizes up when he realizes that he’s kissing you for the first time. Ten years of anguish and heartache and delirious need finally culminating in your lips parting against his, the soft melt of your tongue against his when you let his tongue slide into your mouth, his blunt fingers tilting your head higher up. 

Gorgeous, perfect mouth. Kissing it feels like coming home after years away. 

God, he’s wanted it for so long. And God, your mouth tastes good, and when your tongue touches his, his head goes cloudy and his cheeks go hot. 

Clothes fall to the wayside, slowly added to the nest one by one—his pants are shoved into the crease between the mattress and the wall, your shirt tucked under a pillow. He has to reach down to readjust himself through his boxers and your eyes follow the path his hand takes, going half-lidded and hot.

He smirks, only a little bashful. “See something you like?” 

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, barely taking in his words. 

His chest puffs involuntarily, the beast in him preening. 

Touching your bare skin for the first time, Gaz realizes that he’s never felt so moored and ready. This is where he’s meant to be. Every agonizing moment of the last ten years has prepared him for this moment; not even the bite of his pseudo-rut could make him flounder. 

He traces a nipple with his thumb, following the path with his tongue when he lifts his thumb away, round and round the areola until you’re practically sobbing his name. Not enough. It’s still not enough. 

“Baby, I need to get you ready,” he murmurs when you pull at the waistband of his boxers. 

“M’ready now,” you half-snarl, tugging more forcefully, trying to rip his underwear right off. 

Gaz laughs. “No, you’re not.”

You don’t have a choice but to indulge him though. It’s his way or the highway. He’d told you that back at the beginning, after ringing you to tell you that he’d help you through your heat—it had to be under his terms or not at all. 

Your knickers get shoved under the pillow as well. Something for him to toy with later, when you’re tuckered out and not raring to go just yet. It’ll tide him over when you’re too sensitive for him to play with your pussy. 

He barely grazes a knuckle over your clit and you come, hiccupping through your first orgasm. You’re quick to come, like everything up to this point has just been foreplay. 

“Oh lovie,” he coos, pressing his lips to your temple. “It’s alright—I’ve got you.”

You jolt when he thumbs your clit again. Too sensitive. He pulls it away just long enough for you to catch your breath and for the twitches to subside, but when you start to pant again, your smelling ripening in that telltale way, he strums his thumb across it again, tucking a finger into your hole and groaning when he finds it scorching hot.

He dreamt of fingering you all the time back in high school. Thought of sitting beside you in the auditorium during assemblies and sliding his hand up your skirt until you spread your thighs and let him push your panties out of the way; cornering you in the bathroom between classes and pressing his fingers into you from behind, muffling your cries with his mouth; jiggling your pretty clit in the backseat of the bus, draping his jacket across your lap so no one else would see your wet pussy. 

The reality is so much better than he ever could’ve imagined. 

Three fingers and still you beg for more. You’re clamped so tight around his fingers that he can barely move them, not without exerting a bit more force than he’d like. You must like it though because you squeeze around his neck almost intolerably tight when he forces his fingers in.

“Good girl,” he grunts, shoving them back in. “You can take it.” 

“A-alpha?” you stutter. 

Gaz pulls you close, tucking your face into his neck. “Come here, I’ve got you. Just hold onto me, love, okay? Can you do that?”

“Y-yeah,” you breathe. 

His whole body jerks when you bite his neck. Your teeth don’t break the skin, but still he shudders, squeezing his eyes shut. Just barely keeps from telling you to bite down harder.

You have to take another break after you come, limp and satiated. Gaz uses that time to fluff the nest a bit, getting it nice and comfortable. He even leaves to fetch you a glass of water, bringing you into his chest for a nice cuddle while you recharge.

When you start staring too much again, he knows it’s almost time. 

Nervousness has no hold on him though. You came to him because you trusted him to take care of you through your first heat. 

That assurance settles him. Grounds him. There’s no one more equipped to do what he’s about to do because he’s waited his whole life for this. Whether consciously or not, his whole life has been in preparation for this moment, every choice, every heartache, every sleepless night. It’s all been in anticipation of this. 

It nearly undoes him though, despite everything. Despite the weeks spent mentally preparing, despite the strength in his body and the muscle he’s tacked on, despite his own fervor even. 

Because when he climbs on top of you and your thighs part, your hole is wet and waiting, ready for him to use it and leave a little mess behind. Just looking at it makes his balls throb. It almost doesn’t seem right that he’s about to spoil something as pretty as your pussy with his dick. Leave it stretched out and full of come. A little puffy from being knotted so many times. He should’ve gotten you a plug for after, something to keep his come inside of you. 

If his cock wasn’t so heavy, Gaz would be tempted to lean down and kiss it a bit too. It feels wrong to push inside without at least a little send-off kiss, something soft to set your mind at ease before he fucks you six ways from Sunday. 

He doesn’t have the luxury of taking his time though; your temperature is rising again, skin hot to the touch. 

Your patience is thinning too. “Kyle, I can’t wait—I can’t. I need you—” 

“I know, baby, I know.”

He strips off the last of his clothes quickly, boxers getting tossed behind him somewhere, before crawling over you again. The head of his cock looks brutish against your slick opening when he lines it up, but it stretches so prettily when he starts to sink in, gravity doing the work for him. 

Your legs girdle his waist, pillowy thighs catching him when he sinks to the hilt, breasts moulding to his chest. You’re scorching hot inside, a sweltering, blistering wetness that squeezes his cock like a vice. 

“Baby…” 

He sounds broken, eviscerated. Gutted like a gralloched animal. 

Gaz is barely able to move, barely able to pull his hips back and hump forward, the mattress shifting under him. He could probably knot you just like that. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge. 

“Ohohohohoh—” you squeak when he grunts low and deep, bearing down on top of you.

Two strokes into the softest, wettest cunt of his life and his resolve fractures into a thousand parts. Shards too splintered to ever piece back together again. 

At the back of his mind, he thought he might be strong enough to resist temptation. Thought he wouldn’t need anything as barbaric as a mouthguard or a collar around your throat to keep him from giving in to his baser urges. 

Strength isn’t what kept his urges fenced in though. Fear is what’s haunted him for the last ten years—the fear that he wouldn’t be enough for you, that he wasn’t allowed to have you for some reason, doubt crawling into his ear like an insect and whispering to him that he had so much more to do in order to prove himself worthy of you, that you needed to be the one to invite him in. 

But you have, haven’t you? 

Two strokes into the love of his life’s pussy and Gaz relinquishes himself to instinct, dropping his head, teeth sinking into the mating gland sitting pretty at the crook of your neck. It gives almost too easily under his teeth. Soft and tender skin, and then the secretions fill his mouth, blood and ambrosia all at once. Sweet dandelion wine and honeyed nectar. 

You tense up around him instantly, a garbled, watery gasp jumping from your lips, and sharp fingernails bite into his shoulders.

“Oh fuck,” Gaz gasps into the side of your neck when he relaxes his bite, head spinning as it all snaps into place, every strand finally tightening into place, draped in fate like samite, ermine, and brocade. “Oh God, baby, I’m so sorry. Oh God, baby, fuuuuuuck…”

“Alpha?” you wheeze. 

“Yeah, baby, I’m here,” he sighs, laving his tongue over the hurt. Your pulse thrums under his tongue, nervous and fast. “You just felt—hng, fuck—felt so good. Couldn’t help m’self.”

“A-alpha, you—you bit me—”

“Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to. Just couldn’t help it.”

“It hurts,” you whimper. You sound like you’re on the verge of tears.

“I know, baby, I know—I’m sorry. M’gonna make it all better, okay?”

“You’re gonna make it better?” you ask, almost pathetically, the tears beading in the corners of your eyes. 

His goddamn heart nearly breaks at the sight of your tears. “Of course I will, baby. Not gonna let anything bad happen to you—not my omega. My mate.”

There’s blood on his lip but not an ounce of regret in his being. Gaz sits up on his haunches, hands digging into your waist when he repositions you. He rolls you over onto your side and lifts a leg over his shoulder, swollen lips splitting open with the stretch, and fuck if you aren’t dripping wet. His head lolls forward as he stares, tempted to put you right back down and drink straight from the source, hook both legs over his shoulders and just go to town. 

But he has a job to do and his knot is already fattening up at the base of his cock, desperate to be wedged in a soft, warm hole. 

One hand palms your belly while the other holds your leg in place as he shuffles forward, turgid cock still slick with your juices. He pulls his hand away from your stomach briefly to readjust his cock, lining it up with your hole against before sinking in, letting the weight of his body carry him forward. 

Your eyes roll back in your head, the whites so white that his teeth ache. Not a hint of iris or pupil. 

He bottoms out this time on the first stroke, the curly hairs at the base of his cock damp with your slick. Warm, wet walls squeeze around his cock, sucking him in deeper, and Gaz curses softly under his breath. 

“With me, love?” Gaz asks.

When you don’t respond right away, he gives your cheek a light tap. “M’okay…”

The first few thrusts are mindful, slow enough to gauge your reaction and ensure you aren’t overwhelmed. His instincts dig like a spike into the back of his head, but Gaz grits his teeth, forcing back the impulse to rut between your thighs like a mindless beast. There’ll be a time for that in the coming days. 

Then he bucks forward a bit rougher, his shoulders tightening, tendons in his neck straining when his jaw clenches. 

Your breath comes short and sharp. “Oh god, oh my god…”

“There we go,” Gaz purrs. “That better, baby?”

“H-huh…?” Disoriented, your eyes roll around in their sockets until they land on him. Recognition comes slow, if at all. Poor thing, so horny that you can’t even think straight. 

“That feel good? That feel better, baby? I’ll take care of everything in the morning—get all the paperwork sorted, tell your parents and friends, everything. Not gonna let you stress about anything. Just have to lie there and take it nice and deep.”

The thought alone nearly makes him come. He’ll do everything by the book in the morning. It appeals to him on a base level, the idea of taking care of everything for you, so entrenched in your life that you don’t even have to think with him around. 

No more holding back, his beast rumbles in his chest.

We’ve always been worthy of this.

The thing under his skin has gone hungry for far too many years. It has known where to go to satisfy itself, but waited instead for the meal to come to it. 

And it has. You have. Wobbly-lipped and desperate for him to bite and hold. 

His pace is frantic now, mind turned off and glutes flexing with every thrust, thighs burning with the effort to keep the rhythm. All that matters is burying himself in you as deep as physically possible. 

Sweat drips into his eyes. Blinking doesn’t help. The air compresses around him, squeezing him to the point of bursting. 

Your pretty tits bounce with every thrust and he has to touch them. Grab them. Mould his hand over them until his palm always remembers what your nipple feels like. He loves the sounds you make when he pinches them and slides them between his fingers. 

“Wanted to touch these for years,” Gaz growls. He cups his hand under your breast, plumping it up all nicely. “Every summer you’d wear these, uh, these low cut tops…and I’d be so fucking hard, thinking about how much I wanted to pull your shirt down and suck on them.” 

“You never��oh, oh, oh—” you start, interrupted when you come again, walls contracting around his length. Gaz has to grit his teeth to keep from coming as well, not ready to come just yet. 

This one leaves you near breathless, too spent to finish your sentence. Your channel milks his cock. 

He wants to hear it though. “What’s that, baby?” 

“You…you never…said anything.”

“Wasn’t sure you wanted me back.” His vulnerability is ripped from him without warning, so used to giving you everything that he doesn’t even stop to think about what it’ll do to him.

You scrunch up your face, pouting up at him and it’s bad for his heart, it’s so bad for his heart how smitten he is with you. “‘Course I did. I just thought—I thought you didn’t—I’m, ah…”

So close to coming again, you lose track of your words, but Gaz understands, and the implication leaves him short of breath. 

So much lost time. So much to make up for. 

He leans down, bracing himself over you again. Your skin tastes salty when he runs his tongue over the shell of your ear. “You gonna take my knot, baby?” 

“Yesyesyesyes—”

“Gonna let me come inside too?”

“Yesssss—” you hiss through your teeth, tears spilling over your waterlines.

“‘Course you are, perfect girl. Gonna let me come inside and knot you because you’re mine. You’re my girl—my omega—my mate—”

It’s right there, barely a klick away. His balls are drawn up tight, thighs tensed and burning, every inch of him poised on the edge, desperate to come. 

When you reach down to grab a handful of his arse, trying to pull him in closer, Gaz chokes on his breath, tipped right over the edge. His groin pulses when he comes, that first spurt so good that his vision goes spotty. 

It’s so good—

God.

It’s hard to think. Hard to breathe. 

The breath is punched out of him, the sudden swell of his knot winding him. It locks his hips in place, the swollen flesh snug in the wet embrace of your cunt. Under him, you gasp for breath, wide eyes staring up at him.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Gaz coos, cupping your cheek in his hand. “I’ve got you, love.”

His hips grind forward in absence of any movement. Your walls flutter around his knot, too stretched out to squeeze any tighter. The energy is sucked from his body with his come, each pulse making him shudder and gasp. You must be full to the brim with how much he comes.

When there’s nothing left in him to give, Gaz slumps forward, only his elbows catching his weight, hips pinning yours down to the bed until he rolls over tentatively, making sure to keep you pressed tight to his chest. 

There’s nothing he could say that would be better than just this—draped over you, forehead to forehead, soothing his omega. Rubbing the bridge of his nose against yours. Massaging your thigh when you shift, a little cramp in your hip. 

It comes like second nature to him. It’s always been his favourite part after all—the afterglow. Pillow talk and cuddling; sweet, slow kisses with swollen lips. The fact that it’s with you only makes him enjoy it more.

When his knot softens enough to dislodge, he pulls out of you and strokes your cheek when you whine in discomfort. The sight of your poor, battered cunt makes him wince. 

He wets a hand towel in the bathroom and comes back to find you in the same place as when he left you, dazed eyes watching him curiously. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, he parts your legs to either side and crawls in closer, starting with the mess along your inner thighs and the fold of your butt. 

“Stay still,” he growls when you squirm. You go still at the subtle command in his voice, alert even under the fog of heat.

Your legs still twitch when he swipes the cloth between your legs, wiping off his leaking spend and the slick still wet on your inner thighs, but you hold yourself as still as possible, nearly biting your lip off in the process. 

“T-thank you, alpha,” you whisper, chewing on your fingertip. 

He feels his cock twitch at that, still wet with your juices. Doesn’t take much for you to work him up. 

It isn’t long before your heat crests again and you’re crawling over Gaz, hands pinning his shoulders down to the mattress. He laughs. The sound dies in his throat when you line his shaft up with your hole and sink down in one smooth motion, shutting him up oh so effectively.

Cheeky little thing. 

A few days go missing, only recalled in chunks when he’s a bit more clear-headed. Feeding you fresh fruit and slices of cheese from his fingers as you whined on his knot. Licking his own spend out of you while holding your trembling thighs open, digging his fingers into your plush inner thighs. Sucking your beaded nipples into his mouth while gliding his fingers over your clit, your cunt a bit too sore to take his knot again; not so soon anyway. Carrying you into the bathroom for a quick soak before emptying the tub and bringing you back to the bed. 

All the while, feeling your presence like a phantom limb. Like an extension of himself. Every inch of your pleasure rippling across his skin, amplifying his own. 

If Gaz had known it would be like this—

he’d have moved heaven and hell to have it. 

It’s his now though. You’re his. Mated and bound to him. So intrinsically and indelibly tied to him that no earthly force could pull you apart. 

It’s why now he can feel your mounting anxiety like a prickle at the back of his head. It’s what wakes him up so suddenly, creamy golden light spilling across the sheets and furniture when he opens his eyes to the door to your bedroom ajar. 

You’re in the bathroom when Gaz walks in, touching the mostly healed mating mark on your neck. It’s barely a puckered scar, so subtle that he might have missed it.

“Did you mean to do it?” you ask. It’s not the question he expected, but then again, Gaz isn’t sure what he expected from you. 

He nods though. No sense in lying to you. “Yeah.”

It’s clear now that this was always going to be the natural end, that any tryst between the two of you would always end here, with his mark on your neck. 

He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into him, moulding you to his chest. In the mirror, you look exceptionally fragile, still shaky and brittle from your heat, and it makes his heart ache. 

“I didn’t think I would, but I wanted to. I never would’ve if I had any doubt.”

One day he’ll tell you everything. He’ll tell you why he waited so long, what held him back all these years when he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing else would come close to this. 

“You didn’t used to smell like this,” you murmur, cold nose pressed into his collar bone. You seal your words with a deep inhale, drawing all of your breath into your lungs and holding it there for a moment before expelling it. 

“What do you mean?” Gaz asks. His lips twitch when you press your nose harder against his skin. 

“It’s different. It changed.”

“I swear it hasn’t,” he laughs. “I’ve always smelled like this.” 

He can feel the way you wrinkle your nose against his skin. “Liar. You used to smell… I don’t know. Maybe like this, but subtler. Fainter.” You exhale again, more contemplative this time. “It must’ve been my heat. Everything smells so much stronger now. It’s like breathing after being sick or something. Like my nose is clear or something.”

Gaz stares at your reflection from over your head while it washes over him. Of course his life would be ruled by a comedy of errors. What might’ve happened had you not gotten on suppressants all those years ago? Maybe nothing. Maybe the past is what it’s always been and there’s no sense in looking back and asking what if things had been better. Maybe regrets are like false idols in that way—there’s nothing holy in worshipping at the altar of them. 

He makes a mental note to keep this from Johnny. Gaz will never hear the end of it if he finds out. 

“What are we gonna do now?” you whisper. 

He lowers his head, pressing his lips to your crown for a moment before resting his chin on top of your head. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll take care of everything.”

[chanelrolls]

Love & Deepspace Men reacting to you giving them head while they drive

warnings. mdni, nsfw, explicit content, sexual themes, blowjob, dick-sucking

pairings. sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier, caleb (separate) x reader

notes. it's my first time to write a full-blown nsfw piece so please excuse me if it doesn't come as good. anyway, requests are very much open.

SYLUS

Sylus is focused, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the gear shift—relaxed, poised, in control. Or at least, he was.

You lean in, lips ghosting over his thigh, barely a whisper of contact. At first, there’s no reaction—no sharp inhale, nor a startled twitch. Just the steady, unwavering presence of him, ever composed.

You press another kiss, this time firmer, lingering just a little longer against the fabric of his pants. His grip tightens. "You’re playing a dangerous game, kitten."

His lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk. His leg shifts slightly, as if to subtly press closer to your lips, but before you can take the invitation, his fingers suddenly catch your chin, tilting your face toward him.

He doesn’t look away from the road, but his grip is firm, thumb brushing against your lower lip with deliberate slowness. "If you’re going to test my patience," he murmurs, voice impossibly low, "at least be prepared for what happens when you lose."

"By all means, don't let me stop you," Sylus would purr, a wicked glint in his eyes as he watched you work on his shackles. "In fact, I insist you continue. Show me what that pretty mouth of yours can really do." He'd chuckle darkly, the sound rumbling through his chest.

Sylus would make no move to stop you, instead watching with a critical eye as if evaluating your performance. His breathing would remain steady, his heart rate barely increasing, a testament to his ironclad self-control. He was Sylus, after all. Nothing could ruffle his feathers, least of all a little roadside dalliance.

"Faster," he'd command, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Put your back into it, sweetheart. I know you can do better than that." His fingers would tighten in your hair, guiding your movements, pushing you to take him even deeper. "That's it, just like that."

He'd grip the steering wheel harder, his knuckles turning white as he fought the urge to surge forward, to take over, to claim his pleasure for himself.

And when he can't hold himself back anymore, he forces the tip to rub against your throat, and you wince in response, but he doesn't bugde, no, he keeps you there. "Keep going," He'd say, teasingly rubbing his tip against your throat, not caring about the way that you're already tearing up. "Don't you dare stop now. I want to see you finish what you started."

And then, suddenly—the car swerves. You barely register the motion before he pulls onto a quiet side road, the tires crunching against gravel as he slows to a stop.

Then, finally, he turns to you fully—one hand still on the wheel, the other trailing down your jaw, tracing the line of your throat before gripping the base of your neck. His touch is light, teasing, but there’s an unmistakable warning behind it.

"Congratulations," he murmurs, tilting your face up, "You got my attention."

ZAYNE

Zayne drives with precise, almost mechanical ease. One hand rests on the wheel, the other draped over the console between you.

Your fingers skim along his thigh first, light and teasing, tracing patterns against the fine material of his slacks. He doesn’t react. Instead, he exhales steadily, like someone who anticipated your next move before you even thought to make it.

Lips grazing over the fabric, the warmth of your breath seeping through, so close yet still not quite enough. Then, his fingers flex. "Do you think this is wise?"

A few beats pass in silence, and you almost think he’s going to ignore it completely, let it roll off his shoulders like he does with most things. But then, suddenly, his hand moves.

Not in warning. Not in restraint.

But to press you down. Fingers threading into your hair, keeping you close, firmly and deliberately, like he’s giving you a choice but already knows what you’ll pick.

"You're trying very hard to test me tonight," he murmurs, and now his voice is lower, rougher, something just a touch undone.

And when you finally took him into your mouth, he'd let out a low, sharp inhale through his teeth, his jaw clenching as he fought to maintain control. He'd say your name, voice strained, "we're in the middle of a..." He'd trail off, his words lost in a soft groan as you took him deeper.

Despite his initial surprise, Zayne would make no move to stop you, instead trying to focus on the road ahead. He was a pragmatic man, after all, and he knew the dangers of distracted driving. But damn if your sloppy mouth wasn't making it hard to concentrate.

"Careful," he'd warn, his voice a low rumble. "I don't want to cause an accident." But his words were undercut by the way he rolled his hips slightly, pushing himself deeper into your mouth.

Suddenly, he lets his grip loosen, fingers tracing the nape of your neck before slipping away entirely.

And then—just as quickly—he accelerates. The car surges forward, the sudden force pressing you back against your seat, "That's enough," the air shifting around you as he drives faster, sharper, more reckless than before.

He exhales slowly, smoothing a hand over his tie, regaining that signature poise—but when he finally speaks again, his voice carries that same unshakable authority as always. "Seatbelt on," A small pause, then, "You’ll need it."

RAFAYEL

He’s humming some tune under his breath, something slow. Then, your hand moves first, fingers gliding over the firm muscle of his thigh, innocently enough that he doesn’t react right away. But when your lips followed after, pressing into the fabric of his slacks, his hum falters.

Then stops entirely. For a moment, all you hear is the steady hum of the engine. The way his grip subtly tightens on the wheel. Then—

"You’re a real menace, y’know that?"

His voice is airy, light—like he’s amused, pretending to be unfazed. But you don’t miss the way his breath hitches when you press another kiss, this time dangerously close to the inside of his thigh.

He exhales sharply, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. "Go on," he muses, tilting his head slightly, glowing eyes flicking down at you, and dark with something indulgent. "See what happens, cutie."

You know exactly what will happen. Because Rafayel is all bark until he’s bitten. Until he’s whimpering, breathless, fingers trembling with the effort of keeping control he never really had in the first place.

And when you do press forward, when you start to eat him out, he lets out a sound—soft, bitten off, caught between a laugh and something much filthier.

Rafayel lets out a startled gasp as your lips wrapped around his sensitive cock, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "H-hey, what do you think you're doing?" as if he didn't challenge you outright.

He tangles his fingers in your hair, not pushing you down, but not pulling you off either, torn between his desire and his stubborn pride. "I never said you could just... just do this, you know," His nose wrinkles in a mixture of annoyance and arousal. "Such a bold little thing, taking what you want without asking..."

But even as he spoke, Rafayel's body betrayed him, his cock twitching and throbbing against your tongue, growing harder by the second. He bites his lip, trying to stifle the moan that threatened to spill out while you swirled your tongue around the sensitive head, lapping up the bead of pre-cum that had already formed at the tip.

"Nngh... y-you're not going to distract me that easily," Rafayel insisted, even as his grip on your hair tightened, his fingers trembling slightly. "I'm not just going to let you... ah! ...just take control like this, without even asking me first!" He tried to sound indignant, all the while rocking his hips to match your movements.

"Y-you're... hah... you're not going to win this way," Rafayel panted, his face flushed and his eyes glazed over with lust. "I won't let you... just... just have your way with me like this..." But even as he spoke, his head fell back against the headrest, his eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure entirely consumed him.

XAVIER

The night stretches long ahead, the road open, the streetlights casting fleeting shadows across Xavier’s sharp profile. His hand rests on the wheel, fingers drumming idly, while the other is perched casually on the gear shift.

Leaning in, you press your lips against the inside of his thigh, soft and fleeting, just enough for him to feel it. Then, his whole body goes rigid.

His foot presses down a little too hard on the gas before he corrects, rolling his shoulders back like it was nothing, like you didn’t just do that.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "Don’t start." His voice is firm, clipped—but there’s something beneath it, something unraveling at the edges.

You don’t listen. You never do. Another kiss, slower this time, your breath warm against denim.

His fingers tighten around the wheel. "I said—" He stops, inhaling sharply through his nose. A slow, controlled breath—like he’s trying to center himself.

But then he does something unexpected. He shifts in his seat, just slightly—just enough for his thigh to press closer against your lips.

Your lips curl. "Thought you said not to start," you murmur, letting the heat of your breath fan against the fabric of his jeans.

Xavier smiles to glance at you—a short, breathy huff coming out of his lips, almost like he hates that you caught him. "I also told myself I wouldn’t let you get to me."

He keeps driving. Still in control. Still composed. But you can feel it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his body is slowly but surely giving in. "...Keep going," he murmurs, almost absently, like he’s already resigned himself to the inevitable.

He would keep himself unnervingly still and eyes on the road while you lap up his girth, but barely seeing it. "When have you gotten good... at this?"

As Xavier would reach his peak, he'd let out a sharp, hissed intake of breath through clenched teeth, his body going rigid for a moment. He'd rasp, your name a little more than a breathless whisper.

Then, with a sudden, violent jerk of his hips, he'd bury himself deep in your throat, his thick, hot seed erupting forth in thick, heavy spurts.

Xavier's eyes would flutter shut, his head falling back against the headrest as he rode out the intense waves of his climax.

A low, guttural moan would rumble in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that seemed to echo through the confines of the car. His fingers would tighten in your hair, holding you in place as he emptied himself into your eager mouth, ensuring you took every last drop of his essence

As the final, weak spurts dribbled out, Xavier would slump back in his seat, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.

A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, and a faint flush colored his usually pallid cheeks. He'd shoot you a heated look, his eyes half-lidded but intense as they raked over your face. "Swallow it."

CALEB

Caleb would react to a sudden blowjob while driving with a mix of intense arousal and possessive desire lurking beneath the surface.

His eyes would flash with a fierce, hungry light as he glanced down at you, grip tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

"Oh, you're brave, huh?," he'd growl, your name falling from his lips like a dark promise. "You're playing dirty, my love."

Despite his words, he made no move to stop you, and instead of grabbing your hair, his veiny hand finds your nape, holding you in place as you worked over his throbbing cock. "Silly girl, trying to distract me like this..."

Caleb's hips would start to rock, fucking into your hot mouth with a growing sense of urgency. "Fuck, baby, your mouth feels so good," he'd pant, his voice rough and strained with pleasure.

As his climax approached, Caleb's eyes would darken, a fierce, almost manic light burning in their depths. "You're mine, you're... mine." he'd rasp, his voice a dark, dangerous rumble. "Only mine. And I won't let anyone, not even you, take that away from me." He'd tighten his grip on your nape, a touch of pain mingling with the pleasure.

He always had a habit of continuously praising and showering you possessive nothings while reaching for his climax.

With a harsh, animalistic cry, Caleb would reach his peak, his hot seed spurting forth to fill your mouth. "Fuck, yes, take it all!" Even pushing himself deeper to the point you wouldn't be able to breathe anymore.

And after he cums? "I'm not done yet." He pulls over the side of the road, and gets on you. Literally.

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

WAG Bootcamp: Part 2

Part 1

Word count: 593

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: On her first-ever race day, Y/n experiences the chaos, stress, and excitement of Formula 1 as the WAGs teach her how to survive the emotional rollercoaster.

________________________________________________________

Y/n thought she had survived the worst of the initiation. She had learned the pre-race rituals, mastered (or at least attempted) the mysterious “paddock girlfriend face,” and even accepted that she now had to irrationally hate any driver who so much as looked at Lando the wrong way.

But nothing could have prepared her for race day.

The paddock was buzzing with energy—fans screaming, engines roaring, and mechanics in a frenzy. Y/n had barely taken a sip of her coffee when Kika grabbed her arm.

“Alright, rookie. Time for the next lesson.”

“What now?” Y/n asked warily.

“How to survive a Grand Prix,” Lily said, tossing her a pair of noise-canceling headphones. “Trust me, you’ll need these.”

Lesson Four: The Race-Day Survival Guide

Y/n followed the WAGs to the McLaren hospitality area, where they had their usual spots. The screens showed the cars lining up on the grid, and she could already feel her heart pounding.

“Step one,” Alex said, crossing her arms. “No matter what happens, you do not freak out on camera. If Lando crashes, you hold it together until you’re inside.”

“Wait—crashes?” Y/n swallowed. “We’re talking about, like, little crashes, right?”

Silence.

“Right?”

Susie patted her shoulder. “You’ll be fine, dear.”

Not comforting.

“Step two,” Rebecca added, “learn the art of selective hearing. The commentators will say stupid things, the fans will tweet even dumber things, and some guy named David Croft will mispronounce names. Ignore it.”

“Step three,” Carmen leaned in, lowering her voice. “If Lando is leading, do not say out loud that he’s going to win. You will jinx it.”

Y/n blinked. “You guys actually believe in jinxes?”

Kelly, who had remained quiet until now, turned to her with a dead-serious expression. “Max retired from Monaco 2021 because I said, ‘This is going well.’”

Y/n gasped. “Oh my God.”

“We don’t talk about it,” Kika muttered.

The lights went out, and the race began.

Lesson Five: How to Emotionally Handle a Race (Spoiler: You Don’t)

It started fine. Lando had a clean start, holding position. Y/n sat on the edge of her seat, gripping her hands together, trying not to scream every time someone got too close to him.

Then, lap 12 happened.

A driver—who Y/n immediately decided to despise for eternity—dove down the inside, nearly taking Lando out.

Y/n shot to her feet. “WHAT THE—”

Lily yanked her back down. “Cameras!” she hissed.

“That was reckless!” Y/n whisper-yelled, furious.

“Congratulations,” Alex smirked. “You just experienced your first ‘what the hell was that’ moment. There will be many more.”

For the next thirty laps, Y/n experienced every emotion possible. Joy when Lando made an overtake. Panic when the pit stop took too long. Rage when another driver squeezed him off track. She nearly passed out when he was fighting for a podium.

And then—P2.

“He did it!” Y/n gasped as Lando crossed the line.

The WAGs cheered, clapping and hugging.

Y/n exhaled, feeling like she had just run a marathon. “I don’t know if I can do this every weekend.”

“You will,” Kelly said, sipping her drink. “Welcome to the rest of your life.”

Lesson Six: The Post-Race Debrief

After a chaotic cooldown period, Y/n finally found Lando, still in his race suit, hair messy from his helmet, grinning as he pulled her into a hug.

“How was your first race?” he asked, slightly breathless.

Y/n looked at him, remembering everything—the stress, the screaming, the insane group of women who had taken her in.

She smiled.

“Terrifying. But I think I love it.”

[misshuntereevee]

The Winner Takes it All, part 1.

( part 2 is out now. )

Synopsis: You look like the MC, and you actually remember bits and pieces of the myth (not all.) But MC finally shows up, with no memory, and Sylus can’t help but be drawn in. What will happen?

Note: I haven’t written anything in like a month so go easy on me 😅 I also am not beta-read, I just need Sylus simping and begging for forgiveness…

—

Two years ago. The little reminder flits across the screen.

But nonetheless, you sit in your shared apartment -- alone with a glass of wine. No missed calls, no texts.

You weren’t sure when it started. Probably the first time he saw her. She looked just like you. You — just like her. You didn’t think anything would shake how Sylus saw you. His princess. But she obviously did. He found himself torn -- were you his sorceress? Or was this woman?

When you do finally get a message from Sylus, it’s enough to make your heart drop. “I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up.”

No mention of the anniversary. Being sneaky, you decide to tap and see where he is. Linkon? Another few tabs and you see the feed of a sidewalk -- with him and Miss Hunter chatting. Your eyes close, your fingers rubbing the bridge of your nose. You feel your hands tighten around the stem of your wine glass until it shatters. You didn’t even feel the glass dig into your skin -- just the blood trickling down your wrist.

She’s wearing your smile. The smile that you give him. And he’s looking at her like she’s you. And as your doppelganger, she’s probably close.

As you treat your wound, you can’t help it. Tears overflow as blood washes out into the porcelain sink.

You’d promised yourself after how your father treated your mother that you’d never let yourself feel this way. Unloved. Don’t get you wrong -- if it had been this once, you probably wouldn’t have cared. But the fact of the matter -- this is the third time. You’d been keeping count.

So you call.

Once. No answer.

Twice. No answer.

By the third unanswered call, your hands tremble. The broken wine glass sits untouched beside you, the clock ticking in mockery. You stare at the phone screen, willing his name to appear, but nothing. Just silence. The kind that suffocates. The kind that makes decisions for you.

“If I’m not your little bird, then fine,” you say, grinding your teeth. You make one more call, this time to your best friend. She answers on the second ring and it’s not long before you’ve made your decision -- you’re leaving.

* * *

He’d call you as soon as he dropped her off.

He promised himself that. And while Sylus had a great memory, he suddenly had a nagging feeling that he was forgetting something. But he ignores the phone in his pocket as he listens to the woman next to him. Miss Hunter.

He can’t lie and say he doesn’t feel the attraction. But what happened? Why was she here if you were too? And which one was his princess? Which one was the one he was bonded to? He’d never had this linkage bond with you -- no, that only happened with this hunter. That…looked exactly like you.

The phone is ringing again, and Miss Hunter tilts her head. “Aren’t you going to answer that? Might be one of your henchmen.” She teases.

So he glances -- seeing your name, his fingers hover over the screen before pushing decline. “It’s not important right now.” And he shoots the simple text: Don’t wait up.

Walking her upstairs, Miss Hunter turns to face him. “Well, thanks for the ride… maybe you aren’t the monster everyone says you are.”

His lips stretch up in a smile. The words make him feel warm -- the way that for the longest time only you could do. “Careful, kitten. I might think you're softening up on me.”

“Never,” is all Miss Hunter says, before disappearing into her apartment.

He’s almost on his motorcycle when he gets another call. He answers it without looking, convinced it’s you again. “Hello, my little bird,” his voice says softly. The familiarity is settling in now that he knows he can talk to you -- something absent with Miss Hunter. In a way, he can recognize that Miss Hunter will never be able to give him that. But he has to know why she’s here. Why does she exist when you’re right there?

But it’s not your voice that replies. “Oh -- no, it’s Luke, boss. I thought you and the Missus were out on your anniversary date. I was calling --”

Sylus’ grip on his handlebars tightens. “What?” he nearly growls. The blood in his veins turns ice-cold. His knuckles go white, the rich and expensive leather groaning under the pressure. His breath catches in his throat, heart slamming against his ribs. He forgot. Fuck, he forgot. The realization crashes into him like a freight train, knocking the air from his lungs.

“Oh, I just saw the date on your calendar --”

“I’ll call you back,” he snarls.

Sylus knows as soon as he gets past the second ring that you aren’t going to pick up the phone. You never let it ring longer than that. But just in case, he waits until you let it go to voicemail. And then he calls again. And again. If he was a normal man, he’d be a little embarrassed to call so much -- but he wasn’t normal and he didn’t care.

By the tenth call, he’s gripping the device tightly. “'Pick up. Please, my little bird. Pick up.” The call goes to voicemail. Again. His chest tightens. He feels it now—the absence of you. And for the first time, he's truly afraid.

And for a moment, he wondered if he’d panic this much if it was Miss Hunter who was upset. Would he be upset if she was mad at him? Finally, he leaves a message: “Little bird, call me please. You know we need to talk about this.”

You’ll call him back with that. He was almost certain. But as he got closer and closer to your shared apartment, it became clear that you weren’t going to call. And all it did was give him time to think. And he came to the conclusion that you had every right to be pissed.

But he had no idea how pissed you were until he unlocked your shared front door -- and it’s all gone.

Not the furniture, no. But your favorite cardigan by the door? Gone. Your mail slot? Your name was ripped off, and only Sylus’ remained. The further he got into the apartment, the more he noticed was gone. Your brush, your blankets. Each missing item was a knife in his heart.

“Little bird?” He called out, holding onto a shred of hope before noticing a note on the bed. His red eyes narrow, stepping softly toward it.

And the words are enough to make him ball the note into a crumbled mess, and throw it against the wall with a snarling yell:

Sylus,

I don’t know how to write this. But as the weeks have passed since you met my doppelganger, I’ve realized there’s really nothing I can do to compete with myself. I thought our history was enough -- but I guess I can’t win against fate. My only wish is you would have let me know before I dug my claws in.

Like you’d know, my dragon, it hurts to pull them back out. And it hurts even more to see the open wound I left -- I am not sure if it will stop bleeding out.

Take care of yourself,

Your Little Bird

Y/N

The words you wrote echo in your voice in his head. He could see the teardrop stains marking the paper. Little scratch marks -- like you hesitated. And he’s hit with the feeling -- maybe if he’d just answered sooner, he could have stopped this.

And -- how stupid could he have been to pay so little attention that he missed your anniversary? And how stupid was he for still feeling conflicted about Miss Hunter?

But the strongest feeling was this: he needed to see you again. The possibility of not seeing you again… that was enough to make him never visit Linkon again.

* * *

It’s been two weeks since you left. You weren’t from the N109 Zone and you weren’t from Linkon -- so he’d crossed that off his list. But you weren’t in your hometown either. Sylus rode his motorcycle through your old stomping grounds -- and it brought him some comfort to be here. In your home -- since you’d fled the one you’d shared together.

His phone rings -- Miss Hunter.

And surprisingly -- he doesn’t answer.

Because a better notification comes up from Luke and Kieran.

“Hey, Boss! We’ve got sightings of Madam over in Brighton,” they say, happy to give him some sort of good news. Because the last few weeks -- Sylus has been downright vicious in his hunt to find you. To tell you sorry.

“Brighton? Interesting. Send me the coordinates,” he says. The location is a cafe. It’s filled with books, magazines-- all your favorites. That part made sense. There’s slight relief in his thoughts. Knowing where you were was better than not knowing. If you were in Brighton, then you were probably safe. Alive. And not under Ever’s thumb somewhere.

You’re safe. That’s what matters. That’s what he keeps telling himself as he watches you laugh at a cashier’s statement —like nothing is wrong, like the past two years meant nothing. You’re alive. You’re fine.

But the longer he looks -- it’s enough to make him murderous.

It’s the cashier you’re speaking with. You’re laughing…you’re happy. ayou hadn’t smiled like that at him since Miss Hunter arrived… Realistically, anyone could say it was innocent, but now --

He should be the one making you laugh. He should be the one paying too. Jealousy doesn’t come easy to Sylus -- but right now -- he’s understanding how you felt the last few weeks with Miss Hunter. But unlike you -- he thinks to himself as he puts the kickstand on his bike down -- he’s not afraid to step in.

If you thought two years would disappear like that -- you’re wrong. And he’ll prove it. (He has to.)

Please like/reblog for part 2! I am not sure how much I love this or not yet, so let me know if you do. Comments are appreciated but not required. 🫶🏻

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 17

˗ˏˋ reconnecting ˎˊ˗

"Fridays are not always the best day of the week, you can vouch for this one at least. It's Emma's birthday party and you're not sure you two still vibe together or not after all this time. And coming home... you don't expect Jungkook to be awake, especially not with your cold war going on. But he is."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9,6k

content: begrudgingly gift-shopping, hidden treasures, old vs new friendships, reconnecting, pretty girls and the inability to discern whether it's flirting or polite talk, AM talks, actually listening (thank god, progress!), and vanilla kink striking again because jungkook in this fic has free will and i cannot control him

✧ author's note ✧

WASSSSSUPPPP my peoplessss!!

Okay so here’s Chapter 17—aka the chapter where all of you start collectively projecting your unresolved issues with your high school best friend, your fuckboy roommate, and your local pastel/goth lesbian duo. I say that with love.

Now LISTEN. I keep raising the bar for this story like but honestly?? That’s on YOU. You absolute feral gremlins with your “when’s the next update” comments like I’m a vending machine that dispenses emotional damage. (It’s fine. I thrive under fear and pressure. You’re welcome.)

About this chapter!! So my initial plan was for Nix to buy Jungkook an actual vinyl player… until I did the research and realized those bitches go for 150-300 bucks even secondhand. Be fr. They are NOT in a relationship. This man is her hot emotional disaster roommate who’s been beefing with her for three days and literally slammed a door at her. I would not spend a single euro on that man beyond what is legally required. Fifteen dollars for a John Mayer record? That’s the sweet spot. It says “I hate you but I know what music you like and I think about you when you’re not around and that makes me want to bite drywall.”

Also: if you know that Inside Wants Out is an early acoustic EP that’s kinda slept on but has a few gut-wrenching tracks about vulnerability and romantic ambivalence… well. Have fun.

Now shut up because I love writing female friendships and this chapter is my offering to the goddesses of sapphic chaos. Yeji and Irya being absolute queens??? We love. But also EMMA. Emma and that awkward tension of do we still fit? Did we ever really know each other or was it just proximity and hormones and being stuck in the same suburban hellscape? That shit is SO REAL. Reuniting with old friends is like a spiritual liminal space and I needed to capture that gnawing weirdness.

AND JIMIN. The eyeliner scene??? I almost CRIED writing it. I had to pause. That man is so soft it makes me want to shove him into a pillow fort and protect him from the world. He’s so good. He sees her, without wanting anything in return. You better analyze it or I’ll strangle every single one of you.

Now. Regarding the very tense bathroom cologne scene. I was actually going to drag the cold war out longer, truly. I had plans. But Jungkook opened his slutty little mouth and said, “No, actually, I’m feral and I’ve been suffering in silence and she smells like sex and nostalgia and I must act.” And what was I supposed to do? Argue? Please. I have 0 narrative agency here. That much is clear.

Also his birthday is coming. So like. I didn’t want to enter that subplot with them still fake-ignoring each other like divorced parents. You’re welcome.

ANYWAY. The next few chapters are slower paced but VERY important. It’s all those little moments where the characters start changing without realizing it. The kind of growth you only see in hindsight. The slow part of the slow burn. But I swear to god I’m obsessed with how it’s turning out and I just want to share it with you and roll around in the angst like a dog in grass.

Okay that’s all. I love you. Go scream in the comments or eat drywall. Or both! <3 Mwah.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Fridays aren't supposed to sneak up on you like a debt collector with something to prove.

Usually, you spend the whole week crawling toward Friday like it's an oasis in the desert of your existence. Monday is hell. Tuesday is hell's waiting room. Wednesday offers a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, the week won't actually kill you. Thursday is its own special brand of torture—so close to freedom you can taste it, but still trapped in the purgatory of obligation.

And then: Friday. 

Glorious, beautiful Friday.

Except this one. This one materialized out of nowhere, ambushing you with its presence and the sudden, horrifying realization that you have exactly zero hours to prepare for what's coming.

So here you are, somehow already standing in a flea market that smells like mothballs and questionable life choices, watching Yeji hold up a fishnet... something against her body while Irya coos over crystals that probably came from the dollar store.

"What do you think?" Yeji asks, draping the fishnet monstrosity over her shoulders. "Is it giving 'fashion-forward' or 'I found this in a dumpster'?"

"Definitely dumpster," you mutter, eyes scanning the crowded stalls without really seeing them. 

Because your mind? Your mind is elsewhere—specifically on the fact that you still need to find a birthday gift for your insufferable roommate.

Jungkook. 

Just thinking his name makes your jaw clench. 

It's been three days since your argument, and the apartment has been a cold war zone of pointed silences and aggressive door closing. 

He wants to be petty? Fine. You can be petty right back. Twice as petty, even. So you’re not talking to him either.

"Hello?” Yeji waves a hand in front of your face. "You've been staring at that old guy selling taxidermy squirrels for like, two minutes straight. Should I be concerned?"

You blink, refocusing. "What? No. I'm just... looking."

"For what exactly?" Irya appears at your side, a small purple crystal clutched in her palm. "You said you already got Emma's birthday present."

"Just browsing," you lie smoothly. "Flea markets are full of... treasures."

Yeji snorts. "Since when do you care about 'treasures'? Last time I dragged you to a vintage store, you said it smelled like 'dead people's closets.'"

“No I didn’t.”

"Right." Yeji doesn't look convinced, but she's already distracted by a display of chunky silver rings. "I'm gonna check these out. Meet you at the food trucks in twenty?"

You nod, grateful for the chance to browse alone. Not that you have any fucking clue what to get Jungkook. What do you buy for someone whose entire personality seems to be "brooding film student with inexplicably good taste in coffee"?

It is like an abandoned warehouse, this flea market—stalls crammed together in haphazard rows, hipsters and bargain hunters elbowing past each other, haggling over everything from antique doorknobs to hand-knitted beanies that look like they were made by someone's cat…

You wander aimlessly, passing stalls selling vintage cameras (too expensive), artisanal coffee beans (too obvious), and leather-bound journals (too pretentious, even for him). 

Nothing feels right. 

Not that it matters—it's just a stupid obligation gift. You shouldn't care this much.

But you do. And that's annoying as fuck.

Then, a rickety table stacked with milk crates catches your eye—or rather, the handwritten sign that reads "RECORDS $5-20" in faded Sharpie. 

The elderly man behind the table looks like he's been selling vinyl since before your parents were born, his weathered hands carefully flipping through a box as a customer asks about some obscure band.

You wait until they leave, then approach, trying to look like someone who actually knows something about records. The crates are dusty, disorganized, with no apparent system. Just hundreds of albums crammed together like sardines.

"Looking for anything specific?" the old man asks, voice gravelly from what you assume are decades of cigarettes.

"Just browsing," you say, already flipping through the nearest crate.

Most of the covers are faded, corners bent, some with water damage or mysterious stains you'd rather not identify. You recognize maybe one in ten artists—a lot of jazz, classic rock, some folk singers your dad probably listened to in college.

This is stupid. You don't know what you're looking for. Jungkook collects vinyl but doesn't even own a record player. What kind of pretentious bullshit is that? It's like buying books just to display them on a shelf without reading them.

You're about to give up when your fingers pause on a familiar name.

John Mayer.

The album cover is slightly worn at the edges, but otherwise in decent condition. 

"Inside Wants Out," it says in simple white letters against the picture of a dude (you guess it’s John) in the background. 

You don’t recognize it at all.

But Jungkook listens to him. His vynil collection is basically a shrine to him. 

So you ask "how much?", holding up the record.

The old man squints. "Fifteen."

Fifteen bucks. Okay, that’s... actually reasonable. Not so expensive that it seems like you care, but not so cheap that it looks like an afterthought. 

Just a casual, "hey, saw this and thought of your weird vinyl collection" kind of gift.

Perfect.

"I'll take it," you say, already digging in your bag for your wallet.

The man slides the record into a paper sleeve, takes your money, and hands you your change with a nod. 

Transaction complete. Gift acquired. Problem solved.

You tuck the record under your arm, feeling oddly satisfied despite yourself. It's just a record. Just a stupid birthday gift for your annoying roommate who thinks he knows everything about everyone, including your taste in men.

But as you weave through the crowd toward the food trucks, you can't help but wonder if he'll like it. If his face will do that thing—that brief, unguarded thing where his eyes light up before he remembers he's supposed to be all cool and detached.

Not that you care. You're just fulfilling a social obligation. That's all.

That's absolutely all.

"Did you actually buy something?" Yeji asks when you reach her, eyeing the record under your arm. "Since when are you into vinyl?"

"Just decoration. For the vinyl wall.”

Irya peers at it. "John Mayer? Isn't he like, your dad's music?"

"He's not that old," you find yourself saying, then immediately wonder why you're defending John fucking Mayer of all people. "And anyway, it was cheap."

"Whatever you say." Yeji shrugs, then holds up a small paper bag. "I got those earrings we saw last week. The ones that look like little daggers."

"Nice," you nod, grateful for the subject change. "I'm starving. Can we get food now?"

As you follow them toward the food trucks, you resist the urge to check the record again, to make sure it's not too scratched or damaged. It doesn't matter. It's just a record. Just a gift.

Just something to cross off your to-do list before Emma's birthday tonight and Jungkook's surprise dinner tomorrow.

Nearing the trucks, suddenly everything smells good. Too good. The kind of good that makes decision-making a fucking nightmare.

You slow your steps, scanning the options.

One truck’s got sizzling skewers of grilled meat, charred at the edges, dripping onto soft pita. Another is doing fresh arepas, the scent of melted cheese thick and indulgent in the air. A few feet away, some guy with tattooed knuckles and an unreasonably aggressive beanie is ladling out steaming bowls of Vietnamese pho.

And then there’s the birria taco stand—because of course there is—and the line is criminally long, people clutching Styrofoam trays of consommé like their lives depend on it.

Your stomach rumbles.

By the time you settle on something—one of those ridiculous but beautiful smash burgers, glossy brioche bun soaking up all that greasy, caramelized goodness—you barely get your wallet out before Yeji hip-checks you out of the way.

“I pay, I pay, I pay,” she announces, tapping her phone against the card reader with swift finality.

You blink. “Okay, what?”

Yeji grins, entirely too pleased with herself. “Well, I’m obviously paying for my beautiful girlfriend, and I kinda figured I’d put you in the package deal.”

You snort, giving her a shove. “Fine. But beers later on me.”

“Deal,” she says easily, tossing the receipt onto the counter like a Wall Street exec closing a million-dollar deal.

Irya latches onto your arm, steering you out of the way so Yeji can continue flirting with the guy behind the counter—some blue-haired, too-many-rings kind of guy who’s already leaning into it, smirking as Yeji compliments his “artistry” with the grill.

“She’s ridiculous,” you mutter.

Irya hums, but there’s amusement in her eyes as she grabs your food, balancing her own order on top of yours. “Just my type of ridiculous.”

You shake your head, leading the way toward a set of old picnic tables at the edge of the food truck lot. The wood is worn, graffiti-scratched and dented from years of use, but it’s clean enough. You drop into a seat, setting your tray down, and Irya follows, sliding in across from you.

She sets her elbow on the table, chin resting lightly in her palm, and smiles. A lock of blonde hair falls loose, catching the light, and she tucks it back behind her ear absently.

“So, Emma’s birthday tonight?”

You unwrap your burger, glancing up at her. “Yeah.”

She studies you for a second, eyes warm. “Excited?”

You hesitate. 

“Yeah,” you say again, but it comes out different this time. Not untrue, exactly, but not as sure as it should be.

Irya notices. Tilts her head slightly, patient, the corners of her mouth tugging into something knowing. 

“You don’t have to be.”

A breath of something close to laughter slips out of you.

 “I mean, I am excited,” you say, because you are. “It’s just—it’s been a while. We used to be really close in high school, but then, you know… life.”

Irya nods, thumb idly tracing the grain of the table. “She’s in Columbia, right?”

“Yeah. I stayed in-state for a bit before moving here. Different cities, different schools, different everything.” You shrug, picking at the edge of the wax paper lining your tray. “We tried to keep in touch, but it’s not the same when you’re not living through the same things anymore. And then you just… don’t talk as much. And then that becomes normal.”

“And now?”

“Now she’s in the city, and I guess we’re both trying to reconnect.”

“That’s good,” Irya says, and she means it. “It’s nice when people want to find their way back to each other.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, glancing down at your food, pushing a fry through the puddle of ketchup on your tray. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Irya watches you, quiet for a second. Then—

“She’s inviting a lot of people, right?”

You nod, grateful for the slight shift in direction. “Yeah. Told me to bring people, too, so I figured you and Yeji. Maybe Jimin.”

“Jimin would love that.” Irya grins. “He’s been in study-group hell all week. He deserves some fun.”

“You think?” You manage to say whilst chewing on the potato. “I thought I wouldn’t be doing him any favors. Like, he’s the type of person to say yes just out of obligation. And I didn’t want to pressure him into anything.”

Irya makes a soft sound of amusement, propping her chin in her palm. “Nah. If Jimin really didn’t want to go, he’d find a way to say no without actually saying no.”

You pause mid-chew. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’d do that thing where he apologizes like, three different ways in the same sentence, but somehow, you still walk away not totally sure if he said yes or no.”

You snort, swallowing. “Okay, yeah. That sounds about right.”

Irya grins, poking at her fries. “And anyway, he actually likes going out. He just overthinks it first.”

“You say that like you’re sure.”

“I am sure,” she says breezily. “I have classes with him. I watch it happen in real time.”

“Real time?”

“Oh, yeah. Like, someone invites him somewhere, and you can see him start to spiral. Like, ‘Okay, but what if I go and I regret it? But what if I don’t go and I regret that instead? But what if I go, but it’s not fun? But what if I don’t go, and it was fun, and now I’m missing out?’” She mimics his voice, exaggerated and tragic, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Okay, but that is a valid crisis.”

“It is,” Irya agrees, laughing too. “But the point is, once he actually gets there, he has a good time.” She levels you with a look, half teasing, half expectant. “So invite him.”

You sigh, reaching for another fry. “Fine.”

And then—

“I got us free dumplings.”

Yeji appears out of nowhere, sliding into the seat next to Irya and dropping a white takeout box onto the table like she’s just secured a goddamn business deal.

You blink. “How?”

She shrugs, already reaching for a dumpling. “Wouldn’t take my money.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Irya hums, all faux-innocent. “Didn’t happen to have anything to do with that very long, very intimate conversation you were having with the guy behind the counter, did it?”

Yeji smirks around a bite of dumpling. “I dunno. Did it?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Men and their non-existent gaydars.”

“Right? Kinda sucks when she grabs all their attention,” Irya smiles, reaching for a dumpling of her own.

“Not my fault he was easy to entertain,” Yeji says, looking entirely unbothered. “Anyway, eat. They’re fresh.”

You don’t argue. The dumplings are good—warm, crisp at the edges, the filling rich with just the right balance of spice.

Yeji watches you for a second, chewing thoughtfully. “So what were we talking about?”

“Jimin,” Irya supplies.

Yeji groans. “Ugh. Tragic little academic. Is he still alive?”

Irya nods, popping a dumpling into her mouth. “Barely. But we’re dragging him to Emma’s party tonight, so he might actually remember what fun feels like.”

Yeji quirks an eyebrow, chewing slowly. “Emma?” She flicks a glance at you. “Your other friend? Birthday girl?”

You take a sip of your drink. “Mmhm.”

Yeji hums, tapping her chopsticks against the takeout box. “Bestie competition, then.”

You nearly choke. “Oh my god.”

Irya grins, delighted. “It is kind of serious. High school bestie versus new college besties.”

Yeji tilts her head, considering. “I don’t know, man. Legacy friends have an unfair advantage. History. Nostalgia.”

“Yeah,” Irya sighs, fake mournful. “How can we ever compete with the memories?”

You level them both with a flat look. “You’ve known me for a month.”

Yeji leans back. “It’s been a whole month already? Woah.”

“We’re joking. I’m sure we’ll get along.” Irya adds.

You snort, shaking your head.

Yeji watches you for a second, still smirking, but then the expression shifts—just a little. 

“Are you excited?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because it’s unexpected, but because it’s… genuine.

You pause, setting down your cup. 

“Yeah,” you say, slower this time. “I mean, I haven’t seen her in a while, so it’ll be—nice. A little weird, maybe. But nice.”

Yeji nods. “You gonna introduce us?”

You blink. “Uh. Yeah?”

Irya arches her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

You groan. “Oh my god, what is that supposed to mean?”

Yeji shrugs, reaching for another dumpling. “I mean, if she’s bestie material, we gotta vet her.”

“Shouldn’t she be the one vetting you two? She’s known me since I had braces and a regrettable side bang phase. Feels like she’s got seniority here.”

Yeji gasps. “Wow. So you’re saying we have no authority in this situation?”

“We really don’t.” Irya muses, almost singsonging.

“I don’t know,” Yeji muses, tapping a finger against her chin. “I feel like we bring some very important qualifications to the table. For example, we met Y/N when she was already in her fully realized, evolved form. We didn’t just settle for her because we grew up in the same town.”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus.”

Yeji nods, completely serious. “Yeah, we got to make an informed choice. Handpicked, if you will.”

“Wow, lucky me.”

Irya grins. “So lucky.”

You shake your head, reaching for another fry. “Just… behave.”

“I always behave,” Yeji says, smirking. “You’re just afraid we’ll be better besties than Emma.”

You scoff. “That’s not even remotely the issue.”

“Then what is the issue?” Irya prompts, head tilting to the side.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know, but because saying it out loud feels like giving it weight. Giving it power.

You exhale. “It’s just—there’s a difference between keeping in touch and actually knowing someone after years apart. And I guess I don’t know if we still… fit the way we used to.”

That quiets them for a beat.

Yeji tilts her head, watching you with something unreadable in her gaze. Irya rests her chin in her palm again, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips.

“That’s fair,” Irya says, voice softer this time. “It’s weird when people grow in different directions. Sometimes you come back together. Sometimes you don’t.”

You nod, not entirely trusting yourself to speak.

“But hey,” Yeji cuts in, voice as casual as ever, “if she sucks, at least you’ll have us.”

You huff a laugh. “So generous of you.”

She winks. “I know.”

And just like that, the weight on your chest feels a little lighter.

You stare at your reflection, one eye perfectly winged, the other a smudged disaster—like your life, really: half put together, half absolute chaos.

You lean closer to the mirror, squinting at your uneven eyeliner with the kind of intense focus that FBI agents would reserve for defusing bombs or something. You've been at this for twenty minutes now, and your right eye is starting to look like it's been drawn by a five-year-old with a crayon during an earthquake.

"Fuck," you mutter, reaching for a cotton swab. 

Third time's the charm, right? 

Or maybe fifth. 

You've lost count.

From the living room, Griffin's thunderous purr competes with Yeji's animated voice. She's been trying to convince Yoongi to produce some track for her for the past fifteen minutes, her persistence almost admirable if it weren't so clearly futile. Yoongi's monotone responses barely register over the distance, but you can picture his expression—bored, unbothered, probably wanting to kill himself before engaging.

"Orange cats are literally the basic bitches of the cat world," Yeji declares loudly enough for you to hear. "Black cats have personality. They have depth. They're mysterious."

"Tell that to Griffin," Irya responds, her voice warm and amused. "He seems pretty content being basic on your lap right now."

"That's cats for you," Yeji sighs dramatically. "The least person who wants them is the one who gets them."

You smile despite your eyeliner frustration. Because it’s ironic—Yeji, who swears black cats are superior, is now trapped under Griffin's substantial orange weight. 

That's karma, feline edition.

You’re wearing a dress to the gathering—the same one from that night in January. You've worn it exactly once since buying it, and now it's making its second appearance. 

It's not like you planned it this way. It just happened to be the perfect outfit for Emma's birthday dinner. 

(At least that's what you tell yourself as you deliberately avoid examining your motives too closely.)

Emma. Your high school friend. Your only real connection to your life before college. 

Before this apartment. 

Before Jungkook. 

You haven't seen her in months (since that night in January), and there's a strange anxiety bubbling in your stomach that has nothing to do with your makeup struggles. 

You did vibe back then. But… was it a ‘we vibe because we are going out’ situation; or was it because you two actually connected?

People change. You've changed. The question hanging in the air is whether you've changed in compatible ways.

At least you won't be alone tonight. Emma said you could bring friends, so naturally, you are bringing them along.

You dab at your eyeliner again, smudging it further. Great. Now you look like you've been punched. Or crying. Or both.

A soft knock on the door interrupts your silent self-criticism.

"Come in," you call, not bothering to hide your frustration. It's not like anyone in this apartment hasn't seen you in various states of disaster before.

The door creaks open, and Jimin's face appears in the gap, his expression shifting from curious to sympathetic as he takes in your makeup situation.

"Having trouble?" he asks, stepping into the small bathroom. 

The space immediately feels warmer with him in it. Jimin has that effect—like a human comfort blanket.

"What gave it away?" you deadpan, gesturing to your face. "The fact that I look like I let a toddler do my makeup, or the fact that I've been in here for half an hour?"

He laughs softly, the sound gentle and reassuring. "It's not that bad."

"Liar."

"Okay, it's a little uneven," he admits, moving closer to examine your handiwork. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies your face with unexpected intensity. "Let me."

Before you can respond, he's taking the eyeliner from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours in a brief moment of warmth.

"You know how to do this?" you ask, surprised.

"I have sisters," he says simply, which doesn't really answer your question, but you don't push it. "Close your eye," he instructs, his voice soft but confident.

You comply, feeling the gentle pressure of his hand steadying your face. His touch is light, precise—and you can’t help but feel this is some sort of significant moment. 

"Stay still," he murmurs, and you can sense the smile forming on his lips.

The eyeliner glides across your lid with surprising smoothness. One stroke, then another. No hesitation in his movement. You're impressed and a little confused by his skill, but mostly grateful.

"Where did you learn to—"

"Shh," he interrupts. "No talking or I'll mess up."

You fall silent, letting him work. There's something about Jimin that's always made you curious. He's like a book with half the pages glued together—what you can read is beautiful, but you sense there's more to the story.

"Done," he announces after a moment, stepping back to admire his work. "Take a look."

You turn to the mirror and blink in surprise. The wing is perfect—sharp enough to kill a man, as Yeji herself would say. It matches the other eye exactly, creating a symmetry you couldn't achieve on your own.

"Jimin, this is..." you trail off, turning to face him. "How are you so good at this?"

He shrugs, a small, almost shy grin playing at his lips. "I just have a steady hand, I guess."

There's more to it than that—you can tell by the way he avoids your eyes, the slight flush creeping up his neck. But something tells you not to press further. 

Everyone has their secrets.

Private pieces they're not ready to share. 

You, of all people, know that.

"Well, whatever the reason, thank you," you say sincerely. "You just saved me from looking like a hot mess at Emma's birthday."

"Happy to help," he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "You look beautiful."

The compliment is simple, genuine, without the weight of expectation or desire that usually accompanies such words from men. 

It's refreshing. Because you feel like Jimin sees you—really sees you—without wanting anything in return.

"We should probably get going soon," he says, glancing at his watch. "Yeji's been threatening to leave without us for the past ten minutes."

"As if she would," you scoff, reaching for your lipstick. "She's too excited about meeting Emma and judging her worthiness."

Jimin laughs. "True. Though I think she's more excited about the free food."

"Priorities," you agree with a smile.

You apply your lipstick—a muted berry shade that complements your eyeshadow without being too dramatic. The final touch to your appearance. Not too casual, not too glamorous. Perfect for a birthday dinner.

You've always loved makeup, the ritual of it, the transformation. 

Not because you're trying to hide or become someone else, but because it's an extension of yourself—another form of expression. 

You're so tired of those cliché "not like other girls" characters in movies and books who supposedly wear nothing but mascara yet somehow have flawless skin and perfect brows. 

As if enjoying makeup somehow makes you shallow or less authentic.

The truth is, most girls you know love makeup to some degree. Some for the artistry, some for the confidence boost, some just because it's fun. And you're no different. 

That doesn't make you basic or vain—it makes you human. 

A human who happens to enjoy the satisfying swipe of a good lipstick.

"Ready?" Jimin asks, holding the door open for you.

You take one last look at your reflection. The girl staring back looks put together, confident. 

Whether she actually feels that way is another story entirely, but hey—fake it till you make it, right?

"Ready," you confirm.

You're halfway out the door when you pause. 

Something's missing. The final touch.

"Oh, wait. Cologne."

Jimin nods understandingly, already retreating toward the living room. "Don't take too long or Yeji might actually follow through on her threats this time."

You turn back to the bathroom counter, sliding open the narrow drawer where your collection lives. Four different bottles stare back at you, each with its own personality, its own statement. Your fingers hover over them, indecisive, until they land on one particular bottle.

Ember.

The golden liquid catches the bathroom light, glowing like trapped sunlight inside the crystal bottle. 

You haven't used it since... well, since that night in January. You've been saving it for special occasions, though what constitutes "special" has remained conveniently undefined.

You lift the bottle, turning it in your hand. You apply it to your wrists, your neck, your ears. And before you can overthink it, you bring it to your nose, inhaling lightly.

Memories unfurl instantly, blooming in your mind like clouds puffing up in a winter sky. They tumble through your consciousness, overwhelming and vivid, making it hard to breathe—though you're not entirely sure you want to.

His hands on your hips, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough pressure to leave phantom marks that lingered for days afterward. 

His slicked chin when he smiled up at you from between your thighs, all smug and proud for making you cum with his tongue. 

His infuriating, satisfied smirk that somehow annoyed you, but also turned you on.

Rosy cheeks and disheveled hair, soft eyes in the aftermath. 

You distinctly remember that was the first time you had thought Jungkook looked cute. Not just hot or sexy, but genuinely cute in a way that had caught you off guard.

And you didn't even know his name then.

The door swings open without warning.

You nearly drop the bottle, fumbling to catch it before it shatters against the tile floor. Your heart leaps into your throat as you look up, startled.

Jungkook peers inside, and you both freeze, staring at each other like you don’t know which one of you should stay and which one of you should leave. His eyes flick from your face to the bottle in your hand, recognition dawning in his expression.

A long pause.

Your eyes drift down his torso, inevitably.

He's wearing a black t-shirt that hugs his frame in all the right places, hair rumpled and messy. His rainy-like scent envelops the cramped space, mingling with the lingering notes of vanilla on your wrist like they’ve always belonged together. 

His eyes drift too. Drop lower, taking in the dress hugging your curves, fingers tightening on the doorframe, knuckles whitening with the pressure. 

You watch the subtle movement, the physical manifestation of restraint, and feel an answering tightness in your chest.

You haven't spoken since Tuesday. Since the fight about Jason. Since he suddenly starting talking about vibes like he’s the type of guy to trust his gut.

And maybe he is. 

And maybe you aren’t.

"Sorry," he says finally, breaking the silence. "Didn't know you were in here."

He avoids your gaze.

You don’t know if that makes you angry or anxious. It’s hard to determine what’s crippling your chest.

"It's fine. I was just leaving."

Neither of you moves.

His eyes drift to the cologne bottle again. Recognition, desire, frustration. 

Then, he masks it. 

But you caught it. 

He remembers the fragrance.

And how could he not? When he constantly praised it that night, how it rested on your skin, how good it made you smell, how fucking good you tasted.

"Going somewhere?" he asks then, interrupting your conflicting thoughts.

"Emma's birthday dinner," you reply, voice tight.

He nods slowly, gaze returning to the dress. The dress from that night. The dress he peeled off you with those same hands now gripping the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him anchored.

You should move. You should cap the cologne, put it away, walk past him and join your friends who are waiting. You should maintain the cold war you've established since your fight.

Instead, you find yourself asking, "Did you need something?"

He purses his lips. "Just needed to pee.”

"Right," you say. "I'll get out of your way."

You cap the cologne, and you just know his eyes are tracking your every motion. Because that’s Jungkook for you—when he’s focused on something, it’s obvious.

You move toward the door—toward him—and it’s like suddenly, the small bathroom feels impossibly smaller. Like there’s not enough space for both of you and all the unspoken words crowding the air.

You'll have to squeeze past him. There's no way to avoid it.

His grip on the doorframe tightens further, as if he's holding himself back. From what, you're not entirely sure. Touching you? Yelling at you? Both seem equally possible.

"Excuse me," you murmur.

He steps back marginally, not enough to clear the path completely. 

Like he’s hesitating. 

Like he doesn’t know whether he wants to move for real, or stay rooted in place.

“Jungkook,” you say, and his name feels strange on your tongue after days of not speaking it. “Move.”

“You smell like that night,” he settles for staying instead of moving, voice dropping lower, annoyed. “You know that, right? You’re going to smell exactly like you did when I had you against that wall.”

Your breath catches. Heat blooms across your chest, up your neck.

“That’s not—” you start, but the lie dies on your lips. 

Because it is. Of course it is. You knew exactly what you were doing when you reached for that bottle.

You see his jaw work. His tongue peek against the inside of his cheek. His eyes lock into yours like he wants to say something else.

But he doesn’t. 

“Have fun at your dinner,” is all he comes up with, stepping aside. 

The movement feels like it costs him something.

You move past him. Take a deep breath, pushing thoughts of Jungkook aside. 

Tonight isn’t about him. It’s about Emma, about reconnecting with a part of your life that existed before this apartment, before him.

But as you step into the living room, you can still feel the weight of his gaze on your back, can still smell Ember on your skin, can still hear his voice in your ear.

You know that, right? You’re going to smell exactly like you did when I had you against that wall.

And the worst part is, you don’t know why or how—but maybe that’s exactly what you wanted.

The restaurant is too loud, too crowded, too New York—but Emma’s hug is warm, and that makes up for it.

“Finally.” She squeezes you tight, like she’s trying to merge your atoms together. “You took forever.”

Yeji, behind you, snorts. “Blame her eyeliner existential crisis.”

Emma pulls back, eyebrows raised. “Oh? We still doing that?”

“We are always doing that,” you deadpan.

She laughs—her laugh. It’s the same as it was in high school, loud and full, like she actually enjoys things instead of just tolerating them. That hasn’t changed. Neither has the way she looks at you, eyes scanning your face, taking you in like she’s checking if you’re still the same person too.

The answer? You don’t know.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you guys,” she says, looping an arm through yours.

You let yourself be pulled in—into the restaurant, into her world, into the crowd of fifteen fucking people all squeezed around a too-small table in the back corner. She moves through the chaos easily, hand on your wrist, steering you like she used to when you were seventeen and invincible.

“This is Yeji, Irya, and Jimin,” you say as you go, pointing them out like exhibits in a museum.

Emma grins at them, all effortless charm. “Your uni friends. I’ve heard so much.”

Jimin, ever polite, smiles back. “All good things, I hope.”

Emma does not confirm or deny, which says enough.

There’s a blur of names you won’t remember—Emma’s friends, classmates, people who probably have their lives together in a way you do not. Someone pulls her into another conversation, and you hover awkwardly at the edge of the group, watching her slip back into a world that isn’t yours.

It’s strange.

You used to know everything about her. Every inside joke, every dream, every late-night insecurity whispered over FaceTime. 

But now—now you’re an observer. 

A guest.

Still, when she sits, she grabs your wrist again and tugs you down next to her.

“So,” she starts, picking up her glass—red wine, something deep and rich. “Are you finally admitting that I was right, or are we still in the denial phase?”

You blink, thrown. “About what?”

She gives you a look. “Do I have to spell it out?”

Your stomach knots.

Jungkook. She means Jungkook.

You exhale through your nose, reaching for your water instead. “We are so not doing this here.”

Emma grins, but she lets it go—for now.

Instead, she leans back. “God, I forgot how exhausting socializing is. I swear, law school is turning me into one of those people who can only function in coffee shops and libraries.”

You snort. “You were already that person in high school.”

“True,” she concedes, tilting her glass toward you. “But now it’s worse. Now I actually enjoy tax law. Like, genuinely. It’s fascinating.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I refuse to believe that.”

“Swear on my life,” she says, amused. “You should see me in my internship. I get excited about deductions. I have a favorite tax loophole.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Emma just grins. “Give it time. One day, you’ll come to me, desperate for tax advice, and I’ll be your only hope. And I will lord it over you.”

“You wish.”

“Oh, I know.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the way your lips twitch. It’s easy, falling into conversation with Emma. Easier than you thought it would be, considering how much has changed since high school.

“So, what’s the plan then?” you ask, nudging your knee against hers under the table. “You still set on Seattle after graduation?”

Emma hesitates. Not in a bad way—more like she’s holding onto something, waiting for the right moment.

“Actually,” she says, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers. “I’ve been thinking about Europe.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Europe?”

“Yeah.” She leans forward slightly, eyes lighting up. “I did a summer program there—France, Italy, Greece, Spain. It was insane. I loved it. I don’t know, I just—” She exhales, shaking her head like she can’t quite put it into words. “Seattle was always the safe plan, you know? The practical one. But now? I keep thinking about the Mediterranean coast. The markets, the people. It feels like people there work to live, not live to work like they do here in America.”

You watch her carefully. Emma has always been a planner, a strategist. She doesn’t make decisions lightly.

And yet—she looks alive talking about this.

“So, what?” you ask. “You’re gonna become a tax attorney in Greece? Help rich expats avoid paying their fair share?”

Emma snorts. “God, no. If I go, I’d probably work with international firms, corporate law, maybe even consulting. It’s different over there, you know? Taxes, policies, loopholes—everything shifts depending on the country, the treaties in place.”

“You realize you sound even worse now, right?”

“Shut up,” she laughs. “At least I’m passionate about something.”

You hum, thoughtful. “So, Europe.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Nothing’s set in stone yet.”

But you can tell, just from the way she says it, that it’s more than a maybe.

It’s funny. The last time you saw her, she was talking about Seattle like it was inevitable. Now she’s talking about the Mediterranean coast with the kind of quiet certainty that makes you think she’s already half there.

People change.

You’ve changed.

And yet, it feels like nothing between you two has changed at all. 

Emma eyes you for a long moment, then smirks. 

“Your turn.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve barely told me anything about your life,” she says. “How’s English? Still planning on breaking the hearts of young, impressionable students as a professor?”

“First of all, no. That is not the plan. And second—”

“You can’t tell me you don’t look the part,” she teases. “The eyeliner? The whole vibe? You’d have students falling in love with you instantly.”

“I hate you.”

She grins. “I missed you too.”

You feel it, then—the warmth of familiarity, of friendship. It settles in your chest, light and unburdened, and for the first time in a while, you think:

This is nice.

Even with the changes, even with the time apart, even with the half-truths lingering at the back of your throat—this is still Emma.

“Come on,” Emma nudges your arm, eyes gleaming. “Let me introduce you to my favorite tax nerds.”

You groan, but let her pull you toward the other end of the table. “If I die of boredom, I’m haunting you.”

“They’re fun,” she insists, dodging between chairs and half-full wine glasses. “For tax people, anyway.”

The group is mid-conversation when you arrive—something about offshore accounts, corporate loopholes, and why the ultra-wealthy pay less in taxes than you probably spend on coffee each year. (Fascinating.) Chris and Max, two guys who both look like they were born wearing pressed button-ups, are deep in debate, hands gesturing, voices overlapping.

But the girl sitting across from you—Nina—just listens, quiet, observant.

She clocks you the moment you sit down. And you clock her right back.

Dark brown skin, black curls tucked behind one ear, a delicate gold necklace resting just above the collar of an oversized sweater. The sleeves are pushed up to reveal slender wrists, and she has the kind of presence that doesn’t need to fill space to be felt. 

There’s something measured about her. Something thoughtful. Like she only speaks when there’s something worth saying.

She’s pretty.

Really pretty.

But it’s more than that. She’s composed in a way that makes you hyperaware of yourself—your posture, the way you’re holding your drink, the way she looks at you with a quiet, unreadable expression.

“Hi,” she says, voice smooth, accent lilting ever so slightly.

It’s just that—simple. Friendly. Maybe.

You clear your throat. “Hey.”

Emma gestures between you. “Nina, this is my friend from high school—the one I told you about?”

Nina hums like she remembers, tilting her head. “The one who thinks tax law is boring?”

You blink. “Emma told you that?”

“She warned me in advance,” Nina says, lips twitching. “Said you might try to stage an intervention.”

You shoot Emma a look, but she’s already sipping her wine, unbothered. 

“Well,” you say, turning back to Nina, “I was going to be polite about it, but now I feel like I have a responsibility.”

That gets a small smile out of her. Just a slight curve of the lips, like she’s amused but won’t give you the satisfaction of knowing just how much.

You don’t know why that makes you want to push, just a little.

“So,” you continue, tilting your head, “what is it, then? The thing about tax law that actually doesn’t put you to sleep?”

Nina considers this. Takes a slow sip of her drink. And when she speaks, it’s not rushed—it’s careful.

“It’s not about the numbers,” she says, setting her glass down. “Not really. It’s about human nature. About how people behave when they think no one is watching. Governments set up incentives, and people react accordingly. It’s a game of strategy. A reflection of what a society actually values, not just what it claims to.”

You weren’t expecting that answer.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your glass. “So, what—you think taxes are, like, a moral compass?”

Nina shrugs. “Not a moral compass. But they show you what people are willing to bend the rules for. What they think is worth cheating for. And that’s… interesting, I think.”

You watch her, trying to get a read on her. She’s got this almost effortless kind of intrigue—the kind of person who could make anything sound poetic if she wanted to.

Emma groans. “Oh god, don’t encourage her. She’ll start talking about capital gains tax next.”

Nina lifts a brow. “It’s actually fascinating, if you—”

“Absolutely not,” Emma interrupts. “Nope. I refuse.”

You smirk. “I don’t know, Em. I kind of want to hear her out.”

Emma glares at you. “Do not encourage the tax philosophy.”

But Nina is looking at you again. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that screams I’m interested. But in a way that’s… present. Attentive. Like she actually finds this conversation worth having.

And maybe that means nothing.

Or maybe it does.

You’re not sure.

Which—God, why is this always harder with girls?

With guys, it’s obvious. But with girls—well. You think she’s enjoying this. But is she just enjoying it, or is there something else there? Is this just conversation, or is it something that, in hindsight, will feel like a moment?

You have no fucking idea.

The conversation shifts after that—Emma talks about her summer in Europe, Chris and Max start debating New York’s best pizza, someone brings up an upcoming bar crawl.

And then, at some point, Nina glances at her phone before looking at you again.

“You mind if I get your number?” she asks.

Casual. Easy. Nothing in her tone suggests it’s anything more than that.

“Emma talks about you a lot,” she adds, mouth twitching slightly. “I feel like I should probably fact-check at least half of it.”

Emma swats at her, but you barely register it, already pulling your phone out.

You’re not reading into it. You’re not.

But also—

You kind of are.

Still, you hand your phone over, watch as Nina types in her number, then passes it back. Just a name in your contacts now. Simple. Unassuming.

You have no idea if you just made a new friend or if this is something else.

And honestly?

You kind of like not knowing.

“Well, well, well,” Yeji drawls, sliding into the conversation without invitation. “Are we allowed to sit, or is this a tax-exclusive gathering?”

You exhale. “Jesus, Yeji.”

“What? We were getting bored.” She drops into the seat beside you, tossing an arm over Irya’s chair. “Jimin’s been overanalyzing the condensation on his glass for the past fifteen minutes, and Irya’s just been smiling at people like a lost pageant contestant.”

“I was being friendly,” Irya corrects, unfazed.

“You were being too friendly.”

“Networking,” Irya insists, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I love people.”

“You do,” Emma says, delighted. “It’s terrifying.”

Irya beams, pleased. Yeji just sighs like she’s accepted her fate.

Nina watches all of this unfold with quiet amusement, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “You two are together?”

Yeji tilts her head. “That a problem?”

Nina meets her gaze evenly. “No. It’s nice.”

It’s a simple statement, but it rings genuine, like she’s not just saying it to be polite. Yeji studies her for a second longer before nodding, satisfied, and pulling Irya in to kiss her temple.

Emma turns to you, grinning. “Your friends are so much more fun than my law ones.”

You smirk. “That’s because they have souls.”

Chris, still lingering in the tax-law-heavy end of the table, lifts a hand in protest. “Hey.”

Yeji ignores him completely, waving to Nina instead. “So, you’re a tax philosopher?”

Nina looks faintly amused but nods. “That’s what they tell me.”

“Cool, cool,” Yeji muses, reaching for Irya’s wine and taking a sip before Irya can protest. “And do you also believe that money isn’t real?”

Nina tilts her head slightly, considering. “I think it’s real in the sense that it determines the way the world functions. But I also think it’s one of the biggest shared delusions humanity has ever committed to.”

Yeji brightens. “See? This is the tax conversation I want to be having.”

You roll your eyes, but Nina takes it in stride. She’s good at this, you notice—letting conversations unfold naturally, never forcing her presence but never fading into the background either.

Across from you, Jimin has settled into his usual quiet observation, sipping his drink slowly. He’s not uncomfortable, just taking it all in. He catches your eye at one point, a small look that says ‘you good?’

You nod, barely perceptible.

He doesn’t push. Just gives a small nod back and turns his attention back to the conversation. Just listening in.

Emma leans in slightly, nudging your arm. “I like them,” she murmurs.

You glance at her, raising a brow. “Yeah?”

She hums. “They make you lighter.”

It’s such an Emma thing to say—blunt in a way that doesn’t feel invasive, just observant. 

You don’t respond right away, but you don’t need to. 

She’s already grinning like she knows the answer.

The apartment is quiet when you finally get home, the only light coming from the TV screen where some game is paused. 

Jungkook is sprawled on the couch, controller resting loosely in his hands, looking like he's been there for hours. He glances up when the door closes behind you, expression neutral.

"It's late," he says, not quite a question.

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door. "Yeah."

"Had fun?" He unpauses the game, thumbs moving lazily over the controller buttons. His character on screen walks aimlessly into a wall.

"Yeah," you say, kicking off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Emma's friends are cool. We ended up at this bar in Brooklyn after dinner."

He makes a noncommittal sound, still not looking at you.

"Jason wasn't there, though, so don't worry," you add, unable to help yourself.

That gets his attention. His thumbs still, and he scoffs, a short, sharp sound in the quiet apartment. 

“You know I don't give a fuck about that guy, right?"

"Really?" You raise an eyebrow, heading to the kitchen for water. "Because you seemed to have very strong opinions about him on Tuesday."

The controller drops onto the couch as he turns to face you fully. 

“Look," he says, voice tight with frustration. "I don't give a fuck who you fuck or who you date. Seriously. Not my business."

"Yup. Three rules," you start, unscrewing the cap on your water bottle.

"One, no one knows," he recites, cutting you off.

"Two, if somebody asks, we're just roommates," you continue.

"And three," he interrupts again, more forcefully, "no feelings. I know the fucking rules, Phoenix. I helped make them."

You take a long drink of water, studying him over the bottle. His hair is messy in a stupid endearing way, and there are shadows under his eyes. 

"So what was Tuesday about, then?" you ask finally.

He exhales slowly, jaw working. "I told you. The guy gives me bad vibes."

"Bad vibes," you repeat flatly.

"Yeah. Bad fucking vibes." He rubs a hand over his face. "Look, I know how it sounded, okay? But it's not—" He stops, frustrated. "It's not about you. Or us. Or whatever the fuck we're doing."

You consider him for a moment, then set your water bottle down and cross to the couch, sitting on the opposite end. 

"Explain."

"What?"

"Explain these 'bad vibes.' Because from where I was sitting, it sounded irrational."

"It's not—" He stops again, shaking his head. "You know what? Forget it. Not my problem."

"Jungkook."

He looks at you, surprised by the use of his actual name.

"I'm trying to understand," you say, softer than you intended. "So explain it to me."

He studies you for a long moment, like he's trying to decide if you're serious. 

Finally, he sighs. "He's fake."

"Fake how?"

"The way he talks. The way he looks at you when you're not watching. The way he touched your arm in the car." His words come faster now. "The way he asked about your schedule, your classes. The way he positioned himself between us. It's all... calculated."

You frown. "That's a lot to read into a few interactions."

"I know what I saw," he insists. "Guys like that... they start small. Compliments. Attention. Making you feel special. Then it's suggestions about what you should wear. Who you should hang out with. What classes you should take."

His tone is raw, really raw, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard him talk like this. 

Like it’s personal.

“You're saying he's controlling."

"I'm saying he could be." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "Look, I've seen it before, okay? People who seem perfect on the surface but underneath they're just... manipulative. They make you think everything's your idea when really they're pulling all the strings."

You're quiet for a moment, processing. 

"This isn't just about Jason, is it?"

His eyes flick to yours, then away. 

"I told you. It's not about you or us."

"But it is about someone."

He doesn't answer, but his silence is confirmation enough.

"Mia?" you ask softly.

"I don't want to talk about her."

"Okay," you say, respecting the boundary even as curiosity burns through you. "But that's why you're worried about Jason? Because he reminds you of her?"

"Not of her specifically," he says after a pause. "Just... the type. The signs."

You pull your legs up onto the couch, turning to face him fully. "What signs?"

He looks at you for a long moment, like he's deciding how much to share. 

"The perfect act," he says finally. "The way everything seems rehearsed. The charm that never quite reaches their eyes." His voice drops lower. "The way they make you feel like you're the only person in the room, but it's not because they care about you. It's because they want something from you."

"And you think that's Jason?"

"I don't know," he admits. "Maybe I'm seeing things that aren't there. But my gut says something's off with him."

You consider this. "Your gut's been wrong before."

A bitter smile twists his lips. "Yeah. More than once."

Silence stretches between you, but it’s not the uncomfortable kind. It’s like you’re both still processing the words exchanged.

"I'm still going on the date," you say finally.

He nods, looking away. "I know."

"But I'll... keep what you said in mind. Watch for the signs."

He glances back at you, surprise flickering across his face. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You shrug, trying to keep it casual. "Contrary to what you might think, I don't actually enjoy being manipulated."

"Could've fooled me," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it.

You kick his thigh lightly with your foot. "Asshole."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "Brat."

Silence again. His forearms are resting on his knees, hands crossed together as his gaze remains unfocused.

"So," he says eventually, "how was the birthday girl?"

You're surprised by the question, by his apparent interest in your life outside this apartment. 

"Good," you say. "Different, but good. She's in Economics. Has a serious boyfriend. Wears a lot of beige."

"Sounds thrilling."

You laugh despite yourself. "It was actually nice. Weird, but nice. Like visiting a place you used to live but don't anymore."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Did your new friends play nice with your old friend?"

"Yeji, Irya and Jimin?" You smile at the memory. "They were on their best behavior. Well, Yeji's version of best behavior, which means she only made three inappropriate jokes and only drank half the table's wine."

He snorts. "Sounds about right."

"Emma liked them, though. I think." You pause, considering. "It's strange, bringing different parts of your life together."

"I bet it is," he agrees quietly.

You look at him, really look at him, sitting there in the dim light of the TV. For once, there's no smirk on his face, no challenge in his eyes. Just Jungkook, tired and rumpled and unexpectedly honest.

"Why were you still up?" you ask suddenly.

The question catches him off guard. "What?"

"It's 3 AM. Why are you still awake?"

He shrugs, defensive again. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd play for a bit."

You glance at the TV screen where his character has been standing in the same spot for the past ten minutes. 

"Right."

"What?" he demands.

"Nothing," you say, but you can't help the small smile that forms. "Just... nothing."

He narrows his eyes at you, but doesn't press.

"I should get to bed," you say, standing up. "It's late."

He nods, picking up the controller again. "Yeah."

You're halfway to your room when his voice stops you.

"Phoenix?"

You turn back. "Yeah?"

He’s staring at you, but it’s not the usual smirk. No. 

His eyes flick downward. To the floor, like he’s seriously considering his next words—or rather, if he should vocalize them at all. 

But then he looks up at you again, seemingly decided.

"You..." he starts, licking his lips like he’s trying to pull himself together. But he’s failing. "You know you smell fucking delicious, right? Like, it’s so fucking unfair."

Your pulse stutters. "Excuse me?"

"The cologne," he says, standing up. "You’ve been driving me insane the whole night. The whole apartment smells like you.”

You blink at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and something hotter, heavier. "I didn’t wear it for you."

"No?” His lips twitch, almost a smile but not quite—like he knows exactly how full of shit you are. "The cologne from that night. The dress from that night. And I’m supposed to believe that’s just a coincidence?"

"It is," you snap back, defensive even as your pulse betrays you by speeding up.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing—or maybe just like he can’t believe you.

“Fuck, Phoenix," he mutters, voice dropping into something rougher, more dangerous. "Do you have any idea how good you smell? How much I’ve been thinking about getting my mouth on you again?"

Your breath catches somewhere in your throat—an audible hitch that makes his eyes darken further.

"We’re fighting," you remind him weakly.

"Are we?" He steps closer, until there’s barely a whisper of space between you. "Because right now all I can think about is how wet you were for me the first time I smelled that shit on your skin."

You retreat physically; even though mentally you’re honestly already naked for him.

"Four days," he muses, tone dripping with frustration, almost needy. "Four days of smelling your shampoo in the bathroom, that stupid body lotion, and now—now you pull this shit. That’s fucking cruel, Nix.”

"You could’ve apologized," you point out dryly.

"For what?" He scoffs like the idea itself is offensive. "For telling the truth? For saying Jason gives me bad vibes?"

"There it is again," you say, crossing your arms over your chest like it’ll protect you from whatever energy he’s radiating right now. 

It doesn’t.

He exhales softly, eyes flicking to your lips before moving back up. 

“I’m being for real, Phoenix. Your vanilla shit drives me nuts,” he confesses bluntly.

Then llicks his lips, considering what he’s about to say 

But says it anyways. 

“I jerked off after you left.”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air.

"Couldn’t help it," he continues. “The smell of your cologne... seeing you in that dress again... I couldn’t get the image out of my head."

"What image?"

"The first time," he says slowly, like he wants every word to sink into your skin and stay there forever. "In that room. The way you tasted... the sounds you made when I had my tongue inside you."

Your legs threaten mutiny.

"And now?" You force yourself to ask because silence feels dangerous—like it might give him permission to keep going without restraint.

"Now?" He repeats, almost hushed. "Now, I’m… really craving vanilla.”

You should walk away—should turn around and retreat into your room where things are safe and quiet and not vibrating with tension so thick it feels alive—but instead?

Instead, your feet betray you by staying planted firmly in place: "Eat some cookies.”

“I want to eat something else.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

He purses his lips. Tongue drops to lick the lower one. Gaze flickers to your mouth again before they come back to your pupils.

“You don’t?”

And the way he exhales it, like the mere idea of you saying no pains him—it melts through you. 

Especially when his hand finally finds its way to your waist (warm and solid and grounding despite everything else about this moment feeling anything but grounded).

All thoughts of resistance evaporate faster than they came.

"I do," you hear yourself reply. 

And when his lips brush against the sensitive skin just below your jawline?

You realize two things simultaneously:

One: You were never going to walk away from this moment no matter how much logic tried to intervene earlier.

Two: Logic doesn’t stand a chance against lust when Jungkook looks at you like this.

goal: 400 notes

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⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[shikaizer]

live clash. kkarnold x reader x paigebueckers.

During a live, KK and Paige subtly confess their feelings for you and argues over who has a better chance.

It started like any other night, a spontaneous instagram live, kk was stretched out on the couch, her phone propped up and a half-finished iced tea nearby, paige lounged beside her, legs pulled up, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows.

the two of them were an addictive combination kk with her bubbly energy and expressive eyes, paige with that effortless calm and sharp one liners, together, they were chaos and comfort in equal measure.

the viewer count climbed quickly, notifications buzzed, comments poured in, kk waved at the screen “heyyy, hi besties! what are we up to tonight?”paige leaned over her shoulder “pretty sure your the one who dragged me into this” she said with a smirk, already scanning the comment section “oh look, they are already asking where she is.”kk rolled her eyes with a dramatic groan "okay, okay, lets get this over with, yes, she exists, no, shes not here, and no, were not dating her, yet.”

“speak for yourself” paige murmured, kk shot her a look “excuse me?” paige just smiled, lifting her coffee to her lips “im just saying, some of us might have an actual shot"

The chat exploded.

> “WAIT WHAT??”

> “Did Paige just admit to something??”

> “KK IS BLUSHING LOLOLOL”

kk tried to play it cool, but the color on her cheeks gave her away “first of all” she said, trying to regain control “you act like you’re not head over heels too.”

“i never said i wasnt” paige said, tilting her head “i just dont panic about it on live.” the air between them shifted, still light, but sharper now, a subtle current of something more personal, something unspoken.

kk crossed her arms, her smile laced with challenge “okay, then lets be real, if she had to choose… who would it be?” paige didnt flinch "lets be real, if anyone has a chance, its obviously me, i mean, come on.”

kk laughed, surprised, a little breathless “wow confident”“i mean” paige shrugged, glancing at the screen “i’ve been consistent, i dont play games, i text back, i listen when she talks.”

“so do i!” kk protested, eyes wide “i literally check her stories before i check yours, i know shes been stressed lately,i sent her that playlist to calm down, and i asked how her presentation went last week, which, by the way, you forgot to do.”

paige opened her mouth to argue, but closed it again, her jaw clenched slightly "fine" she said after a pause “your thoughtful, i’ll give you that.”

kk softened a little “i just… like her, okay? i dont know if its a thing, but when I think about her, it just feels… warm.”

their fans were practically SCREAMING in the comments.

> “STOP I’M CRYING”

>“SOMEONE GO CHECK ON HER”

>“YOU GUYS ARE LITERALLY IN LOVE WITH THE SAME GIRL”

kk glanced at the chat, laughing softly "yall are too loud right now.” when, without looking at paige, she added “i dont wanna fight about her.”

“I’m not fighting” paige replied. “im just saying… if either of us is gonna get her attention, i want it to be real, not some competition, shes worth more than that.”

there was a pause, one of those heavy, meaningful ones, kk nodded slowly "yeah, she is.” paige looked over at her, something vulnerable behind her usual cool “so what happens if she likes both of us?” kks laugh was soft, almost sad “then I guess we both keep trying, no pressure"

the live ended fifteen minutes later with a few silly games, some awkward giggles, and the two of them pretending nothing happened, but you knew, you felt it.

your phone buzzed right after.

PAIGE | If you saw that… sorry, or not sorry, call me?

KK | pls tell me you were watching, also, i meant what i said.

and you? you were sitting there with your phone glowing in your hand, heart pounding, wondering how in the world you’d ever choose between two people who just confessed, in their own chaotic way.

masterlist.

🔖 — @addl0vee @tndaqlwifwy @mrsarnold @melpthatsme @bellaprintz25 @janaelalfysblunt @ellehoops @belsoulss @apbueckers @uwupaige @janaelalfysloml @paige05bby @azzisbueckers @paigeluvvr @giavonnii @jupitermoonbaby @shootingstarrrrr @dalilahissilly @luldejamleer @d7dream @gabbyygoo @bravemode @latenighttalkinqwp

[satellite-evans]

lovesick

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: Lando takes care of you when you're sick <3

Word count: 1.1k+ ( something cute and sweet)

Warnings: nothing but tooth aching fluff

A/N:

I have noticed that I always write how reader takes care of people so I decided to do the oppossite, hope you guys will like it!

Also, I think I am shadowbanned, so if you guys could please send me feedback and show some support, that would be really helpful and would mean so much to me xx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

You were curled up in bed, cocooned in a mountain of blankets, sniffling miserably as the sound of rain tapped against the window. Your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, your throat burned, and every muscle in your body ached. Being sick was never fun, but it was even worse when Lando was supposed to be home for the weekend, and all your plans had gone out the window.

Lando peeked his head into the bedroom, a small frown on his face as he took in the sight of you buried under the covers.

“How’s my patient doing?” he asked gently, stepping into the room with a tray in his hands.

You eyed the tray warily, voice hoarse as you spoke. “Please tell me you didn’t make that.”

Lando scoffed dramatically, placing a hand over his heart as he set the tray down on the nightstand. “Wow, the lack of faith in me is honestly offensive.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Lando.”

He let out a sheepish chuckle. “Alright, alright. No, I didn’t make it. I have no intention of killing you with my cooking.”

You sighed in relief. “Smart choice.”

“Hey, I could’ve at least tried.”

“Exactly. And that’s what I’m afraid of.”

Lando let out a playful huff as he settled onto the edge of the bed. “Not even a little credit?”

You gave him a weak smile. “Fine. Thank you for your excellent decision-making skills in ordering food instead of poisoning me.”

“Much better,” he said smugly, grabbing the spoon and stirring the soup. “Now, Nurse Norris is here to make sure you eat, drink, and get back to being my energetic, non-sick girlfriend.”

You chuckled weakly, your throat scratchy from the effort. “Nurse Norris?”

“Yep. On call 24/7,” he said with a wink. “Now, open up.”

You rolled your eyes but obeyed, letting him feed you a spoonful of warm broth. The heat was soothing against your sore throat, and you sighed contentedly.

“See?” he said smugly. “Taking care of you isn’t so bad, right?”

“I guess,” you admitted, swallowing another bite. “But if you start wearing a nurse’s outfit, we’re gonna have a problem.”

Lando gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me? I would rock that look.”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t doubt that, honestly.”

He grinned, brushing a few strands of hair from your forehead. His touch was warm against your clammy skin, and you instinctively leaned into it. His expression softened. “You’re burning up,” he murmured, concern flashing in his blue eyes. “Did you take any medicine?”

You nodded. “Yeah, but it hasn’t really kicked in yet.”

Lando hummed thoughtfully before tucking the blankets around you a little tighter. “Alright, let’s get some more food in you, then. Maybe it’ll help.”

You stared at the bowl of soup he handed you, not feeling hungry but knowing you needed to eat. You took a small spoonful, but your mind kept drifting back to how everything had changed.

“This was supposed to be our weekend,” you murmured, your voice hoarse as you glanced up at him, a sad smile on your face. “I was so excited for it.”

Lando frowned, his brow furrowing as he noticed the change in your tone. He gently placed the spoon back into the bowl, his focus now entirely on you. “Hey, I know. I was looking forward to it too.”

“I know,” you said, your voice quieter. “It was the first time in so long we had the weekend off together. I planned everything—movie nights, dinner, maybe even a little walk in the park. All of it. And now… I’m stuck in bed, and you’re taking care of me.”

Lando’s expression softened with empathy as he sat down next to you, brushing his hand over your hair. “You didn’t plan this, babe. You didn’t want to get sick.”

You let out a soft sigh, your eyes closing as you leaned into his touch. “I know, but it just feels like bad timing. I’ve missed you so much, Lando. The last few weeks have been crazy, and I was really looking forward to this. Just us. And now... I’m ruining it.”

“You’re not ruining anything,” he said firmly, his voice gentle but insistent. “You’re sick. It happens. And you know what? We’ll make up for it. I promise. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

You opened your eyes to meet his gaze, seeing nothing but care and reassurance in his blue eyes. He smiled softly, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face. “Plus, this way, I get to take care of you. That’s better than any of the other plans anyway.”

You sniffed, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “I just wanted to make the most of it. We don’t always get this much time together.”

“I know, I know,” Lando said, his thumb gently rubbing over the back of your hand. “I hate that this is happening when we had so many things we wanted to do. But we’ll have other weekends, I promise. And we’ll make them just as special.”

A tear slipped from the corner of your eye, and you quickly wiped it away, embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m being dramatic.”

Lando shook his head, his voice soft as he spoke. “No, it’s okay. It’s okay to feel disappointed. But you don’t have to go through this alone. I’m here. And we’ll get through this weekend together, even if it’s not what we planned.”

You let out a small laugh, though it was tinged with sadness. “I guess this weekend is just me, you, and a mountain of blankets.”

“Exactly,” he said, squeezing your hand gently. “And some soup, and tea, and maybe some Netflix marathons.”

“Even though you hate Netflix?” You asked with a smirk.

“Even though I hate Netflix.”

You smiled at that, grateful for his efforts to make you feel better. “You really do know how to make the best of things, don’t you?”

Lando grinned, his eyes brightening. “What can I say? I’m an expert at turning around bad situations. And right now, all I care about is making sure you feel better.”

You leaned back into the pillows, your heart swelling with affection as he continued to fuss over you, making sure you were comfortable. Even though things hadn’t gone as planned, having Lando by your side, taking care of you, was all you really needed.

“Alright,” he said, adjusting the blankets around you again. “Let’s get some rest. I’ll stay right here and keep you company. We’ll make the best of this weekend, even if it’s just us hanging out in bed.”

You gave him a small, grateful smile, the sadness in your heart slowly melting away as you realized that even though things hadn’t gone according to plan, you still had each other. “Thanks, Lando. Really.”

He kissed your forehead softly, his voice low and sincere. “Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.”

[bambisnc]

(   ➴ ) 𝑝𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 ⋆ a beautiful riddle

𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾; 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗇𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾, 𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒

### . STARRING ⌢ bf!y.jw ⋆ drabble + fluff (?) + 0.6k // unedited + use of "baby" + reader is a little Insecure/worried + 💏💏 ˖ ✧

𝓍𝗈𝗑𝗈 ─── won fic debut hai >3< this has been drafts since foreva :/ + queuing this n going Straight to sleep if theres typos pls lmk + [FILE.ZIP]

“you keep backing away.”

a string of curses loops in your head at the observation — most of which are directed at your own self. you’re more than well aware of the fact that there’s no one to blame but you for ending up in this situation.

yang jungwon’s gaze is steadily locked onto yours. you hate the effect that the simple action has on you.

it’s quite literally the bare minimum but it has you barely even being able to bring yourself to meet his eyes, your body curling into itself like you could actually disappear under the weight of his attention.

he’s right, of course. you only realize it after he actually puts it into words, but you’ve managed to back yourself up against the wall completely.

it’s not as if you’re scared, obviously, but something about this — about him — is overwhelming in a way you aren’t prepared for.

(also, the way your heart is racing at the proximity is decidedly not helping.)

“and you won’t even look at me.” his words are as straight to the point as always. your boyfriend’s never been one to beat around the bush, after all. 

you scramble to think of excuses. the absolute least you can do is attempt to defend yourself, “it’s not like that–...” but you trail off, not really knowing where and how to start explaining.

“then what is it like?,” he tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable, “i don’t want to force you into doing something you don’t want, baby – you know that, right? but you have to talk to me. i need to know what’s going on with you.”

what’s going on with you? oh, not much. you’re just in the middle of a mild (read : full blown) crisis.

you can understand where jungwon's coming from.

one can only avoid so many of their boyfriend’s attempts to kiss them before said boyfriend starts getting suspicious. 

it’s not like you don’t want him to kiss you.

you do. you really, really do.

based on the scenarios you’re constantly plagued with, of him teasing kisses along your jaw, your neck, the corner of your mouth; the trail finally ending with your lips on his…, that’s clearly not the issue.

you blink, shaking your head to bring your focus back to the present only to find that jungwon is somehow even closer now. his arm is braced against the wall beside your head now, his eyes still resolutely fixed on you.

…

the thing is … you’re scared. 

scared you’ll be awkward. scared you won’t be good at it, not good enough. scared it won’t be the way you imagine, that it’d be messy, clumsy, disappointing.

and really, you know it’s stupid.

first kisses aren’t supposed to be perfect anyways, are they? there’s bound to be some … complications.

“it’s more than fine if you want to take things slow.” he’s always been rather perceptive, hasn't he? “we don’t have to do anything if you aren’t-”

but before he can finish, before the subtle worry in his voice can settle—

you kiss him.

… there are no fireworks. no birds singing, no spontaneous confetti.

and yes, it’s a little rushed, a little shaky. 

but it’s real. 

his breath stutters for only a second before he recovers, hands finding your waist, pulling you closer. the warmth of his lips is soft against yours, sending a wave through your system.

and — oh.

maybe you had nothing to be worried about, after all.

𐙚 . regulars : @chrrific @jessxxxfwd @evanesceki @soobundle1009 @weedatthegasstattion @flipitkickit ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k25

[lazysoulwriter]

grumpy and irresistible - joel miller. (MDNI)

LOOK AT ME WRITING A SMUT! - trying. hope is gooood. w.c: 1.8k ~

---

Running into Joel Miller months ago was both the best and worst thing that ever happened to you. I mean… he helps you, he protects you… but he’s a fucking hottie. A goddamn delicious man. And you can barely get close! He’s so moody, so pissed off about everything. You're in the end of the world, of course… but damn. It’s not easy.

Most of the time, he doesn’t even understand how he ended up letting a girl like you tag along on this survival journey. You’re much younger, and despite being strong and brave, you can be a real pain in the ass. You’re chatty, you make him hug you when it’s too cold (okay, he secretly likes that part), and you stop in the middle of nowhere just to say things like, "Oh, look! A hummingbird!"

A pain. In. The. Ass.

And today was no different. As you walked in search of food, you looked at him intently, thinking about how damn annoying he can be sometimes—or how it’s a total waste for someone that beautiful to be so grumpy all the time.

And then… well, then something crossed your mind.

How long has it been since Joel last had sex?

Like… you haven’t had sex in ages, but you have your ways of relieving yourself. And you doubt he even jerks off. Maybe all this frustration, all this grumpiness, comes from that.

Maybe.

"Joooeel…" you hummed in that way he knew all too well. He just glanced over his shoulder, signaling that he was listening.

"Can I ask you something? I know you’re gonna get mad, but—"

"Then no. I don’t feel like getting even madder." He cut you off, his voice rough, trying to shut you up.

But that never scared you.

"Please! I’m gonna start begging…" you threatened, knowing full well he hated when you begged.

"Just say it!" His tone turned even harsher. "And if I get mad, you’ll go find something to eat by yourself."

"Oh, stop. You would never leave me—" you picked up your pace, walking alongside him now. "So… how long has it been since you had sex?" You tried to sound casual, like you weren’t dying of curiosity. "Or, you know… something like that."

He stopped. Abruptly.

Like you had just punched him in the face.

You blinked up at him, waiting for an answer.

"Why don’t you just mind your own damn business?" he muttered, narrowing his eyes in that way that only made him hotter.

"I’m just asking! If you don’t wanna answer, that’s fine." You shrugged and started walking again. Moments later, you heard his footsteps behind you, along with a deep, frustrated sigh.

"I don’t know, okay?" His voice came after a long silence, just when you were already distracted. "I don’t even remember the last time I touched someone like that. And I have no idea when I last felt something like that."

You just nodded. But now? That was your goal. You were going to fuck this man. No matter what. When? You didn’t know. But you would.

-

You let it go—for now.

But after that day, something shifted. Maybe it was just in your head, maybe not. But you started noticing things. The way Joel’s gaze lingered on you just a little longer when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his hand would rest on your lower back when he guided you through dark hallways or past abandoned cars. The way he sighed—deep, exasperated, but never truly angry—whenever you leaned too close, testing the limits of his patience.

And, most of all, the way he didn’t pull away. Not really.

Not when you brushed your fingers over his forearm while handing him his rifle. Not when you sat next to him by the fire, knees bumping under the weight of exhaustion. Not when you made those little jokes, the ones that pulled a rare, reluctant smirk from him, even if he shook his head afterward like he wished he could take it back.

And then, one night, it happened.

You’d just set up camp inside the shell of an old bookstore, a storm howling outside. The fire crackled between you, throwing soft shadows across his face. You could see every line there, every scar, every tired thing he’d never say out loud. He sat against the wall, boots planted on the ground, legs slightly spread. He looked exhausted. But awake. Watching you.

You sat across from him, hugging your knees, tilting your head.

"What?" he muttered.

"Nothing."

A pause. Then—

"Bullshit," he sighed, rubbing a hand down his face.

You grinned, slow and lazy. "I was just thinking... if you can’t even remember the last time you touched someone, then maybe you’ve just forgotten how."

That got you a look. A dark, warning glance that made your stomach flip in the best way.

"Don’t start."

"I’m just saying—"

"No."

You pushed up onto your knees, crawling closer, testing the waters.

"Not even a kiss, Joel?" Your voice was softer now, teasing but not cruel. "No wonder you’re always so grumpy."

He tensed, fingers twitching against his knee. "You—"

"You could just let me remind you."

His breath hitched. Just barely.

You sat back on your heels, waiting. Letting him think. Letting him decide.

And then—slowly, cautiously, like he knew he was making a mistake—Joel reached out.

His fingers traced up the curve of your jaw, rough and calloused. You didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, afraid you might break the moment.

And then he kissed you.

It was careful at first, hesitant, like he was relearning something he used to be good at. But when you sighed against his lips, when your fingers found the back of his neck and pulled him closer—Joel groaned, low and deep, and that hesitation snapped like a thread pulled too tight.

His hand slid to your waist, gripping firmly, pulling you into his lap without a second thought. The heat of him seeped into your skin, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger that made your head spin.

And just like that, you knew. You were right. He had gone too long without this. Without you. And you were going to fix that.

The kisses were getting more and more intense and desperate. You couldn't afford to waste time.

In seconds, your blouse was thrown on the floor behind you, exposing your lack of bra and earning a little smile from him that you had never seen before. Desire. He attacked your breasts like no one had ever done before. He massaged one, sucked, licked, and bit the other, while your moans were already too loud for your good. But fuck it. You almost cried when you saw him taking off his shirt on top of you, his strong arms now fully exposed, his chest too delicious to be true.

You pulled him back to your lips, which this time was even more urgent. Soon, you were completely naked and desperate for each other. "Are you sure?" He asked, lining himself up at your entrance. And you were already going crazy. You just wanted to be fucked. "Of course! Just fuck me, please." You begged and watched as his eyes darken even more – if that was possible.

Without any further warning, he pushed inside you. Both of you let out heavy sighs. He was big. Really big. But you were so wet that you didn’t even feel him pushing it all in. He didn’t move for a few seconds, as if he was savoring something he had wanted for so, so long. “I know you’re having a moment. But please, Joel! Move!” You whimpered, holding one of his arms tightly. You didn’t need to say anything else. You could feel every inch of him. Every vein. And how he was pulsing inside you. Your legs wrapped around him, pulling him even deeper, if that was possible. His moans were like music to your ears. Low, heavy. “Fuck, that’s it… That’s it…” You clawed at his back in a delicious way. He lowered himself a little more, just enough to pull one of your nipples between his teeth, taking you over the edge. And making you scream. The sound of the skin hitting each other was almost pornographic, making everything more intense with each moment. He grabbed your leg and brought it up to his shoulder. This new angle took you to an absurd wave of pleasure, Joel caressed you all over. Your whole body. And he stopped under your belly, just to show off and feel his cock there, filling you.

“You’re fucking delicious…” He murmured between breaths. “So fucking hot… I’ve always wanted to fuck that little pussy of yours. Always.” That brought you to your orgasm. Obviously. Joel fucking Miller telling you that? With that voice? Fuck.

Without a warning, you came on his cock, moaning his name and making him delirious. He was euphoric and ready… ready to fill you. “Can I?” He asked, about cumming inside. It’s not the best option, but at that moment it was all you wanted. And you would have it. “Please… Fill me up.” You whimpered again, holding your own breasts, which made him lose it. And in the next second, you felt the hot jets inside your walls. And then… Oh my. His expression. Completely lost in pleasure. He thrust a few more times and pulled out, only to look at your pussy spilling his cum. Totally filthy.

Joel collapsed onto his side beside you, chest rising and falling with deep, heavy breaths. For a long moment, neither of you spoke—just the sound of the fire crackling, the storm still raging outside, and the quiet hum of satisfaction between you.

His arm draped lazily over his stomach, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or keep his distance.

You made the choice for him.

Rolling onto your side, you pressed your face against his shoulder, tracing light, absentminded patterns over his chest. His skin was warm, damp with sweat, and you felt the way his muscles tensed, then relaxed under your touch.

"Jesus," he muttered, voice rough. "You really don’t give up, do you?"

You grinned against his skin. "Nope."

His chuckle was barely there, but it was real. And you liked that. Liked knowing you could pull something soft from him, even now.

After a moment, he exhaled deeply and finally—finally—wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you in, letting himself hold you.

"This doesn't change anything," he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair.

You just hummed, pressing closer. "Sure, Joel."

You’d let him lie to himself for now. But you both knew the truth. This changed everything.

---

[alanisstonedd]

construction!ony...

... who you hire to redo your first big girl purchase. girl you a whole a homeowner!! sure, it was a fixer upper but it was PERFECT. the space, the location, the potential, the price?? - you had to. you called up the first construction service in the area with the best & most reviews, asking if someone could come by for a quote for... the whole house..

... who comes by about a week later after a short phone call with you asking when you would be free. you clocked he sounded fine from the two seconds on phone but what you were NOT expecting was the physical. he shows up cargo pants equipped will full tool belt, work boots, tighttttt white tee, tattoos everywhere like a masterpiece… a few gold teeth complementing his gorgeous pearly whites.. you bout have a heart attack at the door

... who can’t stop grinning, like hes already knowin you bout to be a problem. who’s even more excited once he finishes the walk through & quote, because although he can easily fulfill all your needs - for the house of course - this is gonna be a lengthyyyyy project. i mean he has to demo the whole thing first bcs the house is not exactly in amazing shape, then some restructuring and electrical, probably some plumbing. THEN interior and exterior design and aesthetics. but standing in the doorway you already know you don't care how long the project is - you dont even want him to go home when hes done today

... who pretends to be super focused on the quote but spends most of the time peeking at you out of the corner of his eye, imagining you complete bare.. and possibly oiled up.. even he'll admit he got a lil carried away. he assures you that him and his guys will be by very soon to get started on demo, casually asking for your number as he's leaving - just to coordinate ofc courseeee! since you'll be staying with your bestie while the house is getting done. you temporarily get arthritis while attempting to put your number in his phone but hes to busy staring at the way you anxiously nibble at your soft, juicy lips, your tongue peeking out to keep them from drying up. hes only snapped out of his trance when you awkardly shove his phone back at him with a soft chuckle, a wave, and a "see you soon!"

... who can't help but smirk when you start coming by while him & his team are working. claiming you want to "check up on progress" but its literally day two?? he alreadyyy knowin you just want to check HIM out. you wander off ever now and again, admiring your house but you always seem to pop back up when hes locked in, muscles bulging, skin coated with a sheen of sweat making his chocolate skin look literally edible, ripping down drywall or cabinets, hammering, drilling, stripping... like you're actively wishing he would do to you. "you gon keep eye-fuckin' me or you gon help, ma?" he grunts out, turning to look you up and down with a lick of his lips. you suck your teeth and say sum smart back to compensate for the fact that your face is hot and your panties are already sticking to you

... who teases you RELENTLESSLY - you dont even know why you keep stopping by (yes you do, he fine as hell and sweaty). but once you're there its like you can't leave, its the only time you get to see him! and it is your house after all... but you don't know how much more of this you can take. ofc hes physically respectful, ever the gentleman as he was raised to be, but his mouth is NASSSTTTYYY girl. and with his proclivity for deep, intense eye contact, you're going through panties quicker than you ever have.

“you know... i meant to thank you ma. you got all the guys puttin they back in it when you come around. lil’ motivation walkin’ in here wit’ allat ass i guess.”

“bet you like watchin’ me work, huh? that why you always here? i got u feelin a way baby?” you sputter out some response, too hot to think of something coherent, eventually running out of reasons to show up. so you start bringing them lunch! ofc duh, i mean they're working so hard, the least you could do is bring them some hoagies and beers. but it just makes his shameless eye fucking and dirty comments worse. i mean you're not any better, always letting a little "mmm" slip when hes working real hard, flexing and shit. and he catches that shit every time! turning to you with a smirk

"been watchin’ you all day, tryna be good… but you just had to come over here with that, didn’t you?"

“you keep bringin’ us lunch, gon’ make me think you tryna take care of me or sum.”

“I’m just being nice, ony.”

“mmm, yeah? im tryna be real nice to you too, mama.”

©  alanisstonedd 2025 — do not steal, plagiarize, or modify my content.

hope y'all liked this! likes, reblogs and all the rest are much appreciated!!!

xoxo, lana 💋💋💋

[eclipse-msoul]

MISFORTUNATE LADY

✙ Yandere Mafia Dark! Bat family X Reader ✙

Synopsis : You had the misfortune of catching their eye. Oh, why did you have to make such a stupid mistake? Now you could only cry , hoping for them to leave you alone.

Warnings : Sexual assult, dark themes, mafia, no care for human life

chapter 2 :

Three weeks before everything fell apart

It was a dark and gloomy day - something that Gotham's residents had resided with as long as they could remember. You, who had just decided to move to this specific neighborhood, decided to go out and get some groceries from the store.

It wasn't too far, just a block away from your apartment.

As you walked, your shadow followed with tiny tumbles and shakes. It took about ten minutes to reach the store. You entered and started to look for items you needed. . . . “Phew..”, you sighed. You were almost done with the list. You looked at the trolley carrying your groceries.It was only the essentials.You looked closely, looks like one thing was left. You thoughtlessly moved and your head turned. Thug-

Your face was caught into something soft. You looked up and a pair of the most beautiful brown you've ever seen - stared down at you. They were sharp like a predators about to swallow you whole.

You gulped talking a stepped back and almost fell. “ Shi-” You fumbled back and his hands caught you.

He pulled you right up. “ Thank you..” You smiled in an apologetic tone. The man whose eyes examined you from up to down - you felt like a specimen being observed - finally chuckled and smiled. “ It's fine, “ His eyes narrowed in a friendly manner. “ You alright?”

You flushed, “ Ah…yes. I-” , just need to get some milk.” And you politely said goodbye before walking away. Milk took a second to get and you rushed back.

A big line had formed and you could already feel the impending doom of standing in that long line. Sigh, your life was one big sour lemon-

You felt a pricking sensation on your shoulder. . You looked back, the same man from a few minutes ago was smiling at you.“ Yes..?” You asked.

“ Your trolley is in the front,” he said under a smile. You started dazed before rushing to the front. It was indeed standing there. But why was it?

You decided to leave that thought.

You went to the counter and began to pay. The man stood right behind you, it seems like he was the customer after you.

While the cashier scanned your groceries, you couldn't help but notice it was unseemingly quiet for such a crowded store. The cashier was also doing his job very quickly.

Weird.

Was something wrong?

You looked back, the man looked up from his phone and nodded before looking right back. You faced back to the cashier.

Yeah

You were probably imagining it.

As soon as the scanning was done, you paid and picked up your packages before heading out. The house needed groceries and a makeover and you refused to waste anymore time. . . .

You really didn't think this through.

Or why in Gotham’s criminal frequency rate would you decide working and carrying so much stuff was a good idea. That too in Gotham.

You would be lucky if some criminal didn't try to mug you.

As you struggled with the shoppers, your ears failed to trace the steps of the stranger approaching. Two steps and something covered your mouth.

The groceries crashed to the ground.

You shrieked.

Your body began to shake uncontrollably whilst you struggled to get out of your predator’s hold. His hand reached under your shirt and pinched your skin.

No

No

No-

This couldn't be happening!

This wasn't mugging, it was something far worse.

His fingers dipped into your mouth and he bit your neck hard. Pain and fear was the only thing you felt.

Tears formed under your eyes, why-why why why why why..WHY? You didn't want this. You teeth tried to bite off his arms , the predator didn't even flinch - just moved his leg between yours. A disgusting laugh was heard from the man as his head came closer and whispered to your ears

“ It's..(hah)..your fault for wearing that slutty dress.” You muffled his words and your struggle stopped. Your eyes unconsciously looking at your dress.

Was

This

Really your fault?

You were knocked out of your thoughts when suddenly a jerking movement and you were pulled away and a punch came forward.

You didn't have any strength in your knees. You felt weak, your body gave in and fell down. You looked at your knees, your body was shaking like the last leaf in Autumn’s start.

Your ears picked up the sound of whispers and flesh hitting against flesh. Soon not even a whisper of that disgusting sound remained. You felt steps approach and a hand extend towards you.

You shake as your eyes flickered to see the threat.

Who?

“..Y-You..” Your hand moved towards him which he held and pulled up. “ What were you thinking, child! ” The man's voice was stern - having a cold and detached yet kind tone - pulling you and making you feel safe.

“ I-I…” Your fingers quivered while you put your lower lip. “ I'm sorry…” Words weren't the only thing that fell, tears bloomed under your eyes too. You were barely gasping for air. “ He had me by the throat-” your hand trembled as you shakedm

“...”

“ I thought he was going to-” you muffled.

“...”

“I-It was scary-" Your eyes quivered at the half dead man few steps away.

The man covered your eyes and pulled you in a hug.

“Don't look. ”

By the time you calmed down it was already getting late in the afternoon and Gotham never loved her residents but at this time she was particularly cruel.

Your eyes had swelled from all the crying. You sat at the bench with the Man who sat silent and comforted you. It was nice, really after everything you had just gone through. Your eyes landed on the clock - it was getting late.

“ I should get going.” you said while sitting next to him on the bench. The man who had introduced himself as Penny nodded. “ I'll walk you back.” he said, getting up, you stilled. Your hand tightened as you tried to give a smile. “ It's fine. I'll be okay Sir-”

He got up and picked up your groceries, “let's go.” He said and you finally agreed.

The walk to your home felt awkward, Penny remained quiet as he escorted you back home.Only when he saw you enter the building did he leave.

You entered your apartment and collapsed. Today was a very long day.

On the other hand, “Penny” Entered the old and haunted building. A figure standing on the door greeted him as he took off Penny's coat.

The figure examined the man with keen eyes before a glint of amusement followed through. “ It seems you found something interesting in your stroll.”

The figure hummed, a glint of something dark formed and those eyes of the beautiful shade of brown turned to the ocean blue.

“ Where are the children Alfred?”

“ All are waiting for you in the warehouse,Master Bruce. ” Alfred replied without skipping a beat. Bruce nodded.

“ Time to clean up some filth.” And the darkness moved.

TBC…

Taglist :

@lilyalone , @kore-of-the-underworld , @oliviaewl , @hopingtoclearmedschool , @vanilliona , @transparentsublimesuit , @choas-with-feathers , @melvin333 , @of-poetry-and-dreams , @sharkcravingcables , @wisefuncherryblossom

Note :

THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR THE LOVE❤❤❤❤❤❤ ( ALSO 300 FOLLOWERS?! YOU GUYS BE MAKING ME GRIN MORE THAN ANYTHING)

Love you all ≧﹏≦ and thanks for reading.

( your comments are my biggest motivation, so keep em coming (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)👊)

[sharksfood]

This took place in October 2024 in Kitsap County WA.

""The raccoons appear to have started dispersing now that they are no longer being fed, and we are glad for a positive outcome to this case," Mire told the Kitsap Sun."

Unfortunately its only illegal in WA State to feed animals in protected areas (such as national parks) or large carnivores in general (bears, cougars, etc.). I think feeding any wildlife anywhere should be penalized with at least a fine, so shit like this doesn't keep happening. I hope that idiot learned her lesson.

Just in case anyone needs a reason to not feed wildlife- this story out of Washington is a pretty good reminder. This lady has been feeding raccoons for years and now she’s just had to call authorities for help because hundreds of them are parked out on her property and are so aggressive trying to get food that she can’t get into her house.

Neighbors have been reporting excessive raccoon mortality on the adjacent road and several attacks on pets, but still everyone on this video was just talking about how cute it is. Why can’t people see how unfair it is to disrupt an animal’s life like this? What do they think will happen to these raccoons? They should be scampering through a forest or marsh eating crayfish and berries and bugs, not hotdogs and cat food. This is a nightmare situation and it’s entirely one person’s fault.

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part three)

warnings ; masturbation (f recieving), you lowkey being a jealous bitch, jk being annoying

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

note ; see, the thing about writing a character that reminds you of yourself is you need to do some deep introspection to conjure up this chapter 💀 this one is a shit show ngl yall we got jealous!oc and she’s losing her marbles over him and jk is such a little shit and i hate him. last night i was up alllllll nite writing part 7 of this and its giving you’re all getting a part 9. clearly i have not learned how to pace my writing. oh well! enjoy!

playlist here

series masterlist here

Dinner should have ended an hour ago.

Everyone is full, warm, and just tipsy enough from multiple rounds of soju to start thinking they’re invincible. At some point, probably around the fourth bottle, Daniel had leaned back in his seat, exhaled loudly, and declared, “We’re not done.”

He wasn’t alone in the endeavor. Jungkook’s team, your team, everyone had agreed in unison, fueled by the kind of reckless confidence that only comes after a good meal and too much alcohol.

Unfortunately, that’s how you all ended up at the hotel bar.

Someone, anyone, needs to get you out of here. Like now. You were this close to having a peaceful night, hotel bar dimly lit and stupidly aesthetic, all warm amber tones and overpriced cocktails, the kind of place that whispers “sip slowly and pretend you’re not emotionally unhinged.” You had a glass of Sauvignon blanc in one hand, your crossed legs, your carefully composed expression. Everything was fine. Everything was dandy.

But, of course, no rest for the wicked because Jeon Jungkook is testing you. Again.

Somehow this time, it’s worse.

Because now there’s no boardroom, no work talk, no distractions.

The conversation around the barstools flows, but you barely process it. Not when Jungkook’s arm is draped over the back of your stool, the curve of his wrist just inches from your shoulder. Not when he shifts slightly, slow, deliberate, enough that his knee presses against yours again.

You ignore it. Or, at least, you try to.

Because unfortunately for you and your dignity, he leans in. Just enough so that when he speaks, his voice is low, warm, meant just for you. “You’re not as unaffected as you want everyone to think.”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jungkook lets out a quiet, amused hum. “Don’t you?”

His voice is calm, casual, never wavering an octave. You take a slow sip of your drink, hoping he’ll drop it. He doesn’t (the little shit that he is.) Instead, he moves again. A shift of his leg, a brush of fabric against fabric, a subtle press of warmth where his knee collides with yours beneath the bar top.

Your pulse ticks higher.

“You keep doing that,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly.

You don’t look at him. “Doing what?”

“Hm. Nothing.”

Your lips press into a thin line.

Jungkook watches you a second too long.

You feel it, not just the weight of his gaze, but the smug satisfaction practically radiating off him like heat from a flame. And then, predictably, it happens. His mouth curves into that maddening half-smirk, the one that always looks like he knows something you don’t.

Your fingers curl tighter around your glass. It’s subtle— just a minor flex at the knuckles — but it’s the only tell you allow yourself. You inhale slowly like you’ve trained for this moment in a monastery somewhere. Like you didn’t just get goosebumps from the sound of his voice.

His words, his stupid little observations, his entire existence, it all hangs between you like a lit match waiting for a breeze.

You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You certainly don’t look at him.

Instead, you pivot. You turn your attention back to Daniel, who’s halfway through a sentence about tomorrow’s logistics and blissfully unaware that you are seconds away from launching a fork across the bar.

“We should confirm final call times with production before we leave in the morning,” you say smoothly, voice as calm and cool as the ice melting in your drink.

Daniel nods, already unlocking his phone. “I’ll check in with them tonight. We need to make sure—”

A low chuckle cuts through the conversation.

You don’t need to look. You already know who it is.

He shifts beside you, slow and easy, like someone stretching out in the sun. Like someone who’s already won. Then comes the voice. That infuriating, honey-laced drawl. “I bet you’re thinking about emails right now too, huh?”

Honestly, you might kill him.

You gulp down some saliva, hopefully not dramatically at all. Just enough to prove to no one but yourself that yes, you are still tethered to reality and no, you are not about to respond to whatever stupid thing just came out of his mouth.

Daniel doesn’t even look up. “She probably is.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “I’m literally sitting right here.”

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat. Grinning, he taps one lazy finger against the side of his glass like this is all a game and you’re the most entertaining piece on the board.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Sitting here, sure. But mentally? You’re already drafting a five-paragraph email about… what? Scheduling conflicts? Budget approvals? A strongly worded message to legal about font usage?”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You don’t even blink. That’s the only way you survive this, by pretending he’s white noise. Annoying, persistent, occasionally rhythmic, but ultimately ignorable.

Except Jungkook doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. He just keeps watching you with that infuriating mix of patience and heat, like he’s got all night to wait for the crack.

He leans in. Not much. Just enough to enter your atmosphere, enough to make the hair at the back of your neck stand up like he physically touched you.

His voice drops lower, slipping beneath your skin, curling at the base of your spine. “What would it take,” he says softly, “to get a real reaction out of you?”

Your pulse jumps. Just once. You think you’ve spared anyone noticing, but Jungkook notices. Of course he fucking does.

His gaze flickers down, quick and precise, catching the way your breath hitches, how your throat tightens just slightly before you mask it with a sip of your drink.

You scoff. A perfect, practiced sound. Tilting your head, you fix him with a look so flat it might as well be a screen saver. “You’d have to be interesting first.”

That earns a low chuckle from him, the kind that vibrates in his chest before spilling past his lips. His tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back something worse. Something better.

However, the worst part? The part that makes your skin itch beneath your outfit and your pride scream into a pillow?

He’s right.

You are thinking about emails. About schedules. About anything that isn’t the slow, creeping awareness building in your chest every time he looks at you like that, like he sees through you. You’ve mastered restraint. But with him, you’re starting to wonder if you ever really had it.

By the time you settle the bill on the corporate card — after three more hours, four rounds of wine, and one very questionable attempt at a poker game — the team is absolutely gone.

Not in a scandalous, HR-nightmare kind of way. Just the warm, giggly, soft-around-the-edges kind of gone, where every sentence is funnier than it should be, and people keep bumping into furniture like the floor’s decided to quietly rotate.

Daniel is the worst offender. Laughing at something Jungkook’s manager said ten full minutes ago, still holding onto a half-empty water bottle like it’s a holy relic capable of sobering him up through sheer willpower.

“I need sleep,” One of your assistants mumbles, rubbing their temples with the weary gravitas of a soldier in a war film.

Daniel sighs dramatically, clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “I need a raise.”

“You’re literally the VP,” You deadpan, pressing the elevator button with the exact energy of someone who wants to be horizontal in thirty seconds or less.

Daniel waves you off like you’re boring him. “Yeah, yeah, but emotional labor is expensive.”

The elevator dings and you move forward automatically, ready to herd the group in like tipsy sheep, but the moment the doors slide open, it’s clear: it’s a clown car situation. Overpacked. Your team is squished in like sardines, not a single centimeter of space left. And unfortunately, neither you nor Jungkook are among the chosen ones.

He’s already near you, of course, standing off to the side with his hands tucked into the pockets of his gray Calvin Klein sweats — God, even those manage to look insane on him — leaning casually against the mirrored wall like this was always part of the plan. Like he manifested this moment with sheer arrogance.

You pause. Just for a second. Just long enough for your brain to scream no, no, absolutely not.

Daniel, blissfully unaware of the silent hellscape unfolding beside him, reaches out from the crowded elevator and claps you on the shoulder. “Get to your room safe,” he mutters like it’s a personal attack, before the doors close with the rest of your saving grace inside there.

You’re alone… you and Jungkook. In the fluorescent-lit purgatory of the hotel lobby, with absolutely no witnesses and nowhere to run.

Another elevator dings almost immediately, like the universe is trying to be merciful for once. You step in without hesitation, hitting your floor number.

You pray — actually pray — that Jungkook will take the hint. That he’ll wait for the next one. That he’ll remember this morning, or last night, or literally any of the moments where you made it painfully clear that proximity to him was not something you enjoyed.

But, to your dismay, of course he follows.

The doors slide shut behind you two, and instantly, the atmosphere shifts. Not heavy. Not claustrophobic. Just… electrically still, like the silence right before a storm hits.

You take a step back farther than necessary, like putting a little distance between you will somehow neutralize the static humming between your ribs.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He just stands there calmly and silently like this isn’t a small metal box and you aren’t slowly suffocating on tension.

His reflection flickers in the mirrored panels. The lights overhead cast soft shadows across his face, catching on the faint curve of his jaw, the delicate slope of his nose, the glint of his silver chain resting just above the collar of his hoodie.

And that’s when you do it. You look at him. It’s stupid how unfair it is; how someone can look like that with zero effort with a hoodie and sweatpants on. Post-drinks hair slightly tousled. Like he rolled out of a Vogue spread and into your elevator just to ruin your night.

Your eyes drag up slowly, his mouth, still curved like he’s just barely holding back a grin. His hands still tucked in his pockets like he’s relaxed, as if this isn’t killing him even a little.

You shift your gaze back to the elevator doors, jaw clenched.

You won’t be the first to speak. You refuse to be the first to speak. In fact, you’d rather not speak at all.

You exhale slowly, a practiced breath, long, quiet, like it cost you nothing to let it go. Your eyes fix straight ahead. You’ve mastered this look, worn it like armor.

Jungkook sees the twitch in your jaw, the way your fingers curl slightly at your sides like they’re bracing for impact. He sees the second you hold your breath, just long enough to mean something.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is lower than it has any right to be. Smooth. Almost casual. “You sure you don’t like me?”

The words don’t land gently. They settle, then sink right into the center of your chest, where all your irritation and confusion lives in a tangled knot. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth floor, you realize you don’t have an answer.

You should roll your eyes. Say nothing. Laugh it off like you always do.

Despite what your brain knows, the Sauvignon blanc speaks for you. You finally let yourself turn to him. And for the first time tonight, you allow yourself to enjoy it.

The way his gaze is fixed on you now, intense, unreadable, dark in that infuriating way that makes you feel stripped down without ever being touched. The way his jaw ticks, like he’s already bracing for your next sharp remark. The way he’s not leaning in, not crowding you, but somehow still manages to take up every inch of air in the elevator.

So you tilt your head, let your lips curl, slow and deliberate, into something just short of a smirk.

“That’s funny,” you whisper, tone smooth, like you’re discussing quarterly projections. “Because from where I’m standing…”

Your gaze drops unapologetically. You let it travel down the stretch of his chest, over the chain glinting against his collarbone, down the trail of ink barely visible beneath the edge of his sleeve. You linger just long enough to be rude. Then you look back up, straight into his eyes. “…it looks like you’re the one begging for my attention.”

You see it in him almost instantly; the crack. Jungkook’s lips part slightly, brows lifting a fraction, not enough to call it surprise, not enough to be obvious. But enough to confirm it: he wasn’t expecting that.

But then, like clockwork, he recovers. The shift is seamless. An uptick of his mouth. A flicker of amusement. That practiced, pretty smirk he wears like a shield.

“Is that right?” he says, voice far too smooth, like silk dragged across skin.

You shrug effortlessly, sounding borderline bored. “I mean, I get it. Happens to the best of them.”

That earns a laugh, quiet, but little breathy. He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, the silver rings on his fingers catching the light as he exhales like he doesn’t know what to do with you.

Ding. The elevator reaches your floor.

You step forward, pressing your palm against the door to hold it open. But you don’t step out immediately.

You glance over your shoulder, just enough to catch his eye. “Sweet dreams, Jungkook.”

You walk out like you didn’t just set the room on fire with your mouth. Like your pulse isn’t thudding against your ribcage. Like this wasn’t the most dangerous ten floors of your entire career.

The doors slide shut behind you with a soft click, and you can still feel him on your skin.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Los Angeles is a blur.

Not the dreamy kind, the kind with sunsets over palm trees and smoothies named after zodiac signs. No, this is the real kind. The kind that grinds your bones into paste and calls it glamour. The kind that starts at 5AM with your phone vibrating off a marble nightstand and ends — if it even ends — with you asleep in front of your laptop, mascara smudged and calendar still open like a horror novel.

The campaign is moving like a bullet train with no brakes. Shoot schedules locked. Press engagements triple confirmed. Creative edits approved so fast it’s suspicious. You don’t breathe so much as manage air intake. Your inbox is a warzone all flags, forwards, follow-ups, and your calendar is a meticulously color-coded march toward the inevitable collapse of your sanity.

Every day begins before the sun even considers rising. You’re on conference calls with the international team while the city’s still asleep, firing off approvals, putting out fires you didn’t start. Fires that, frankly, should never have existed in the first place; why the Tokyo team decided to schedule a last-minute denim edit on a national holiday is beyond you.

Your days are spent in transit. You’re a ghost in a power suit, haunting fitting rooms, lurking behind monitors, whispering death threats to the printer in the production trailer when it jams mid-deadline. There is not a single frame, not a single outfit, not a single loose thread that escapes your notice.

You are everywhere. And… you are exhausted.

So when your team finally earns a night off, where do you end up?

A charity gala.

Because rest is a myth and Calvin Klein has a reputation to maintain.

You hope, pray, that tonight will be uneventful. A blur of small talk and handshakes. A chance to wear heels and pretend you’re not one bad cocktail away from sobbing into the nearest light fixture.

But the universe has jokes and all of them are wearing CK-logo embroidery.

Jungkook, for example, has apparently decided that shirts are optional now. Which would be fine, if he wasn’t your problem. If he didn’t strut onto set like every denim jacket ever made was stitched just to showcase the dip of his collarbone. If every stylist on earth didn’t keep insisting that “this shoot would really work if we just lost the shirt.”

It’s criminal. It’s maddening.

The worst part of it all is you’re not immune.

You’re supposed to be above this. You’re supposed to be focused. You’re supposed to be untouchable. Instead, you’re flustered, trapped between campaign deadlines and the unbearable fact that Jungkook exists with a jawline like that and tattoos that wink at you every time he stretches.

You hate it here.

The Calvin Klein charity gala is everything you expected and everything you dreaded. From the moment you arrive, it’s clear: this is not just a party.

The floral arrangements alone are taller than most of your assistants. The lighting is soft, golden, flattering to skin tones and egos alike. Everyone here looks like money, even the ones pretending they don’t care.

You know the script. You’ve been to more of these than you can count. You know how to nod just right, how to fake-laugh without showing teeth.

You keep your head high, your heels steady, your face unreadable. You’re tired, but keeping it together best you can.

And then, of course, there are the faces. The ones whose names print headlines without trying. Whose cheekbones alone could fund a campaign. Models, actors, musicians; the walking endorsements who keep Calvin Klein perched high in the cultural stratosphere, where one perfectly timed Instagram post can move product faster than a quarterly media buy.

You know them all. You’ve worked with most of them. Negotiated their contracts, managed their meltdowns, rewritten their press releases at 2AM when their publicists mysteriously “lost signal.” You spot them all within minutes.

You spot a familiar swish of black hair a few feet away — Jennie Kim. She’s stationed effortlessly near the center of the room, composed in a sleek black dress that whispers Calvin Klein with just enough subtlety to be expensive. Nothing about her is trying too hard. Nothing ever is. To the public, she’s still a K-pop idol.

But to you? She’s a brand asset. A clean campaign file in your Dropbox. A woman who understands strategy and ROI better than most middle-aged execs with a Wharton degree.

You worked with her last year; she was a dream partnership. Professional. Polished. Sharp as hell. She showed up on time, approved edits without ego, understood how to sell a lifestyle without looking like she was trying to sell anything.

You don’t mind her, which is a rare compliment, considering half the people in this room make you want to walk directly into traffic.

A server floats by, all crisp collar and too-bright smile. You take a flute of champagne with a quiet nod, murmuring a “thank you” before redirecting your gaze toward the entrance.

Still no sign of Jungkook. Good.

The longer you go without seeing him tonight, the better. Because while this event may technically be about Calvin Klein — the brand, the philanthropy, the public-facing purity of fashion-for-good — you know the second he walks in, that narrative is going to collapse under the weight of your impending demise.

You hover near the edge of the room, your team circling close by, half-listening as they rattle off the rest of the night’s agenda. Silent auctions. Keynote speeches. A press check-in before the dinner service begins.

It’s all noise. You’ve heard it a hundred times before. So you nod along, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your champagne glass, your expression politely engaged while your brain drifts.

What’s throwing you off isn’t the gala. It’s the creeping awareness at the back of your spine. The kind that makes you glance toward the doors without realizing it. The kind that tightens the air in the room without anyone needing to speak, like you’re looking for someone.

You should really get a primetime spot of Ashton Kutcher’s Punkd for thinking of that as soon he as enters.

The shift is immediate, unmistakable. The atmosphere bends slightly around him, conversation fluttering for half a second before regaining composure. Heads turn. Bodies angle. A ripple moves through the room like the collective instinct to look good suddenly got dialed up to eleven. The crowd practically parts for him like the Red Sea.

And of course Jungkook acts like he doesn’t notice, like he hasn’t timed this entrance perfectly. He’s draped in Calvin Klein, naturally.

The black button-down is simple, classic, and tailored to perfection. The white shirt underneath is open at the collar, just enough to flirt with impropriety. His silver chain glints under the chandelier lights.

He looks good.

Another massive problem. This night is supposed to be about control, about keeping the spotlight fixed exactly where you want it. Now he’s here and nothing is going to stay on script.

His eyes sweep the room, not searching, not scanning, just…passing through. As if he belongs everywhere and nowhere at once.

You don’t look. You absolutely do not look. Instead, you swirl the champagne in your glass like it’s interesting, like Daniel murmuring something about the CEO’s arrival is the most riveting thing you’ve heard all night.

You keep your focus forward. You keep your expression locked.

He moves about, nothing showy. Just a calm shift, a casual step deeper into the crowd, his pace unhurried as he slips past people with a nod here, a handshake there.

Somehow, you feel it. The creeping closeness, the magnetic pull of him inching nearer. Your fingertips nearly break the glass stem.

And because admitting anything else would be dangerous, you tell yourself it’s the dress. The one you almost didn’t wear. The one that makes you feel too aware of your own body. The one that skims too close, holds too tight, and is not helping your composure right now.

You tell yourself he hasn’t noticed. You lie to yourself for sport. You know how he looks at you when you’re not paying attention, or when you pretend not to be.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction. You keep your eyes on the far wall like it’s about to announce the cure for burnout.

Luckily, Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Instead, he does what he’s supposed to do, what every hour of media training and brand grooming prepared him for. He slides into conversations with executives like he’s known them for years, shakes hands with museum donors like he’s interested in tax-deductible causes. He smiles brightly, poses when needed. A perfect product in perfect packaging.

He’s such a damn good return on investment that you almost feel proud.

Because if you were the kind of person who let herself admit things, you’d admit he’s doing everything right, that he’s holding the brand on his shoulders and making it look light. That he’s annoyingly nailing it.

And — oh god. Goddamnit.

He’s looking at you.

Daniel notices before you do. You’re busy pretending not to care, running your thumb along the base of your glass, when he leans a little closer and mutters under his breath “Christ. He’s not even pretending to hide it.”

You don’t look up. “Hide what?”

Daniel gestures loosely across the room with his chin. “The fact that he’s mentally stripping you while shaking hands with the chairman of the board.”

You pause, then tilt your glass slightly, watching the bubbles trail upward. “You’re being dramatic.”

Daniel snorts. “Am I?”

You take a sip, calm and practiced, expression smooth as ever.

The truth — the part that lives somewhere tight in your chest and buzzes beneath your skin — is that you feel it. You feel him. The burn of his gaze every time it finds you, dragging over the fabric of your dress like he’s trying to memorize the way it hugs your waist. The way it dips at your back. The way you’re very much not wearing a blazer to cover it up.

You don’t need to look to know what expression he’s wearing.

However, if you acknowledge it… that would mean giving him what he wants.

So instead, you turn to Daniel. One brow lifted, lips barely curved. “If he’s looking,” you murmur, voice smooth as ever and twice as dismissive, “that sounds like a him problem.”

Daniel huffs out a laugh, low and knowing. “Right. And you don’t care. Not even a little.”

You take another sip, “Nope.”

Daniel, your observant little coworker… yeah, he doesn’t buy that for a single second.

You inhale once, then glance over at him flat-eyed. “Zip it.”

He rolls his eyes but grins into his champagne. “Sure, boss.”

To your luck, the conversation shifts. The room continues its expensive dance around you. Conversations ebb and flow, the gentle hum of a jazz quartet pulsing through the air. You do your best to work the room; a strategic presence, handshake here, a check-in with PR there. A nod to the editor-in-chief of a magazine you ghosted twice last year. You move through the event like you belong in every corner of it.

But… your eyes keep drifting back. (Not intentionally. Not at first.)

Just one glance… okay, then another, and another.

Jungkook moves through the space, unlike the the cocky brat you’ve been tolerating behind the scenes, but the golden boy the brand paid for. No smirk, no teasing, just that lethal kind of charm that makes executives lean in and reporters jot down adjectives like “magnetic” and “boyish, but timeless.”

You catch flashes of him; the subtle nods, the confident handshake, the curated smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He looks disgustingly good.

And maybe it wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for this: there’s a sharp, stupid feeling tightening low in your stomach. This quiet awareness that you’ve been trying to kill all night. The way it coils, slow and unwelcome, every time he runs a hand through his hair like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t know exactly where your eyes are.

It’s been years since anything like this has touched you, since a man has taken up any space in your mind or your body, im the heat that simmers behind your ribs before you shut it down. You’ve buried yourself in work and the relentless climb toward a version of success that left no time for softness.

Yet here you are, white-knuckling a champagne flute like it insulted your family. Fighting off the burn creeping up your spine. Pretending you don’t see him, don’t feel him, don’t care.

You straighten your posture, swallow the ache in your throat, and refocus. The night moves forward. Press is being escorted in. Introductions are underway. The gala is running like clockwork, exactly as you planned it. Your team is finalizing the press list. Your assistant is confirming cues. Daniel is muttering under his breath about black-tie events being the eighth circle of hell.

Everything is in its rightful place.

Until it isn’t.

Because when you glance up, a temporary flick of the eyes, a reflex, your stomach drops.

What the fuck?

Jungkook is talking to Jennie. And not just talking… they’re close. Too comfortable

Your brain immediately leaps into rationalization mode. They obviously know each other. It’s the industry. The Korean music scene is a small world. They’ve probably worked together. Filmed something. Shared stylists.

It’s nothing.

Or.. well, it doesn’t look like nothing.

He shifts slightly, his posture loose and shoulders dipped. His focus dialed in like whatever she’s saying is the only thing worth hearing tonight.

Jennie tilts her head, eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier. Her mouth curls into the kind of smile you know isn’t just polite. She laughs lowly, the kind of laugh people lean in to hear.

Your jaw clenches. What the hell is he doing?

You’ve seen him charm a dozen people tonight. You’ve watched him play the room like a pro. This is different. This is intentional. This is just enough to start rumors, to spark headlines. It’s a flicker of chemistry, a well-timed glance, a private moment, dressed up for public consumption.

Jungkook has to know exactly what he’s doing.

Your fingers curl tightly around the stem of your glass, pulse ticking higher, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Your mind starts moving fast, quicker than it should.

You’re already thinking about damage control, angle management, what gets picked up by press. What kind of fire this could start if it circulates. If Dispatch catches wind. If fans start spinning theories.

This is how it starts — not the campaign, not the narrative you’ve so carefully constructed over the past month.

No. This is how the other thing starts.

The thing that spirals out of your reach before you’ve even finished your champagne. The kind of chaos that turns into a PR nightmare before dessert hits the table. The kind of moment that ends with your team spending three days scrubbing TikTok edits off the internet while Twitter builds a conspiracy theory with color-coded timelines and three million likes.

This is exactly the kind of thing that keeps you up at night.

You haven’t even tasted the crab cake yet. Damnit.

Your eyes track across the room, locked on Jungkook and Jennie. And yeah, you’re watching. So what? You’re not hovering, you’re not jealous, you’re not spiraling, you’re monitoring. For the brand. For optics. For reasons.

He laughs again. That stupid, low laugh he does when he’s being charming on purpose. Jennie smirks and a strand of hair behind her ear like she was born for red carpet flirtation.

Something inside you, small and sharp and completely unwelcome, tightens. You don’t let it show. Your expression doesn’t shift.

He has to feel it. The silent pull between your body language and the knife-edge restraint in your jaw. The way you haven’t touched your drink in three whole minutes. The way your spine is a little too straight.

There’s a part of you that curls inward at the sight. A part that doesn’t give a single fuck about brand strategy or headlines or the possibility of Dispatch camping outside your hotel. A part that just hates that it’s him.

Because if it were anyone else — some other Calvin Klein face, some other industry darling — you could write it off.

This is Jungkook. And now, you can see it happening in real time. He leans in even more, enough to make it look natural and make people wonder.

His hand brushes Jennie’s waist. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of touch, probably for the camera. Probably for the campaign. Probably a thousand justifiable things.

And Jennie, ever the pro, plays her part flawlessly. She leans in too, smiles, gives the moment enough weight to catch the light.

You watch every second of it. And then you realize you’re about to get caught in a really compromising position, so you keep your focus trained forward on the executive beside you talking about Q4 metrics, on your assistant adjusting a speech note, on the champagne in your hand that you haven’t touched in twelve minutes.

Anything but him.

However, you do feel it before you see it. That electric awareness buzzing just under your skin. You glance over and catch him already looking. When your eyes meet, he tosses you a smirk that anyone could miss easily, like he won.

Like this is a game and you just played your hand without meaning to.

Something ugly twists in your chest. It’s sharp and immediate and furious. He should know better. He does know better. He’s not some clueless rookie who doesn’t understand how this works. He’s Jeon fucking Jungkook.

He knows how Korea works, how netizens twist everything. How one look becomes a dating rumor, how one hand on a waist becomes “Calvin Klein’s It Couple?”

But he’s dragging this out for some reason you can’t put your finger on. Your heart kicks once, hard. You just keep telling yourself you’re fine (even though you’re not. Not even close.)

It’s really so reckless. Borderline suicidal, if we’re talking about headlines and stockholder morale. The part that makes your pulse spike and your jaw clench is that he knows.

You can see it in the way he leans just a little too casually into Jennie, posture loose, like he didn’t just detonate a PR landmine in the middle of your gala. He’s playing some game called “see how close he can get to the edge.” How hot he can let the fire burn before everything goes up with it.

It pisses you off mostly because you don’t have time for this, not with investors watching and press circling like sharks. Not with your reputation balancing on the razor-thin edge of flawless execution.

You don’t have room for his recklessness, for his smug little power plays, for whatever masochistic need he has to push and poke and test the limits of your patience especially when there are stakes involved. Real stakes.

So when his gaze flicks back to you like he’s waiting to see if you’ll crack, you don’t blink.

And if Jeon Jungkook thinks he can play you?

He’s about to learn what happens when you push someone who’s spent their entire life building something from nothing.

You excuse yourself mid-sentence to literally nobody, deposit your untouched champagne on the nearest tray like it personally offended you, and walk gracefully out of the space and into the restroom.

The second the bathroom door clicks shut behind you, the noise fades. It becomes background like the night is happening in some other timeline you no longer belong to.

You plant your palms against the marble sink. It’s cool, anchoring you. You breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.

You’re not here to unravel. You’re not here to throw a fit over a boy who thinks teasing you in public is some twisted mating ritual. The solution is simple. You’re going to yell at his publicist.

That has to be the answer. That has to be the valve you release so the pressure doesn’t implode somewhere messier — or worse, somewhere emotional or personal. This thing he’s doing: it’s not cute. It’s not clever. It’s a liability.

You knew working with Jungkook would be complicated the second you saw the contract terms his team sent yours. You anticipated creative clashes. Maybe the occasional passive-aggressive email about photo approval rights. But not this, not the glances that land like weapons, not the way he’s looking at you like he wants something from you.

Your hands curl into fists against the sink. Everything he’s doing has nothing to do with Calvin Klein. It’s about you. It’s about the way he keeps watching you, waiting.

And if it’s a reaction he wants? Fine. He’ll get one, just not the kind he’s expecting.

You straighten and smooth the fabric of your dress with a practiced hand. You open the door, slipping out of the room with ease as not to be seen. And then you turn the corner —

Body slammed right into an unsuspecting soul. It’s a hard chest, kinda warm.

The apology is already half-formed on your lips until your brain catches up. You smell the cologne; it’s suble but familiar.

The gaze that meets yours when you look up is smug, so recognizable it’s almost laughable.

You stumble back a step, instinctive, like he’s toxic to the touch. He stands there like he has all the time in the world. Jungkook looks quite pleased with himself, as if he hasn’t completely derailed your night.

And you, still holding onto that last sliver of restraint, realize one very important thing: you are absolutely going to lose it.

Just like that, the spark hits gasoline.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Your voice is controlled, a velvet-wrapped blade drawn without ceremony.

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s just been asked his coffee order. “Existing?”

You inhale sharply through your nose. “Don’t.”

You take a step back, not because it helps, not because distance makes anything better, but because your body needs something to do that isn’t launching him into the nearest wall. It’s useless, of course. His presence is still all over you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He tilts his head slightly with faux confusion. “Do I?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails pressing into your palms like anchors. “Don’t play dumb,” you snap, voice tight. “You’re being irresponsible.”

That makes his eyebrows lift like you’ve said something adorable. “Oh?”

“Yes,” you bite out. “You can’t just stand there in the middle of a gala, flirting with Jennie like you’re not a walking headline. You know how this works. You’ve been doing this longer than I’ve been in this job.”

He exhales through his nostrils, soft and dismissive, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “And what exactly did I do, hmm?”

That voice… it’s low and infuriating and far too calm for someone who’s about ten seconds away from having a garbage can thrown at his head.

“You leaned in,” you narrow your eyes. “You lingered. You gave them just enough to write a story, and don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what that story will be.”

He’s still, tense, not so much defensive. He almost looks like he’s enjoying this. The realization hits low in your stomach, nauseating and warm. He likes this. Your anger, your control slipping.

That lights another fuse.

“You know how netizens are,” you say, biting off every word like it costs you. “You know how fast things spiral. One fucking look, Jungkook. One picture. That’s all it takes.”

Nothing. No panic. No apology. Just the faintest trace of amusement at the corner of his mouth like he’s listening to you rant about shipping delays, not a potential scandal that could blow up an entire marketing strategy.

Your breathing turns shallow. Rage simmering beneath your skin, humming through your bones like a second pulse.

“You seem upset,” he murmurs. “Why is that?”

Your blood feels like it’s about to vibrate through your skin. You don’t have an answer to that question, or not one you’re willing to say out loud.

You snap, not loudly or dramatically, but more precisely like the crack of something finally breaking after being held too tightly for too long.

“Because you’re a fucking irresponsible idol,” you seethe, your voice like steel honed to a axe. “You’re all the same.”

Jungkook’s brows lift, intrigued. Clearly, he’s watching something unfold that he’s been waiting for.

You’re not done, not even close. “You act like nothing sticks to you. Like you’re untouchable. Like the rules don’t apply because you’re Jeon Jungkook, global superstar, golden boy of Korea, the one everyone bows down to no matter what you do.”

Your voice is building, rising with the fire you’ve tried for weeks to keep buried under professionalism and politeness. “You fuck around, you flirt, you play, and people let you. Because they want to. Because they love you. Because they think you can do no wrong. And when you do, when you make a mess? Someone’s always there to clean it up.”

He doesn’t interrupt or defend himself. But that infuriating smirk you’ve come to hate more than anything flickers. He’s less certain.

Still, you press forward. Once the dam breaks, there’s no holding it back.

“You think what you did tonight means nothing?” you demand, your words like fire. “You think you can just cozy up to Jennie in front of photographers, in front of executives, in front of me, and it won’t get turned into something it was never supposed to be?”

Your chest is tight, pulse slamming beneath your skin. You’re starting to think he’s getting some kind of sick pleasure from watching you unravel.

He probably is, the bastard.

You draw a breath and try to center yourself. Try to remember that you’re not in your apartment or on a closed set. You’re in a dark hallway of a charity gala, one wrong word away from scandal.

Thank god you’re alone.

The last thing you need is a journalist stumbling across this, catching you flushed, furious, so far off-script you wouldn’t even recognize the version of yourself they’d quote.

You say a silent prayer that no one’s out looking for you. Because if they saw this, they might start asking questions.

He just lets your words hang there densely.

“Are you done?” His voice is not playful or light or amused anymore.

You tilt your head, lips curving into something sharp. “I don’t know. Am I?”

The words land like a slap. You watch it, how his jaw tenses, how his body shifts, how he takes a breath like it costs him.

Suddenly the hallway doesn’t feel quiet anymore. He moves, one singular step. He’s closer now. Closer than he’s been all night.

Now, he’s angry too with the kind that builds. You see it in the way his gaze sharpens. In how his expression hardens, dark eyes locked onto yours like he’s warning you.

You should back off, turn around, and walk away. Do the responsible thing.

Yet you can’t because your hands are still trembling from holding back and chest is still burning from everything you’ve wanted to say but couldn’t and your pride is still aching from being dragged through the night like a puppet on his string.

You hold your ground and meet his stare.

Neither of you speaks, or moves, or dares to look away.

“You act like I committed a felony,” Jungkook mutters, exhaling through his nose like he’s already exhausted by this conversation. “Like I grabbed a mic and told the press Jennie and I secretly eloped in Jeju.”

“That’s not the point,” you say, each word clipped but quiet, the kind of sharp that draws blood without raising volume. “The point is you know exactly how this industry operates. You know how quickly stories spread, how easily narratives twist, and you still fed into it.”

His expression flickers but you catch it; the slight tension around his eyes.

“You think I’m feeding into it?” he asks, tone just dry enough to test you.

You scoff. “You’re playing with it. And for what? To stir up buzz? To make yourself feel powerful? Or is this just another way to get under my skin?”

A short laugh escapes him, more disbelief than humor. He shakes his head, mouth twitching like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You are so fucking full of yourself.”

You bristle, shoulders stiffening before you can stop them. “Excuse me?”

“You think this is about you?” he says, voice louder now, sharper. “Not everything revolves around you, [Y/N].”

“Oh, right,” you fire back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Because you were out there acting like that for brand optics, not for my benefit.”

His gaze hardens. And when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. “You’re pissed because you think I was trying to start a scandal,” he says, slowly, like he’s testing the weight of the words as they leave his mouth.

His eyes scan your face, zeroing in, his tone quieting even further. “But that’s not why you’re mad.”

Your throat tightens. You hate that it does.

“If it was just about the cameras,” he tilts his head slightly, “you wouldn’t be this upset.”

You exhale hard, rolling your shoulders back like it’ll shake off the pressure building in your chest. “Oh, fuck off.”

His lips twitch. “Hit a nerve?”

“No,” you swallow, your jaw clenched so tight it aches. “You’re just delusional.”

Jungkook hums, unconvinced. His body leans forward just slightly, enough to make the space feel tighter.

“So tell me,” he says, “what pissed you off more?”

You roll your eyes, force out a scoff, push the moment back where it belongs.

“You,” you say, tone steady but laced with venom, “are the cockiest person I’ve ever met.”

He exhales a laugh, low and infuriating, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to grin. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t say he secretly likes the way you’re seething, likes the way he gets under your skin, likes the fact that he’s the one pulling this version of you out into the open, entirely unlike the woman you spend so much effort trying to be.

Jungkook’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he shakes his head like you are the ridiculous one in this conversation.

“You are so tightly wound,” he says, sounding more that it’s an observation, not an insult.

Your jaw tightens instantly. “Come again?”

His tone doesn’t shift. If anything, it softens.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, watching you closely, “maybe you need to get off or something.”

The words land like a match to gasoline.

There’s a pause so brief it might’ve gone unnoticed. He sees the momentary flicker behind your eyes, the way your throat closes before you force yourself to exhale through your nose, to reset your features back into bored indifference. You school your expression with a precision you’ve mastered.

But it’s already too late. His lips twitch into a slow, knowing curve.

“That shut you up quick,” he says, quiet and far too satisfied with himself.

The last thread snaps, tension curling through you like electricity with nowhere to go. You step forward, not a warning or a threat, but close enough that your words hit the air between you like something physical. “Bet you wish it was you helping me do it, huh?”

It’s subtle. The smallest shift in the set of his shoulders, the faintest flicker behind his eyes, jaw flexes once. No retort. No easy comeback.

That’s a win.

Before he can recover, before he can pull another smug line from that bottomless well of cocky self-assurance, you push his shoulder.

Enough to make him take a single step back. Enough to prove a point. Enough to make it clear that you’re done. That whatever game he thought this was, it’s over.

Without waiting, without flinching, without looking back, you turn and walk away. He stays behind, backlit in the dim hallway light, still watching you.

You don’t stop moving. If you don’t leave now, you might not walk away at all and that’s a risk you’re not willing to take.

You don’t go back to the event. You don’t say goodbye to anyone. You don’t even wait for your team.

You call a car with shaking fingers and step inside without looking back, seething so hard you can barely speak when the driver asks where to. Your hotel, you manage to grit out.

The moment the door closes behind you, you’re already kicking off your heels, yanking the zipper of your gown down too hard. The silence of the room is almost mocking, like even the walls are waiting for you to admit what you won’t say out loud.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

You pace. You throw your bag onto the desk. You curse his name under your breath like a mantra, like if you say it enough times it might finally lose meaning.

Maybe you just need to get off.

Your jaw clenches. “Fucking unbelievable,” you mutter aloud, storming into the bathroom to scrub off your makeup. “Says the man who was practically dry-humping Jennie for the press.”

Your face is flushed, possibly from anger or something worse. You splash water over your skin, cold enough to sting. But the thought still slips in, unwelcome and heavy.

What if he’s right?

You grip the counter, knuckles white, water dripping from your jaw. You hate how the echo of his voice lingers in your head and how you can still see the way his jaw flexed, the way his button-down clung to every inch of him under those lights.

God, he looked good. Too good. Like a fucking problem with a dick and an attitude.

You groan and press your palms to your face, willing yourself to forget how your body reacted even while your brain was screaming at him.

You hate him. You also hate… that you want him. He put the idea in your head and now it’s floating around in there, out in the open.

You march to the bed, flop onto it, and stare at the ceiling, the sheets cool against your bare legs. Your heart won’t slow. Your mind won’t stop. And worst of all, your body won’t listen.

Because no matter how angry you are, no matter how justified you feel, you can’t shake the image of his mouth when he smirked, the look in his eyes when he said that stupid sentence. Who does he think he is? Some character from a Wattpad fanfiction?

You toss and turn. You flip the pillow over like that’ll make a difference, like the cooler side of the fabric will somehow quiet the fever burning under your skin. The sheets are twisted around your thighs. The moonlight bleeding through the curtains feels too bright.

Even when you close your eyes, all you see is him. His lips. That stupid silver ring that glinted when he smirked. The look in his eyes when he leaned in too close, when he said the most obscene thing in the most casual voice.

You roll onto your stomach and scream into the pillow. A muffled, frustrated sound that doesn’t help at all. You feel like you’re crawling out of your own skin like every part of your body is tuned to him.

His voice. His mouth. His hands.

God, those hands.

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter and will the thoughts away, but they crawl back in like ivy through cracks in the foundation.

Now you’re alone in your hotel room, aching, restless, and nothing — not anger, not pride, or even common sense — is helping.

You whisper, just to the empty room, “Goddamn you, Jungkook.”

And your hand starts to drift, almost without permission like gravity’s pulling it there. Like your body’s answering a question your brain refuses to ask.

You let out a shaky breath as your fingertips slide lower past your underwear, pushing it to the side with haste.

You’re too tired to fight it. You are wound too tight. You hate that he’s right.

You’re not even thinking about the way he touched Jennie. You’re thinking about how his hands might’ve felt on you if you’d let them.

You lie there, still as stone, for exactly three seconds before muttering, “I am out of my fucking mind.”

But your hand doesn’t stop moving. It’s slow at first against your clit. It’s a gentle rub, just to see if you’ll even have any reaction to it. Almost tentative, like you’re testing yourself, waiting to regain some semblance of dignity and snap out of it. But you don’t.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, slamming your eyes shut. The pads of your fingers speed up against your clit, breathy moans escaping you, echoing the room and taunting you.

It’s all because of the stupid hallway. The stupid smirk. The stupid way his voice dipped when he said maybe you just need to get off.

Your entire body curls at the memory. You clench your jaw and bite your bottom lip, but the image is too vivid now, too detailed. The fight. The heat of it.

Your fingers move quickly, experimentally, like you’re trying to prove some point to yourself. You’re not sure if it’s self-care or a nervous breakdown. All you know is that your pulse is racing and your brain has left the chat entirely.

You try to focus on anything else. That random hookup you had last year. Emails. Deadlines. Q3 marketing reports. The breakup sex you had with your ex. Nothing works.

All you can see is the tension in Jungkook’s arms. The way his chest rose and fell. The way he looked at you like he wanted to ruin your life and kiss you senseless in the same breath.

You groan softly, one hand gripping the sheets, the other sliding two fingers into you, hot and slick and aching.

It’s so unfair. He’s not even here, and he’s still winning, under your skin and in your fucking head.

You try to bite back the sounds slipping out of you, but they come anyway involuntarily. You can’t stop thinking about what it would’ve felt like if he touched you like this. Probably would’ve been rough, would definitely make you cum in under three minutes.

Of course he would. The cocky fucker.

He’d look you in the eyes the entire time, wouldn’t he? Mouth parted, lip ring cool against your lips, voice deep, asking still wound up, baby?

Your hips twitch and your fingers are soaking wet now with your arousal, messily pumping in and out desperately. Your ego shrivels up into a piece of lint and floats off into the distance. The sounds that are coming out of you are borderline obscene and you pray no one from your team walks this floor.

Finally — god willing — you come apart, eyes screwed shut, chest heaving, body tensing and then softening all at once.

You lie there afterward, stunned and drenched in sweat, breathing like you just ran a marathon fueled entirely by spite and delusion.

For a long time, you don’t move. Eventually though,a soft, incredulous laugh escapes your lips. “God, I am so pathetic.”

You stare at the ceiling completely mortified. But beneath the embarrassment, buried under the heat still humming through your skin, is one clear, undeniable thought: You’re in deep.

So much deeper than you ever meant to be.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

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

[senawashere]

selam guzelim :3

i want a DI husband leon x female reader something mayhaps a domestic smut – okay okay now hear me out!! leon and reader had a kid (a girl bcz everybody is a sucker for girldad! leon please 😭) she’s like actively up to mischief + can’t stop making a mess in the house yes and finally leon says you should leave the kid with grandparents or something (it’s for the get rid of the kid project so that leon can take you out to dinner and eat you out afterwards) 🙂‍↕️

Just two of us.

Husband!Di!leon x wife!fem!reader

Summary: Leon needs some alone time with his wife,so why not call it a date?

Warnings: !SMUT! !MDI! Pure smut,piv,oral sex,mention of biting and blood,breeding kink,mentions of having kids.

A/n: @shinigamigloss bunu uzun suredir istedigini bildigim icin erken bayram hediyem olsun🫶🏻 thx for the request bby😽

It started with the sound of something crashing in the kitchen.

“Jesus Christ—” Leon groaned, throwing his head back against the couch. “That’s the third time today.”

You sighed, already knowing what—or rather, who—the culprit was. The same culprit who had somehow managed to spill an entire bowl of cereal that morning, scribble all over Leon’s mission reports with a red crayon, and nearly knock over the TV in her latest attempt to climb onto the console table. Your daughter. Your little hurricane of chaos wrapped up in pigtails and the sweetest damn smile that always made Leon fold like a deck of cards.

And right on cue, she came dashing into the living room, giggling, her tiny hands suspiciously covered in what looked like flour. “Mama! Daddy!” she chirped, her eyes sparkling with unfiltered delight. “I made a cake!”

Leon blinked. “You… what?”

Just as he spoke, the kitchen door swung open slightly wider, revealing an unholy mess of flour, eggs, and what you could only assume was an entire bag of sugar coating the countertops.

“Oh my God,” you breathed.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Leon muttered, rubbing a hand down his face in exasperation. “We need a break.”

You gave him a pointed look, already accustomed to his dramatic declarations of fatherhood fatigue. “Leon—”

“No, listen, babe.” He turned to you, dead serious. “Operation: Get Rid of the Kid.”

You snorted, but he wasn’t joking. “We send her to your parents for the weekend, let them get a taste of the little menace they helped create. And then…” His voice dipped lower, eyes darkening just slightly. “You and I go out. Just us.”

Your brows lifted, catching the shift in his tone immediately. “Oh?”

He smirked, already leaning closer, hands lazily tracing over your thigh. “Dinner first. I’ll even pull out the suit you like.”

“Mm, and after dinner?”

He hummed, pretending to think, but his fingers curled against your skin in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach. “I’d take you somewhere special. Have you to myself for once. No interruptions. And then…” His lips brushed against your ear, voice dropping to a slow, sinful murmur. “I’d take my time eating something way better than dinner.”

Your breath hitched.

A flour-covered hand suddenly smacked against Leon’s knee, making him jolt. “Daddy! Pay attention to meee!”

Leon shot you a look of pure suffering while you fought back laughter. Your daughter grinned up at him, completely oblivious to how she had just ruined what was about to be a very, very promising conversation.

“See?” he grumbled. “Grandparents. This weekend. If they can’t then i will beg Chris and Claire to babysit.”

You laughed, ruffling your daughter’s hair before shooting Leon a knowing look. “Fine. But you’d better make that dinner worth it.”

“Oh, I will.”

And something in the way he said it made you think you might not even make it to dinner at all.

—

Dropping your daughter off at your parents’ house was… an experience. She clung to your leg like a koala, her big eyes shining with betrayal.

“You’re leaving me?” she sniffled, her tiny lips wobbling.

Leon crouched to her level, smoothing down her hair. “Hey, you love Nana and Papa, don’t you?”

She pouted. “Yeah.”

“And they have cookies,” he added, smirking when she perked up slightly. “Way more than Mama lets you have.”

“Hey!” You smacked his arm playfully, but it worked. She hesitated, then let go of your leg to sprint toward her grandparents, already babbling about cookies.

Leon stood, exhaling in relief. “Alright, let’s go before she changes her mind.”

—

Back home, you slipped into a sleek white dress while Leon got ready in the bedroom. When he emerged in that navy suit, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, you let out a low whistle.

“Well, don’t you clean up nice?”

His eyes dragged over you, pupils dilating. “Look who’s talking.” He stepped closer, voice husky. “Are we sure we have to go to dinner?”

You laughed, shoving his chest. “Yes, Leon. I’m hungry.”

“Me too but for something else.” he muttered, but you ignored the implication, grabbing his hand and leading him out the door.

—

Dinner was… perfect. A quiet, candlelit table, good wine, and Leon’s undivided attention. He leaned in as you spoke, fingers tracing idle circles on your wrist, the heat in his gaze only growing throughout the night.

By the time dessert was served, he was barely listening. His hand had moved to your thigh under the table, squeezing just enough to send a message.

“Leon,” you warned.

He just smirked, voice low. “Check, please.”

—

As the valet took the keys to their sleek, black sedan, Leon turned to Y/n, his eyes hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses. "Ready, darling?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips. Y/n nodded, her heart fluttering as she took in the magnificence of the luxurious hotel where they would spend the whole night. The building was a masterpiece of modern architecture, all glass and steel, reflecting the vibrant cityscape.

The lobby was a bustling hive of activity, but Leon navigated through the crowd with ease, his hand resting possessively on the small of Y/n's back. You could feel the heat of his touch through the thin fabric of your silk dress, a promise of what was to come. As you approached the reception desk, you admired the grandeur of the atrium, the classical music wafting from the grand piano in the corner, and the unmistakable scent of fresh roses that filled the air.

Leon checked you in, his voice a low rumble as he spoke to the receptionist. You watched as the young woman behind the desk batted her eyelashes at him, her smile a little too wide. You felt a pang of jealousy but suppressed it, knowing that Leon only had eyes for you. As if sensing your thoughts, Leon turned and winked at you, his smirk deepening.

"I've booked the honeymoon suite for us," Leon said as you stepped into the elevator, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. Your eyes widened in surprise. The honeymoon suite held memories of your passionate past, of the first time you both had escaped from the world, losing yourself in each other's embrace. You felt a familiar heat stirring in her belly, her breath hitching slightly.

As the elevator ascended, Leon turned to face you fully, his sunglasses now tucked into the collar of his shirt. His eyes, a piercing blue, bored into yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. He backed you against the wall of the elevator, his hands gripping her hips, his thumbs tracing circles on your skin.

"Do you remember, Y/n?" he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "Do you remember how I made you scream my name in that suite?"

Your breath hitched again, your body responding to his words, his touch. You nodded, your eyes never leaving his. "Yes," you whispered. "I remember."

Leon's hands moved from your hips, sliding up your body, his thumbs grazing the sides of her breasts. Your nipples hardened, straining against the lace of your bra. Leon's eyes flicked down, noticing the reaction, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

The elevator pinged, announcing their arrival at their floor. Leon stepped back, adjusting his shirt, a casual gesture that belied the hungry look in his eyes. You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself as you stepped out of the elevator.

As they walked down the hall, Leon's hand returned to the small of your back, his fingers splayed possessively. A group of men, clearly on a business trip, passed them, their eyes lingering on you a little too long. Leon's grip tightened, his body tensing slightly. He turned to the men, a cold look in his eyes.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice a low growl. "I suggest you keep your eyes to yourselves. This one's taken."

The men quickly averted their gazes, murmuring apologies as they hurried past. You looked up at Leon, a mixture of surprise and arousal coursing through you. You loved this side of him, the possessive men who would do anything to protect what was his.

As you entered the honeymoon suite, You gasped at the sheer opulence of it. The room was decorated in shades of gold and cream, a massive four-poster bed taking center stage. The bed was draped in luxurious silk sheets, a chilled bottle of champagne sitting in a bucket of ice nearby.

Leon came up behind you, his arms wrapping around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. "What do you think, darling?" he murmured, his breath hot on your ear.

You leaned back against him, your body molding to his. "It's perfect, Leon," you whispered. "Just like our first time."

Leon's hands began to roam, his fingers deftly unbuttoning the back of your dress. "And just like our first time," he growled, "I'm going to make you scream my name, my love. I'm going to make you beg for more."

Your dress fell open, revealing your lace-clad breasts, her nipples already hard and aching. Leon's hands cupped them, his thumbs circling the sensitive peaks. You moaned, head falling back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.

Leon's mouth was on your neck, his teeth nipping at the skin, his tongue soothing the sting. His hands left your breasts, sliding down your body, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your lace panties. He pushed them down, his knuckles brushing against your mound.

You stepped out of your panties, kicking them aside. Leon's fingers returned to you, parting your folds, his thumb circling your clit. You gasped,hips bucking against his hand. You could feel his erection, hard and insistent, pressing against your ass.

Leon's fingers plunged into you, his thumb keeping a steady rhythm on your clit. Your body was on fire, your breath coming in short gasps, your hips moving in time with his thrusts. You could feel orgasm building, your body tensing, your inner muscles clenching around his fingers.

"Leon," you gasped, hands gripping his arms, her nails digging into his skin. "Oh god, Leon, I'm going to come."

Leon's teeth bit down on your shoulder, the sudden pain sending you over the edge. You screamed his name, body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed over you. Leon's fingers slowed, his thumb circling your clit gently as you rode out your orgasm.

As your breathing returned to normal, Leon spun you around, his mouth crashing down on yours. You could taste the blood on his lips, but you didn't care. You wanted him, all of him, the good and the bad, the sweet and the savage. That's the proof of the ring on your finger.

Leon's hands were on your ass, lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist. He carried you to the bed, laying you down gently, his body covering yours. His cock was hard against you, and you could feel the cool metal of his zipper pressing into your skin.

Your hands fumbled with his belt, your fingers clumsy in your haste. Leon chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. He batted your hands away, undoing his belt and zipper with practiced ease. He pushed his pants and boxer down, his cock springing free, hard and ready.

Your eyes widened as you took in the sight of him. As if you haven’t seen him. He was huge, his cock thick and long, the head already glistening with pre-cum. You reached out, your fingers wrapping around him, thumb smearing the bead of moisture over the sensitive tip.

Leon's hips jerked, a growl tearing from his throat. "Fuck, baby," he rasped. "If you keep doing that, I won't last long."

You smiled, a wicked glint in your eyes. "Then don't last," you said, voice a sultry purr. "Come for me, Leon. Come all over me."

Leon's eyes darkened, a feral look crossing his face. He straddled you, his cock in his hand, his strokes fast and hard. You watched, body aching with need, pussy clenching with anticipation. Playing with your titts as you look at him with doe eyes.

With a roar, Leon came, his hot seed spurting onto Your stomach,breasts, neck. You gasped at the feel of it, the hot, sticky mess a testament to his desire for you. Leon's body shuddered, the last of his orgasm wracking through him.

As his breathing returned to normal, Leon looked down at you, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. "Your turn, darling," he growled, his hands sliding up your body, smearing his cum into your skin.

Your body arched into his touch, breath hitching as his fingers found your nipples, pinching and twisting them. Leon's mouth followed, his tongue lapping at the sensitive peaks, his teeth nipping and biting.

Leon's mouth trailed down your body, his tongue licking up the remnants of his cum. He settled between your legs, his shoulders pushing your thighs wide. You looked down at him, your eyes meeting his, a silent challenge passing between you both.

Leon's tongue flicked out, a quick, teasing lick against your clit. Your hips bucked, a gasp escaping from your lips. Leon's hands gripped your hips, holding her still as his tongue began to work in earnest. He licked and sucked, his teeth grazing against sensitive bud, his tongue plunging into your pussy.

Your body was on fire, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your hands fisted in the silk sheets, head thrashing from side to side. You could feel the orgasm building, your body tensing,inner muscles clenching.

Leon's tongue moved faster, his sucks became harder, his teeth grazing against you with just the right amount of pressure. You screamed his name as you came, body convulsing, hips bucking against his mouth.

Leon rode out your orgasm, his tongue lapping at your pussy gently, his hands soothing your trembling body. As your breathing returned to normal, Leon moved up your body, his cock once again hard and ready.

He positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes meeting yours. "Are you ready, darling?" he murmured, his voice a low growl.

You nodded,body aching with need. "Yes," you whispered. "Fuck me, Leon. Make me a mama one more time,please."

With a growl, Leon thrust into her, his cock filling her completely. “Fuck,darling. Are you sure?”

With your nod he thrusted fast and hard. You gasped, your body stretching to accommodate him. Leon's hips began to move, his thrusts slow and steady but deep enough so his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside you that made you see stars.

Your hips moved in time with his, your bodies moving in sync, breaths mingling, moans and skin slapping sound filling the air. Leon's thrusts became harder, faster, his body slamming into yours, his cock hitting your G-spot with every thrust. “Yes yes yes! Like that baby!”

You could feel your orgasm building, body tensing, legs trembling around his waist. Leon's body was tense above yours, his breath coming in short gasps, his hips moving erratically. “I’m coming baby. Gonna make you mama again. Fuck!”

With a roar, Leon came, his hot seed spilling into your, his cock pulsing with his release. The feel of him coming inside you sent you over the edge, body convulsing as your own orgasm tore through you. “Oh my god!”

Leon collapsed on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in short gasps. Your arms wrapped around him, holding him close, your body sated and content.

As both of your breathing returned to normal, Leon rolled off you, pulling you into his arms. Still inside of you. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

"I love you so much, darling," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "You gonna make me a daddy again?”

You snuggled closer to him, a contented sigh escaping your lips. You couldn't wait to see what else he had in store for you. But for now, you were happy to lay here in his arms, your body sated, her heart full,belly full of his seed.

As you both lay there, the sound of your breaths filling the air, the world outside faded away. It was just the two of you, lost in each other, lost in love. When Leon got up to clean you up,you thought to ourself. And you knew, no matter what happened, no matter where they went, as long as they were together, they could face anything.

And as you drifted off to sleep, safe and warm in Leon's arms, you knew that this was just the beginning of their new journey. A journey filled with love, laughter, and a whole lot of passion. And she couldn't wait to see where it would take them.

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“İmpossible.”

—

The morning after, you stirred to the feeling of strong arms wrapped around you, Leon’s chest warm against your back. His lips ghosted over your shoulder.

“Morning, beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

You hummed, shifting slightly. “Mmm. We should do this more often.”

He chuckled, squeezing your waist. “Agreed.”

Then his phone buzzed. A message from your parents.

Leon read it and groaned. “She woke them up at six a.m. demanding pancakes. We’re definitely getting payback for that one.”

You laughed, rolling over to press a kiss to his jaw. “Until then… how about we enjoy the peace and quiet a little longer?”

He smirked, flipping you onto your back. “Oh, I plan to.”

And by the look in his eyes, round two was definitely happening.

---

Oh ma gawd i missed writing 😔

Taglist: @shinigamigloss @eternalsams

[rafesbuzzcutseason]

wicked game

chapter 2 - kappa tau

synopsis: y/n is sarah’s roommate and the embodiment of sunshine. rafe, on the other hand, is her complete opposite. when the boys place a bet that he can't win her over, rafe takes the challenge without hesitation. after all, he never backs down from a dare. the closer rafe gets to y/n, he finds himself drawn to her warmth in a way he never expected, and for the first time, he wants to be more than just the guy with a bad reputation.

but secrets don’t stay hidden for long, and when y/n finds out the truth, rafe is left to face the consequences. now, he has to prove that somewhere along the way, the bet stopped mattering, because losing her was never part of the plan.

masterlist

cw: mentions of drugs and alcohol, language

"how are you feeling?" sarah asked as you were doing the finishing touches of your makeup.

"nervous." you replied.

sarah smiled, leaning against the doorframe as she watched you. “totally normal. first frat party jitters. it’s a rite of passage.”

you set your lip gloss down, exhaling. “it’s just… not really my scene, you know? loud music, drunk people, chaos.”

sarah grinned. “oh, it’s definitely all of those things. but that’s the fun of it! you don’t have to be the life of the party, just survive it. and hey, i’ll be right there with you. and i'll introduce you to cleo and kie who you will love.

you met her eyes in the mirror, appreciating how quickly she had taken you under her wing. “thanks, sarah.”

she smiled. “anytime. now, come on, let’s go. you look beautiful.”

with one last deep breath, you grabbed your phone and followed her out the door, the bass of the party already faintly thumping in the distance.

sarah linked her arm with yours as you walked. “okay, quick rundown. frat parties can be a lot. idiotic men, screaming girls, a lot of drunk conversations. but as long as you stick with me, you’ll be fine.”

you nodded, nerves still fluttering. “and cleo and kie? they’re your friends?”

sarah beamed. “yep! they’re the best. i knew them from home. you’re gonna love them. cleo takes no shit, and kie’s the most chill person ever. they’ll have your back.”

that made you feel better. you weren’t exactly shy, but stepping into a house full of strangers, loud music, and whatever else frat parties entailed? that was way out of your comfort zone.

as you approached the kappa tau house, the scene was exactly what you’d expected. just like the movies. people spilling onto the lawn, red solo cups in nearly everyone’s hands, music so loud you could feel the beat in your chest. the air smelled like beer, cologne, and the faintest hint of weed.

sarah squeezed your arm. “welcome to kappa tau y/n.” she then waved dramatically. “there they are!”

two girls turned and grinned when they saw sarah. “about damn time. we were starting to think you bailed.”

“as if i'd miss this,” sarah scoffed before turning to you. "guys, this is y/n, my roommate and our new favourite person.”

“hey, it's so nice to meet you! i'm kie." she said, pulling you into a welcoming hug.

"and i'm cleo." she smiled, "so first frat party?"

you sighed. “that obvious?”

“oh, yeah,” she teased. “but don’t worry, we’ll keep you alive.”

before you could say anything else, a loud voice cut through the crowd.

“ladies!”

you turned just in time to see two guys approaching. one was tall and tan with a cocky grin. the other, a blonde with wild hair and an even wilder energy, practically vibrating with excitement.

“finally!” the blonde boy threw an arm around sarah's shoulder. “we were wondering when you’d grace us with your presence.”

the first boy gave you a curious look before glancing at sarah. “new roommate?”

sarah beamed. “yep. y/n, meet john b and jj.”

“nice to meet you,” john b said with a friendly smile.

jj, however, wiggled his eyebrows. “very nice to meet you.”

kie smacked his arm. “behave.”

jj put a hand over his heart, feigning innocence. “i am always on my best behaviour.”

cleo snorted. “that’s the biggest lie i've ever heard.”

sarah rolled her eyes, then turned back to you. “okay, now that the introductions are done, can we please go inside?"

you hesitated for half a second before nodding. “let’s do it.”

kie grinned. “that’s the spirit.”

you piled in together, letting the party swallow you whole. you took a deep breath, scanning the room. it was overwhelming, but there was an undeniable energy to it. you let yourself feel excited.

cleo nudged you playfully. “come on, let’s get drinks. it’s, like, step one of surviving a night like this.”

you nodded, "alright. let's get started.

a/n: i promise rafe will come in soon...

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