#either way; this was fun and I will write a second part | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zepskies · 20 hours ago

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Girl YAAAAS!! 😍 I'm so glad you decided to dive into @chevroletdean's fun moodboard challenge~ 💛🧡🩵

I can't believe you've wanted to write about my home state, but I was cackling right from the start at the accuracy 🤣👌🏽

chasing a ghoul through backyards full of pink lawn flamingos and chainlink fences.

🤭 sounds like Miami! loll

And Dean doesn’t mean the good kind of eating ass, either. Nope, he means the swamp-ass, sunburned, get-mauled-by-an-alligator kind.

Girl don't make me quote this whole fic, we're only like 100 words in! "swamp ass" is deadly accuracy, I cannot 😆😆

And yes we are indeed cursed - with throat-closing humidity and heat upon heat all year round, tropical storms, expensive bread, terrible traffic, and too many damn snowbirds coming to live here year 'round now 🫠🫠🫠

It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.

lmfaoo we call that ✨making a pearl✨

Also not the drone-sized mosquitos 🦟 <- THAT is also on point, especially in summer - and the closer you get to the Everglades. 😭 And the "fried seafood and moldy flipflops" def reminds me of the boardwalk at Fort Lauderdale Beach lolll

Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be.

hahaaa We mostly divide ourselves by North, Central, and South Florida (SoFlo). All are different countries, essentially. I think a comedian once called it the dick of the U.S. or something, but I went to a Def Leppard concert years ago and Joe Elliot called it "Satan's ass crack." I haven't recovered since 🤣🤣

The bikini strings are tied in neat bows at your hips, a popsicle melting bright mango-orange between your fingers, and you’re working the thing over like it owes you goddamn money with the most sinful mouth he’s ever had the misfortune of knowing.

lmaooo absolutely LOVE this. She's really working that orange dreamsicle. Bet he wishes she'd do him like that 😝🧡

Also - "molten saffron sun" is my new favorite description ever now. 💓

That would explain why he’s three seconds away from dropping to his knees and offering to be your loyal, desperate, sunburnt servant.

LOL I'm cackling imagining a sunburnt Dean, willing to do "whatever it takes" to be her new dreamsicle 😝

Time freezes. The ocean quiets. The gulls freeze midair. Dean’s pulse slams loud and dizzy in his ears. His world narrows to you, your suntanned legs, the glint of sea-salt crystals on your skin, your bright and glistening mango lips. Jesus fucking Christ. You just– Did you– He stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Huh? What?” he croaks, voice pitched embarrassingly high. You blink at him, then repeat – slowly, sweetly, “I said: Should we check if it sucks the breath outta people like a leech?” “Uh, yeah,” he croaks. “Suckin’. Life. Outta dudes. Totally.”

DEANNNN. LOL just fucking talk to her already, before you implode!!! 🤣🤣 But I love how this scene played out in my head like a movie. Such a good freeze frame and cut to the reality of the moment 😂

He is too old, too tired, and too desperately in love with you for this shit.

Oh poor baby. I feel so bad for you. 🙄 Talk to her!!!!!

He imagines you bent over the hood of the Impala, bikini tangled around your ankles, hands bracing against the hot metal while he rails you like a man possessed.

oh my God poor girl, she'd burn the fingerprints off her hands - but I can appreciate where Dean's going with this 😂😂

But he sooooo is gonna die of heatstroke in his usual hunter garb, and I love her for cheekily calling him out on it! He's about to catch on fire in so many ways 🔥🔥🔥

Dean looks at you – skin kissed by flame-petals and sunset sugar, hair blowing soft in the briny breeze, popsicle stick clutched between your fingers like a crime scene weapon.

Ahhh you wove so much beautiful poetic imagery throughout this, but I really love this one^ and the "skin glinting like bronzed sugar" line 😍💖💖

Before he can say something catastrophic (like “Marry me right now” or “Please put your mouth on me, I'm begging”), Sam comes jogging up the beach, waving his phone like a savior in flannel.

Noooooo why does Sam have to butt in!! lmfao I love him but Dean was maybe on the verge of making a move! Maybe?! 😂

Yeah, Florida is one hell of a drug, but you’re the one that fucked him up.

(lol sorry I had to)

But omg this was too much fun! Part of this felt like FL tourism in the early 2000s, but a lot of it was very legit and accurate too. 🤣 This story was so layered with rich imagery (which you're so amazing at), but also fun and playful and torturous for Dean.

Maybe I'm wrong, but I feel like after a while she kind of knew what he was thinking! 🤭❤️‍🔥 I could so see her finally being the one to make the first move and be like, "now why couldn't you do that yesterday?" 😆😆

Florida!!!

Summary: One fishy monster hunt, one sweaty afternoon at the beach, and one innocent popsicle – Florida is fucking hell for Dean.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: +18 language and smut in the form of dirty fantasies, severe pining, one idiot in love, humor, Florida, one popsicle, unresolved ending & feelings

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: My entry for @chevroletdean's 500 Follower Celebration! Congrats again, lovely, and thank you so much for hosting this challenge and creating this awesome moodboard!! I was immediately inspired (and have wanted to write something set in Florida for an eternity). This was perfect and so much fun! 💛🧡🩵

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Florida can eat his ass.

Dean’s decided this at least seventeen times today. He has known this little fact since the first time he set foot here at nineteen, chasing a ghoul through backyards full of pink lawn flamingos and chainlink fences.

And Dean doesn’t mean the good kind of eating ass, either. Nope, he means the swamp-ass, sunburned, get-mauled-by-an-alligator kind.

Because no matter how pretty the scenery looks – sugar-powder beaches and sea-glass tides, slats of the boardwalk bleached bone-white under a honeyed sky – the whole damn state feels cursed.

It’s humid enough to drown standing still, and the sand sticks to everything, including parts of him he’s not ready to confront.

And between the humidity thicker than chowder and the scent of fried seafood and moldy flip-flops lingering like a bad decision, every drone-sized mosquito here is carrying at least three diseases and a vendetta. The crime rate also looks like a Mad Libs page: “Florida Man assaults alligator while wearing tutu and high on bath salts.”

It’s too hot, too wet, and too damn weird and crazy. Every breath here tastes like sweat, regret, and a hint of swamp water.

Florida’s not even a real fucking state. Can’t be.

Dean’s convinced it’s a bad trip someone had in the ‘70s that somehow got voted into the union. The sun feels less like it’s shining and more like it’s attacking. Everyone’s either a retiree, a guy named Skip with a neck tattoo of a flaming dice, or some batshit meth-head who thinks they saw Bigfoot behind the Waffle House.

Dean hates it with every fiber of his being. Florida is Satan’s back porch.

And now, thanks to a string of weird drownings at a no-name beach town outside Destin, Dean is trapped in the sweaty armpit of the country, baking alive in jeans, while trying very hard not to stare at you.

Which is impossible.

Because you’re right next to him in a little turquoise lounge chair and a skimpy bikini the color of wild citrus – or tangerine, maybe. You hum a little tune – that stupid Weezer song that only plays on the radio during summer. You kick your feet lazily in the sun, flashing him a smile so bright he’s pretty sure it could get him legally blinded.

All tanned legs and unapologetic sunshine. A vision of temptation under the molten saffron sun.

Dean sweats. Internally and externally. Better than that: He is cooked. Absolutely fried. Every casual motion of yours is branding itself into his frontal lobe forever.

Your tongue flickers out again – pink and wet and glistening – smoothing a drip from the rounded tip, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re currently starring in every X-rated daydream Dean’s ever had.

His vision whites out at the edges.

You hum absently, flipping through the manila folder in your lap. Your voice floats over, sweet as saltwater taffy. “So,” you say, casual and sunny, “are we thinking mer-creature, or like, a shapeshifter with a thing for boats and aquatic cosplay? Or what if it’s a water demon? Like a kelpie, but more murdery?”

Dean makes a strangled sound that’s supposed to be a word but comes out more like a dog’s dying whimper.

You blink at him. Tilt your head. Wait.

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah. Mer-thing. Whatever.”

“Or,” you muse aloud, tongue darting out again to lap at a drip, “maybe it’s like–… like a water wraith? Something that sucks the breath outta your lungs?”

You pop the popsicle out of your mouth with an obscene little smack. Dean’s mouth works soundlessly. Because all he can imagine is you on your knees, tongue slick against him, big eyes wide and innocent while you–

Focus, he barks at himself. For the love of fucking God, focus, Winchester.

Dean swallows hard, dragging his eyes off your mouth and back down to the battered folder in your lap.

This isn’t normal. He’s doomed. Maybe even cursed.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it. He’s probably been hit with a lust spell. Florida is full of weird shit, right? That would explain why he’s three seconds away from dropping to his knees and offering to be your loyal, desperate, sunburnt servant.

But then again, this isn’t entirely new either.

You’ve been driving him nuts for goddamn years. Laughing too loud at his dumb jokes. Sitting too close in motel beds when you both casually watch movies. Calling him Winchester in that honeyed voice that makes him feel like he’s being dared to fuck up and kiss you.

And still, he’s always been good. Good at pretending. Good at stuffing all that want somewhere deep under rib and bone and battered leather jackets.

But this? This is fucking torture. This is some bikini-clad Greek tragedy, starring one dumbass in boots on a beach who can’t stop fantasizing about licking saltwater off your thighs.

He should be thinking about the case. About that water-witch or whatever the fuck they are hunting this time. He should be thinking about hex bags and salt rounds, not about how your bikini bottoms ride up just a little when you stretch your arms over your head–

Stop it!

You lean forward to show him something on a photocopied page and tap a newspaper clipping about the latest victim – some unlucky fisherman who swore he saw a “golden-scaled woman” before getting dragged into the shallows.

But the little bow at your hip shifts, skin glinting like bronzed sugar under the clear sky. Dean makes a small, wounded noise in his throat, and his brain immediately supplies another vivid fantasy:

You perched in his lap, that bow coming untied with a lazy pull of his fingers, your thighs slick and hot against him, the ocean thundering in the tropical background while you ride him so slow it borders on a religious experience.

He blinks against the burning sun, feels himself slipping again, heat and blood rushing downward. The image hits him so hard he has to adjust himself in his jeans, subtle as a heart attack.

His dick twitches miserably.

He slouches lower, trying to think of anything not filthy – taxes, Sam’s hair care routine, the time Bobby caught him naked in the kitchen with a meatball sub – but it’s useless.

“Dean? You even listening?” you ask, laughing, poking his leg with your sandy toes.

Dean grunts something noncommittal that might be English, jaw clenched so tight he’s surprised his teeth don’t shatter. He tries to answer. Really, he does. But the words get bottlenecked behind the visual of you dragging your tongue slowly up the side of the melting treat.

You bite your lip, thoughtful, tapping the end of the popsicle stick against your mouth. “Maybe it’s something worse,” you continue. “Like a siren who doesn’t seduce you to death, just… I dunno. Sucks you off and leaves you floating.”

Dean’s soul physically leaves his body.

You tilt your head, grinning wickedly. “You want me to suck you off too, Dean?”

Time freezes. The ocean quiets. The gulls still midair. Dean’s pulse slams loud and dizzy in his ears. His world narrows to you, your suntanned legs, the glint of sea-salt crystals on your skin, your bright and glistening mango lips.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You just–

Did you–

He stares at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Huh? What?” he croaks, voice pitched embarrassingly high.

You blink at him, then repeat – slowly, sweetly, “I said: Should we check if it sucks the breath outta people like a leech?”

“Uh, yeah,” he croaks. “Suckin’. Life. Outta dudes. Totally.”

You stare at him a second longer, suspicious, before shrugging and going back to the file.

Dean exhales, trying to will his hard-on into submission through sheer force of shame. You’re systematically dismantling his ability to think in complete sentences. His entire brain is on fire.

His internal organs shut down one by one. He drops his head back against the lounge chair, squeezing his green eyes shut. He is too old, too tired, and too desperately in love with you for this shit.

The sun beats down, hot and merciless, painting everything in shades of clementine and burning copper. Apricot umbrellas dot the beach like slices of candy. The ocean blinks lazy and endless, a rolling quilt of bottle-green and blue-fire sapphire. Seagulls wheel overhead, shrieking insults.

Dean’s mind drifts again.

He imagines dragging you down into the frothy surf, your hands curling into his hair, your giggles swallowed by the sea.

He imagines you mouthing at his jeans, impatient and greedy, while the sun sets behind you in a tangle of electric clementine and bruised lapis skies.

He imagines you kneeling between his legs, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock like you’re taste-testing it, humming around him, sweet and filthy and happy about it.

He imagines you under the boardwalk, hips rocking against his like the waves, bikini strings snapping loose with frantic fingers.

He imagines you bent over the hood of the Impala, bikini tangled around your ankles, hands bracing against the hot metal while he rails you like a man possessed.

He imagines your thighs caging his head, that same lazy, teasing look on your face, and him savoring your taste of sugar and salt and heat, while the whole crazy, humid, goddamn state of Florida spins off its axis.

“You’re quiet,” you chirp, tossing a sideways glance at him. “Florida getting to you?”

Dean clears his throat, gruff. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that, sweetheart.”

You raise your sunglasses, peeking at him over the frames. “You know, Winchester, you’re the only guy on this beach dressed like he’s about to sell used beach towels out of the back of a van."

Dean frowns, looking down at himself: worn boots, jeans, his favorite faded black tee with a sun-bleached flannel thrown over it. Practical. Battle-tested. Entirely inappropriate for beachside Florida.

“First of all,” he says, lifting a finger, “this is classic Americana ruggedness. Chicks dig it.”

You lean your head back and laugh, all bright and cruel. “You’re sweating through your ‘Americana ruggedness.’”

Dean scowls, dripping like a busted fire hydrant. “I told you. I’m not gonna wear fucking board shorts like all the other frat boy idiots here.”

You laugh again, the sound bright as bells, and Dean’s heart trips hard enough to hurt.

“You’re gonna die of heatstroke,” you tease. “Right here. Buried in Florida sand. Some old lady’s gonna find your corpse and knit you a ‘Bless Your Heart’ sweater.”

He snorts a chuckle. “I’ll haunt this beach just to piss you off.”

“Promise?” you ask, giving him a cheeky wink.

Dean is about five minutes away from lighting himself on fire. And honestly? Florida would probably consider it normal Tuesday behavior.

Your gaze drifts out to the ocean beyond your feet and sandy calves with a blissful little sigh. “It’s kinda pretty, though, isn’t it?”

Dean looks at you – skin kissed by flame-petals and sunset sugar, hair blowing soft in the briny breeze, popsicle stick clutched between your fingers like a crime scene weapon.

Yeah. Pretty.

Pretty much the goddamn end of him.

“Victim said he saw orange,” you murmur thoughtfully. “Bright, like-… like a koi? A clownfish?”

Dean is about to make a dumb Finding Nemo joke when you lick a bead of melted popsicle off your wrist, slow and absentminded.

And all Dean wants is to dig a hole right here in the sugar-white sand and bury himself alive in this cursed, gator-infested sandpit.

“Dean?”

He snaps back to reality so hard he gets whiplash. “What?” he wheezes.

You arch an eyebrow. “I said, should we check the tide charts? Maybe the creature only comes out during low tide.”

Dean coughs into his fist, face hotter than the sun overhead. “Uh, sure. Tide charts. Definitely. Research.”

But all he can think about is those legs locked around his waist, sand clinging to your thighs as he fucks you into the waves. You moaning into his neck, salty and sweet, fingers yanking at his shirt like you can’t stand to have him dressed another second.

You nibble at the edge of the popsicle, teeth scraping the melting mango sheen, and Dean watches helplessly as a single sticky bead runs down your wrist.

He fantasizes about leaning over, licking it off your skin, trailing his mouth up your arm to your shoulder, your throat, your mouth. He imagines you gasping against him, laughing breathless.

He fantasizes about hauling you out of that chair and onto his lap, mouth on yours, sticky hands sliding under the knot of your bikini top, tugging until you’re bared for him and only him, sunshine turning your skin to gold, and–

Greatly frustrated, Dean runs a hand down his freckled face. Why the fuck can’t he bring himself to stop? You’re unraveling him atom by atom.

But then, the fucking frozen treat drips again, and you lean forward to catch it with your mouth, lips wrapping tight around the end. Dean watches you hollow your cheeks slightly when you suck, head tilted thoughtfully like you’re considering footnotes and not absolutely wrecking his entire being. You pull the melting syrup back again with a soft, wet pop.

At this point, he wants to fucking throw himself into the ocean and let the sharks tear him apart like Hellhounds. He’s pretty sure his soul leaves his body, too.

He grips the arms of his chair so hard they creak in protest, knuckles turning white as he’s trying to tether himself to reality and not his fantasies.

Florida is hell.

You are hell.

And he’s a good man being punished for crimes he hasn’t even committed yet.

Dean shifts in his chair, crossing one leg over the other like that’ll hide the state of emergency going on in his jeans. He’s surprised no one here has asked any questions yet or called fucking 911.

Meanwhile, the world keeps spinning. The ocean rolls in lazy, glassy sheets of turquoise and teal. The sun licks liquid gold down your shoulders. The salt air curls the loose strands of your hair into a halo. And Dean – miserable, desperate, wildly in love – watches you polish off the last inch of your popsicle, tongue flicking the stick clean.

“Earth to Dean,” you sing-song, waving a hand in front of his face and kicking sand lightly at his boots.

Dean jerks back into consciousness. “Yeah?”

“Should we check out the marina witnesses after this?” you ask, tossing your popsicle stick into the trash bucket next to your chair.

Before he can say something catastrophic (like “Marry me right now” or “Please put your mouth on me, I'm begging”), Sam comes jogging up the beach, waving his phone like a savior in flannel.

“Got a lead! Marina worker said he saw something with gills and claws dragging people under.”

Dean launches out of his chair like his ass is on fire. A man escaping execution.

“Awesome. Let’s roll!” he barks, voice too loud and way too eager.

You tuck your notes into your beach bag and sling it over your shoulder, grinning wide and bright as the sunset. The same grin that ruined him long before the bikini did.

You hop up beside him, laughing, brushing sand off your thighs with maddening slow sweeps, and Dean bites back a groan so hard it nearly gives him a hernia.

“You sure you’re okay, Winchester?” you ask, teasing. “You looked like you were about to pass out there for a second.”

“I’m great,” Dean lies, voice strangled, letting the sun melt him into roadkill. “Peachy.”

“You sure? Seriously, you’re a walking heatstroke PSA,” you quip, hip-bumping him lightly as you fall into step beside him.

Dean coughs. “'M fine, sweetheart. Just… dehydration. And Florida. And mermaid murder.”

As you brush past him, the smell of your sunscreen and coconut shampoo punch him square in the gut. Dean follows, trying very, very hard not to watch the way your hips sway like you own the whole damn coastline.

He thinks about how easy it would be to slip his arm around your waist, how natural it would feel to lean in, to kiss you like he’s wanted to for years. Instead, he shoves his hands deep into his jeans pockets and marches grimly through the sand, already planning a quick, ice-cold shower and about eight beers after this job’s done.

Yeah, Florida is one hell of a drug, but you’re the one that fucked him up.

Okay, I may have had way too much fun with torturing Dean here. Forgive me, guys 😂☀️🏝️

Hope you enjoyed this one! 🩵

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith

@nesnejwritings @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02

@impala67rollingthroughtown @star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v

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spaceprincess04 · 3 days ago

Text

Just a lil sun from my drafts… this is like a year and a half old, but enjoy!

It’s day three of the press tour and you’re learning more and more about your co-workers, outside of what you’d usually chat about on set. You’re now at the Vanity Fair interview where you literally have to play a guessing game with two of your co-stars about their personal lives.

“What’s a fun fact about me? I guess there’s not just one answer to this, so answer this one freely?” Michael reads the card he pulled aloud.

“Oh, easy. You love basketball.” Jonathan eagerly answers.

Michael nods, “very true. More so when I was younger, cause I liked to play a lot. I still love to watch though.”

“You only have one tattoo. Makeup crew always covers it for films, of course, but it’s hella cool.” I answer when my turn comes around.

“Yep. I have the outline of Africa and the eye of Horus tatted on my left shoulder.” He Winked, which was very unnecessary if you ask me.

“Of course she would know that.” Jonathan gave me a pointed look. This man always accuses Michael and I of having a crush on each other.

“Well I find it to be a form of method acting, staring at Michael's shoulders. It’s very crucial part of playing Bianca.” It’s my turn to wink at the camera. The fans are going to have a field day with that clip, I can just see the edits already.

“Anywassss! If I were a drink, what would I be? Wait, regular drink or spirits?” You look past the camera, asking the interviewer.

“Either or” she answers.

“Let’s do spirits.” Your costar Jonathan helps you decide.

“Cool, okay. I’ll write my answer now so you guys can guess..”You finish dragging your sharpee along the piece of paper the crew provided you with.

“Coffee martini? I don’t know, Just kinda seems like your vibe.” Jonathan answers with uncertainty.

“You know, I’ve never had one. It’s crazy because i loooovvveee coffee, which Jonathan knows. I’ve just never been brave enough to mix coffee and alcohol.” You shrug. “So, no. That’s not the answer I wrote.” You laugh, patting Jonathan on the arm.

“Awe, man.” He replies and puts his head down in mock shame.

“She grew up around southern folks, so i’ma go with whiskey.” Michael answers.

“You, you are correct. I’d be a glass of Maker’s, neat.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mike responds.

I smirk at the camera before bursting into laughter. “Please don’t take me seriously, y’all. I cannot be serious for very long. Who’s turn is it next?”

“That would be me. This one’s easy, what do I take with me everywhere?” Jonathan takes a couple seconds to write.

“Your cute little cup, of course.” You make a tea drinking jester with your pinky out.

“I do not drink like that, but yes I always have a mug with me. I have about.. three? in rotation.”

“You definitely do drink like that.” You pretend to whisper to him.

“Yeah your mug and your speaker for sure.” Mike nods.

“Yes, the speaker was second on the list.” Jonathan reveals his paper.

“Alright, last one.” Michael pulls the last card. “Aside from acting, what is my other talent?”

“Trick question? Directing?” Jonathan questions.

“Tap dancing? No, I’m kidding.” I ponder over what his hidden talent could be.

“Oh wait, are you gonna say basketball?” Jonathan slaps his knee, clapping and laughing as he looks away.

“You’re a piece of shit.” Michael responds in between laughs.

“Ummmm” you drag out my response, trying to create more time to think.

“Damn, do y’all know me?” He turns his card around and it reads ‘cooking’

“I don’t, I need you to make a meal for us to refresh our memories.” You point in between Jonathan and yourself.

“Ooooh, yeah. No, no, I knew that.” Jonathan rubs his eyebrow.

“What? Yes guys, I cook all my food. When I’m bulking, I get the meal plan from the nutritionist and do the cooking.” He speaks into the camera.

“No way. What can you cook? Chicken and Broccoli?” you cracked yourself up, squeezing your sides from laughter and everything.

“Wow, I really am going to have to cook for you now. You’re doubting me?”

“I believe my brother. If he says he can cook, he can probably cook.” Jonathan joins in the banter.

“Alright. Y’all name it, I’ll cook it at the crib TONIGHT! Y’all not gone play with me like this.” He’s dead ass serious right now.

“Okay then, do a seafood boil.” You raise a brow at him to see if he’s bluffing or not.

“Bet.”

“Okay, we’ll see. That shit better not be nasty, Mike.” I’m still laughing when I tap Jonathan. “Watch us pull up and his chef is leaving at the same time.”

“You can watch me cook it if you want to stay that long. I’ll even film it for y’all.”

“No, you’re good. We believe you, bro.” Jonathan straightens his face into a more serious expression.

“What time will I see y’all then?”

“You’ll see y/n whenever she’s free.” Jonathan pats your shoulder.

“What? Why can’t you be there? I’m not going through this alone. I’m scared, guys.” Your eyes widened in the lense of the camera, as if the fans could see me live and come to your rescue.

“I have a thing.” Jonathan tucks his lips, trying to hide the taunting expression.

“That’s bull. what thing do you have?”

“I already made the commitment to myself. I gotta do my post press-tour self care routine. Self care is very important, to all my fellas out there. Bubble baths, face masks, and whatnot.”

“Oh booo! Forget you and your pink bathrobe.” You scoff.

“How do you know what color his robe is?” Michael’s eyebrows knit together followed by the straightening of his spine. You can hear some of the camera crew snickering in the back.

“I don’t, I was made the joke from that one magazine cover he did.” You shrug, not quite noticing the change in the man’s body language.

“I’m appalled. My bathrobe is actually red. My favorite color, in case y’all were wondering. Sorry bro, I can’t make it tonight. You’ll have to let me know in the group chat how it was, y/n.”

“Yeah yeah whatever, sassy man. I’ll be there sometime after 7, Mike. Oh, and another fun fact about me is,” you turn your attention back to the camera “ I can’t eat seafood in nice clothes. I will be pulling up in my non-interview clothes.”

When it’s time to close out the video everyone does their outro. “Welp, looks like I don’t know Michael B Jordan very well. Thanks for tuning in, be sure to check out Creed III in theaters.”

…

You finished your interviews for the day that you had with other cast members and went home to shower, relax and reset. Then, you remembered you had one more thing to do.

It’s half past seven when you pull up to Michael's place

in a ‘I heart dilfs’ baby tee, comfy shorts, and some pink hello kitty bling flip flops.

No later than ten seconds after the doorbell rang, your handsome co-star himself opens the door to greet you with a smile. “Y/n” he steps to the side, allowing you to walk in and closing the door behind you.

“You look cozy.” You comment, pointing to his basketball shorts and wife beater. “Nice shoes” you knew he was a sneakerhead, those retro ones are dope and hard to get.

“Ah, thanks. I was just tryna keep up with you.” He refers to your earlier comment made at the interview about how you dress when eating seafood. “‘I love Dilfs’, huh?” He smirks at your shirt.

“Yup, that includes Amara’s dad.” You wink in his direction

A hand meets the small of your back as he guides you to the kitchen. “Aight, this is what I got. I’m finishing up right now, so don’t try and say I ain’t cook this shit.” He warns.

“Ouuu, it smells good in here. I’m not gone lie, I’m kinda excited.” Your mouth is in the verge of salivating.

Michael takes the last of what he’s frying off of the stove and turns the fire off. “Okay, so we got crab of course, with the potatoes, corn, and sausage in it. We also got garlic noodles and fried butterfly shrimp on the side.”

He fixes a big hefty ass plate and walks over to the table. “This is for me or you?�� You quirk your brows.

“Girl, sit down.” He laughs, scooting your chair out for you to sit at this huge glass table.

“What do you want to drink?” He asks walking back to the kitchen.

“Water is good, thank you.”

“Oh, I got some of those food gloves and bibs. I know you got your nails done and shit.” He chuckles, handing them to you.

“Oh, thank you!”

When he’s brought drinks for the two of you, y’all settle at the table and you prepare to eat your words as well as his food because it smells good. You just know you won’t be able to trash it.

“Damn man, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to shit talk you anymore. Let me just get into it. You, Jonathan, and the whole vanity fair crew are anticipating my reaction.” You crack open a crab leg, dip the meat into the sauce and pop it in your mouth.

His gaze is fixated on you. He hasn’t moved his fork not once, too excited to know what you think.

“It’s fire, sheesh.” You smile, cracking your next piece and dipping into the sauce.

“You and Jonathan had me messed up, I had to come correct.”

“Your place is nice. This is very Aquarian male of you. Modern as fuck, cool art but not so many momentos.”

“Yeah, when my parents moved out I kinda just re-did the decorating myself.” He shrugs. “Are you busy after dinner?”

“I was just gonna go back home. Why, what’d you have in mind?”

“Maybe a movie?” He leaves space in the air for you to answer, not completely sure if you were down to stick around for longer than what you’d agreed to earlier in the day.

“That sounds good, what do you have in mind? I’m only staying if it’s Sci-fi or Anime. I can’t do that rom com shit tonight.”

“So you didn’t watch ‘A Journal To Jordan?’ I thought we supported each other.” He pretends to be hurt. “But nah. I definitely was thinking the same thing to be honest.”

“You know I did.” You side eye him. “Ouu, should we watch those old ass reruns of Star Trek?”

“Hell yeah.”

We clean up the table and do the dishes together, he washes and you put them on the drying rack because he says that’s all you’re allowed to do. You like that he doesn’t have maids and cleaners at all times to do every single thing for him. Yes, he’s a well paid celebrity and can do that now but it’s refreshing to be around people who don’t move like that. You’re the same way, you do your own shit when I’m home and have the time.

“I’m not a huge wine drinker, but someone gifted me this Pinot Grigio. If you want, we can crack it open. My mom gave me this wine rack when she moved, she said it makes the kitchen look classier. As you can see there’s only one bottle in here.”He playfully shakes his head, grabbing a bottle.

“Oh wow, Mr. Jordan. Are you encouraging me to drink and drive?” You falsely gasp.

“My fault, I didn’t even think about that. Most people don’t drive themselves in LA.”

“No, you’re good. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“I can take you home, or call a driver, or you can stay here if you want.. there’s guest rooms for you to choose from if you.” He clears his throat after the last sentence, realizing how it might have sounded and not wanting to insinuate something.

“It’s cool, we’ll figure it out. I will have a drink with you, though.. or a few. You know, wine goes fast.”

He smiles, your joke lightening the air. He’s focused on getting the cork out of the bottle, his muscles flexing ever so slightly and you can’t help but to look. “Ah, there we go.” He reaches into his cabinets to grab two glasses, pours yours and hands it to you before pouring his own and leading you a living room area with his glass and the bottle in hand.

The two of you are a whole glass in, and have completely forgotten about the show playing on the tv as it’s just become background noise to your conversation. Michael sitting on the other side of you. You’re so comfortable. You're against the arm of the sofa, legs crossed and laid out over the pillowy cushions.

“Why did you have to be such an overachiever? Not only is the item I requested perfect, you had to go and make some good ass sides too? Sick. It’s that damn Virgo rising.”

He chuckles and refills your glasses. “Well, thank you. I remember you telling me about my chart and how you’re into astrology, but I don’t really know much else about it. Can you tell me?” He picks up your legs, settles them onto his lap and starts working on massaging one of your feet. “This is a cute color.” He rubs your sparkly peridot painted toes. You never try anything outside of white, he must’ve noticed the difference.

You could moan, right now. This is the most orgasmic feeling you’ve had all month. With the stressful ass press tour, working all day and barely having the time to fucking chill. For you, this felt like heaven. It didn’t hurt that your fine ass, hubby material co-worker was the cause of it all.

“Awe, thank you. I- I um, found your chart online that day we were talking about it in your trailer and I remembered your big three. You’re an Aquarius sun, Virgo rising, cancer moon. I think that you being an Aquarius sun makes you inclined to live and do shit in more of an unconventional way that fits you perfectly, and it makes you iconic, to be honest. Virgos are like the perfectionists of the zodiac, the true performers and artists, they have such a meticulous eye for perfection in regards to what they do. Part of why you and Jonathan are some damn good actors, attention to detail n allat. That could also be why you both get along so well, but that’s a whole other thing called synastry where you'd compare your chart to other peoples and see how your relationship with them could be. As far as your moon, Cancer moon people can tend to be super tender, caring and comforting people. y’all lowkey some homebodies, all about comfort.”

“Wow” his eyes slightly widen, it’s a lot to take in. You love to run your mouth about the things you’re passionate about, he just loves that you’re sharing this passion with him.

“I went off on a whole tangent there, but it’s honestly way more complex than that. I love it. I think depending on how people use it, it could be a great tool for life. It’s like my version of ethics class… and wine makes me run my mouth extra.” a giggle seeps from your mouth after you take another sip.

“That’s dope, to think there’s a whole ass science behind people’s lives and personalities. I never would’ve thought it could be accurate.” He replied.

“Yeahh, I know! I was never really into it when I was younger, but moving to LA and all these other new experiences that I got going on made me want to open up to it and give it a honest try.”

“I'd pay you for a chart reading, I never trusted those little magic booths at Malibu.” He smiles, kissing the arch of your foot before moving on to massage the other.

You hide your noise of satisfaction with a yawn. “Mmm, I’d do it free of charge if you can cook like that again. I shouldn’t have doubted you, Mr. Jordan. My apologies.”

“It’s all good, now you know I can cook for you whenever you’d like.”

…

“So, what about you? You’re so good with kids. It’s adorable seeing you with them online, when we had the babies on set, and even with sweet little mila. Do you plan on having any? Or are you just like the cool uncle figure to other people’s kids. Cause’ I’m not at all judging. As the oldest sister, I once upon a time swore I wouldn’t ever have em.” Your hands go up in a mixture of shrug and surrender.

He’s amused by this. “I don’t buy that for a second, kids love you. I definitely want some. I love kids, I hope to have them one day. I just haven’t had a point in my career yet where I’ve slowed down enough to truly be the ideal dad that I’d like to be.I don’t know though, are you still holding yourself to that promise?” His dimples adorably peer through his smile.

“Ha! You know, I don’t know if I ever did, really. I mostly said it because I saw the stress that parenthood brought to people's lives, especially when they weren’t truly ready for it. I guess it's more me swearing not to be a parent if I didn’t have the resources to do it how I deemed proper, or not being at a place of stability for my child. You know? I can’t truly say that I wouldn’t want to bring that type of joy into this world. My heart ain’t cut like that.” You shake your head.

“No, I definitely get it. Being at the right capacity mentally, physically, and financially before I have a child is super crucial. I also want them to have parents who can be role models to what love should truly look like, like I had. I know everybody didn’t get to grow up seeing that. You know, that strong and unconditional, healthy, in love-love shit.”

“Definitely, that’s vital. I wish I had that growing up. It’s beautiful that you got to have that and can recognize the impact it has on people who don’t. Everything from childhood molds you into who you are, I believe. I would just want to give my baby the best childhood possible.” Your lips curl upwards. “It’s weird, I’ve never gone much into depth about this topic. But yeah, you pretty much filled in the gaps that I couldn’t put my thumb on.”

“Same” he points to my shirt. “Somebody gotta get that ‘I love milfs’ shirt to match you one day.”

“You’ve been teasing me about this shirt since I came in.” You jokingly swat his hand away.

“You started it, tryna clown on my fit as soon as you walked in the door.”

“Nah, I like the color gray on you.” You unintentionally stare at his shorts, the outline of him softly speaking to you.

“Yeah? You look pretty in everything.” He pulls you onto his lap. His hands explore your sides, traveling upwards for his thumbs to meet the peaks that hardened through your shirt. “You cold?” The pads of his fingers ran over your clothed nipples.

How do you tell him that your skin is burning up and freezing at the same time? That you don’t know how far of a line has been crossed with your coworker and friend? Who knows, but tonight wouldn’t be when you figured it out.

“You keep the ac on blast.” You shyly nod.

He picks up a fuzzy white blanket from the other side of him and throws it over your bodies, even though he’s naturally radiating warmth. Michael lays back on the couch, neither of you talk. Just feeling each other’s hearts beating, the movement of your chests as breath comes and goes from your bodies when you you inhale and exhale. His large hand gently rubs your back, in a manner that you almost fall asleep to.

“You want to stay with me tonight?” He whispers, lips brushing along the shell of your ear.

You nod “can we watch Innuyasha?”

“Of course, princess.” You feel the vibrations of his deep voice travel through your skin, scratching your brain in a way that feels so good. Your body gets heavy, you feel comfortable enough to let it relax. He smiles as your face rests in the crook of his neck and your breathing becomes deeper.

#michael b jordan #michael b jordan smut #creed #creed iii #adonis creed #erik killmonger

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possuminnit · 1 year ago

Note

im rooting for vampire disaster horror win. too many hilson!brained individuals (not me not me....haha)

cup no one understands us and our disaster horror love...

#giggling at the second part #disaster horror wkll be soo fun but whatever you write i will love with my whole heart so i win personally either way 🌟#asks! <3 #cupcraft

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tonycries · 10 months ago

Text

The Way You Kiss Me - G.S.

Synopsis. The four times Satoru tries really hard not to kiss you - his best friend’s pretty younger sister. And the one time he doesn’t.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! Suguru’s sister! reader, childhood enemies to lovers, PINING Satoru, like really really disgustingly down bad, creampíe, oral (fem receiving), pússytalking, needy JEALOUS! Satoru, running away from it, spítting, punching is Suguru’s love language, mentions of aIcohol, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 7.4k (That’s wild)

A/N. BOO! Surprise upload. This was so fun to write omg.

“You sure this is how the grown-ups get married?”

“Duh, I know everything.”

“Nuh uh, Toru.”

“Yuh uh!”

The first time Gojo Satoru kissed you was underneath that dingy playground slide that the two of you always raced to after elementary school.

Usually, your older brother, Suguru, would walk home alongside you two - but this time, he’d just so happened to have been held back for throwing paper planes at the teacher that day.

A sign from the universe, Satoru internally celebrated, something he’d learned from those sappy romance novels his mother left lying around the house. No matter that he was the one that made those planes.

You were six back then, standing in front of a determined Satoru - reaching up on his tip-toes, face pink, smelling of those cheap strawberry lollipops he’d sneak into class and taunt you with. At the much older and wiser age of seven, he’d insisted on being the first one to lean in.

Just barely even grazing your dramatically puckered lips before-

Satoru learned two things that fateful afternoon:

Even as a seven-year-old, Suguru’s punches really hurt.

Never mess with you. Anyone but you.

Life only seemed to go downhill from there - because that last lesson was proving to be hard along the years. Really. Fucking. Hard.

Little did Satoru know that this would be the start of some strange, unpredictable little dance of push and pull. No, you definitely weren’t his wife. Nor were you exactly best friends - not really, that spot was reserved for your brother. But you didn’t think you could ever be just that either.

And the punch that’d knocked his wobbly tooth out onto the playground floor that day was a painful reminder that whatever that was - whatever weird thoughts he had later in middle school about how you’d tasted like candy - didn’t matter. No matter how part some tucked-away little part of him wanted it to.

Hell, eleven years later and Satoru still can’t walk around that familiar block without feeling slightly queasy. Which is why, after that failed first kiss, he knew there wouldn’t be a second.

Instead, he settles back to teasing your pouty self, pushing all your buttons, tugging on those cute dresses you wore. Face burning so strangely with- humiliation? when you bickered right back, calling his haircut a “tragic attempt at modern art.”

“So you’re saying I look like art?” A gangly, now-seventeen Satoru blocks the bustling high school hallway, ignoring the bell. Grin only growing at your frustrated huff, he half-jokes, “Aww, if you’re that soft on me, sweetheart, maybe we should go to prom tog-”

You slam your locker, effectively shutting both it and Satoru at the same time. “I’d rather go with Yaga.”

“...you would not.”

“Would to.”

“Would not.”

“Would to.”

“Would- Sugu–!”

And all Suguru can do is wrap two hands around his neck, mock-choking himself, wondering if it was really too late to embrace a quiet life as a monk. “You’ll both be MLA cited in my farewell note.”

He was used to it, though, forced to watch all this chaos since quickly mending his friendship with Satoru over ice cream the day after the punch. Convinced that this was some punishment for a past life’s misdeed.

With a squawk of protest, Satoru’s turning back to you, eyes crinkling with a hint of mischief you knew too well, “Would not.”

Your face burns, “Would to, Toru.”

You didn’t go with Yaga. but Satoru didn’t exactly count that as a win in his books, either, because you did show up that night hanging off the arm of some jerk from the football team.

And there you were, all dolled up - which he very objectively noted - way too prettily for some bastard like him. Stars in your eyes, and everything he couldn’t have in that smile.

Everything.

Way too gorgeous, even when he finds you sitting outside the gymnasium later on in the night. Too busy bawling your mascara off to even throw out your usual greeting insult his way. Murmuring out wetly about “that asshole” and how he humiliated you by stranding you in the middle of the dance floor for someone else.

“Well, he was a jerk anyway. Even Yaga would’ve been better, hell, I-” Satoru stops short to his horror at the way you only cry harder.

Way too irresistible, especially as his body moves before his mind - holding out an open hand before he knows it. “I’m a much better dancer than him and you.” And oh Satoru will forever remember the way his heart lurches as you blink your teary eyes up in confusion, “Well, aren’t ya gonna take up the challenge?”

Weirdly, it wasn’t weird at all.

If anything, you had to hold back your laughter the entire time at the way the great “campus sweetheart” Gojo Satoru was so on edge.

Just a friend comforting a friend, right?

So why was he avoiding your gaze with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, summer blue eyes pointedly trained right over your head. That pretty pink blush dusting his cheeks reflecting the hands hovering in midair over your waist. So close - and yet, fear in each and every turn and swirl.

Yours were searing into his broad shoulders as you tried to guide him to the muffled music from inside. And shit.

That night ended with a second kiss.

You don’t know who leaned in first, just that Satoru’s soft lips were just fleeting on your glossy ones - barely even a touch. And that shit shit shit- this was Satoru. This was you.

Everything.

But it seems that every time Satoru was about to kiss you dangerously close to the way some tiny, forbidden part of his heart wanted to - the universe throws an obstacle at him. An obstacle that was six feet and named “Suguru”, currently running at break-neck speed out of the gym.

“MOVE YOUR ASSES!” he cackles, “THE FOOTBALL TEAM ISN’T TOO HAPPY ABOUT ME BREAKING THEIR STAR PLAYER’S NOSE.”

And not a word is uttered about the kiss as the three of you speed out of the school parking lot in Suguru’s busted-up black hellcat, the wind mussing up the hairstyle that took Satoru over two hours to perfect. Sneaking in glances at the sight of you singing along at the top of your lungs to some overplayed pop song on the radio.

He learns another two things that night:

Apparently, Suguru’s right hook still really fucking hurt. And thank god for tonight’s casualties of noses, because it was a wonder that he didn’t look too hard at how close Satoru was with you.

He didn’t…dislike the feeling of your lips on his. And judging by the way you meet his eyes in the rearview mirror - you didn’t either.

It’s mainly that last one that makes him gulp.

Neither of you remember the third kiss - though, Satoru’s sure that at least 80% of Shoko’s instagram followers did.

According to a very hungover Shoko, and the many, many forms of documentation, it had happened on the New Year’s eve during your third year in university. In which you were much more used to the raging parties that would be hosted at Suguru’s apartment, and only slightly less intimidated by them.

“And you’re a lightweight too, dumbass. You were gone.” Shoko sighs from across the café table, eye bags deeper than the last time he’d seen her. “Like gone gone.”

God, what a way to start the year.

Satoru bites back a remark about how “gone” Shoko herself had been. Sitting up straight in his seat, regret immediately hitting his senses faster than the guilty throbbing at his temples. He winces, managing out a semi-disbelieving groan of, “Gone gone?”

And she’s only nodding wearily, subconsciously tapping out the rest of her cigarette ashes onto his untouched plate of sweet pastries.

“I’m talking dancing on expensive coffee tables and fighting to stop you from giving everyone there a strip show.” She cracks a smirk through a waft of smoke, “Though, she would’ve loved that I’m sure.”

“Har har har, you’d make even Nanami laugh with that one.”

“Eugh, gross.” Shoko taps through her phone briefly, swirling it around to show Satoru a few pictures that definitely gave him a mini-heart attack at 8:57 in the morning. “You look like you’re about to pen really bad poetry.”

And perhaps this was Shoko’s plan all along - to shock Satoru to the core hard enough that she can note it down as one of her sketchy psychological experiments.

But he knew. Could feel it in the hazy fragments of memories - or, at the very least, in that entire highlight that Nanamin had oh-so-conveniently put up on Instagram titled, “Blackmail.”

You knew.

You’d kissed him back.

“I don’t have a-.” you slur, stumbling ever-so-slightly as you try to meet Satoru’s glassy eyes. Because shit the years have had him shooting up faster than you could look up. “-a New Year’s kiss, y’know.”

You were older - more gorgeous, if that was even possible now. That tight dress hugging your body so unfairly in a way that had him forgetting you were his best friend’s sister.

The one person in this whole world that he couldn’t have.

But Satoru leans in closer, more because he wants to than anything - he could pick out your voice anywhere let alone over the thumping music currently filling his crowded living room. Lips loose as he tries to play up the cool-guy facade he’s been dubbed with since freshman year, “Hah, loser. Because I do.”

“Where?”

At this, Satoru is stumped - damn, you were good.

“Not- uh here?” If he was in any clearer state of mind, he’d have been embarrassed at the way his voice cracks so traitorously as your unsteady hands pull him in closer by his overpriced button-up.

Your body was flush against his now, so addictive. Gaze half-lidded and flickering between the sliver of milky skin exposed on his chest - from that impromptu striptease he’d almost started earlier - and the blue eyes that were currently locked you. You whisper a strained, “Liar.”

Close - too close. So dangerously close.

He breathes out against your lips, the smell of booze and you so heady in his mind. And the heavy words falling from his lips sound like lies, even to him. “Not.”

“Toru?” you hum, a sound that has him gasping. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And there went your New Year’s kisses. At exactly 11:37PM, if the photos were anything to go by.

And holy shit were there many. All of which showed your arms looped around Satoru’s neck, crashing his lips to yours. His own, resting against your waist, a scandalously red blush - whether from the alcohol or you - adorning his cheeks. Looking more blissed out than he ever remembers feeling.

“I’m a dead man, Shoko.”

There’s a lengthy silence, leaving Satoru stewing in thoughts of how Suguru would react once he finds out. And whether or not he’d be able to rise from the dead just to see how pretty you’d look at his funeral.

Morbid thoughts broken only by Shoko’s cough, “Hey, can I keep your eyes for experimentation if he actually catches you?”

Subtly, he sends himself those photos from last night.

Luckily for Satoru’s eyes, they never ended up being donated towards Shoko’s questionable contributions to the world of medicine.

And by some grace of the gods above, Suguru never mentioned a word about the kiss that would’ve inevitably made its way to him. Or maybe it was because Satoru stole his phone until he managed to pester Nanami just enough to take down that highlight. But, semantics.

His heart, however, might as well have been part of some experiment.

Because it’s been working overdrive since that night - mind reliving that moment over and over and over and- shit, he’s fucked. So, so fucked.

Fucked enough that it took Satoru months just to muster up to even look in your pretty eyes once more, unless he wanted to get lost in them forever. Fucked enough that he dared to wonder again and again when there might be a fourth kiss - if there would be a fourth kiss.

He just never thought it would happen the way it did - with you, standing outside his front door.

“I’m sorry, Toru.” you mumble, “It’s just- I think we both need to grow up.”

You’ve freshly graduated now, looking more and more irresistible each time he sees you - even when you’re looking at him like that.

Rolling his eyes, “Ha, is this another way of saying you want my secret to getting taller? Because the first thing is to-”

“I’m serious, Satoru.”

And oh how he wished you’d say something - anything - else right now. Call him anything but that. Maybe even throw an insult his way, tell him those new sunglasses look ugly, or about how you got that internship he would’ve died for.

Satoru manages to choke out a heavy, “I don’t understand.” But that uncomfortable coil of something curling at the pit of his stomach said otherwise. And it causes him to finally breathe out a hesitant, “Maybe you’re right.”

As if that was all the answer you needed, you’re stepping out of the front door. Slow, and deliberate like you were giving him another chance - a thousand more. Sighing out a defeated, “It’s been years.” It has. “And we’re just running in circles.” You have. “I’m starting to think this is just some game to you.” It wasn’t.

“Wait!” he grasps your hand - soft. The look in your eyes even softer as you turn around to face his desperate face. “Please, sweetheart.”

Satoru doesn’t even know what words he wants to say - let alone whether they’d come out of his heavy mouth.

So, instead, he’s crashing them into yours.

Brief. Fleeting. Like each one before this. Too addictive, too short, that he thinks he’s almost imagining it as you pull away gently, until he sees that look in your eyes.

“Toru, I have a date.”

The fourth kiss.

Satoru’s letting go of you like it burned - and, truly, it felt like some deep, dark part of him was burning down right now. “Great.” That should be hm that should be him that should be- “I’m…happy for you.”

And the last.

He fucked up.

He really, really fucked up.

That first date turned into a second. The second into a third. And unfortunately for Gojo, eventually, you were nearing your one-year anniversary with that asshat you’d met during the early days of your internship.

He’d seen the man himself once, briefly at another one of Suguru’s famous parties. Ducking out of sight before he could be introduced, yet long enough to know that he wasn’t as tall, or as handsome, or as absolutely fucking hilarious.

What did he have that Satoru didn’t?

The answer to that, Satoru’s reminded of every time he’s causing ruckus over at Suguru’s apartment, and sees you walking out of your room, tittering on the phone to none other than your boyfriend. So gorgeous. So not his.

You, that loser had you.

“If you sigh again I swear I’m shoving this popcorn up your a-”

“It’s a sad movie, Suguru!” he defends, draped across your couch at another one of those movie nights you loved to organize. As usual, there was the popcorn, the god-awful movie (if Satoru picks it), and the arguments. The only thing missing, however, was you. Ugh, something about an “anniversary” and a “seafood date”. Seriously, it’s not like you even enjoyed that new seafood restaurant in town, and he’s sure that bastard didn’t know-

“Satoru.” his best friend’s deadpan voice cuts through his little reverie. “We’re watching Mean Girls.”

And he’s barely even opening his mouth to snark back before-

SLAM!

Suguru pauses the movie almost immediately, turning to the direction of the front door. “Uh oh.”

And lo and behold - there was you in all your pissed off, beautiful glory. Throwing your keys on the table, your fiery glare passes over the two men as you stomp to your bedroom.

“Seafood wasn’t that good, sweetheart?” Satoru calls out behind you, eyes sweeping down your figure. Heart stuttering in his chest when you turn around with your fists clenched, lower lip wobbling in a way that Satoru would both kill whoever made you feel this way and die to be on the other side of those daggers in your eye.

Sniffing out an icy, “Fuck off, loser and loserette.”

Then in a whirlwind of rage, you’re gone - your bedroom door slamming only slightly more gently than you’d done with the front door. Leaving a deafening silence, and Satoru whining, “Why am I the loserette?”

“Deserved.” Suguru shrugs. Warily eyeing your door, as if it was about to pounce at any given second, “Let her cool down before you give her an aneurysm at least.” Unpausing the television, propping his feet back up, “S’enough having to deal with you on top of a boyfriend like that.”

And that has Satoru perking up in interest - both figuratively, and literally as he snatches the remote and pauses the movie. “Wait wait wait what-” Holding it way out of Suguru’s reach, “What do you mean a ‘boyfriend like that’?”

Scoffing, “Funny. Now give me back the remote.”

A beat of silence passes. One. Two.

Only then does it dawn on Suguru that this might just not be some strange prank to stroke Satoru’s ego, and he was actually more serious than he’d ever seen him. Damn.

“Bro, have you really never met the guy or something? He’s a complete tool. I don’t know what happened, but this breakup was a long time coming.”

Satoru blinks, feeling a red hot surge of anger. “What? Seriously? Why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“You think I didn’t try?” he sighs, running a hand through his hair at the other’s uncharacteristic silence. “Hah, and just imagine, the man was talking about marriage, too. As if.”

And suddenly, Satoru’s hit with an image of you walking down the aisle. Not something he was a stranger to, but it still takes him aback. The sway of the fabric beneath his fingers, your lips against his. Hell, in that split-second he even dreams up how Nanamin would be crying very reluctant tears of joy.

Everything. Everything that wasn’t his.

His fist tightens around the remote, until he could hear the cracking of plastic. Mind whirling with the thought of you and him and you. How he wished it was him and you. “I would’ve been better.”

Oh.

Shit.

“I- fuck this. Suguru, since elementary school I…”

And, well, Satoru’s so busy putting that extra physics seminar he took in university to work - trying to calculate the odds of surviving a jump out of this seven-storey window - that he almost misses Suguru’s low hum, a distant, almost barely-audible little interruption, “Well duh.”

“Hold on.” he’s snatching away the remote that had somehow slithered its way into the other’s hands once again. Ignoring his best friend’s croak of protests to pause in the middle of Regina George being hit by the bus - which, he felt was strangely enviable right now. “That was- what? YOU KNOW?”

“Huh? Even my parents know, the only one that doesn’t is her.”

“...”

Satoru didn’t know how Suguru seemed so calm, but he felt like he was about to spontaneously combust. Heart stuttering in his chest as he sideglances at your firmly shut door - like he was just waiting for you to jump out and tell him this was some elaborate prank.

Begging for you to come - it would’ve hurt less.

But you don’t.

Fuck.

And the only response he gets is a low whistle, before a phone is being shoved in his face - flashlight illuminating that crimson blush. “Damn, the great Gojo Satoru speechless? The groupchat is gonna love this, might even send it to my sister, y’know.”

He didn’t care - didn’t give a shit if this video made rounds to Gakuganji himself. Only one thought racing through his mind right now.

“But why aren’t you punching me like in elementary school?”

And Satoru knows he’s smart - intelligent even. Hell, he was the valedictorian, the youngest employee to claw their way up to being on the board of directors. But he’s never felt more stupid when Suguru breathes out a bewildered, “Dude. That was for blaming me for the paper planes.”

“Oh.”

Then the movie is unpaused.

---

The last time you kissed Gojo Satoru was at the doorstep to that overpriced penthouse of his, exactly a year ago today.

The last time you saw Gojo Satoru was just a few hours ago, lounging around your living room like he owned it. Honestly, he might as well have been part of the furniture at this point - like some expensive, fluffy couch. One that prattled on about your “dumbass boyfriend” and god-knows-what else to rile you up just for the fun of it.

Which is why it was odd to step out of your bedroom - eyes just a bit puffy, throat still tight - to a suspiciously quiet hallway.

The lights were turned off, nothing but the pouring rain sounding from outside, television paused on some rerun of The Princess Diaries. Damn, you told those idiots not to start that one without you.

“Sugu?” you call, finding his bedroom empty. “Thought tonight was movie night?” Padding across the empty apartment, contemplating whether or not to get your phone and call him when-

Ding!

Ah, there.

You roll your eyes as you head towards the front door, ready to give Suguru a piece of his mind for going out at this ungodly hour and forgetting his key. Seriously, what if you opened the door and he was hurt, or worse, or…

Satoru.

Speaking a mile a minute.

Satoru.

“-florist was closed and the store clerk looked at me like I was crazy but I got this for-” he pauses abruptly, as if realizing something with a jolt. “-you.”

“You- what-” you don’t know where to look - at the drenched, disheveled Satoru filling your doorframe - rain in his hair, curtaining his frantic eyes, drenching his snug t-shirt. Or at the obscenely large bouquet of cheap strawberry lollipops being placed gently into your arms.

What follows was an electric silence - and you have half the mind to tease Satoru for finally shutting the fuck up for once in his life.

But, no. Instead, you eye the way he stands stubbornly at the doorway, fists clenched, blue eyes locked so intensely on yours that it was like they burned.

Face flushed a familiar pretty pink that makes you realize that shit, he might be taller, voice deeper, broad shoulders tight against his t-shirt - but this was still the same boy that cried when you stole his favorite Digimon card in middle school. The same one that kissed you underneath a dingy slide, smelling of strawberry lollipops.

It’s the steady tap! tap! tap! of the water droplets from his hair that have you tearing your traitorous eyes from his see-through white t-shirt.

Guess you’ve both done some growing up since then.

“You loser.”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

The pink wrapping of the bouquet rustles as your grip tightens. “He proposed to me today, y’know.” and yet, your quiet, even voice was the only thing ringing in Satoru’s ears. He jolts, as if some visceral, primal part of himself had been poked awake. Breathing heavy, fists clenching until he could feel the neat indents of his fingernails on his palm. Of course. He’s late. He’s late he’s late he’s late-

That is, until you’re plowing on, “I said no.”

“Huh?”

You think back to the stuffy restaurant, the man sitting from across from you - how wrong it felt. And all it took were those four words for you to realize that. “I said no.”

Satoru snaps his head up, stepping close - so close. Voice strained like he wasn’t asking - begging. Praying, “Why?”

“We…” you raise a brow at the way Satoru flinches as you trail off. So desperate. A smirk makes its way onto your face, “...we haven’t divorced yet, right?”

And then you’re kissing him - or maybe he’s kissing you.

Fuck, you don’t know - nor do you really care right now. Not when Satoru’s got his lips crashing against yours for the fifth time in your life, kissing you like it would be the last. Big arms dipping down to your waist, pulling you so tight against his muscled frame that he had half the mind to wonder whether it hurt.

“Love this. Love the way you kiss me- fuck-” he’s spitting against your lips, kicking the door shut behind him. “Oh- would ya get mad if I-” he tries to get out through kisses. Only to suck on your pretty lips with a pained grunt. “If I-” Again and again, like it killed him to part. “-hah- celebrated right now?”

“Yes.” You’re letting the bouquet fall to the foor, white-knuckling that useless, drenched excuse of a shirt. “Now kiss me properly, Toru.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Such a sloppy mix of teeth and hands and him. Shoving a knee between your legs, making up for years and years of late nights with nothing but his fist and the pretty thought of you.

“Yeah, that’s it, sweetheart.” Satoru breathes out, as your urgent fingers that dispose of his shirt, feeling the gorgeous dips and curves of years of hard work to impress you. “Suck on m’tongue pretty- fuck-” His own fisting your shirt, pulling. Ripping.

“Toru!”

“I want you.” He’s letting the poor, tattered pieces drop in a pile on the floor, trailing a hand between your damp thighs before he can stop himself. “Oh how I’ve wanted you. And I don’t care if I have to buy fifty new outfits to make up for it.”

And it’s the feeling of his long index stroking up your sopping slit through your shorts that has you pulling away with a gasp. Delicate little strings of saliva snapping from Satoru’s kiss-bitten lips. “If we continue like this…” your voice wavers as he presses hot kisses along your collarbone. “-my brother’s gonna walk in.”

“...wouldn’t wanna relive that playground kiss, huh?”

It’s all he says before picking you up so easily, hands resting on your ass. Giving a playful spank ass you wrap your legs around his toned waist.

And it’s sloppy.

Both his lips still hotly on yours and the way he’s stumbling urgently to your room through pure muscle memory. Pulling away only when you’re all splayed out so prettily for him on your mattress.

“Blue?” he breathes, pulling your shorts off. And it comes out strained - like the very sight of your panties - all soaked and flimsy with your slick - has whatever’s remaining of Satoru’s sanity flying out the window. “Blue? Oh, you’ve gotta have planned this, you little minx.” his hot breath hits your cunt as he shifts down the bed, tongue drawing languid, wet little circles on your inner thigh. “Because don’t tell me this was all for him?”

It was coincidence - or maybe fate - but that doesn’t stop you from giving Satoru a slow, teasing nod. Muttering out, “So what if it was?”

The only answer you get is thumb hooked around your shorts, pulling it just enough so that your brother’s best friend can spy your pretty pussy.

“Well then.” he chuckles at the way you jump when his fingertip just barely grazes your clit. “Guess I jus’ hafta prove m’better.”

A low groan is falling from his lips as soon as they meet your puffy ones, giving your pretty clit a chaste peck. Lingering long enough that he’s sure your sweet sweet juices cover his mouth.

And oh Satoru’s sure he’ll never forget the way your jaw falls slack, glassy eyes following his every move as he runs his tongue along his glossy lips. Savoring your candied taste, “Never kissed you like this before, huh?”

Fuck, you’re sweeter than he’s imagined.

You whine desperately, something that has him smirking smugly, “Hah, what? Cat got your tongue?”

“You’re better when you shut up.” It’s all you can do to buck your hips into Satoru’s pretty face - not that you had to, because one taste of your dripping cunt and he was addicted. Surging forwards until he was nose-deep, locking your ankles around his head with a firm yank.

And you can’t lie - maybe you’ve imagined this exact scene a few times before on those lonely nights. But you just never expected Satoru to be so depraved. Desperate.

“Ngh- fuck, Toru-” you reach a hand down to thread your fingers through his hair, tugging his face up. But Satoru doesn’t stop - not even for a second. Tongue still dipping to spread your swollen folds with his tongue, looking you right in the eyes as he murmurs a strangled, “Mhm?”

“Thought you were gonna prove you’re better, hm?”

So goading. So like you.

At this, Satoru pulls back ever-so-slightly to laugh - laugh. His plump, glistening lips curling into a humorless little grin, “Oh I will.” Thumb circling your throbbing clit. Just dragging your twitching body across the silky sheets close to his, one hand pinning your hips down. Hard. “I will.”

Loving his new favorite place between your legs one hand toys with your clit, quick, messy little patterns. Tongue even more so.

“Not just better.” he grunts, “Gonna make you cum so much harder, too.” Having your thighs shake with each word hissed out into your cunt, each turn of his deft fingers. “Till I’m the only thing on your mind. Me.”

And it’s all you can do to let out choked up groans of his name, back arching off the plush mattress to let him make out with your cunt deeper. Sloppier. So, so starved with the way he’s speeding up, tongue dragging across your walls. In and out in and out in and-

“Fuck! Hngh-” you angle his head - and he lets you. “There- Toru-”

Honestly, you didn’t even have to tell Satoru - he could feel it. Could feel it in the way your plushy walls are squeezing his hot tongue so harsh, until it was almost difficult to fuck your pussy so sloppily. In the way you’re letting out such delicious whines each time he grazes against those sweet spots.

“There? Hah- I know.” he pulls away to muse, and your cute, disappointed whine goes straight to his already rock-hard cock. “Did he?”

He didn’t. And you’re shaking your head so pathetically - in a way you’d be embarrassed about usually.

But that’s the last thing you’re thinking bout because you feel it - the cold, sinful feeling of Satoru spitting on your filthy cunt. Once. Twice. Blue eyes widening in delight at the way the mess of spit and slick drip down your slit.

“Cute.” his tongue smoothes over the slutty pool, and the only thing your delirious brain can make out now is a low moan of, “So? Who’s better?”

It’s all you can do to choke out a broken little, “T-T-” Face burning at the way he was so clearly enjoying your struggle. And, well, no matter painfully hard it made his dick - he had to go just a bit easy on his girl, right?

“Shhhh, s’alright.” you flinch as he shoves two absolutely drenched fingers into your mouth, making so much more of a mess of it than necessary. Drinking in your cute gags, “I was asking her.” He’s making your head spin with the way he’s speeding up. “N’ she’s hah- very talkative.” Words muffled, and slurring together - like he was drunk off of you and your cunt. “Let’s hear what she has to ngh- say, huh?”

And with that, he’s alternating between lapping at your clit and squeezing into your sloppy entrance - like he couldn’t - didn’t - want to make up his mind. Oh, with your teary mewls strangled, the sound of Satoru making out with cunt is so loud. The squelches so obscene.

“Fuuuuck.” he drawls. “Louder than I thought. I think she says I’m better, don’t you think?”

You angle your head just right to catch the way his jaw grinds deeper into you, eating you out like his last meal. Your slick drooling down his chin so sinfully.

“Ngh- fuck fuck fuck- ngh-” your yelps are dreamy, feeling like you were losing your mind with the way he was stretching you out.

Like you were about to snap. Any second now.

But Satoru’s only increasing his movements, drawing out your little moans. “And I think she’s saying…” Getting sloppier. More erratic - and it didn’t matter if his fingers were cramping up now, cock aching with the need to be inside you. “-that she’s about to cum.”

You do - so hard and loud - both you and your cunt.

You’re shaking, all but gushing all over Satoru’s mouth, tight pussy squeezing his tongue so hard. Barely even realizing the searing grip you’ve got on his hair as you drag your sloppy pussy all over his mouth.

But Satoru doesn’t mind - he gladly welcomes it, in fact. Tonguefucking your snug cunt senselessly, letting you chase your high as roughly as you wanted. Over and over.

Even when you’re vision isn’t as spotty as before, even when nothing’s coming out of your mouth but little whimpers. Your breathing dying down until all that rings in your barely-lucid mind were those obscene noises of Satoru’s lips all on yours.

“T-Toru-” you whine, big fat tears pricking at your hazy eyes. “M’so sensitive.”

And of course this is Satoru, the same boy who’s been pushing your buttons for years just to giggle at your adorable reactions. Which is why he grins against your twitching cunt, “So?”

It takes everything in you to raise your head off the pillow that just seemed to be swallowing you whole, and even more to shoot Satoru a half-hearted glare. “So m’gonna ngh- assume you’re jus’ a pussy with a s-smaller dick than-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence - he doesn’t let you. Because Satoru’s fumbling with his belt, peeling off those still-drenched pants just enough for you to admire his clothed erection.

And, shit, admittedly you expected him to have a big dick - having been subjected to way too much locker room talk with your brother - but this was ridiculous.

“What? Too big?” He flashes you that infuriating grin. Palming his rock-hard cock through his boxers at the way your beautiful eyes trace the outline of his cock, all swollen and big. So intimidatingly big. “Damn, sweetheart, if I knew that this was how I’d get that feisty lil’ mouth of yours to shut up then I’d have done it a lot sooner.”

And you don’t even know if you’re breathing, the pads of your fingers dancing along his bulge. Tracing those prominent veins. Thumbing that little damp spot at his fat head. “You wouldn’t have.”

He hisses as your soft hands dip into the hem of his underwear. Voice cracking slightly, “I wouldn’t.”

Then you’re gasping - in sync with Satoru’s low moan - as you finally let him spring free. Thick cock hitting his sculpted abs, red tip smearing precum in a lewd little pool. Weeping and so so angry at the sight of you.

At the heavenly feeling of your thumb teasing under his sensitive slit, “Oh, shit.”

He’s throwing his head back when you give an experimental pump, all the way from his pretty tip to the tufts fo white at his hilt. Fist gliding all over the thumping veins. Bucking his hips up like such a slut into your touch.

“O-oh fuck.” he cracks an eye open at the way your hand looked so small compared to his dick, how well you were taking care of him. “Been ngh- dreaming of this since I learned what handjobs were, y’know? Hah- shit- ya gotta stop before I fuckin’ pass out.”

And Satoru thinks he could cum right then and there at the way you’re bringing your soaked index up to your mouth. Batting your lashes as you suck on them with a lewd pop! “From jus’ that?”

“You have no idea.”

That’s all it takes for Satoru to throw your still-quivering thighs over his shoulders, effectively shutting up whatever tease is on the tip of your sharp tongue by kissing your swollen folds with his fat head. Giving it one, long drag.

Your mouth is sagging open at the slow, torturous teasing. The sheer anticipation that had your mouth running, “S-so much for ah- jus’ being ‘friends’, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” And you’re flinching from Satoru’s deep, dark tone. The way he’s bracing his fingers so bruisingly on your hips, reeling all the way back till his tip was just kissing your hole. “We stopped being friends the day you married me on that playground.”

And then he’s slamming in - pushing past that first, feeble ring of resistance, gummy walls stretching out so perfectly for him. As if he fit right in - and he tells you that. Pants it into your open mouth a little over fifteen times, in fact.

“Shiiiit, look at you.” he can’t tear his eyes away from the side of your lips stretching so wide to try and milk him. Sloppy entrance stretching out like magic. “S’like you’re made for me, huh? This pussy is made f’me?”

“Ngh- fuck, Toru! S’too big-” you keen, feet flattening on the mattress. As if to escape. To maybe fucking breathe.

Not even half-way in yet, but aleady torn between pushing away and sinking yourself down on his swollen cock for more more more-

“Don’t you dare run away.” he warns, looking up at you through his long lashes. “I’ve waited too long for this. N’ you’re not taking this pretty pussy away any time soon.” Inch by fucking inch. Grinding in short, sharps jabs - no rhythm of rhyme, like they were genuinely out of control. “Way too f-fuckin’-” All the way until your puffy folds was meeting his hilt. Finally. All the way in. “-long.”

And once Satoru had you split apart on his dick - had those tears rolling down your cheeks, cunt swallowing him so sluttily - it’s like something snaps.

Because he doesn’t waste a second - he’s already wasted almost two decades, anyway - filling you up with his mean hips. Not fucking easing you into it because you always did bring out that part of him, the part that him looping two strong arms around your waist. Pulling.

“Oh- f-fuck c’mere.” Satoru gasps, pressing your body so crushingly against his. Kissing your shaky shoulers, your sweaty forehead, the gentleness so contrasting to his hips.“God I’ve missed out- fuck fuck fuck-”

You’ve never seen the great Gojo Satoru - campus sex symbol - so uncomposed. Eyes half-lidded, just boring into yours, mouth slack in a soft oh! as he drags his cock all over inside your gummy walls. And the sight is so heavenly that you make the mistake the mistake of cracking a minute smile.

Just barely curling your lips before - “Don’t smile at me like that.” He’s dipping down a hand to roll your ravaged clit between two bullying fingers. “Fuck, she’s gonna be the death of me. Right?”

You keen at the- stimulation? The strech? The sheer embarrassment as you realize that Satou’s still talking to your sloppy pussy? Nodding so mockingly up at you as he plows on, “Mhm, she says you needa be ngh- knocked down a god, you’re tight- peg or two. So- get- ready-”

He’s using this as an excuse to sit up on his knees, dragging you onto his lap so easily like some ragdoll.

“That’s more like it.”

You’re sliding deeper down his painfully hard cock - all the way till his heavy balls rest beneath your ass, clit rubbing against his pelvis every time he bounces you like some slut.

Deep. Ruthless.

“Keep your eyes open, sweetheart.” He chuckles, and you’re screwing open your eyes that you don’t even remember shutting. Trying so hard to stop crying out at the feeling of the curve of his dick massaging your walls. “Ya gotta hngh- see the o-only one who’d fuckin’ you properly, right?”

You squeal when he’s taking your clit captive once more. Finger quick, deft. “Y-yes.”

But that wasn’t enough for Satoru - it might as well never be. Because he’s only ramming his hips up further. Like he’s pushing into your stomach, your lungs, all the way into your cockdrunk brain. Fat head alternating between kissing your poor, abused cervix and all those sweet spots he’d mapped out with his tongue.

“Sounded unsure to me.” he’s pouty against your hardened nipples bouncing enticingly in his face. Fingers quirking faster on your clit, “Maybe I should ngh- stop then?”

“No!” Your hips stutter against Satoru’s. Nails clawing down the sculpted panes of his shoulders, leaving red angry marks for him to take as a sign tomorrow morning that no, it wasn’t just one of his dreams this time. “No no no- m’sure. You’re the only one makin’ me feel this way.”

You can feel the way he’s twitching wildly at your words, dick thumping harder inside your sensitive cunt.

He punctures each word with a heavy, calculated thrust. Hand stretching and squeezing open your cunt from behind to let him slide impossibly deeper. “Hmmm, I’m not convinced.”

Your stupid mouth is only capable of letting out broken, choked-up little moans of his name, ankles locking around those dimples at the end of his spine. “S’you–”

“Still not convinced.”

But he’s still speeding up his movements, just dragging you up and down his cock. “Who else made you hah- feel this good?” Sure to claim you from the inside out - to leave marks everywhere. Heavy balls on your ass, weeping tip on your cervix, lips bruised as you whimper at his murmured, “That ex of yours?” Biting down your neck, “That barista that always flirts with you?” Pulling away only to breathe into your lips, “Who?”

“ I- fuck it’s only you, Toru.”

“Sound convincing to you?” Satoru hums down at your cunt, biting his lower lip at the way you were milking him so good. Your slick soaking him all the way down to his balls - so needy in a way he never thought he’d see. “Yeah-” be breathes, nosing at your neck. “She agrees- fuck does this tight lil’ pussy of yours agree.” A few tears, a few gorgeous marks down his back, and he was finally convinced. “You’re mine.”

You don’t even realize it when you’re cumming, and Satoru doesn’t either.

Both of you too caught up in each other to recognize that familiar, white-hot pleasure running down your spine - all the way down to where he was so mercilessly buried in your cunt.

And you’re well into the blood roaring deafeningly in your ears, the sight of Satoru - all wrecked - blurring as he fucks his hips up. Harsh. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as he paints your quivering walls white.

Cumming and cumming so hard that you can feel his seed dribbling down your thighs, making such a mess all over Satoru’s lap. Your poor, overfilled cunt soon bloated and unable to keep up with it.

“Toru–” you whine, like a prayer. Milking the fucking soul out of him while he gently paws at your messy hair.

“Shhh, I know I know, sweetheart.” Such a stark contrast to the way he was filling you up like his favorite sex toy. Not even bothering to move anymore, one hand on your hip, moving your limp body up and down his sensitive cock to fuck it deeper. The other still playing with your clit, “S’alright, my girl”

Satoru’s hands never leave you, and he prays that now that he got a taste - well, you better be alright with them not leaving you for as long as he lives.

“As long as you live, huh?” you chuckle groggily, a noise so dreamy that Satoru can’t even be mad that he said it out loud. “And all that riling me up these years. Do you have a degradation kink or something?”

“Well, only one way to find out~”

“Oh shut up you-”

SLAM!

“Yooo, I bought dinner from that- WHAT THE FUCK?”

There were only two more lessons to be learned:

Always lock the door. Always. And in case you don’t, a bouquet of lollipops will do the trick to a Suguru reeling from the newest addition to the family.

Cheap takeout tastes better with an apologetic Suguru, and an ice pack to his cheek - and you to kiss it better.

A/N. Can you tell I kept listening to that one Artemas song while writing this?

Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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pochaccoups · 4 months ago

Text

facetime — choi seungcheol & yoon jeonghan

pairing — choi seungcheol x yoon jeonghan x f!reader

summary — when three people in a relationship want to fuck but one of them is in a different country, facetime comes in pretty handy.

wc — 4k

warnings — nsfw content minors dni! smut, established polyamorous relationship, threesome (technically), phone sex, butt plugs, anal and vaginal fingering, oral (m and f receiving), masturbation, so much dirty talk, soft dom!seungcheol, brat tamer!seungcheol, prone bone, creampie, slight daddy kink, reader referred to as a girl, a lot of ‘cheollie’ and ‘hannie’ sorry but i think they sound cute

author’s note — umm hi can u tell i had so much fun writing this …… this will be part of a poly jeongcheol series i have in the works so pls stay tuned and enjoy !!! :>

seungcheol: just finished up the show, what are you up to?

jeonghan: busy.

Attached is a photo that’s slightly shaky and dimly lit, but Seungcheol can make out every detail of you with Jeonghan’s cock halfway down your throat.

It takes less than a second for Seungcheol’s caller ID to pop up on Jeonghan’s phone screen, and Jeonghan doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“Yah… You know I hate being left out,” is the first thing Seungcheol says. The sound of his deep voice makes you draw your mouth off of Jeonghan.

“Cheollie?” you ask, beaming as you snatch your boyfriend’s phone from his hands so that you can see your other boyfriend through the screen.

“Hi, pretty,” Seungcheol says, waving. He looks hot, but that’s a perpetual characteristic of his. He hasn’t removed his makeup yet, and his hair, getting longer, is still styled from the show. “Miss me?”

“So much. We both do,” you say with a grin. You make a show of mouthing at Jeonghan’s cock for the camera, sticking out your tongue so you can slap the tip on it, swirling it around, all with a faint mischievous gleam in your eyes at the sound of one boyfriend’s whines and the other’s sulking.

“Yeah? Doesn’t really seem like you do,” Seungcheol says, laying back on a bed that’s way too soft, too cold, too far away.

“Seungcheollie, you know how needy our girl is-ah,” Jeonghan pipes up, moaning as you wrap your lips around him and bob your head up and down.

“I do know, and you’re not innocent either, Jeonghan. You miss getting your pretty little ass fucked, don’t you?”

You worry Jeonghan will bust then and there from the way his cock twitches in your mouth, but fuck was Seungcheol right. It’s why you all prefer to have sex with all three of you present, because at this point having someone missing feels… weird. Not bad. Definitely not. But the absence of a third lover becomes far too apparent.

Right now, you and Jeonghan don’t have much of a choice though. Duty calls, meaning Seungcheol is touring on the other side of the world—has been for the last two weeks and will be for another two weeks. Jeonghan would be with him if it weren’t for his enlistment. Alas, you have Seungcheol’s voice to do what it does best: tell you two exactly what to do.

“Take all of him, baby, you know you can,” he says, soft and slightly commanding in a way that makes you want to do good just for him, make him proud. And you’ve taken Seungcheol, who’s a little longer and far thicker, all the way down your throat many, many times before that swallowing Jeonghan’s entire length feels like a mere warmup.

Pride swells through you when your two boyfriends curse above you, filling you with an eagerness to give them more. So while one of your hands holds the phone, albeit shakingly, your other hand pumps the base of Jeonghan’s cock, in rhythm with your mouth as you bob up and down. It’s wet and obscene, the way you lap up the precum that leaks from your boyfriend’s tip only to let it spill from your lips and drool all over him, all over your fingertips.

Your eyes never break away from Seungcheol, who’s chewing on his bottom lip and staring at you with eyes that are both clouded over with desire and dark with concentration. If you know your boyfriend then he’s thinking of all the things he would do if he was in the same room as you two.

Jeonghan doesn’t expect it when one of your spit-slick fingers creeps down to his ass and traces his hole, and he squirms and cries as you prod at his opening before pushing inside. He’s taken Seungcheol many, many times, too, that your finger should feel like a warmup, but two weeks without his boyfriend’s cock stretching him out is torture, so the slide of your digit in and out is a sweet relief that he’s forgotten.

You pull your mouth away from him, sitting up on your knees so that you can angle the camera for Seungcheol to watch as your finger dips in, all the way to your knuckle, then back out of Jeonghan’s hole.

“He’s so whiny today, Cheollie.”

“Mm, more than usual, huh?” he replies, licking his lips, his hand reaching to his crotch to palm at it just a little. He thinks about how his fingers are twice as thick as yours, how Jeonghan would sob if it was his hands inside him.

“He misses your fat cock,” you say, and Seungcheol feels his sanity jump straight out of his hotel window. You’ve always proven detrimental to his patience and self-control, taking years off of your poor boyfriend’s life with your bratty ways. “Right, Hannie?” you say, right as you pull your finger out of him, grinning as he squirms and curses under his breath as a reply.

You only stop fingering him because you have an idea. With the phone still in hand, you dangle yourself off the side of the king bed to open one of the bedside table drawers, grab the silver heart-shaped plug and bottle of lube, then clamber back between your boyfriend’s legs. Jeonghan watches with glistening eyes as you drizzle the plug with lube. Once it’s drenched, you flip the phone camera around, letting Seungcheol watch as you press the tapered end of the plug against Jeonghan’s hole. The cold toy makes him flinch at first, and he shudders as you circle his rim with it until he’s thoroughly smeared with the sticky liquid.

The sound Jeonghan makes when you push the plug inside of him is pitiful, and it’s in harmony with a deep groan of approval from Seungcheol. You’re the furthest one from dominant among the three of you, and yet you have these men dangerously wrapped around your finger. Your men.

“There,” you say, content, like you’ve just painted a masterpiece—and your boyfriend’s pretty ass with a cute heart-shaped butt plug nestled inside comes pretty close.

“That’s my girl. So thoughtful,” says Seungcheol, and his praise ignites you with a sense of accomplishment that rivals the highest of promotions.

“Can I make him eat me out now?” you ask, because it’s Cheol who does this best; sets the pace, tells you what to do, lets you sit in the palm of his hand while he does all the thinking for the three of you. A true leader, through and through.

“Keep sucking Hannie off, baby, just for a bit,” is his instruction. It would be easy to disobey him, yes, to disconnect the call and turn off the phone if you so pleased, but the thing about Seungcheol is that even when his voice is soft, it still commands.

You pout only for the sake of pouting because, really, having Jeonghan’s cock in your mouth is one of your favourite pastimes. You waste no time swallowing him all the way down to his base again, only to pop right back off him just to hear a tortured moan from him. You fall back into an up and down bobbing rhythm then, steadily, lips wrapped tight around your boyfriend’s length in the way that you know won’t make him last long.

“Jeonghannie,” Seungcheol calls out, but the man in question is too busy whining and whimpering to hear him. When he’s close his brain all but shuts off and the only thing he can do is take whatever he’s getting with pretty, pretty moans.

“Baby, don’t let him cum yet,” Seungcheol urges you instead.

Jeonghan nearly sobs this time when you pop your mouth off his cock, but there’s a force in Seungcheol’s voice that compels you to listen. “Yes, daddy,” you say—the cherry on top.

Seungcheol drags a hand over his face, groaning. “Fuck, you two want me dead, huh?”

“Yeah, well, you two are disgusting… and annoying,” says Jeonghan, who sounds thoroughly irritated as a cute frown knits his brows together.

Poor, poor you, with not one but two needy, jealous boyfriends who can’t stand not being the subjects of all your affection. If it was you in Seungcheol’s position, alone on the other side of the world, you would never get this sulky. You’d be completely rational about it. Obviously.

The urge to soothe Jeonghan comes as an instinct, one that makes you crawl up from between his legs so that you can straddle his slender waist and kiss his pouting lips. He melts into you when you do, mouth moulding against yours so sweetly, his hands falling to your waist and the tips of his fingers dancing softly against your skin. The Facetime call is forgotten, much to Seungcheol’s dismay, as you drop the phone to the bed in favour of cradling Jeonghan’s cheeks in your hands so that you can kiss him harder. Your crotch, still clothed, rocks back and forth over his erection and soon you’re moaning into one another’s mouths, muffled by your tongues that are swirling together.

Jeonghan doesn’t have half of Seungcheol’s strength to manhandle you around, so he opts to gently guide you off his lap and onto the bed until you’re underneath him. He kisses you once, twice, thrice, leaves you reeling as he moves on to pepper your neck with soft nibbles and scrapes of his teeth. He pulls away for a moment only to drag your t-shirt (one of Seungcheol’s, of course) up and over your head.

Now that you’re less occupied with Jeonghan’s lips, you pick up the phone again and bring the camera up to your face, grinning at Seungcheol’s small pout on the screen. If you could only hop through the phone and into his lap, you would do it in a heartbeat.

“Cheollie, wanna see your cock, please,” you say, shivering as Jeonghan mouths at one of your nipples. He flicks it with the tip of his tongue as his hands reach up to grasp your tits delicately, and you sigh when his warm, wet mouth envelops one of your hardened buds.

“Not yet, baby, I’ll take it out when Jeonghan fucks you, okay?”

Seungcheol chuckles fondly at your unhappy hum, so he adds, “I wanna cum with you two, yeah?”

“Okay, fine- wait, Hannie,” you whine. “My boobs.”

He peers up, already between your legs, having decided he was done giving attention to your tits. You see right through it—your boyfriend is nothing if not vengeful.

“You’re too spoiled,” he quips, peeling your shorts and panties down your legs, exposing your drooling pussy to him.

“And you’re used to Cheollie doing everythi-ahh!” Jeonghan cuts you off when he licks your cunt without warning, sending your eyes rolling back into your head and your hand grabbing a fistful of his now-short hair. He’s far from rough and aggressive, but it’s precisely the patient softness of his touch that leaves you keening for more.

“Baby, can you do me a favour?” Seungcheol asks, practically cooing as he watches your eyes glaze over with pleasure.

But all you can focus on is the way that Jeonghan’s warm tongue flicks lazily over your clit as well as the grip of his fingers on your thighs.

“Baby?” Seungcheol tries again, only a little louder. This time your eyes flick to him on the screen and you make a little affirmative noise. “Will you flip the phone screen around for me, please? I wanna watch Hannie eat your pretty pussy.”

You do as he asks, pointing the camera to give Seungcheol a view of his boyfriend between his girlfriend’s thighs.

“Good girl,” he says, breathier now, his tone darker. It’s deliberate; malicious, you would say—his praise makes you a whiny, needy mess. His voice alone turns you into a slut and he knows that because you’d told him that, word for word. “And since I’m not there, can you play with your tits for me, baby? The way that I would do it? I know it’s not the same, but it’ll still feel good.”

“Mhm,” you moan. You find yourself closing your eyes as you let go of Jeonghan’s hair and bring your hand to cup your own breast, to squeeze and grope at it, to tweak and tug at your nipple, all while imagining that you’re leaned against your boyfriend’s sturdy, broad body and that it’s his big, unrelenting hand cupping your tits and not your own.

At the same time, Jeonghan eats your pussy like the fiend that he is. Unlike Seungcheol, who lacks the control to stop himself from ravaging you like an animal until your pussy is raw and puffy, Jeonghan is much more, as he is in all aspects of his life, calculated. He’ll string you along with swipes of his tongue that seem coy until he’s making passes through your folds, prodding at your dripping, awaiting entrance. He licks into your hole and sips at your arousal like it’s honey, intent on making you fall apart slowly.

“How does his mouth feel, angel? Tell him,” says Seungcheol, whose lips have gotten swollen from his relentless chewing on them.

“God, Hannie, feels so good,” you squeak, your eyes still screwed shut as if that’ll help soothe the heat that burns through your body from Jeonghan’s mouth. Your fingers keep pinching at your nipple, and then Jeonghan slips two of his fingers into your heat, sending your hips bucking against his face and leaving you whining desperately, shamelessly.

While his mouth makes out with your cunt, Jeonghan’s fingers dip in and out of you, massaging at your most sensitive spot over and over. He finds it with practiced ease, and he knows by now exactly what kind of vigour it needs to have you crying. He’s practically petting at your insides, your walls clamping around his fingers as your moans start to grow louder.

“H-hannie, I’m close, please, right there,” you squirm as your walls attempt to suck his fingers in.

You don’t see it, but his eyes flash with something devilish. Your other boyfriend sees it, though.

“Jeonghan, don’t even think about edging her.”

Jeonghan smirks with mischief, letting his fingers do the work as he pulls his mouth away from your pussy.

“Let me have my fun, Seungcheollie.”

“If I did that neither you nor her would cum at all,” is your other boyfriend’s response.

There’s silence as Jeonghan ponders whether he should obey or disobey. All the while, you’re mere inches away from your edge, hot with frustration because it’s so close; you’re so close. You just need a little bit more. It’s not too much to ask.

“Hannie, please…”

And he can’t find it in himself to deprive you any longer, so he crooks his fingers and works them as fast as he possibly can until you’re clenching, gushing, writhing all around his hand, wailing his name as you grab at his wrist but he still won’t stop.

“Such a good boy, huh, Jeonghannie? Making her cum so good,” comes Seungcheol’s voice, sounding more breathless with each time he speaks. “Now we’re all happy.”

It’s only once your walls have stopped spasming around his fingers that Jeonghan finally slips them out of you and pops them straight into his mouth, licking them clean of every drop of your sugary arousal. He makes sure to gaze directly into the camera as his tongue laves and swirls over each one of his digits, knowing Seungcheol’s dick is twitching at the sight.

“I haven’t cum yet though. So I’m not happy yet,” he says, dragging a finger out of his mouth with a pop.

You sit up on your elbows with your cute, blissed out features, your eyes falling to his red-hard cock.

“Come here and fuck me, then,” you say, impatient, like he didn’t just give you an orgasm. You paw at the hem of his shirt (also Seungcheol’s) and bite your lip as he pulls it over his head, letting your hands roam over his pale torso.

“Ride me?” he asks. How predictable. If it’s not Seungcheol taking him from behind then it’s you on top of him. God forbid Yoon Jeonghan does the work.

“Actually, I have a better idea. And this way Cheollie can see us both,” you say with a grin.

With the phone on the front-facing camera, you prop it up against the headboard and roll onto your stomach, craning your head to look at him over your shoulder.

“Like this?” Jeonghan asks, straddling the backs of your thighs.

“Yeah,” you say, parting your legs a little, arching your back and raising your hips—presenting your soaked, messy hole to him. “Try not to get tired.”

He responds with a half-hearted smack to your ass and Cheol scoffs out a chuckle. Jeonghan slides his cock between your folds, coating it with your slick, revelling in your tiny gasps every time it catches on your entrance. You’re prepared to whine and nag at your boyfriend to hurry up, but you suppose he’s feeling just as impatient as you are because he’s pushing in before you can even speak up. You look at Seungcheol, mouth dropping as you’re stuffed full with Jeonghan’s cock until he’s buried to the hilt inside you. His hands land on either side of your elbows so that he can hover over you, reel his hips back, and fuck himself into you like that.

In this position, Jeonghan’s length brushes right against your gummy, sensitive spot with every stroke, making you keen for more even though he’s just started.

“Harder, Hannie,” you sigh, pushing your ass up against his hips.

Instead of listening, he drops his head to the crook of your shoulder and kisses your skin. His breath tickles your ear when he whispers to you: “ah, what’s the rush, angel?”

You turn your head to catch his gaze, to drink in the sight of his face as he takes what he needs from you; his cheeks pink, his eyes tired and full of hunger. His lips, plump and enticing, evoke an unrivalled craving within you and he reads you well, brings his mouth to yours to give you as much satiation as he can muster.

Seungcheol sits, silent, waiting. His patience is mere embers as he watches you two, his boyfriend and his girlfriend, tangled within one another. The wet slap of Jeonghan’s balls against the back of your thighs; the smacking of your lips, teeth, and tongues. He misses it. Fuck, he could go insane.

“Cheollie,” you whine, when Jeonghan’s lips are no longer enough. “Want you to feel good too.”

“Yeah, okay,” he replies, abandoning all semblance of the self-control he’d displayed up until now. It’s time, anyway, he thinks. He’s held off long enough. He puts his phone down and there’s shuffling as he strips himself of his sweat-soaked outfit from the show and settles upon the bed sheets once more.

Saliva pools from the sides of your mouth when he angles his camera to show you his hand wrapped around his thick, erect dick and God, what you’d do to have it bruising the back of your throat until you’re gagging, letting him defile you all while he coos the sweetest of praises at you.

“Daddy, I miss your cock so bad,” you admit in a weak whimper, shivering when Jeonghan angles himself deeper inside you.

“Yeah? Miss how I’d fuck your pretty little mouth?”

“Fuck, she’s clenching so hard around me, Seungcheollie,” Jeonghan grits. “Greedy little thing.”

“I mean, it’s our fault one cock’s not enough to make her happy anymore,” says Seungcheol, sighing with relief as he thumbs at his leaking tip, squeezing his fist around it, reminiscent of the way that you and Jeonghan like to tease him.

“Like I said,” says Jeonghan as he pushes two of his fingers between your parted lips. “Spoiled.”

You moan around them, staring straight into the camera as you suck on them, staring at Seungcheol, who starts to pump his hand up and down his cock. He wants to shut his eyes and pretend it’s your hand, or Jeonghan’s hand, or one of your tight, warm holes, but he can’t take his eyes off of his phone screen no matter how hard he wants to, and, well, he doesn’t want to.

He jerks himself off to the same rhythm that Jeonghan’s hips grind into yours. Seungcheol likes things a little faster, usually, more rough, but it’s Jeonghan who’s inside you right now, not him, so he matches his boyfriend’s lazy but not too slow pace, one that’s just enough to give you a gradual stimulation.

There’s something about the whole thing—being fucked on camera, being teased with Seungcheol’s cock when you can’t have it—it has you way more excited than you expected. Way more turned on than you expected. It shows in the floods of arousal that drip from your pussy and dampen yours and Jeonghan’s thighs, in the way you’re whinier and more sensitive than usual.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol’s own noises don’t help. In fact they spur you on, coax you closer to your edge, urge the heat in your belly to grow. When Seungcheol isn’t giving deep, rasped curses, he’s letting out pretty, breathy, borderline whimpering moans. Jeonghan’s sounds are as angelic as he is. His voice is a holy choir in your ear, heavenly and soft as he gasps with exertion and pleasure; as he does things to you that any God would frown upon.

Jeonghan, too, is more sensitive. With the plug constantly brushing at his prostate, he can’t help but screw his eyes shut and pretend it’s his big, buff boyfriend fucking his girth into him. It makes his thrusts grow raggedy, like he’s more heavy. His body weight presses into you as his arms start to ache just a little. He’s impossibly deep in your guts like this and it feels so fucking good that your brain starts to melt.

Seungcheol recognises the look in your eye—absent, like you’re starting to tap out and letting yourself become consumed by bliss.

“Is she getting close, angel?” he questions, punctuating it with a moan, the slick glide of his hand up and down his cock like music in your ears.

Jeonghan hums affirmatively. “Pretty pussy’s choking me,” he says, his voice cracking, his composure with it. He tries to put more vigour in his thrusts, more determination. The sooner you cum, the sooner he cums.

“Cum for Jeonghannie, baby,” Seungcheol urges softly.

“Cum for me,” Jeonghan echoes. You don’t stand a chance.

The heat inside you coils up, then erupts. Jeonghan fucks you through your climax as you tremble beneath him, crying his name and clawing at the sheets below you.

“There it is, my good girl,” Seungcheol coos, tightening his grip on his cock as he tugs at it harshly as though it could ever replicate the feeling of your warm walls clamping down on him as you cum.

“Ah, fuck,” Jeonghan gasps, dropping his head to your shoulder, cock twitching. His next request is a broken, pathetic moan. “Ch-cheollie, cum with me.”

Jeonghan stills inside you, whimpering softly with every rope of cum that he spills inside you, letting you milk him of every last drop. At the same time, Seungcheol gives a resounding groan as he brings himself to his own release, cum splattering over his toned stomach.

There’s a moment of silence, or, rather, nothing but a harmony of laboured breaths as the three of you come down from your orgasms. You give a noise of protest as Jeonghan suddenly rolls off of you, but his stamina is always drained after sex—especially when he’s doing the work. You shiver, both from the emptiness in your cunt and the cold air that hits you now that you no longer have your boyfriend’s body as a shield from it.

“Seungcheollie’s gonna wanna see your cum leak out of me, you know,” you say.

“You know me so well, baby,” is Seungcheol’s reply.

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. He makes no effort to move from his spot, opting to stretch his arm above his head and pat around until he finds the phone. He sits up next to you, points the camera between your legs as he grips one of your ass cheeks and spreads you apart.

There’s a screenshot sound as white drools from your spent hole.

“Seungcheol!” you shriek. “You pervert.”

“Coups-ya, send that to me.”

thank you for reading! reblogs and feedback are highly appreciated <3

tags — @svtiddiess @ylangelegy @simpxxstan @caibeauchicfashion

1K notes · View notes

help-itrappedmyself · 5 months ago

Text

Dead on Main short

Look, I don't know if you can tell, but I really like soulmate AUs, okay. Also, writing something exactly 500 words is more annoying than I thought it would be, but was a fun experiment.

Lightly inspired by this post.

Edit: there is a part 2 now!

Danny's parents were never concerned about the words on Danny’s wrist. Given their occupation, they thought Danny would meet someone while studying, or perhaps even lecturing on ghosts, or maybe as part of some other job in the future. Jazz has always been concerned about the words on Danny’s wrist. This is probably the normal reaction, given most people do not surround themselves with the dead.

Danny himself was concerned about it for a while. But then he died. The amount of death surrounding him at all times, what with his parents’ study of ghosts, practically tripled after that. And suddenly the words ‘Is he dead?’ were a lot less concerning. Because in his life, oftentimes the answer was yes.

Not that he was always around dead bodies or anything. But the company he kept did include a large amount of ghosts and other ectoplasmic beings, that while they were not dead, weren’t technically alive either.

So, Danny moved on with his life as normal. He knew what his words were, but was never actively listening for them. For a few years there he was barely hanging on to sanity, battling ghosts and trying to graduate high school.

Eventually, life calmed down. His parents, unfortunately, died in their own lab accident. Danny was in his senior year at the time, and Jazz took a semester off of college to help him graduate and get accepted at university himself. Then they shut the portal down and moved on from Amity Park.

Jazz went back to Yale. Danny, who did not make high enough grades for that, went to Gotham University. It was there that he discovered he actually really liked college. School was a lot easier when he wasn’t fighting for his life all the time, and this time he got to take classes he was actually interested in.

By the start of his second year, his life was looking up. He was majoring in mechanical engineering, and he loved all his science classes. He had a somewhat decent apartment, and was living without much worries on the money from selling his parents’ house. Gotham is not the best area, but it can be a really cheap place to live. And he didn’t see Sam, Tuck, or Jazz as often as any of them would like, but they were all happy where they were.

Which makes the current moment much more distressing than it would have been in his teenage years. As Danny looks at the now-dead body in front of him, then turns and presses his forehead into the alley wall. He’s seconds away from banging his head against it, but that would only give him a headache and would in no way help the current situation.

The vigilante standing across the alley, on the other side of the body, did not move for a solid minute upon rounding the corner onto the scene. Then he asks, in a voice distorted by tech, “Is he dead?”.

This is not good.

#fanfiction #my writing #batman #danny phantom #dpxdc #dcxdp #red hood #soulmate au #jason todd

2K notes · View notes

muniimyg · 5 months ago

Text

♡ 05: i bet we'd have really good—

series m.list // taglist

note: wowie,, thank u for 1.5k and for being so patient 💛 i’m so happy to be ending this mini fic and to have been interacting with u all :) my apologies if this ch sucks LOL i'm so sick rn but i'm tired of rewriting n writing... so enj !!! it's been so fun and i can't wait for more fics to come in 2025 !!! kisses my kitties😽💓

⏱️ this part goes thru time skips!

💭 which bed chem jk moment was ur fave?

warnings: tension/slow burn (friends first yk),, mean!jk trying to figure out how to be nicer to oc,, jk calls oc baby and kitty !!! teasing/dry humping (bc jk has glasses on. jk plays with her titties/nipples & jk cums thru his sweatpants),, jealousy (v teeny tiny),, virginity talk/actual sex; oc loses her virginity to jk (jk eats her out/fingers her, ass slapping, dirty talk, rawdogging,, missionary, doggy, blowjob/headpushing & face cumshot)

it’s been a week since jungkook kissed you, and he has made it your problem.

truth be told, he has made a game of this—hovering without hovering… just close enough to test the line. whatever way he plays, jungkook is always shameless in the most subtle and maddening ways.

sometimes his hand brushes yours as you walk, light and fleeting… and it’s impossible not to notice the way his fingers twitch. it’s like he’s debating whether to grab it or not.

you don’t make it any easier on yourself, either.

there’s this suffocating tension between you two and some days are better than others… like today.

“why are you so quiet?” you ask, glancing at him over your shoulder.

he tilts his head, feigning confusion.

“why? does the silence make your heart race?”

you scoff, rolling your eyes, and that’s when he strikes—his foot nudging yours mid-step. it’s just enough to throw you off balance, making you stumble slightly, your bag slipping again.

“jungkook!”

he’s already reaching out, catching the strap before it can fall.

“careful,” he says, his voice all mock concern, but the way his lips twitch gives him away.

you glare at him, yanking your bag out of his grip.

“you’re the one who tripped me.”

“prove it."

"seriously?"

"if you can't prove it... you have to kiss me. you know, as compensation for accusing me so unjustly." he says, wide-eyed and innocent, though the corners of his mouth are curling into a smirk.

it’s infuriating, but it’s also... not.

not when he’s looking at you like that, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin and is thoroughly enjoying it.

“do friends kiss?” you narrow your gaze at him. “do friends trip each other over? do friends—“

“do friends wait for each other?” jungkook leans towards you. “mhmm? do friends have ulterior motives—”

“you have ulterior motives?”

“oh, absolutely.”

friendship.

it’s odd to say the least—the way you and jungkook have fallen into this friendship. that’s what you’ve both agreed on.

friends.

but the lines are blurry.

so blurry they might as well not exist at all… because what kind of friends kiss on the cheek as casually as saying hello? what kind of friends text each other goodnight every single evening, or linger too long in conversations that could end with a simple goodbye?

the rules of your agreement feel more like suggestions—ones jungkook seems intent on bending just enough to keep you guessing. and you let him, which might be the strangest part of all.

… because deep down, you know this isn’t just friendship. not with the way he looks at you, his gaze lingering a second too long, or the way his touch always feels like a question he’s waiting for you to answer.

but maybe that’s the thing about blurry lines—they give you just enough room to pretend you don’t already know where you’re headed.

yet, even with all his teasing, there’s a hesitancy to him sometimes—a split-second pause when your hands brush, a quiet shift in his expression when he catches you looking at him. it’s like he’s still figuring out how to balance whatever this is between you, testing the waters but not wanting to dive in too fast.

and honestly?

you feel the same.

it’s why you let him get away with stuff like this. why you don’t pull away when his hand accidentally-on-purpose brushes yours for the third time in as many minutes. why you don’t tell him to stop following you to your study spot or showing up outside your class with some excuse about “just being in the area.”

because the truth is, you like having him around.

you like the way he keeps you on your toes… even if it’s by trying to trip you up, only to catch you before you fall.

and maybe—just maybe—you like the way his smile softens sometimes when he thinks you’re not looking.

tonight, the group decides on a night out.

the street food spot everyone agreed on is already buzzing when you get there, the warm glow of string lights crisscrossing above the narrow alleyways, casting soft shadows on the busy stalls below. the air is alive with the scent of sizzling tteokbokki and freshly steamed hotteok, mingling with bursts of laughter and the occasional pop of oil from a nearby grill.

you arrive late as usual.

by the time you weave your way through the crowd, the others have scattered, splitting up to hunt down whatever caught their eye.

that’s when you spot him.

jungkook leans lazily against a lamppost near the edge of the main street, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a stick of half-eaten odeng. the glow from the lights above reflects faintly in his dark eyes, making them look warmer than usual, though his expression stays comfortably neutral—like he’s been waiting.

but he doesn’t mind.

“you’re late,” he says as you approach, not even bothering to straighten up. his voice is low, unbothered, but there’s something teasing in the way his lips twitch into the barest hint of a smirk.

“i’m literally 5 minutes late.”

“still late.”

jungkook takes one last bite of the fish cake before tossing the stick into a nearby bin. he steps closer, casual but deliberate, and before you can come up with a snappy reply, he leans down and presses a quick kiss to your cheek.

it’s smooth—too smooth.

it’s like he’s been doing it forever.

you barely have time to register the warmth blooming in your chest before he’s grabbing your hands, shoving them unceremoniously into the front pocket of his hoodie along with his own.

“jungkook—”

“your hands looked cold,” he says simply, his tone light, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

his fingers shift slightly, brushing against yours, and though his expression stays neutral, you catch the subtle curve of his mouth—the smug kind he tries to hide but never quite manages.

you roll your eyes, more out of habit than anything else, and let out a sigh...

but you don’t pull away.

“i have gloves.”

“they're ugly."

you glare at him.

"... and you have me."

the air stills.

“what?” he asks, his shoulder bumping yours as he starts walking, steering you toward the first row of stalls.

“nothing.”

but the corner of your mouth twitches. you try to hold back your smile.

he catches it, of course.

his grin widens, soft and slow.

jungkook nudges you again, this time with more intention. you can feel the warmth of his hand through the fabric, steady and sure, even as the cold night air bites at your skin.

you can't help but give in. a laugh escapes your lips as you nudge him back. jungkook laughs too, but pulls you close at the very last second.

he breathes you in.

the first stall serves fresh tteokbokki, steaming and spicy. the scent alone makes your stomach growl, but jungkook is already a step ahead, paying for the food before you can reach for your wallet.

“you didn’t have to do that,” you say, trying to grab a pair of chopsticks from the tray.

he beats you to it, of course, picking up a piece of tteokbokki with the kind of exaggerated precision that makes you squint at him. then, he places the chopsticks in between your fingers.

“feed me," he says.

“absolutely not."

he steps closer.

“okay, fine. i’ll feed you—”

you shove the tteok in his mouth.

he chews, chuckling and enjoying your choice.

“you’re so annoying,” you tell him as he swallows.

“really? am i?”

“really. you are."

jungkook shrugs.

then, he takes the chopsticks and picks up a tteok, and feeds you. he watches closely as you chew, his wide eyes fixed on your face in a way that makes you feel exposed.

“how annoying?”

in between chews, you fixate on his smirk. as he leans into level with you, you almost choke at how his nose nearly brushed yours. you can feel the weight of his gaze, daring you to say something.

“jungkook…” you warn, your voice flat, but your hands betray you. they reach up to cup his cheeks, and though your intention is to shove him back, you don’t.

instead, your thumbs press lightly against the soft skin of his jaw as you squint at him.

“what’s this smile?” you ask, narrowing your eyes. “what are you so excited over, bestie?”

his expression flickers for a second, his brows twitching in annoyance at the word. you know he hates it when you call him that. bestie? who are you even talking to?

“your lips look cold. can i warm them up for you?” he asks suddenly, his voice dropping low enough to send shivers down your spine.

you scoff, warmth creeping up your neck. “nice try—”

“no, no, i insist,” he interrupts, tilting his head slightly, pretending to think it over. “don't want you to be all cold and shit.”

“jungkook.” your tone is sharp, but it’s laced with amusement, and he knows it.

“what?” he murmurs, leaning in closer, his lips curving into a smirk. “you said you want to take things slow. i’ll kiss you real slow—”

your jaw drops.

“you’re impossible.”

he stands back up with a grin, his hands still in the pocket of his hoodie, keeping yours snugly tucked inside. he rocks back on his heels, clearly pleased with himself.

“let’s not pretend we don’t know what we know.”

“i don’t know much,” you retort, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you. “i’m not a nerd—”

“yah! hurry up!” taehyung’s voice booms from a stall across the street, breaking the moment. you glance over to find him waving dramatically, his other arm slung around yoongi, who looks less than thrilled.

“we found the mandu!” taehyung adds.

“mandu sounds good,” jungkook says as he gives your hands a small squeeze. then, he gently pulls you toward the others. "let's go."

“stop dragging me around,” you complain, though you don’t actually try to pull away.

“you’re walking too slow.”

but you aren’t.

you know you aren’t and so does he… but you let him hold your hand anyway.

a week later, jungkook feels like he might piss himself.

he leans against the edge of his desk, scrolling through his phone for the 5th time in as many minutes. his thumb hovers over the screen, debating whether to check his messages again, even though he knows there’s no point.

you haven’t replied yet.

the fundraiser for marine conservation is tonight, and he’s been pretending it’s no big deal... but fuck.

he was so nervous when he asked you to go with him and now he feels like all his efforts are being wasted.

...

“so, uh,” he starts, his voice a little too casual, “there’s this fundraiser gala thing on friday night. save the dolphins thing—a-and… it’s no big deal but—”

you glance at him, eyebrows raised.

“yeah? sounds fancy.”

he shrugs, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “i guess it is. it’s a black-tie kind of event… and i, uh… i was thinking... maybe you’d want to come with me?”

you blink, caught off guard by the sudden invite.

“i hate dolphins.”

“i know.”

you sigh, pretending to be burdened by his request. “but i’ll go. if you want me to.”

“i do want you to.”

“okay.”

“good,” he breathes, glancing over with a lopsided grin that he hopes hides how nervous he actually feels. “you’ll make me look good. people are suckers for pretty dates.”

“oh, so you’re using me as a prop?” you tease, though your lips twitch into a smirk.

“obviously,” he replies smoothly, though his grip on the wheel tightens slightly. “but, hey, it’s a dinner, you get to see my in a tux which is practically dessert—.”

you shake your head, laughing softly.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“so ridiculous that this can count as our first date?” he presses, glancing over again, this time with a flicker of uncertainty he hopes you don’t catch.

after a beat, you sigh dramatically, turning in your seat to face him.

“it’s a date.”

just as he’s about to make another comment, you lean over and press a quick kiss to his cheek, catching him completely off guard. his hands freeze on the wheel for half a second before he recovers.

“you missed—”

you laugh and hit his chest. then, he gets out of the car, helps you out, and walks you to your doorstep.

...

now, as he sits alone in his room, the anticipation bubbling just under his skin, his phone buzzes on the counter. his heart skips for a moment before he grabs it, only to feel it sink as he reads your message.

yn [4:31PM]: nurse said it’s food poisoning yn [4:32PM]: she gave me some meds to help but i literally feel like shit yn [4:33PM]: i don’t think i’ll be able to make it tonight, baby :( i’m so sorry nerd [4:34PM]: don’t apologize. i’ll be over in a bit yn [4:35PM]: what ?? no !! get ready for your event. it’s important nerd [4:35PM]: so are u yn [4:36PM]: i’ll survive. go save the dolphins :p

his brows knit together as he reads it again, leaning back into the couch with a frustrated sigh.

he knows he shouldn’t feel disappointed—you can’t control being sick, and it’s not like this event means anything special.

at least, that’s what he’s been telling himself.

still, he stares at the message for a long moment, debating whether to reply right away or wait a few minutes so he doesn’t seem too eager. his fingers hover over the keyboard before he finally types out a response, keeping it short and light, like he’s unbothered.

nerd [4:40PM]: get some rest. i’ll be telling everyone you ditched me tho yn [4:41PM]: be sure to let the dolphins know too 🙂

he lets out a chuckle, but the weight in his chest doesn’t go away.

he tosses his phone onto the coffee table and rakes a hand through his hair, wondering why the idea of showing up without you feels so much worse than he’d expected.

then, his phone buzzes with messages from the fundraiser committee.

yet, he can only think of you… it’s a sinking feeling in his chest.

you’re sick.

the thought of going to that event while you’re home feeling miserable doesn’t sit right with him.

he sighs, grabbing his hoodie and pulling it over his head. he knows this is unprofessional and such an pussy excuse but—forget the event.

it’s you that matters to him the most right now.

so, jungkook calls his event and lets them know that something came up. he tosses aside his tux and puts on comfier clothes before heading to the kitchen to make you some chicken noodle soup.

before he heads out, jungkook hears a familiar groan from the living room. he turns, already annoyed, knowing exactly who it is.

jimin and taehyung are stretched out on the couch, looking like they’ve been hit by a truck.

their faces are pale, eyes glassy with fever, and they groan as they shift under the blanket. it’s obvious they’re just as sick as you, if not worse.

“yo, jungkook,” taehyung calls out, voice nasally, “did you make soup? be a good boy and give us some—”

jimin, equally pitiful, sits up a little and gives jungkook a pleading look. “yeah, we’re starving, man. plus, you’re not gonna leave us to die alone, right?”

jungkook raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest.

“you won’t die from starvation.”

“how are you so sure?”

“cos i’ll kill you first,” jungkook snorts. “you guys got my girl sick with that stupid omelet you made her.”

the two of them groan in response, sitting up slowly. taehyung rubs his face with his hand. “we didn’t mean to! bro, look at us. you think we wanted this? we’re sick, too, you know.”

“yeah,” jimin adds, “there’s two friends sick here for you to take care of.”

jungkook just looks at them, his gaze hard.

“who do you think i’m gonna choose right now?”

jimin squints, looking him up and down. “don’t you have that gala tonight?”

jungkook hesitates for a split second, but quickly shakes his head, giving them a dismissive wave.

“it got canceled.” he lies.

then, he turns away to head out the door. before he leaves he yells; “i’ll text yoongi hyung to make you some soup. don’t bother me. not coming home tonight.”

about 25 minutes later, jungkook stands in front of your doorway and his gaze falls on you as you open the door.

you're wearing his oversized t-shirt, hair up in a messy bun, and a pair of shorts—looking exhausted and a little pale. his stomach churns with worry, but he keeps his cool as always.

"what are you doing here? the gala..." you trail off, but before he can answer, you quickly turn and rush to the bathroom.

"shit," he mutters under his breath, following you at a steady pace.

when he enters the bathroom, you're already kneeling over the toilet, retching. his heart drops, but he doesn’t flinch. moving to your side, he gently pats your back.

“it was this bad?” he grumbles, a frown pulling at his lips. “why were you downplaying it through text?”

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, barely acknowledging him.

“i’m fine, seriously. just... just a little nausea.”

“fuck, ___..” he snaps, but his voice isn’t angry, more like exasperated. "this is stupid. you can’t be alone if you can’t even handle standing up to get the door without throwing up. are you fucking serious?." his eyes are narrowing now, the concern clear despite his snappy tone. “what the hell, ___?"

you sit back on the floor, leaning against the wall, your face pale.

“i already bailed on the date. i couldn’t let you bail on the gala entirely.”

he shoots you a look, incredulous.

“you think I’d rather be at a gala without you? honestly?”

“i just—"

“shut up,” he interrupts, his voice softer but firm. "you need someone. i’m here. deal with it."

there’s no room for argument in his voice.

you give him a tired smile despite the situation, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“you shouldn’t be here, though.”

“say that again.”

your lips tighten.

then, you gag and rush back to the toilet bowl. jungkook remains by your side, rubbing your back as you deal with another wave of nausea.

the moment is quiet except for the soft sounds of you breathing in between. for a second, it almost feels like everything has stopped, like it’s just the two of you in your small bathroom, nothing else in the world mattering.

after 40 minutes of hovering over the toilet, jungkook gets you settled on the couch.

he brings you water and asks if you’re down for some food. he brought over chicken noodle soup and you need to have something in your stomach before taking your medicine. you simply agree and wait for him to serve you.

as you eat the soup, he scrolls through netflix and plays something. he talks for most of it and it helps distract you from feeling the full extent of your sickness. after you’ve eaten some of the soup he brought, you ask him to grab the medicine from your bag.

“can you grab the other medicine bottle from my bag? the one the nurse gave me?”

jungkook, of course, doesn’t hesitate.

he gets up and finds your bag in your bedroom. he pulls open your bag and begins rummaging through it, looking for the bottle. when his hand brushes against something thick and solid, he pulls out a book titled, “everything you need to know about dolphins a to z.”

his eyebrows furrow for a second as he stares down at it.

he doesn’t know why, but a strange warmth spreads through him. it’s pretty obvious why you have this book—but seeing it in your bag... it makes him pause.

his lips tighten slightly as he puts the book back down in your bag, quickly hiding his reaction. he doesn’t want you to see how much it’s affecting him right now.

when he returns with the medicine, his expression’s back to its usual, nonchalant self. as much as jungkook wants to pretend like he didn’t see it or that seeing it didn’t matter—he can’t.

to him, it mattered.

it mattered a lot.

a few days later, you’re sitting across from jungkook in the library.

the late afternoon sun streaming through the tall windows and casting a golden glow over the table. textbooks and notebooks are scattered between you, his handwriting messier than yours but still oddly charming. you’re mid-sentence, asking him about his opinion on a the newest theory you learned during your lecture when he suddenly tugs off his crewneck, revealing the black t-shirt clinging to his frame underneath.

it’s warm in the library, the kind of cozy heat that sneaks up on you, and he doesn’t think twice about it.

but you do.

“woah—” you blurt out, your question forgotten as your gaze catches on his arms. you've seen his tattoos before but for some reason... they look different to you now.

they appeal different to you.

jungkook looks up from his notes, brows raised.

“what?”

you blink, trying to refocus, but your eyes betray you, flickering back to the ink winding its way down his arm.

“your tattoos,” you say, almost dazed. “they’re... really hot.”

“think so?”

“yeah,” you admit. “gets me horny. ”

you then feel the warmth crawl up your neck as the words leave your mouth. you quickly look back down at your notes, hoping the earth might just swallow you whole.

jungkook freezes for a moment, the tips of his ears turning the faintest shade of pink. then he shakes his head, a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. it’s not his usual confident grin—it’s softer, like he’s caught off guard but not in a bad way.

he doesn’t say anything, just ducks his head slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying to hold back a laugh.

you try to ignore the way he shifts in his seat, casually stretching his arms behind his head like he’s showing off—not that he’d ever admit it...

for the next two weeks, jungkook suddenly seems allergic to long sleeves.

he starts showing up in short-sleeved t-shirts, rolling his sleeves higher than necessary when he wears his uniform jacket, and leaning in just a little closer when he knows your gaze will drift.

“you’re shameless,” you mumble one day, catching him flexing—not subtly—while reaching for a book on the top shelf.

“what?” he asks innocently, glancing down at you with those wide eyes that don’t match the smirk tugging at his lips.

you roll your eyes, biting back a grin.

“you’re annoying.”

“why? are you horny?” he says, his voice low enough to make you want to shove him.

you don’t answer, but the way you avoid his gaze—and the small smile tugging at your lips—says enough. he notices, of course, because he always does.

after a few moments of silence, you huff at him.

"is everything you say always so... dirty?"

he shrugs.

"you brought up being horny first..."

"yeah, but—"

"you think i'm dirty?" jungkook interrupts you. "should i shower?"

you scoff at him. before you can say anything, he adds;

"you’d join me though, right?"

a month later, jungkook does it again.

you find yourself standing in the middle of your apartment—he shows up.

your phone is clutched tightly in your hand as you try to blink away the tears threatening to spill. the call you just had—a frustrating, heart-wrenching argument with your family—leaves you feeling raw and small. the weight of their words presses heavily on your chest, and all you can do is stare blankly at the mess of papers scattered on your desk.

a sharp knock on your door pulls you out of your thoughts. you freeze, wiping at your cheeks hastily, but the door creaks open before you can say anything.

"is that my hoodie?"

"jungkook—"

“you haven't been answering my texts all day,” jungkook says, stepping in without waiting for an invitation. he’s holding a bag of takeout.

"everything okay?"

“i’m fine,” you say, your voice shaky despite your best efforts to sound convincing.

he narrows his eyes at you, placing the takeout and hoodie on your coffee table before crossing his arms.

“yeah, no.”

you try to argue, but he’s already moving, shrugging off his jacket and plopping onto the couch like he owns the place.

“whatever it is, you don’t have to talk about it right now,” he says, pulling out containers of food. “but you do have to eat. and i’m not leaving until you do.”

your throat tightens at his matter-of-fact tone, his presence somehow both comforting and overwhelming. he doesn’t pry, doesn’t demand to know what happened.

“you didn’t have to come,” you murmur, sinking onto the couch beside him.

“yeah, i did,” he replies, handing you a pair of chopsticks. “and don’t even think about pretending you’re not hungry.”

a small, shaky laugh escapes you, the tension in your chest loosening just a little.

“you’re so annoying.”

“friends are supposed to annoy each other. learned that shit from you.”

jungkook’s door swings open with a suddenness that startles him.

the faint squeak of the hinges cuts through the quiet. he’s mid-motion, towel slung around his neck, tugging a loose white shirt over his head when you stroll in without so much as a knock. he’s also wearing grey sweatpants…

wet hair, white shirt, and grey sweats?

the holy trinity.

“you know,” he begins to scold you. “boundaries exist for a reason.”

he shakes his damp hair as you plop onto his bed like it’s yours.

“boundaries?” you scoff, grabbing your plushie. your precious hello kitty plushie. “this is practically my second home.”

he doesn’t argue, just lets out a quiet chuckle as he pulls the hem of his shirt down.

holding up the plushie like it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever seen. “can i take her home today?”

“sure,” jungkook says, his voice carrying that infuriating mix of teasing confidence and barely veiled challenge. he leans against his desk, arms crossed, watching with a smirk as you clutch the hello kitty plushie tightly to your chest, as if it’s your only lifeline against his charm.

“can i be your boyfriend today?”

you groan, throwing yourself back onto his bed with a dramatic sigh, the plushie landing on your face.

“seriously? you’re really holding this poor plushie hostage?”

he laughs, low and amused, pushing off the desk and taking a few steps closer.

“a deal’s a deal,” he says lightly, but there’s a glint in his eyes as he towers over you. “you can take her home—when you’re my girl.”

you yank the plushie off your face, sitting up sharply.

“do you think we’re better friends?” you huff, your tone indignant but your heart racing under the weight of his gaze.

jungkook crouches slightly, leaning in until his face is just a few inches from yours. his smirk softens into something more playful, but the shift in proximity makes your stomach flip.

“i think so…” he murmurs, his eyes flickering between your face and the plushie pressed against your chest. “aside from me trying to kiss you every chance i get and you being horny every time you see my tattoos—”

you narrow your eyes at him, holding the plushie tighter, as if it’s a shield against the way he’s looking at you.

“you’re unbelievable.”

“and yet,” he starts, his voice dropping an octave as he moves even closer, one hand bracing on the bed beside your knee, the other reaching out to gently brush his fingers over the plushie’s soft fabric. “here you are.”

his free hand slides around your waist, tugging you just slightly toward him, and your breath hitches. “but if you don’t want her…” he teases, his voice trailing off as his face inches closer to yours. his gaze dips briefly to your lips, and before you can fully process it, he’s leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek.

except you shove hello kitty between you two just in time.

“nope!” you say quickly, holding the plushie up like a barrier, your cheeks flaming as you hear him laugh, the sound vibrating through the air between you.

“seriously?” he says, pulling back just enough to raise an eyebrow, though his grin never falters. his hand stays firm at your waist, his thumb brushing the fabric of your shirt in slow, lazy circles. “you’re really using her to block me?”

“you started it,” you shoot back, glaring at him even as your grip on the plushie tightens.

“fair,” he admits with a chuckle, straightening up slightly but keeping his hold on you. his other hand moves to tap the plushie’s head. “but the deal still stands. not my girlfriend, not your hello kitty.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

he tilts his head, his grin softening, though his hand still lingers at your waist, his warmth impossible to ignore.

“i don’t know,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost coaxing. “sounds like a pretty good deal to me.”

you glare at him again, this time with less heat, and shove the plushie into his chest.

“you’re insufferable.”

he laughs, taking the plushie from your hands but not letting you go.

“maybe,” he says, “but you’re still here.”

hours later, the room is quiet except for the soft scratch of jungkook’s pen against paper and the occasional shuffle of his chair as he shifts at his desk. you’re curled up on his bed, the hello kitty plushie still clutched against your chest, your breaths slow and steady as sleep overtakes you.

he glances back at you every now and then, a small, unspoken fondness softening his features. when you stir, rubbing your eyes and sitting up, he turns back to his notes, feigning nonchalance.

you pad over to him, your steps muffled against the carpet. without a word, you slip onto his lap, one arm draping lazily over his shoulders as you pluck his glasses from his face.

“good nap?” he asks, his voice a mix of amusement and exasperation as you slide the frames onto your own nose. “those—”

squinting dramatically, you nag him; “ugh, how do you even function with these? everything’s blurry.”

“that’s because they’re prescription, genius,” he says, reaching for them, but you lean back, keeping them out of his reach.

“maybe i’ll keep these,” you tease, poking at the side of his head. “you can’t study without them, can you?”

“give them back, or i’m kicking you off my lap,” he warns, though his hands settle firmly on your waist instead of following through on his threat.

“yeah, sure... because you hate this so much.”

“try me,” he challenges, his grip tightening just slightly as if to prove his point.

“you’re so bossy,” you grumble, sliding the glasses off and placing them haphazardly on his desk. “happy now?”

“ecstatic,” he says dryly, though his lips twitch upward.

you lean closer, your face just inches from his, your playful smirk softening into something quieter, more genuine.

“you know, you’re really cute when you’re all serious, studious, and grumpy.”

“and you’re kind of annoying when you don’t let me finish studying,” he shoots back, though there’s no real bite to his words.

“fine, fine,” you say, preparing to climb off his lap with exaggerated dramatics. “go be a nerd. i’ll be over there cuddling hello kitty—”

“i could use a 5 minute break.”

you fix your posture, perking up.

“really?” you tilt your head at him. “i mean… i’d hate to distract you.”

“really?” he mocks you. “you’re sitting on my lap and moving your hips and yet—you’d hate to distract me, huh?”

you nod innocently. then, you shrug and confess;

“i’m bored.”

“what do you want me to do about that? this final is really important—f-fuck. ___, don’t move like that.”

you shift again.

“like what?”

“you know what you’re—”

“what am i doing?” you ask, leaning your body closer to his. you caress his face and pout at him. “is 5 minutes even considered a break? don’t you need more time?”

“more time for what?” jungkook lowers his gaze at you.

“i don’t know,” you giggle. “what do you wanna do?”

jungkook can’t take it.

playing cat and dog or whatever this bullshit is.

you’re on top of him, prettier than ever. you’re wearing a low-cut tank top with a fucking bow in the middle… and he can’t breathe anything in except you. what is he supposed to do right now?

“___… if you don’t get off me—”

“if i don’t get off you… what?”

you smile at him softly. shifting again, you drag your hips towards him. his eyes widen.

“i might cum.”

you pout. “really?”

jungkook swallows.

“keep moving your hips like that and you’ll find out soon.”

“oh…”

a beat.

“like this?”

before he knows it, you’re humping him.

he grunts as he feels himself harden under you. you bite your bottom lip as you drag your hips back and forth. you feel the pressure against your clit as your clothes rub together.

jungkook hisses at your pace.

“f-fuck..”

as he bucks his lips, he places his hands on your waist, helping your movement. you let out a few breathy moans and jungkook feels like he could die.

you’re so pretty.

his hands tighten around you when he senses that you’re close.

“am i doing this right? it feels—feels g-good.”

“yeah? feels good, baby?” jungkook breathes.

“mhmm…”

“do you feel my dick?” he asks. “feel how hard it is against your fucking pussy?”

“i do,” you moan. “so big, jungkook. can i take it soon?”

he hisses.

“promise me,” you whine. “promise me that you’ll fuck me soon.”

jungkook’s breath hitches.

he was wrong.

that time he ran his mouth about your virginity being too much or a burden or something—fuck was he wrong.

it’s not a burden.

it’s the greatest privilege he could ever be given… now to have you like this? begging like that? holy shit is he more than ready to give you anything and everything you want.

“promise, baby,” he says. “promise it’s gonna be me.”

you nod, happy with his answer.

and just as you’re about to continue, you take his hands to your tits. first, he squeezes them… then you guide them to the strap of your tank top. taking the cue, jungkook tugs your straps down, revealing your bare tits.

“___…” he moans. “shit.”

you bring his hands to your tits again, helping him cup them. as you hump him with more intensity, jungkook’s mouth parts. your tits bounce up and down and it sends shivers down his spine. your tits are so full in his hands and so fucking perfect up close. he loves all of it—the shape, the size, the way it feels… so soft. he’s always been an ass type of guy but holy shit—your tits are a game changer for him.

nevertheless, he tries to focuses on you.

“bouncy.”

“yeah?” you pant. “you like them?”

jungkook nods pathetically.

he fights shutting his eyes. he wants to remember all of this. every detail.

how hard he is right now. how hard your nipples are and how they feel being played in between his fingers. he runs his thumb around them, pressing, squeezing, and tugging… he loves how your moans sound—like they’re music to his ears… he can’t… he can’t picture anything else. he can’t hear anything else. he can’t breathe anything in but you.

“jungkook…” you cry, feeling yourself about to climax.

“s-shit,” he hisses as you begin to whimper.

the humping is great.

amazing in fact—but the way you’re whimpering right now?

fuck.

“jungkook,” you breathe, trying to catch your breath. “a-are you close? mhmmm… f-fuck!”

you hump him faster and harder. he lets out a few moans before sharply inhaling—

“o-ohh,” jungkook moans. “nghhhh… fuck.”

you grind on him slowly, easing his release. his crotch area is wet, making an obvious stain on his grey sweatpants.

he throws his head back. you lean over and kiss his neck. he bites his lip, attempting to hide his smile.

a silence fills the room.

you two are in total disbelief.

then, you shift and he places his hands on your waist again.

“did you cum?”

he lets out a chuckle. “yeah. did you?”

“i think so? i don’t know.”

“sorry,” he sighs, a little disappointed you didn’t get to finish. “do you wanna—”

“it’s fine that i didn’t come. i had fun…”

jungkook shakes his head. “no, it’s okay. i can—”

“can i see?”

jungkook blinks at you.

“what?”

“you came right?”

“yeah—”

“can i see what your cum looks like?”

some days with jungkook are so easy, it’s almost laughable.

the dynamic feels less like a friendship and more like a game you’re both playing—teasing, flirting, seeing how far you can push before one of you finally gives in.

but then there are days like this.

it’s been 3 month and a half since the kiss, and the comfort between you has grown in a way that makes everything feel light, almost effortless. you’re more yourself around him, and he’s let down his walls in ways you didn’t even realize were there.

still, sometimes, you push his buttons just a little too hard.

today is one of those days.

it starts with a series of texts.

your usual banter that, for whatever reason, strikes a nerve.

maybe he’s stressed, or maybe you’re just too good at knowing exactly how to get under his skin. either way, it doesn’t take long before his responses turn clipped, each word laced with an irritation you’re not used to seeing from him.

yn [1:41PM]: C₄₃H₆₆N₁₂O₁₂S₂ nerd [1:48PM]: 😳 yn [1:50PM]: am i speaking ur language nerd [1:53PM]: fluently, yes yn [1:54PM]: cool. dohwan taught me it yn [1:55PM]: what does it mean nerd [1:59PM]: not funny. yn [2:00PM]: why am i laughing then seen yn [2:01PM]: aw don’t get all mad nerd [2:08PM]: not mad. jus uninterested in this topic. yn [2:10PM]: i’m sorry seen yn [2:14PM]: sorry :( yn [2:15PM]: jungkook !!! yn [2:16PM]: wanna make out? typing… nerd [2:21PM]: yes

you don’t mean for it to escalate, but by the time you realize he’s genuinely annoyed, it’s too late to fix it over text. you bite your lip, staring at your phone, debating your next move.

and then, because you’re you, you grab your bag and head straight for his lab.

jungkook’s reputation precedes him on campus.

professors practically gloat about having him in their classes, like his achievements are trophies they get to display. it isn’t just his grades or his research—it’s the way he carries himself. sure, he's a little antisocial but he's focused, driven, and somehow still effortlessly cool.

you always knew he was smart, but seeing him in his element, tucked away in the chemistry lab during his solo hours, is something else entirely.

the lab is a world of its own.

notes scrawled in sharp, precise handwriting cover the workspace, surrounded by neatly labeled vials, bubbling solutions, and meticulous arrangements of equipment.

jungkook stands at the center of it all, wearing a crisp lab coat with the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the ink decorating his forearms. protective goggles perch on his nose, and his brows furrow as he scribbles something into a notebook. he’s intimidatingly focused, and for a moment, you hesitate in the doorway.

he notices the movement immediately, his sharp eyes snapping up to meet yours. for a beat, his expression doesn’t change, and your stomach churns with nerves under his scrutinizing gaze.

“what are you doing here?”

“i, uh…” you shift awkwardly, trying to find your footing under his intense stare. “i wanted to check on you. you seemed upset earlier.”

jungkook exhales, a hand dragging through his dark hair, slightly disheveling the strands sticking out under the goggles. his posture stiffens slightly before he stands straighter, folding his arms across his chest.

“i’m fine,” he says, the words clipped and automatic, like he’s said them a hundred times before.

he doesn’t look at you again after that, instead turning back to the dense notebook in front of him. his pen taps against the edge of the table, a sharp, rhythmic sound that fills the silence between you.

you glance around, taking in the scrawled notes and bubbling glassware, and suddenly, you feel like an intruder.

this isn’t just a workspace; it’s his domain, and you’re a trespasser.

“right,” you whisper. “sorry. i just—”

your words catch as his head snaps up again, this time really looking at you. his dark eyes flick to the way you stand there, hands shoved deep into your jacket pockets, shoulders hunched slightly, and chewing the inside of your cheek.

the tension in his jaw softens, and he exhales again, but this time, it’s quieter, almost resigned. his shoulders relax as he sets the pen down, giving you his full attention now.

“do you want a tour?” he asks, his voice losing some of its earlier sharpness.

you blink at him, caught off guard.

“really?”

he shrugs, a small, almost reluctant smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“yeah. just… don’t touch anything.”

you hesitate, unsure if this is a genuine offer or just him humoring you. but the way his gaze lingers—softer now, like he’s extending an olive branch—makes you take a small step forward.

“you’re sure?” you ask cautiously, your weight shifting between your feet.

“wouldn’t have offered if i wasn’t,” he says, already turning to gather a few items from the cluttered table.

his words are casual, but there’s something unspoken in the way he says them. it’s as if he’s acknowledging your effort without outright saying it, inviting you into a space you know he doesn’t share lightly.

“okay,” you say softly, stepping closer as he gestures to the setup in front of him.

jungkook guides you through the lab, his hand casually finding its way to the small of your back as he gestures to the next setup. the touch is subtle but grounding, the heat of his palm against your waist sending a quick flutter of awareness through you. his fingers rest there, steady, as he moves you along with a quiet confidence, his focus more on the equipment than the way your heart picks up its pace.

“this is my catalytic synthesis project,” he starts, motioning to the crowded workspace. his tone is calmer now, almost instructional as if falling into the rhythm of explaining makes it easier to let his guard down.

as he starts detailing his work, his body language shifts. his shoulders loosen, and the furrow in his brow disappears as he picks up a flask of pale yellow liquid. his hand moves with precise confidence, holding it up to the light as if to showcase his work.

“what does that even mean?” you ask, leaning in closer to inspect the array of equipment.

“it’s about creating biodiesel,” he explains, holding up a sheet of paper covered in equations and diagrams. “basically, i’m optimizing the reaction process to make it more efficient. fewer byproducts, higher yield.”

you blink, squinting at the equations like they might magically make sense.

“that’s cool… i think. but how do you even do that?”

he chuckles, the sound low and surprisingly soft.

“this,” he says, holding the flask again. “this is the feedstock. it’s like the base oil we start with. i mix it with methanol and a catalyst—”

“wait,” you interrupt, raising a hand. “what’s a catalyst?”

his lips twitch into a small grin, clearly amused by your cluelessness.

“a catalyst is a substance that speeds up a chemical reaction without being consumed in the process.”

you nod as if you understand, but the tilt of your head gives you away.

jungkook sets the flask down and leans a hip against the table, crossing his arms loosely. “okay, think of it like this. imagine you’re cooking something. the catalyst is like the pan—it doesn’t get eaten, but it helps everything cook faster.”

“ohhh,” you say, the metaphor finally clicking. “why didn’t you just say that from the start?”

he raises an eyebrow, biting back a grin. “because i thought you were smart enough to keep up.”

“wow,” you deadpan, crossing your arms. “i come here to check on you, and this is the thanks i get?”

he shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping him as he nudges your shoulder lightly with his. “first of all, you annoyed me. second of all, you’re the one who wanted a tour. i’m just giving you the full experience.”

“oh, sorry—” you let out a shallow laugh. “should i leave then—”

jungkook shakes his head and points to another setup—a small beaker bubbling over a hot plate.

“look! this is the reaction in progress. that bubbling? that’s the methanol reacting with the oil. and over there,” he gestures to a series of tubes and a larger flask, “that’s where i separate the biodiesel from the glycerol. basically, the good stuff from the leftovers.”

you narrow your eyes at the apparatus. “this still sounds like you’re making moonshine.”

jungkook snorts, shaking his head. “i’m not making moonshine.”

“sure,” you mutter, your lips curving into a teasing smile. “that’s what someone making moonshine would say.”

he rolls his eyes, but the faint smile pulling at his lips betrays him.

“you’re really annoying today.”

“you like me, though,” you shoot back, leaning against the table with newfound confidence.

jungkook pauses, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment too long. his lips part, and you catch a flicker of something in his expression—something softer, almost vulnerable.

“yeah,” he says quietly, almost under his breath, before turning back to his work. “i guess i do.”

as you lean over a neighboring table to inspect a beaker filled with an ominous-looking solution, your elbow bumps against it, sending it teetering dangerously close to the edge. the moment stretches out, everything moving in slow motion.

his words catch you off guard.

what did he just say?

holy—

“shit!” you yelp, reaching out instinctively to steady it. but before you can, the beaker tips over completely, the sulfuric acid inside spilling onto the floor—and dangerously close to your feet.

jungkook moves faster than you expect, his hand darting out to grab your arm as he yanks you backward with enough force to make you stumble into his chest. the acid splashes onto his hand as it hits the ground, and the sharp crack of shattering glass fills the room.

he flinches, a quiet hiss slipping through his teeth as he pulls his hand back.

“oh my god, jungkook!” you gasp, panic knotting your stomach. his hand lingers briefly on your arm before he steps away, already moving toward the nearest sink.

“stay there,” he orders, his voice clipped but steady, as he flips on the cold water and thrusts his hand under the stream.

your eyes are locked on his injured hand, where faint discoloration is already starting to show.

“are you okay? does it hurt?” you ask, your voice shaky.

“it’s fine,” he says tightly, jaw clenched as the water rushes over his skin. “are you okay? nothing got on you, right?”

you take a step closer, your gaze flicking between his face and his hand. he looks calm—too calm—but the way his lips press into a thin line tells you otherwise.

“no. nothing got on me… jungkook,” you say softly, guilt and worry twisting in your chest. “i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to—”

“don’t,” he cuts you off, shaking his head as he grabs a paper towel to dry his hand. his voice isn’t harsh, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s holding something back. “this is why i don’t give tours.”

you wince, the weight of his words making you shrink slightly. “i—i’ll make it up to you,” you blurt, your voice desperate to fix this. “whatever you want.”

he glances at you then, finally letting out a soft, exasperated laugh. his expression softens, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint smirk.

“you’re giving me that much power?”

“jungkook,” you warn, narrowing your eyes, but your voice wavers. you’re still too focused on his hand, your own tightening into fists at your sides. “this is serious. do you want to go to nurse or hospital or something—”

“relax baby,” he says, his tone lighter now as he flexes his fingers experimentally. “it’s not that bad. really. it was just sulfuric acid.”

“acid—”

“stop,” jungkook sighs. “seriously. it’s okay.”

“you shouldn’t have done that though,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

he shakes his head, smiling faintly—half amused, half surprised by your concern.

“what, and let you burn yourself instead?”

a beat.

"i'm dating a klutz," he chuckles, the words slipping out so naturally it takes you both a second to realize what he’s just said. his eyes widen slightly, but instead of backpedaling, "guess i should get used to you fucking my shit up, right?"

your chest tightens.

dating?

jungkook clears his throat.

“don't over think it," jungkook grumbles.

"jungkook—"

he doesn’t let you finish, his jaw tightening.

“___, what are you doing here if you don’t think we’re dating?”

“what does that even mean?” you fire back, crossing your arms defensively. “you can’t just say shit like that and expect me not to overthink it.”

“then maybe don’t think so much,” he mutters under his breath. "you're good at that anyway."

“don’t think?!” you huff incredulously, stepping closer. “jungkook, you’re impossible.”

he glares at you, setting down the equipment with a loud clink. “and you’re confusing. ___, you’re acting like—”

“acting like what?”

“like you don’t want this.”

the tension doesn’t ease as you both leave the lab.

he grabs his bag, muttering something about not wanting to talk here, and before you can argue, he’s already halfway down the corridor. you jog to keep up with his long strides, half-annoyed, half-confused, as he leads you across campus.

the walk is silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or the faint chatter of students in the distance. his jaw is tight, his shoulders stiff, and you can tell he’s barely holding himself together.

“jungkook...” you try, your voice softer this time, but he doesn’t respond, doesn’t even glance back.

by the time you reach his place, your confusion has morphed into frustration.

he unlocks the door without a word, stepping inside and leaving it open for you to follow.

you hesitate for a moment, then step in, the familiar scent of his space wrapping around you. before you can say anything, he drops his bag on the floor and turns to you, his expression unreadable.

“sit,” he orders, pointing to his bed.

your brows knit together.

“i’m not a dog,” you snap, but the weight in his tone makes you obey anyway. you sit at the edge of his bed, crossing your arms and glaring up at him.

he exhales sharply, running a hand through his already messy hair. his pacing starts then, a restless back-and-forth motion across the small room. the air feels heavy, thick with unspoken words and the lingering tension from earlier.

“okay,” he starts, his voice low and strained. “let’s just… get this out in the open.”

you raise a brow, waiting for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. instead, he keeps pacing, his hand dragging down his face as if he’s trying to physically pull the words out of himself.

“get what out in the open?” you prod, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “jungkook, what’s your deal? one second you’re fine, and the next—”

“fine?” he cuts you off, his tone sharper now. he stops pacing to face you, his hands planted on his hips. “you think i’m fine?”

you blink, taken aback.

“well, no, obviously not. but you’re also not making any sense—”

“you want to talk about making sense?” he scoffs, a bitter laugh escaping him. “you’re the one who’s impossible, you know that? one minute you’re here, acting like we’re—like this is something, and the next you’re…”

“the next i’m what?” you challenge, standing now. “go ahead, say it.”

jungkook looks at your sternly. then, he gives you his heart.

“i can’t keep doing this, ___. i need to know—are you in or are you out? because i get the whole wanting to make me miserable part. i get it. i’ve been awful to you. i’ve put words in your mouth and i’ve said shit that i can’t take back… but i’m trying. it feels like you aren’t.”

the weight of his words crashes over you, leaving you rooted in place. you want to respond, to say something, but the lump in your throat won’t budge.

he steps closer, his eyes searching yours.

“just… tell me what you want. because if you don’t want me, i need to know now.”

the silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. you feel his gaze burning into you, his desperation palpable.

“i don’t know how to have you,” you say, your voice breaking slightly.

his shoulders drop, and for the first time since this started, he looks less angry and more… hurt.

“what do you mean?” he asks, his tone gentler now.

“i don’t know,” you breathe. “i’ve never… gone this far. guys give up after the chase… you’re… you’re still here. what happens now? sex?”

he shrugs. "is that all you want?"

"no."

"then no."

silence.

“___, i'm here. i've come this far and i want to go further. sex or not—whatever,” he says, taking another step closer, his hand reaching out to lightly brush against your arm. “is that what scares you?”

you nod.

“am i… am i supposed to just—” your chest tightens, and the room feels too small, too charged. his words hang in the air, and you know there’s no going back after this. “i don’t know—”

“why are you here, ___?”

“you asked me that already.” you retort.

“yeah, and you didn’t answer,” he shoots back.

you sigh, exasperated. “i’m here because—i don’t know… you’re my friend, okay? or whatever.”

his laugh is sharp and humorless. “friend. right.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“it means i don’t want to be your friend,” he says plainly, his eyes burning into yours. “i haven’t wanted that for a while now.”

your breath catches. “jungkook—”

he steps closer, and for a moment, you think he might kiss you. but he stops just short, his voice low and rough.

“i want you to stop pretending like there’s nothing here. i want you to stop running every time i get close.”

you open your mouth to argue, but the words catch in your throat.

“again, if you don’t want this—me—then tell me,” he continues, his voice softening. “but don’t keep showing up, acting like i don’t drive you as crazy as you drive me. don’t… please, don’t make me feel stupid.”

the room feels too small, the air too thick.

jungkook’s hand lingers on your arm, his touch grounding even as your heart races wildly. his dark eyes search yours, flickering with emotions you can’t fully decipher—hurt, hope, frustration.

“you don’t have to know everything right now,” he says softly, his voice carrying a steadiness that contrasts with the storm raging between you. “i’m not asking for perfect, ___. i’m not even asking for easy. i just…” he exhales shakily, the vulnerability in his tone cutting through your defenses. “i just need to know you’re willing to try.”

your throat tightens, his words hitting you in a place you’ve tried so hard to ignore. the thought of trying—of letting yourself fall completely, with no safety net—terrifies you. but the thought of him walking away? it’s unbearable.

“i want you,” you whisper, the fear laced in your voice so raw it feels like you’ve just exposed every guarded corner of yourself. “i want you, jungkook.”

his fingers trail down your arm, stopping just above your wrist.

“say it again,” he says, his tone almost exasperated, but not unkind. “please?”

you bite your lip, the weight of his words pressing down on you. everything about this moment feels pivotal, like a single word could either shatter or rebuild everything between you.

“i want you, jungkook,” you admit, your voice trembling but resolute. “i… i want us.”

his expression softens, relief washing over his features like a tidal wave.

“good,” he murmurs, stepping closer, so close that his scent—clean, familiar, entirely jungkook—invades your senses. then, his hands come up, gently cradling your face as he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze.

“i… i want us too. i think it’s all i ever really wanted. to be yours…”

his thumbs stroke your cheeks, and before you can overthink it, he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. the tension in the room shifts, softening but no less charged.

“does this mean i get to take hello kitty home today?” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“is that all you really care about?” he says, a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips.

“i care about other things.”

“like what?”

“like you.”

and then he kisses you.

you and jungkook have been dating for 6 months when you suddenly say; "happy 6 months, baby! wanna have sex?"

jungkook practically jolts out of his bed and takes the plushie. he places it on his desk and turns hello kitty over to face the wall. (no, you haven't taken it home. for some reason, it suits being in jungkook's room more than yours).

you laugh as he turns back to you and says;

"good timing, ___. i'm ovulating."

jungkook can't breathe.

… and you? you never expected it to feel this way.

the thrill of it… the intensity—the intimacy.

as jungkook towers over you, he pulls his shirt over his head. the minute his chest is bare, your hands find your way to roam around his body. his abs, his biceps, and down his—

“wait,” jungkook pleads, eyes hungrily looking into yours. “wanna take this slow with you. wanna do it right for you.”

you nod slowly, understanding what he means.

the truth is; your virginity is your virginity.

there isn’t much to it aside from that the fact that it’s not taken. you were never wronged but you were also never pursued right… sure, it’s special… but it isn’t everything.

jungkook treats it like it is though.

you don’t mind.

for the past 6 months, he's been really careful with how he acts around you sexually. sure, a few pussy eating moments and heated make outs have been happening... but not the full thing. actually, you've never really seen jungkook's dick yet.

he refuses to let you give him a blowjob.

said something about how easy it is for him to cum at the thought of you—he isn't ready to embarrass himself in front of you just yet.

but today, at your 6 month mark, it's different.

jungkook can't hold it in anymore and you showed up extra pretty. you planned this, didn't you?

(yes.)

gently, he helps you undress.

he takes your shirt off for you and takes a deep breath when you arch your back for him to unclasp your bra. nervously, he does so. then, he tosses your bra aside and takes in the view.

the prettiest fucking tits he’s ever seen.

jungkook reaches, cupping and squeezing your boobs. you watch him as he does so, unsure of what to do.

he then lowers himself, placing kisses over your tits and down your stomach. positioning himself more comfortably, he finds himself in between your legs. lifting them up, he takes your pants off… then, his eyes flicker from you to your panties.

his fingers play with the hem of your panties. then, he scrunches them together, tugging them up so your folds are exposed.

“fuck,” jungkook groans. “so pretty…”

“yeah?”

“yeah,” he breathes, watching your pussy begin to swell. “think your kitty can be good for me? think you can be patient? that’s it… good kitty.”

you tilt your chin down to look at him.

he’s licking his lips, lowering himself down to your pussy.

“be a good kitty, okay?” he says, as he begins to massage your pussy with his hands. your panties are still on so the friction of the fabric make you a little annoyed.

aren’t you having sex soon?

shoudn’t this shit be off be now?

“jungkook—”

“i know, baby,” jungkook pouts at you. “i know it’s hard to wait… look at your pussy… so wet and your panties aren’t even off.”

“i get more wet than this?”

“if i play my cards right, yeah.”

you whimper. “please, jungkook… just.. take them off.”

“you want me to?”

“yes,” you huff. “want you to take my panties off.”

he nods slowly… as if he’s thinking about something—considering something.

then, he decides to give in.

jungkook tugs your panties down entirely, leaving your pussy out in the open. he throws his head back in admiration. it’s like he’s been hit by cupid or something.

without warning, he buries his face inside.

jungkook begins with a couple licks and spreading your folds a part. his tongue brushes against your clit—up, down, side to side—everywhere. god, you feel him everywhere. after a few licking and sucking moments, he pulls away and rubs his thumb against your clit. he spits on your pussy—letting his saliva drool down slowly.

you watch.

“you like that, baby? you like when i spit in your pussy?”

tongue-tied, you nod obediently.

he grins before giving in again.

jungkook eats you up, devouring every inch of your pussy. before you know it, he’s shoving a finger inside you as he sucks on your clit. you almost yelp at the sensation—a feeling completely new to you.

“ohhh… yeah… f-feels so good, jungkook…” you moan, throwing your head back.

honestly, the added finger burns.

but he’s gentle with it. he moves his finger inside you with lots of intentions. he gradually shoves it in deeper and deeper too.. it just… it feels good.

so good.

you throw your head back and grab a fist full of his hair.

“uh, uhhhh… mhmfffph—” you moan. “ohhh…. f-fuck…”

jungkook looks up and watches the way your lips twitch. how your body reacts to him eating you out… and it all just boosts his ego.

he’s so glad to be here.

jungkook then pulls away, taking his tongue out of the equation. he focuses on fingering you, making sure you’re enjoying the way it feels. you two catch each others gaze and continue to look into each others eyes.

as jungkook picks up the pace fingering you, you bite your lip and love the way his eyebrows furrow in concentration.

“f-fuck,” you utter. “i’m gonna—o-ohhh!”

you cum on his fingers.

jungkook pulls them out, taking your cum and spreading it around your folds. he massages it in like lube before taking his fingers to his mouth.

he tastes you.

then, before you can catch your breath, jungkook leans down and kisses you.

he kisses you deeply.

when he pulls away, you ask; “c-can we…”

jungkook chuckles.

“soon,” he assures you, tucking your hair behind your ear. he presses his lips against your cheek.

then, his lips find yours with a hesitance that feels almost reverent, like he’s afraid to ruin something sacred. and then, slowly, he deepens the kiss—tentative at first, but with a growing confidence that feels utterly jungkook.

it’s the kind of kiss that feels like discovery. like he’s studying every angle, every curve, every reaction, cataloging them in his mind like a scholar with his favorite subject. his hands hold you as if you’re delicate but unshakable all at once, his thumbs brushing tenderly against your jawline.

when he tilts his head, changing the angle, it’s with a deliberate slowness, as though he’s savoring the moment, pulling apart the layers of this kiss to commit it to memory. you can feel the way his lips curve faintly against yours, like he’s smiling, like he’s finding joy in every second of this new experiment.

and you realize—he’s not just kissing you.

he’s learning you.

nerd.

you gasp when he pulls you closer, your arms instinctively wrapping around his body. his lips part slightly, and the way he kisses you now feels like a question, like he’s asking for something without saying a word.

he’s meticulous, like he wants to explore every inch of you through this kiss, leaving no detail untouched. the way he holds you is tender but firm, grounding you while setting your pulse on fire.

when he finally pulls back, his breathing is uneven, his forehead pressing lightly against yours. his eyes flutter open, and they’re soft, full of something you can’t quite name but feel all the same.

“i want you forever,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with awe, as though he’s just unraveled the world’s most beautiful equation.

you giggle at him. “great. can we start now?”

“way to kill the mood—”

“please, for the love of god!” you squirm. “fuck me already.”

jungkook can’t help but laugh.

but he gives in.

jungkook shifts out of his pants, revealing his hard cock.

you stare at it.

it's pretty.

it's thick all around and his tip looks like it's angry. you like the way it looks though... looks delicious. his cock has you completely mesmerized. you almost want to crawl to it but he saves you the journey as he brings it close to you.

truth be told, jungkook's a little nervous.. he doesn't want to fuck this up.

“you know…” he begins, as he jerks himself off in front of you. “i want to be mean. like, really fucking mean. i want to make you beg. i want to make you choke on my fucking cock and have you scream my name but—fuck, ___… i look at you and i can’t…. i can’t even do all i want with our fucking foreplay because i fold so easily when it comes to you. you want me to fuck you? fine. i’ll fuck you.”

“be mean,” you whimper. “come on. don’t be a pussy. just because this is my first time—f-fuck! holy shit, jungkook—”

jungkook has slowly puts his cock inside you.

you gasp for air.

he caresses your face as you adjust to him being inside you. then, he drags his tongue around your neck. he sucks on it a bit, causing you to grip the sheets.

“o-oh my… j-jungkook…”

“you okay, baby?” he asks, slightly moving himself in deeper.

you take a deep breath and exhale from your mouth. “f-fuck…”

he’s so big.

you can feel every curve of his dick and vein. when his tip entered, it felt funny. like, uncomfortable but also really fucking good. as he begins to thrust in and out, you breathe through the sharpness of his movement.

“hurts…” you confess.

jungkook shifts, and kisses your neck. against your skin, he murmurs; “i’m sorry, baby… do you want me to—”

“no,” you tell him, as you open your legs wider. you wrap yourself around him and hold on tight. “think… think i’m okay. can you move more?”

jungkook nods and kisses you once more.

he begins to fuck you.

slowly but surely… he begins to drill himself into you.

missionary isn’t his favourite but having you this way… especially for your first time? god, did he love this. as you dig your nails into his back, you whimper every time he thrusts back inside you.

“f-fuck,” you moan. “jungkook… it’s…”

“what?” he almost panics. “a-are you okay?”

“yeah,” you breathe. “it feels good now… can you… go harder?”

jungkook hisses, feeling like he could lose his mind.

“can we switch position?” he pitches.

you agree.

jungkook then pulls out of you, and you suddenly feel the emptiness. he goes on his knees and takes you by your waist, guiding you to turn over and go on all fours.

doggy.

jungkook helps you position yourself before angling himself. he licks his hand and spreads your entrance. he then guides his dick inside you. as he begins to thrust, you suddenly feel him reach around and start to rub your clit…

and oh my god.

does it feel heavenly.

“oh,” you hum. “feels so good.”

jungkook leans over, and kisses your shoulder. as he pulls away, he takes his other hand and grabs a fistfull of your hair. he pulls your hair back and you moan at the tightness.

“you like that, my little bitch?” he grunts as he fucks you.

he feels your pussy clench. then, he smriks.

“oh? you like being called a little bitch, huh?” jungkook then takes his hand off your clit and uses it to slap your ass. "my fucking cockslut. always so fucking horny but you're just a little dirty minded virgin, right? not anymore, okay? i'm taking it. taking all your sticky fucking cum. you're all mine, baby. you know that, right? you're mine, bitch."

smack.

your pussy tightens around his cock again.

smack.

you moan his name.

“jungkook…”

he inshales shaprly and moves both hands and grabs your waist. he pulls you into him with each trust, adding more intensity.

jungkook fucks you harder and harder and you can’t help but love the way it feels. you moan his name, whimpering pleads like; “please… please, fuck me harder.” you can’t help it… it’s the way that his hard cock feels inside you that make you say shit like that. it’s the way that his hands roam around your body and you feel him everywhere… because he is everywhere.

his mind goes dizzy.

he goes blank actually.

then, when you reach back and wrap your arms around the back of your thighs—jungkook feels like he might lose it.

how do you know how to move like that?

god, you’re so hot.

“mhmm. that’s it…. fucking me so good, nerd.”

then, jungkook loses it.

like… really.

he fucks you harder and harder until you’re whimpering his name and almost near tears. he doesn’t realize how hard he’s fucking you until you’re near climax—

“i’m cumming!” you cry. “baby, i’m gonna—ahh, a-ahhh! fuck..”

it happens so fast.

suddenly, you cum and you lose your balance.

jungkook helps you lay down properly. he gets on top, continuing to fuck you in missionary. he fucks you through your orgasm. as you catch your breath, you feel him hiss against your skin.

“fuck.”

just then, jungkook pulls out.

as he jerks himself off, you tug on his hand and pout at him. he tilts his head, a little confused but quickly catches on.

“cum right on me?”

(i mean, camaraderie)

a few seconds later, jungkook straddles your face.

he places his dick inside you mouth and you focus on licking the tip of his dick. you do it softly, not adding much pressure. it sends shivers down his spine… then, you use the topside of oyur tongue to add more stimulation. you dig your face deep, licking his balls a little.

he moans.

you suck him off—slow but so fucking intense.

jungkook can’t take it.

he places one hand on the back of your head and helps control how deep you take him.

his dick reaches the back of your throat and it’s fucking toe-curling for jungkook. you take him in so good. as you suck him off, he can’t help but not last long.

“ahh–aahhhh.. f-fuck—” jungkook moans deeply. “nghhh.... fuck, ___! holy fucking shit...”

jungkook pulls out seconds later and cums all over your face.

as his cum drips down your face, you catch it with your finger and look at it.

“ohh,” you pant. “that’s what cum looks like…”

jungkook rolls his eyes at you before dipping his head low and kissing you. you two laugh as you pull away, completely in disbelief of everything that had just happened.

1 month later...

“you’re such a bad boyfriend,” you say, crossing your arms dramatically as you sit on the couch, watching jungkook fiddle with the back of your laptop.

he pauses, turning his head slowly to look at you over his shoulder. his glasses are sliding down his nose, his hair is a bit messy from pushing it back so many times, and he looks entirely unimpressed.

“bad boyfriend?” he repeats, sounding genuinely offended. “you asked me to fix your laptop. i'm a chem major, not tech.”

“smart boyfriends are supposed to be well rounded."

he glares at you. "again. you asked me to fix your laptop. i'm doing my best, baby."

"yeah, but like... i asked you over an hour ago,” you tease, leaning back and pretending to sigh. “you’ve been ignoring me ever since.”

“ignoring you?” he scoffs, turning back to the tangled mess of wires. “i’m literally upgrading your RAM so you can stop complaining about how slow it is. if anything, i’m the best boyfriend.”

you hum thoughtfully, pretending to consider it. “debatable. the best boyfriend wouldn’t make me sit here in silence while he nerds out over motherboards or whatever.”

“okay, first of all,” he says, setting the screwdriver down and turning to you fully now, “it’s not ‘whatever.’ this is your motherboard’s lifeline. without it, you don’t get to binge your little dramas.”

“so you’re saying you’re not doing this for me—you’re doing it for the laptop?”

“i’m doing it so you don’t keep stealing my ipad to ‘watch just one more episode’ and kill my battery in two hours,” he fires back, but there’s a little smirk tugging at the corner of his lips now.

you tilt your head, grinning. “i think you just proved my point.”

“fine,” he says, pulling his glasses off and tossing them onto the table. “what do i have to do to reclaim my best boyfriend title, huh? flowers? chocolates? fixing this annoying laptop isn’t enough?”

“hmm,” you pretend to think. “i’d say… maybe you stop being a nerd for five minutes and come cuddle me instead.”

he rolls his eyes but moves toward you anyway, tugging you into his lap without hesitation.

“there,” he says, wrapping his arms around you as you snuggle into his chest. “am i forgiven, or do i need to sit in front of a claw machine and lose $200 again?”

“hmm,” you hum, grinning as you tap your chin. “hello kitty does look a little lonely. but maybe she deserves a friend when you really screw up.”

“you’re planning for that?” he asks, incredulous.

“not planning,” you tease, shrugging. “just preparing. i’ve already picked cinnamon roll for when you really drop the ball.”

he stares at you for a long moment, narrowing his eyes. “you know, this feels like extortion. i bet you mess with me on purpose just to stock up on plushies.”

“maybe,” you say sweetly, poking his cheek. “but you can’t prove it.”

he sighs, leaning his head back against the couch dramatically.

“great. i’m dating a scam artist.”

“you’re dating a genius,” you correct, grinning.

“genius or not,” he counters, tightening his hold on you, “you’re stuck with me.”

you tilt your head up to look at him, biting back a laugh at the slight pout on his lips.

“wow, jungkook, that’s so nerdy of you.”

he groans, letting his head fall against your shoulder.

“i’m never fixing your laptop again. let me know when you need help naming all the isomers of butanol—"

"baby, did you hear that?"

"hear what?"

"you put the dolphins to sleep. good job! yay, your marine conservation bullshit finally came in handy—"

"wanna break up?"

"meanie."

"you're mean."

"sure, let's break up," you tell him. "how about never?"

"never?" jungkook asks, tucking your hair behind your ears. "sounds good."

you glance at him, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.

"it's you, me, and the fucking dolphins forever, nerd."

#bts mini series #bts fic #bts jk fanfic #bts jk fic #jk fic rec #jk fic #jk smut #jungkook smut #jungkook x yn #jk e2l #jungkook fluff #jungkook f2l #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine

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inkskinned · 8 months ago

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even 2 years ago people still said autism with a whisper. it was also how people sometimes whisper lesbian, like they're afraid of uttering a slur. autistic was either an insult or it was something terrible, a horrible burden only select people endure. "select people" were usually 9 year old boys and skinny white men.

they are not hispanic young adults with a dog and a life and friends. i can make (sustained, calculated, painful) eye contact. with certain people, i don't even have to count how many seconds i am holding their vision - i can just look at them. i can wear clothes that bother me, i will just have a worse day than usual. i might cry about any changes to my schedule - but change is scary! this is normal!

when i was 16 it was OCD. i mean that was the thing everyone said. i totally have ocd. they would arrange 6 colors of gel pen in rainbow order (no worry for indigo feeling left out) and they'd be "so ocd" about it.

if you struggle with intrusive thoughts, be careful at this next paragraph, but. at 16 i developed a compulsion that involved self-harm. my ocd was convinced i was simply forgetting that i'd hurt someone terribly - a thought that persisted for no clear or delineated reason.

at some point i will probably write about how the idea of "morally pure thoughts" was hell for me and others with ocd, but this was the odd dichotomy for many of us: they liked our "aesthetic", but were genuinely repulsed by our lived experience. "intrusive thoughts" now means "cutting your hair in the sink" instead of talking yourself down from believing horrible things. "so ocd" is a label without any true understanding.

it's something i've talked about before - in multiplicity - but i firmly believe in the veracity and necessity of self-diagnosis. i think it saves lives and it saves tragedies from occurring. as someone raised in a house that wasn't safe, self-diagnosis was, for many years, the only viable option. 15 and honestly googling: am i depressed or are there demons affecting my behavior.

but it is not genuine self-diagnosis anymore, most of the time. it is a strange, blanched version of that whispered word autism. now certain traits are constantly seen as "autistic" - any passing intense interest. any flubbed social interaction. people say it while laughing - a touch of the 'tism.

and i like the acceptance! i do. i like that people are talking about it. i like that if i self-identify, more people speak up and say me too, bitch. but there is something-else quietly happening, the way it happened to OCD. the quirky, "fun" parts have been washed and sanitized and removed of all suffering. now it is just something that makes you "a little bit silly."

it took me 27 years on this planet before i learned to make friends. something about me just seems incredibly odd, i guess, some kind of radiation monitoring. someone once (in a way that was almost friendly) told me i am doing the right things, but in a way that's off-putting. i have scoured myself raw attempting to be charming.

someone on tiktok does a deep dive into their particular passion. the top comment says "what kind of autism is this lol". like we are a breed of animal. like it has no influence on our experience. like our life is a fresh breeze, an open meadow.

more often for me, life was a drowning.

#warm up #spilled ink #writeblr #it's hard to explain bc i do like the acceptance but it's like the ocd thing #autism is . an entire neurotype. yes we get 'cool autism powers' but we mostly say that #for OUR sake. on the autism website.#the cool autism powers do come with like. quality of life problems.#girl being in a room with LEDs gives me a headache. so you can kind of imagine how that might #in some way #influence my ability to function #will defend self diagnosis to the death as long as it is CLEAR AND LEGITIMATE. not like.#oooo i struggle talking 2 women i must be autistic #girl what. i struggle with the act of TALKING.

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heartsriki · 3 months ago

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FOR YOUR EYES ONLY ⌇편지

pairing ᝰ ni-ki x fem!reader — featuring.. jungwon | word count: 2200+

⌇ … warnings & genre ↺ highschool au!, fluff, misunderstandings, sunshine x grumpy.

synopsis — After seeing your tiny crush nishimura riki sneak something into the confession box you just had to investigate.

lee's ₊˚⊹ ᰔ comment ┊guys I swear ill make a non highschool au with riki soon... I couldn't help myself.. anyways its FEB!! can't wait to write valentines themed fics!

Finally.

It was your favorite month of the whole year.

You worked as a library assistant at your school—not because you particularly loved the job, but because it was better than joining a club.

Well… that’s what you told people.

In reality, you had a secret gig.

Tucked away in the most secluded part of the library was your confession box—a simple, unassuming container where students could slip in anonymous notes pouring out their feelings.

It started as something just for you. A place to vent when things got overwhelming. But then, he found out.

Jungwon.

You had no choice but to let him in on your little secret, and somehow, he became your best friend. Over time, word spread, and people started using the box themselves. What once held only your thoughts turned into a place where students whispered their love stories into folded pieces of paper.

Only Jungwon knew you were the one behind it.

And now, February had arrived—the holy grail of confessions. Sure, people submitted notes year-round, but around Valentine’s Day? The numbers spiked.

You weren’t going to lie. You loved it. Not just the thrill of reading them (and occasionally sharing the best ones with Jungwon, who never breathed a word), but the idea that you were helping people express what they were too afraid to say out loud.

So here you were, stationed at the front desk, pretending to browse book requests on the computer when a group of girls giggled their way to the back of the library.

Your eyes flickered toward them, amused. Definitely not because you were excited to read their confessions later. Nope. Definitely not.

Then, moments later—he walked in.

Riki.

The second you saw him, your instincts flared up. Suspicious.

Riki never stepped foot in the library. He barely did his assignments, let alone read for fun. So why was he here?

You watched, careful not to make it obvious. He glanced around, acting almost… nervous? And then, without a word, he disappeared into the back.

Seconds later, he reappeared from the other side—hands in his pockets, expression unreadable, walking out as if nothing had happened.

Your breath hitched.

No way.

Did Nishimura Riki just put a confession in your box?

Your hand scrambled for your phone. You had to tell someone.

You:

JUNGWONJUNGWONOMG

PLSPLSANSWERLOOKATURPHONE

Wonnie:

Ok what the hell

What is it?

You:

You are NEVER going to believe who just slid into the back of the library.

Wonnie:

Is it Jake again? Poor guy

Maybe Jay? Idk tell me

You:

Nishimura… Riki…

Wonnie:

… Fr?

Maybe he confessed to you?

You:

Right, totally.

Wonnie:

Think about it.

And you did think about it.

You and Riki had a… relationship. Not exactly a friendship, but not total strangers either.

You first met in detention.

It was your first time there, and you had no idea what you were supposed to do. So, naturally, you turned to the guy next to you—the one with his headphones on, slouched in his seat like he owned the place.

Curious, you tapped his shoulder.

He flinched, looking caught before turning to glare at you. “What?”

You blinked. “How did you sneak those in? Can I listen too?”

Before he could answer, you asked another question. “Wait, also—what are we supposed to do in here?”

His face twisted in disbelief. “What do we do in detention? You sit here. Now be quiet before—”

“Mr. Nishimura, sneaking electronics in again?” The teacher’s voice cut in, hand outstretched.

Riki groaned, slumping back in his seat before begrudgingly handing over his phone and headphones.

When the teacher walked away, he snapped his head back to you, eyes burning with betrayal.

You swore he glared at you for the rest of the day.

Ever since then, you tried to make it up to him—with snacks, lunch, even passing him worksheets to copy. Eventually, after weeks of bugging him, he forgave you.

Kind of.

Even now, he still acted so indifferent.

Whenever you waved at him in the hallway, he looked away. When you invited him to sit with you and your friends, he ignored you. Even when you walked beside him, talking about anything and everything—he barely responded.

At first, you assumed he was just bad with people. But then you saw him with his friends—laughing, joking, talking.

So why was he only like this with you?

Eventually, you gave up.

You distanced yourself, refusing to waste energy on someone who clearly wanted nothing to do with you.

But then, every now and then, you’d catch him staring—or see him approach you, only to hesitate and walk away.

It was confusing. Frustrating. You told yourself you didn’t care anymore.

Until the school trip.

It had been late at night when you were sent to fetch supplies from the shed—a small, isolated building at the edge of the woods.

You weren’t scared, but walking alone with only a flashlight wasn’t exactly comforting.

By the time you found everything, thunder rumbled outside. Moments later, the skies opened up.

Heavy rain. Lightning. The kind of downpour that turned dirt trails into slippery nightmares.

Running back wasn’t an option.

So, hugging your knees to your chest, you sat in the shed—silent, alone, trying not to cry.

Minutes passed. Then—

The door burst open.

You jumped, heart nearly stopping—until your eyes locked with his.

Riki.

He stood there, soaked from head to toe, breathless, his curls sticking to his forehead.

Did he… run here?

He didn’t speak. Just stared for a moment, like he was checking if you were okay, before stepping inside and sitting next to you.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re helpless, you know that?”

You blinked, then let out a soft, teary laugh. He was trying to act tough. But he was clearly worried.

Neither of you spoke after that. You just sat there, listening to the storm. Well, you spoke—rambling like you used to, and for once, he didn’t seem to mind.

By the time the rain cleared, something between you had shifted.

And now, months later, here you were—staring at an empty confession box, knowing Riki put something inside, yet not finding his name anywhere.

Jungwon’s voice pulled you back.

“I knew I’d find you here.” He smirked. “Anything good?”

You forced a laugh, trying to mask your disappointment. “Yeah, some interesting ones. Oh—Minji completely dropped her last crush and moved on to a new one. Isn’t that crazy?”

Jungwon squinted at you. “You’re looking for Riki’s, aren’t you?”

You groaned, immediately dropping your head onto the table. “I’m pitiful. Don’t look at me.”

Jungwon laughed, dragging a chair out and sitting across from you. “You’re not pitiful. Just mildly down bad.”

You groaned, keeping your forehead against the table. “But I know he put something in there. I saw him! I was so ready to read it, but it’s like—poof!—nothing!”

Jungwon tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. “You sure he actually put something in the box?”

You lifted your head slightly. “Of course, I literally watched him sneak in.”

“Then…” Jungwon grinned knowingly. “What if he took something out?”

That made you pause. You sat up straight, eyes wide. “Wait… What?”

“Think about it,” Jungwon continued. “If he put in a confession and realized he wasn’t ready, maybe he took it back.”

Your mind raced. That… actually made sense. But why would Riki take it back? And more importantly—who was he confessing to?

The thought made your stomach twist, and you weren’t sure why.

Jungwon smirked, clearly enjoying the sight of you struggling. “You could just ask him, you know.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, right. ‘Hey, Riki! Weird question, but did you happen to steal a confession from my box?’”

“Why not?” Jungwon shrugged. “Or are you scared of the answer?”

You opened your mouth, ready to deny it, but the words never came. Were you scared? The idea of Riki confessing to someone else made your chest feel tight in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

Before you could respond, the student council room door creaked open again.

And there he was.

Riki stood in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, his hair a little bit above his eyes which flickered between you and Jungwon before settling on you.

Jungwon raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of you. “Welp. That’s my cue to leave.” He patted your shoulder before slipping past Riki, whispering a quick, “Good luck,” on his way out.

The door clicked shut. Silence.

You swallowed. “Um… Did you need a book or—”

“I didn’t take it back.”

Your breath hitched.

Riki sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “The letter. I didn’t take it back.”

Your heart was pounding now. You tried to keep your voice steady. “What do you mean?”

His gaze dropped to the floor. “I put it in there without a doubt, I think… someone else removed it. Maybe it was a sign not to confess to you.”

You.

Your throat went dry. “It was… for me?”

Riki let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Obviously.”

You blinked. “Obviously? What do you mean obviously? You ignore me ninety percent of the time!”

He huffed, looking almost embarrassed. “I don’t ignore you.”

“You literally pretend not to hear me half the time!”

“Because I don’t know what to say!” Riki finally looked at you, frustration and something else—something softer—lingering in his expression. “You drive me crazy, you know that? You talk too much, you’re way too nosy, and you never leave things alone. And somehow, I—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “I like you, okay?”

Your brain short-circuited.

Riki rolled his eyes at your stunned silence. “This is embarrassing.”

You snapped out of your trance. “Wait, wait. Back up. You like me?”

He groaned, turning toward the door. “Forget I said anything—”

You grabbed his sleeve before he could leave.

He froze.

Slowly, you grinned. “You like me.”

Riki’s ears were turning red. “Shut up.”

You laughed, warmth bubbling in your chest. You never thought you’d get anywhere with him, and yet—here he was, out of breath looking at you so fondly, confessing in the most Riki-like way possible.

February was definitely your favorite month of them all.

BONUS 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The moment Riki stepped into the library, he knew he was making a mistake.

This wasn’t his scene. He didn’t do books, didn’t do anything that required more effort than necessary. But here he was, standing in the one place he actively avoided, shoving his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets as his eyes flickered toward the back.

He could feel your gaze on him.

You were always watching him.

Not in a weird way—more like you were constantly trying to figure him out. Always with that curious glint in your eyes, like he was a puzzle you were determined to solve.

He hated it.

No, that wasn’t true. He hated that he liked it.

And now, as he made his way toward the confession box—the stupidest thing he’d ever been a part of—he was hoping you weren’t paying too much attention.

With one last glance around, he slipped to the back, pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and dropped it inside.

Then, without missing a beat, he walked out through the other side, playing it cool.

It took everything in him not to look back.

He could already picture the way your brain was short-circuiting, the way you were probably grabbing your phone to text Jungwon. You always told him everything, after all.

Riki swore under his breath as he left the library.

He wasn’t even sure why he did it.

Well.

That was a lie.

He knew why.

It was because of you.

Because you confused the hell out of him.

You were supposed to be annoying—loud, persistent, way too nosy for your own good. You were supposed to be someone he could easily brush off, like he did with everyone else.

But you weren’t.

Because no matter how many times he ignored your waves in the hallway, you still smiled at him. No matter how often he shut you out, you never stopped trying.

And then you stopped.

You finally gave up on him.

And for some reason, that made his chest feel too tight.

Ever since that night on the school trip, when he found you curled up alone in the shed, it had been harder and harder to act like he didn’t care.

That night, when he heard you were missing—it was like he could imagine you with red eyes, shoulders shaking—he couldn’t stop himself.

Didn’t even think.

He just ran.

Ran straight into the storm, through the rain, barely able to see a damn thing—but knowing exactly where he was going.

When he finally got there, when he saw you small and fragile under the dim light, something in him cracked.

He never wanted to see you like that again.

But he didn’t know how to tell you that.

He wasn’t good with words. He wasn’t good with feelings.

So he wrote it down instead.

It wasn’t a confession, not in the way you expected.

But it was something.

Something for your eyes only.

Something he thought you would have found by now.

So when he walked passed the student council room later that evening, seeing you and Jungwon hunched over the pile of notes, he knew immediately.

You hadn’t seen it.

Because if you had, you wouldn’t be looking for his name like he overheard.

And now, as both your heads snapped toward him, your eyes wide and startled—

Riki sighed, stepping forward.

…You took it, didn’t you? He thought looking straight at Jungwon.

Because if you didn’t find his letter in the box…

Then someone must have.

What was Jungwon playing at?

What happens next? Click (optional)

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hhaechansmoless · 21 days ago

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OFF THE GRID PT.1

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series. Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn, honestly quite f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 - 14k Part 2 - 13k Part 3 - 19.5k

glossary taglist

a/n: a big big thank you to ashi (@junplusone) and rae (@nerdycheol) for beta-ing this and to tiya ( @gyubakeries) who sat through not just me yapping and losing my mind over this fic but also over real f1 happenings too 🥹 quite literally got me through the last 10k of this fic, no joke. this was incredibly fun to write and is the longest piece I've ever written fjdhfjd I hope you guys love it too!! also i swear to god i did not mean to jinx ferrari w this like don't come for me i am a ferrari fan too guys pls. do comment/reblog/send an ask w your thoughts!!

MONACO, CIRCUIT DE MONACO

Saturday, Post qualifying May 24th

The room is cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your skin, into your bones – the kind that makes everything feel a little too sharp, a little too clear. Seungcheol wonders if it would be the right time to ask someone to turn the AC down. He stares at the screen at the front of the room, but the numbers blur together—lap times, tire degradation, sector splits—none of it matters. He already knows what they’re going to say.

His arms are crossed over his chest, jaw locked as his race engineer drones on about qualifying performance. Tyre warm-up wasn’t ideal. You lost a tenth in sector two. The front row was possible. Possible. Not achieved.

He should’ve been faster. He should’ve been better.

Seungcheol shifts in his seat, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t take notes. He doesn’t ask questions. No one is looking at him to lead this discussion anymore.

He’s had the feeling for a while now. Maybe it was when he won the championship last November. Maybe it was the pre-season meetings before testing in February. Maybe it was the first race, the one where he lost. Maybe it was the second when he—again—didn’t live up to everyone’s exceptions. Maybe it’s been the entire journey along the way. The thought has sat in the back of his mind for a long time and now it resurfaces, pressing hard against his temple. Seungcheol tries to push it back, tries to look at his race engineer and see the belief, the trust. He hasn’t seen that in a while too.

This isn’t your team anymore.

It doesn’t matter that he won the championship last year. It doesn’t matter that he was Ferrari’s chosen one, that he fought for them, bled for them, brought them back to the top. The shift was slow, subtle, happening in the way conversations changed, in the way people spoke to him, in the way expectations started to feel lighter. Not because he was carrying less, but because they were starting to place the weight elsewhere.

They don’t say it outright. They don’t have to.

He isn’t the future anymore.

Maybe, just maybe, they don’t believe he’s the present either.

And then there’s Jaehyun.

Seungcheol doesn’t turn his head, but he doesn’t have to. He can feel him sitting just a few chairs away, posture relaxed, flipping through his notes like he isn’t feeling the weight of this season pressing against his ribs. Like he’s not the one who’s supposed to be chasing, not the one who’s supposed to be trying to keep up.

But that’s not how it is anymore, is it?

Jaehyun is confident. Comfortable. Maybe even a little smug, though Seungcheol knows he wouldn’t show it. Not here, not yet. But Seungcheol feels it in the way the room leans toward him now. In the way the engineers talk, the way the strategists hesitate when they discuss race plans, the way every discussion that used to be centered around him now has another name in the mix.

It wasn’t always like this.

And it shouldn’t be like this now.

Jaehyun is good. He’s always been good. But Seungcheol knows better than anyone that being good isn’t the same as being great. And yet, the way things are going, the way Ferrari is talking, the way everything feels like it’s slipping out of his grasp before he can hold on to it—

No.

His grip tightens around the pen in his hand. He forces himself to exhale.

No. The team is just shifting priority to be safe, he tries to convince himself. Seungcheol hasn’t been performing the same this season, and Ferrari cannot just sit there and wait for him to get his game back on. It’s only natural that they shift their focus to Jaehyun.

Who has been outdoing you in almost all the races till now, he thinks bitterly, but now is not the time. His focus must be on getting back to that top step tomorrow. He’s not on the front row, but he’s on P3. And he’s done this before. Multiple times. You’re a four time world champion for a reason, he reminds himself.

The meeting ends without ceremony. Someone thanks them for their time. The engineers start shutting their laptops, the strategists murmuring amongst themselves, but Seungcheol stays seated, pen still in his grip, gaze still fixed on the screen even as the numbers disappear.

He should leave. Get up, grab his water bottle, head back to his room, reset. He’s done this a million times before. Shake it off, focus on the race.

But for some reason, he doesn’t move.

Around him, the room is shifting. The dull hum of post-meeting chatter fills the air, team personnel filtering out in quiet clusters. It feels casual. Like this was just another debrief, another normal day at Ferrari.

But it isn’t. Not to Seungcheol.

He knows he hasn’t been performing at his best. He doesn’t need the numbers on the screen to remind him. But the part that unsettles him isn’t just his own frustration. It’s that no one else seems particularly concerned.

A season ago, a bad qualifying would have meant hours of discussions, strategists picking apart every sector, his race engineer sitting with him long after the meeting ended. But now, the debrief ends too quickly. The team moves on too easily, like they aren’t waiting for him to fix it anymore.

Seungcheol finally stands, rolling his shoulders back, exhaling sharply. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That he just needs to focus on the race.

It’s Monaco. The crown jewel of the F1 calendar. He must do this.

—

Sunday, Race Day May 25th

“We need to push now, Seungcheol.”

He grits his teeth, jaw locked so tight it feels like it might snap. Push? Like he hasn’t been wringing every last bit of performance out of this car, like he hasn’t been on the limit for the last forty laps?

Like this race hasn’t already been slipping through his fingers since the second he left the grid.

The tires are gone. The strategy didn’t work. The plan was to overcut, stay out, build a gap—but the numbers lied. The degradation is worse than they thought, and now he’s stranded, barely keeping the car pointed in the right direction as he tries to squeeze out just one more lap before pitting.

It’s Monaco. Track position is king. And yet, here he is, fighting against cars that should be behind him.

“Box, box.”

The words come through, sharp and final, and Seungcheol exhales hard through his nose. He throws the car into the pit entry, hits the brakes slowly and pulls into his box.

It’s slow.

Too fucking slow.

The rear-left refuses to come off, the mechanic scrambling, precious seconds bleeding away. Three seconds. Four. Five. By the time they send him back out, he knows. It’s done.

His hands grip the wheel so tight his knuckles burn.

“Car ahead is Jaehyun and ahead of him is Haechan. The others ahead are yet to pit so you are back in P3 for now.”

Jaehyun and Haechan.

Of course.

His engineer is saying something else, some meaningless reassurance about the stint ahead, but Seungcheol isn’t listening.

He can’t listen.

Because he realizes, for the first time, that this isn’t just a bad day, or a bad weekend or a bad first half of the season.

This is the championship slipping away from him. This is driver number 1 slipping away from him.

The gap isn’t closing.

Seungcheol has been pushing—hard, too hard—but it’s not making a difference. The pace isn’t there, the tires are overheating, and every lap that passes feels like another door slamming shut in front of him.

The harbor glints under the afternoon sun, the yachts filled with celebrities and billionaires sipping champagne, watching from their floating palaces as the cars thread through the streets below. The air is thick with engine heat and the sea breeze, the grandstands packed.

Monaco isn’t just another weekend. It’s where legends win, where the greats cement their names.

And right now, he isn’t driving like one.

He flies through the tunnel, foot flat on the throttle. He knows every inch of this track, knows exactly where he should be gaining, but it doesn’t matter when the car isn’t responding the way he needs it to.

Seungcheol is stuck.

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Two seconds."

Two seconds might as well be twenty.

He shifts down aggressively into the chicane, braking later than he should, hoping for something—anything—to change.

The noise of the crowd swells as he rounds the Swimming Pool section.

His grip tightens on the wheel. It’s not supposed to be like this. He’s supposed to be attacking, not looking in his mirrors, not having to think about defending, not feeling the weight of the entire race pressing down on his chest.

"Seungcheol, we need to manage the tires."

The words snap through his earpiece, grating against his nerves. He forces himself to breathe, to settle the frustration threatening to spill over.

They want him to manage.

They want him to hold the position.

They want him to accept that this is all he’s getting today.

He sets his jaw and throws the car into the next turn, taking a little too much of the curb on the exit.

By lap 75, the gap between Seungcheol and Jaehyun is huge again.

It’s worse than before.

The second stop was clean, no delays, no mistakes. And yet, somehow, he’s still lost time.

Fucking Monaco.

It doesn’t matter how well he drives. It doesn’t matter that he’s hitting his marks, that he’s extracting everything left in these tires. The mandatory two-stop has killed any chance of clawing his way back.

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Four seconds."

Four seconds. Before the stop, it was two.

He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. At this rate, he won’t even see Jaehyun’s rear wing by the time the checkered flag falls.

And now, he has another problem.

The Red Bull in his mirrors.

Jeno.

The younger driver had been quiet all race, sitting behind, waiting. But now with just four laps to go, he’s close. Too close.

Seungcheol shifts his grip on the wheel, fingers flexing, gloves damp with sweat inside the cockpit. The wheel feels smaller, the car tighter around him.

P3 is all he has left.

And he’ll be damned if he’s about to lose that too.

—

The champagne is cold when it hits his suit.

Seungcheol flinches, but only slightly, just enough to feel it soak through the fabric, just enough to remind him that he’s standing here, that this is happening.

Haechan and Jaehyun get down from their P1 and P2 steps, champagne bottles tilted high, foam spilling over their hands as they spray each other first before turning toward him. He lifts his own bottle, angles it in their direction, but it’s only for the sake of formality.

Haechan stands in the center.

There’s something about him. The way he carries himself, the way he looks at the trophy, the way his hands stay steady even in the chaos. Seungcheol watches the way he smiles, watches the way he doesn’t fumble under the weight of it all. He’s young, still early in his career, but he handles himself like someone who’s been here before. Like someone who expects to be here again.

It reminds Seungcheol of himself. Or at least, of the driver he used to be.

And that’s when it sinks in.

That he’s not getting it back. That there’s no way for him to fight for this championship, not this year. That whatever edge he used to have—the thing that made him great, the thing that made him unstoppable—it’s not there anymore.

He tightens his grip on the bottle, jaw locking as he exhales slowly.

A podium at Monaco is supposed to mean everything.

But right now, it just feels like confirmation of what he already knew.

Seungcheol barely registers the walk back down to the garage. His ears still ring, whether from the crowd or the exhaustion settling deep in his bones, he doesn’t know.

His PR manager is beside him, speaking, but he only catches fragments. Media pen. Keep it neutral. Good points for the team. The same routine, the same lines, but it feels heavier today. Because he’s never had to talk about losing here before.

Seungcheol mentally scoffs at the way he thinks it’s become a routine. Since when was he this alright with settling for mediocrity?

The media pen is packed, cameras already rolling, reporters waiting. Seungcheol takes his spot, forces his expression into something composed, something neutral.

The first few questions are easy. Tyres, strategy, the mandatory two-stop. He answers on autopilot.

Then, the question he’s dreaded is asked.

“Seungcheol, this track has always been one of your strongest, but today you missed out on the win for the first time in five years. How are you processing that? And with Haechan taking the victory, do you think he’s proving himself as a serious contender?"

He expects it, but the words still land heavy.

For a second, he says nothing, fingers flexing against the edge of his race suit. Five years. He hasn’t lost here in five years. Until now.

"Yeah, of course, it’s disappointing. Monaco is always an important race, and I would’ve liked to fight for the win," he says, voice measured, controlled. "But we did what we could today. A podium is still a good result for the team."

It’s the right answer. The expected one.

"And Haechan?"

Seungcheol nods one, shoulders tight and strung up.

"He did well. Controlled the race, didn’t make mistakes. Winning here takes a lot, and he handled it."

It’s short and simple and exactly what he needed to say but as he moves on to the next reporter, the weight of it lingers. Because to him, more than what he said, it’s what he doesn’t say that matters.

He doesn’t say he could’ve won if he tried harder, if the situation were a bit different. He doesn’t say he hopes to win next time.

And for the first time in his career, he’s not sure if he will.

HOME

In your defence, you never really expected Seungcheol to attend the wedding, especially with it being held smack bang in the middle of the season.

In his defence, you suppose this is the reception and not the wedding itself. It isn’t to say that you are unsurprised when you walk over to your table with Seungkwan to see Seungcheol’s name on the seating list. The name sits there in Madina Script, all elegant swirls and carefully placed flourishes, as if good typography could soften the impact of his presence, slotted between yours and Jihoon’s, as if it belongs. You blink at it, half-expecting your eyes to be playing tricks on you, but Seungkwan sees it too, a soft sound of surprise escaping his mouth.

You can tell he’s excited as he sits down on your right, a small smile on his face that he tries to hide for your sake. You can’t help but shake your head and scoff at him in adoration. The boys haven’t seen Seungcheol in a while. He didn’t come back home last winter and you have a suspicion that it was partially because of you.

The reception hall hums with the easy lull of conversation, the clinking of glasses and silverware filling the space between soft music and warm laughter. The candlelight flickers against the delicate floral arrangements at the center of each table, casting shadows that sway with the breeze from the open terrace doors. Outside, the night stretches over the coastline, waves rolling lazily against the cliffs below. It’s the kind of evening that feels untouched by time, the kind where memories slip into the present so seamlessly that it’s easy to forget just how much has changed.

And it applies to you as well, as you turn toward the entrance, hoping to catch Jihoon before he finds his seat. You're ready to convince him to sit next to you when you spot the figure just behind him. For a moment, your stomach flutters, instinct overriding reason. You feel the simple pleasure of seeing someone familiar before you remember. Before it really registers who you’re looking at.

Seungcheol stops in his tracks too. Just for a split second, which you notice only because you were already looking at him. You turn back to Seungkwan, wondering why Seungcheol looks surprised that you’re here. You live in this town. It’s your neighbour’s wedding. Of course, you’d be here.

Seungcheol exhales slowly through his nose, steadying himself as he weaves through the tables. It’s fine. He’s fine. This night is just another social obligation—one he’ll get through with practiced ease.

Or so he thinks.

Because when he finally reaches his assigned table, when his gaze flickers over the place cards arranged neatly around the table, he sees it.

His name.

Right next to yours.

For a moment, all he can do is stare.

Then, with the kind of composure he barely feels, he pulls out his chair and sits down. Like the sight of your name beside his doesn’t feel like a cruel fucking joke.

The chair legs scrape softly against the floor, but you don’t look at him. Not yet. You’re still angled toward Seungkwan, fingers tracing lazy circles against the stem of your glass, as if you haven’t noticed him at all.

But he knows better.

Seungcheol reaches for the placard with his name on it, turning it between his fingers like the cursive script might offer an explanation. As if some part of him still doesn’t quite believe it.

And then you shift—just slightly, just enough for your gaze to flicker toward him, catching him in the act.

He sets the card down and straightens his spine, forces an easy expression onto his face, even as his pulse betrays him.

“Hey,” he says, hoping he sounds simple, nonchalant. He wonders if it is of any use though. Twenty nine years of knowing him doesn’t usually get erased by almost a year of no contact.

“You look well.”

Your voice is smooth, free of hesitation, and for some reason, that unsettles Seungcheol more than silence would have. He glances at you, finding your expression unreadable, your posture relaxed like this is just any other conversation. Like there’s nothing strange about exchanging pleasantries after everything.

He wets his lips, nodding slightly. “So do you.”

There’s a pause, not quite awkward, but not entirely comfortable either. You nod in acknowledgement, taking a slow sip of your drink, and he watches as the condensation on your glass leaves faint moisture on your fingertips when you set it down.

“How long have you been here?” he asks. You can tell he’s uncomfortable by the way he glances around the hall, not meeting your gaze.

“A while,” you say, your lips tilting slightly like you know he’s asking just to fill the air between you. “Long enough to know the best way to sneak out if it gets unbearable.”

Something in him eases, just slightly. “And here I was thinking you stayed for the speeches.”

“I do. But that doesn’t mean I like them.”

Seungcheol is about to say something when Seungkwan leans forward, elbows on the table, “Alright, before the drunk bridesmaids start their speeches, how’s the season going?”

Seungcheol exhales, tilting his head slightly before reaching for his drink. “It’s going.”

Jihoon doesn’t let that slide. “That’s a non-answer.”

Seungcheol huffs out something close to a laugh, but there’s an edge to it. “It’s been competitive,” he says.

Seungkwan hums. “Red Bull’s that fast, huh?”

Seungcheol sips before nodding. “Yeah. They came into the season strong. The car’s quick, and they’ve barely put a foot wrong.”

Jihoon leans back, considering that. “And Ferrari?”

Seungcheol shrugs, tapping his fingers lightly against his glass. “We’re not slow. Just not as consistent as we need to be.” He pauses, then adds, “It’s not last year.”

That part lingers. Last year was different. Ferrari had been the team to beat, and Seungcheol had been the one everyone was chasing. He doesn’t say it outright, but you hear it anyway.

Seungkwan senses that the conversation might be heading downhill and rushes to say, “Well, at least your team is second fastest. I remember reading that McLaren were dropping down into the midfield again.”

Jihoon lets out a dramatic sigh. “Man, remember when they were actually fighting for wins?”

Seungcheol chuckles, shaking his head. “Feels like forever ago.”

You stare at him, watching as he sips his drink again. There’s a lot you want to say but you settle for asking something else. “Next is Canada, right?”

Seungcheol pauses, fingers tightening just slightly around his glass before he looks at you. He blinks, like he hadn’t expected you to ask.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Canada’s next.”

“Oh, Montreal’s always fun. Wet races, safety cars, chaos. Right up your alley, huh?” Seungkwan shakes his head as he leans back into his chair.

Seungcheol huffs a small laugh, shifting his attention to him. “Something like that. Hopefully.”

Seungkwan hums in response, but before he can say anything else, a commotion from the other side of the hall catches his attention. His gaze flickers toward the dance floor, where a group of slightly tipsy guests have started an impromptu dance-off. Jihoon follows his line of sight, shaking his head with a quiet laugh.

“Unbelievable,” Jihoon mutters, but there’s amusement in his tone.

Seungkwan leans in slightly, watching with clear interest. “I’ll give them five minutes before someone trips over their own feet and spills a drink on someone else.”

“Three,” Jihoon counters, reaching for his drink.

Their conversation drifts as they start making bets on which unfortunate guest will go down first, their focus shifting entirely to the spectacle unfolding before them.

And just like that, it’s just you and Seungcheol again.

You glance at him, catching the way his shoulders have stiffened slightly now that the buffer of conversation has faded. He’s staring at his drink, thumb tracing absently over the condensation on the glass.

“So,” he says, voice low, hesitant. “You still watch the races?”

You blink, turning fully toward him. “Of course, I do.” There’s a hint of offense in your voice, even if you don’t mean for it to be there. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Seungcheol exhales softly through his nose, like he’s considering something. Then, he offers a small, almost apologetic shrug. “I don’t know. Just figured—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

You don’t press him on it. Instead you sigh, staring into your empty glass, “I never got to congratulate you, by the way.”

His brows furrow slightly. “For what?”

“Your championship.” You give him a look like it should’ve been obvious. “2024. You did it again.”

Seungcheol laughs dryly, going back to his drink for a sip before he replies. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Bit late for that, don’t you think? Not doing that great anymore, am I?”

It’s tossed out casually, but the bitterness is unmistakable. His voice is light, almost like he’s making a joke, but you know him too well. It’s in the way his fingers tighten around his glass, the way his gaze flickers away from yours just a second too long.

Your stomach twists. You hadn’t thought much of it at first. He’s always been hard on himself, always pushed himself further than anyone else ever could. But this might be different, you realize.

“I don’t believe that.” You challenge, frowning slightly.

Seungcheol scoffs quietly but doesn’t argue. He just leans back into his chair, letting out a long exhale while pretending to look around the venue.

“I’m going to get another drink. Do you want anything?” He asks finally.

You shake your head slowly, still watching him. “No, I’m good.”

Seungcheol nods, pushing himself up from his chair, but the weight of his words linger.

He’s deflecting, ignoring what you said before and that means something is definitely wrong. You think back on how this season’s been going, searching for any sign. He hasn’t been winning like he usually does. But it isn’t like he’s dropped off either. He’s been on the podium for almost every race till now. So really, what could be bothering him?

Just as he returns, a warm voice cuts through the chatter. “Well, well, if it isn’t the four of you together again.”

You turn to see the bride standing beside your table, her lips curved into a knowing smile. She glances at you first, then at Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Seungkwan before shaking her head fondly. “I was just telling my husband that it’s been ages since I’ve seen you four in the same place.”

Her husband raises an eyebrow. “They were that close?”

The bride lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, more than close. They were inseparable. If you saw one of them, you knew the others were nearby, usually getting into some kind of trouble. I remember trying to study in my room while these four ran up and down the street, screaming about some game they’d made up.” She shakes her head, eyes twinkling. “It was basically a ‘buy one, get three free’ situation.”

Seungkwan laughs, nudging you. “Hear that? We were iconic.”

Jihoon scoffs. “More like infamous.”

Her husband chuckles, looking between the four of you. “Alright, so who was the ringleader?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” the bride answers before anyone else can. She tilts her head toward Seungcheol. “It was always him.”

Seungkwan snorts. “Yeah, because people actually listened to him. Meanwhile, the rest of us? Chaos.”

Jihoon hums in agreement. “He had that whole intimidating older brother thing going on. Worked wonders when we needed to get out of trouble.”

Seungcheol finally looks up, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Or when you needed someone to take the blame,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You sigh. “And yet, you still went along with everything.”

Seungcheol exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “Someone had to make sure you three didn’t burn the neighborhood down.”

“Excuse me,” Seungkwan says, hand on his chest. “I was a delight.”

Jihoon snorts. “You literally almost set the park on fire that one time.”

Seungkwan waves him off. “Details.”

The bride grins as her husband shakes his head, clearly entertained. He looks at Seungcheol before offering a handshake. “I just wanted to say—I’m a big fan. Wishing you luck for the rest of the season.”

Seungcheol blinks, slightly caught off guard, but he takes the handshake with a small smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

The second they’re out of earshot, Seungkwan leans in with a grin. “Wow, a big fan, huh?”

Jihoon hums. “Did you see that? He even looked a little starstruck.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he picks up his drink. “You guys are unbearable.”

Seungkwan gasps dramatically. “The four-time world champion has no love for his supporters. Could be the next big scandal on the grid.”

Seungcheol groans, pinching the bridge of his nose as Jihoon and Seungkwan dissolve into laughter.

You watch them, unable to stop the smile stretching across your lips. It��s been so long since you’ve seen them like this, teasing and bickering as if nothing has changed. As if life hasn’t pulled you all in different directions, as if time hasn’t worn away at the bond the four of you thought was unbreakable. For some of you, it still is unbreakable, you suppose. You’ve got to give Seungkwan that, since you see his insufferable face every day.

But it still aches, just a little. Because you know things aren’t the same anymore. Because you’re not sure if they ever will be.

ITALY, AUTODROMO NAZIONALE MONZA

Thursday, Media Day September 4th

The garage is comparatively quiet today, Seungcheol notes as he follows his race engineer inside. Must be because most of the mechanics have gone for lunch.

The usual hum of conversation and metallic clang of tools is subdued, leaving only the low whir of cooling fans and the occasional murmur of engineers discussing setup changes. There are a few mechanics working on Jaehyun’s car on his side of the garage, but his side is mostly empty. The silence should be a relief, a rare moment of calm before the chaos of the race weekend begins. But instead, it feels suffocating, pressing against his ribs like a weight he can’t shake off.

There’s a weight in the air here that doesn’t exist anywhere else. Monza. Ferrari’s home race. The Tifosi already gathering outside the paddock, red flags draped over the fences, the pressure thick enough to choke on. He’s raced here for years, he knows what this weekend means—to the team, to the fans, to himself.

Which is why the growing pit in his stomach feels so out of place.

His car sits on the floor stands, untouched. No mechanics checking the rear suspension, no engineers reviewing his setup. But just across the garage, Jaehyun’s car is surrounded by people, a quiet buzz of activity following his teammate’s every movement.

Seungcheol glances at one of his engineers, who is flipping through setup notes on his tablet, barely paying him any attention.

“So, ahead of FP1 tomorrow, we’re keeping things mostly the same-”

“We need to fix the rear,” Seungcheol interrupts, voice firm. “I told you last week. It’s too light on the corner entry. If we don’t stiffen it, I’ll be fighting the car all weekend.”

The engineer exhales, rubbing his temple like this is an inconvenience. “We’ll keep an eye on it after FP1.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens.

Not a yes. Not even a no. Just a ‘later’.

The frustration simmers low in his chest, but he forces himself to breathe slowly, keeping his voice measured. “I’ve been saying this since Silverstone. We don’t need to wait for practice to confirm what we already know.”

“We’re still analyzing the data.”

A humorless chuckle threatens to rise in his throat, but he swallows it down. “I gave you the data last race.”

His engineer doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t bother coming up with a real answer, just nods vaguely, already shifting his attention back to the screen. Like this conversation is over. Like his concerns aren’t worth addressing now.

The irritation claws its way up his spine, but before he can say anything else, a voice from across the garage catches his ear.

“…he said he wasn’t comfortable with the rear,” one of the engineers mutters, crouching near Jaehyun’s car.

Another voice, sharper. “Yeah, we’re softening it a little, adjusting the setup so it’s more stable through the corners.”

Seungcheol stills.

His grip tightens around the water bottle in his hand, plastic crinkling under the pressure.

The same issue. The same complaint. Except this time, there’s no hesitation, no we’ll see after FP1, no vague nods and brushed-off concerns. They’re already fixing it. Already adjusting, already making sure his car is exactly how he needs it before he’s even turned a lap. And his car? Still untouched.

“Good,” one of the engineers says. “Can’t have him struggling this weekend.”

Seungcheol exhales slowly, running his tongue over his teeth.

The shift isn’t always obvious at first. It starts in small ways. Whose concerns get addressed first, whose feedback carries more weight in meetings, whose name gets spoken with more urgency. It’s subtle, so subtle that if he wasn’t paying attention, he might’ve convinced himself he was imagining it.

But he isn’t.

Not when he’s standing in the garage in Monza, in his team’s home, and watching everyone move just a little faster for someone else.

And it’s not that Ferrari doesn’t want him anymore. It’s not that they’re pushing him out. But they’re not prioritizing him either. They still expect him to perform, still need him, but they aren’t listening to him the way they used to.

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

This is why the paddock has been whispering. This is why people have started wondering about his future. He hadn’t wanted to believe it before, had pushed it aside as nothing more than speculation. But maybe they saw what he was just now realizing.

That Ferrari isn’t betting on him anymore.

They’re keeping him. But they’re investing in Jaehyun.

It’s been happening all season.

From the very start, Seungcheol remembers the discrepancies—strategy calls that made no sense, pit stops that were just a second too slow, orders that left him boxed in at the worst possible times.

And all this time, he’s chalked it up to bad luck. A miscalculation here, a mistake there. But how many miscalculations does it take before you realize they’re not just mistakes?

And the worst part? What have I done to deserve it? Nothing.

His results haven’t been bad because of him. He’s still the same driver who won them four championships. Every time he’s lost a win, lost a position, it’s been because of something they did. Something they got wrong.

He watches as Jaehyun steps inside, relaxed as he greets the engineers. They respond instantly, turning their full attention toward him, nodding as he speaks, making sure everything is exactly as he wants it.

Jaehyun doesn’t have to ask twice.

Jaehyun doesn’t have to fight to be heard anymore.

And Seungcheol is tired of feeling like he does.

The thought hits him harder than he expects. His fingers loosen around the water bottle he's holding, the tension in his shoulders shifting into something else. Something bitter.

Because suddenly, he remembers a different season. A different teammate.

Mingyu.

Seungcheol hasn’t thought about him in a while—not like this, not with the clarity he has now. But looking at Jaehyun’s car, watching the way the team moves around him, listens to him, works for him—he realizes it must have been the same back then, too.

Mingyu probably saw this.

Felt this, back when Seungcheol was the one Ferrari was pouring everything into, when every strategy revolved around him, when every upgrade, every minor tweak, was designed to suit his driving style first.

Mingyu had been a damn good driver. More than good enough to fight, to challenge, to win. But how many times had he been left with the we’ll see after FP1? How many times had he looked at Seungcheol’s car and known that he wasn’t getting the same level of attention?

Seungcheol had never thought much of it before. He’d always told himself that it was just how things worked, that the team backs the driver who can win. He hadn’t considered how it must have felt to be on the other side of it. To watch your team slowly stop listening. To realize that the people you trusted to have your back were already shifting their focus elsewhere.

And now, here he is.

The same team. The same treatment.

Only this time, he’s the one left waiting.

A mechanic brushes past him, calling out instructions, but Seungcheol doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes on Jaehyun’s car, watches as the team works quickly—effortlessly—to make sure his teammate is comfortable, that his car is exactly how he wants it.

Seungcheol unclenches his fingers and rolls his shoulders back, forcing his expression into something more relaxed, more neutral.

Then he turns on his heel and walks out, not saying another word.

Seungcheol’s spent six years at Ferrari. He’s won them four driver’s championships and five constructors. He was the one who dragged them back to the top, who delivered their first driver’s championship in fifteen years, who gave them the momentum they needed to take the constructors’ title the year after. He was the one who gave his blood, sweat and tears to this.

Heck, you even sacrificed your relationship fighting for this team, He mentally scoffs.

Seungcheol’s never been the second driver. And he sure as hell isn’t about to start becoming one now.

—

Saturday, Qualifying

September 6th

The roar of the Tifosi is deafening, even from inside the garage.

Seungcheol sits in his cockpit, helmet still on, hands resting lightly on the wheel as the mechanics swarm around his car, making final adjustments. The session clock is still running, but for now, he’s stationary—P3 on the leaderboard, a tenth ahead of Jaehyun.

Outside, Monza is alive.

The Tifosi are everywhere, packed into every inch of the grandstands, a sea of red that stretches as far as the eye can see. Flags whip through the air, massive banners draped across the stands, their messages bold and impossible to miss. Monza is one of the circuits where the grandstands are sold out even during qualifying. There’s something different about Monza. Something that doesn’t exist at any other circuit, something even the best drivers struggle to explain. It’s not just the speed, the history, the track itself. It’s this. The weight of expectation. The way Ferrari doesn’t just belong to the team—it belongs to the people. To the thousands in the stands who live for this weekend. To all the other Italians watching on their TVs.

Usually, Monza is Seungcheol’s favourite track. He’s set impressive records here before and the energy of the crowd is always motivating.

Even through the layers of his helmet, his balaclava, and the deafening sounds of the other cars on the track, he hears them chant his name.

At least they haven’t given up on me.

His fingers tighten slightly around the wheel.

He sits in P3 for now. Ahead of Jaehyun, but still behind a Red Bull. A Red Bull on pole.

At Ferrari’s home race.

It’s an insult to their team, a disgrace on their part.

His gaze flickers across the garage, past the blur of engineers watching the monitors, past the mechanics murmuring updates to one another. No one looks at him. Not directly. Not long enough for it to mean anything.

But they’re waiting.

They won’t say it, won’t dare to speak it aloud but he knows what they need from him.

They need him to take back Monza.

They need him to put Ferrari back where it belongs.

Like always. Funny that they need me, now that their new star driver can’t manage to fucking qualify above P5 when it actually matters.

His race engineer's voice cuts through his earpiece, slightly more alert now.

“Track is clear. Sending you out now.”

Seungcheol scoffs, a humorless laugh against the inside of his helmet.

Right. Of course they are.

He presses the clutch paddle, lets the engine roar back to life, and rolls out onto the pit lane.

The television flickers, the glow of the screen casting soft light across the dimly lit living room. You keep the volume as low as possible. Your parents are sleeping, and you wouldn’t want to wake them up because of the commentary at this ungodly hour.

You hadn’t planned on watching qualifying. It had been a long day and the last thing you needed was to be up at one in the morning, wet hair dripping onto your t-shirt after a bath, on the edge of your seat as you watched your ex-boyfriend qualify for his team’s home race.

You should be asleep, but instead, you sit curled into the corner of your couch, staring at the leaderboard on the screen.

P3 – Choi Seungcheol.

The commentators have been talking about him all session. About how this weekend is crucial, about how Ferrari needs a strong result at their home race. About how Jaehyun is only P5 and how Seungcheol is the only Ferrari in a position to fight for pole.

The pressure is unbearable even from here, thousands of miles away. You can only imagine what it must feel like there, in the cockpit, in that worrying little head of Seungcheol’s.

The camera cuts to the Ferrari garage, to Seungcheol sitting in his car, helmet on, hands loose on the steering wheel as he waits.

Your stomach twists as his engineer’s voice crackles through the radio.

"Track is clear. Sending you out now."

Seungcheol doesn’t respond. Just shifts into gear, rolling out of the garage onto the pit lane.

The commentators barely take a breath before launching into his out-lap analysis.

"This is it, folks. One final shot for Ferrari’s Choi Seungcheol. He’s currently sitting in P3, but can he challenge for pole?"

"He’s had a tough session so far, struggling with the car’s balance, but he’s pulled off magic laps before. Let’s see what he can do."

You exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips as the camera follows him through the out-lap. He’s weaving aggressively, warming up his tires, testing every movement.

And then, finally—

"Choi Seungcheol begins his final lap."

The screen shows his car flying into a long, sweeping curve, and something tugs at your memory.

"It’s trickier than it looks," Seungcheol had once told you. It was late, the two of you sitting in the dim glow of his kitchen after Monza in 2023. "It’s easy to take it flat-out, but if you misjudge the line by even half a meter, you’re screwed on the exit."

Your breath catches slightly as you watch him now, the Ferrari holding steady, perfectly placed, just like he described.

The timing screen flashes, indicating a purple sector.

The commentators react instantly.

"He’s improving! Seungcheol is on a great lap. Can he challenge for pole?"

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket draped over your legs.

The car flies through the next sector, fast and on the edge. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. It’s pure instinct, the kind that only comes after years of knowing exactly where the limit is.

Purple again.

"He's still gaining! This could be huge for Ferrari!"

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath.

The final corner looms. The moment of truth.

"It’s deceptive," he'd said, "the Parabolica. The biggest mistake is to brake early. If you do, you lose all your momentum. You have to trust the car. Trust yourself."

His Ferrari dives in so late you think for a second that he’s overdone it. But who are you kidding? It's Seungcheol. Seungcheol who would never settle for anything less than a front row at Monza. He knows what he's doing.

As he crosses the finish line, the leaderboard updates.

P2.

The commentators erupt—a front row start for Ferrari. The camera cuts to the grandstands, where thousands of fans in red are screaming his name.

You exhale.

Not pole.

But at least he’s ahead of Jaehyun.

The screen flickers back to the garage. Seungcheol removes his helmet slowly, setting it down beside him. He doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t react to the pats on his back. His expression is unreadable.

Seungcheol is disappointed. Yes, he's out-qualified Jaehyun. But a Red Bull still sits on pole. Another at P3. His teammate's stuck at P5.

He mentally scoffs, A championship contender, that boy.

It's been a hard weekend for Ferrari this year. The Red Bulls have been fast all weekend. All season, but this weekend matters the most and Seungcheol has a chance. To prove to the team, to prove to himself and to win for the fans.

He watches as Jaehyun gets out of his cockpit, looking thoroughly frustrated for once.

Good, Seungcheol thinks. He's not going to be able to fight for the championship always, but if Ferrari has any chance of challenging for the constructors then Jaehyun needs to start doing better. Needs to start being harder on himself.

As his PR manager approaches him, Seungcheol thinks about what this year's driver’s championship winner would mean. If it’s going to be Haechan, which seems to be the most probable case, then that would mean the downfall of Ferrari again. If Jaehyun won against the odds, it would mean that Seungcheol lost to a teammate for the first time in his career.

Ferrari is going to start asking him to play the team game soon. He's not going to have the choice to deny that. He just hopes it doesn't start tomorrow.

He needs that win.

—

Sunday, Race Day

September 7th

Seungcheol doesn’t know why he’s bothering with coffee. It’s not like he needs it. His body is already running on adrenaline, his mind sharp, wired, bracing itself for the race ahead. But still, he stirs sugar into his cup, watching it dissolve in slow, deliberate circles.

It gives him something to do. Something to focus on that isn’t the feeling creeping under his skin, the quiet conversations happening around him.

He hears Jaehyun before he sees him.

“You always drink coffee before a race?”

Seungcheol looks up, finding Jaehyun standing across from him, arms folded loosely over his chest, gaze unreadable but not unkind.

“Sometimes,” Seungcheol replies, setting his spoon down with a quiet clink. “You?”

Jaehyun shakes his head. “Doesn’t sit right. Too bitter.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, a faint scoff of amusement. “That’s because you drink it wrong.”

Jaehyun tilts his head slightly, considering that. “Or maybe you just have bad taste.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “Right. That’s why I’m the one drinking an actual espresso and not whatever sugar-filled disaster you get at the airport before flights.”

Jaehyun lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, first of all, an iced latte is not a sugar-filled disaster.”

Seungcheol gives him a look.

Jaehyun exhales. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

For a moment, it almost feels easy. It reminds Seungcheol of when they weren’t sharing the same garage, when they weren’t dealing with the undercurrent of tension that came with being teammates. Back then, things had been simpler, Jaehyun in his own team, Seungcheol in his, their conversations laced with nothing more than lighthearted competition. The paddock had been big enough for both of them, their rivalry something manageable, something that only existed on track.

Jaehyun shifts slightly, straightening his posture, finally getting to the point.

“So,” he says, exhaling lightly. “Big day ahead.”

Seungcheol hums. “Guess so.”

Jaehyun taps his fingers against his arm, watching him carefully. “You’re planning to be difficult?”

Seungcheol finally looks at him. “Aren’t you?”

Jaehyun holds his gaze for a second longer before huffing out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I’m just saying, it’d be nice if we both made it to the finish line today.”

Seungcheol nods, slowly but surely. “Then don’t give me a reason to stop you.”

Jaehyun’s lips twitch like he wants to say something else, but he just nods once before stepping back.

Seungcheol watches as he walks off, settling at another table, already engaged in quiet conversation with one of their engineers.

He picks up his coffee again, rolling the cup between his palms.

A clean race.

Sure.

That depends on who refuses to back down first.

—

Seungcheol’s brother tosses you your drink as you settle down on the corner of their couch, next to your father. You wipe off the condensation on the can with the sleeves of your sweatshirt, tucking your legs under yourself as your father pats your knee, still talking strategy with Seungcheol’s dad. Your mothers are in the kitchen, loading the last plates from dinner into the dishwasher before they come over for the race.

Seungho sighs, fiddling with the remote as he settles on the right channel before plopping down onto the bean bag at your feet. Your mothers sit on the two seater, smaller sofa to your left, you sitting with the fathers on the bigger one, just like you have for years. Race day traditions don’t just disappear, even when everything else has changed.

Seungcheol’s father peels an orange, handing over the pieces to you and Seungho. Your mother complains about the AC’s temperature, but your father tells her that it’ll be hotter by the time the race starts anyway. Your finger already finds its place on the corner of the sofa’s armrest, the splinters of old wood that you pick on when the race gets heated. You don’t need to just yet, but you guiltily realize that you’re ruining their sofa every time. No one says anything to you about it. No one has to. It’s been your spot, your thing for years.

Seungho nudges you lightly, nodding toward the TV. "They’re saying the softs might not last long in the first stint," he muses, popping a piece of orange into his mouth. "You think Ferrari will actually pit at the right time today?"

You snort. "That’s optimistic."

He hums, shifting in his seat. "If they want a chance at winning, they need to be aggressive. Hards won’t get them track position, and the mediums are a gamble if the degradation is worse than expected."

You watch as the broadcast shows the tire allocations on screen, your eyes flickering over the strategies analysts have predicted. "Yeah, but you know they’ll be too focused on playing it safe. They always are when it actually matters."

Seungho sighs, not disagreeing. His gaze lingers on the Ferrari pit wall, the strategists adjusting their headsets. "Cheol won’t want to wait for them to figure it out," he says.

"They’re going to have to take risks eventually," he muses as the national anthem ends, watching as the cameras linger on Haechan as he walks back to his car. "Red Bull is too far ahead otherwise. Haechan’s been cruising all season, and Jeno’s not exactly slow either."

You shake your head, sinking further into the couch. "It’s ridiculous. Their car is practically untouchable. Even when they mess up, they still somehow come out ahead. It’s like they’re playing a different game."

Seungho leans back, arms crossed. "Ferrari had the chance to challenge them early on, but they didn’t capitalize when it mattered. Now it’s just damage control."

You chew on your bottom lip, eyes fixed on the screen as the camera cuts to Seungcheol on the grid. His helmet is still off, jaw set tight, gaze flickering across the sea of people moving around him. He looks calm, but you know better.

“You don’t think Jaehyun has a chance?” You ask distractedly.

Your father lets out a small laugh, “Wishful thinking, honey. Seungcheol and Jaehyun need to watch out and start playing for the team. The second Red Bull lad isn’t too far away from snatching up third or even second in the standings if these two mess up.”

—

The race settles into a rhythm, not a comfortable one, not for him, but a rhythm nonetheless.

Seungcheol grips the wheel tighter, eyes flickering between his mirrors and the track ahead. He’s in second, exactly where he started, but there’s no comfort in that. There’s a Red Bull ahead of him, and another behind.

And Jaehyun.

Jaehyun, who started P5. Jaehyun, who has been carving his way through the field. Jaehyun, who right now, is fighting for P3

He sees it happen in his mirrors, sees the moment Jaehyun lunges into turn one, late on the brakes but just precise enough to make the exit ahead of Jeno. A bold move. A necessary one. Seungcheol doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react beyond the slight press of his foot on the throttle, keeping his own pace steady.

It doesn’t matter.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

The radio crackles to life. His engineer’s voice, calm and composed. But something’s still off.

“Jaehyun is the car behind.”

Not quite an order. Not yet.

Seungcheol doesn’t reply. Just tightens his grip, shifts slightly in his seat. He knows what’s coming next.

Another chime in his ear. “Let’s be smart about this.”

There it is.

He exhales slowly, foot pressing just a little harder against the throttle. Smart, meaning don’t fight too hard. Smart, meaning don’t ruin the team’s chances. Smart, meaning move.

He’s done playing smart.

Jaehyun is closing in, the red of his Ferrari filling Seungcheol’s mirrors as they barrel down the straight, DRS open, momentum in his favor. Seungcheol adjusts, keeping his line just tight enough to force him to work for it.

The first chicane is clean. The second is anything but.

Jaehyun dives. Seungcheol defends.

They come out the other side still wheel-to-wheel, neither willing to yield.

The straight ahead is the fastest part of the track, the only chance to breathe before the next braking zone. Seungcheol is already calculating his defense, watching for the moment Jaehyun makes his move, ready to cover him off—

Too late.

Jaehyun clips the curb, the rear unsettled just enough to break traction. The car bounces, weight shifting unnaturally, and before Seungcheol can even react, he sees it. The flash of the underbelly, the violent twist of suspension giving out, the horrifying realization that Jaehyun’s car is airborne.

For a heartbeat, there is only silence.

And then, impact.

The force slams through him, the weight of the other car crashing down against his, shaking his entire body. The harness digs into his shoulders and ribs, holding him in place, but his head snaps forward, then back, helmet knocking against the headrest. The sound is deafening—metal crunching, carbon fiber shattering, the high-pitched screech of tires skidding helplessly across asphalt. His vision blurs at the jolt, breath knocked out of him as they careen off track, the gravel rushing up to meet them. The car shudders violently, bouncing as the suspension struggles to absorb the force. He barely registers the dust cloud kicking up around him, the shards of debris scattering across the runoff.

You feel your heart stop as the scene unfolds on the screen. It stutters hard, gripping your chest and throat as you stare at the two Ferraris get pushed into the gravel. From the corner of your eye, you see Seungho get up, hands on his head. No one in the room speaks. No one moves. The only sound is the distant murmur of the commentators, voices rising with urgency, barely registering in your ears.

“Oh my word! Massive crash between the Ferraris! Are both the Scuderia cars OUT of their home race?”

Even with the volume low, even through the ringing in your ears, you hear the grandstands erupt. A mixture of shock, horror, disappointment.

The slow-motion replay flashes across the screen—Jaehyun’s car hanging in the air for a fraction of a second before crashing down on top of Seungcheol’s, the halo absorbing the impact.

“Look at that! The halo is doing its job there, saving Seungcheol. But what a terrifying impact!”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of your sweater, your chest aching with the force of holding your breath. The camera shifts to the wreckage, two Ferraris, lifeless in the gravel trap, neither driver moving yet.

The ringing in his ears is the first thing Seungcheol notices. Then the tightness in his chest, the dull ache in his shoulders, the way his hands are still gripping the wheel like the race isn’t already over. His body feels heavy, like he’s just been thrown into a brick wall and left there.

He blinks.

His visor is coated in a thin layer of dust, the track ahead distorted through the haze of gravel and smoke. Something is still pressing down on him. Jaehyun’s car, still partially tangled with his own.

His radio crackles, his engineer’s voice cutting through the ringing.

“Seungcheol. Seungcheol, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

He inhales slowly, tests the movement in his fingers, flexes them once, twice. His chest rises and falls, shallow but steady.

“I’m here,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You hear the shuddering breath of relief that his parents let out as soon as they hear his radio on the television. You exhale too, feeling your hands tremble. You’ve seen Seungcheol crash before. But it’s never felt like this. Never this violent or sudden. Never with another car landing on top of him.

Your fingers dig into your sweater as you stare at the screen, waiting for movement, waiting for confirmation that he’s okay beyond just two words through the radio. The marshals are already there, swarming the wreckage, clearing debris, working to separate the cars, but you can’t tear your eyes away from Seungcheol’s cockpit.

You barely register as Jaehyun jumps out of his cockpit, turning around to look at the wreckage before shaking his head and walking away. It infuriates you. Seungcheol was doing what he had to do to defend. Why did this guy have to come in and ruin it all? There was a turn there, maybe he didn’t fucking notice that he had to move his steering wheel, you seethe.

The camera cuts to the Ferrari garage. His mechanics are frozen, watching the same screen, the same image of his wrecked car, faces unreadable but tight with something that looks a lot like guilt.

Seungho mutters. “Come on, man, Get out.”

And then, finally, movement.

The top of his helmet shifts, his hands coming up to unbuckle his harness. You feel like puking as he pushes himself up, slow and obviously shaken up, until he’s climbing out of the car.

“And it’s confirmed,” The commentator begins, “Both Ferraris are out of the race at Monza! Can you believe it? In front of the thousands of Tifosi here, it has been a nightmare of a weekend for Ferrari.”

But as you watch Seungcheol stand there for a moment, staring down at the car that was supposed to take him to victory today, you can’t help but stop the unease from settling down in your gut.

He turns and walks away without looking back.

—

When he’s let back to his driver’s room after the medical check-up, Seungcheol slams the door shut behind him, the sound echoing through the empty halls. The windows shudder from the impact, but he pays no mind to them.

His helmet is still in his hands, his grip so tight it almost hurts. His fingers flex around the edges, his breathing shallow, the weight of everything pressing down on him all at once. Then, without thinking, he hurls it across the room.

It crashes against the lockers with a violent clang, bouncing off metal before rolling to a stop near the couch. The sound rings in his ears, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough.

He braces his hands on the edge of the table, exhaling sharply. His pulse is still hammering against his skull, a blunt ache settling at the base of his neck. His body feels stiff, sore from the crash, but it’s the frustration crawling under his skin that he can’t shake. He walks over to the bathroom.

This shouldn’t have happened.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenches as he stares at his own reflection in the mirror. His hair is damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, his suit— the prized, blazing red overalls he once admired, the bright yellow emblem he respected— still covered in dust and streaks of dirt from the gravel trap. He looks exactly how he feels, like he’s been through a war and came out of it with nothing.

His head falls forward, hands dragging down his face, pressing hard against his temples.

He knows what’s happening outside. He knows that while he’s in here trying to catch his breath, Ferrari’s PR team is already working overtime to control the damage. He knows that somewhere in the paddock, Jaehyun is in his own driver’s room, being comforted, reassured, told that this wasn’t his fault.

Seungcheol exhales, a bitter scoff slipping past his lips.

He doesn’t need to hear it to know how this will play out.

Jaehyun is young, new, still learning. Seungcheol is experienced. Seungcheol should have been the one to manage the situation better.

That’s how they’ll spin it. That’s how they always do.

His knuckles whiten around the edge of the sink. He doesn’t trust himself to move just yet, not when his entire body feels like it’s still vibrating from the adrenaline. The crash replays behind his eyes every time he blinks—the lunge, the curb, the impact, the moment he realized he was completely powerless to stop it.

Be grateful you’re alive and well, Seungcheol reminds himself. It could’ve been so much worse. You’re okay. Physically.

Seungcheol struggles to get this breathing under control as he walks back out, picking his helmet up from the floor. A small part of the covering has chipped off, but it’s nothing he can’t get fixed. He stares at it for a moment— the black, prancing horse that adorns the back of his helmet. His race engineer had convinced him to get it after he’d won Monza for them in his debut year at the team.

“You deserve to proudly show off that emblem,” He’d chuckled as he affectionately patted Seungcheol’s back.

Seungcheol wonders if he still thinks that. If he’s still deserving of this team’s respect. If they still have some for him, even if he is.

His thoughts are interrupted by rapid knocks on his door.

“Cheol, are you alright in there? Let me in.” It’s Seokmin, his trainer.

Seungcheol sighs. “I’m alright. Just leave me alone for sometime, please.”

Seokmin hesitates on the other side of the door, but eventually, his footsteps fade down the hall. Seungcheol exhales, pressing his fingers into his temples, trying to shake the exhaustion that clings to his body.

Then his phone vibrates.

The sound cuts through the quiet, sharp and unexpected. He doesn’t look right away, just lets it buzz against the table, debating whether he has the energy to deal with whatever crisis their PR team is about to throw at him.

But when he finally glances at the screen, his breath catches.

It’s you.

His throat dries up. For a second, he doesn’t move, just stares at your name, his mind sluggish in processing why, after everything, you’d be calling him now.

His finger hovers over the screen.

For a moment, he considers letting it ring out.

While you wait for him to pick up, standing in a corner of his parent’s backyard, you wonder if he’s changed his number already. Even if it is the same, would he still pick up?

The call connects.

You hear rough breathing on the other side. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and you almost think he’s answered by mistake. Then, his voice comes through, low and strained.

“Yeah?”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

Seungcheol doesn’t respond right away. There’s movement on his end, fabric rustling, the distant clatter of something being set down. When he finally speaks, his voice is flat, unreadable.

“What’s up?”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, glancing toward the house. His mother is still in the kitchen, her movements slow, like she’s distracted, like her mind is still on the crash. Your own parents are murmuring inside, their voices barely audible through the open back door.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” You sigh softly, “Are you okay?”

There’s a pause. Not too long, but long enough to know that he’s probably about to lie.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

You don’t believe him and he knows that, because he doesn’t try to fill the silence or rush to convince you. There’s only the sound of his breathing, steadier now but still uneven at the edges, like he hasn’t fully caught it since stepping out of that car.

“No seriously, Cheol, everyone’s worried.”

There’s a soft scoff on the other end, the kind that isn’t amused at all.

“Yeah?” Seungcheol mutters. “They’re worried enough to call?”

You press your lips together, glancing back inside where Seungho stands at the door, a quizzical expression on his face as he tries to ask you what’s going on. “You know they are.”

Another pause. “Well, tell them they don’t have to be. I’m as good as I can be.”

You turn your back to his brother, throwing your head back in slight frustration, “Cheol, come on. They probably don’t want to bother you by calling right now.”

He doesn’t respond to that. The silence stretches again, and reality settles back in.

You kick at some of the pebbles on the ground, fingers tightening around your phone, “I wasn’t going to call either.”

“I figured. Wasn’t going to pick up either.”

You debate whether to say more, whether to ask the things you actually want to. Is Ferrari blaming you? Did Jaehyun say anything? Are you okay in ways that matter?

But you don’t. Instead, you sigh, voice quieter now. “I don’t know why I called.”

Seungcheol hums, a little absentminded, but not dismissive. “Guess you were hoping I wouldn’t pick up.”

You breathe out. “Maybe.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

You almost smile. Almost.

There’s something about the way he says it, like he knows neither of you really mean it, like he doesn’t mind that you called, even if he won’t say it outright.

You take a slow breath. “You should rest. I’ll let you go.” You hope someone reminds him to eat properly tonight. Hope someone eases his mind and tells him not to worry too much. That one loss here doesn’t mean the end of the world.

He hesitates for just a second. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

You hesitate too, Can’t you just say it to him yourself?

But it’s not your place anymore. So you don’t.

“Goodnight, Cheol.”

BRAZIL, AUTÓDROMO DE INTERLAGOS

Friday, Post FP2 November 7th

Seungcheol sits at the end of the long table, hands clasped loosely in front of him. Across from him, Ferrari’s team principal flips through his tablet, running over last-minute adjustments. His race engineer and senior management sit alongside him, unaware of why Seungcheol has called this meeting.

They don’t know yet.

Seungcheol exhales slowly, gaze drifting across the room, over the familiar red embroidered logos, the crest of the prancing horse he’s carried on his chest for the last six years.

The team he helped bring back to the top.

The team he’s about to leave.

The team principal finally looks up. “Alright, let’s go over—”

“I’m leaving.”

Silence.

At first, the reaction is mild, just confusion, like they’ve misheard.

The team principal’s fingers pause over his screen. His race engineer shifts slightly, exchanging a glance with the others.

Then, finally—

“What?”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, voice even. “I won’t be re-signing with Ferrari.”

The words settle, the weight of them pressing into the room. His engineers stare at him, a mixture of shock and confusion on their faces

One of the executives clears his throat. “We haven’t even begun contract negotiations yet.”

“I know.”

A pause.

The team principal exhales, setting his tablet down, eyes narrowing slightly. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it now. “Seungcheol, this doesn’t have to be a rushed decision. We can—”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

That’s when it truly sinks in. The initial surprise fades, shifting into something heavier, something closer to disbelief.

His race engineer straightens in his seat. “Look, if this is about the way this season has gone, if you’re frustrated, if you’re unhappy with how things have been handled, we can fix it. We can go into next year with a fresh start-”

“This isn’t just about this season.”

Seungcheol exhales, running a hand over his face. He knew they’d try to talk him out of it. Knew they wouldn’t just let him go without a fight.

So for a moment, just a moment, he lets himself be honest.

“You know…” he starts, voice quieter now, almost reflective. “Seven years ago, you called me to this very meeting room in Brazil.”

If everyone in the room wasn’t already still, they are now.

His team principal doesn’t react immediately, but Seungcheol knows he remembers.

“I was still at Alfa Romeo,” he continues. “I was still quite young and new, still figuring out the sport, still proving I belonged here. And you sat me down, and you told me that you saw talent in me and if I came to Ferrari, we’d bring this team back to the top. That you’d help me become a world champion.”

He lets the words linger, lets them sink in. His throat feels tight.

“And you did.”

The words aren’t empty. He means them.

Seungcheol looks around the room, at the men who have dictated his future for the past seven years. The ones who once fought for him. The ones who celebrated with him. The ones who, somewhere along the way, stopped prioritizing him the way they used to.

He takes a slow breath. “I’ll always be grateful for that.” He says, and for the first time, it hits him that he’s done with this team. That with what he’s said, they’re not his anymore. Seungcheol can’t help the feeling of mourning that overcomes him in this moment. “No matter how things have turned out, I won’t forget what we’ve achieved together.”

He isn’t sure if they expect him to say more. Maybe they expect him to be bitter, to bring up the choices they made this season, to throw blame in every direction.

But Seungcheol has nothing left to prove.

“Ferrari gave me everything,” he admits, voice steadier now. “You gave me my first real shot. You gave me my first win, my first championship. You gave me a team that I could fight for.”

He leans back, exhaling. “I’ve given you everything I had in return.”

The weight of that truth settles between them.

His voice drops slightly. “That’s what makes this so hard.”

There’s a flicker of doubt in the team principal’s gaze.

“Is this about another team?” he finally asks. “We haven’t heard anything yet, but if you’ve been approached, we should discuss it. We can match whatever offer they’re giving you.”

Seungcheol shakes his head slowly, the corner of his lips lifting in irony. They think this is about negotiation. About money, about leverage. They don’t realize it yet.

“There is no other offer.”

A flicker of uncertainty passes through the room.

The team principal frowns. “What do you mean?”

Seungcheol presses his fingertips against the table, grounding himself. This is it. If you say it, it’s real now.

“I mean, I’m not going anywhere else.” He’s surprised with how steady his voice is. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

The silence that follows is different now. They don’t know what to say, don’t want to realize what he means

His engineer’s brows furrow. “Cheol…” He hesitates, voice dipping lower, more personal. “You’re not just leaving Ferrari, are you?”

The team principal exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Seungcheol, you’re thirty. This is not the time to retire. You’re at the peak of your career. You don’t just—”

“I’m not retiring. But I know what I want.”

It’s the first time his voice hardens.

His pulse thrums against his ears. He doesn’t need them to understand. He doesn’t need permission.

But for the first time, he lets himself admit it.

He’s tired.

“You don’t have to decide this now,” the team principal tries again, but there’s something more fragile in his voice this time. “Take the off-season. Step back. Think about it properly.”

“I already have.”

And the finality with which he says it shuts them up. There’s no convincing him because he’s already gone. He’s been gone for a while now, but it’s real and true today.

Seungcheol pushes his chair back, rising to his feet. The Ferrari crest catches his eye on the team principal’s polo, the same one he’s worn for the last six years. Once, it felt like armor. Now, it just feels like something he’s outgrown.

No one stops him as he moves toward the door.

But just before he reaches it, his race engineer speaks again, voice quiet.

“You’re really sure about this?”

Seungcheol’s hand grips the doorknob tight. It’s a last-ditch effort, a peace offering, another chance to take it all back and go back to the team he’s called his home for almost his entire career.

He nods, slow at first but his expression is sure when he turns around for the last time. “Yes, I am.”

When he closes the door behind himself, Seungcheol hopes that no one walks out to talk to him now. The finality of his decision settles down on him, light on his shoulders but still heavy on his mind.

These hallways that he’s walked for so long, this team that he’s been leaning on for so long. He wonders how just a few words can change how he feels. His footsteps echo against the floor, the polished tiles reflecting the dim overhead lights. He knows every corner of this building by heart. The walls lined with photographs, framed moments of glory, the history of Ferrari captured in still images.

Your history too.

His fingers brush absently against the edge of one as he passes, a photo from their first constructors’ championship together. The entire team, arms raised, champagne spraying in the air. His younger self is at the center, a Ferrari flag draped over his shoulders, eyes bright with something fierce.

Hope.

Determination.

Belief.

He stops walking.

The picture right next to it is worse.

His first drivers’ championship.

He remembers that night, the way his race engineer had pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, the way his mechanics had lifted him onto their shoulders, the way he had looked at his car and thought—this is home now.

Now, he stands here, staring at that same version of himself, and wonders if he would even recognize him anymore.

Would that Seungcheol understand why he’s leaving? Would he be disappointed?

He breaths in deeply, tilting his head back.

This is what he wanted. This is what he chose.

It doesn’t make it any easier.

He forces himself to keep moving, the weight in his chest growing heavier with every step. The hallway stretches ahead of him, but for the first time in years, he’s not sure where he’s going.

Tomorrow’s race, for now. That’s where he’ll go. Let the season end before we figure it all out.

But tomorrow comes and Seungcheol knows this feeling of losing will stick to him for the rest of his life.

He hears the Red Bull team celebrating their Constructors’ win outside their garage. The cheers, the fireworks, the champagne. He’s been there before. Knows what if feels like to win this, to fight for something bigger than himself and come out victorious.

But not this year. Not anymore.

He glances around the garage. No one is talking. The mechanics keep their heads down, clearing equipment, avoiding each other’s eyes. The pit wall stares at the monitors like they can will the result into changing. His race engineer exhales sharply beside him, but doesn’t say a word.

They all knew this was coming.

Maybe that’s what stings the most. Not the loss itself but the inevitability of it.

He should be angry. He used to get angry.

But now, as he watches Red Bull celebrate on the screen, as he sees Haechan and Jeno lifted up on their mechanics’ shoulders, champagne bottles held high in the air, as he sees Jaehyun sitting in his chair, staring at the ground, shoulders stiff with disappointment, he just feels…exhausted.

The ‘what-if’s’ cloud his mind, momentarily. What if they’d backed him up like they used to. What if they’d all worked harder on the car, what if Seungcheol hadn’t been feeling like he was past his prime.

But a part of him knows, and he’s sick of shutting it down, so he lets the thought flow through him. This was bound to happen. This was always how it would’ve ended.

Seokmin hands his phone back to him, wordlessly, as they walk up to their hospitality. Seungcheol thinks Seokmin has known, maybe even before he’d made the decision. It’s easy to break the news to someone who is the least surprised by it. All Seokmin had done was clap him on the back once and wish him all the best. Seungcheol knows he’ll be there if he ever comes back and that is enough.

UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, YAS MARINA CIRCUIT

Sunday, Race Day December 7th

Ferrari’s lion walks away — Choi Seungcheol announces exit from the Italian team.

“Ferrari and Choi Seungcheol will part ways at the end of the 2025 Formula 1 season, bringing an end to a six-year partnership that delivered four driver’s championships, five constructors’ titles, and a legacy that has cemented him as one of the most successful drivers in the team’s history.

The announcement, made ahead of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, has sent shockwaves through the paddock. While speculation around Seungcheol’s future had been growing in recent weeks, many expected Ferrari to push for a contract renewal. Instead, the 30-year-old has confirmed that he will not be re-signing with the team.

What remains unclear is what comes next. Unlike most high-profile exits, Seungcheol’s departure has not been linked to a move elsewhere. Ferrari has not commented on whether they attempted to retain him, nor has Seungcheol confirmed if he plans to continue in Formula 1 beyond this season.”

You stop reading after that sentence.

Your eyes hover over the words, rereading the title once, twice, three times before you yell after your mom, asking her to come down immediately. Just as she walks down the stairs, your front door opens, Seungcheol’s mother walking in with an exasperated look on her face, hands gripping her phone tightly.

“From the look on your face, I’m assuming you didn’t know about this either.” She laughs out in disbelief.

You shake your head, still processing the words you just read as your mother asks her what’s wrong before snatching your phone from you.

Seungcheol’s mother exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “That boy,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Not a single word. Not to me, not to his father or his brother. We find out through the damn news?”

The frustration in her voice is clear, but you can also hear the hurt seep through.

You understand.

You sit down at the table, glancing at the article again. Seungcheol has not commented on whether he plans to continue in Formula 1 beyond this season.

The thought makes your stomach twist.

Your mother sighs, rubbing her temples. “He has a race today, no? How come they announced it today? Did you try calling him?”

“Do you think he’d pick up?” Seungcheol’s mother clicks her tongue. “He’s probably acting like it’s just another race weekend. I don’t need to try to know that his phone is switched off.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

You can already picture it. Seungcheol walking through the paddock, head down, sunglasses on, pretending the world isn’t speculating about his future, pretending like he hasn’t just changed the course of his career with one decision.

Pretending like he hasn’t kept the people who have known him the longest in the dark.

But the one thing you can’t wrap your head around is—

“Why would he do this?” His mother sighs, heading to your kitchen to grab a glass of water, “He loves his team. Dreamt of driving for them since he was a kid. What went wrong?”

—

When the fireworks are over and the celebrations cease, Seungcheol comes down to the Ferrari garage, one last time.

The mechanics are mostly quiet as they pack up, with the season over and no more races to prepare for, there’s not much to talk about either. For a moment, Seungcheol is unsure of what he’d say to them. If there’s anything to be said, in the first place. He knows the news was broken to them before the articles came out, so that there would be no surprise and no disbelief during the race itself.

Seungcheol’s finished P2 here today. It isn’t a win, but he’s a little glad that he’s on the podium for his last race with the team.

When Seungcheol steps inside, a few heads turn. Some of the younger mechanics glance at him hesitantly, like they don’t know if they should say something. But the ones who have been here long enough, the ones who have known him since the beginning, they know this is goodbye.

One of them straightens from where he’s kneeling by the tire blankets, wiping his hands on his overalls before walking over.

“You’re really doing this, huh?” The mechanic’s voice is rough with fatigue, but affectionate still.

Seungcheol exhales, lips tilting into something almost like a smile. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence before the mechanic lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn. Going to feel weird without you around here, kid.”

Seungcheol nods.

One by one, the others start to gather. A few hesitant at first, but then more of them, his mechanics, his engineers, people who have been here since his first win in red. They’ve been through everything with him.

He mumbles simple words. Thank you, I couldn’t have done this without you, I’ll miss you all. They clap him on the back, exchange knowing looks, make a few dry jokes to lighten the mood. But there is an undeniable sadness in the air, the loss of a prized one, the loss of a team.

Eventually, his race engineer finds him.

Seungcheol knows that this moment would come, but when he meets the man’s eyes, he feels bare and stripped down in front of him.

For years, he’s been the voice in his ear, guiding him through every lap, every race. The man who’s saved his life a hundred times, talked him out of bad decisions, made him the best ones. The man he’s trusted almost his entire career.

And now, there’s nothing left to say.

Still, his engineer sighs, shaking his head. “Feels wrong, doesn’t it?”

Seungcheol lets out an awkward laugh. “A little.”

There’s a pause before his engineer speaks again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry.”

Seungcheol blinks, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For how this year went. For how they treated you.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “You deserved better.”

Seungcheol swallows. Hearing it out loud makes it even more real. “It is what it is. I don’t blame you.”

His engineer scoffs. “Bullshit.”

He stares at Seungcheol before speaking again, “Do you remember Austria?”

“You’ve got to be more specific than that. Which year?”

“In 2018.”

As soon as he hears that, Seungcheol can’t help but laugh out loud, nodding his head.

“On the last few laps, you ignored my call to box for fresh tyres because, and I quote: ‘I can make it till the end.’”

Seungcheol smiles, “And then the rain hit.”

“And then the rain hit,” His engineer repeats, shaking his head, “And I spent the next five laps yelling at you to come in before you crashed into the barriers.”

He tilts his head, “But I didn’t.”

His engineer sighs, crossing his arms. “No. You didn’t. Somehow, through sheer luck or divine intervention, you kept it on track and won the damn race.”

Seungcheol remembers that day. The panic in his voice, the way his tires felt like they’d give out any second. The sheer adrenaline coursing through him as he dragged his car to the finish line.

He shakes his head, looking down at his shoes, “You were so pissed at me afterwards. I remember.”

“I was,” his engineer agrees. “But I was also secretly proud as hell.”

His engineer exhales. “That’s what made you special, you know.”

Seungcheol looks at him.

“You always knew where the limit was,” his engineer continues. “You always trusted yourself to find a way.”

Seungcheol swallows.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He’s spent his whole career pushing the limits. Trusting himself when no one else would. Fighting for what he believed in.

And now, he’s stepping away.

“I hope we meet again, on track.” His voice is soft now, “Doesn’t have to be here. Doesn’t have to be with them.”

Seungcheol looks up, surprised.

“But if you come back, and if you still want me droning in your ear. I’ll come.”

He doesn’t respond right away. This is a promise. It’s the most heartwarming thing anyone here has ever said to him.

But finally, his lips twitch in the closest thing he’s had to a real grin all season.

“Good to know.”

“So what now, Seungcheol? Where will you go?”

Seungcheol knows the answer now. It’s quite simple.

“Home.”

tags: @znzlii @yawnozone @archivistworld @minjiech @the-vena-cava @kookiedesi @starshuas @exomew @reiofsuns2001 @fancypeacepersona @angelarin @blckorchidd

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runawrites-blog · 9 months ago

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I Could Just Eat You Out (Deadpool x Reader)

Summary: A little verbal slip-up leads to Wade going down on you. It's the only way to shut him up. (Female Reader) Word Count: 1,092 Warnings: SMUT (Minors Do Not Interact). Explicit Sexual Content. Oral (Female Receiving). Sort Of Sub! Wade Wilson. No Y/N. No Deadpool and Wolverine Spoilers. Crossposted on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58067737 A/N: My friend I watched Deadpool and Wolverine in the cinema a few days ago and it re-awakened my crush on Deadpool. This is my first time writing a reader insert for Deadpool, please be nice. This contains NO SPOILERS.

---

“I could just eat you out.”

“Out?”

“I mean, eat you up. Sorry, verbal autocorrect.”

“No takebacks!”

That was what had led to this, had led to you leaning back on your sofa, legs spread with Wade kneeling between them, holding onto both your thighs as he kissed the insides of them, teasing you as he got closer and closer to where you wanted his mouth. When he once more stopped just short of your clit you groaned and gripped onto his shoulders.

“Stop teasing me, Wade.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He grinned up at you before sinking his teeth into the flesh of your thigh, making you whimper quietly. “Now where’s that smart mouth you always like to run? Come on, speak up.”

“I run my mouth? Have you-- Have you listened to yourself lately?”

With that, you used the heel of your foot pressing into his upper back to bring him closer, releasing a sigh of relief when his mouth finally connected with your dripping folds. You watched him blink in surprise but then quickly, he shrugged his shoulders and ran his tongue up between your lips, making you gasp in pleasure.

“Finally!”

His small chuckle sent vibrations right through your core and you moaned out, legs clenching around his head as your nails dug into the flesh of his shoulders. “This is great. I’ve always loved tacos.”

“If-- If you call my pussy a-- a taco one more fucking time, I’ll kick you out.”

Wade pulled back at that, cocking his head to the side and giving you an affectionate grin. “And punish yourself? Please, don’t make me laugh. I get you so wet that the first few rows in the cinema will need a flash warning.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“You could make me.”

With that, you used both the heel of your foot against his back and your hands to pull him back until his lower face was buried inside of you. And thankfully, he did shut up for more than five seconds in favour of properly eating you out, tongue lapping at your folds, fingers digging into your thighs and nose brushing against your clit. It didn’t take long for you to dissolve into a moaning mess under his ministrations, your nails leaving small crescent shapes in the flesh of his shoulders as your thighs clenched and quivered around him.

Every clench of your tighs around his head got a moan out of him that send vibrations right into your clit and you gasped out almost in unison with the noises he was making. When he moved on from lapping at you to gently wrapping his lips around your clit you let out a high-pitched whine, making his eyes widen. You didn’t know whether or not he knew this noise to be one of pleasure or if he thought he’d hurt you but you didn't care either way. Before he could pull back even an inch you stopped him.

“Don’t-- Don’t stop, please.”

That was all the encouragement he needed as he began his gentle suckling of your clit, his lips periodically parting to make way for his tongue so he could circle it around the small bud of nerves. Pleasure shot through your body and you all but choked Wade with your thighs which unsurprisingly made him even more eager in his ministrations. His lips moved along yours, tongue circling your clit and the obscene slurping noises he was making were pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Wade, so-- so close!”

You had expected him to say something because when had he ever not kept his mouth shut but he kept quiet, pressing his face further into your core with such vigor that it made your head spin at the sight alone. He was so eager, lapping at your folds, tongue switching between exploring your pussy and licking at your clit while his hands clutched at your thighs.

“Fuck, please don’t stop. You’re so good at this. So good, Wade.”

One of his hands left your tigh, disappearing down his body and you heard the noise of a zipper being undone but he didn’t say a word, mouth much too occupied. The other hand now also left your tigh and you gasped loudly in surprise when he plunged two of them into your pussy, scissoring them.

“Deeper, please. Almost there.” You gasped out as Wade put another finger inside of you, angling them in just the right way. “Fuck, you’re so good, Wade. So good.”

Another keening moan tore from Wade’s throat at your praise and that, combines with a particularly precise thrust of his fingers and his wet tongue pressing tightly against your clit made you stumble over the edge. Your orgasm ripped through you in waves, legs quivering, pussy clenching around Wade’s tongue and chest heaving. Vaguely, you registered him moaning against you, his eyes falling shut as he worked you through your orgasm.

When you eventually came down from your height and felt him still lapping at your pussy, you brought your foot off his back to use it to shove him off you, too sensitive to let him continue. With a kiss to your clit he relented, drawing back and resting his cheek against your tight as he grinned up at you, chin and lips glistening with your juices and eyes hooded with pleasure.

You sat with him for a few moments, hands behind your body and leaning back onto them, eyes locked with Wade’s as he stared up at you in utter adoration. The hand he’d previously had inside of you came down to wrap around your calf, fingers gently digging into your flesh. When he nuzzled against your thigh you moved one of your hands to his face, cupping his cheek and stroking your thumb over it. He released a soft sigh and turned his head to kiss your palm.

“Nothing to say, Merc with a Mouth?” You asked softly, getting a small chuckle out of him before you nodded your head toward where his other hand was still resting down his body and out of your sight. “Want me to return the favour?”

He shook his head, bringing up the hand so you could see that it was coated in his semen before he wiped it at his pants. “No need.”

“I keep forgetting how quickly eating pussy shuts you up.” You chuckled affectionately, still stroking his cheek gently. “I should ask you to do it more often.”

“All you gotta do is ask.”

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globaloppaaa · 10 days ago

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ΔΚΒ ─── ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 𓎢𓎟𓎡 you calm the noise

fratboy!riki x fem.reader

word count 800 ⊹ fluff ⊹ suggestive content ⊹ drinking ⊹ swearing ⊹ smoking ⊹ skinship ⊹ please don’t take drinks from strangers! ⊹ i can’t write niki as a bad boy i love him too much ⊹ reblogs and likes are appreciated!

To be completely honest, a part of you did want to be here.

Music throbbed through the walls like a second heartbeat, the air muggy with sweat, smoke, and seltzers. Initially you didn’t feel like spending another weekend draining your social battery, as the weekend before, and the weekend before that both concluded to. It was only when your roomate suggested stopping by ‘DKB’, the one frat with fame embedded in its wild history did you reconsider.

No part of you was looking forward to the drinking or the dancing tonight. You could party, but whether you wanted to right now was the real question. Your friend begged you to go, just to let loose before finals started to pile its work onto you all. And with second thoughts finally you’d agreed to join her. You responded that maybe it would be fun, something lively to enjoy before succumbing to your studying for the next few weeks.

But you knew why you were there.

You knew he’d be here, at least a part of you hoped.

You’d seen him before, across the room in lectures, broad shoulders slightly hunched, like he was trying not to take up too much space. Despite his ties to the most lawless fraternity, which you put together from the letters on his sweatshirt, He didn’t try to dominate the air. He just was.

After that, you can’t remember how often you began ‘noticing’ him, how much you started to look for him in rooms you walked into. And it wasn’t long before his eyes had started to land upon yours. Or maybe he noticed you first, but he was just better at hiding it.

There was something in the way he looked at you, half-lidded eyes and something short of a smirk, but a genuine one. Like he was curious about you. They were quiet and careful, like a secret only you two shared. You never formally spoke, but the way his eyes would flicker towards you after the professor turned his back? It was something.

As your roomate dissolves into the crowd of people you’re left hugging the wall of the house alone, sipping warm alchohol and mentally eye-rolling at the amount of backwards caps jumping around you. That is, until one in particular approaches you.

It’s really the first time you get to take him into full view. He’s built, but lean, not stiff. Bits of silver hair poking out from beneath his cap. His free hand reveals another solo cup, offering it to you.

“Yours looks… questionable.” He says. low, raspy voice murmuring into the air. He’s close enough where he’s looking down at you, but not in a disrespectful way. Like he’s admiring what’s before him. You almost have to stop yourself from leaning closer. His voice isn’t competing with the music either. All the noise seemed to simply fade away after he started speaking. He’s got that soft-smirking smile on his face again while he looks at you, and it’s really beginning to throw you off. He always looks at you like he wants to know more, but then again, you have to remind yourself he was still a frat boy.

You raise an eyebrow “Are you offering free drinks to all the wallflowers?”

He grinned. “Only the ones who look like they’d rather be anywhere else.”

You hesitate, but take the cup from him anyway. His fingers brush against yours, and you know it’s on purpose. Not like you really mind. “I take it that you’re not much of a partier yourself.”

He makes a mocking response, playing offended. “What gave me away? No sunglasses inside?” You laughed before you could stop herself.

He liked that.

Within the hour you learn of his name, and how much you like it slipping off your tongue. You also learned that Niki really enjoys asking questions, despite his aloof demeanor. He asked about your major, your upbringing. He told you his likes and dislikes, how DKB life wasn’t just beer and chaos (though yes, there was a lot of beer and chaos).

With the atmosphere reaching its peak his hands find your waist almost naturally, pulling you closer with every question he asked. Softly and respectful, like he didn’t want you uncomfortable, but knew how to make people wonder if they happened to glance over. He wanted people to, and you couldn’t deny you wanted it too.

You’d fallen into a rhythm of conversation with eachother. Or rather, you let him talk, at first. He was quick to catch your reactions, the quiet smirks and how your eyelashes naturally bat as you looked up at him. The way you didn’t fake-laugh at his dumb jokes, but how you pushed back just enough. His favorite? Watching you roll your eyes at his flirty remarks, yet your fingers continued to play with the hair against his neck. You asked him questions back. Real ones. Completely unimpressed by the letters across his shirt, just who was wearing them.

“Do you wanna take this somewhere else?” He asks, a little shyer than normal.

“What, so people get ideas about us?”

“Hopefully so.” He admits, looking away. You swear he almost looks a bit flustered.

Your smirk falters, reappearing with a softer smile. You nod as you trail your fingers down his arm and to his hand, gently encouraging him to lead the way.

An hour passed. Then two.

“I thought you were all the same,” you murmur, now sitting against Niki’s chest. He’s reclined back against a lawn chair placed carelessly on the back porch, the party muffled behind you. Your voice is softer, more intimate, like you’ve known him far longer than a few weeks.

“Yeah?” he asks, fingers playing with yours as his other hand traces circles on your waist. “So what am I?”

You tilt your head up at him, a little caught off-guard by how soft he looked when he wasn’t trying to put up a front, some character you both knew he didn’t care for.

“You’re… annoying,” she said, lips twitching.

“Good,” he grinned. “Wouldn’t want to be predictable.”

You giggle again, and he hums at your response, the sound low and warm in his throat. It vibrates through your back where you’re leaning into him, like a secret only your body hears.

“I was hoping you’d show up tonight.” he says after a comfortable silence.

Your eyes stay stuck on him, brow raising. “Oh? I thought I was just another wallflower with a questionable drink.” His lips pull into a lazy smile, but it doesn’t quite reach the usual cockiness. “We both know that’s not true.”

You swallow, the air thick between you again. This time it’s not the music or the smoke from his last blunt a few minutes ago. Nor is it from the alcohol that’s well in both your systems. It’s just him, just you.

“You have a weird way of showing it,” you murmur.

He tilts his head slightly, amused. “Yeah? What’s the right way then?”

You think about it. Think about the constant glances in class, how contagious his presence was even before he spoke to you tonight, and the way it never felt a part of his frat-boy facade. Not once. You can feel it, how close he is and the silence that surrounds you. The party fades behind the porch door like it’s in another universe. Niki leans down, just enough to give you time to pull away, incase you still hold doubts about who he’s showing himself to be.

But you don’t.

His lips meet yours, and the tension you’ve been holding in like a secret finally reveals itself. It’s soft at first, then surer. His hand moves to your chin, grounding you, like maybe he was waiting for this just as much.

When you finally pull back, there’s a lingering closeness, his nose nuzzling your temple. he eyes your hands, still twiddling in each others embrace. “Still find me annoying?” He whispers.

“that doesn’t go away so easily, we’ll have to do this again sometime.” you tease, a bit breathless.

He smiles again, quieter, like he’s letting it bloom just for you. “Careful,” he murmurs. “That dangerously sounds like you wanna see me again.”

You nudge him lightly with your elbow. “Only if you bring me another questionable drink.”

He laughs, and it’s real. Soft and easy. He kisses your temple comfortingly, forgotten of the fact that you only truly met a few hours ago. Because something had begun from the moment he saw you, it was only a matter of time.

reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated!

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dollveis · 2 months ago

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☆ ┆ KISSING IN THE BATHROOM. ellie williams — “ are you ready to cry? 'cause i'm no good. "

𔓘۫ ⊹ 𓈒 things get a little complicated and confusing after Ellie fucks you at that bathroom party, you can't stop thinking about her. MINI SERIES : FIRST PART. 8.8K WORDS.

featuring. tattoo artist!ellie x afab!reader content warning ! MDNI, smut, angst, fluff(?), reader is described using a dress and a skirt, ellie doesn't seem emotionally available, lack of communication, commitment and abandonment issues from ellie's end, she's actually pretty much an awkward loser with a cool appearance, average wlw situationship tbh, ellie pseudo flirts w a random girl, top!ellie, bottom!reader, reader is a bit of a brat, strap usage (r!receiving), tit play, degrading names (slut, it's used like twice tho), ellie refers to her strap like her dick/cock, petnames (baby, sweet girl, etc), breeding kink, mention of joel abandoning ellie and i think that's all??

❀ after two years i decided to write a second part for kissing in the bathroom 😭 i just randomly found inspo for it and idk, someone might still be interested and have fun reading it 'cause i sure did have fun writing it, either way i think this is a bit all over the place??? this is also kinda based in my experience with my gf before we started dating so this is pretty much based in real events i fear but enough yapping!

The bathroom air is thick with the scent of alcohol, weed and something more, something sweeter, maybe Ellie's cologne. The tile is cold against your back, a stark contrast to the heat still lingering between your bodies. Your breath still uneven, your mind spinning and even a little confused— not because of the drinks but because of her. Ellie Williams, the city's most sought tattoo artist, the same Ellie who barely spared you a glance when you approached her earlier, now she's standing in front of you, her hair messy and damp from the sweat, adjusting her belt with lazy fingers, her pupils blown wide.

Her gaze looks up from her belt, looking at you, her expression unreadable, “you good?” she asks, her voice rough from booze, weed and whatever else she's taken tonight.

You nod, though good isn't exactly the word to describe how you are feeling. Your heart is still hammering, you can still feel the imprint of her lips, her hands, the weight of her body pressing you against the bathroom's counter.

Ellie runs a hand through her messy hair in an attempt to fix it and she exhales sharply, like she's grounding herself. Then, just like that, she turns toward the door.

“That's it?” those words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them. God, you want to hit your skull against the wall, stupid, stupid.

The freckled girl freezes for half a second, then she laughs— not cruelly but not exactly nice either, more like she's amused that you'd even ask that, “yeah, that's it,” she glances back at you, raking over your figure, taking in your flushed cheeks, your swollen lips and your bruised neck, “unless you expected something else?”

You swallow hard. You didn't expect anything else, not really if you were honest, but there's still a sting at how easily she's slipping back into her detached, too-cool persona. You just shake your head, “no. Just making sure.”

Ellie gives a lopsided smirk and reaches for the doorknob. Before she leaves, she pauses, “if you ever want a tattoo,” her voice low, “you know where to find me.”

And then she's gone. You stay there for a moment, gripping the edge of the sink, trying to process what just happened because this isn't just some random girl at a party, this is Ellie Williams, you just can't believe it.

The party is still going strong when you finally step out of the bathroom, music thrums through the floor, the bass of the song vibrating through your chest but everything feels a little off now. The lights are too bright, the voices too loud, the crowd too suffocating or maybe it's just the fact that Ellie was nowhere to be seen. Now you're not really sure of what you expected, maybe for her to stick around, maybe for her to acknowledge you but she's disappeared like smoke and now you're standing here, feeling raw in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol in your veins.

You don't stay much longer after that.

The morning after the party you wake up with a dull ache in your head and Ellie still lingering in your mind, the sharp lines of her jaw, the ink decorating her skin, the way her fingers pressed against you. It's ridiculous, really, you barely know her and yet she's stuck under your skin like ink sinking too deep to fade.

You spend half the day trying to shake it off— running errands, scrolling through your phone, convincing yourself that last night was just that: a night. But then your fingers are typing ‘Ink & Desire’, her business’ name into the search bar before you can stop them. It doesn't take long to find, the website is sleek, with a black and white theme, filled with pictures of Ellie's work and her two coworkers but it's easy to recognize hers, sharp and intricate designs, those are undeniably hers. Below that, a small section labeled Booking Information:

Appointments only. No walk-ins. Currently booked out for a week.

Of course, city's most popular artist wouldn't just be sitting around waiting for someone to wander in. Stil, before you can even try to talk yourself out of it, you're clicking the booking link, filling out the form with shaky hands.

‘Name’, you hesitate before typing it in. ‘Preferred artist’, Ellie Williams. ‘Design idea’, you pause again, the truth is you don't even know what you want, just that you want her to be the one to do it. After a moment, you type ‘Something small, fine line. Open to ideas’.

You hover over the Submit button. This is insane, you think to yourself, she probably won't even remember you and even if she does, last night was just a hookup— it wasn't an invitation for anything more. Still, you press send.

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A week passes, and you try to not check your email every ten minutes. When a response finally comes in, your heart kicks up.

‘Hey. I've got an opening Friday at 6. That work for you? — E’

Short. Direct. No indication of whether she remembers you or you're just another client but you don't let yourself overthink that.

‘Yeah, that works. See you then’

And when Friday comes, you're standing outside Ink & Desire ten minutes early, heart hammering. You take a breath, push open the door and step inside. The shop is buzzing— tattoo machines humming, the scent of antiseptic and ink filling the air. A couple of other artists seem to be working on some clients, their stations cluttered with ink caps and paper towels stained with black and red.

Then, there's Ellie, she's at the front desk, flipping through her sketchbook. When she looks up and sees you something flickers across her face, recognition maybe, but it's gone just as fast, replaced by something unreadable.

“You're early,” she says, closing her sketchbook with her gaze still fixated on you.

You shrug, trying to seem casual despite the fact your stomach is twisting itself into knots, “didn't want to be late.”

She leans against the counter, arms crossed, “alright. You said fine line and small piece, got anything in mind or you're trusting me?”

You meet her gaze, pulse racing, “trusting you,” her lips twitch ever so slightly, something like amusement or approval. Then she nods towards the chair in her station.

Ellie's station is tucked near the back of the shop, dimly lit by a warm overhead lamp. Sketches and stencils are scattered across her workspace, some half finished, others crisp and ready to ink, something about the whole space was making you feel closer to her, like watching it was giving you a sight inside a part of her brain. You sit down in the chair, heart pounding just a little too fast.

She grabs a stool, rolling up beside you, “where do you want it?”

You blink, realizing you haven't even thought about a placement. You swallow and then extend your wrist, “here… maybe?”

The girl takes your hand without hesitation, tilting it slightly in her grasp. Her fingers are calloused but her touch is surprisingly gentle when she runs her thumb over the inside of your wrist as if she's mapping out the space.

“This works,” she mutters, more to herself than to you, then she pulls out her iPad and starts sketching.

You watch as she works, completely focused, the same way she was that night at the party except this time it's also different. This time her attention is completely on you, on your skin, on creating something meant last. After a few minutes, she turns the screen towards you, it's a delicate design— fine lines, a mix of floral and geometric elements, simple but pretty.

Your throat goes dry, “that's perfect.”

Ellie nods like she already knew it would be, “alright, let's stencil it on.”

She moves through the process with ease, cleaning your skin, pressing the stencil down, smoothing it with her fingers. When she peels it away, you glance down at the faint purple outline on your wrist.

“This is your last chance to back out,” she teases when she sees you looking, a slight smirk on her lips as she adjusts her machine. In response you just shake your head, her smirk lingers but she doesn't say anything else, just turns on the machine, the buzz filling the air. Then she starts.

The first few seconds are sharp, tiny needles pricking into your skin, not unbearable but definitely there. You exhale, trying to relax.

When she feels your action, she glances up, “not too bad, right?” she asks.

You huff, a bit out of breath, “i've had worse.”

Ellie chuckles under her breath, “yeah, i bet.”

She keeps going, her touch steady, her focus unwavering. The shop hums around you— the other artists chatting with their clients, music playing low from a speaker in the corner, but all you can focus on is her, the way she leans in close, the way her brows furrow slightly in concentration, the way she occasionally glances up, making sure you're okay. The whole thing takes maybe twenty minutes but it Feels both longer and shorter at the same time.

When she finally leans back, wiping down your skin with a paper towel, you glance down at the finished piece, it's stunning, crisp lines, delicate shading, every detail perfectly placed.

“Damn…” you murmur, unable to hide your smile.

Ellie arches an eyebrow, “yeah? you like it?”

“Like it? i love it.”

She grins a little, and for a second, it feels like that cold, untouchable version of her from the party isn't here right now. Just this version, the one with ink-stained fingers and a quiet kind of pride in her work.

She tapes a bandage over the tattoo and sits back, “alright, you're all set, I'll give you aftercare instructions at the front desk.”

You nod, but you don't move right away and neither does she, there's something in the air, unspoken, heavy.

Then Ellie clears her throat, breaking the moment, “come on.”

You follow her to the front, where she hands you a small aftercare sheet and rings you up, the price is steep but for Ellie Williams’ work it’s more thaspeakin

As you pull out your card, you hesitate for a second before speaking, “so, uh…” you glance at her, “are you always this professional or just when you're sober?”

Ellie stills for a second, then she exhales a quiet laugh, shaking her head, “you're really bringing that up right now?”

You shrug, looking away for a moment, “just curious.”

She hands you your receipt, her fingers brushing yours, “what happens at parties, stays at parties,” she says, voice low.

And you don't know why that stings, but it does. Still, you manage to force out a smirk, “got it,” you say as you grab the receipt, turning to leave but when you reach the door, Ellie's voice stops you.

“Hey,” you glance back, she's leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, “if you ever want another one,” she says, “i'll bump you up the waitlist.”

Your heart skips, you don't know what it means, if it means anything at all, but still you nod, a small smile tugging at your lips, “yeah,” you murmur, “i think i will.”

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It takes about three days for you to cave and text her on instagram. Not about the tattoo, that's healing just fine, the lines perfect against your skin, it's her that's messing with your head, the way she looked at you when when she said she'd bump you up the waitlist, like maybe and just maybe, last Friday hadn't been just another appointment for her. But Ellie is not easy to read so you keep it simple and a bit casual.

‘hey, the tattoo's healing great. just thought u should know your work is still perfect :)”

To be honest, you don't expect a response, the first time you texted her a month ago she completely ignored you but barely a minute later, your phone vibrates.

‘yeah? you've been taking care of it?’

You huff a small laugh.

‘obviously, i don't wanna ruin ur art’

This time, Ellie doesn't answer right away and you're about to chalk it up as just a casual check-in when another message comes through.

‘you free tonight?’

Your stomach flips, you weren't expecting that.

‘depends, why?’

Another pause, then—

‘come by the shop when i close, 9pm’

She doesn't give any more details but you don't really need them, your body moves before your brain catches up, already heading to your closet thinking what the hell you're supposed to wear when Ellie Williams text you out of nowhere telling you to come over.

At 8:58PM you're outside Ink & Desire again, heart hammering in your chest, your hands fixing your sundress or gripping your purse. The Closed sign is flipped in the window but the front door is still unlocked. When you step inside, the shop is quiet, dimmed lights, Ellie is at her station, wiping down her equipment. When she looks up and sees you something flickers in her green eyes.

“You actually showed.”

You arch a brow, stepping further inside, “did you think i wouldn't?”

She smirks, setting down the cloth she was using to clean, “most people don't like late-night invitations with no explanation.

You shrug, chuckling, “guess i'm not most people.”

Ellie watches you for a beat, like she's trying to figure out what to do with you, then she nods towards the back, “come on.

The girl leads you through a doorway, past a break room, until you reach a small patio. It's quiet out there, the city noise softened by the high walls. There's an old couch pushed up against the brick, a few stray potted plants and a neon ‘Ink & Desire’ sign hanging above the door, casting a dim blue glow over everything.

Ellie sits down on the couch, stretching her legs out, looking completely at ease. She pulls a joint from her pocket, lighting it before glancing up at you, “smoke?”

You hesitate for a moment before sitting next to her, “yeah, sure.”

She passes it to you, watching as you take a slow drag, the silence between you isn't awkward— it's charged, thick.

“So,” you exhale, tilting your head at her, “you invite all your clients for late-night smoke sessions or just the ones you've fucked in a party bathroom?”

Ellie lets out a sharp laugh, shaking her head, “you don't let shit go, huh?”

You smirk, passing the joint back, “nope.”

She takes a slow drag, letting the smoke fill her lungs and then exhaling it towards the sky, “no, i don't do this with clients.”

Your pulse jumps at that. Ellie flicks ash onto the pavement, then glances at you, her voice lower now, “you been thinking about that night?”

Your eyes open slightly and you swallow hard before answering, “maybe.”

She hums, studying like she's been waiting for something. Then, slowly, she reaches out, her fingers brushing over your wrist, the one she tattooed, the touch is featherlight but it manages to send a shiver up your spine.

“Looks good on you,” she murmurs, tracing the edge of the design.

You breath catches, this is dangerous territory, you can feel it but you don't stop her, instead you shift slightly, closing a bit of the distance between you, “Ellie…”

Her emerald eyes meet your gaze and for a quick moment, it feels like she might close the distance completely but then, she exhales, leaning back.

“Fuck,” she mutters, dragging a hand through her hair, “this is probably a bad idea.”

Your stomach tightens at her words, “why?”

Ellie flicks her lighter open and shut, not meeting your eyes, “because i don't do… this. I don't do people.”

Your throat feels tight, almost as if a rope was around it but you force out a casual, “you did me.”

She snorts, shaking her head, “that's different.”

“How?”

She doesn't answer right away, just looks at you, something conflicted flickering in her green eyes and then— soft, almost too quiet— “because i haven't stopped thinking about it either.”

Your breath catches, the air between you is thick again, charged, electric, but this time Ellie doesn't pull away. This time she leans in and when she kisses you, slow and deep, you know you're in trouble.

Ellie kisses you like she's trying to find something out, slow at first, then deeper, more certain, like she's decided she doesn't want to fight it anymore. Her hands curl around your jaw, finger rough and calloused, grounding you in the moment.

Your head spins but not from the weed, it's her. The way she moves, the way she tastes like smoke and something undeniably Ellie.

She pulls back just enough to search your face, her breath warm against your lips, “you sure about this?”

You don't hesitate at all, “yeah.”

That's all she needs. Ellie tugs you onto her lap and you go willingly, hands threading into her hair as she kisses you again, harder and needier this time. Her fingers dig into your hips, pulling you closer like she can't get enough. Her hands start to roam, to grip, slipping beneath your dress, shamelessly touching your ass or inner thighs.

You don't know how long you stay like that, tangled in each other, the cool air doing nothing to dull the heat between you both but eventually Ellie exhales against your skin, resting her forehead against yours.

“This is a bad idea,” she mutters, but she doesn't sound like she really means it.

You smirk, fingers tracing the edge of her jaw, “then why'd you invite me here, huh?”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head softly, “because i'm fucking stupid apparently.”

You grin, but there's something behind her words, something hesitant, like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop so instead of pushing, you soften, “Ellie… I'm not expecting anything from you.”

She studies you, eyes searching, “you're not?”

You shrug, “i just like being around you.”

Ellie exhales again, her shoulders loosening just a little, “yeah,” she murmurs, “i kinda like having you around too.”

It's quiet for a second, then she nudges you, “you wanna stay for a bit? hang out?”

You smile, “yeah, i do.”

So you do, you sit there with her, passing the joint back and forth, talking about nothing and everything. The city hums around you, but in this little back patio, it's just the two of you.

You don't leave the shop until well past midnight, Ellie walks you to the door, hands shoved in her hoodie pocket, her expression enigmatic as she leans against the frame, “so,” she says glancing at you, “was this a one time thing or…?”

One of your brows arches, “you tell me.”

Ellie exhales a short laugh, “you're a pain in the ass, you know that?”

You just smirk, “and yet here we are.”

She looks at you for a second— really looks at you, then she huffs, running a hand through her auburn hair, “you wanna get food sometime?”

Your stomach flips but you keep your cool, crossing your arms over your chest and tilting your head with a cocky smile, “are you asking me on a date, Williams?”

Ellie scoffs as she rolls her eyes, “Jesus, you make everything difficult.”

You grin, “you're deflecting.”

She rolls her eyes once again but doesn't deny it, “you want food or not?”

You pretend to think for a second, just to mess with her, “i think my schedule is free… yeah, i want food.”

Ellie nods, satisfied, “good, i'll text you.”

────────────────────────────────────

And with that she steps back inside, letting the door swing shut behind her and you stand there for a quick moment, grinning to yourself before heading home.

The next few days pass in a weird, anticipatory haze, Ellie doesn't text back immediately but you're not surprised, something tells you she's not the type to jump into things quickly. Still, when her name finally pops up on your phone, your heart stutters.

‘theres a diner near the shop, come by tomorrow night’

Short. Straight to the point. Classic Ellie.

You reply without hesitation.

‘sounds like a date :)’

She doesn't text back, but when you show up the next night, she's already there, sitting in a booth by the window, picking at the label of her beer bottle.

She glances up when you slide into the seat across from her, “hey.”

“Hey,” you echo, shrugging off your jacket, “so, this is your usual spot?”

Ellie shrugs, “yeah. Open late. Decent food. They don't ask questions.”

You smirk, “that last part sounds suspicious.”

She rolls her eyes, “you ask too many questions.”

“You keep saying that and yet you keep inviting me to places.”

Ellie laughs and nods her head, “yeah, i guess i do.”

You order food and conversation flows easier than you expect. She tells you about how she got into tattooing, how she started sketching designs as a teenager, how an old friend convinced her to take it seriously. You just listen, fascinated, watching the way she gestures when she talks, the way her eyes light up just a little when she mentions her work.

At one point she catches you staring, “what?”

You shake your head, smiling, “nothing. Just… I like hearing you talk about this.”

Ellie scoffs, but there's a hint of pink at the tips of her ears, “yeah, well, it's the only thing i'm good at.”

You frown, “i doubt that.”

She meets your gaze, “yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She doesn't respond right away, just holds your stare for a second too long before glancing away, taking a slow sip of her beer and for the first time since meeting her, you get the feeling that Ellie Williams really doesn't quite know what to do with you.

After dinner she walks you back to your place. It's chilly and, at some point, she shrugs off her hoodie and hands it to you without a word. You pull it on, breathing in the faint scene of her cologne mixed with smoke.

When you reach your building, you hesitate on the doorstep, looking at her, “you wanna come up?”

Ellie hesitates too, “not tonight.”

You nod, trying to not let the disappointment show, “okay.”

She shifts on her feet, then reaches out, fingers brushing over your wrist, the same spot she tattooed, “text me when you're home,” she says, voice quiet.

You smile, “Ellie, I am home.”

She rolls her eyes, but there's something soft in the way she huffs out of breath, “you know what i mean.”

You do. So, you nod, stepping back, watching as she shoves her hands in her pockets and starts walking away.

And just before she rounds the corner, she glances back, smirks and calls out, “keep the hoodie.” Yeah. You're in trouble.

────────────────────────────────────

After that night you obviously don't receive an immediate text. You tell yourself you're not waiting for it, that it's not a big deal but that's a lie, you find yourself checking your phone more often than you should, catching the faint scent of her hoodie when you wear it around your apartment. It's ridiculous how much she's gotten under your skin in such a short time.

And when her name finally appears at the top of your screen, it's almost infuriating how casual and nonchalant she is about it.

‘u doing anything tonight?’

You bite your lip, staring at the message, willing yourself to be cool about it.

‘depends. u finally decided to see me again???’

Her reply comes pretty fast.

‘don't start, u coming or not?’

You grin to yourself, already reaching for your jacket.

‘where to’

Ellie quickly sends an address, a bar a few blocks away from the shop.

When you arrive the place is exactly what you expected from Ellie— dimly lit, a little grimy, but with a solid crowd and decent music. When you walk in she's already at the bar, a beer in hand, dressed in her usual hoodie and jeans combo.

She spots you with her eyes and smirks, “didn't think you'd actually come.”

You slide onto the stool next to her, slipping your jacket off your shoulders and putting it on your lap, “please, like i'd miss a chance to see you,” Ellie shakes her head but in her eyes there's something, amusement? maybe something else.

You order a drink and the conversation comes easy, she tells you about a client she had earlier, some guy who wanted a giant, badly drawn wolf across his chest. “I tried to talk him out of it,” she says, taking a sip of her beer, “but dude didn't care, just wanted it big.”

You laugh, “did you do it?”

Ellie groans, tilting her head back, “yeah, against my better judgement. I should've made him sign a waiver saying i wasn't responsible for ruining his life.”

You smirk, “bet it still looked good, because… you know, you're kind of a genius.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes with a downturned smile, “you're so fucking annoying.”

“You love it.”

She doesn't respond immediately, just takes another sip of her drink, eyes flickering over you, “maybe,” your stomach flips.

For a while you just sit there, drinking, talking, existing in the same space. Ellie doesn't feel like she needs to fill the silence and neither do you, it's comfortable in a way that surprises you. At some point, she leans in slightly, her knee bumping against yours, “you wanna get out of here?”

Your breath catches, but you don't let it show, you just tilt your head, “where to?”

Ellie shrugs but there's something deliberate in the way she looks at you, “anywhere but here.”

And just like that you're following her outside, into the cool air of the night.

You end up at her apartment, a small place above the tattoo shop, it's cluttered but live-in, sketchbooks piled on the coffee table, an old guitar propped against the arm of the couch, some comics and dinosaur figures on her shelves.

Ellie kicks off her boots, looking at you, “you want a drink or something?”

You shake your head as an answer, stepping further inside, taking everything in. There's a sketch taped to the fridge, something floral, delicate, half finished, you recognize the style immediately, “you draw at home too?” you ask, glancing over at her.

Ellie shrugs, rubbing the back of her neck, “yeah, sometimes.”

You turn back to the sketch, “this one's beautiful.”

She watches you for a moment, then exhales, “i was thinking about making it a tattoo.”

“For a client?”

Ellie shakes her head, “for you,” your chest tightens, you meet her gaze, searching. She almost looks nervous, like she's debating she should've said that at all, “i mean— you don't have to, obviously, just thought… you might like it.”

You step closer, your voice almost a whisper, “i do like it.”

The girl in front of you swallows, her eyes locking with yours, “yeah?”

You nod, “yeah.”

Sometimes shifts in the air, the space between you feels smaller, tighter. Ellie reaches out, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, her fingers lingering just a little too long but neither of you move.

Then, she breaks the silence, soft— uncertain, “can i kiss you?”

Your breath catches, “Ellie…”

She shakes her head, “just— tell me if this is too much, if you don't want this, i'll back off.”

You don't hesitate at all, “i want this,” Ellie exhales almost like if she was relieved, like she was bracing herself for another answer. Then, finally, finally, she closes the gap.

The kiss is slower this time, softer, less rushed, less fueled by alcohol and bad decisions. It's careful, deliberate, like she's memorizing the feel of you.

At some point you need to back away slightly, searching for air, Ellie's eyes are locked with yours, both of your breaths uneven. There's silence for a moment, no movement, just tension, then— she takes a step closer, your back hits the fridge before you even realize you're moving, the cool surface pressing against your overheated skin. Ellie's hands come up, caging you in, one palm braced against the fridge and the other curling loosely around your waist and without more thoughts, Ellie crashes her mouth against yours, her mouth hot and desperate, this second kiss is not that soft, not that slow, there's teeth and tongue and need. You gasp against her lips as she presses closer, her fingers digging into your hip.

Her hands are greedy, sliding under your shirt, feeling your breasts, her calloused fingers playing with both of your nipples, caressing, pinching, teasing them, the stimulation makes you gasp softly and tip your head back as her lips move down your jaw and throat.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” Ellie mutters against your skin, voice thick in desperation and need. She nips at your pulse point, then soothes the sting with her tongue.

Your fingers find the hem of her hoodie, tugging it up and Ellie takes the hint quickly, pulling back just enough to yank it over her head along with her shirt, she doesn't even give you a second to admire her before she's back on you, hands roaming, mouth finding yours again.

The way she touches you, like she's been starving for this, like she's been holding back— makes your stomach flip. Your own hands are just as frantic, feeling the hard lines of her naked back, the flex of her muscles with every subtle move she does. Ellie groans when you dig your nails in slightly, the thigh she has between yours and her hips pressing forward instinctively, the friction making you gasp and she takes advantage of it, slipping her tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss until you're both breathless.

Her hands slide lower, gripping at your bare thighs, and before you can react, she's lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around her waist as she presses you harder against the fridge, her lips never leaving yours.

“Fuck. I—” you break off with a sharp inhale as her teeth graze your collarbone, biting just enough to leave a mark.

Ellie chuckles, the sound dark and velvety against your skin, “that's the plan, sweet girl.”

She carries you to the couch, laying you down with a look in her eyes that promises you're not gonna forget this night. Ellie hovers over you, a smirk tugging at her lips as she takes in the way you're sprawled out beneath her, already looking like a mess even if nothing happened yet. Her hands are firm on your hips, her body pressing down just enough to keep you pinned.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with amusement as her hands start to roam between your thighs, pulling your skirt up just enough to show her your laced, and already wet, panties, the sight delightful for her, “didn't take much to get you like this, huh?”

Heat flares in your stomach when you feel her fingers tracing up and down your slit over your panties, teasing you painfully, you glare up at her, “shut up.”

Ellie chuckles, shaking her head as she keeps going with her ministrations, “nah, i don't think i will,” she dips down, brushing her lips over the shell of your ear, “you're too fun to mess with.”

Her fingers tug at the hem of your shirt, helping you take it off, she looks at you for a moment, how perfectly your tits sit there, like they are waiting for her. She starts dragging slow, lazy circles around your nipples but not directly touching them, just teasing you to watch you squirm.

You huff, shifting against her, looking for some friction, relief, “Ellie—”

“Ellie what?” she interrupts, smirking, “use your words, baby, c'mon, i know you can do that for me,” she says sweetly.

You bite back a groan, your voice breathless, “please fuck me, just—” and she does not even wait, she quickly gets up, almost pacing to, what you assume, her bedroom. It doesn't take long for her to return, this time a strap peeking out of her unzipped jeans.

She's quick to be all over you again, your head tilting back against the couch as she kisses down your neck, taking her sweet time. Her teeth graze your skin again, and this time, she doesn't stop at just two mark— she leaves another, and another.

“Gotta make sure everyone knows what a mess you turn into for me,” she whispers against your throat, her voice laced with satisfaction, “wouldn't want anyone getting any ideas.”

With one of her hands she manages to properly pull out her strap out of her jeans and ssomeho to completely take off her pants without getting away from your body. You feel the tip of it grazing your cunt over your blue panties, that subtle touch arousing you even more.

She easily, without even needing to look, she pulls your underwear aside, the air hitting your wet pussy, you're able to feel how she positions the strap to your aching whole, the thought of her having inside you making you clench around nothing.

She doesn't rush it, doesn't force it, she lets your cunt accommodate to the girth and length of her dick, slowly putting it deeper and deeper inside you, every inch making you gasp, a small ‘oh my god’ escaping your mouth. But it's not even really hard for you to be able to take it completely, your pussy already so wet making it easier to slide inside and she smirks when she notices it.

When she starts thrusting, her hips hitting the plush of your inner thighs, you grip at her arms, trying to keep yourself grounded somehow but Ellie just laughs, her breath warm against your skin, “what happened to all that attitude, huh?” she teases, nipping at your jaw, “you've been so mouthy all this time. Now you're just gonna lay here and take my cock like a slut?” every thrust she makes feeling like it hit deeper each time.

You glare at her, your eyes a bit glassy from the pleasure, “maybe— oh— i don't wanna feed your ego,” you somehow manage to pronounce.

Ellie grins, enjoying your reactions and quiet whimpers, feeling pity at your attempt to bite back, “baby please— like it's not already massive.”

Her hands tighten on your hips before she pounds her own against you, rough and hard, the friction sends a sharp wave of pleasure through you, your breath stuck at your throat, a pathetic whine coming out and she smirks confidently.

“Yeah, that's what i thought.”

You don't even have a chance to retort before she pounds into you, hitting that spongy spot inside you, as she devours your lips again, passionate and absolutely cocky about it, like she knows she won.

She pulls back after a minute, just enough to look at you, her smirk downright smug. She brushes her thumb over you swollen bottom lip, tilting her head like she's examining her work.

“God, you're cute when you're flustered and fucked,” she murmurs, almost to herself, “didn't think you'd be type to get all shy and sub on me,” she says, her thrusts slower now and her head lowering down to your breasts, her warm tongue circling around your right nipple.

“I'm not,” you grumble, though your voice betrays you, breathless and uneven, the words almost coming whiny.

Ellie chuckles, low and rough, “oh yeah?” she presses slowly and deep against you, hitting exactly where you needed, watching the way your body reacts, how you squirm slightly, “then why you're gripping me like i'm gonna disappear?”

You blink, realizing your fingers are digging into her arms, almost bruising her forearms, holding onto her like she's the only thing keeping you grounded.

A knowing grin, “busted.”

You whimper, a sound mixed with annoyance and ecstasy, turning your head away but she doesn't let you escape, she lets go of your tit and chases your lips, kissing the corner of your mouth, then lower, drawing her tongue along until she meets your chest once again, this time she directly sucks, swapping between both of your tits, your breasts sensitive from the previous foreplay. You shudder and bite your own lip, trying to contain your filthy sounds.

“Don't get all quiet on me now,” she hums against your warm skin, “i like hearing you, babe, oh— god,” she glances down for a moment, watching how good your pussy is taking her strap, almost like devouring it, her eyes going wide fill with lust and desire,” the thought of how your cunt is clenching around her cock making her wetter, she needs to feel your walls milking her cock.

Oh, how she wishes she has a real dick to fill your pretty pussy full of cum.

She mutters, more like talking to herself than you, “i want to make you fill you up so bad—”

Your breath stutters at her pornographic words, your hands reaching to tangle in her auburn hair as you moan softly.

Ellie looks at you for a moment, she tsks and shakes her head, her voice dropping to a whisper and her lips brushing over your ear, sometimes nipping at the shell, “you wanna act all tough? but we both know you like when i get you all worked up, you're just a dirty pretty girl, aren't you?”

And you don't even have the strength to fight back, to continue being a brat, her dick is hitting your g-spot with every thrust, her hands are massaging, pinching your nipples and her mouth is leaving wet kisses everywhere, or at least you feel it everywhere. She's everywhere.

God, how you wish you could wipe that cocky grin off her face but you start to feel dizzy, your bud puffy. You're over the edge and she knows, of course she does.

“Don't you even dare to cum yet,” she says as she manhandles you like it's nothing, this time she's laying on the couch and you're sitting on top of her, her dick still buried inside you, “move, c'mon, don't you wanna cum so bad?”

Fucking mean.

────────────────────────────────────

It starts to feel real after that night.

Ellie doesn't say much when you wake up tangled in her sheets the next morning (and you don't really remember at which point you both ended up in her bed last night), sunlight creeping through her curtains. She grumbles something about it being too early, rolls over and drapes an arm over your waist like she forgot she wasn't supposed to be this comfortable with you.

And for a little, everything's easy. You start seeing her more, sometimes at the shop, sometimes at her place or even yours, sometimes in the late hours of the night when she texts with a simple ‘u up?’ like she already doesn't know the answer. She never calls it anything and neither do you, but there's an unspoken rhythm to it now.

At least you think there is.

The first crack in the illusion happens a few weeks later. It's Friday evening and you're out with Dina and some other friends when you decide, impulsively, to stop by Ink & Desire. You haven't heard from Ellie all day— not that she owes you an update on her life, but still. Something in you itches to see her.

When you push open the door, the place is buzzing. Clients waiting in the lobby, machines humming in the back, Ellie is at her station, leaning over some guy's arm, focused as she works on a new piece. You watch for a second, admiring the way she moves, the way her hands are so steady, so sure.

“Ellie,” you call, stepping closer.

She glances up, her face immediately hardening, not with anger but guarded.

“Hey,” she says, straightening slightly, “what are you doing here?”

The question shouldn't make your stomach twist, but it does, “i was just in the area,” you say, keeping your voice light, “thought i'd stop by.”

Ellie nods slowly, then flicks her gaze towards the guy in the chair, “i'm kinda busy.”

You force a small smile, “yeah, i can see that. I don't wanna interrupt, i just—”

“I'll text you later, okay?”

She says it in a way that makes it clear this conversation is over, like she's already shutting the door on it before it can even be anything more.

Something tightens in your chest, you nod, “yeah. Sure.”

Then you turn and walk out before she can see whatever's written all over your face.

She never texts you that night.

Or the next.

You tell yourself not to be that person, the one who overthinks, who waits by their phone, who gets caught up in something that was never clearly defined.

But when Ellie does finally reaches out –three days later– it's just hey.

That's it.

Like nothing happened.

Like she didn't ice out and disappear.

You stare at the message for a long time before replying.

‘that's all i get?’

A few minutes pass.

‘what do u mean?’

You exhale sharply, fingers tightening in frustration around your phone.

‘you ignored me for 3 days, ellie’

This time, it takes longer for her to reply, around two hours, and when she does it, it's frustratingly short.

‘i got busy’

A bitter laugh bubbles up before you can contain it. Of course. She got busy.

‘right.’

You don't send anything else. Neither does.

Another few days pass and things feel off.

Ellie doesn't completely disappear but she's distant. Less responsive, less present. She still texts you, sometimes –little things, casual things– but it's different.

She's pulling away. And maybe the worst part is that you don't even know if you have the right to be upset about it, because what are you to her? She's never called you her girlfriend, never even hinted anything serious.

So why does it hurt like hell when she starts slipping through your fingers?

────────────────────────────────────

The breaking point comes in a night you don't expect.

You're at a bar with some friends when you see her— Ellie, standing at the pool table, laughing at something a girl beside her says. You freeze, you know you don't own her, you know she doesn't owe you anything but does it sting.

The girl leans in, whispering something in Ellie's ear, Ellie smirks and tilts her head slightly.

And that's it, that's all it takes for something inside you to snap. You turn on your heel, heading straight for the exit, but before you can step outside, a hand catches your wrist.

“Hey—”

Ellie's voice.

You spin around, yanking your arm away, “what?”

Her brows furrow, “what's your problem?”

You laugh, but there's no humor in it, “seriously? that's what you're gonna say to me?”

Ellie sighs, rubbing a hand over her face, “look, i didn't even know you were here.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you snap, “you've barely talked to me all week.”

Her body tenses, “i told you— I've been busy.”

“You always have an excuse, Ellie,” your voice is quieter now, rawer, “you shut me out, you disappear and then i see you here, flirting with someone else like— like none of it mattered to you.”

Ellie's jaw tightens, “you're making a big deal out of it.”

You stare at her, you don't even have the energy to cry, your stare just empty, something in your chest twisting, “is it nothing to you?”

She doesn't answer.

And that silence is the loudest thing she's ever said.

Your throat burns, you take a step back shaking your head, “got it.”

You turn to leave and this time, Ellie doesn't stop you

You don't hear anything from Ellie after that night. At first you think she might reach out, maybe not right away but eventually. Maybe she'd text, or show up at your place, or even just try to explain herself.

But days pass, then a week. Then another.

Nothing.

You tell yourself you don't care, that it's for the best, that you should've seen this coming, but late at night, when you're lying in bed wearing that stupid hoodie she gave you, all you can think about is her. The way she kissed you like she meant it, the way she traced over your skin after fucking you stupid, like she was memorizing you. The way she looked at you like you were something more.

And then the way she threw it all away. You should hate her for it.

Maybe a part of you does.

And you try— really try to move on. You throw yourself into work, into friends, into anything that might pull you out of the gravitational pull of her. But it doesn't matter how many nights you spend out, how many times you convince yourself that she was never really yours to lose because at the end of the day, when you're alone in the quiet of your apartment, it still hurts.

Because Ellie Williams did mean something to you.

And she fucking knows it.

────────────────────────────────────

It happens on a Tuesday night. You're walking home from work when you hear someone calling your name, at first you think you're imagining it.

“Hey— wait.”

You stop. Turn.

Ellie.

She's standing on the sidewalk, hands shoved in the pockets of her jacket, looking… rough, like she hasn't been sleeping much, like maybe she's been carrying around the same weight you have.

Your chest tightens, “what do you want, Ellie?”

She exhales, shifting on her feet, “i just… wanted to talk.”

You huff an ironic laugh, rolling your eyes, “you're about two weeks too late for that.”

Ellie flinches, but she doesn't leave. Instead, she steps closer, eyes flickering over your face if like she is searching for something.

Then, quietly, “i'm sorry.”

The words catch you off guard, you fold your arms, trying to steady yourself, “for what, exactly?”

She sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose, “for fucking it up, for shutting you out, for not knowing how to—” she stops, exhales, “for being me, basically.”

You shake your head, “Ellie, this isn't about you not knowing how to do things, it's about you choosing not to. It's about you deciding I wasn't worth the risk.”

Ellie looks at you like you just knocked the wind out of her.

You swallow hard, ignoring the lump in your throat, “and worst part is i was willing to try. I wanted to try, but you never gave me the chance.”

Her jaw tightens, “it's not that simple.”

You scoff, “isn't it?”

She looks away, and maybe that's your answer right there.

Silence stretches between you but finally, Ellie mutters, “i wanted to need you less.”

The confession hits you straight in the chest.

Ellie runs a hand through her hair, looking almost… defeated, “you don't get it,” she mutters, “every time i let someone in, it just hurts. It always ends the same, and i thought if i kept my distance, if i didn't let it get too real, then maybe i could avoid all of that. Maybe i wouldn't lose you.”

Your breath catches, “Ellie,” you whisper, “you did lose me.”

She swallows, doesn't say anything.

You shake your head, voice quieter now, “you can't just show up after weeks of shutting me out and expect me to—,” you stop, “i don't know what you even want from me.”

Ellie finally meets your gaze, and for the first time in weeks, she looks honest.

“I want you,” your stomach flips, “but i don't know how to be good at this. I don't know how to keep you,” she admits.

You inhale, gripping your arms to keep you grounded.

There it is, the truth. And maybe that should be enough but you're not sure it is, so, you shake your head, blinking away the burn behind your eyes, “then maybe you should figure that out before you come looking for me again.”

Ellie flinches, like she wants to argue but she doesn't, she just nods and looks at the ground.

When you turn to walk away, she lets you go again.

────────────────────────────────────

A month after, you don't plan to go to Ink & Desire.

You don't plan to see Ellie at all.

But it's been eating you alive, gnawing at the edges of your mind— the way she looked at you that night, the things she didn't say. And maybe you just need to end it. Maybe you need to say something final, something that lets you walk away this time.

So when you push open the door to the shop, your heart pounding in your chest, you tell yourself this is for closure. Nothing else.

The place is empty, the chairs cleaned and the machines put away, the Closed sign flipped at the door, but you know Ellie. She's always here when it's late. You find her in the back, sketchbook in her lap, a half-empty beer on the counter beside her.

She looks up at the sound of your footsteps, “it's closed—” and when she sees you, something flickers in her face, looking almost relieved, but she shuts it down fast, “what are you doing here?” her voice is guarded, careful.

You fold your arms, “i could ask you the same thing.”

Ellie leans back in her chair, exhaling, “i work here.”

You scoff, “you also avoid people here.”

Ellie's jaw tenses, “what do you want?”

And that—the way she says it like you’re some inconvenience, like you weren’t just in her arms a few weeks ago—sets you off, burning with frustration. Your chest tightens, heat flaring in your stomach, “are you serious?” you shake your head, “that’s all you have to say?”

Ellie rubs a hand over her face, sighing, “i don’t know what you want from me.”

You let out a sharp laugh, “of course you don’t because you never fucking ask, Ellie. You just assume.”

Her eyes snap up, defensive, “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you decided that I’d leave. That I’d hurt you so you didn’t even try,” your voice wavers, but you don’t stop, “you shut me out before I ever had the chance to prove you wrong.”

Ellie exhales harshly, standing abruptly, the sketchbook in her lap falling to the ground, “yeah? and what if i was right? what if you got tired of me? what if this whole thing was just gonna fall apart, like it always does?”

Your throat closes, “then that would’ve been my choice to make. Not yours.”

Ellie looks away.

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, “but you didn’t trust me enough to even give me that choice.”

Silence.

Ellie’s hands curl into fists at her sides. Her breathing is uneven, like she’s fighting something back.

“I don’t do relationships,” she mutters.

You stare at her, something bitter twisting in your chest, “yeah, I got that part already.”

Ellie shakes her head, jaw clenched, “no, you don’t.”

Her voice is low, rough, and when she looks at you again, there’s something vulnerable in her face, something raw and exhausted and real.

“I don’t do relationships because they never fucking last, any of that lasts,” she exhales sharply, pacing now, “my dad left before i could even know him. My mom died. And Joel—” She stops like the name physically hurts to say, “he was the closest thing i ever had to a real family, and then he was gone. Just like that. No warning. No time to prepare. And I had to fucking live with that.”

Your breath catches.

Ellie lets out a sharp, bitter laugh, “so yeah. I don’t do people. I don’t do feelings. Because every time i have, they’ve either left or something’s ripped them away from me," she turns to you, eyes dark and serious, “and you—” her voice falters, “you were the first person in a long time that i actually wanted to stay, and that scared the shit out of me.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest. The anger, the frustration—it all dulls under the weight of her honesty.

You swallow hard, “Ellie…”

Her hands flex at her sides, “i don’t know how to do this,” she mutters, “i don’t know how to be what you need.”

You exhale, stepping closer, “then we figure it out. Together.”

Ellie looks at you, hesitant, unsure, “and if I fuck up again?”

You shake your head, “then we talk about it, we don’t just run, we don’t shut each other out.”

Ellie studies you and she lets out a breath, a real, shaky breath.

“Okay,” she murmurs.

Your chest tightens, “okay?”

She nods, “yeah. I wanna try. For real this time.”

You don’t realize how much you needed to hear that until the weight in your chest finally eases. Slowly, you reach for her hand, and this time, she lets you.

Lets you hold on.

Lets herself hold on back.

#𔓘 vi's works. ꒱#ellie williams x female reader #ellie wiliams #ellie williams tlou #ellie x reader #ellie the last of us #ellie x you #ellie tlou #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams imagine #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie x fem reader #ellie williams #tlou fanfiction #the last of us part 2 #tlou x reader #tlou smut

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elstattoo · 4 months ago

Text

Closet Fun: Vi x Reader

☆*:.｡.

MEN DNI, MDNI

Summary: A heated game of seven minutes in heaven with Vi.

WC: 3K

Warnings: fingering(r receiving), praise, pet names, femme reader

Author’s note☆: This is my first time writing for Vi and I went overboard with this idea… lmk what you think and next is pitfighter Vi because I need her internally😋

The smoke from people’s cigarettes and weed made the air thick and heavy. You pushed past the sweaty bodies of ongoing partygoers making your way further into the party. Music roared through the speakers making it impossible to hear yourself think.

Vi was hot on your trail, having no interest in anyone but you at the party. “Fuck I could go for a beer right now.” Vi thought to herself as she followed you like a lost puppy. Her eyes immediately snapped down to your legs and ass when she noticed the view.

A low groan escaped her parted lips as she watched the sway of your hips as you walked. She couldn’t recall you ever wearing something like that to a party, let alone such a short skirt.

The more she stared, the more she felt her boxers lightly dampen, she shook her head slightly trying to snap herself out of the daze. It was hard to shake off your effect on her, she never could even if she tried.

But for both your sakes, Violet kept quiet about her feelings for you. She pursued nothing but a friendship with you, too consumed with the fear of losing you, the one person she cares about the most in the world.

She continued following you into the kitchen, both your eyes scanning the assortment of drinks left to offer.

Violet’s eyes practically sparkled as she saw beer tucked away in a red cooler. “Beer here I come,” Vi muttered, speed-walking over to the counter and grabbing a cold beer out of the open cooler.

A smile spread on your face, “Of course, that’s the first thing you drink. I’m doing vodka and soda,” you shrugged, grabbing an empty clean cup. Easily you poured yourself your drink and took a sip, and the tang of vodka a little too much. The alcohol washed over you, making you feel a little less jittery than before.

Vi let out a little scoff as she watched you pour your drink. “Of course, you’d go for vodka. Me? I’ll stick with the beer.” Her body leaned forward against the counter as you fixed more soda into your drink to lessen the amount of vodka. Her eyes roamed your body quickly again, taking in the way the skirt looked so damn good on you.

You smiled hearing Vi’s little complaints, shaking your head at her. As you mixed your drink to your liking, you caught Vi leaning closely towards you on the counter, beer in hand. “I think I’m ready to see what Jinx, Ekko, and everyone else are up to,” you said. You felt yourself grow hotter the more you felt Vi’s burning gaze.

“Sounds good to me,” Vi agreed with a smile, taking one last swing of the beer before holding it tightly in her hand. “Lead the way, cupcake.”

Your heart swelled a little at the nickname, she always called you different names. Each one makes your heart skip a beat, time and time again. Quickly you made your way towards the living room, the first area you hoped you’d find either Jinx or Ekko. Neither were in sight, you hummed, wondering where either of them could be. Vi reached out and grasped your shoulder.

“I think they’re probably in the next room huddled together smoking or something,” Vi snorted.

You giggled, the sound made Vi freeze for a second as if you two were the only ones in the room. Your laugh was genuine, one that rang throughout the room, and made others smile. Your smile was just one of the many things that made Violet fall so hard for you, not that you knew how you made her heart swell.

“Let me just text her, that's easier,” you said, your free hand already stuffed into your pocket and pulling out your phone.

As best as you could with one hand, you typed out a message to Jinx. It was very difficult, but you managed, too stubborn to hand your drink off to Vi.

You: ‘Where are you?’

Vi turned her head, watching as you put your phone away. “I shot her a text now to await her response, hopefully, it’s fast,” you shrugged, sipping away at your drink.

Violet hummed, “I dunno, sweetheart. My sister is an avid texting but probably wouldn’t be at a party.”

The phone vibrating in your back pocket would say otherwise, and you connected eyes briefly with Vi. A smile made its way onto your face, and swiftly you brought your phone out and read the recent notification. It was from Jinx.

Jinx: ‘Upstairs with a smaller group, meet us losers :P’

“You would be wrong, Violet,” you sneered, “She just answered.”

Violet rolled her eyes dramatically at your teasing tone, “Yeah, yeah whatever, sweetheart. Where are we meeting them?

“Upstairs! Let’s goooo,” you whined, grabbing for her hand after stuffing your phone away. Your hand met Violet’s, her colder hands a stark contrast to your warm ones.

Vi followed you, hand gripping yours as you led the way upstairs. The music drifted with you, people crowded the top of the stairs and chatted away. The pair of you squeezed past more people before reaching a room filled with more people, couches placed about, and a gigantic TV hung mounted on the wall.

You both paused for a moment, taking in your surroundings to look for a sign of Ekko or Jinx. A flash of blue crossed your vision, which had Vi groaning as you tugged her forward.

“Jinx! Over here!” You yelled, trying to raise your voice louder than the booming music throughout the house. Jinx’s head snapped from her conversation with Ekko, towards you, hearing your calls. Ekko himself sees Vi’s pink tufts of hair behind you, and the two of you, hand and hand. Not a surprise at all.

“Hey, you two!” Jinx waves, a grin cheekily on her face. Ekko follows behind her waving at you and Vi. “There’s some people back there playing spin-the-bottle but whoever it lands on goes into a closet for seven minutes and it's locked.” Jinx directed where the people were with the point of her painted fingertip.

Vi let go of your hand, moving from behind you so she can talk to everyone more closely. “Pardon?” Vi quirks an eyebrow, “Seven minutes in heaven and spinning the bottle combined? Alright, fuck it, what do ya say, sweetheart?” Vi’s head turned to you, she licked her lips anticipating your answer. She only would indulge in this silly game if you did.

At the sudden question, you felt yourself grow hot, “Sure! Let’s have fun, what do you guys think?” You ignored the creeping thoughts growing in your head hoping, somehow, that luck would be on your side for once. And… if you played this game, you’d end up, alone, locked in a closet with Vi.

“Hell yeah! I mean, I am the one who told you about it,” Jinx laughed, turning to playfully poke Ekko in the side. He laughed at her, shrugging off her antics.

You all politely asked to join the game, which had the people already playing, clapping, and nodding their heads excitedly. People muttered about restarting the game with the new addition of people, and so a new game began.

“I’m sooo excited,” Jinx whispered, bumping your side as you all watched the people fumble to reset the bottle.

“Wait! Let one of the newbies take a turn,” one guy insisted. His eyes landed on you, “Hey! How about you try it out?”

Your lips parted, not knowing what to say before you nodded. “Yeah, okay,” you breathed, leaning forward to spin the bottle. The time within you spinning the bottle, and then waiting to see who it landed on felt like a lifetime. You felt your stomach doing somersaults, you gulped, seeing the bottle beginning to slow and eventually come to a halt.

The air felt thick, as if time paused at that moment, the bottle stopped and pointed at Vi. A smirk emerged onto her face, your eyes falling from the bottle to her piercing one. Your eyes held contact for mere seconds, the chatter of people drowned out, and you zoned out and only focused on Violet.

Suddenly, you were snapped out of said trance when someone, Ekko, poked your shoulder gently. “Hey, you good?” he murmured, seeing you space out, only mere seconds ago.

You nodded, giving him a thumbs up to reassure him. “Yeah, just surprised. Guess I better go to whatever closet with Vi, at least.”

Ekko smiled, watching you get up as people muttered at you to “hurry up and go.’” Those people were the least of your concerns when you’d be locked in a closet with Vi. The fact it was reality and going to happen had your heart beating wildly out of your chest.

Vi was already standing up, waiting for you and someone to lead you both to the closet. “At least it landed on someone you know, sweets,” Vi added, poking your side. Your head snapped towards her, shooting her a glare.

The girl in front of you, the one leading you to the closet cleared her throat. “Are you guys ready to go now?”

“Yeah, sorry. Let’s go,” you shared a glance with Vi before the two of you followed after the girl. You were brought to a room only a few meters away, the closet tucked in the corner. The girl brought both of you right to the closet door.

“Alright, hurry in, the timer starts when the door closes,” the girl smiled, opening the closet door, and ushering the two of you inside. Vi snuck another glance in your direction, herself still not believing the situation. “Try not to be too loud!” She winked, closing the door, and fiddling with the lock.

The closet was small, the two of you huddled together, trying to sit comfortably within the small space. The darkness of the closet provided another challenge and made it impossible to see or navigate your surroundings.

“Shit, why couldn’t this stupid closet have a light?” Vi mumbled, blinking her eyes to adjust to the darkness. “Where are you even?” Her hand reached out into the darkness feeling for you, her fingertips met your thigh, your breath hitching at the touch. “There you are.”

You could imagine the stupid, cocky smirk on her face saying that. You were on the opposite side of the closet of her, body huddled together, knees against your chest. “Yep, here I am… Weird game for friends to end up in, right?” You joked, the word ‘friend’ making you feel sour.

Vi squeezed her hand against your thigh, the plump flesh squeezing in her firm grasp. You gulped feeling the grip. “Mhm, sweetheart friends are all we are,” she leaned closer, her grip on your thigh still firm. You made no effort to move her hand, which enticed her further and helped prove you did in fact like this. “I think we’re a lot more than friends, and it’s pretty clear at this point. So quit the bullshit and c’mere,” her voice was low and husky.

Her words put you in a trance, you leaned forward, scooting closer to her, to close the distance. Her hand lets go of your thigh, and before you can complain at the loss of contact she cups your cheek and brings your lips in for a fiery, hot kiss. It was messy and filled with passion, you immediately returned the kiss. Almost feeling greedy at how you nipped at her lower lip, gliding your tongue against it, before she eagerly opened her mouth allowing you to overtake her mouth. Your tongues lapping against one another, you moaned softly into Vi’s mouth feeling relieved to finally be kissing her.

Vi noticed your spread legs, allowing her to slot herself between your thighs, and forcing you to twist your legs around her. She mentally noted the time she had left with you, slipping her free hand in between your legs and going oh, so dangerously close to your panties.

Your hands were wrapped around her neck, you pulled away to breathe and felt Vi’s sneaky hand near where you needed her most. “W-what are you doing?” You panted out, still trying to catch your breath from the heated kiss.

“Wanna finger you, right here, right now. Can’t help myself, princess,” Vi admitted, chest rising and falling steadily. If you could see her right now you’d see the way her face was dusted lightly, lips red and blotchy from the kissing.

You whined, gripping the overgrown hair at the back of her head, Vi groaned softly loving the way your feelings felt gripping at her hair. “We can’t do it here..” you said in a hushed voice. You so badly wanted it, but here of all places?

“Please… want to please you, princess,” Vi pleaded, and she kissed your lips. Your panties dampened even more and you felt yourself let go, giving in to her frantic kisses.

You pulled back for a second, nodding, “Please… do it before they come.”

When those words left your mouth that was all Vi needed before she moved her hand to where you needed her. Her fingers moved your thong to the side, sliding two into your wet, aching hole. She cut off the loud moan that almost escaped your lips with her lips sealed against yours, you eagerly returned the passionate kiss.

Vi curled her fingers slightly, angling to get deeper inside of you, and hit the spot that felt so good. You needily swiped your tongue against Vi’s, the two of you exchanging saliva in between the messy kisses. Vi pumped her fingers faster, groaning at the wetness pooling around her sleek fingers.

The two of you only had a few minutes left, Violet pulled back. Hurriedly pumping her fingers deeper, before she stilled for a moment to slide a third one in. Feeling her insert the third finger, then pumping them in and out of you, curling to hit your g-spot, had you craning your head into her neck. You muffled the cry of pleasure, hands still gripping her pink hair, and Vi loved it.

The sounds you were making, the muffled sounds of the music playing outside the closet door were long forgotten to her by the smacking of her fingers drilling in and out of you. Along with your wetness squealing in the small space of the closet. She fucking loved it.

“God, pretty girl… you’re so wet just from kissing and my fingers? Gotta get you home after this,” she sighed, smirking to herself at the ideas popping in her head.

“Please, Vi only have a few minutes left and I’m close,” you mewled against her.

“Yeah? We gotta hurry then, pretty girl,” she pumped her fingers faster, if possible, her fingers hitting your g-spot over and over until you felt your stomach clench up, your vision went white, and you swear you heard yourself whine loudly like never before. Surely, the sound alerted people outside the room, but who the fuck cares? With how your muscles spasmed and clenched as the waves of the moment overtook you.

“O-oh my god,” you gasped, clutching onto her shoulders, pretty painted nails digging in as you tried to roll your hips into her hand to ride out the intensity of your orgasm. Vi softly kissed your neck, leaving small marks along your neck as you clung to her.

“Holy fuck, you just came all over my fingers,” Vi uttered with her fingers still curled tightly inside of your cunt. You whined at the sensitivity from your previous orgasm, Vi begrudgingly took her fingers out of you understanding you were sensitive. Her digits were coated in your slick cum, she brought her fingers to her mouth and moaned at the sweet taste of you. She cleaned the mess away off her fingers before pecking your lips. “You feel alright?”

Your chest swelled, your body still recovering from the post-orgasm. “Yeah, that was… Fucking amazing, Vi,” you smiled, your fingers coming up to cup her cheek and passing over the small tattoo under her eye. The one that marked her name… Vi. Your Vi, the one that you love.

Before either of you could say anything else, there was a knock on the door. “Time’s up, lovebirds!” You hurriedly pulled away from each other, you fixed your skirt, smoothing the material as Vi wiped her mouth and fixed her wrinkled clothes.

The door opened, Jinx being the one to open the door this time. She saw your appearance, both your lips red and swollen from the kisses. She smirked and wiggled her eyebrows, “You guys finally confessed and… did a lot more than that!”

You dashed up and playfully smacked her side, your face feeling hot. “Please shut up! And keep it down,” you pleaded. Embarrassment rushed over you, but Vi got up and coddled your side.

“It’s fine, pretty girl. Nothing to be ashamed of,” she shrugged. She acted as if her sister wasn’t right there and didn’t quickly infer what the two of you did. It also didn’t help that she confidently wrapped her arm around you, a smirk adorning her face as she pushed past Jinx and walked out of the room with you.

You were left speechless even when she led you out of the party and to her car.

“Wanna come back to my place or yours?” She whispered, eyes gazing into yours from the driver’s seat.

“Mine,” you grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Please, I want you all to myself.”

Vi hummed, starting the car and nodding. “I know, pretty girl and you will, I promise,” she squeezed your hand in reassurance. “Wanted you… long before this.” Vi never thought she would admit it, but now she could care less knowing you both felt the same. She brought your hand up and kissed it.

Your heart swelled, your hand felt warm and clammy, and you almost felt like you were floating. “Me too, Vi,” you whispered. She put her hand back in yours and drove the two of you back to your closer apartment.

The two of you did a lot more than fingering for the rest of the night.

Author’s note: I hope you guys enjoyed… please spare me

#vi arcane x reader #vi arcane x reader smut #vi i need you #arcane #arcane x reader #vi x reader #league of legends #wlw post #wlw #me need her now #next post will be more juicy #arcane x you #arcane x female reader #arcane vi x reader #arcane vi x you #lesbian #delsfics *ੈ✩‧₊˚

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 months ago

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wish lantern rewrite

I can’t be the only one that wishes we had actually traveled to a new location… that we had learned about a new culture and holiday… that Riddle had actually had more character development in Wish Lantern instead of being cooped up in the library, being forced to play pretend princess in order to get out, and give like maybe a handful of lines max in the second half of the event 😭 What we ended up getting was fun too, but I keep thinking about the missed opportunities and how great this story event could have been.

If Twst won’t give it to me then I will have to cook my own food 😤

Here’s how I would write Wish Lantern if I was in the Twst writing room:

Since Riddle is the SSR, I feel the story and its set-up should center him. I’m thinking maybe he’s invited to (or told by his mother to attend) some kind of conference or event in the Kingdom of Heroes or the Sunshine Lands for aspiring medical mages. Let’s say it is being held in the same place where the story of the Princess in the Tower originated because the Sundrop flower mentioned in the tale has miraculous healing properties (and the city/kingdom has since become known for its medical advances).

Riddle is uneasy about going there by himself (the implication being that this event is set after book 1 and, more specifically after book 6, when Riddle expresses to Azul he has been considering pursuing law instead of magic medicine/the career his mother chose for him). Maybe he mentions this unease around Deuce, that he feels obligated to go because “Mother knows best… She has always known what is beat for me, hasn’t she?” It could even be in the library. Say that Riddle is brushing up for the conference and happens to run into him, who is looking for a book to help with completing an assignment. After listening to Riddle’s woes, Deuce, being one of the people who knows about his dorm leader’s complicated feelings toward his mother and finding his own independence, offers to come along as emotional support.

As for how Jack gets involved, he’s Deuce’s club member. Maybe he overhears Riddle talking about sports medicine or panels presented by medical mages who work with athletes, or Deuce mentions it in a club meeting. Jack becomes interested because he’s the type of person that’s always looking for ways to enhance his training and to learn more about this subject.

Kalim can either join because he's conveniently in the library + wants to learn more about poisons and antidotes (on his own self-development journey to be more self-sufficient instead of relying on Jamil all the time) or because the Asims are sponsors of the event and he gets a free invite through his Rich Privilege.

Use the usual "Grim overhears and whines until he and Yuu get invited to go along" excuse or maybe have Yuu and Grim come because they, too, want to be emotional support for Riddle. (They could have heard from Deuce?) With that, we have all of the main characters for this event assembled.

Even though this is a rewrite, I'm going to try and follow the conventions of OTHER "hometown" events. That means most of this rewritten event will be exploring the new area, learning about its customs and traditions, souvenir shopping, and sampling food. This would be a great chance to, of course, throw in Tangled references. Because I proposed that this event be focused on a conference for aspiring medical mages, we can also learn more lore about what medical technology and practices exist in Twisted Wonderland and how magic has played a part in advancing medicine.

So it turns out, there's a festival going on in the area at the same time as the conference. That's because there's a holiday in this kingdom that celebrates the Princess in the Tower finding her way home by following a trail of lanterns. Since the conference doesn't start until the next day, we can go out and enjoy the festivities! (Riddle can be hesitant at first, but the others convince him to loosen up.)

The new outfits + hair can be explained away as part of local traditions. Everyone is provided with a potion that lengthens their hair so they can emulate the Princess in the Tower. Or maybe there can be a potion-making station, and length still correlates with the skill at which you were able to brew it. (In this version, the hair lengthening potion isn't made with super rare ingredients; it is something easily accessible for even non-mages to brew and can be made cheaply.) YES, THAT MEANS WE GET LONG HAIR GRIM.

Local specialties could include dishes mentioned or depicted in Tangled, like hazelnut soup (Rapunzel's favorite).

HERE ARE SOME CUTE INTERACTION IDEAS BASED ON RAPUNZEL'S OWN EXPERIENCES IN CORONA: the gang doing chalk drawings and clowning on each other's artistic abilities (or lack thereof), trying out cupcakes (the reasoning being that they're "single servings" so it's okay for Riddle to indulge), exploring bookshops, painting on the walls, and everyone joining in a big group dance! (For the dance, maybe there’s a competition to see who can drag in the most bystanders into the dance and Riddle gradually finds his footing in that + is crowned the winner?) There could even be a tavern that pays homage to The Snuggly Duckling.

While we're out having fun, there should be a consistent pattern of Riddle having to be convinced that it's okay to be participating in these activities. He feels that he should be focusing on studying for the conference, but the others are there to reassure him it's okay to take breathers.

"You won't perform at your best if you're always at 100%. In terms of a workout, you'd be asking to pull a muscle if you push yourself to exercise without end." (Jack)

"Mmm? But how often are we going to be in [name of city]? We're here now, so we might as well experience everything that's here!! The food, the music, the games, the people... You can't find that anywhere but here." (Kalim)

"I get the importance of preparation, but I'm kind of curious about the celebration that's going on. If Rosehearts-senpai wants to study, then he should do that. I'd feel bad exploring the city without him, though... He might miss out." (Deuce)

"Shouldn't you at least grab some grub first? I'm pretty hungry too! Let's check out the food stalls!" (Grim, maybe Yuu can also get a dialogue option)

At some point, the group decides to browse and buy souvenirs. They discuss who they are shopping for and come upon the subject of family. Kalim and Jack want to buy stuff for their siblings and Deuce thinks his mom might appreciate a locally made handkerchief with the kingdom's sun emblem on it. (As a trucker, Dylla often drives for long hours so she might find use in a handkerchief to wipe her forehead.) Yuu and Grim can also bring up potentially getting something for the Ramshackle Ghosts, who are like their found family.

Riddle becomes visibly uncomfortable when the topic of family is brought up. Everyone else sounds so happy talking about theirs, but he has no idea what a happy family is supposed to be like. Deuce (and maybe Yuu + Grim too) realizes why Riddle is uncomfortable and quickly apologize. Kalim and Jack, who aren't familiar with Riddle's background or his attempts to speak with his mother over winter break, are a little confused but the others feel it's not their place to explain why and Riddle doesn't know them well enough to elaborate on personal matters. (Here, Jack and Kalim serve as an in-universe reason to keep his family history vague so as to not spoil people who haven't gotten that far in the main story yet, but the awkwardness is palpable enough to imply something is wrong to serve the narrative of the event story.)

Now, "hometown" events tend to introduce a new character, typically a family member, to us. However, the new characters are not those who appear as the "trauma source" for the respective OB boy. (For example, Falena was not the character introduced to us in Tamashina Mina/Cloudcalling on the Savanna and we met Kifaji instead.) Following this trend, we will not be encountering Mrs. Rosehearts but rather MR. Rosehearts.

I realize that we don't have a ton of lore about Riddle's dad yet so everything I write about his personality is completely headcanon (primarily based on the personality of the King of Hearts). The only things that are canon in this depiction is that 1) Mr. Rosehearts is a medical mage like his wife is and 2) Mr. Rosehearts does not have a happy marriage with his wife.

Anyway, we run into Mr. Rosehearts out in the city. Turns out that he is one of the presenters at the conference and he was supposed to meet and receive Riddle. He's a quiet and slightly anxious man but overall is kind to his son (though we should get the impression that Mr. Rosehearts isn't good with confrontation and folds easily).

Maybe have a part where Mr. Rosehearts is surprised that Riddle has friends because uh... the last time he recalls his son having friends, it was because his wife ranted at them for 5 hours and banned them from their home. But hey, he's chill about it and promises Riddle this can stay between them and he won't tell his mom. Could insert a line or two that implies that the winter break talk didn't go over well. (This is just my headcanon, but you could also stick in a line that insinuates that the Rosehearts parents don't just outright divorce because Riddle's mom can't deal with the potential social fallout + realizing that she is "wrong" in her marriage.)

Every "hometown" event thus far has presented us with some kind of minor external conflict to be resolved. In this case, Riddle's conflict is more internal. He's wrestling with what he wants to do with his future and trying to cope with the reality that his mother isn't the loving, "always correct" woman he thought she was. This, of course, mirrors Rapunzel's struggle with Mother Gothel, who tries to keep her in the tower and doing as she commands.

We finally make our way to our quarters for the night (Riddle has his own room; everyone else has to share one), perhaps in tall tower to mimic Rapunzel's home with Gothel. Riddle knows he should retire early because the conference is first thing tomorrow, but he admits to everyone that after spending time in the city, he has become curious about the tradition of releasing thousands of wish lanterns into the night sky. It happens pretty late in the day though, so he brushes it off and says they should sleep.

... But the others get really hype about Riddle "finally getting into the spirit of the holiday" and decide they should see the lanterns!! The only problem is, Riddle is locked in his hotel room for the night. There could be a local superstition, tradition, or security reason for this. Like maybe due to the story of the Princess in the Tower (and Gothel locking her up), people who are indoors at a certain time of night can't leave until the next day?? Or maybe Mrs. Rosehearts had prepared Riddle's room for him in advance and instructed staff to ensure he doesn't leave because she has been paranoid about him "breaking the rules" again after the tart incident. I don't know, pick your reason.

YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS??? It's time for Jack, Deuce, Kalim, Grim, and Yuu to be Riddle's Flynn Rider + animal companions to break Riddle out. Our group represents the freedom and childhood wonders Riddle missed out on, the antithesis to Mrs. Rosehearts'/Mother Gothel's control. I can see Riddle using his long hair to hoist himself down, Jack using his UM to help everyone race to the water in time to catch the lanterns, Deuce being the muscle if they run into any thugs, Kalim using his social skills to quickly befriend the locals and ask for directions to the best vantage point or using his $$$ to rent the group a rowboat, etc.

We can keep the rhythmic/twistune from the original version of this event where Kalim, Deuce, and Jack were able to safely descend using Riddle’s hair but Riddle hesitates before he’s able to get himself to follow. The reason is the same; he worries about breaking the rules and how his mother would disapprove of him leaving the home. Riddle wonders if the Princess in the Tower felt the same, but ultimately his friends convince him it’s fine (by baiting him with the rules). He will be trapped in this tower forever if he doesn’t summon his strength and take the leap. If not now, then when? When will my life begin? “There are people waiting for me outside, so… it must be okay for me to leave. Right… Mother?”

Riddle keeps nagging everyone about how many rules and social norms they're breaking, but eventually he loosens up and even laughs a little at some of the dumb things they do. We can maybe have him thinking, This is just like… and then flashback to his childhood days with Trey and Chenya.

They're out on the waters just in time to see the lanterns being released. Alternatively, the even runners could be having trouble lighting up all the lanterns or something so Riddle has the opportunity to help with that (this way, we’d still get the other rhythmic/twistune featured in the original event). That particular rhythmic/twistune ends on Riddle with five lanterns floating overhead, which I think could be important symbolism (five lanterns -> five mentions of Heartslabyul).

It's beautiful. Everyone oohs and aahs at the sight--most of all, Riddle. He can say something like... "This city is known for its many contributions to magic medicine. I know that, and yet... I don't believe any magic or medicine could replicate what I am feeling in this very moment." There is some part of Riddle that acknowledges the healing and therapeutic properties of just... being allowed to have freedom, of allowing himself to live in the present and not stress about the rules or gearing up for a future someone else has decided for him all the time. He just doesn't know how to fully verbalize it + has not fully come to terms with it yet, so this is how he expresses it. At last, he sees the light.

While the new location they travel to + the conference provide us with the backdrop of medicine and health for this rewrite, I think there’s also something to be implied about the injuries we don’t see, the pain inflicted that isn’t physical. Both Riddle and Rapunzel were trapped in towers but were also emotionally controlled and prevented from leaving/made scared or the world and disobeying their mothers. When Riddle sees the lanterns, it’s sort of a “wake up” sign to his soul, a reminder of how healing it can be to just… live by one’s own terms, to not be ruled over by fear of disappointing someone else or failing to meet expectations. Rapunzel and Riddle bear scars on their heart from having been raised in the households that they were, and it is seeing the lanterns in-person that helps to “heal” what hurts them.

Riddle recalls the story of the Princess in the Tower and how she made a wish to see the lanterns, so now people make wishes upon these lanterns before releasing them into the sky. He lets go of his own lantern and wishes that, someday, he can be like the Princess in the Tower and this lantern floating up to the sky… and follow his own Road to Freedom.

Everyone sneaks back into their rooms and rest for the day. Uhhh, and there can be a scene of slicing off their hair for tomorrow. Riddle can talk about how the Princess grew her hair long because her mother told her to, but that it must have been cumbersome to walk like this. This way, by cutting off the hair like how the Princess does at the end of her story, it's a liberating act.

It doesn't matter what happens at the conference because what was important was the experiences Riddle had with his friends leading up to it. At most, maybe we see Mr. Rosehearts again while heading to the venue and they have a brief exchange where Riddle lets it slip he's a little tired. "That's so unlike you," Mr. Rosehearts remarks. "Well," Riddle replies with a small smile, "I am a growing young man, after all. I am changing every day."

I want to be clear that this does NOT mean Riddle has had a full character arc to come to terms with how he was raised. He would NOT feel 100% okay with rebelling against his mother by the end of this (hypothetical) event. The point of my version of Wish Lantern isn't to empower Riddle to fistfight Mrs. Rosehearts or to tell her off. The point is that it's supposed to be a small step in helping Riddle through the very complicated process of recognizing he was traumatized and/or abused, accepting that reality, and learning about how he can grow from it and his abuser (who is someone he thought he loved and could trust). This can take YEARS to process in the real world, and it would probably be similar to Riddle. Again, this is meant to be a SINGLE STEP he takes, NOT THE ENTIRE JOURNEY.

So in my rewrite, the event would be split up like this:

Episode 1: invitation to the event; gathering all the relevant characters, hopping through the mirror

Episode 2: arrival in the new location and having fun in the area

Episode 3: souvenir shopping, meeting Riddle's dad

Episode 4: retiring to room, changing mind and deciding to break out instead

Episode 5: seeing the lights, ending

As you can see, the structure is very similar to a traditional "hometown" event. I didn't want to stray too far from Twst's usual writing conventions, as it could mess with the cohesion with the rest of its story events. I did, however, try to change things up a little (like having an internal conflict instead of an external one) and tied in this (hypothetical) story with Riddle's overarching character development, as those are elements that I personally prefer in a story. I realize that the biggest change here is tying my rewrite much more strongly to the main story than similar events have 💦 BUT LET ME HAVE THIS, I think I cooked 😭

... What Wish Lantern could have been OTL Don’t get me wrong, though!! The version we did get wasn’t all bad. There was lore about the NRC library, lots of involvement from the staff, and fun character interactions with the whole student cast. I just feel like those could have all been used for a different event and not the Tangled one which could have been so much more interesting for Riddle and his character.

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