#even if part of her will always be a little fearful of the spotlight. of being /found out/. when you grow up hiding you continue to do so | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

taegularities · 10 months ago

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entertainer | jjk (m)

Summary: Growing singer Jeon Jungkook is as charismatic as he is self-absored – that is, until he meets you. Caught in a web of secrets, he finds a riddle in you he urges to solve; even ready to turn the spotlight towards you until nothing remains… but regret.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: strangers to lovers (or something); angst, bits of fluff, smut!! ➳ warnings: do not fall for this jk i repeat do not f– 🚨 he's kinda hot though; (not so) silent yearning, flirting, a shit ton of sexual tension, sexual fantasies, some jealousy from his side, he is very VERY attracted to her, mystery, oc is a big question mark, full jk pov!, difficult past(s), (mention of) sexual harassment, mentioned past death of a side character, crying, fear, manipulation, confrontation and fighting, aggression, cursing, cocky and selfish kook, overthinking, secrets and revelations, explicit sexual content: kissing, fingering, teasing, drunk shenanigans, sooo much lust, big dick jk, dom jk, oc is odd, oral (f. receiving), spit stuff, handjob, manhandling, orgasm delay, lip ring…, light choking, bit of hair pulling, a spank or two, coming on oc, some cum tasting mmmh, ass stuff, protected sex, rough sex, various positions, masturbation; as always THE ENDING!! lmk if i forgot something!! ➳ wc: 32.4k ➳ a/n: MHMMM, it's finally time!! i experimented with the trope a little; def not a professional when it comes to this genre, but i tried my best. both oc and jk are odd in this one, and you might be on either's side and hate either of them, i can't say :'D very curious tho, so come and drop a message to lmk what you think. let it aaaall out :P <3

➳ listen to the Entertainer playlist! 🖤

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs

Jungkook has always wanted an audience to perceive him.

Not just to perceive him, in fact. To worship him.

Jungkook doesn’t consider himself a bad person. Spoiled, a little selfish, but not necessarily bad. He enjoys attention, no matter how temporary or who the giver of it. Feasts on it like an incubus.

What’s wrong with that? Nothing.

Or.

Maybe there is. Maybe he’s coming on too strong.

Because you’re not part of his audience, sitting over there, middle row, middle spot, with your eyes lowered to the notebook. And when you do look up, there’s nothing but indifference in your eyes.

It irks him. Maybe he is a little narcissistic, and maybe he can’t quite deny it after all — but as part of his future team, you should at least fake a smile, right? Display a certain amount of enthusiasm, the joy of working with aspiring artists.

But no.

You’re occupied, scribbling into your notebook. Jungkook, cognisant of the fact that he hasn’t issued much of significance today, understands that you cannot be taking notes of his words. And he also understands that… if that is true…

You’re not granting him as much fascination as he’s used to.

General admiration thrown into the same bucket as his unwavering talent — that he’s well aware of — might just be the reason he climbed up so high in no time. Sometimes, gentle livestreams and vlogs do the trick — locals have found reasons to adore him already.

At times, a good song and strong vocals aren’t necessary to woo people.

Jungkook, however, is insatiable — that’s what keeps him pondering at times. That it’s just the locals, and on an international scale, there’s still much to achieve.

But he’s not a quitter, he’s a conqueror.

And he’ll reach that mind-boggling status of a well-known, global icon, name flowing as naturally through the seam of people’s lips as a still-lying, tranquil lake.

Jungkook knows it’s cocky of him to praise himself to the skies and to rely on his resolute hopes so much. He knows life backfires sometimes, and that endeavours don’t always pay off. He only started as an insignificant city boy, too.

Survived the cruelty of elementary and middle school; shared a room with his brother, relying on him until he grew and learned to finally rule over high school; every single soul at his beck and call. Then, trudged through college before any of where he’s standing even existed.

But he’s here now. And people acknowledge it.

Except you.

And it throws him off his balance. Which is probably why he shortens the end of his speech, close to slurring distracted syllables before he realises he’s forgotten a prepared sentence or two.

No matter; the relevant and main message should have been delivered by now.

So he leans back in a chair in the back, flashing a captivating smile and waits for the applause. Somewhat proud when the praise needs a moment to cease for his manager to reclaim the mic, freeing the metaphorical stage, much in the form of a simple pult, for the CEO of the company.

Taehyung is savvy of how to regain control over a stage; Jungkook doesn’t know whether he fucked up his final remarks, but Taehyung summarises his ideas well. But the clapping does say a lot.

And between those raising their hands to appreciate Jungkook’s speech, you were, too. He knows because he looked directly at you; still is. And when your eyes drift to his, the two of you hold each other’s gazes for at least a couple seconds longer than the others.

And your smile, while present, is somewhat tight-lipped, a bit awkward but confident, too. Odd, as well; hard to explain, but as though you know what you want. As though you have your priorities set straight and cannot be swayed by anything the world might throw at you.

He doesn’t have a word for it. Poised? Self-reliant? Fearless? Can a single look even say this much or is he being delusional?

But this can’t be true, honestly. Nobody is this unperturbed or passive. He’ll find out.

Your stare aligns with his a couple more times over the next minutes, staying there before continuing the journey over the crowd. Jungkook’s eyebrows twitch just a little whenever your eyes pierce into his, so tantalising and deep, big sweet ires, but so conniving at the same time.

He doesn’t know your name, but he’s sure that it defines intrigue. And maybe, just perhaps, it might serve as the synonym for drop fucking dead gorgeous, too.

When Taehyung leads you to Jungkook’s stuffy studio, the latter hears your voice through the open door several seconds before you come in. Or actually, it’s not quite his studio.

More like a collective office that a couple of the newcomers use. Jungkook has been part of this crew a little longer, but he needs the additional success, more prosperity; he’s been told to yield more results to earn his very own four walls. Carrying his signature flavour.

But it’s okay. For now, this suffices…

The stench of coffee and the sound of the AC. The pot and plants that always rest in some corner of the room, courtesy of Taehyung who insists on some colour in the grey-white, small room. Jungkook has gotten used to it all.

Which is why it’s strange, seeing your splendour enter the small space, delighted by whatever Taehyung might be explaining. Your grin is the widest Jungkook has seen since yesterday.

He didn’t get to meet you properly yet, so he can’t say where your humour lies. Nobody introduced you, despite your new position as his very own, personal work partner. A second manager, here to guide and aid him when Taehyung can’t; and apparently, you’ve found some charm in Taehyung that you didn’t see in Jungkook during the stupid meeting.

Not that Jungkook would ever dare to doubt his friend’s appeal, but you’ve stormed into his life like a present, and so silently, too; and he wanted to be the one to open it. To reveal it.

Not Taehyung. Even if it’s his job.

Okay. Calm down. Jungkook sighs. That again.

A motherly blanket of praises and fatherly pats of pride. That’s what’s gotten his head so riled up. He was coddled too much as a child. Made felt special. That’s over now, Jeon, you’re in an industry filled to the brim with competition.

Chill chill chill.

But now?

With that alluring smile staring up at Taehyung, only hints of it left when your eyes move to Jungkook. Fuck.

But Jungkook’s stance remains steadfast and self-assured when he greets, “Hi there. Welcome at last, huh?”

Jungkook notices when your mind snaps out of the conversation with Taehyung and into the one he started; a gentle hand frees your face off your hair to enable a proper view to it. The other is still dug deep in the pocket of your leather jacket, covering parts of the white top underneath.

Semi-long, silver earrings rest right below your ear, against your neck when you tilt your head a little; your expression so respectful and inviting when you smile. Jungkook inhales you in that one split moment, details stinging into the eye without much effort.

And perhaps he’d observe more, appreciate your stunning, obvious beauty and elegance further; but time passes as it does before you finally utter your very first sentence to him, “Hi. Didn’t think I’d ever be saying this, but… thank you for having me.”

That’s sweet.

Your words are reminiscent of the adoration his fans grant him, but your expression is as cool as a refreshing autumn wind. The perfect balance, possibly.

Jungkook gestures to a small couch in the back, right next to the door, but you raise a rejecting hand, claiming, “Been sitting all day observing Taehyung. Need to walk a bit.”

And you do. Deliver a last farewell nod to Taehyung who waves a little, gripping the handle and locking you in the room with the younger man nearly drooling over you.

The hand hidden in the jacket before has emerged, arms loosely folded as you take in the interior of the studio, allowing no more insight into your thoughts than, “Nice.”

Jungkook hums in distracted agreement, standing at the wall, watching you roam around the humble space in small steps. It’s odd, being in here with you; the atmosphere fizzles, a little less like electricity, just a bit more than carbonic acid.

But the moment was to arrive anyway; you’ll be a close link to Jungkook from now on. Of course you need to familiarise yourself with his space, too. So far, you seem to have an opinion on it already.

“Easy to trigger claustrophobia, but,” you walk through the open door to the darker recording room, tapping the mic for a moment, “cosy, too. Very cool equipment.”

“Yeah. I agree.” Pause, eyes dropping to your fingers grazing the stand of the mic. Then, “I would’ve come to you today… or yesterday for that matter, but things were so chaotic and—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you assure, waving his concerns off, “I could see people rushing around and preparing the moment I got here. I’m probably not the main concern right now among everybody.”

“Nah, that’s not it. We have a great team here.” You step out again, hands folding behind your back until you’re leaning against the wall opposite of him, mirroring his stance. “I’m sorry you arrived at such a stressful time, though.”

“Not your fault. I decided so myself fully knowing you were in the middle of something.”

Ah. So you’ve seen his interviews, read the news. You came here with sufficient knowledge about him, alright.

“Really though,” you continue, blinking slowly, “I’m just glad to be here at all.”

Ah. Yes — about that.

“What brought you to our company anyway?” Jungkook asks, coating his voice in sugar to decrease the risk of unintentional and prying rudeness. “I mean — it’s been a while since somebody joined the main team, is all.”

“Oh. What brought me here…” You slide down the wall just a few inches, staring at your feet before you meet his eyes again. Something flashes in them for a miniscule second, albeit too brief to be caught and analysed. Then, you say, “Sentiments?”

Jungkook gathers words of confusion the moment you utter yours, a question already on his tongue. Has he been here long enough to evoke sentiments in his followers? Or do you veil a whole different connection to this company than he might understand?

Who knows. It doesn’t feel too deep, at least, when you speak again, elaborating when his eyes reveal his bedazzlement before he can, “I mean, I like your work.”

Okay. So much he interpreted; and he must admit — the feeling of pride is a thoroughly unique one.

“I think you’ve been deserving of your growth, and I just,” you speak, shrugging your shoulders, digging one heel into the solid ground, “I could never stop thinking of what I’d say or do if I was here or how I’d try to help, even though I’m not a true musical genius like you.”

This is so excitingly new.

How poised you remain as you talk about your fascination for him; how carefully you choose your words. He’s met fans before, but he doesn’t think any of them has ever practised such control over themselves.

And harbouring such emotions for a tiny little celebrity like him while simultaneously treating him like a human being is an art you’ve well mastered. Despite Jungkook’s urge to feel loved and worshipped to a dependent degree, you’re an incredibly attractive change in pace.

Ugh.

Dependent degree.

Although, he does wonder what you’d be like if you fawned over him.

Jungkook contains the fantasy; suppresses his sigh.

“So,” he starts, “you’re here because you’re a fan.”

“Mmmh. Kind of. My friends started it and then pulled me into this. Honestly, at first I couldn’t imagine ever getting into your stuff.”

Your gaze moved down to your trainers a mere moment ago; whether to hide your expression or give into a habit, Jungkook can’t say. But the honesty surprises him; even stings a little as he voices, “Oh?”

Your head shoots up, lips forming a circle before you imitate, “Oh. Wait. That was… pretty rude.” You seek confirmation or denial in Jungkook’s eyes, and when his slightly wrinkled forehead, tight-lipped smile reveals the answer, you immediately opt for an apology, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it then?”

“Just that.” You fiddle in your position, bringing your digits to waist level. Then, you laugh; a rhythmic sound. “Okay, don’t hate me, but. I was one to judge a book by its cover, and you had this young adult too-confident-too-sly something about you. But your music’s surprisingly sentimental.”

Jungkook halts for a moment, moving his head to side-eye you; producing a hoarse Uhhh before he admits, “I’m not sure whether you’re complimenting me or fully destroying me.”

Another lovely laugh. “I am complimenting you. To be fully transparent, I was probably, uh, biased? Because my friend. They have a knack for usually pulling very questionable men, so I probably just didn’t entirely trust their intuition.”

“Fair enough. I guess?” Jungkook matches the softness of your giggle, nodding towards you, “And now you do?”

“Mmmh, well, we’ll see.”

Jungkook must be stupid. Of course you won’t be able to deduce much from the first meeting yet; perhaps the flirting needs to slow down for just now. You seem the patient kind; much like now, letting the quick silence prevail without much struggle.

No sign of awkwardness surrounds your aura; only a hint of… suspicion? Flashing into your eyes when you let them move through the room again, freezing right next to Jungkook’s head. You’re not looking at him, but at something past him; but you don’t question nor voice anything.

Merely return to his stare with a smile, and he uses the moment to pour some courteous manners into the mix, asking, “Do you want something to drink? Coffee, water? A Red Bull?”

But you immediately raise a hand, shaking your head, “Oh, it’s okay. I’ve already got caffeine flowing there instead of blood,” you slide a finger along your arm, indicating a vein under your layers, “I just mainly came to say hi and to introduce myself. And to ask if I can help anyhow.”

“Ah… well, uh,” Jungkook halts mid-sentence, throwing a look around as though he’s searching for something to appear before he concludes, “don’t think so. I was in the middle of some production work, but don’t think I need much.”

“I see. Okay! Then I’ll leave yo—”

“But,” Jungkook intervenes immediately, adamant on keeping you around. Maybe he can wrap up work earlier today? Bring you home? Probably not — not on Taehyung’s watch. “Maybe you can tell me what you think once I’m done?

“Of course. It’d be my pleasure.”

“Would have an excuse for your company, too, then.”

The laugh that follows is so subtle that Jungkook barely hears it. It doesn’t leave your throat, stuck in there, just a tiny sound reminiscent of amused bafflement.

Jungkook knows his way around words — understands what his utterances and implications usually apply. But somehow, not too many people have been the calmer ones in the room; aside from his superiors at work, not having the upper hand is new to him.

So you set a fuse loose in him; destroy a nerve in his brain, changing up his communication habits. Because he certainly did not mean to say this out loud. And not in such a sense either.

He adds quickly, “I mean, it gets lonely here.”

“Right…” you concur, albeit weakly and with somewhat… entertained mystery in your eyes? He can’t say. It’s as though you’re wearing your face as a mask, undecipherable. “I get it. Even though your studio is cosy enough to enjoy your own company at times, right?”

“Not mine. But we’ll work on that.”

He cards his fingers through his hair, aware that he is probably more than an open book right now; his usual perfect poker face does not work with you.

Why?

Weird.

“Got a couple things here that are mine, though. Yoongi and the others allowed me,” he adds.

“Ah… Like…”

Surprisingly enough, you take another look through the tiny room, possibly trying to detect something you didn’t see before. Regarding details. Then, you settle next to his head once again… and once Jungkook moves his eyes off you for the first time since you came in, he sees what you see.

Which is to say, nothing much out of the ordinary. In fact, the most trivial thing in the room.

“Like that?” you voice, pushing yourself off the wall to near his relaxed body. The scent of your perfume wafts through the room before you’re close enough; tenderly grazing his senses. “What’s that?”

Focus.

Your finger points to the object next to him, hanging at a nail at the wall; dark blue with white letters on it. Pretty mundane, pretty basic design.

“Just… a cap I bought back in college.”

You read out the name, pronouncing it perfectly, yet slowing down as if you’re learning a new foreign term. The sudden inquiry is strange, too: you don’t seem as truly curious about it as your question did; perhaps you’re playing for some time with him, too?

He wouldn’t hate it if you did.

“Do you know that one?” he questions.

You nod; a main hint as to why you wanted to know, yet indicating that the knowledge wasn’t of much significance. You say, “Isn’t it a popular one? I had a few friends who went there.”

“Hm… yeah, I mean. I guess it’s a known one. I got a degree there in broadcasting and entertainment like… four years ago.”

You exhale a barely audible puff of air before you whisper-murmur the most infinitesimal, petite, “Damn,” underscored with one indecipherable tilt of your head. He can’t see your eyes too well, so the reaction remains as transparent as you have been thus far.

Until he raises a thick eyebrow, confusion hidden in a somewhat relaxed yet awkward smile as he wonders, “What?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing, just. It’s impressive how much you’ve achieved in just four years, right?”

“…Well. If you say it like that, it does sound pretty neat.”

The bubble of pride expands alongside his ego; right beneath his chest. Somehow, the feeling changes his posture, makes him feel bigger.

Perhaps you notice what your praise elicits; perhaps you’ve already fathomed his persona that he usually doesn’t dare to reveal this fast. But whatever he conceals with his fans, lies in front of you with an open access.

You make it easy to feel comfortable; he doesn’t need to know you too long to acknowledge this much.

“I graduated not too long ago, too. Three years?”

“Oh… then look at you,” Jungkook compliments, using the moment as an excuse to examine you further; head to toe and back. Your legs are crossed, upper body and face confident, but the position somehow delicate. Hm. “You’re quite awesome, too, don’t you think?”

“I mean— took a while to get here.”

“Right. So what have you been doing during this time since graduation?”

Whatever distraction you have found in the cap seems to break as you silently forage your brain for a response; possibly attempting not to divulge too much. And your answer is accordingly hesitant, though never dubious.

“Saving up? Preparing for life, I guess. And waiting for a good opportunity.”

For what? Do you usually keep your statements in fragments?

He prods, “To do what?”

“Well, to do,” you gesture to the wall in front of you, albeit clearly hinting to the situation, “this. Hoping to change everyone’s lives around here.”

You smile wide, the joke obvious as can be, but Jungkook can’t help but think that you might not be too far off. Unique minds alter brain chemistries; there’s something unforgettable and magnetising about them, and Jungkook steadfastly believes his intuition that you might just be one of them.

For the first time ever, he murmurs your name, delighted by how easily it melts on his tongue. It falls out breathier than he intended to, but when you tilt your head, the intrigue in your pupils inexplicably matches his tone.

He adds to your name, eyelids drooping just a bit, “So… you’ll turn out a long awaited surprise, huh?”

And you, against all expectations, lean in for just a minimal, not too inconsequential moment, hands back in your jacket. It’s a playful, harmless motion as you move back on your heels, then steady yourself again, bodies and faces still far away. You could’ve just as well given him a pat on his shoulder.

But there’s something in the way you look at him, tempted and ominous at the same time. He can’t say what you’re thinking because every feature in your face implies something different.

Even more so confusing what methods for success you came into this company with when you finally say, no pretext or further clarifications, “I really do hope so.”

“Do you come here a lot?”

Everywhere he goes, the lights are bright.

The white walls in the rooms of the company building reflect the sun in the summer and maintain a sense of optimism in the winter. They’re what Jungkook imagines waiting halls before Heaven to look like.

Then the fluorescent vibrancy in his apartment. And the sunlit sky, albeit cold in this winter, giving way to the planetary system’s star through the floating, parting clouds.

Even this modern art museum with its complex design, winding staircases, glass walls and high ceiling. It lets through an abundance of light, unaware of the balance Jungkook usually craves.

Dark and light — a healthy mix.

It’s why he cherishes the comfort of the recording studio so much. Its dim walls and the silence, so unlike the hallways outside of it. Or why he prefers his apartment unlit, often merely allowing the few lava lamps to illuminate his rooms.

But again… it’s only a balance he usually craves.

Today, he doesn’t mind the brilliance.

Because you’re part of it.

Clad in a beige long-sleeved cotton top, slight turtleneck included. It doesn’t fully cover your neck, still revealing a mole similar to his. It’s tucked into your light brown skirt; your legs are covered in sheer tights, crossed. A gentle hand holds the strap of your bag. Light academia at its finest; somewhat soothing, and somewhat radiant.

You look at him with an initially neutral expression, surprised that someone spoke to you, but more relaxed when you realise it’s him.

“Oh,” you voice; the faintest autumn-tinted smile tugs at your lips. “Hey! I, uh…” Your gaze flits to the painting in front of you, then back to him. “Not at all actually. Which… surprising.”

You gesture towards him before you grant him more of your silky voice, asking, “Do you? Come here much?”

Your eyes are indecipherable to him, cheeks dusted in natural make up. All the damn time, you sport this relaxed, unbreakable mask, and he can’t quite guess what you might be thinking about.

It’s so easy with anyone else. You’re like a scene from BBC’s Sherlock, embodying Irene Adler’s mystery.

But maybe your guard can be broken, too.

“Not really,” he admits, “only when pretty people are around.”

A weak attempt, but it makes your eyebrow cock in amusement. He knows you are, because the hint of mischief that scurries over your face resembles his own.

“Ah, and you happen to know when pretty people are around. Or did you follow me here?” you, however, ask.

It’s an obvious inquiry, but weirdly enough, he didn’t expect it. You exhibit the first sign of a proper, humane emotion. Delivering three quick blinks, voice quiet, suspicion swims in your eyes, slightly irritated.

Or even… scared?

You can’t truly be.

So he backtracks, slightly angling his head. He sighs — hiding how much his lungs crave a breath of air. He doesn’t want to scare you off just yet.

“No,” he defends, “of course not. I was just joking.”

“So… I’m not pretty?”

Oh. Oh?

Perhaps he misinterpreted your expression. Perhaps you’re merely a good actress; messing with him as he is with you. The smirk suggests this much, at least.

Perplexed, he holds his breath before letting out a choked laugh; the head tilt and click of his tongue carry a sliver of scolding before he admits, “That’s pretty frustrating, I won’t lie.”

“I’m just kidding, too. It’s a big exhibition. I expected a familiar face here.”

Why is there something so devilish about you?

He can’t say; maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe it’s enough to join the game, to be just as cocky and see how you react.

Perhaps he’s being selfish and too certain of himself, and in the worst case, he might just be imagining the tension buzzing between you like sparks off an electric fence. But does he have anything to lose, really?

Barely ever.

“Then,” he begins, “is it a good face?”

“All the art around us and you want me to admire you, huh?”

“…The art won’t be mad if you do.”

Jungkook is bold, he’ll admit. He hasn’t always been — he remembers a time spent in the back of classes, preferring to eat lunch alone. Did college tug him out of his shell? Was it senior year?

Then again — did that one kill the timidness in his heart or rather the last shred of humanity?

Maybe his cold matches yours, too. Is that why he feels so drawn to you?

Because you’re as bold as him; you don’t sugarcoat words and thoughts. And Jungkook appreciates the honesty, the ingredient to actual success — even if it’s achingly direct.

Like now.

You uncross your legs; your hips move in an elegant curve, and Jungkook attempts his best to keep his eyes off the arcs of your body. Focuses as you say, “You shouldn’t be flirting with a coworker, Mister Jeon.”

“Wait. I thought we were warming up to each other. Don’t demote me from Jungkook to Mister Jeon now.” You chuckle; that’s something, right? “Besides, I was just conversing. We need to spend all our time together now, so better get along, right?”

Right. Right; of course he’s right.

But… what is that?

It lingers for the faintest of moments, just a glimpse of an unspoken feeling, gone with the next blink. In this crowd of unsuspecting visitors you’re the closest to him physically, but your thoughts are miles and centuries away.

“Maybe you’re right,” you still say, as if whooshing away all unwelcome sentiments, “then I should not… dodge your conversation, right?”

“Sure.”

“Behave, though.”

He’s so confused — but not deep in this enough to question it. So he merely shrugs his shoulder before he responds, “I have been. I can converse, alright.”

“Right.”

“Like… first of all,” he steps closer, raising a hand, gesturing for you to walk on as new admirers of the modern piece approach, “tell me, have we met before? Feels like I’ve seen you somewhere.”

You halt in your steps, but immediately resume to the stroll when a stranger nearly bumps into you. “You’re doing it again.”

He’s honestly not. The aura surrounding you like an ominous fog is omnipresent and eerie, yet… you carry a sense of familiarity. But you’re a presence too distinct to ever forget.

Which doesn’t help his case.

“Yeah,” he still agrees before potentially embarrassing himself, kissing his teeth, “sorry. I’ll stop.”

“Why are you the textbook definition of a fuckboy, honestly.”

“Fuckbo—”

“Nevermind.”

If he wasn’t well acquainted with this little game, he would’ve missed your subtle, nearly veiled intent to tease. But he’s done this a million times before — hence, catches the faint twitch of your gorgeous lips immediately.

You’re enjoying this. So he should join… right?

Yet.

You’re not being entirely insincere. In fact, he hates how he picks up on the note of truth in your velvety voice.

Trimmed nails scratch the back of his head, and he barely notices when the two of you halt in front of another piece. Distracted, he doesn’t bear the art any mind, instead asking, “You really think of me that way?”

You shrug a shoulder. Nonchalance a constant feature, but so natural, even somewhat gentle, that he can’t help but feel drawn to you. “A little.”

“Well, shit.”

“Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the art.”

“Sure.”

Reluctantly, he glances to the canvas. It’s a mess of hues; a random arrangement of spontaneous emotions. Resembles the masterpieces he used to create in Microsoft Paint, back when his legs would still dangle off the chair.

“Then,” he starts, nodding towards the painting, “what do you see in this?”

You hesitate. Or maybe it’s not hesitation — more like… a thinking pause. Sometimes, when Jungkook notices a whirring mind, he sees a steaming brain through a skull. Working at full blast.

But somehow, he only sees a calm ocean as he observes you gather your thoughts. Everything about you is gentle, but wrapped in dark mystery. How much mental training does it require to become this inscrutable?

When you finally speak, you’re saying similarly strange things.

“I see… colours.” Right. Stating the obvious. Jungkook chuckles, delivering a head tilt. “And am wondering how the painter got to create this at all. I mean, this looks so meaningless at first, doesn’t it?”

“And it’s not, yeah?”

“We’re fast to think that. Most of the time, there must have been a trigger, or a thought about something, no matter how small. Something might have been bothering him. This is—” A soft hand gestures towards the painting. “Such a chaotic mind.”

Interesting…

“Is this what you usually think about all day?” Jungkook wonders.

You scoff. “I’m just a person, too. I think about a lot of random things.”

“Ohhh. Like what?”

“Like… seeing all the green in this exhibit made me realise how this colour makes me cry.”

Jungkook takes a haphazard look around. Now that you say it — there’s no hint of a nature theme, but the abundance of green is striking now. It’s as calm as you. No wonder you’d immerse yourself in a showcase such as this.

You continue, as if tracing and reading his mind like an open novel, “It’s soothing, right? And unique. These earthly things sometimes make me feel like not all of us are deserving of seeing such beauty. Like it should be reserved for those who earn it.”

Earn it? How?

Jungkook can’t see your thoughts as clearly as you’re apparently capable of doing, but he has an inkling of what you might mean. Truly dazzling souls merit the stunning bloom of the world, right?

And then…

If that’s what it is.

He wonders — do you think he deserves to see the colour green? Or is it already over if he has to ask? Perhaps, should he be perceiving it as grey right now? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know how you think of him — doesn’t know anything about you at all. You’re a tough nut to crack.

“Hmm… that’s a way to think about it,” he says.

“Only because it’s the same for people. And I’ve had this thought about humans a lot… I…” You hesitate, blink, and then grant him your stare. “I knew someone who was the colour green. Not everyone deserved them, either.”

Poetic minds carry a certain pain in their eyes.

He’s been seeing it in yours. He just doesn’t know how to handle it. So he doesn’t.

Instead, he asks, “What else are you thinking about?”

“Uhmmm,” you voice, straightening your back a little, as if waking up from a dream — nightmare? “I’ve been thinking about trying that, too. Painting, I mean. It doesn’t have to mean anything or be good. Just a great way to capture something that resonates with what I feel.”

Every word you’ve uttered today was otherworldly. You didn’t talk like that when you were in his office, or at the meeting. Your soul is somewhat free-floating here, and he doesn’t understand why.

And it’s a behaviour he usually strays away from. The vulnerable ones can be dangerous.

But somehow… you’re too strong of a magnet.

One who shrugs all the mystery away — and he sighs in despair. Maybe it’s not time to find out what you feel just yet. What resonates with you — even though he’s dying to hear it.

He inquires, “Are you always this open?”

“No. Not at all.” Of course not. Rhetoric question — he knows this much. “But I like thinking out loud sometimes.”

“I’m glad to be a sounding board then.”

“Yeah. I was also thinking how I appreciate that I met you here.” Pause. Oh? What a surprise. Out of the blue, too. Strokes his ego, though. And then, unexpectedly again, “You wanna go to the museum restaurant?”

Jungkook has barely seen half of the exhibition yet. But just for today, he couldn’t care less.

Perhaps it’s enough for now, sitting in this overpriced restaurant, watching you from afar as you inspect your nails calmly. You’re not busy on your phone like the rest of the crowd — entertained by the same media that he’s part of.

Maybe he can be a bigger part of their lives one day — be the one flitting over their screens, the one they adore. The one they worship.

But you don’t seem to indulge in those mind-numbing devices for now. You might be an addition to his team, but privately, you float in your own world. Distracted by the thoughts you won’t disclose.

Your hands retreat, arms crossing on the table and lips curling into a smile once he strolls back to you. Satisfied, he informs you, “One cake with the coffee. As the lady suggested.”

“Oh,” you make, “don’t you want one?”

“I do.”

“So…” You stall, and he waits until it clicks, your head tilting in understanding. “Are we sharing?”

Jungkook lifts a thumb, pointing over his shoulder, back to the register, “Those chocolate cakes are sweet as heck. I’ve got a sweet tooth, but believe that it’ll be enough for the two of us.”

You laugh — a sweet, disarming chuckle before you breathe an, “Alright.”

Jungkook doesn’t know you well enough to feel any skip in his heart; yet, you stir something else in his mind. It’s always people like you who intrigue him the most — those who veil themselves in a coat of secrets.

He sighs.

“That was fast,” you note, eyes at a point behind him.

And he understands when the waitress arrives a couple moments later, two perfectly prepared lattes and a mouth-watering chocolate fudge slice. You thank her with a gentle smile, tuck a hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing the dangling earring.

And he watches.

Watches as you nod towards him, urging him, “Start then.”

Observes your smile as he signals you to start instead. And he gazes at you as your delicate digits reach for the fork, tearing off a piece, wrapping your lips around the utensil.

And then… God.

He feels his guts twist; hears all background noise fade; blood rushing away from his head, through his body as you slowly relish the sweetness and then drag your tongue over the fork. Licking away the leftover chocolate.

Jungkook swears it happens in slow motion. And witnessing your elegance at snail's pace… makes him sick.

When your eyelashes flutter, gape lifting to meet his, the sounds around him come alive again — as does he. He averts his stare from your mouth, covered in the same colour as the coffee, but you notice.

You see him looking. And it makes you… smile? Shit.

But you don’t boast your effect; only digress as you say, “Well… tastes as fancy as it looks. Try it.”

You’re as relaxed with him as you can be. But you always are; with everyone. He craves that bit that’s only reserved for him — then again, maybe he’s too zealous too fast. He hasn’t known you for long.

But making you smile must be an achievement. If only… you didn’t think of him like…

He nods, and then leans over the table ever-so-slightly. His knees brush against yours, a soft but deliberate move. He places an elbow on the table, grasping the fork, close to you. If he lifted his hand, he could touch your cheek.

He wishes he could.

His eyes meet yours through his bangs, the cake’s taste irrelevant to your presence. And when his ego doesn’t let him relax, he finally asks, almost as if insulted, “Do you actually perceive me as a fuckboy?”

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, furrowing your eyebrows, and then giggle before questioning back, “Jungkook… it’s bothering you this much? Mmmh. How would you like to be perceived?”

“Just. As a decent guy who wants to get to know you. And I know you know.” You blink, but he doesn’t buy it. So he elaborates, “I’ve been trying to make clear that I find you lovely. And somewhat attractive.”

People usually display a flicker of glimmer in their eyes upon hearing such praise. But you don’t quite budge; in fact, your eyes remain the same, if not a little darker. Why?

Yet, you cock an eyebrow, sporting a teasing, playful tone, “Somewhat, hm?”

He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “You’re pretty and I think you know,” he blurts, “and I don’t want to screw up right away.”

Is it the habit of never failing? The urge to solve an enigma? The chance to dive into you until you’re bared to him? Why are you so interesting to him?

You’re just a person.

Maybe it’s just the unsettling need to discover what you’re hiding — it won’t let him rest in peace. There’s something about you that screams to him to unravel. Makes him want you more.

He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know if you’re even from the same world as him — even though you seem to have crossed his realm before. No matter what it is; Jungkook merely understands for now that he wants to take off your layers.

Wants to be the colour green for you.

“Ah—” you voice.

“In fact, I’m not supposed to hang out here with you.”

“…How come?”

“I should be with Tae,” he admits. Maybe he’s revealing more to you than he should — maybe he should adjust to your level of secrecy and wait. But this is frustrating him. “He dragged me here, so I could get inspiration from all sides.”

You listen; perhaps not quite loving the idea of seeing him in such a way?

Fuck. Maybe it really was a mistake. No turning back now, though.

“He said artists find motivation in art, too, and I do like to paint, so…” He looks at his cup, still left to be tried from, and then stares up from the cream leaf that the barista formed in his coffee. “I didn’t wanna come here, though. I already have an idea of what I want to do.”

“And…” you start, still not addressing the issue on hand; choosing to talk about something else for now, “he doesn’t like what you’ve come up with?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t know about it yet.”

You take a sip of your coffee, softly smacking your lips once to relish the taste. You’re living proof that subtle gestures can make a mind race. Then you say, “Maybe you should introduce it to him then.”

“I will. Just… mmh, need a better grasp on it.” He throws a nod towards you. “I can’t wait to show you either.”

Another sip of the seething liquid.

If the gentle hint of him being bent on your presence flatters you anyhow — stirs anything in you at all — you don’t let it show. Are you, by chance, used to being swarmed from all sides?

Are his advances kindergarten to you?

You don’t budge as he waits for you to respond, setting the cup back on your saucer before you inquire, “Where is Taehyung, anyway then?”

“Uh, I’m sure he’s going around admiring the art?” Jungkook guesses, head reflexively moving to the side, as if his friend and co-worker could materialise out of thin air. “He enjoys it even more than I do.”

“And you separated from him because…”

Because Jungkook ascended a spiral staircase. Because he turned right and halted in front of the second instead of the first room. Because he recognised the familiar curves and edges, as intriguing as ever, from this far distance.

And told Taehyung to continue without him; that Jungkook was going to explore a different corner of the museum.

He tilts his head; his left eyebrow raises just a twitch, fingertips tapping the hot surface of the coffee cup. And then, charisma gathered in the middle of his pupils, he tells you—

“Because I found you.”

There it is.

The slightest of reactions.

Your eyes widen barely an inch, but he sees it. How your lips part a bit, even though you should’ve expected his answer after the conversations hitherto shared. Hm…

“So you did follow me,” you say.

He can’t say if you’re joking or not. But all of a sudden, he wonders if he’s creeped you out. He opted for flirting so clearly, but… maybe you interpreted it vastly differently.

But he keeps himself relaxed; not faltering now when you aren’t either. Answers, “If you want to call it that. I call it finding you and then sticking with you. You’re interesting, Miss Manager.”

You smile.

Genuinely, thoroughly, wholeheartedly.

The beam reveals more than any word could’ve today — that humanity slumbers somewhere in the crevices of your heart. Your eyes suggest it as much as your stance on art did.

Whatever might have scarred you in life, behind all that ache, you hide a delicate soul.

Green, green, green.

And your cryptic worry, uttered a moment later, doesn’t bring him down from his sense of victory. No. Not now.

“Yeah?” You cross your legs, letting out a breathy sigh. “Then I sincerely hope that doesn’t change.”

[6:43PM] Jeon Jungkook: i’ve been thinking about something. and of you

For a bedroom as sparsely decorated and light-coloured as Jungkook’s, he should be surrounded by a brilliant glow. And usually, he is.

The windows occupy half of the wall, the bedsheets a perfect white; had he texted you a couple hours prior, he would’ve found himself in the gleam of a pale blue late winter sky. But if he’d tapped your name on his device earlier, he would’ve indulged in a whole different mood, too.

Wouldn’t have given into fatigued, delirious fantasies. Daydreaming about the curves of your lips and about the single strands of hair kissing your cheeks. Or the way you love exposing your neck, as if to taunt him.

It’s right there, but you can’t touch it, Jeon.

And…

And the mounds of your chest, slivers of it visible whenever you put on those heaven sent dresses. Their cuts are almost as deep as the ones damaging Jungkook’s brain. And not much for the sake of his sanity, the thirst isn’t quenched just yet.

Crossed legs badly hidden under your see-through tights. The movement of your hips when you walk into his studio, placing yet another gruesome schedule onto his desk. Your scent when you lean into him, pointing to another meeting he barely recalls.

You… you…

If Jungkook hadn’t already cleaned up the sloppy mess previously covering his knuckles, trickling down his thighs, he’d possibly give into the urge to sneak his fingers back to where he craves them to linger.

No, you made that mess.

Of his sheets, of him. And you never needed to be here in the first place.

Jungkook is no fool — unlike many of his friends, he doesn’t deny the way his body winds. He knows what he wants; and right now, he hungers for you. Wants you to eliminate the drought on his tongue; wants you to replace it with some taste instead.

“Fuuuuck.”

The word drags into the emptiness of the room, filling the silence that someone else should be lifting. But you’re not here, and you’re not answering. Not yet, at least. Has it been seconds or minutes?

Too long, is all he knows.

His digits are cleaned thoroughly, but he can’t shake the persisting feeling of sheer, dirty lust as they reach his phone again. Lighting up the screen, then curling inwards in frustration.

He repeats the desperate attempt of manifestation a couple times until he throws the device aside, nearly missing the mid-air vibrations, indicating the long-awaited message. Jungkook’s heart falls out of his ribcage and squeezes his guts; your name elicits far more than it should.

And he feels just a little guilty.

Because he doesn’t deny himself any pleasure — so he knows this isn’t love. This isn’t starving for emotionality. Not for sentiments. What you pull out might be his ugliest, beastliest side; his mind is filled with images of you that he shouldn’t be having.

You’re so respected. So tender and kind. Intriguing, a riddle, but inhabiting secrets probably far darker than his thoughts. So he feels odd about the wanton desire; feels guilty.

But just for a bit. Just a little.

The message you sent back is too humble, too innocent. Sometimes he reckons you’re aware of your power, and sometimes he assumes you think of yourself as… ordinary.

But you’re not. And he wants to show you.

Just one touch, please.

“Fuck, shut up, you creep,” Jungkook whispers to himself, scolding his treacherous mind before he reads again.

[6:52PM] You: Oh? Why would you be thinking about me? Of all people?

Should he wait? You did, too.

Or should he make as crystal clear as he can muster that he’s been waiting for you?

Screw it.

[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: what else should I be thinking of?

Your next response is immediate — you’re online. Waiting for him to answer.

Good.

[6:53PM] You: Your music?

[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: my music doesn’t talk to me as much as you do these days

He smirks. Keeps the beam plastered to his face until the waiting becomes a little too long. Message on read, you leave the chat room empty of you and full of a nervy Jungkook. He opts out of it the same second, keen on patience before it fades again, bit by bit.

Because then, the thoughts flood in.

Are you rolling your eyes? Throwing the phone into a corner of your couch? Has he fucked up before anything could start?

But it’s been going so well. You talk to him every single day. Ever since the museum, the two of you have been orbiting each other; partly due to work, partly because he’s caught you smiling, too.

Your words are too sickeningly often accompanied by a soft touch of yours against his shoulders; against his arms. Sometimes, you brush his back, his eyes wide awake, the smile timid yet crushingly losing against your confident gaze.

All this must mean something.

“Nah. Fuck it,” he mutters again, sighing over his own constant use of curses. “Come back.”

[6:55PM] Jeon Jungkook: actually… I did come up with one tune. It’s just a skeleton of a song tbh, but I need a sounding board.

It takes another one minute for you to come back, and Jungkook angles his legs, relying on the movements of his body to ease the impatience. But then—

[6:56PM] You: Oh, and? [6:56PM] You: Sorry, I had to step away for a sec

Sigh of relief. Even though embarrassment annoyingly adds itself to the mix, an uninvited guest.

[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: …do you wanna come to the studio?

[6:57PM] You: Right now? It’s like… [6:57PM] You: 7pm

Unconsciously, Jungkook shrugs his shoulders, unbothered to the bone, just craving, craving, craving…

[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: a true artist never rests. [6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: and I’d rather die than stop hustling for my passion

As the next message appears at the bottom of the screen, Jungkook can’t help but bite into his lower lip with a certain pride. He nods as if he caught his prey, trapping it between his fangs.

[6:58PM] You: 😂LOL. now that, I admire, mister Jeon :) [6:58PM] You: I’ll finish my wine and be on my way

Oh.

Are you tipsy? Maybe he’s reading too much into it, but the emoji seems so unlike you; yet, you somehow manage to capture the core of what and who you are in the rest of the message. Six coherent words. That’s all it takes.

Goddamn.

You’re so thoroughly you.

[6:59PM] Jeon Jungkook: wait. really?

And that’s it. You disappear.

Perhaps you’re joking; perhaps you’re messing with him. The sun has already set; and he doesn’t think he’s ever stayed with you much longer than dusk before.

If he met you in the evening, or on other nights, would you make more sense than you usually do? Are you the type to unravel when the world quiets down? Or the one to blend with the darkness more, drawing back further?

If there’s pure truth in what you just said, devoid of all mockery you could revert to… he might find out. And it seems you’re in the right mood today, earnest with your intentions when he feels his phone vibrate against his thick thigh again, making him flinch.

[7:11PM] You: Yes? I’m already dressed. Get your ass up

Oh shit.

Despite your order, his limbs still shut down. His muscles and bones melt into the bed, a fleeting image of your sly smirk crossing his mind and an assured voice surrounding his eardrums.

And if he didn’t overthink each of your movements; didn’t fantasise about the possible rise and fall of your voice, he would’ve discarded his phone and gotten dressed a lot earlier.

How embarrassing.

The fact that his mind doesn’t want to categorise this as a crush, no matter how much he asks. That his body responds to you like that, superficial and intrigued.

Embarrassing. He should focus on more important things.

Yet, he can’t be bothered with the intruding sentiment, shame shoved aside and trampled under his feet as his car turns into a parking lot, perfectly in front of the building’s entrance. Your form is crystal clear in the dark; not even the shadows and lack of light can hide your silhouette.

The radar sensor beeps when he creeps too close to the hood of the car behind him, and he mumbles a curse, averting his eyes from your unmoving self to focus on proper parking. Letting the roaring engine die.

Your shoulders are slightly raised when he approaches you at the door. One hand is stuffed in the pocket of your thin, baby pink coat, the other curled into a fist, possibly resisting the urge to enter the building and combat the cold.

You could’ve waited inside, too. Unless…

Maybe you’re excited to see him, too.

You smile, lips reaching far up; he tries his hardest to believe he’s right. Takes the gesture as a good omen, and the hair pulled up in a loose bun as a sign of hurry. You look domestic, comfortable in your skin, no matter who’s around.

But somewhere between the comfort and the softness, there’s that everlingering intrigue, too. And… some timidness. Showing in the crossed legs his eyes drift over, up to the short skirt barely visible underneath the coat.

And your face… so natural. More than usual. Mascara only? He doesn’t know.

All he knows is that he needs to say something.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you throw back, tilting your head in tease, “where were you? Took you long enough to get here.”

He steps closer; fiddling with his jacket’s pocket, fishing for the keys. And his proximity changes something about you so subtly, a miniscule movement. Hand digging deeper into your coat.

You’re on guard for some reason. And he can’t help but admit he’s on guard with you, too, albeit in a less physical and more mental way. The unfathomable, dichotomous sensation of wanting you near, wanting you far is killing him.

What are you hiding?

If he could, he’d speak it out loud.

“I had to freshen up,” he finally responds, “I honestly didn’t expect you to say yes.”

Your body might be in protection mode, but your voice is as composed, even somewhat amused, as always, “Well.” You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t see why. But I’m here now, and honestly… a little cold?” Nodding towards the door, “Should we go inside?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He sniffles, fishing for the chip to unlock the door. For an ephemeral second right before walking inside, your breath lingers incredibly close to his own, grazing his lip ring. “Don’t forget to dress warm this season.”

Near enough for his fingers to succumb to the impulse and sidle to you, skimming your thigh so featherlightly. He thinks he hears the sharp inhale you suck in. His skin tickles, the shiver icy on his body. He watches you smirk, lowering your head; his fingertips insist on the vicinity just for the tiniest seconds before he says,

“Okay. Let's go inside before you catch a cold, silly.”

But the bitter frost permeates the hallways of the company in the same ruthless manner. Perhaps somebody’s still lingering around in the daunting dark. Revising steps in the mirrored practice rooms or hovering above lyrics and tunes, neck bent and back tired.

But the building isn’t heated; and it shows in your rather quick steps, an arm wrapped around your chest to rub the layers above your arm. The guarded demeanour doesn’t match your usual confidence; aside from the hollow hallways, it seems that you’re scared of more than just the cold.

He doesn’t point it out. And he doesn’t stare for too long.

If he did, you might realise.

Instead, he saunters to the elevator with you in tow, delighted about the light that never changes in the small rectangular space. You let your hand drop to your purse, lazily toying with its zip, and turn your head to observe the closing doors.

And Jungkook observes you.

The glow of your cheeks in the bright beam, half of your face devoid of the hair tucked behind your ear. As you breathe in, your lips split a fraction, and their gentle, soft curves mesmerise him for a moment too long.

It’s difficult and cruel, being around you. Haunting, agonising, aggravating.

And when your eyes align with his again, sparkling a little in line with your tender smile, Jungkook realises that he’s been holding his breath. Because it escapes between the seam of his mouth in a sudden push, his knees nearly buckling.

He resists the urge to bite into his fist, instead disguising his thoughts when he covers his mouth, teeth digging into his plump, lower lips.

“So,” he quickly adds, leaving no space for you to question his eccentricity, but you initiate another convo in the same tiny second, “It’s…”

You pause, withholding your statement in order to listen to his. But he shakes his head, lifting a hand to sign for you to continue. So you say, “It’s a little scary here at night.”

Okay. Not that tough of a topic.

“Right?” he confirms. “I always imagine getting here and hearing a hum that’s not really there.”

“Uh…” You blink in disbelief, lifting your eyebrows, but when he shrugs your confusion away, your hesitation marker turns into a chuckle. “Why the hell would you say that?”

“It’s just something I imagine. It’s terrifying, but my mind goes places, and I never ask it to.”

“Well, it’s a mean thing of your mind to do.” The ding of the elevator distracts you, and when you step out, your thoughts remain at an afar spot. Kept inside your pretty little head until you whisper, “And? Have you ever heard it, then?”

“Hm? The hum?” You nod, and he suppresses the snicker your curious, cocked eyebrow nearly elicits. “No. Only myself. Humming helps me control my breathing, so I do it to practise.”

“Weird. It’s so different from how I’d imagine you.”

Huh. Seems he’s not the only one sketching your entire being to keep himself awake at night.

“How would you?” he asks.

“As a rockstar?”

“Oh?” That’s new. “As a future RnB slash pop sensation I find this officially peculiar. Why a rockstar?”

You cock an eyebrow; either digesting the confident prophecy or pondering his question. The crooked smile matches his own signature smirk a little, and you puff out a breath before your sombre yet sparkling eyes wander an inch further down, right to his mouth.

Your eyelashes are endless, on their way to brush those delicate apples of your cheeks — in reality, it’s an impossible fantasy written in novels and poems, but it’s exactly how it looks. Exactly how much your curious gaze drops.

Only, the tingling sensation in his chest soon subsides, freeing a path to the realisation that he’s yet again misunderstanding. Because you’re not drawn by his lips, but rather considering a response.

He sighs in subtle disappointment when you point to the shiny metal encircling his lower lip, telling him, “Gotta be the piercing.”

“Ah. Ahhh. Well. First off, this is a very stereotypical assumption.” You shrug your shoulders in amusement, watching him cram for his chip until he halts in front of his studio, keeping you in his vision. “And secondly.”

The lock of the door clicks as he swipes the chip across the reader, defined knuckles paling a bit when he pushes the handle down. He raises his chin by a fraction, pulling out the most-assured smile, and asks, “Do you like it?”

And you, composed as ever, respond, “It suits you. I always wonder how comfortable these are, though.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, like. Do they have a metal taste? Do you ever get hyper aware of them and then get annoyed and want them off? Are they… cold?”

He laughs. There’s something endearing about how your voice quietens further the more your curiosity grows. You’re not quite looking at him, pupils focused on a random spot, hands expressive as you vocalise your thoughts.

“Let’s see,” he mutters, jacket thrown over a chair, “sometimes and, again, sometimes. It feels a bit cold right now because it’s cold outside. I mean…”

He rubs the chill off his tattooed arm, fingers diving under the short sleeves of his white, oversized t-shirt. Attempts never faltering, he leans into you in intrigue, parting his lips before running his tongue over the jewellery.

“Do you just. Wanna touch it and find out for yourself?”

You blink, frozen in place.

The room isn’t too spacious; Jungkook will get his very own studio, name tag and all once he reaches a clear peak. For once, he’s glad about the crowded room, girded by a guitar on the wall, chairs standing side by side, a little couch leaning against the back of the wall.

As ever, he can’t decipher your mood; as ever, you’re still quick to answer, “I… no. It’s okay.”

Why don’t you want him?

Goddamn it.

“Okay,” he simply utters, shrugging his vexation away. “Let’s get started then.”

The excitement in his tone dips, seemingly aloof, but as he walks into the dark square of silence, reaching for the headphones he placed right here mere hours ago, wordless curses dangle off the tip of his tongue.

He makes sure you don’t see the clench of his jaw or the fast and steady fall of his ego, but you’re shoving back the chair and adjusting anyway. Crossing tight-clad legs as you place your coat on your lap, throwing your mane to one side to free that damned neck.

It must be on purpose.

He waits for you to settle, the headphones on the table in front of you enveloping your head. They look way too big on you, and Jungkook can’t decide whether to tut at his anguish or swoon at your stellar being.

Jungkook uses his headphones to communicate through the glass, raising a thumb to ask, “Ready?” You nod, matching his gestures with your own. “Be honest, how professional do I look?”

Carding the fine hair back, he pushes a hand into the pocket of his pants, taking a stand in front of the boom microphone. He mimes a typical grimace of an immersed artist, letting out an immediate, sweet chuckle that you chime in joyfully.

You lean in, long earrings brushing your jaw, pressing down the button for the talkback mic to assure through the intercom, “You look like a born star.”

He rolls his eyes, playfully clicking his tongue, “Ahhh, that’s a nice yet basic thing to say, but. I’ll take it.”

“Why did you go in there anyway? Weren’t you just going to show me a song?”

“Adlibs, baby. I’m still missing those.” He adjusts the headphones again, clearing his throat, almost in position. “But I didn’t warm up my voice, so I’ll need to re-record them anyway.”

“And still you’re straining your voice because…?”

“We’re here to impress you, so let me.”

Your finger lifts off the button, but the movement of your lips suggests to him undoubtedly what your teasing self might be mumbling.

Oh damn. Sorry then, boss.

You raise your hands in defeat until you detect his beguiled smile, raising your eyebrows in a clear question that he answers with two words; a simple title of a song, not as glorious as the tune itself but hopefully as memorable.

Eyes scurrying across the now opened laptop screen, you search for the instrumental until you stumble upon it. 3:54 minutes of what Jungkook prays to be blasted everywhere in a couple week’s time before the big concert, chiming in his ears.

The initial guitar riff drowns the room in a mixture of intriguing anticipation and uncurbed sentiments immediately. Jungkook’s eyes dart to your face, attempting to decode a reaction. And when you notice, hands on the headphones, you nod approvingly.

Most of his vocals are already recorded to perfection; a silky voice laments about a lost time with purity. Jungkook largely listens in, searching for wonky bits or moments to be re-tackled. Of course, he will need to discuss the details with Taehyung tomorrow, but whenever the passion burns the hottest, he can’t help but add an adlib here and there.

As he sings, his eyes reflexively close, and for a couple dozen seconds, the melodic current pulls him towards a bigger ocean; the sense of freedom and possibility is astonishing. There’s a certain ardour he feels towards music that nothing will ever be able to elicit.

Do you feel the same?

As somebody spending day in, day out surrounded by musicians, does that phenomenon make your heart surge, too?

Maybe.

When he looks at you again, it’s at least something fervent he detects in your gaze. A bit like the longing he feels. Intense fondness, or perhaps, even zoning out — until you’re barely blinking anymore.

Your features relax a little more as the song proceeds, bit by bit, the calmest when the ending notes arrive. Jungkook observes you; freezes at his spot. The change from the built-up chorus to the suddenly calm ending, instruments dying, are as forgotten as the last touches… because you, behind the glass, are much more interesting.

Just staring. Looking at the screen, its brightness reflecting in your pupils. When you blink again, most of the preceding smile is gone, something indecipherable in your eyes.

He doesn’t know whether you actually enjoyed the entire thing or became consumed by memories he doesn’t know of. Some the song might have drawn out but shouldn’t have. There’s… a past in your stare.

He knows because much like the vast existing humanity, he’s been tending to faraway memories for years, too.

And he wants to know about yours.

Gently, Jungkook grasps the headphones covering his ears, the mane victim to the impact before his fingers fix it again. He frees his eyes off his strands, never directing them away from you, and when he opens the door to the small room you drifted off in, you look up.

Your emerging smile is unsuspecting and polite as always, and you deliver a tilt of your head. Jungkook could sign the previous oddness off as just this, or a sinking into arts just as he does sometimes.

But what’s enough is enough; brushing questions off his mind has become tedious.

So he rolls back the second chair next to you to take a seat, placing his arm on the one of the furniture before folding his fingers; leaning in, asking, “You okay?”

You react with a soft nod, a tender hum, “Yeah! I was listening.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“You zoned out.”

“Which is a good thing, I promise.”

Jungkook looks for a moment. Waits for you to break or admit that the truth you display might not be as pure as you think; waits for his instinct to wind up correct.

But when you do nothing of that sort, eyes a resolute and solid statement, he sighs. Tongues at the lip ring for a moment before he clears his throat and questions, “Good thing, yeah? What else do you think?”

“It… goes deep,” you confess, an impressed declaration in your expressions, “what are you talking about in that one? I mean, I know, but… it sounds so personal.”

“More or less? I’ve spent most of the last few years dedicating myself to this job. The training, the late night sessions, the failure and lost time. I wanted to depict those hardships.” He nods, emphasising his points. “I want this song to help me look back one day…”

He shrugs his shoulders, thumbs slowly circling around each other, “And comfort my older self that despite the hectic life, things are okay.”

“I see.”

Your tone is neutral, but your chest rises and falls a little too slowly. Your sorrow is quiet. He closes the distance further, nudging your arm, “Hey. Did you not like it?”

“I did,” you defend, honesty and reassurance in your voice, “I do. You have an amazing voice, come on, what’s not to like. And the sound is incredible. Should you manage to release it, it will be celebrated a lot.”

“I will manage to release it,” he says with furrowed eyebrows, resisting the urge to touch your elbow again, but settling on simply calling your name instead, “you’re part of my team. Let’s be optimistic.”

“I am. Teamwork makes the dream work. Etcetera.”

“Right,” Jungkook breathes, word close to a yawn. He throws his body back in the cushioned chair, manspreading as much as the space allows; stretches his arms until his muscles crack. “Ahhh… I really want this to be good.”

His gaze falls to the darkening laptop, soon giving way to pitch darkness, potentially to some screensaver. The title of the song remains still in the opened audio file, and he smacks his lips, blinking only when you voice an approving, “Mhmmm.”

His head darts to you the moment you deliver a subtle nod towards the computer, deducting, “You really strive to be big.”

Well, yeah. That’s been the plan. Always, always.

“Shouldn’t I?” he argues. “It’s a dream.”

“It’s good to have dreams.”

“That’s right. Mine is to… Stand on a bigger stage. I think I’ve reached a solid group, but I think if I keep working hard and with the right team, I can make it?”

“This determined, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he responds with a hint of obvious self-evidence, slight confusion shadowing his mind — have you never wanted something so badly? “The audience’s eyes glued to me. Don’t you have a dream?”

Another deep inhale of air, chest working hard, as if you’re breathing out fatigue. He prepares for another vague answer that might leave him guessing; and albeit clearly seeing the usual curtain veiling your true thoughts, what you say next makes his ears perk up.

“Honestly. I’ll allow dreams again once I’ve moved on. That’s all I want.”

What?

Did you actually want to say that? Was it on purpose? A slip of the tongue?

Because it seems so unlike you. Reveals too much. He doesn’t think you’ve exposed your innermost thoughts like this before, even if still not quite transparent.

“…From what?” The previously relinquished distance dies when he inches closer again, digits sneaking close to your knee. A fingertip floats over your tights. “Hey. Is something bothering you?”

“Ugh,” you say; the sliver of sadness seamlessly transitions into an expression of nonchalance when you wave your concerns off so quickly. “Young adult stuff.”

Nevertheless, you speak on. The biggest development in this friendship between the two of you yet. “I once had a friend that moved away. We were pretty close, and now she’s far away. Which sucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

That’s it.

Jungkook offers to listen, but he doesn’t necessarily deem himself the most expressive guy when it comes to emotions like these; even if he so deeply wishes to read your thoughts. Music is different; speaking to an audience is, too. Articulating gratitude isn’t as difficult as extinguishing someone else’s grief.

And while not quite confronted with anguish, he houses demons that still haunt his nights; he can barely obliterate them.

Maybe he doesn’t need to.

Maybe he can comfort you in the only way he’s ever known. The stupid, selfish way; offering relief and distraction in the most sinful manner.

“Listen…” Jungkook starts, but in all honesty — there isn’t much to say.

Only to crave. To look.

At the curve of your lips. The distance between them. The bare wrist needing to be held, tired eyes wanting to replace the sorrow with something else.

Is he an asshole for wanting to annihilate your heavy breaths of dejection and replace them with sighs of his name instead?

He doesn’t know. He barely hears his thoughts. Only the blood rushing to his ears, and then away from his head, down his body.

Fuck.

The levitating finger drops an inch; you gasp almost inaudibly when the tip touches your knee, skin separated by the tights only. Jungkook loves fashion choices like these, but hates the hurdle right now.

His warm palm opens, placing right above your knee, approaching the meat of your thigh. He knows you’re not breathing because he can’t hear the exhales; and when his eyes, hooded and possibly insane, flit up to you, he recognises the change in your pupils.

You gulp; and then finally push out some air again. Your hand moves to his inked wrist, touching lightly, unsure what to do. But when you don’t resist, his other arm lifts, touch moving to your face, holding it.

The world spins, moving like an earthquake as his mouth draws nearer. You let out a miniscule sound that punches him in the guts; sweet and pure.

He wants to shatter and wreck you so bad; wants you to feel the same poison you’ve fed him. Irresistible, deadly.

But just as the metal of his jewellery grazes your lips, the softness and warmth radiating towards him, your breath shakes. Your face budges enough for his upper lip to feel a brush against yours, but that’s all he gets.

Because you retreat without giving in. And he doesn’t know why.

He clenches his jaw. God fucking hell. What’s your problem?

The sense of failure overwhelms him. Failure. Failure.

That’s not the term his mind should conjure. He knows the moral compass hides somewhere in his dark heart; he knows. Yet, he can never give into it. Is he a bad person? He doesn’t know.

Control was never his domain, after all.

But he keeps those intrusive thoughts inside, intending to not scare you off more than he already might have. So he accepts the dodging of the kiss, moving back, immediately leaving you safe from his touch.

And then, he says, “Uhm— I’m sorry.”

You don’t answer, still catching your breath, back to the heavy sighs that he was going to help shove back. Once again, he tries, “Honestly, I apologise, I just…”

“No, no. Please, don’t be sorry,” you reassure, slightly touching his shoulder. A wave of relief washes over him. “I’m just. Not in the right mindset for it yet. But I’m flattered, really.”

“Okay.” He nods. His eyes drop to his fingers; he still feels your heat on his skin, basks in it for a moment. But when the awkward silence lingers, he suggests, “Then. Let’s call it a night and I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. I’m definitely getting tired.”

“Me too.”

Jungkook rises from his seat, still unable to wrap his head around what happens — or almost happened. Maybe another time. Grabbing your coat from behind you, he helps you into it, avoiding your eyes, trying not to showcase his frustration.

Uncertain what to say, he reverts back to small talk, stating, “Thanks for still coming so late. You really do like the song, yeah?”

“Jungkook… it’s honestly very good.”

You smile; there’s something about your honesty. About the way you say his name. And how hopeful you truly seem for him. How much you seem to mean it when you say—

“If there’s anyone who can manage to wrap the world around their finger, it’ll be you, Jungkook.”

“Alright. I think I have an answer to your question now.”

You down the sip of red wine with a delicate smack of your lips, blinking at the change in topic. The evening has followed a pleasant pace so far, conversations well balanced; even though you still carry a sense of caution that Jungkook sees no reason behind.

Perhaps it’s the fact that after weeks of subtle, flirty undertones and advancing attempts you’ve taken the seat on his couch as he’s imagined for so long now. Maybe he still exudes something that screams for caution; maybe that’s just who you are.

Jungkook, for one, is just glad to receive any kind of recognition from you. But he’d be a fool to not insert all his effort into tonight, from the food to the type of drinks and conversations. He knows where he needs to be and he wants you to want it, too.

“What question?” you ask.

It’s just.

Despite the lightness with which you carry your talks, some of your movements feel off, detached from your body. Not quite matching the grace your face portrays; just that one hint. The one hiding in your fingers, tapping the dark screen of the phone resting on your thigh.

As if you’re waiting for a call or something to happen that Jungkook isn’t aware of. Who knows. Nothing has happened in the last hour, so this might be an unconscious gesture reasoned in nothing but an absent or distracted mind.

Yeah.

You’re probably not even aware of it and he’s just overthinking it.

He takes a breath, inhaling the aroma of the almost finished wine, “What I’d do if I could spend a day in a virtual reality.”

“Wait, does the Wembley Stadium doesn’t count anymore?”

Jungkook smirks, dismissing his own prior answer with a click of his tongue. “C��mon. Does it really? You can ask literally any artist ever and that’s what they’ll say.”

You ponder his response, pursing your lips in thought, and then shrug one shoulder. Nodding along, you acknowledge, “Right. So what is it then?”

“I’d just.” He sucks air through his teeth sharply, leaning back with a signature smack of his lips. “Get into a reality in which this damn song is already finished and mixed and ready to be released.”

This song referring to the concoction of sounds he showed you earlier, yet to be concretised and burnished to what he truly envisions. It’s the only song left that shackles him to the studio; at the upcoming concert, he’ll just sing the demo version as a sneak peak if needed. What a source of stress.

But you don’t see it as much of a struggle; you’ve told him a dozen times that hard work justifies a slip-up. That the progress on his album balances out the artist’s block.

Possibly why you laugh his worry off without mocking it, merely throwing back, “I’m disappointed.”

Oh?

“Why?”

“Just because — the Wembley answer was better.”

Unexpected and sudden — much like the snicker you elicit, throwing his head back just a little. Concurring, he sighs, “Okay, okay. What about you then?” He cocks an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me what you’d do.”

“You didn’t ask,” you remind him, already slurring your speech a bit, though still remaining a stable and solid stance, “dunno. You want the sappy or the basic answer?”

“Is the sappy one a tear-jerker? Sounds like it.”

“For sure.”

“Then the basic one. Don’t dig being sad.”

“Thought so,” you answer, and Jungkook holds back from prodding again this time, despite wondering what image he gets across, “alright. I’d do things I’m unsure of in real life. Like bungee jumping.”

“Oh? Kinda did not expect this.”

“No?”

“Just having a hard time imagining somebody as calm as you jumping off a building. Or yelling.”

You roll your eyes. “Anyway. I’d love to go, but I’m too scared of the risks. Like, rope stuff. Don’t want to be jumping for the last time.”

“Okay, yeah, but,” Jungkook starts, hesitating, “I mean, you could say that about anything. You leave your apartment and get hit by a car and then you’d be going out for the last time.”

You begin shaking your head mid-sentence, already drawing a breath, ready to disagree. Then, “That’s a bad comparison. These things are a once in a lifetime experience.”

“I’m just saying! Why hold back from things that excite you.”

“…Maybe you’re right.”

Jungkook’s proud nod and hum are reciprocated with a soft smile, fleeting when you roll your eyes back to your phone briefly. Absent-mindedly, you drag a fingertip across the device’s side as Jungkook follows your movements.

Yet, unsure what you might be harbouring in this pretty head of yours, he doesn’t ponder but asks, “What was the sappy thing?”

It’s as if you live multiple lives, hiding them in your innermost parts; because once he finishes his question, your sparkle returns, and you smirk a little, suddenly leaning forward.

Wordlessly, you fish a tissue out of the square, wooden box, puzzling him for a second until he understands right before you clarify, “For the upcoming tears.”

His titter is immediate, a reflex. You might be relaxed as a calm river, but your humour does shine through among your other million traits. He shakes his head in rejection, smile still plastered to his lips, and watches you lean back again, clearing your throat.

“Mhh, I’d say,” you muse, “I’d try to get into a simulation of Heaven. Try to meet those I miss.”

“Oh… damn.”

“Yeah.”

“…I don’t know what to say.”

But despite the dumbstruck silence, his mind does conjure prompt associations. Like when the two of you sat in his studio just two weeks ago, you engrossed in his music yet somehow dissociated from reality.

You spoke about lost and faraway people back then, too. And he didn’t ask then, either.

In the depths of his mind, he wants to believe that you’re trying to lead him somewhere, fishing for his hand but never quite reaching it. Drawing back right before pleading for help; or perhaps wanting to make him understand a thought he can’t fathom in the way you form it.

The pattern is repetitive, loud — but he knows you’ll retract the moment he does lean into you, offering his ear to your worries and thoughts.

He can’t win.

“That’s okay,” you say, making up for his lack of proper empathy, and that’s where you leave it. Not hesitating, not indicating another hint to lead to your mind.

Yet, he clears his throat quietly, licking drying lips, and asks in attempt to grip the truth, your whatever-truth, “And, who’d be there? Do you want to talk about that?”

“Mmmmh,” you hum, pondering, before you treat him with the same disappointment he’s suffered throughout the last weeks, “no. I think I’m good.”

Unbelievable, and truthfully, frustrating.

Are you playing this side of yours? Is it an act? Are two sides of you fighting within you?

“Okay,” he simply responds, clearly agitated but unsure whether you notice. You’re looking at your phone again. He sighs. “And… Do you believe in that stuff? Heaven, Hell, stuff like that.”

You shrug a bare shoulder. “Dunno. I like to think there’s something, but then again I don’t.”

“How so?”

“The way I see it, it’s kinda simple,” you explain matter-of-factly, “some people are good enough to deserve a place in Heaven once they’re gone. And some people are terrible enough to burn for eternity.”

Coming from your sweet mouth, uttered in an equally soft tone, the sentence feels jarring. Jungkook has had these thoughts before; he’d be a hypocrite to judge you for yours, recalling moments when he wondered where he’s destined to land once he’s left this realm.

And somehow, it was never the prettier option.

Still, he utters, disguising his own past pondering, “Wow. That’s dark.”

“It’s true. There’s some serious crime in the world.”

Agreed. Perhaps, compared to the extreme sins, he can be forgiven. Right? Maybe…

“Yeah,” Jungkook accords, “then, why did you say that sometimes you don’t like believing in it?”

“I mean, if there’s actually something like Hell, and I happen to fuck up throughout life… I don’t wanna end up there.”

It’s like you’re mirroring his thoughts.

Even if he never quite thought about it to such an extent. Even though his idea of the afterlife built on what he’s already done, and not what he’s still going to do.

But your words give a subtle hope that redemption is possible. Who knows. Who really knows.

Perhaps it’s easiest to stray away from these thoughts and focus on you at this very moment. Even if it’s you triggering innermost fears; he doesn’t quite have a clue how you do it.

No matter. He’ll focus on you. Altruism might be the first step to vindication. Karma points. Karma points.

“Valid,” he says kindly, “can’t imagine you fucking up, though.”

“How would you know?”

“The company grapevine whispered a lil something about you.”

“Ahhh—”

“Good things! Other than that, I just think. Don’t know.” A small gap, well-hidden so far, grows in the back of his mind, tiptoeing to the very front of his mind. Before he’s thought it through, he blurts, “I’ll be honest with you.”

Your ears perk up, eyes suddenly wide.

What was that?

Okay. Whatever. Can’t stop his speech now, “Uhm, I’ll be honest and say that I’m not the best person I know. Like, I’m aware of that. It’s why sometimes, I don’t really understand how people can be as genuine as you.”

…Has he said too much? Or not enough? Because he could swear your face deflates, expression dimming, as if you expected something else.

And all you say is, “I understand.”

A flicker of slight panic creeps into his overthinking head, not usually a trademark of his personality. But you look dispirited, even if just for a second. He tries further.

“And from what I’ve seen, you go through life gently. The way you do anything is how you do everything, right?”

“Hmmm,” you voice again, pupils hidden until you look up. And when you do, he breathes a sigh of relief; deep and obvious, and he doesn’t care if you notice. Smiling sweetly, you tell him, “You said that really well.”

The way you say it is riddled with woe, but within a second, your eyebrows relax, mouth forming an authentic grin. Displaying real emotions suits you better than the mask of the frigid ice queen you keep plastered to your face; you look different right now.

Vulnerable.

And it makes him want you more.

Does it have something to do with the warm light he chose for this room? No. It doesn’t shine brightly enough to really illuminate your face that much. With the intensity lowered beforehand, some of your features hide in the dark when you lower your head a little.

And it’s not the decent amount of alcohol the two of you slurped.

It’s the usual, mysterious shimmer in your eyes, begging to take off more of your mental layers. The fragility behind the pretence of invincible strength. No doubt, you’re still a textbook definition of a femme fatale.

Still, there’s some sweet urge to surrender, visible in your stance. A fragrance luring him in. Warm skin close to his; calling for his fingers.

And he’s at your beck and call, ready and motivated; giving into your wanting eyes — or is that his own desire he’s confusing? — and leaning in. A little more with each tiny moment, advancing until the tips of your noses meet.

Your warmth consumes him; your breathing quickens, resulting in fitful exhales that he takes in with vigour, much drowning in his own head until you gasp and he realises—

“Sorry,” he mumbles, not yet retracting. His hand touches your knee, carefully but with intention. Waiting, he asks, “Is that okay for you?”

“…I’m not sure.”

Your answer takes a seat on his ego and weighs it down. Harsh, sudden, perhaps not unexpected but definitely breaking a string of patience within him. But consent is consent; he understands. He’s grown now.

Yet…

“Fuck,” he whispers under a faint sigh, dejected and confused.

And you hear it. Bambi-eyed, you ask, ��What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

He’d lie if he suppressed the disappointment. Working towards you for weeks was supposed to end in realising his fantasies into a palpable, actual feeling, with a side achievement of a deeper connection.

You don’t seem to want to provide it; he understands, but the agitation courses through him like a fire burning up a forest. The trees are his nerves; alight with different emotions. You’re fumbling with the soft cotton of your winter dress, and he averts his eyes.

Shutting them for a moment, he ponders his options; does he continue the awkward conversation? Or perhaps, ask you for your opinion straightforwardly? Maybe, after all this while, it wouldn’t be so stupid to swap a penny for your thoughts.

And his mouth opens, but it seems you’re faster. Crushing his questions and uncertainties when he hears you gulp, witness to another change of mind as your knee shifts forward. His eyes open rapidly, and when he looks at you again, you’ve moved closer.

Your leg touches his thigh; your eyelids half fallen, lips an inch apart and fingers hesitating, yet advancing towards him. Hope sparks and sparkles in him anew, and he suppresses the cheeky, triumphant smile.

He feels like an asshole. Oh, he feels so selfish — but he can’t be the only one. He cannot possibly be the first or last to give into deepest desires out of self-interest.

Carefully, he matches your pace, moving into your direction much like you are drawing into his. His hand lifts to your arm, and you suck in a breath as he touches your skin, your chest rising and falling deeply.

And his eyes observe. The motion drives him crazy. He wants to pilot his touch to this spot, wrap his palm around your mounds, desperate to feel your nipples perk up under his skin, your mouth fall wider.

Should he? Maybe, maybe—

Not yet.

Instead, he draws an invisible line with his fingertips, up your arm and to your shoulders until he reaches your neck. The sound you let out is so tiny he barely hears it, and you tilt your head to the other side, giving him free reign over your skin.

A spark lights up under his finger, as if he’s touched a defective bulb. He wonders if you feel the same flame when he charges for your jawline, tracing it for a moment before he moves to your seething hot cheek.

You’re burning up.

So he asks in a quiet, gravelly voice, somehow much lower than usual, “Are you okay?”

Your eyebrows are furrowed, and he starts to worry again; but maybe that’s just the same tension unleashing that he’s felt, too. The temptation runs deep; he could scream it out of his lungs and it wouldn’t be enough.

Relieved as you nod, he mimics the movement, whispering an, “Okay,” before he then dips forward, exhaling close to your neck hotly and… leaves a small kiss right there. He doesn’t know about you, but if you did that to him, he’d possibly faint.

One more kiss, and suddenly, your hand is on his knee. His head spins. Must be the alcohol. Must be you.

And you’re probably in no better state, judging the hot cheeks and the slight sway of your body. Must be the wine. Must be him.

And when his lips graze your jaw, your fingers curl in, clawing onto his knee, and his inner voice celebrates, “Jackpot.”

But not really. He’s going with the flow, exploring your preferences, but this needs to be the night of your life. His mind and ego want you to perceive it that way. So what should he do? What do you like?

Are you one to push him into the bed, holding his shoulders down? Straddling him keenly, pouncing on him, eyes rolled back?

Or do you give away all the power you usually emanate; hands bound with a tie, legs struggling between a rope, screams muffled under a gag? Do you wind and go crazy when somebody has their way with you, edging and then overstimulating, refusing a touch and then slapping your ass wound…

Should he let your siren eyes tempt him into submission or will you be the one drilled into his mattress with a hand around your neck and a trail of black mixed with tears under your eyes?

He doesn’t know. Because you’ve disguised all of you; hidden your mind behind a mask of absolute neutrality, hard to decipher. He can usually read women so easily. They lick their lower lips when they want him under them, and quiver when vice versa.

He’d oblige to either for you. So what does it matter in the end, anyway?

No, it doesn’t.

His tongue that lashes out, however, does matter. Tasting your skin as it drags over your chin and then to your mouth. Insane when he reaches your lower lip and you sigh, then back to your neck, blowing, teasing, still not kissing you… touching your thigh, moving inwards…

“What do you want me to do?” he asks.

And this time, while still a little quiet, you finally say, “More. You can do more.”

“Yeah?”

You nod as if starved, relieved when his hands leave your leg and venture further in. It’s hidden under your dress, but somehow, not seeing your full glory just yet, but observing your reactions to his movements, stirs his thoughts. If any were left, that is.

The touch to your panties is light, tender as he reaches the hem, driving a finger underneath it in exploration. You don’t say much, but he sees the zeal in your eyes, murmuring a little, “Mhm…”

And when he finally presses against the fabric slowly dampening, lightly as he rolls his digits right where your skin so incredibly softens… you moan. You moan.

It doesn’t sound the way he imagined. But it kind of does. He doesn’t remember what he imagined — doesn’t know much at all. Just that he wanted this sound to echo within his walls. For him to be the one to drag it out. Not for anybody else, but him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Okay. What if he does… this…

Thought so.

Sometimes, human beings have a fantasy unmatched, don’t they? Able to form and reform expressions on people they know that they have never seen. For example, he can imagine what you look like when you cry. Or when you’re mad. Or…

He knew you’d press your lips together, along with your eyebrows, muffling your sound once he sought out your clit and pressed against it. And not because he’s seen other women contort their faces like this; no… it’s an entirely new sensation with you.

You don’t compare to anyone. Nobody compares to you. Nobody, ever.

Sick of watching the invisible movement under your dress, he lets his eyes wander to yours, and you notice, do as he does. Eyes hooded, staring at him as if drunk — possibly, probably drunk.

Just once, he gapes down again, trying to adjust without crushing your knees with his. Comes closer. Then looks back at you. Absolutely astonished by the coloured lips drying up. Seeing your tongue peak behind your upper teeth, pushing against them.

Then you’re blinking, several times, not rapidly, but enough to indicate that you’re losing yourself, too. And then there’s some melancholy behind your gaze; he can’t say where it derives from… you seem to be coming out of a room that you kept dark for long enough.

He can’t say whether he’s further dimming the light in that room or lightening it up — and as he advances, gauging your reactions, he inwardly hopes it’s the latter.

So inwardly. So desperately.

Patience only persists for a moment; Jungkook barely believes in it. People always break. And he does when you lean forward as he drags his finger between your pussy lips, still over the clothing. You balance your weight with your arms, holding yourself up.

And then…

You so tantalisingly, softly, quietly, whisper his name.

Okay.

The snap was expected. The sigh he lets out was expected. And the way his lips finally crash against yours, making you almost fall back onto the sofa was expected, too.

But your taste… Why did he know you’d be as sweet as a cliché, like a perfume made edible? Matches your mystery and your elegance.

And the mellow, yet wanting sounds fit every move he makes. Like the moan-sigh combination when his bold hand wraps around the bun you’ve arranged your hair into. How you breathe into the kiss when he tilts your head a little, and then proceeds to loosen up said bun.

Releases it. Lets your hair fall. Pulls you in, pausing the make-out in the process, and then diving back in with a greed he’s never been met with before.

And as he kisses you, his index finger still dips into the uncharted territory below, ruining your panties some more as he soaks them; fucking loving how you whimper as a result.

No… this is ruining him just as much.

So he draws back from your body, attempting and probably failing not to look at you like an animal glaring down at his prey, ready to devour. He’s never seen this expression himself, but one or two girls have uttered quiet, “Oh-oh,” in such moments before — do you see the danger, too?

Or is he being cocky? But it’s not his fault. You make him cocky because he can never fucking say what you think! Of course he’d need the mental praise to himself — your opinion on him is too difficult to decipher.

He’ll keep the energy up. Make you shrink in his hold.

Hands under your ass, he lifts your lower body a little, amused by your wide eyes and how you wonder, “What are you d—”

Silencing the moment he uses his palms’ position to grab the hem of your panties and pull them down your legs. Over them and then on the other side of the table. The two of you won’t need those tonight.

“What does it look like that I’m doing?” he teases, smirk effective and permanent.

He likes that about himself. Maybe you’ll do, too. If not, then you at least do like how his fingers, impatient, find their way back home again, not before lifting your dress to your hips until you’re bared to him the way he’s craved.

And he pauses.

Oh, this treasure…

“You…” he starts, moving two ring-clad fingers between your folds. Testing the waters. “I’m not letting you go anywhere tonight. You’re staying right here…” He leans forwards, body on body, whispering against your lips. “Trapped under me.”

You want to answer, he thinks. Your eyebrows relax for a second, an inebriated smile playing around your mouth. If he knows you well enough, he’d guess you’re urging to dive back into your witty remarks.

But none of it is possible just yet. Because when he caresses your pussy again, increasing the pace without being too unreasonably fast, you bite your lip. He urges you to release it with his tongue. And when you do, his finger plunges in; as deeply as it can. So easily, too.

He kisses your clavicles the moment your nails get ahold of his arms, wiggling underneath him, but still caged in. And he sees the built-up frustration; how you kept yourself at bay, but can barely do it now. How you yearn for just one or two more right touches here and there before…

But before he can, he stops. Immediately, unexpectedly for you. Once again, mean, but…

“You’ll thank me later,” he utters — and with those four measly words, something awakens in you that was hidden for just the last ten minutes.

“Oh? You… you’re confident like this.”

“Of course I am.”

“Jungkook…” you say in such frustration that he thinks you’ll beg some more. But you don’t. Instead, you shake your head and say. “Men rarely manage to…”

“This isn’t rare. I’m not giving you rare, ‘kay?”

“I…”

“How…” he readjusts your body, pulling you down the couch, shifting until his knee keeps your legs apart. “How fucking insulting.”

Do you hear any of this anymore? Because your eyes are closed again. Hands still holding on; and… and body winding in order for your cunt to shift closer to him, suddenly rubbing against his knee.

It’s all you can get at the moment since his hands are so far out of reach. And the satisfaction of knowing that you’ll strive for anything at all is cosmic.

“You’re ruining my jeans,” he mocks, clicking his tongue as if to reprimand.

“Then…” You hook a finger into one of his jeans’ loops, pulling and then releasing again. “Take them off, coward.”

You don’t have to tell him twice. They say that if you have waited for so long, what’s ten more minutes? But no more. Not another second.

So he obliges immediately as he mutters, “‘Kay,” offering a helping hand when you work on his shirt. Off and to the ground. Pants off and to the back of the couch. He already knows he’ll be finding them all scattered the next morning.

But that’s the problem of just that next-morning-self.

Boxers still on, he returns to give you another initial taste of what’s to explode. The dress moves up from your hip as he slides it over your skin, stopping right under the mounds he’s still so curious about.

He needs to keep this balanced. Rush as much as might be appropriate, but not too much to make things embarrassing. This… the way he leans down again, opening your legs, erection grinding against your pussy and offering the bare minimum… this is good enough for now…

Or maybe not. Because merely a couple seconds later, you halt mid-moan, letting out breathy words that he struggles to understand until you repeat, “Is that… all you’ll be doing tonight?”

“Hmmm, you want more?”

“I— I don’t know.” Pause, a gulp when he presses his clothed length between your cunt. “Are you going to tell me your secrets if I say yes?”

His secrets?

You must be kidding. He has been an open book to you, chasing you around; if anything, he needs to unravel your mind.

But for that, he needs to play along. So he feigns the same mystery you emanate, teasing, “What do you wanna know?”

And you don’t hesitate. “Everything.”

…Hmm…

You’ve never seemed as interested as you are now. Never dove into his thoughts and the dim heart like now. If he agreed now, would you blurt out something specific? Questions that you formed when he wasn’t paying attention?

No idea. Maybe that’s something to worry about later. Pillowtalk. The morning after talk. Just anything… just not now.

He removes the obstacles currently standing between the two of you. The cushion standing against the back of the couch, constantly falling into your face. He throws it on the ground, so you don’t have to keep swatting it away.

Then, the dress covering your body. He gives a sign of wanting to proceed, and you play along, lifting yourself, chasing his lips as your outfit follows the cushion. And then, the phone right underneath the small of your back, having snuck there, undetected until you yelp, “Oh!”

“What?”

“Cold. Don’t know how it got there.”

He fishes out the device, watching it light up, a notification at the top that he can’t decode and that he doesn’t pay any mind to. Puts it on the coffee table. Then… last but not least… the uncertain atmosphere.

He says, “You want to know everything? Then make a list. I’ll tell you if I feel like it… deal?”

“You’re so…”

“You gotta make me. No other way out, baby.”

An answer lies on your tongue, ready to disrupt the moment. He knows because you look distracted all of a sudden, possibly still thinking about the same thing you did before, dissociating as he sat next to you, wine in hand.

It’s probably about work. Or about Taehyung — God, nobody at work but Jungkook would know, but you mention that guy all the time.

But tonight is not the night to think of others. So he shakes your upcoming inquiries away, giving you no time to think about it further as he, thirsty and impatient, picks you up and off the couch.

Right into his lap. Right onto his cock.

Still a layer between the two of you, watching you grind immediately. For a moment, you put him under your spell, urging him to stay right there and not move away until he’s shot buckets of cum into his boxers.

But…

But he’d rather do it in you, with you, because of truly you.

So he wastes no second as he executes his former plan, large hands sprawling over your ass before he stands with willpower and strength. He throws you a couple inches into the air, making you adjust, and then moves.

Away from the couch, stepping onto the clothes on the floor, careful not to stumble and hurt the two of you. The way to the bedroom seems endless, and you so naked… so… so his for the night. Like what, he still needs to wait those couple square metres?

Fuck, how…

No. It must be a primal instinct that hankers him to give up already, having made it halfway through the room and almost to his bedroom when he suddenly stops. Pinning you against a random free spot at the wall, right under a silent clock.

“What are you…?”

Your voice is trembling, for some reason so incredibly small. For the first time since you lay beneath him on the couch, he sees your eyes properly, and they flit back to the couch as if you’re looking where you just departed from — and then back to him.

“What are you looking for?” he whispers. Tantalisingly, he brings his fingers to your chin, pinching it lightly as he raises your head. “Hm? I’m here. Do you want to go back? Missing the couch? Wall might not be as comfortable, huh…”

“No… that’s not a problem. I’m just… surprised by the change.”

You do look surprised. A little cheekier again as your tone rises, your head falling to the side, lips smiling as if to distract him from something bigger. As if there’s anything bigger in existence right now than you.

“It was just sudden,” you conclude.

“Is that bad?”

“Not at all. I’m just curious.”

He doesn’t need to ask what about. He sees it in this expecting gaze of yours that you want to read and decrypt his next steps. And you can have them.

Because he lets you go, making you fall silently on your feet, kissing you once before he falls to his knees. You groan when he grabs your leg, placing it on his shoulder, restless when his lips charge for your open folds.

He offers you, “Curious, huh? No need,” before kissing your clit, adding another, “Just indulge in it… no need to use your pretty brain today,” and then attaching his mouth and tongue to your dripping pussy.

Digging his large nose into you, tickling your nub, he swirls his tongue around, slurping you up like his favourite drink. Holy fuck, you taste good. He could eat you up, down you in one like a shot. Stay right here all night.

You get ahold of a patch of his hair, but don’t pull — somehow, he wishes you would. Instead, you seem to focus on your body, trying not to fall, keeping it upright. You’re winding, your leg moving, and he soon wraps an arm around your thigh to keep you from stirring too much.

And with the other, he targets your cunt, mouth moving up to make space for the digits to easily, effortlessly slide into you. You gasp, just a bit louder when the metal touches your hot sex, calling his name — and for possibly the first time, he hears you curse, “Fuck. Fuck, I’m— I’m going to pass out.”

Oh my God.

If he could lick you to unconsciousness, he’d feel shocked and proud at once. He wants to see you become weightless, wants to catch you in his arms, and then bring you to his bedroom, still delirious, and fuck your brain out of you.

He wants you so bad. He wants to fuck you so fucking badly. His cock aches, godfuckingdamn.

As he rolls his tongue, lips kissing yours, moving his head left and right as he makes out with your pussy, he almost pulls all the way through. Nearly gives into your body language, nose moving over your clit, fingers pumping in and out, breathing into your pussy hotly.

But he has other plans. He wants to see your damn tears; wants you to unleash all your desperation. So, just when your sounds change, less pauses between them, high-pitched, heavy breathing, he stops.

Draws back, watching you press your ass into the wall, head suddenly hanging low. You whisper, “No…” as he looks up in satisfaction, waiting for you to say more.

You’re out of breath, exhaling through half gritted teeth, a palm on his chest as he rises again. You declare, “I’m going to blueball you, too.”

But the adrenaline has poured buckets of confidence over Jungkook already, and he’s drenched in it as much as in your scent, cocking an eyebrow as he challenges, “You can try.”

“I’m gonna suck your dick so fucking slow.”

“Do it,” he keeps the mask up, wondering how much of the effect you saw upon gracing him with such a provocative image, “let’s see if you make it this far. Might just fuck you into space before that, you know?”

He lets out an unsteady breath, a strand of your hair swaying upon impact. His hand taps at your thigh, testing whether you’ve closed your legs again; and as he realises that you haven’t, much to his pleasure, he palms your pussy, heel of his hand pressing against your clit.

“You’re trying to set me off, because you know you can, right?” he questions, for a split moment distracted by the teeth gnawing at your lower lip. “Smart of you. You are truly smart, babe… but you’re also mine tonight. So don’t play games.”

A slap lands on your vulnerable pussy, and he understands your frustration as you open your mouth, the lower lip previously captive rolling back into place. Soft and gorgeous.

No matter the fading distance, there’s still something inexplicable in the air, as if he can’t really separate a dream from reality. As if he needs evidence that this isn’t yet another figment of his imagination; the ones he’s awoken from several times, underwear threatening to burst.

The hand just torturing your cunt wanders up your body and settles around your neck, like a chain or a necklace or a motherfucking leash. He feels home here, just like this. With your fingers on his wrist, gulping under his touch.

Pinned firmly against the wall, he looks down to where you’re dripping and he’s standing tall, gripping the ever-twitching length that is begging for more. Begging for relief. He’s doing this to himself — because his body is burning up, as if scorched by sun flares.

He’s doing this to the both of you.

The kiss underneath your ear as he leans in. And the still harmless yet sinful touch between his tip and your folds. How he holds the shaft firmly, leading the head between your pussy lips, teasing until just an inch intrudes your awaiting hole.

He moans the moment you do, moving, fucking just the first of the tip into you; scrambling his own thoughts as he says, “God, I could just slide in… you’re so, so wet.”

“What… why say this if you won’t do it?”

Guess you’ve figured him out well enough. Guess that’s the cockiness you implied when you called him a fuckboy in that stupid museum. Or how you kept a safe distance — because thinking about it, maybe Jungkook could be someone to break somebody’s heart.

No. He knows he is. But…

He shakes the thought off his brain, returning to this very moment where you’re waiting for his answer, a heart made of steel. You won’t let him hurt you; you know better than that. You could dodge him easily.

Mentally, at least. Physically, you’re under his mercy.

So he uses this weakness, muttering under his breath, “I will, I will… but not here. We can do better than here.”

Wasn’t this just a pit stop after all? What he’s seeking is still waiting in his bedroom, soft sheets spread over the cold mattress, waiting for a body to warm it up. Or two.

Already hot and bothered, Jungkook lets you go entirely; and the next minute happens in a blur, as though he’s struggling with recognising his own apartment. Suddenly self-conscious about everything and nothing at once.

With you in his grip, he walks along the dark, small corridor; then past the paintings, through the door, into a well-managed, tidy bedroom until he’s sat your ass down. It happens within the tiniest moment — he could narrate how you got here but he can barely recall it.

Dick at the same height as your mouth, he wraps his hand around it. You don’t initiate anything of what you promised, looking into his eyes with a question; he knows you want to avenge yourself and provide the same vanity, but you’d rather skip to the best part.

He wants to, too.

So he doesn’t ram his cock into your mouth, hitting the farthest spot until you gag. Instead, he relishes the image mentally and quietly, fantasising about the warmth of your spit, about the tongue swirling around.

And then… then he goes a step further and imagines the even extended pleasure if he dug into your pussy now, maximising whatever your mouth could make him feel.

Are his thoughts too straight-forward? If he spelled them out like this, one by one, would you find him weird? Too eager? Obsessed?

Maybe he should slow down. Just a bit.

Which is why he holds his shaft closer to you, still surprised when you don’t open up, hints of the past confusion alternating with your confident, mysterious, teasing self. It’s weird to witness. But your eyes are still hazy at least. You don’t seem to want to stop.

God. He can’t figure it out. Not figuring out is agitating even in this moment.

But… good energies. Good energies. All the pent-up frustration needs to be morphed into sheer craze. He can do that.

“Spit on it,” he orders.

You only hum. Something in your gaze changes again, eyelids fluttering, as if awoken from trance. But you’re willing. Immediately mimicking him as you bring a thumb to a mole on the protruding veins. Tracing them, all the way back to his balls until you touch them just lightly, but enough for him to nearly lose his shit.

“Fuck, I said,” he reprimands, though delighted by the sudden rapture, “spit on it.”

You nod as if carrying out a task given by your manager; perhaps used to the last days and weeks when he’d command you around. Ask for another meeting, or for your opinion on a song, or just to keep him company to keep him productive.

Or, to keep you close to him. Lost in thoughts. Many thoughts. And even though none of them became a reality in that room, none of the equipment shoved aside to sit you on the desk, this… this right here is more than enough.

You suck in your cheeks, collecting spit, and when you lean forward… you make such a mess. Spitting onto the tip, a string still connecting your lips and his dick, leftover saliva dripping down your chin and then on your tits.

The view is… worth diamonds.

Do you even know?

“Okay,” he utters, no real direction in his mind, no real sentence to utter. “Okay.”

But you’re equipped with ideas, immediately getting onto the trail you left, spreading the spit over his cock, down to the base. The tip and the slit glisten, traces of precum mixing with your drool, but it’s not enough to cover his length all over.

So he mutters a mental, “More,” to himself, tapping your lips until you open, sticking two of his fingers in and pressing against your tongue. Lubricating his digits, he rolls them over your tongue, far enough to nearly make you gag until he draws back.

Watching you work on him rolls a wave of satisfaction over him. He’s proud, enduring like this. Because judging from the creature you are, as if jumped out of dark mythology, he truly expected to give up way earlier.

But he remains steadfast; eager to not explode until he’s filled you up first. Drawn out your own highs.

“Sweetheart, aren’t you a good one?” Jungkook praises, helping you out with whatever his fingers gathered in your mouth. Then, grabs your wrist, pushing you away, hovering above you with a, “Turn around.”

You gulp again. Then shift back on his bed, sighing as you feel the soft silk underneath your skin, kissing and hugging your body. The sight is gorgeous, with you fleeing to the back of the mattress, obliging so easily. Prey.

And…

“Holy fuck.”

Holy fuck, how you look when you finally get into position. Ass up, upper body down. And the arms over your head? What in the world.

Okay… okay…

Wait. You’re saying something.

His knees dig into the mattress, hand unconsciously pumping his cock — he doesn’t even know when he started — as he moves closer, over your body. Kisses your shoulder, bringing his ear close to hear before, “Huh? What’d you say?”

“I’m already so spent.”

“Ah… do you want to stop?”

“No… you made me feel spent. But you’re not done, are you?”

Pause. Bright smirk. Then, “Of course not. Does it feel like it?” Another kiss to your shoulder, wet this time. “Condom or not?”

“Oh.” Seems you hadn’t even thought about this yet. Kind of nice. “I’m… I use an IUD. Have you… slept with many people lately?”

No answer yet. He thinks. Thinks back to the several weeks since he met you. Should he say it? Would you back away if he did? Years ago, there’d be no debate about it — he wouldn’t have told you. Kept it to himself.

Perhaps there’s still a part of him that’d dodge your question, but he somehow feels like you’d see through him. Hear the insincerity.

Fuck, is that selfish? Maybe. Doesn’t he already know that he is? But he’s not bad; and people are selfish.

So a second later, he truthfully admits, “Once. Two or so weeks ago. Nothing special though, just dumb, drunk shit. Some girl from a club. And I tested after.”

As soon as the sentence finishes, he wonders if you deem yourself just another one of those. But… in all honesty. She was a one night stand whose sounds, name, dirty talk did nothing to him.

All he could imagine was you. Perhaps not out of loyalty, but surely out of curiosity.

He can’t fathom his thoughts into feelings yet; he still wouldn’t describe his attitude towards you as falling in love or anything. That’d be too far stretched. But he thought about it — that maybe he liked you too much.

Yet, his heart remained empty; but his body never did. He feels bad; and still, he won’t deny whatever his skin and mind whisper to him.

Other than that, he could probably declare with quite a firm certainty that you don’t feel any different about him. You can’t be.

So maybe this is good enough for now.

“But know what?” he says, voice lower, repeating his thoughts. “Could only imagine what it’d be like if it was you. This pussy,” strokes his cock along your cunt, “and this body,” touches the small of your back, “these thoughts got me going. And you’re so much better in reality.”

“Mmmh,” is all you utter, nearly hiding your face in the pillow before you say, “maybe… maybe we can still use a condom then.”

Shit. Expected it.

But okay. Okay.

Where are the condoms again… bedside table? No. He used the last one ages ago, before he knew you. He gets up; walks to the closet; somewhere near his socks, there must be a new pack. A moment to think.

For a second, he looks back at you. You’re still the same, only with the ass having dropped again, losing balance and energy. And maybe, you’re still drunk, too — probably, because even he still feels the world spin, careful not to close his eyes for too long.

Okay. One… no, two foils out. As he turns back to you, nearing you, his head is just a little calmer than a minute again, and he wonders… were all the thoughts his own? The past half an hour or however much passed, didn’t he spiral more and more?

Did you notice? He shakes his head. Who cares?

Not him, not right now. He keeps telling himself that with a goddess waiting in front of him on all fours, he probably doesn’t need to worry about anything unless there’s a reason to. You’ve been cooperative and the night has been successful, minus the strange gazes you keep throwing at him periodically.

“Alright, baby. Up you come,” he mumbles, bringing your ass back to his crotch. His hands are already trained and incredibly skilled; doing work on the condom doesn’t take him more than a couple seconds. “I should tell you now.”

You pause. Suck in some breath, as if expecting something in particular. You agree with an unmatched thirst for knowledge, “…Tell me.”

“I don’t tend to go easy. If you need me to be, you’ll have to tell me. ‘Kay?”

“I… I can take a lot more than you think.”

Fuck. He’ll wreck your shit. “Perfect. You’re honestly a good one, huh? Such a good girl for real, no— no, you’re the best.”

Is he just saying whatever now? Perhaps he should stop boring you and get to it. Right? Please, the goddamn, blood-filled tower down there is desperately imploring him to.

He collects spit like you did before, targeting your glinting pussy, one blob right onto it. Then, he brings his fingers back to where they love to be, distributing the filth between your folds. And then, two fingers into the tightening hole.

Right before moving north, between your ass cheeks, thumb rolling over your other clenching hole.

And you tense immediately, without saying a word, taking it quietly. Then… then he finally starts.

Brings the annoying rubber to your soaked pussy, poking for a second before he gets serious and eventually dips in. The free hand raises your ass some more, and he shifts forwards, your butt backwards, helping him get in further.

He hears the reaction. Hears the almost-screech in a second, nails biting into the pillow over your head. You hold onto it for dear life as he slowly bottoms out, your sporadic breathing and high-pitched moans mingling with his own bursts of lust.

Deep creases appear between his eyebrows, lips bitten sore, and once his waist has finally connected with your ass, he takes a deep, long inhale. Watches your face disappear deeper into the pillow, sounds muffled.

Enjoys it for a moment before he starts moving slowly. Out, in. Concentrating before he might spill too early. Beads of sweat shimmer on his forehead, dampening the hanging strands of hair. You feel good. Too fucking good—

He wants to go off right away. But… focus.

“How’s that?” he asks.

“Stop… stop talking.”

Oh. Bold. But a good sign, isn’t it? If you wanted him to stop, you’d say it. So he keeps going… dares just a little more, courageous, encouraged by your cooperation. Explores your ass and what lies between the cheeks more, groaning before he says, “You stop that.”

His hand reaches for your wrists, keeping you from tearing his pillow and leading your fingers to where his touched your ass before. You keep your touch there, unmoving until he says, “Keep them apart.”

And you seem to understand. His thumb returns to your unoccupied hole as his cock impales your pussy whole, still going at a tormenting pace. Thick and soaked, he’s splitting you in two; maybe that’s why the slow plunges are such a plague. Because both of you know there could be more.

Pulling your ass cheeks apart, you remain with your face in the sheets, arms trembling as he circles your hole again. He doesn’t know if you’re into this; doesn’t know if you’ll protest. So far, he’s been pretty obvious with his intentions, and he’s sure you must understand this one, too.

And you’re not fearful; if something bothered you, you wouldn’t hesitate to voice your displeasure. So he spits one more time, right onto his thumb, using the lubrication to carefully, curiously dip the tip of his thumb into your ass.

You yelp immediately; as your hole tightens around the little bit of his thumb, your pussy narrows around his cock, too, and he nearly loses it. Nearly drools onto your back as his mouth drops open, blinking rapidly for a second.

God, your body reacts with such intensity. Still, he makes sure, “Too much?”

And you, candidly, reply, “I don’t know. I… think so.”

“Okay. Then I’ll sto—”

“No. No, wait… I want to— I want to know what it’s like.”

Thought so. He knew that underneath all the chic charade, you crave just as much as he does. And if it’s him that you long for, then what even stands between him and the rocket shooting his ego to the sky?

This feels good. Really good… not just physically. You lift his spirits.

Ready with an exhale, he dares his thumb deeper, letting more of it disappear in you. Out of all the women he’s ever been with, not more than a handful has been willing to venture into this part of sexual desire. Most of them can’t stand the discomfort, and some of them don’t feel any particular way about it.

But you lay open to him in every way possible. An open book for once; easy to read, as if calculating how you wind, planning how to sound, guiding him fearlessly.

Soon, he’s adjusting his thrusts to your moans, and you’re adjusting your moans to his thrusts. Synchronised, the two of you groan and cry out together, and he makes sure to keep you filled to the brim, reducing the pauses between the shoves bit by bit.

Until…

“Hey,” he whispers, waiting for you to react, but as he pumps into you, slowly yet balls-deep, you don’t do anything much but scream into the pillow. So he just continues, “How much do you think you can take, baby?”

“I… I’m—”

You’re attempting your best, but you’re tongue-tied. With each push, he catapults your body forwards, but your mind is long lost in the stratosphere. With gritted teeth and a rising, heavily breathing, golden chest, he leans in close to you, hand snaking under you and around your neck as he retries, “So?”

“I don’t know,” you blurt, and as you raise your head and look back at him, he sees a sight to behold — mascara underneath your eyes, lipstick smeared, a quivering chin. He’s fucking you so good; he must be, because you soon add, “Just do an—and I’ll let you know.”

“Good idea. Very good idea.”

He’s fucking you good. But it’s not all he’s got; not all he’s wanted for days and weeks.

No. If he unleashed all he’s been fabricating in his mind, he’d drench your cheeks in tears. And now that you permitted him to, he might just go ahead, right?

Right.

Which is why the next steps come easy to him, naturally, as if you pressed a button he’s been waiting to smash. A big, red one, like the ones in games urging you to not touch or you’d lose. But by God, right now, he’s not losing.

If he looked into his reflection in the dark window, he’d see a winner through and through.

A fiery rage courses through his burning veins. A face contorting when he lets you go, only to move his fingers back, wrapping them around the back of your neck. Shoving you into the mattress, ramming his cock into you, once more keeping the familiar pace and then—

And then he closes his eyes. Matches an expression to your yelps. Drives into your deepest core and picks up speed until, all of a sudden, it turns jarring.

Jungkook doesn’t get enough. He doesn’t know if he ever will; damn the approaching end of this. There shouldn’t be one; he should be capable of ruining you forever. Maybe he will be.

For now, he directs his thoughts fully on how you feel and how you sound, uncaring about the jagged breathing that burns up his chest. Leaning forward, he attempts twice until he catches your ears, nibbling at your earlobe.

At first, he doesn’t know if you register the touch, given that he’s occupying you with far crazier sensations. But then you reach out a hand, panting into the pillow, grabbing a patch of his hair.

And he, fired up and insane, leans back, gripping your wrist, removing it from his mane and pinning it to your back instead. Your face moves to the side, not muffled by the pillow anymore, and you gasp for air before you beg, “Please, I’m about to—”

That’s all you get, because he soon interrupts with a cheeky, “You can hold on for a bit longer,” pausing on purpose. He wants to see you when you come. Wants to wipe more of your make up across your face. Wants to kiss the colour of your lipstick onto his own lips.

Letting your orgasm fade, he waits, just a couple seconds, allowing you to catch your breath until your eyebrows furrow. You blink repeatedly, then looking up into his eyes, and it’s all he needs to feel his patience dissipate again.

Jungkook gets into a new position, leaving one knee deep in the mattress while angling the other leg, planting its foot on the sheets. He keeps his cock from falling out, leading the tip and the shaft back in before he resumes to fuck you wound.

Your arm is still hostage to his grip, the nails of your other hand gripping the sheet for dear life. It’s gorgeous, the view from where Jungkook looks down at his meal. Crazy how you purr and whine when he leans in, touching your swollen clit, electrifying you. And he keeps looking at you.

At the upper body waving a white flag, too weak to keep yourself upright anymore. And then, the ass in the air staying firmly at its place, his dick aiding you, the flesh of your cheeks wobbling with each thrust, like an ocean wave. Whenever it collides with his hips, the slaps resound temptingly, and Jungkook soon mimics it by letting his hand fall hard on your ass.

You mewl, calling out his name twice, the second cry half uttered, half of the Jungkook omitted. And when you catch the tiniest of your breaths, still working with drying lungs, you say, “L-let me come, please—”

“Wait,” he says again, still sadistic, still masochistic, absolutely out of his mind before an idea lights up his mind. “This isn’t it yet.”

The finger working on your nub was an evil tactic, he’s got to admit. Perhaps he led you to believe something he’s not ready to give you yet, and once you seem to realise, you let out a sob.

And he’s positively delighted once he stops. Lowers his head to look at you. Sees the dark, smeared mascara on his pillow when he digs his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back as he says, “I know. You thought we were done, right? We’re not done, though.”

“Wha—”

He lets his body fall onto the mattress, right next to you, and pulls you in, back against his chest. Hand under your tits, pressing against them, moving them up and down before pinching your nipple once.

“I said,” he repeats, probably unnecessarily, because he doesn’t think you actually demand an answer, “I’m not done. Understand?”

And as expected, you don’t nod or answer. You only push your body further into his, and he reckons that’s a mighty sufficient implication already.

As you lay sideways with a breath as heavy as his, his exhales hot against your ear, you let out sounds reminiscent of marathon runners. You’re exhausted, sweaty, and so is he — but neither of you are finished, and he’d be damned if he permitted the night to end like this.

Diligently, he throws your quivering leg over his; your impish remarks have lessened since he took over, and in turn, his own insolent emotions are reigning supremely. He leads his submerged, rock-hard, twitching cock to your battered cunt, pushing in so easily he thinks he’s dreaming.

It’s like putting a key into its lock.

“Ahh, fuck.” It’s hard to fully bottom out in this position, but he can touch you so much better now. He lets his hands explore your bare body, fondling with your tits, kissing your ear and jaw. “Hold tight. You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”

It’s cruel, he knows; the gentle praises as he wreaks havoc down there. He crosses your wrists against your tummy, holding them tight, and you close to him. Fucks you dumb and stupid as you wail in his arms. Moves to your clit and gives it pleasant, gentle rubs, so opposite from the rest of his ministrations.

And the pressure builds. His balls, hard as steel, prepare to shoot their load into you, his cock impossibly stiff, but… but…

You haven’t come yet. And this position won’t do. Can’t do, won’t do, he needs to see you.

So he echoes, “Won’t do,” as he gets up again, keeping the previous position short lived. Doesn’t stay away for too long before he’s on his knees, pulling your legs apart, after the briefest interruptions deep inside again before he leans into you.

And then, everything happens crazy fast.

How he keeps you from wrapping your arms around him; instead, capturing your wrists once again, raising them next to your head. How he moves to kiss you for the first time after quite a while, intertwining your tongues, moaning hard as he feels his high approach.

The fast pace changes a little as he loses his mind and focus, one of the strokes stopping as he almost pulls out, and then plunges in again. Your fingers curl in, nails sharp enough to dig into the digits that hold you, and he cries out in delight, letting a breathy chuckle fall.

He says, “Alright, yeah. Next time… we’re tying you up. Love how you whine.” He lets one hand go, gripping your face again and you move your touch to his shoulder immediately, gasping. “You always p-play the mysterious girl, huh? But you’re so pathetic right now.”

The inhibitions are out the window. The overthinking, too. Whatever he thought might make you run away from him has long exited his mind, because he’s got you right here, under his control, nearing the end.

There’s no going back. No return to his yearning, because you’ve satisfied it so thoroughly.

Time to give it all back to you. One last time before he submerges himself in all his glorious egotism.

“There we go,” he says as he watches your expressions change. You open your mouth but don’t say anything. He doesn’t know what your orgasm feels like, but he knows you’re going through it. “Let it all out. Cream my cock, I fucking dare you.”

He’s saying whatever now, he knows. But he doesn’t have the capacity to think much as creases appear on your forehead and between your eyebrows, tongue mingling with his for a short moment when he goes in for another kiss, barely succeeding.

You’re trembling, lifting your hips as much as the weight above you allows, wanting more friction, more of a touch inside your pussy, on your clit, everywhere. And then, when you do come… when he brings the stars from the sky into your eyes…

Yours roll back into your head. Throwing it back, giving him access to your neck. Lips still apart, and he uses it to push a finger into your mouth, on top of your tongue. And fuck… how your pussy constricts. How it tightens so fucking much.

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t affect him.

So much so that his head spins; and as he feels himself getting dizzy, he buries his face in the pillow next to your head before moving it to kiss your shoulder. Barely looks at you anymore; doesn’t care, it’s his high now, he wants to fucking come, and that’s it.

Finally, finally he’s gotten to this point.

Will he hate himself for these thoughts later? Is this too over the top? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care.

His thoughts are occupied, alright, don’t need another string of questions to intervene. His attention remains resolutely on his movements, vigorous, rhythmic, your sounds perfectly matching each of his strokes.

And your hands, the poor little palms, unsure where to settle. This isn’t new; across this broad back of his, every girl’s touch wanders like this. Your nails scratch the small of his back, then up his spine, across the muscles of his shoulder blades.

The fact that you’re a goner as much as him, giving yourself to him is probably the last of reassurances he needs — as if any more were required. Because still panting into your skin, eyes shut tight, he works towards the peak of his sanity, exhausted but eager as he relishes the wet tightness of your pussy; surrounding him just right, still clenching, unclenching from your orgasm.

And then—

“Ohhh, fuck,” he whispers.

His voice is shaking uncontrollably; he barely recognises it. Which… must mean this is new, right? Experience be damned, apparently you spark off phenomena nobody has ever acquainted him with before.

And oh, how you make it worse once he finally emerges again, as if catching his breath after holding it underwater for too long. Your eyes are hooded as he gets on his knees over your body, caging your hips in between his legs. Gripping one of your tits, you nibble your lower lip for a second before letting out laboured breathing, nose flaring.

It’s all he needs. All that’s left when he rips off the condom and envelops his filthy cock with his veiny hand, stroking immediately and hard. Close to the end as he rushes to ask, “Where do you want it?”

You understand what he’s asking, and nod, back to yourself when you utter mysteriously, “Anywhere but inside…” Okay. No time to ask why not — but he wouldn’t have anyway. He obliges, giving his all, one more second left before you tell him just in time, “Here.”

Your palm rubs across your skin, moving over your tits and your stomach. So he’s quick to opt away from your face and redirect his aim to where you pointed, moaning out a couple last, broken vocals before he finally spills.

Milky white, multiple blotches scattered over your skin, like a modern art painting. He’d rather draw these all day than be stuck with you in a museum restaurant, staring from afar, wishing he could reach out under the goddamn public table.

Going until he’s empty, he senses a relief unknown to him thus far, mind suddenly vacant. Once again, the ocean; he feels like the ocean. Like the water as it stills and calms after a thunderous storm. You lifted the waves of his sea high above and have now turned him into a lazy, peaceful lake.

God, he should fuck you more often; you make him a poet.

Okay. Okay, where was he?

When did he unfocus? Dizzy all of a sudden. He puffs out a breath. Then takes another look at you. Watches as you spread the sticky substance over your mounds, touching your nipple, so indecently messy.

The smirk is unintentional but inevitable, reaching far as he shakes his head at you. You smile back wordlessly, and he lets his fingertip run over his cum, too, bringing it to your lips as he asks, “Taste?”

You don’t answer. Thinking for the barest second before you scoff, stretching out your tongue before he puts the finger on it; closing your eyes, sucking it clean. He groans at the feeling; luckily, he’ll be immobile for the foreseeable future, or he’d bend you over again.

“Okay. That should be enough for now,” he breathes, letting himself fall next to you. “I promise I’m a lot more energised on other days. But…” He turns towards you, pinching your chin, bringing your face close. “God, did you take me out there. I’m beat.”

He doesn’t kiss you; only drops back, still filling his lungs with new oxygen. Pity — he still wants you, but his muscles are aching. Eyes shutting.

Then opening again when he hears you laugh, right before you say, “You don’t need to prove your endurance to me. I’ve got a pretty good idea of it now. Besides— let’s be honest. I didn’t do much.”

“Oh, you did more than enough, sweetheart,” Jungkook retorts with a snicker, giving his eyes some relief. He sighs, and then adds, “Your existence did it for me already. Wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

He shoves his arm under his head, the other untidily covering the two of you with the blanket; whatever. He’ll wash it tomorrow. For now, the two of you should probably get some rest. Although—

Did you say you wanted to stay? He didn’t catch it if you did. Perhaps he’s also just inattentive; suddenly remembers that he still has a long way to go socially, remembering that permission is courtesy. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“Uhm,” he starts; this is awkward. He doesn’t do this often — not many stay overnight anyway. Strangely, he didn’t question it with you; maybe because he wants you to. “Do you want me to bring you home?”

“In all honesty, I… I don’t think you can drive tonight. We’re both not sober yet, so I’ll just leave in the morning. Need to be in the office by noon.”

“Ah? Why?”

“Meeting with Tae. I forgot that he wanted to go through a few organisational things for the upcoming concert.”

Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company.

Jungkook forgot about it all. Responsibilities still exist. Of course, he needs to be in the office tomorrow afternoon, too. This is his dream, his goal, everybody’s eyes on him, the biggest source of entertainment in the country.

Feels so stupid, forgetting you’ll leave at some point. That he can’t flip you over again all day tomorrow, that you’ll be occupied somewhere else, with someone else. Jungkook grits his teeth.

“You wanna come over again tomorrow night?” he asks.

And all of a sudden, despite the last hour, you seem lost in thoughts again. Probably tired, but he can’t help but overthink. You don’t answer immediately, keeping him on the edge, and as he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, he looks over, seeing your eyes open when you say, “Don’t know. Might have a couple things to tend to.”

Ah… okay. Sure.

Where’s your mind right now, he wonders?

Maybe circling around work. Maybe your urge to go is as little as his? All these things, they don’t sound too delightful right now, do they?

Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company. Tae.

When did you start using his nickname like this? Weird. Didn’t know the two of you were so close. Then again, does it matter? No. He shakes his head.

Shakes it slowly, making sure you don’t notice, sighing again before he breaks into a smile. It’s okay. You’re next to him. Not next to Taehyung. His friend. You’re covered in him. So he doesn’t let another’s name fog his brain, instead seeking peace and succeeding until—

“Don’t worry, another time,” you say, following up with a goosebump-inducing, “I’ll stick around until my feet tingle.”

Somewhere… at some point in his life… under probably not the best circumstances—

Wait.

THE FIC ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼

as always, tumblr hates content creators and has a 1k block limit. which is why you can read the rest of the story in this reblog hehe we're almost at the end <3

#jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #bts smut #bts fluff #bts angst #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jungkook imagine #jungkook

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jjjjisun · 29 days ago

Text

Stripping For Daddy

Kyujin X Male OC | 4729 words

TW: Incest

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Buy me a Ko-Fi.

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Ko-Fi member request: I was thinking maybe Kyujin is a stripper, and her father finds out, and he punishes her the best way he knows best. Maybe goes to the strip club in secret and even gets a dance from her before punishing her at home.

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Author's note: If you enjoy the content and want to support it beyond the base tier, my Ko-fi now has two higher tiers: True Patron of Smut ($10) and Ultimate Supporter ($20). You’ll get the same perks as the Early Gang, but these higher tiers are for those who want to support me further, and they have discounts for commissions. Thanks!

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Kyujin's heart pounded as she prepared to step onto the stage. The dim lights, the throbbing music, and the anticipation in the air were all part of her secret world, far removed from her daytime life. She was known as Sapphire here, a name that sparkled and enticed, just like her performances. Tonight, however, was different. Tonight, unbeknownst to her, a familiar face would be in the crowd, a face that would change everything.

Her father, Jae, had always been stern, a man of principles and discipline. He had no idea about Kyujin's secret life. He had come to the strip club on a whim, dragged along by his colleagues after a long business meeting. Sitting in the plush chair, the atmosphere heavy with scent and sound, he felt a strange curiosity and discomfort. Then, the spotlight hit the stage, and his world shifted.

There she was, his Kyujin, dressed in a shimmering outfit that left little to the imagination. Her eyes were smoky, her lips a bold red, and her movements… her movements were pure sin. Jae's breath hitched as he watched her, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and shock. He should look away, he knew, but he was rooted to the spot, unable to tear his gaze from her.

Kyujin, as Sapphire, owned the stage. Her body moved with fluid grace, each twist and turn calculated to tease and entice. She felt powerful and desirable as the crowd's eyes followed her every move. The music pulsed through her, and she let it guide her, her hips swaying, her hands exploring her curves. She was a temptress, a goddess, and she knew it.

As the music changed, signaling the start of the lap dances, Kyujin scanned the crowd. Her eyes landed on a man seated in the shadows, his face obscured by the dim lighting. There was something about him, a quiet intensity that drew her in. She approached him, her heart pounding with the familiar thrill of the unknown. She straddled him, her hands running through his hair as she leaned in, her breath hot on his ear.

"First time here, isn't it?" she whispered, her voice a sultry purr. She could feel his heart racing and the flush on his cheeks. She loved this part, the tease, the build-up. She ground against him, feeling his hardness beneath her. He let out a low groan, his hands twitching at his sides, resisting the urge to touch her.

She leaned back, her fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt. She could see his face more clearly now, the line of his jaw, the shape of his mouth. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn't quite place it. She shrugged it off, her body moving against his in a rhythm as old as time itself.

As Jae stared at Kyujin, an overwhelming feeling of lust and tenderness engulfed him. He knew he wouldn't reveal it to her: instead, he realized, he would have to grapple with his changed perception of his daughter—not merely as a family relation, but a grown woman. “No touching, sir," she murmured, her voice a playful admonishment as she guided his hands back to his sides. She leaned in again, her breasts brushing against his chest. So many times, Jae had soothed Kyujin during nightmares and banished her fears after thunderstorms.

She could feel his breath, hot and ragged, on her neck. She could feel his desire pressing against her, straining against his pants. She reached down, her hand rubbing against him through the fabric. He groaned, his hips lifting slightly to meet her touch. She smiled, a slow, seductive curve of her lips.

"Not so shy after all," she murmured, her thumb circling the tip of his erection. She could feel him pulsing, could feel his heat. She wanted to draw it out, to make him beg, to make him ache for her. But something held her back, in his eyes, in how he looked at her.

Kyujin leaned in, her lips brushing against his. It was a light touch, a tease, but it shocked her. She pulled back, her eyes wide with surprise. She knew this feeling, this spark. It was familiar, it was…

For Jae, time stopped. He realized he was discovering his daughter’s fullness and that she presented herself legitimate in pursuing her desires.

Suddenly, the music changed again, the spell broken. Kyujin climbed off him, her body still tingling from the encounter. She kissed him with a playful grin as she moved on to the next customer. Jae sat there, his mind reeling, his body aching. He had come here on a whim and found… her. His Kyujin. His little girl, all grown up and more tempting than any woman had a right to be.

As Kyujin continued her dance, her mind was elsewhere. She couldn't shake the feeling, the familiarity. She looked back at the man, his face still obscured by the shadows. She couldn't see his features clearly, but she could feel his gaze, intense and burning. She shrugged it off, attributing it to the heat of the moment and the thrill. But as she moved, teased and tantalized, she couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. That night, something was different.

And it was. In the shadows, Jae sat, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. He had seen his daughter, his Kyujin, in a new light. And he knew, as he sat there, his body still aching, burning, that tonight was just the beginning. That this taboo temptation would haunt him, would consume him until he saw her again. Until he saw Sapphire.

The crowd began to thin as the night wore on, and the club's frenzy reduced to a low hum. Kyujin, still buzzing from her performances, stepped off the stage and returned to the dressing room. She was eager to wash off the sweat and glitter, scrub away Sapphire's remnants, and become just Kyujin again.

But as she rounded the corner, she stopped dead in her tracks. The man from the shadows was leaning against the wall by her dressing room. His face was no longer obscured, and Kyujin's heart leapt into her throat as she recognized him.

"Dad?" she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. The blood drained from her face, leaving her cheeks pale beneath the remnants of her stage makeup.

Jae looked at her, his expression mixed with anger, lust, and disappointment. He had waited until the end of her shift and watched her dance, tease, and tantalize. He had seen the men lusting after her, had seen their hungry eyes devouring her. And he had felt it too, that hunger, that need. But more than that, he had felt a sense of betrayal, of confusion. His little girl, his Kyujin, was a stranger to him now.

"What are you doing here?" Kyujin asked, her voice shaking. She was still in her costume, the barely-there scraps of fabric that hid nothing. She saw her father's eyes roam over her, saw the heat in his gaze. It sent a thrill through her, a pulse of something forbidden and exciting.

"I think the better question is, what are you doing here, Kyujin?" Jae growled, his voice low and dangerous. He stepped closer, his tall frame towering over her. Kyujin took a step back, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the heat radiating off him and the tension in his body.

"I… I work here," she stammered, her back hitting the wall. She was trapped, caged in by his body. Her breath hitched as he leaned in, his face inches from hers. She could feel his breath, hot and heavy on her skin.

"You work here," he repeated, his voice a low rumble. "As a stripper. As a tease, tempting men, driving them wild."

Kyujin swallowed hard, her mouth dry. She could feel her body responding to his proximity, her nipples tightening, her core throbbing. She was scared and nervous, but she was also undeniably aroused. Her strong, stern father was here, pinning her against the wall, his body pressed against hers.

Jae reached up, his fingers tracing the strap of her costume. Her skin was soft and smooth, and he could see her pulse fluttering in her neck. He wanted to touch her, to run his hands over her body, to claim her as his. But he also wanted to punish her, to make her pay for her deceit and disobedience.

"You've been a bad girl, Kyujin," he murmured, his fingers trailing down to the swell of her breast. She gasped, her body arching towards him. "You've been keeping secrets, living a double life. You need to be punished."

Kyujin's eyes widened, her lips parting in a silent gasp. Punished? What did he mean? But before she could ask, Jae's hand was on her hip, his grip tight as he spun her around, pressing her against the wall.

His body was flush against hers, his hardness pressing against her ass. She could feel him, long and thick, straining against his pants. His hand came down on her ass, a sharp smack that made her yelp. The sound echoed down the hallway, the sting of his palm sending a shockwave through her body.

He spanked her again and again, each smack sending a jolt of pain and pleasure through her. She could feel her panties growing damp, her core throbbing with each hit. She squirmed against him, her body seeking more, seeking the friction it craved.

Jae groaned, his hips grinding against her ass. He could feel her, hot and wet, rubbing against him. He wanted to take her, claim her, make her his. But not here, not like this. He spun her back around, his hands gripping her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"This ends now, Kyujin," he growled. "You're coming home with me. And we're going to have a long talk about your behavior."

Kyujin swallowed hard, her body trembling with a mix of fear, excitement, and arousal. She had never seen her father like this—so intense, so demanding, so… dominant. She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "Yes, Dad."

As they made their way out of the club, Kyujin couldn't shake the feeling that she was walking towards something big, something life-changing. She was scared and nervous but also excited and eager to see where this new dynamic would lead. Whatever happened next, she knew one thing for sure—she would never look at her father the same way again.

The car ride home was a symphony of silence, the air thick with tension and unspoken words. Kyujin could feel her father's gaze on her, hot and heavy, like a physical touch. She squirmed in her seat, her body still throbbing with the aftermath of her spanking, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and desire. She could see the bulge in his pants, could see the way his knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel. She knew he was struggling and fighting against something he didn't understand. But she also knew she wanted him. Wanted this.

Jae pulled into the driveway, the car's engine purring to a stop. He sat there momentarily, his hands still on the wheel, his eyes closed. He was trying to regain control, trying to push down the lust that was coursing through his veins. But it was no use. He could still feel her, could still see her, could still taste her on his lips. He knew he shouldn't want her, knew it was wrong, forbidden. But he couldn't help it. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

He finally looked at her, his eyes dark with desire. "Go to your room, Kyujin," he growled, his voice hoarse with need. "Now."

Kyujin met his gaze, her own eyes filled with defiance and lust. She didn't move, didn't speak. She just sat there, her breath coming in short gasps, her heart pounding. She was pushing him, testing him, seeing how far he would go.

Jae's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. He pulled her towards him, his mouth crashing down on hers. It was a harsh kiss, a punishment, a claim. His teeth nipped at her lips, his tongue invading her mouth, taking what he wanted. Kyujin moaned, her body melting against his, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair.

He pulled away abruptly, his breath ragged, his eyes wild. "Go to your room, Kyujin," he repeated, his voice a low growl. "Before I do something we both regret."

Kyujin looked at him, her lips swollen from his kiss, her eyes filled with determination. "What if I want you to do something we both regret?" she whispered, her voice challenging.

Jae's eyes flashed with heat, with warning. But he didn't speak, didn't move. Kyujin took that as her cue. She climbed out of the car, her heart pounding with each step she took towards the house. She knew she was playing with fire, knew she was pushing boundaries that should never be crossed. But she couldn't stop. She didn't want to.

The house was dark and quiet, the only sound was the clock ticking in the hallway. Kyujin kicked off her shoes, her feet sinking into the plush carpet as she went upstairs. But she didn't go to her room. Instead, she turned and headed towards her father's office. She knew he would follow, knew he couldn't resist.

And he did. She could hear his heavy and deliberate footsteps behind her. She could feel his intense and demanding presence. She slipped into his office, leaving the door slightly ajar, an invitation, a dare.

She looked around the room, her eyes landing on his desk. She remembered the countless times she had sat there, watching him work, seeking his approval, his praise. She had always looked up to him and wanted to make him proud. But tonight, she wanted something different. Tonight, she wanted to make him feel.

She heard the door creak open and his sharp intake of breath as he saw her leaning against his desk, her body on full display. She was still in her costume, the barely there scraps of fabric that hid nothing. She saw his eyes roam over her, the heat in his gaze, the hunger in his expression.

"Kyujin," he growled, a warning and a plea.

She smiled, slow, seductively curving her lips. "Dad," she whispered, her voice a sultry purr. She reached up, her fingers tracing the straps of her costume. She saw his eyes follow the movement, saw his breath hitch as she slowly slid the straps down, her body bared to him inch by inch.

He was on her in a second, his body pressing against hers, his hands roaming over her skin. He was rough and demanding, his touch leaving a fire trail in its wake. She gasped, her head falling back as he kissed her neck, his teeth nipping at her skin, his tongue soothing the sting.

She could feel his hardness, long and thick, pressing against her stomach. She reached down, her hand rubbing against him through his pants. He groaned, his hips thrusting against her touch, his body seeking more. She smiled, a sense of power coursing through her as she realized what she had done to him, how much he wanted her.

She slid to her knees, her hands working at his belt, her eyes looking up at him through her lashes. She saw his eyes widen, saw the shock and the lust warring in their depths. But he didn't stop her. He let her slide his pants down, let her free his erection, let her take him into her mouth.

He groaned, his hands tangling in her hair as she took him deep, her mouth hot and wet around him. She could taste him, salty and male, could feel him pulsing against her tongue. She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his as she took him deeper, deeper, until he hit the back of her throat.

He pulled her off him, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body trembling with need. He pulled her up, his mouth crashing down on hers as he lifted her onto the desk. He spread her legs, his body settling between them as he reached down, his fingers finding her core.

He groaned as he felt her, hot and wet, ready for him. He slid a finger into her, her body clenching around him, a soft moan escaping her lips. He added another finger, stretching her, preparing her, his thumb circling her clit, making her gasp, making her beg.

"Dad," she whimpered, her body writhing beneath him, her hips lifting to meet his touch. "Please. I need you."

He looked at her, his eyes dark with desire, conflict, and need. He knew he shouldn't do this, knew it was wrong and forbidden. But he also knew he couldn't stop. He needed her, needed this, needed to claim her as his own.

He positioned himself at her entrance, his body tense, his breath held. He looked into her eyes and saw her need, desire, and love. And he thrust into her, a single, hard stroke that filled her.

Kyujin cried out, her body arching against him, her nails digging into his back. He groaned, his body stilling as he gave her time to adjust, as he savored the feeling of being inside her, of being surrounded by her heat, her tightness, her love.

Then he moved. Long, slow strokes that built in speed and intensity, that had her gasping, her moaning, her begging for more. He could feel her body responding to his, could feel her meeting his every thrust, could feel her tightening around him.

He leaned down, his mouth finding hers, his tongue mimicking the movements of his body. He could feel her breath, hot and ragged, could feel her heart pounding against his chest, could feel her body trembling beneath him.

He reached between them, his fingers finding her clit, circling it, teasing it, driving her higher, pushing her closer to the edge. He could feel her body tensing, could feel her getting close, could feel her teetering on the brink of ecstasy.

"Come for me, Kyujin," he growled, his voice in low demand. "Come for me now."

And she did. She cried out, her body convulsing around him, her orgasm crashing through her, wave after wave of pleasure. He groaned, his body finding its release, his seed spilling into her, filling her, claiming her.

He collapsed on top of her, his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel her heart pounding against his, could feel her body trembling beneath his, could feel her love surrounding him, filling him, completing him.

As they lay there, their bodies entwined, their hearts beating as one, Jae knew that something had shifted between them. Something had changed. Boundaries had been blurred, lines had been crossed, and there was no going back. Whatever happened next, he knew one thing for sure—he would never look at Kyujin the same way again. She was no longer just his daughter. She was his lover, his partner, his everything, and he would do everything to keep her by his side.

But for now, he just held her, his body wrapped around hers, his heart filled with love, contentment, and peace. Tomorrow would bring what it may, but tonight, tonight, they were one. And that was enough.

—-

The news spread like wildfire, a scandal that rocked the small, conservative town to its core. Kyujin and Jae, daughter and father, were lovers. The whispers started as a slight murmur, a rumor too shocking to be believed. But as the days passed, the murmurs grew louder, the rumors more insistent, until they were a roar, a storm that showed no signs of abating.

Kyujin stood in the middle of the living room, the house she had grown up in and shared with her father, now a battleground. She could hear the voices outside, the shouts of anger, the whispers of disgust. She looked at Jae, her father, her lover, his face a mask of determination and defiance. She knew he wouldn't back down or give in to the pressure. He had chosen her, chosen them, and he would stand by that choice, no matter what.

Jae looked at Kyujin, his heart aching for her pain and turmoil. He wanted to protect her, to shield her from the cruelty of the world outside. But he also wanted to shout from the rooftops that he loved her, that she was his, and that nothing and no one would ever change that.

He stepped closer to her, reaching up to cup her cheek. His touch was soft, gentle, starkly contrasted to the harsh world outside. Kyujin leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed as she savored the feel of his skin against hers. He was her haven, her sanctuary, her home.

"We can't stay here," Kyujin whispered, her voice barely audible over the noise outside. She opened her eyes, looking up at Jae, her gaze filled with determination and resolve. "We can't live like this, with all this hate and anger."

Jae nodded, his thumb brushing against her cheek, his eyes filled with love and tenderness. "We'll go," he said, his voice firm and decisive. "We'll leave all this behind and start fresh. Just you and me, Kyujin. Forever."

Kyujin's heart swelled with love and gratitude. She knew the sacrifices he was making, the bridges he was burning. But she also knew that he was doing it for her, for them, for their love. She leaned up, her lips brushing against his, a soft, sweet kiss that held a world of promise and passion.

The kiss deepened, their tongues dancing, their breaths mingling, their hearts beating as one. Jae's hands roamed over Kyujin's body, tracing her curves, stoking the fire that always burned between them. She moaned into his mouth, her body pressing against his, her need for him growing with each passing second.

He backed her against the wall, his body pressing against hers, his hardness digging into her stomach. She could feel him, long and thick, ready for her. She reached down, her hand rubbing against him through his pants, a promise, a tease. He groaned, his hips thrusting against her touch, his body aching for more.

He spun her around, his body pressing against her back, his hands roaming over her front, cupping her breasts, teasing her nipples. She could feel his breath, hot and heavy on her neck, could feel his heart pounding against her back. She ground against him, her body seeking the friction it craved, her core throbbing with need and desire.

He unbuttoned her jeans, his hand slipping inside, his fingers finding her clit, circling it, teasing it. She gasped, her body jerking against his touch, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. He slipped a finger into her, her body clenching around him, her hips moving in time with his thrusts.

"Dad," she moaned, her voice a breathy plea. "Please. I need you. I need you inside me."

He growled, a low, primal sound that sent a thrill through her body. He pulled his fingers out, bringing them to his mouth, licking her taste. She turned around, her body pressing against his, her mouth finding his, her tongue licking the taste from his lips.

He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist, her body aligning with his. He fumbled with his pants, freeing his erection, positioning himself at her entrance. He looked into her eyes and saw her love, desire, and need. And he thrust into her, a single, hard stroke that filled her.

Kyujin cried out, her body arching against him, her nails digging into his back. He groaned, his body stilling for a moment, savoring the feeling of being inside her, of being surrounded by her heat, her tightness, her love.

Then he moved. Long, hard strokes that had her gasping, her moaning, her begging for more. He could feel her body responding to his, could feel her meeting his every thrust, could feel her tightening around him. He reached between them, his fingers finding her clit, circling it, driving her higher, pushing her closer to the edge.

"Come for me, Kyujin," he growled, his voice in low demand. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel you come all over my cock."

They stayed like that for a moment. Then Jae pulled her, gently setting her on her feet. He cupped her face, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks, and his eyes filled with love and tenderness.

"We'll leave tonight," he said, his voice soft but firm. We'll pack what we need and go. We'll find a new place, home, and life. Together."

Kyujin nodded, her heart swelling with love, gratitude, and excitement. She knew there would be challenges ahead, obstacles to overcome. But she also knew they could face anything as long as they were together. They were bound together, forever, by a love that was as scandalizing as it was sanctifying.

As they packed their bags, the shouts outside faded into the background, the whispers of disgust becoming a distant hum. They were leaving it all behind: the hate, the anger, the judgment. They were choosing each other, choosing their love, choosing their future.

As they drove away, the house, the town, and the scandal fading into the distance, Kyujin knew that she was exactly where she belonged. She was with Jae, her father, her lover, and everything. And she was home.

Their new life wasn't easy. They faced judgment and ridicule, whispers and stares wherever they went. But they also faced it together. They found a small house in a quiet town, a place where they could start fresh, where they could be themselves, where they could love freely and openly.

Jae found work at a local garage; his hands were calloused and rough from the labor, but his heart was full and content. Kyujin found a job at a small café, her days filled with the hum of conversation and the scent of fresh coffee and baked goods. They were simple jobs, simple lives, but they were happy. They were together, and that was all that mattered.

Their nights were filled with passion and love, their bodies coming together in a dance that was as familiar as exciting. They explored each other, learned each other, and loved each other with intensity and tenderness that left them breathless, aching, and whole.

One night, as they lay in bed, their bodies entwined, their hearts beating as one, Kyujin looked up at Jae, her eyes filled with love and contentment. "I'm glad we did this," she whispered, her voice soft and gentle. "I'm glad we chose us, our love."

Jae smiled, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. His eyes were filled with love and pride. "We chose our happiness," he said, his voice firm and sure. We chose our future. And I would pick it all over again, a thousand times, if it meant being with you."

Kyujin's heart swelled with love and gratitude. She leaned up, her lips brushing against his, a soft, sweet kiss that held a world of promise and passion. She was his, completely, utterly, forever. And he was hers.

As they made love, their bodies moving in a rhythm as old as time, Kyujin knew that this was her forever—this man, this love, this life. She was bound to him, heart and soul, body and mind, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

Whatever the future held, whatever challenges and obstacles came their way, she knew that they would face them together. They were forever bound by a love that was as scandalous as it was sanctifying, as taboo as it was tender. And she wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

#nmixx smut #kyujin smut #gg smut #kpop smut #male reader smut #nmixx #kyujin #smut #kpop #nmixx kyujin #girl group smut

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crescenthistory · 4 months ago

Text

Haunt Me, Then

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader

Synopsis: The Hunger Games AU; After your best friend miraculously won his games, you were never to see him again – until your last Reaping as an eligible citizen ends catastrophically for you and another one of your friends.

Words: 6.1k

Warnings/tags: fem!reader, us of y/n, Hunger Games typical warnings, grief, implied loss, heavy hurt/comfort, talk of death and poverty, Capitol Citizen!Bellatrix Lestrange, same for barty sorry, angst, some fluff, childhood best friends (to lovers), physical affection, unwanted physical touches, creepy Capitol behaviour, heavy disassociation, strategically used characters, background bsf!marylene, implied that sirius got the finnick odair treatment, nb! it's a thg au but not thg canon compliant (aka i make the rules here)

A/N: this is sooooo exciting to me. your district is only implied (district 7) in this one and there are a lot of purposefully unresolved threads 🌝 there's more to come, if you want it. and yes – the title is from the wuthering heights quote "you said i killed you – haunt me, then"

Part Two

You hated Reaping day for more reasons than most.

While no person, whether they are of eligible age or not, enjoyed being in that town square annually, watching the Capitol representatives clown away on stage as your heart and ears thundered with anticipatory fear, you were left with the biting pain of the past, present and future all at the same time.

Stood in a sea of people, feeling both as if you were drowning and had a spotlight shining on you, you feared for yourself. You writhed beneath the thought of how many times your name had gone into that bowl in an attempt at keeping your loved ones safe, you winced at the knowledge that it would be just the perfect karmic timing for you to have everything taken from you this one last time.

Clutching onto Mary’s trembling fingers with one hand and Marlene’s little sister, Mabel, with the other, you feared for your loved ones. Your makeshift found family now consisted of the McKinnons, the McDonalds, the Pettigrews and you – and you could not bear the thought of how many of you were jammed into the plaza today. Marlene and her older siblings had aged out, but you, Mary and Peter were still in for your last year. Your mouth ran dry at the thought of how many years Mabel and the McKinnon and Pettigrew boys had left. Children. They were all just children – the very reason why you all kept consistently placing your own name in over and over again, to keep them safe. While you could never decide if you trusted the legitimacy of the arrangement that you could covertly buy someone’s immunity by placing your name in more times, you also could never help but try each year.

Thus far, it had worked. Mabel had at least never been picked.

But then again, you knew of at least one person who was picked despite their supposed immunity. Odd how the guilt always forced your hand regardless; the risk was worth the potential reward.

You could feel Mabel’s breaths grow shuddering beside you, but could not bring yourself to look down at her. You just wrapped an arm around her shoulders and shoved away the doomsday feelings brewing within your chest.

You felt guilty for even fearing for yourself, because you knew well how out of everyone, your name was in there probably the least amount of times. Apart from buying the immunity of one of your friends’ siblings, you had never needed to buy anything with tickets of your name. You had been financially looked out for to a much larger degree than most could dream, and not had your hand forced. At first, the help came through the direct acts of kindness from your best friend, and then later, you would somehow just always find exactly what you needed. Whenever the Capitol increased ridiculous taxes that felt as if they were specifically designed to wring you dry, there would be a freshly opened position for you to apply for, a wad of cash found in one of the boxes you looked through, even a charity basket by your door that you would always pass on to the rowdy McKinnon home.

Part of you could hear his whispered promise to you whenever these blessings seemingly fell into your lap, but you pushed it down. It couldn’t be.

“I will always take care of you, princess”.

Above all else, being in the town square tore up your heart because you could only ever think of him. Of Sirius.

Of that day 5 years ago, when you had just started breathing normally after they called some girl’s name you did not know in the Reaping, only for your lungs to be ripped from you permanently at the sound of the reaped boy.

The second “Regulus Arcturus Black” boomed through the scratching speakers, your heart was shattered into a million pieces, never to be recovered, because it was followed up by a small yet firm: “I volunteer.”

When your head whipped to the side to witness your best friend in the whole world square himself against his inevitable death, you had found his sad grey eyes already fixed on you through the massive sea of bodies. You have no recollection of the sounds after that, but you know you were protesting, crying, trashing even, in the firm grip of Marlene as she forced you into a bear hug to stop you from trying to be a human shield for the one person you could not stomach losing. The sight of Sirius kissing Regulus’ head and squeezing Peter's arm before taking to the stage, shoulders squared and jaw lifted, already looking every bit like a child warrior, was burned into your retinas.

It took years before it was not the first image you saw whenever you closed your eyes. It still sometimes was.

That day, you had been certain your best friend was lost. When they let his loved ones bid him a quick goodbye in a solitary room after the ceremony, you had stood to the back with your hiccuping sobs, allowing Regulus the space you knew he needed. Marlene and Mary passed through, so did Peter, until it was just you left.

His parents did not show up.

While Sirius had kept up the facade with the others, his face crumbled when it met yours in your momentary privacy – save the Peacekeepers by the door. You had been hugging your front to keep from falling apart, but the second he slumped back against the desk and opened his arms for you, you were wrapped up in them.

At just 13 and 14 you were each other’s worlds. Grown up as neighbors, surviving just about everything together.

And it was because he was just 14 that you had no belief he could survive the games – at that point, no 14 year old had, and no matter how strong Sirius Black was, it took more than strength to break through that harrowing cycle.

Sirius had let his first few tears slip and fall into your hair, holding onto you for dear life. You can’t remember what you said anymore, just the way he smelled, just the way he held you and the murmurs he whispered into your skin as he swayed you.

“I’m sorry, I had to. You’re wonderful. I love you. You’ll be okay. I love you.”

You hoped to the gods you had said it back.

Though you did not know that then, you had been correct. Your best friend was lost that day – but he survived his games.

It had been a torturous few months, forced to see him paraded around like a piece of meat, only to suffer through one of the longest games anyone had seen. You had sworn you would not watch it, but could not resist taking a peek at a small screen you snuck into your bedroom, crying as you caressed his dirtied face that looked so void of the Sirius you knew. Sometimes he would find a nearby camera and stare into it as he fell asleep, almost as if he could actually see you, feel your touch. You hoped it comforted him; that thought had you returning to the screen almost every night. The only nights you didn’t were the ones where you and Regulus slept in the same bed to keep each other sane, tethered.

When you two eventually woke up to the news that he managed to outlast the final tribute overnight, you cried until you laughed only to laugh until you cried.

On the day of Sirius’ return, you had made everything ready; dusted his room, bought the ingredients for his favourite dessert, orchestrated for his parents to be elsewhere, planned what to say with Regulus, who was equally as teary. Except when the Capitol Carriage swept up by the entrance and you ran out to greet him, only Peacekeepers exited the carriage, forcing you to step back. The blinds of the carriage were shut.

You stumbled, entirely bewildered by the situation, sharing deeply concerned looks with Regulus. You had tried shouting for Sirius, you had tried asking the Peacekeepers, but you were left with nothing but silence.

While you were dumbfounded, Regulus grew agitated. With months worth of guilt piling up, it was easy work for them to bubble over into anger; he pushed past the Peacekeepers to try and bang on the wall of the carriage, yanking on the locked door handle. His screams of Sirius' name were cut off in an instant when the Head Peacekeeper slammed the back of his rifle against Regulus' neck. He lurched, tried to regain his footing, before he crumbled to the ground.

Acting more on instinct than anything else, you dragged him off to the side and held him tight to your chest, as if that would protect him. With an unconscious Regulus in your lap, you were forced to watch them carry down all of Sirius’ belongings, packed haphazardly in bags, and shove them into the back of the carriage.

It drove off without you ever even catching a glimpse of Sirius.

The next time you saw him was a few days later, on a broadcasted interview where he announced his permanent move to the Capitol. Clad in shining black clothes that could have fed the entirety of Districts 11 and 12, he had taken on the persona of the Casanova of the Capitol, the goading gladiator, the wicked victor. At just 14, he had made history.

The day after that, Regulus disappeared without any warning or trace.

All you had was a seemingly private note slipped beneath your pillow that said “Don’t go looking” – you never told anyone about it. No one seemed willing to talk about him either. You were left completely and utterly alone.

Grief settled into your veins, and you did the only thing you could: you settled into routine. Sweet, hard-working routine to keep your storms at bay until you had made some sort of life for yourself. With one job as a wooden toy carver and another as a wood sculptor, not to mention the dinner rotation at the McKinnons and the Pettigrews, you kept busy. You could pretend to forget.

Until you couldn’t. Each year when you were forced into that town square, the memories haunted you viciously, cruelly – taunting you with how little you understood, how much time had passed. Beneath it all, there was a simmering of the one emotion you never could get rid of in the grief and confusion; love. It was the singular thing that powered all within you, ranging from the determination to the resentment. Oh, how you loathed how much you loved and missed your Black brothers.

You felt Mabel jump beside you at the crackle of the sound system, as the new Capitol representatives got ready to commence the Reaping. You shared a quick glance with Mary, acknowledging how the younger girl had to be your priority right now.

“It’s alright, Bel,” you whispered, shifting to hold her tighter against your side. “That sound means it’s almost over. Soon we’re done.”

Mary squeezed your own hand in return, almost as if to say take your own advice. You smiled meekly at her, and she rewarded you for your efforts by momentarily placing her forehead on your shoulder.

The younger girl just buried herself into you and you sighed to make yourself softer. It was her second Reaping, which meant it was far from her last. You understood her fear well, but still, you wanted to quell it.

The further the representatives got into their speeches, the longer the same old video droned on for, the more you disappeared from the current moment. It was hard to differentiate between past and present in these few heavy minutes, so you preferred to be in neither, to float up and out of your body. The only thing grounding you was your two friends pressed up against you, and that was all you needed. Nothing they could say up there was of any meaning to you except those two harrowed names.

Sirius never attended the Reapings the way some of the other victors did. They would line up at the front, on occasion even make speeches themselves, but never Sirius. He had yet to be a mentor, but you knew that victors were supposed to have a meeting of sorts before each game, where one of them was selected for the year. You often found yourself wondering where that meeting took place, if it was at the Capitol or nearby, if you unknowingly were standing just a couple hundred metres from him where he waited backstage or on the train.

A part of you hoped to never find out. A part of you hoped to never be near him again.

Most of you knew that was a poisonous lie.

These were thoughts you promptly pushed away. They did you no good – it had been made clear to you that you were not to think of the noble victor Sirius Black anymore.

The muscles in your back tensed tighter, shoulders hiking higher and higher the longer into the speeches the Capitol representatives got. Knowing that a name was soon to be pulled, yet you kept yourself disconnected.

Almost over, almost over.

The sudden outburst of sound and emotion around you – cries of relief, gasps of shock, whispered reactions – alerted you to the fact that a name had been called.

However, it was Mary’s loud sob and her face turning towards yours with nothing short of horror written over it that told you it was someone you knew.

One glance up into her grieving eyes told you that no, it was– it was you.

After so many years of just barely dodging it, you had been reaped. You were reaped. You were reaped. If your thoughts mere moments before had been a cloud, dragging you up above the crowd, they now became an anchor, cementing your feet to the ground.

“Mary…” you began, but were cut off by a static crackle.

“Y/N L/N? Come now love, don’t be scared.” The glee and excitement in the Capitol woman’s voice was nauseating, but it did kick you into action – and everyone else around you too, as the crowd seemed to separate to form a physical beacon on where the three of you stood, pressed together.

Your body moved on instinct; it was as if you were possessed by Sirius’ memory, pulling Mabel's crying form against you and kissing her head much like he had done with Regulus, squeezing Mary’s shoulder with a tight-lipped smile much like he had done with Peter. Ignoring your heart and mind screaming through sobs and anger, you released yourself from both of their grips to walk down the metaphorical red carpet leading up towards the stage. Chin tilted up, face schooled into nothingness. Eyes burning at the lights that suddenly shone upon you, fighting to keep from squinting. Forcing the tremble away from your fingers by balling them up into fists as you began to ascend the steps to the stage.

“There we are, darling,” the male Capitol representative, who you had yet to bother learning the name of, essentially cooed at you, reaching out a hand for you to take.

You walked past it and assumed the position to the right of them both, staring emptily into the air.

He chuckled in a low, menacingly lilting tone. “Okay, well, we can see what kind of tribute we just selected, can’t we, Bella?”

“We sure can, Barty,” the woman, Bella, replied with a gleaming smile. “As for her comrade in arms…” she trailed off for dramatic effect before dipping her fingers with their ridiculously long and sharp nails down into the pot.

From a distance, it was easier to distort the sounds of their voices. Now up close, you couldn’t help but hear every word passing between the two representatives, no matter how loud the screaming in your own head was.

No. No, no, no, no.

“... Peter Pettigrew!” Bella shouted cheerily, with a screeching joy that all but punctured your eardrums.

No.

You squeezed your eyes shut from the first syllable, fighting the shaking taking over your body. Heavily, your shoulders slumped and your face began to fall at the revelation, before you scrambled for any and every piece of strength in your body to square up once again and face the literal sound of the music.

Deep breaths.

In the corner of your eye, you saw him climb the stairs to stand beside you. For only a brief second, you dared glance over, only to see the pure terror written all over Peter’s face, only to immediately regret it and whip your face forward again. You knew in your heart that you were not making it out of these games – and unlike with Sirius, the feeling settled like wings on your shoulders instead of rocks. If you were honest, you knew Peter would likely not either, but you could at least fight for him, in the hope that he would.

The man Bella had called Barty came up behind you both and placed a strikingly cold hand on your shoulders, twisting you to face one another. It was custom to shake hands with your fellow tribute, but for the Capitol representatives to lay hands on you like this was certainly not. You fought back the urge to shake it off.

“Now if the tributes may shake hands,” Barty said with a wicked grin, speaking loudly enough for the microphone a metre away to pick up on it – thus too loudly. “And may the odds be ever in your favour.”

Peter’s hand was trembling with such force that he could barely move it away from his body. With a quick sideway glance at the cameras, you reached forward to grab it, steadying it even as you shook it. Peter could not meet your gaze, and not a single part of you could hold it against him; you merely squeezed his hand reassuringly. That had to be enough for now.

As soon as you let go, Bella closed the Reaping Ceremony with a flourish.

You kept your chin elevated and your gaze empty as you began to move, lest it meet any of your friends and family in the many separated crowds. You weren’t sure if you would be able to keep it up if your eyes locked with Mary’s parents, with Peter’s brothers that he had to leave. Instead, you walked behind the walls with a pin straight back and let the Peacekeepers lead you through the townhouse, room after room, keeping all your emotions balled up. You signed some papers in one room, received a bag with a uniform in another. Finally you walked into the very same room that broke your heart 5 years ago, where your friends and family were already waiting.

The goodbyes were a flurry. Nothing felt real.

You hugged every one of the McKinnon siblings goodbye and nodded weakly when they begged that you would come back home to them, unable to make false promises verbally. The eldest, your Marlene, was the only one who did not plead; she grabbed each side of your face with a determined look and forced you to meet her eyes. “You will come home, Y/N. You will. I am not giving you a choice, you are making it back to us. Do you hear me?”

Even her, you could only spare a nod. But you listened and held her gaze through every word she spoke to make up for it, which seemed to be enough for now. Her hug was even more crushing now than when she kept you from running after Sirius and getting gunned down during his Reaping.

Mary had been silently crying through it all. When she hugged you, your collar was instantly wettened, and you could not help but wonder if this was how it felt for Sirius when you cried into him. You hoped it wasn’t, even as you knew it was.

When every cheek was kissed and every I love you uttered, you sized them up with a resolved gaze. You let it drag carefully over them all, committing them to memory, one last time.

Marlene could see what you were doing. With minimal movement, she shook her head – not admonishingly, but the correction was clear nonetheless. You will come back. You gave her a tight-lipped smile, and gave them all a final nod before exiting, allowing Peter to enter for his own goodbyes.

You stopped to say something to him, to hug him or give any reaction, but he scurried past you before you could. Even as you kept walking, your heart was sinking.

There was only one Peacekeeper waiting for you in the hallway.

“Where do I go now?” You hated how weak your voice sounded, but at least there were no cameras here to catch it this time.

“Mrs. Lestrange is waiting for you around the corner. She will take you to meet your mentor on the train.” Even in your shock, you were baffled by the extreme lack of emotion in his voice. It was almost like talking to a robot, except it had distinctly human eyes. You supposed that was something to get used to.

“Thank you,” you replied, unsure if that was a common custom with Peacekeepers. You were lucky enough in 7 that their presence was limited.

You heard Bella before you saw her, she was excitedly recapping the entire Reaping process to Barty, as if it did not just end and he wasn’t there for the whole thing. He didn't seem to mind; he was twirling around himself, as if your metaphorical dead body was his favourite meadow to frolic through. Her clapping hands and screeching voice made you sick to your stomach, but her eyes might as well be cameras in the court of public opinion, so you picked your facade back up.

“I was told you would take me to the train.” You interrupted one of her tirades, and when her head snapped towards you, there was a second of blazing fire in her expression before she realised that it was you – a new plaything. The glee set back into her within a second.

“Oh, this was the part I was the most excited about.” She smacked a kiss to Barty's cheek before grabbing your elbow to drag you away with her. You had to clench your teeth not to rip it away from her – these Capitol people were handsy. “It’s about time for a reunion, don’t ya’ think?”

You weren’t sure what she was saying most of the time, though you rarely were with Capitol people. Yet the pinching feeling in your stomach did not recede to make space for confusion, nor did your shoulders lower even a fraction.

There was a special entrance to the train that you could access through the townhouse, so that you would not be too swamped by onlookers. Bella was explaining the whole ordeal to you somehow, but as the metallic train came into view through the windows, the blood rushing through your head got louder and louder, even more so than her pitchy voice.

With this entrance, you only had to walk a meter unsheltered in the transition between the townhouse and the train. Shortly after the first gust of wind hit you was it again shut away as you stepped onto the metallic floorboards.

“Where are we going?” You found yourself asking Bella, unsure if she had already answered this or even if she was in the middle of a sentence.

She looked at you as if you were dumb, but it did not lessen her unnerving smile even a fraction nor stop her quick strides through the many corridors of the train. “Well, to meet your loverboy, duh.”

You stopped in the middle of a step, staring at her incredulously, unsure if you heard her correctly. A frustrated groan escaped her when she had to stop too, looking at you as if you were quite tedious. You knew who she must be referring to, but you had no idea why she would. At least like that.

“Am I not to meet with my potential mentors?” You tried to force any emotion out of your sentence.

“You’re being so silly, did you know that?” Bella took your arm once more, jostling you along with her. “Your mentor has already been decided, stupid. He’s waiting just over there, come on.”

You stumbled slightly in your step from how forcefully she dragged you. You were unsure if she even knew that she was gripping you as hard as she was, or if there was some serious disconnect between her mind and body.

She only let you go in favour of ripping open a rather large oak door and releasing an unnecessarily loud “ta dah!”.

The back you were met with was one you would have recognised in every life.

He stood hunched over a table, hands splayed out so wide they were shaking, black curls hanging messily in his face, breathing ragged. At the sound of Bella’s entrance and you being ushered in, he whipped around.

It was Sirius. Of course it was. Your heart wanted to say it was your Sirius, but you could clearly see that he wasn’t.

Though he looked different than he had on the occasional glance you stole of him onscreen, he still didn’t look the way you remembered either. No longer was he the scrawny boy you grew up with, the one you messed around in fields with, the one you read books with, the one you cried with and slept beside and walked beside and lived beside. Before you stood a weathered man, sharp in his handsomeness, pointed in every one of his features, guarded by an army of layers yet wearing more emotions than suited him. He had a few tattoos creeping up the side of his neck, the onyx ink shining in contrast to his pale skin.

The one thing that remained the same was the utter heartbreak spelled out in his eyes. It was the same as when you saw him last, only perhaps worse.

No, it was decidedly worse. When the stormy greys landed on your face, flitting about so rapidly that you were unsure how he could even see, lips parting ever so slightly, whatever tormented him settled in deeper. He looked inconsolable.

Sirius opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. As if he didn’t know what to say, as if there were no words.

His attention was abruptly shifted over to Bella when she clapped her hands together in mirth. “Isn’t this exciting!” she exclaimed, looking back and forth between you. “Aren’t you going to hug in greeting? Aren’t you going to ki–”

“Bellatrix.” Sirius spoke through gritted teeth, all of his pain schooled away in favour of a burning fire when he faced her. His voice was so much deeper than you remembered, so much hoarser. “Get lost. This is a meeting between mentor and tribute.”

“Oh, this is hardly a meeting or classified in any way, Siri. Just–”

He cut her off once more. “I won’t tell you again.” He eyed her with a severe glare. “Leave us. Now.”

It looked like Bellatrix wanted to fight him on it, but after looking between you three more times, she evidently decided she had gotten enough out of this endeavour. “You’re too serious, Black,” she said with a giggle. “Don’t bite her face off, you dog, she needs it for the interviews.”

She seemed to all but float out of the room, but closed the door behind her with a loud bang. You kept your head craned sideways, eyes burning a hole through the door where she left, leering.

The silence in the room felt more deafening than the volume of the plaza had. You had no idea what to say – this was nothing like what you could have imagined.

You and Sirius, alone in a room. Something you had craved more than words could explain, but that you now backed away from with every fibre of your being.

“Princess.” Sirius breathed the word out like he had been choking on it. Before you had the time to turn your head fully back towards him, he had swept you up into a bone-crushing hug. “Y/N,” he whispered into your neck, almost reverently.

A minute ago you were walking down the hallways with an awful stranger, and now you were embraced by someone who, despite everything, was painfully known to you. It did not compute in your mind, everything was whirring and screeching, and unlike what he once could, Sirius did not quiet the noises.

He almost did, though. Just almost. With his arms around your back, fingers splaying around your ribs, with your nose shoved against his neck as he cradled you, his scent taking over your senses, you could almost fall into it. Could almost fall into him. Your Sirius.

He smelled the same.

You reared backwards out of his touch, back hitting the wall as you stumbled. Your eyes felt wide, almost like a cornered animal, your lips parted as you stared at him. You realised you were breathing heavily. If he was startled by you ripping away from him, his face didn’t show it.

Studying his face now gave you a wave of deja vu so strong, it almost made you dizzy. There was no way you could communicate anything effectively at the minute.

“Sirius, what the fuck?!”

You hadn’t meant for your voice to be so loud, but not even that drew a reaction from him. Kicking yourself off the wall, you walked past him – leaving a large amount of space between you – dragging your fingers through your hair as you did so. You began a sentence multiple times, but no coherent word came out. “Why are you here? What just happened?” you ended up whispering, feeling pathetic at how close to a whimper it was. “Who–” You stopped. That was a sentence you did not have it in you to complete.

Who are you?

When you turned around to face him, you found that he had followed after you, keeping a respectable distance but still within arm’s reach, as if he couldn’t allow you to get further than that. For the first time since you stepped into the town square, tears began to fight to well in your eyes. Sirius didn’t look away from them.

“I’m so sorry.” His voice was barely a whisper, insistent and imploring. “Y/N, I am so sorry.”

“For what?” You choked out, wrapping your arms around your stomach, not much unlike you had during his Reaping. Sirius’ gaze flitted down to your arms before moving back up, and it was as if you could see the memory playing across his irises.

He heaved a deep breath before rubbing his hands up and down his own face. When he lowered them, he gave you a look of defeat.

“I– let’s start over again,” he said then. He gave you a rueful smile. “Hi, princess.”

You looked at him, uncertain of whether you should start crying or laughing. You settled on a scowl in between. “I’m not sure you get to call me that anymore.” You looked away from his face as you said it, unwilling to see his reaction. “But sure. Hi, Sirius.”

When you dared a glance at him, he had his lips pressed together and a look of remorse in his eyes. You hated that you could still read him like this, for more than one reason.

“I was roughhoused onto the train last night. Told that I was to be the mentor of these games, whether I’d like to or not, no more information.” He said, as if that explained anything.

You couldn’t help the bite in your reply. “Am I meant to feel sorry for you? I was just given a death sentence. And now I have to face my ex best friend who I haven't seen in five years. This is some awful joke.”

This time you didn’t avert your gaze, the simmer within you for once bursting into a flame, however short-lived, and you got to witness how his face jerked backwards as if you had slapped him. In some way, you kind of had.

Your anger was not mirrored in his expression, but a form of determination took over his face as he spoke. “You weren’t. You weren’t.”

“What?” you asked dumbly, yet uncaring of sounding it.

Sirius stepped towards you, gingerly taking your hands into his own. His touch burned, the new awkwardness of the gesture burned. “You weren’t given a death sentence. I wasn’t and you weren’t. I bloody swear to you, Y/N, you will make it through these games.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to pull away from his touch, but you managed to at least not lean into it. There was a dangerous gloss coated over his grey eyes when you met them with your own, and for a second you got lost in them. Your voice cracked as you asked, “Why?”

Sirius let out a humourless laugh and suddenly brought you back into a hug, as if he just couldn’t help himself. Your hands were trapped between you in an embrace with one of his, but he rested his forehead against your temple and seemingly breathed you in.

“I am so, so sorry you have to ask that, princess. I’m so sorry, but I had to go.”

You shivered in his hold. These were words that you dreamed of – but had they not been nightmares? You shook your head but made no other move to remove yourself.

"It's been five years, you know? I'm not sure we even know each other at this point."

Sirius' answer was immediate. "I know you." He pressed his forehead firmer against you. "I know you."

The emotion in his voice rendered you speechless.

He pulled backwards without releasing you from the embrace, leaning away just enough to catch your gaze with his. It felt like the floor was giving way beneath you. His hand on your back travelled up to your cheek. “I'm sorry for it all. Always. And I’m sorry for calling you princess when you just asked me not to,” he added with a hint of the sheepish smile you once loved.

You opened and closed your mouth, absolutely dumbfounded, and he just stared at you patiently. Warmly. Desperately.

“Sirius–”

You were cut off by the door swinging open once more, causing Sirius to physically spring away from you, suddenly putting multiple metres between you at the sign of new guests. You almost stumbled at the change in positions, and you saw his hand twitch when he cast a glance your way, as if it ached to steady you.

“Now that the lovers have had their private greeting, maybe it’s time to include the other tribute in your strategies, Siri? Or are we just going to let itty bitty Peter die at the cornucopia?”

Bellatrix’s high pitched voice pierced through your ears, and you felt a mountain of guilt fall on top of you when your eyes fell on Peter cowering behind her, his eyes flitting wildly between you and Sirius. In your whirlwind of emotion, you had almost forgotten that he was as doomed as you were.

One glance to your right showed you that Sirius had no idea Peter had been reaped too. His brows furrowed and his lips fell into a decidedly downturned frown. “What– no, Pete,” he breathed out, arms falling to his sides.

“Hi, Sirius,” Peter squeaked, seemingly uncertain about what their dynamic was now, but relieved at at least being acknowledged.

Sirius stepped forward and physically nudged Bellatrix to the side as he pulled Peter in for his own hug. The sight stung in a way you couldn't communicate.

Over Sirius’ back, Bellatrix was grinning at you wickedly.

“Seems like you three have a conundrum or two to work through for us, don’t you?” Barty said cheerily as he emerged from behind Peter, clapping his hands down on his shoulders and making the younger boy jump in fear.

Bellatrix laughed as if that was just the funniest joke, and all but skipped up to you to tug at your cheek while turning to look at Sirius’ face that became increasingly stony at the sight of Bellatrix’s hands on you.

“Don’t you, Siri?” she pushed, giggling in a nearly maniacal manner. “Luckily, the Capitol is still far off. Gives you just loads of time to catch up, yeah?”

Part Two can be found here<3

680 notes · View notes

psformybss · 20 days ago

Text

Camera Ready

series masterlist

warnings: soft debut, accidental spotlight, public speaking fear, supportive partner energy, wholesome vibes

an: tumblr currently hates me and wont let me answer this ask like normal but anyway here is the first request. i’ll post part 2 later today. im so happy you love the series, they are genuinely my babies so i love seeing people love them and the series 🫶🏼🥲

︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

She hadn’t planned on speaking.

Not into a mic, not into a camera, and definitely not in front of a crowd that included half of young Hollywood and enough press to light up Times Square. The original plan was simple: walk the carpet, smile beside Drew, keep a low profile, and let him handle the spotlight like he always did.

But plans, as she was learning, had a funny way of unraveling on red carpets.

She stood just a step behind him, his hand trailing from her lower back to her fingers, anchoring her without even trying. He looked calm. Relaxed, even. Like this kind of chaos was just another Tuesday night. Which, for him, maybe it was. But she could feel the jittery thrum in her chest, nerves pressed up tight beneath her skin.

And then it happened.

“Is this your wife? Can we grab her for a moment too?”

A reporter from Entertainment Tonight, bright-eyed and beaming, reached out—waving her forward like it was no big deal. Like she wasn’t currently trying to keep her breathing under control in heels that already felt like a mistake.

“Oh—uh,” she started, panic flaring. But Drew was already turning toward her, hand outstretched, gaze gentle.

“Come here, babe,” he said, quiet enough that it cut through everything else.

So she did.

The mic was raised between them, and the camera’s red light blinked on like a signal flare.

She could feel the weight of it—the expectation. She knew how this worked. Say the right thing, smile at the right time, be charming but humble, be interesting but not rehearsed. And she wasn’t famous. She hadn’t practiced this.

The reporter grinned. “Okay, this is a moment! First time walking a red carpet together—and at the premiere. How’s it feel?”

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Drew gave her hand the gentlest squeeze. That was all it took.

“It’s… surreal,” she said, finding her voice like a thread in the dark. “I’ve watched him do this before. From home, or from the sidelines. But being in it? It feels a little like walking through someone else’s dream.”

The reporter lit up. “That’s such a beautiful way to put it. You’re a natural already.”

She laughed, a little breathless, and leaned into Drew. He was watching her, eyes soft and proud, like she’d just nailed her first scene.

“She is a natural,” he said, grinning.

“And you two have been married how long now?” the interviewer asked, angling the mic back.

“Two years,” she answered, less nervous now, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

“Do people ever recognize you? I feel like there’s been such a mystery around you—like you’re the hidden queen of the OBX fandom.”

She laughed again, real this time. “I think they recognize him. I’m just the blurry shape in the background.”

“Not anymore,” Drew cut in, thumb brushing the side of her hand. “She’s got fans now.”

The interviewer grinned. “And what’s the best part of being married to Drew Starkey?”

Y/N felt herself flush, the question catching her off-guard—but not in a bad way.

She turned her head slightly, looked at him—hair swept back, eyes glinting, a touch of stubble across his jaw that still made her weak in the knees.

“The best part?” she echoed softly. “I think it’s that he never changes. No matter where we are, or what’s going on around us, he’s still just Drew. The same guy who forgets where he parked and steals the covers and sends me voice memos of song ideas at 2 a.m.”

Drew made a face. “You love those voice memos.”

“I tolerate them.”

“She loves them,” he confirmed, grinning at the reporter.

They all laughed, the moment light and easy now, nerves melting into something warmer.

After a few more questions—about their favorite episodes, their wedding playlist (which Drew revealed included Fleetwood Mac, to no one’s surprise), and how she handled his intense scenes in the show—they finally stepped away from the camera.

Backstage, behind the curtain of glitz and press, Drew turned to her the second they were alone.

“You were amazing.”

She shook her head. “I thought I was going to pass out when she pulled me in.”

“Could’ve fooled me. You handled that better than I ever do.”

She gave him a look. “You’ve done, like, fifty of those.”

“Still. You were calm. Sweet. Real. Exactly you.”

She rolled her eyes playfully, but her cheeks were still warm. “You’re just saying that because I complimented you on camera.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true,” he said, stepping closer, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “I know you didn’t want to do that. But I’m glad you did. You shined.”

Her smile softened. “I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.”

Drew leaned in and kissed her, slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured against her lips.

“Guess so,” she whispered.

Later that night, curled up in the backseat of the car with her heels off and her legs stretched across Drew’s lap, she scrolled through Twitter.

Clips from the interview were already circulating. People were calling her “effortlessly charming,” “so real,” and “Drew Starkey’s wife—we won.”

She tilted the screen toward him. “You see this?”

Drew glanced down, smirking. “Told you.”

“I think I peaked tonight.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Nah. This is just the beginning.”

And maybe it was.

Maybe her name would stay in headlines for a while. Maybe she’d do more interviews. Maybe not.

But for tonight, she’d stepped into his world—and somehow, it had made room for her.

And even under flashing lights, with all eyes on them, she’d felt one thing above everything else.

Safe.

Because he was there.

And he always would be.

#drew starkey x female reader #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey x you #drew starkey x secret fiancee!reader #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x oc #drew starkey blurb #drew starkey obx #drew starkey one shot #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey #obx #rafe cameron x oc #rafe cameron #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n

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woncheolisms · 1 year ago

Text

you are part of me. (gojo satoru x reader)

summary: when gojo satoru loves, he is loud about it. and he doesn’t care if you don’t love him back.

word count: 3604

warnings: fem!reader, friends to lovers, very mild angst, swearing, gojo being gojo, canon compliant storyline

Gojo Satoru enters your life at 16 years old.

His presence suffocates the room, his cursed energy is something not best ignored. Quiet, yet noticeable. Like something that’s bubbling just under the surface. It’s almost as if a very dangerous animal has been reigned in, held back on a leash. That’s how his cursed energy feels to you. You, who is a mere novice. New to the world of curses and sorcery, landing in Jujutsu Tech after everything near and dear to you was ripped from you by this world.

He intimidates you.

He is loud, lean, but very tall. He demands attention when he walks into a room. He is jovial, a little aloof (you're not sure if it’s on purpose), big goofy grin and round, almost comical sunglasses. His hair is so bright, and his eyes are so blue, it’s almost blinding to look at him.

He is everything that you are not.

He is a year older, and your classmate Haibara can never stop talking about him and Geto. Nanami does not enjoy being around them, but he holds them in regard because they are his seniors. Shoko might be the only one he truly respects, and that almost makes you fear her. You make up your mind to try and stay as invisible as possible around them. You do not enjoy the spotlight.

Unfortunately, Gojo thrives in the spotlight, and he has a knack for pulling other people into it with him.

“Oh hello. Fresh meat?” He is grinning down at you, eyes barely visible behind the dark, circular lenses. “And aren’t you cute. You better toughen up sweetcheeks, or the big bad curses are gonna eat you up.”

You don’t know what exactly he means. You’re too caught up in the fact that he called you cute. It makes you heat up under the collar of your brand new jujutsu uniform. And his intense stare makes you fidget.

You do not like it.

You just frown at him and turn away, taking advantage of the fact that Nanami was leaving the room and going along with him. You don’t notice how he stares at the back of your head as you leave, but Geto sure does. The raven haired boy lets out a pained sigh before leaning back on the creaky classroom chair.

“Here we go.”

Gojo hums questioningly, glancing at his best friend once you have left the room.

“You’re going to fixate on her now. And you’re going to be an insufferable prick about it.”

Gojo doesn’t deny it. He merely settles into a chair of his own, feeling the corners of his lips twitch.

……………….

Life at Jujutsu Tech isn’t as bad as you expected.

Your room is spacious enough to hold all your belongings. It has a nice view of the gardens, and is warm enough that you sleep comfortably through the nights. Your classmates are easy to get along with. Haibara loves carrying the conversation, and while Nanami isn’t as energetic, he shares a lot of your interests so you love talking to him.

The deep, sorrowful ache in your chest is slowly subsiding. Very slowly. Oftentimes, you remember your old life. You remember the smiles on your parents’ faces, and you shed tears in the late hours of the night. But they are gone. And you are here. You can’t do anything about it.

And then there’s Gojo Satoru.

For someone who is apparently the ‘strongest’, part of a major jujutsu clan and heir to the infamous Six Eyes, you would think he would be a busy person. But somehow, he finds a way to always be lazing around the campus, and unfortunately, he loves engaging you in conversation.

“Fresh meat!” He hasn’t stopped calling you that. He hasn’t even learned your name. Or introduced himself. Of course, you already know who he is. But it would be the polite thing to do, wouldn’t it?

You would soon learn that Gojo Satoru has no manners, and no amount of scolding could teach him any.

“Heard you took down a fourth grade all by yourself. Congratulations!”

You eye him with a scowl, while all he does is grin back at you.

“You’re mocking me, senpai.”

Gojo places a hand on his chest, gasping so loud it was comical, acting shocked at your accusation.

“I would never!”

You sigh deeply, a regular habit you have developed since the boy had decided to shadow you, continuing to make your way back to your room as he trails behind you. While a fourth grade may not be a big deal to someone like Gojo, it is to you, who has never interacted with, let alone fought a curse.

You open your room door, stepping in and looking back to stare at your senior as he smiles down at you. You wait for him to say something cheeky like he usually does, about how you should invite him in so you can hang out, or his usual ‘let me take you out to dinner’, which he loves tossing around whenever he sees an opening.

“I’m real proud of ya, sweetcheeks.” He says instead, and his voice is softer, having lost the sharp edge that it usually carries.

There it is again, the heat under your collar. The little knot in your throat.

You close your room door in his face.

………………

“He likes you.”

“He doesn’t. He just likes to annoy me.”

“That’s his way of spending time with you.”

“I’d rather he leave me alone, then.”

“That’s an impossible ask.”

The chocolate icing on your brownie melts in your mouth as you chew on it, giving a disdainful look to Utahime who is apparently hell bent on proving this nonexistent crush Gojo seems to have on you. You don’t believe her. Mostly because you don’t think Gojo is capable of liking you, of all people. You also doubt his ability to genuinely give a shit about anyone that isn’t his closest friends. You’re just some underclassman that he thinks is fun to pester every now and then.

(‘Every now and then’ in this context means ‘every possible second of every day’.)

Utahime takes a big gulp on her coffee, and you have to wonder why the hot liquid doesn’t burn her throat as it goes down. Your phone pings again, for the seventh time in the last half hour, and Utahime stares pointedly at the unsaved number on your screen. You swipe the phone off the table quickly and flip the switch to ‘silent mode’.

“You haven’t saved his number? Ouch. He’s not gonna like that.”

You roll your eyes and glare at the screen of your phone. How long has he been texting you with random crap?

“I don’t give a shit what he likes.”

“You will. When he whines about it and never lets it go for the rest of your life.”

You sigh defeatedly and give your friend pleading eyes. “Can we please talk about something else? I see and hear Gojo enough during the day. I don’t need to talk about him with you too.”

When your friend agrees, you are blessed with a wonderful, Gojo-free afternoon of chatting, shopping and excessive eating. You’re still buzzing as you climb up the steps to Jujutsu Tech at sundown, rummaging through the tote bag where you had dropped all your little purchases. Just small knick knacks that made you happy to look at.

“Did ya get me anything?”

You yelp and jump, nearly falling off the step behind you but catching yourself before you can faceplant on the concrete. Gojo lets out an annoying cackle at your reaction, making you glare up at him.

“What is wrong with you?! I could’ve gotten seriously injured!”

He scoffs, walking the few steps between you two, hands buried in his pants pockets. “Like I would let that happen. You gotta trust me more, sweetcheeks.”

You ignore the now familiar way your ears and neck heat up, choosing to walk past him and continue your way up the steps.

“So? Got me anything?”

You groan internally, knowing he wouldn’t leave this alone. If you say no, he will complain about how he isn’t important enough in your life to warrant a little gift. If you then say he isn’t, that will result in even worse (and louder) whining, and you don’t have the energy to deal with that right now. You scramble through the bag slung over your shoulder, pulling out a cute carrot shaped pen with a smiley face on it. You had gotten two pens, one carrot shaped and one that looked like corn. You just thought they were insanely cute. It’s okay. You can afford to lose one.

Gojo eyes the pen when you hand it to him. “Why did ya get me this?”

He clearly knows you just pulled a random object out. He just wants to see what you will say.

“It’s…. tall and thin. You’re tall and thin.” You deadpan.

Gojo snorts, seeing through your very obvious lie. “You love me so much, don’t you?”

You stop in your tracks, watching Gojo’s back as he keeps walking, unaffected by your shocked gaze.

“Senpai-”

“See ya tomorrow!” He calls, twiddling the pen around his fingers as he disappears near the landing of the stairs.

Your heart races at his words. You feel angry and frustrated. But you’re not sure at whom.

………………….

When it’s Shoko’s birthday, you are forced to be around Gojo all day.

It’s a harrowing experience, one that can only be withstood by god’s toughest soldier, and god thinks that is you, apparently, because as per his usual habits, Gojo doesn’t leave you alone.

“Oh, this is nothing.” Geto comments, sipping on some fruity punch that you are almost sure contains alcohol. Both of you watch as Gojo tries to tie a conical party hat on Nanami’s head, while the boy in question puts up a valiant fight to try and keep his upperclassman at bay.

“He once had a crush on the daughter of some prominent gang leader in Tokyo. Almost landed himself in jail with the kind of stunts he pulled.”

You blink at him, watching as he brushes some strands of black hair off his face. “Seriously?”

He nods, smirking at your shocked silence, watching the gears in your head turn. “Don’t worry, he won’t do that to you.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “What makes you sure of that?”

Geto shrugs, watching the way Gojo’s eyes flit to you every now and then. You fail to notice it, too caught up in making up scenarios in your head where Gojo does something potentially illegal and lands both of you in serious trouble.

“You’re different.” Is his simple reply. It does nothing but confuse you more.

Later in the night, Shoko forces you to down an alcoholic drink. You sputter on the horrific taste of it, trying to get out from under her hold as she laughs at your reaction. Haibara enjoys your misery just as much, while Nanami’s face is blank. You are sure he is trying to erase tonight from his memory entirely.

The night is cold, but your hands are warm and your head is buzzing with happiness. Your cheeks hurt from the constant smiling and laughing. Every now and then, your eyes would meet brilliant blue ones. You are so cheerful that you even giggle when Gojo makes some lame pun at Geto’s expense. So cheerful, in fact, that you don’t protest when he decides he wants to walk you to your room.

You hum the song you had sung karaoke to, walking without so much as a thought in your head. Gojo is munching on a mini chocolate bar, one hand in his pocket. For once, he is silent.

When you stop at your door, you turn to look at him, trying to search his eyes. You find nothing, and you feel the sudden urge to know more about him. Geto’s words roam through your head.

“Senpai,” You whisper. “Why am I different?”

He smiles then, not his usual toothy grin, but softer, kinder. It makes him look even younger than he is. Somehow, it seems he knows exactly what you mean.

“Because I’m in love with ya, sweetcheeks.”

He leaves it at that. And you don’t ask any follow up questions.

……………………..

Gojo’s love is loud.

He never says the word after that one night. But he never exactly negates his declaration. He continues to be around you as much as possible. He loves pinching at your cheeks until they sting, loves draping an arm over your shoulder and laying a sloppy kiss on it when he can get away with it. He is much taller and stronger than you, so pushing him away does nothing except spur him on even more. You realize that he is naturally a very touchy-feely person, so you dismiss his affection as just him being annoying as hell. Both of you settle into a strange dynamic, one where he teases you endlessly and you try not to appear affected by it.

It’s unconventional but it works. You will even go as far as saying that he is your friend.

When you refer to him as such, he stares at you mouth agape, before letting out a big whoop and crushing you into a hug. You protest his grip and try to free yourself, failing as usual. Deep in your chest, your heart stutters at his proximity.

Gojo Satoru doesn’t have a single subtle bone in his body.

He introduces you as his girlfriend to curses, claiming it doesn’t matter because they are all stupid and can’t understand him anyway, so he can say what he wants. Besides, he’s gonna kill them mere minutes later. You don’t even know where to begin to fight his logic on that, so you just facepalm and let him do it, provided he doesn’t say it in front of actual people.

“You say it like being my girlfriend would be so bad.”

“It would be the worst thing known to mankind. I would kill myself actually.”

That earns you a very strong pinch on the cheek, one that has you yelping and pushing him away. It leaves behind a red mark that makes you hold back a smile every time you see it in the mirror.

Sometimes you wonder how easy it is for him to talk to you like this. He seems to not have an ounce of fear of rejection, no matter how many times you have told him that you aren’t interested. Like he is confident that it simply isn’t true. He makes it seem effortless, to attach himself to you and declare that you’re his ‘favorite’ person and one day he would be your favorite person too.

You try to ignore how accurate you think that is. And how close he is to actually becoming your favorite person. You can’t possibly let him find that out. He would become even more unbearably smug than he already is.

And so you continue to bask in this…. strange limbo. You warm yourself in the glaringly bright light of Gojo Satoru. And you secretly pray that it never goes away.

When Geto defects, you almost lose him.

You find him on the steps of Jujutsu High, staring out at god knows what, completely silent. In your years of knowing him, you had never seen him sit in one place for so long. He doesn’t even budge when you sit next to him. You don’t say a word. And neither does he.

The wind moves gently through his silver locks. The blue in his eyes has dulled and darkened. You sit on those steps for hours.

Something changes between you two after that evening. Somehow, Gojo is more…. human to you now. You see him struggle to come to terms with what has happened, to truly realise the unfair responsibility that he bears on his shoulders as the strongest sorcerer in the Jujutsu world. You sees how that changes him, how it dims him, and how he matures in that time.

Yet Gojo is still Gojo. Even years later, he continues to love you loudly and proudly. He is still constantly attached at the hip to you, even more so in your adult years now that you live off campus. He is somehow always at your place, even after you take away his emergency key because he never uses it for emergencies. There is a ‘Gojo drawer’ in your storage closet, huge bathroom slippers and an extra toothbrush. His preferred brand of shampoo and conditioner are housing in your cabinet, spares that he keeps for when he crashes in your guest bedroom.

(Let’s be honest. It’s less of a guest bedroom and more so Gojo’s room at this point).

You commute to work together in the mornings, which you think is funny since Gojo can just teleport wherever he wants. He says it’s because he wants to spend more time with you.

Oh yeah, he still constantly says he is in love with you.

Years and years after his first declaration, Gojo has still not budged. At this point you are so used to it that it doesn’t bother you anymore. Like it’s second nature. Like Gojo is meant to love you. Like there was never any doubt about it. Your mutual friends have accepted it too by now. No one bats an eye when Gojo whines about missing you. Or when he waltzes into your on-campus office claiming “two hours is enough time for us to be apart”.

You don’t know when exactly it settles over you. How important Gojo is to you. How you can’t go a day without him. How you get pissy and irritable when he goes on missions overseas that take weeks at a time. The transition is so smooth that sometimes you think you were always meant to love Gojo, just like he was always meant to love you.

‘Senpai’ becomes ‘Gojo-san’. Which becomes Satoru’.

It never occurred to you that Gojo was still, technically, a friend. You were with him so often, bickering and snickering, cuddling and lounging around. He was a part of you, like you were a part of him.

Then you hear words that shock you to your very core.

“In my eyes, you two are already married.”

Never in a million years would you have expected Ijichi to say those words. Everyone else is one thing. But fucking Ijichi?

You stare at the back of his head when he says them, the silence in the car deafening. You know Ijichi well enough to be certain he isn’t saying these words falsely, even if he means them lightheartedly. If this is what Ijichi truly thinks, then….. Is it what things are actually like?

It takes only a few minutes of reflection for you to realise that he isn’t far off. Gojo is so deeply ingrained in every nook and cranny of your life that it is beyond irreversible now. There is no way to untangle your lives. He is part of you, just as you are part of him.

It’s almost as if the universe is nodding in confirmation when you open the door to your apartment and find Gojo sprawled on the couch, flipping through TV channels. He is wearing sweatpants and a black T-shirt that looks unfairly good on him, especially since he clearly isn’t trying at all.

He stands up and you notice on the coffee table before him that he has laid out a myriad of snacks, both savory and sweet to cater for your varying taste buds. You spot at least three of your preferred treats in them. Your heart beat slows down, settles. Like you are at peace again. You feel a warmth under your collar. One that you haven’t felt since you were a wee teenager just stepping onto the Jujutsu High campus. You eye the back of Gojo’s head.

“Hey.” He calls, barely glancing back at you, eyeing his treasured snack collection as if contemplating which one he should start with. “Some shitty American reality show is on. You wanna make fun of ‘em together?”

He turns to look at you when you don’t respond, raising an eyebrow. Brilliant blue eyes bore into you.

“You okay?”

You walk closer to him, still silent, until he is mere inches from you, craning your head up to look at him. The background noise from the TV gets tuned out.

“What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

Gojo blinks. “I’d kiss you back.”

Your breath hitches. The knot in your throat tightens. No hesitation. No shock. Not so much as a stir. It’s like you’re asking him what to make for dinner.

“Okay.” You whisper. And then you’re leaning up, pressing your lips to his.

His hand reaches up to cup the back of your neck. The other stabilizes you at the waist. His lips are soft and smooth, almost dainty, slowly picking up intensity as he presses closer to you. Your heart is racing a mile a minute, and as you press closer to him, you feel that his is just the same, the only indication that he is affected by you just as you are by him.

When your lips part, you don’t open your eyes. Your foreheads touch and you let yourself feel, truly feel, the effects of his touch on you.

“I love you.”

Gojo’s smile is soft. His touch is tender. Comforting. Familiar. “I know.”

#gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru fluff #gojo fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo fanfiction #gojo imagine #friends to lovers #gojo satoru fanfic #gojo satoru imagine #gojo satoru x you

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wbbfannnnnn13 · 2 months ago

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Almost, Always - Chapter 8

paige x azzi

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

A/N: Phew, this chapter was A LOT, but I had so much fun writing it... this is definitely the longest chapter so far! Hope you like it, heads up, angst has re-entered the chat... and thank you anons for the responses, the live reactions, and love <3

WC: 4.6k+

Chapter 8 – Rumor Has It

The last month had felt different—in the best possible way. Ever since Paige had shown up to see Azzi, something between them had shifted. Not in big, sweeping, dramatic ways, but in the quiet, intentional moments that stuck. Paige had made a decision, not just to love Azzi, but to do it fully, out loud. Her conversation with Coach Geno had peeled something open in her, and that post—the one that had felt like leaping off a cliff—hadn’t just been a gesture. It had been a promise. She didn’t want to be stuck in “almost” anymore. Not with Azzi. Not when it had started to feel like everything she’d ever wanted was finally right in front of her.

She wanted to stay in the bubble that existed when it was just them—safe, soft, and theirs. But that wasn’t how life worked, not when they were both professional basketball players in different cities. So she went back to Dallas, even though her chest ached the moment she left Azzi’s arms at the airport.

Still, even from a distance, Paige had made the choice to keep showing up. To be better. To be braver. She started leaving flirtatious comments on Azzi’s Instagram posts, reposting TikToks that subtly hinted she was taken, letting her affection spill into the parts of her public life she used to keep guarded. She wasn’t making any grand announcements, but she wasn’t hiding anymore either. And that alone felt like a breakthrough. For the first time, Paige wasn’t living in fear of what people might say.

Sure, there were trolls, as always, but most fans embraced it. Some had been rooting for them for years. Back in college, their teammates used to laugh at the fan-made edits and shipping videos—compilations of lingering looks, casual touches, shared smiles that fans swore meant more. And they were right. Paige never denied it, not to herself, not to Azzi, not even to the speculating fans. They’d been together for a long time. They just had to keep it private—same team, same spotlight, too much at stake. But she couldn’t hide the way Azzi affected her, how her posture softened, how her guard dropped, how everything in her leaned toward Azzi without thinking. It had always been that way.

At a recent press conference, when a reporter brought up the photo of her in Azzi’s jersey leaving the arena, she hadn’t dodged the question. “I’ve got someone really special in my life,” she said, smiling into the mic. “And I think people are smart enough to figure that out.”

She’d watched the clip later and, for once, didn’t cringe the way she usually did. Instead, she felt something lighter. Like she was finally showing Azzi the kind of love she deserved in every space, not just the private ones. There was something about hearing her own voice echo through a press room—no dodging, no deflecting—that made her feel braver than she’d expected. She hadn’t stumbled over her words. She hadn’t laughed nervously or looked away. She’d stood there and said it softly, simply, but clearly.

Later that night, the clip played again, this time over FaceTime. Azzi’s face lit up as she watched it, her mouth tugging into a slow smile.

“Damn,” Azzi said, eyes still on the screen, a slow smile creeping across her face. “You really said that? On camera?”

“I did,” Paige said, grinning, propped up on one elbow in bed, her phone resting against her knee. “Impressed?”

Azzi tilted her head, playful, the corners of her mouth tugging upward. “A little turned on, honestly.”

Paige laughed, the sound low and easy. “Yeah? You like when I get all brave and emotionally well-adjusted in public?”

“Kind of a kink I didn’t know I had,” Azzi teased, eyes flicking back to the screen for a second. “Who knew press conference Paige would do it for me.”

“Just wait till you see what I say next time,” Paige said, stretching out with a smug little smirk. “Might start reciting poetry about your ass if a reporter gives me an opening.”

Azzi laughed, shaking her head as she tucked her blanket up under her arms. Then her expression softened, just slightly, voice quieter. “Seriously, though. That meant a lot. I know you didn’t have to say anything.”

“I wanted to,” Paige said, her tone solid and sure, no hesitation anywhere in her voice.

There was a pause, a quiet stretch between them filled with soft static and unspoken feeling. Azzi exhaled, almost like she’d been holding her breath. Her gaze stayed steady on the screen. “I love you, you know.”

Paige smiled, a warm, slow curve of her lips. “I know.”

Another beat passed, heavier this time, and then Paige shifted slightly, voice dipping just a little lower. “So… what are you wearing?”

Azzi burst out laughing, dropping her head back against the pillow. “Oh my god. Seriously?”

“What?” Paige said, eyes wide with fake innocence. “I was being vulnerable. And now I’m horny. These things can coexist. And you did say you just discovered a new kink.”

Azzi shook her head, still laughing, her hand dragging down her face. “Maybe, but we are not having phone sex.”

“You say that like it hasn’t happened before.”

Azzi groaned dramatically, covering her face with both hands. “That was one time.”

“It was three times.”

“Two and a half. That last one barely counted. My neighbor started vacuuming halfway through.”

“Still counts. I was committed.”

“You were aggressively horny,” Azzi said, peeking at her through her fingers. “There’s a difference.”

“I’m just trying to create intimacy across distance,” Paige said, voice mock-serious.

“You’re trying to get me to take my shirt off.”

“That too.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes at the screen, half amused, half exasperated. “You’re like a teenage boy.”

“Not true. I have emotional depth and a skincare routine.”

Azzi laughed again, deeper this time, settling back against her pillow like she’d surrendered to the chaos. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You wanna see what I’m not wearing?”

“No. Go to sleep.”

“You’re no fun.”

______________________________________________________________

Neither of them said it out loud much, but the season had been brutal.

Both the Wings and the Mystics were teetering on the edge of playoff contention—just enough hope to keep pushing, just enough pressure to make everything feel like it might snap. Every win mattered. Every mistake felt heavier. Their schedules were chaos: back-to-backs, cross-country flights, film sessions bleeding into treatment, treatment bleeding into practice. Sleep was fragmented. Time zones blurred. They were always packing, always moving, always squeezing in calls between meetings or on the bus or while icing knees.

Still, they were making it work. Somehow, between the madness, they kept finding each other. Late-night FaceTimes, middle-of-the-day check-ins, a photo sent from the training room, a voicemail waiting after a rough game. Small things, steady things. They knew what this life demanded, but they weren’t getting lost in it. They’d built something strong enough to hold under pressure. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be. They were showing up for each other, over and over. That counted for a lot.

They’d been talking about the off-season too. Where they might spend it, how they could actually exist in the same city for more than stolen weekends. Paige had even surprised herself with how often the thought crept in—marriage. Paige hadn’t expected that, not at this point in her life. She used to roll her eyes when people her age talked about forever like it was some milestone you could pencil in. She figured she’d be older, more settled before she even considered it. But here she was, catching herself wondering what kind of ring Azzi would like, where they’d live, what their future might actually look like when the noise faded and it was just the two of them.

Lately, though, it wasn’t just the idea of marriage circling in her head, it was the logistics. When would be the right time? How could she even pull off a proposal without Azzi catching on? Azzi noticed everything. A whole proposal? That would take planning, real planning. And then there was the matter of asking Azzi’s parents. She’d never been big on tradition, but that part felt important. It mattered. She wanted to do it right.

The problem was time. Their schedules were chaos; practice, games, recovery, repeat. There was no room to breathe, let alone coordinate a proposal or fly across the country to talk to Tim and Katie face-to-face, the way she wanted to. She couldn’t exactly wedge that in between shootaround and film review. But the thought kept pressing in. And ever since she’d gone public with their relationship, it was like something inside her had burst open, a dam broken, love rushing out in ways she hadn’t expected. She’d spent so long keeping it quiet, protecting it, holding it in her hands like something fragile. But now, it moved through everything. It showed up in her daydreams, in the space between texts, in the way she stared at Azzi through a screen and already pictured a whole life ahead of them.

It wasn’t a question of if anymore. Just when, how, and whether she could manage to keep it a secret long enough to make it special.

She wouldn’t say anything. Not yet. Not directly.

Well—almost not. One night during a sleepy FaceTime call, Paige had nearly let it slip.

Azzi had been curled up in bed, bonnet and glasses on, rambling about a new recipe she’d ruined and laughing at herself. Paige had just been staring at her. Utterly gone.

"You’re such a dork," Paige teased, grinning.

Azzi squinted playfully at the camera. "Oh, please. You love it."

"I do," Paige said, almost too softly. Then, without thinking, "God, I can’t wait to mar—"

She stopped herself, eyes going wide.

Azzi raised a brow. "Marry…?"

Paige cleared her throat and quickly backpedaled. "Marinate! I meant… marinate. Like, I can’t wait to marinate in this moment." She winced the moment the words left her mouth.

Azzi burst out laughing, full and unfiltered. "You’re a terrible liar, P."

Paige’s face turned pink. "Okay, okay. Maybe that wasn’t what I meant."

Azzi just smiled, a softness settling into her expression. "You’re cute when you panic."

"You’re cute all the time," Paige said, more serious now. "And maybe I’ll tell you what I really meant… someday."

Azzi’s heart skipped, but she didn’t push. "I’ll be waiting.”

______________________________________________________________

As fate would have it, Tim and Katie were in Dallas for a youth basketball camp they were helping to run. Paige hadn’t planned to see them—not yet, not until she had a ring or a plan or at least a speech that didn’t make her palms sweat, but when she found out they were in town, something in her just said go. No more overthinking. No perfect moment. Just the right people, close by, and a chance she didn’t want to miss.

She texted Katie that morning, asking if they had time to grab coffee before their afternoon session. A few hours later, they met at a quiet café just a few blocks from the arena, one of those tucked-away places with mismatched chairs, soft lighting, and the smell of fresh espresso in the air. When Paige spotted them walking in, hand in hand, both smiling like they hadn’t aged a day since Azzi’s high school games, her stomach flipped. Nerves surged up fast, sharp and sudden, like she’d just been subbed into a fourth-quarter tie game.

She stood to hug them, trying to play it cool, trying to keep her hands from shaking as she picked up her coffee again. They talked easily for a while about basketball, the camp, how exhausted the kids were after day one, how brutal the league schedule had been lately. Paige nodded along, smiled in all the right places, even made them laugh a few times. But the whole time, the real reason she’d asked them here was pressing hard against her ribs, loud and persistent.

The words were there, sitting on her tongue, pulsing behind every breath. Ask them. Just ask. Her heart thudded harder every time the conversation dipped, every time there was a lull where she could have said it. And finally, after one of those soft pauses—the kind where time stretches just long enough to make you brave—she set her coffee cup down gently on the table, took a breath, and looked up at them.

Katie’s eyes met hers first, warm and expectant. Tim leaned in slightly, sensing the shift in energy.

And Paige spoke.

"I want to marry your daughter," she said, voice soft but sincere. "I love her—you already know that. I want to be the one standing beside her for the rest of our lives. I want to build a future with her, and before I take that step, I wanted to come to you both first. It matters to me, to have your blessing, your support."

The table fell quiet for a beat. Then Katie’s eyes welled instantly, her hand reaching across the table for Paige’s.

"Paige, of course. We’ve always considered you part of the family, but to have you officially? Nothing would make us happier."

Tim nodded, his voice firm and full of warmth. "You’ve been there for her in ways no one else has. You’re good for her. You’ve always been good for her. We’d be proud to call you our daughter, too."

Paige blinked fast, her chest swelling with emotion. It was one thing to dream about a life with Azzi—something she’d done a thousand times before, in quiet moments, in lonely hotel rooms, in the back of team buses. But it was another thing entirely to feel it beginning to take shape, to see it mirrored back in the warmth of Azzi’s parents’ eyes, in their unwavering support, in the unspoken understanding that this love wasn’t a phase or a secret. It was real. It was solid. It was hers. The moment wrapped around her like a promise, filling spaces in her heart she hadn’t even known were empty. For the first time, it didn’t feel like reaching for something fragile and far away. It felt close. It felt possible. It felt like home.

When she walked out of the café that afternoon, the sun was warm on her skin and her heart felt fuller than it had in a long time. A ring wasn’t in her pocket yet, but the promise had settled in her bones.

It had felt so solid. So safe. Paige let herself believe that finally she could have this. Have her. No almost, but actually. Not fleeting, not temporary. Just the kind of love that was whole and steady and real. The kind of love that didn’t need to hide in the shadows or settle for halfway.

____________________________________________________________

For Azzi, the last month had been just as transformative, but not by accident. She’d given Paige an ultimatum. Not out of cruelty, and not because she didn’t love her, but because she couldn’t keep shrinking herself to fit into the quiet corners of someone else’s life. She’d hit her limit. She’d told Paige, plainly, I can’t keep doing this in the dark. Either they moved forward—fully, publicly, honestly—or they didn’t move forward at all.

And afterward, Azzi had carried the weight of it. She didn’t regret what she’d said, but there was guilt tucked into the edges of it. She knew how much pressure Paige was already under, how exhausting the season was, how tightly she held everything together. But part of her also knew Paige needed the push. Someone had to draw the line. Someone had to say: This love deserves to live in the light.

And to her surprise—maybe even her relief—Paige didn’t pull away. She stepped in. Stepped up. Fully. Something in her had clicked, and suddenly it wasn’t just words anymore. It was action. It was the way she posted the photo of them without hesitation. The way she said I’ve got someone special in my life in a press conference and didn’t flinch. The way she looked into cameras and didn’t hide anymore.

Azzi felt the shift in everything. In how Paige texted. In how she talked. In how she made space, even from across the country. Every post, every comment, every glance in an interview felt like a thread being pulled tighter between them. Paige wasn’t just loving her in private anymore. She was choosing her out loud. Claiming her. And it hit Azzi deeper than she’d expected—not because she hadn’t hoped for it, but because part of her had stopped letting herself believe it would ever happen.

It made her heart race in the best way, but it also made her ache with the weight of hope. Because for the first time, she wasn’t holding this relationship together alone. Paige was building it with her—sturdy, intentional, brick by brick. This wasn’t just survival anymore. It was a future.

They talked more. They laughed more. And even in the middle of Azzi’s chaotic rookie season, long flights, brutal back-to-backs, the steep learning curve of the league, they were doing better than ever. Stronger. Closer. There was clarity now, and steadiness. Paige had made a choice, and Azzi felt it in everything they did.

So when Paige started hinting about spending the off-season together—half-jokes about shared closets, casual comments about finding a place—Azzi let herself fall into it. She didn’t hold herself back. She let herself imagine the mornings, the grocery runs, the softness of a home they didn’t have to leave every weekend. A life that wasn’t just borrowed time.

And then one night, Paige said it. Not directly. Not even deliberately. But it slipped out, low and casual, like the thought had already lived in her for weeks. She let the words “I can’t wait to marry” replay again and again in her head, each time hitting a little deeper. And even though Paige tried to backpedal the second she realized what she’d said, Azzi had already felt it, the truth behind it, the certainty. That throwaway line had cracked something open in her. Quietly, completely, undeniably.

And maybe that was the part that mattered most.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And then came the rumor.

It started quietly, just a blurry photo posted by an anonymous account. A shot of Paige walking out of a Dallas restaurant, laughing with a woman Azzi didn’t recognize. The lighting was soft, the woman's hand lightly on Paige's arm. Azzi stared at it for a long time, longer than she wanted to admit, heart sinking slowly in her chest. She told herself it was nothing. It had to be nothing. But still, she looked again.

And it didn’t stop there.

The rumors picked up speed, spreading fast and sharp. Speculation turned into commentary, commentary turned into assumptions. Then came the twist—another anonymous account posted an old video, grainy and clearly shot in a dimly lit college bar. Paige, visibly drunk, was pressed against another woman—someone Azzi had never seen before, but who clearly wasn’t just a stranger passing by. They were laughing, dancing, touching—close and familiar. At one point, the girl kissed Paige’s neck, and Paige didn’t flinch. She smiled. She pulled her closer.

The clip was dated—sophomore year for Paige, freshman year for Azzi. Before they were official. Before things were solid. But none of that softened the sting. Because Azzi remembered exactly what led to that night. The fight they’d had. The silence that followed. The feeling that maybe Paige hadn’t taken any of it as seriously as she had. And now, years later, watching it unfold again through a stranger’s camera lens, it cut deeper than she expected.

They’d just finished a brutal afternoon practice—legs heavy, shirts soaked, everything aching in the way that felt earned. Paige and Azzi walked side by side, still catching their breath, laughing at something stupid one of the assistant coaches had said. It was one of those in-between moments where everything felt easy between them. Paige bumped Azzi’s shoulder, teasing her about the free throws she’d bricked, and Azzi rolled her eyes, quick to fire back about Paige’s turnovers. It was all light and familiar, their rhythm, their shorthand, their closeness.

They were headed toward the dining hall when it happened.

Brandon, one of the guys from the football team, stepped right into their path. Confident, loud, like he always was. “Yo, Azzi,” he said, grinning. “You wanna grab dinner sometime? Just you and me?”

The words hit hard. Too fast, too casual, like Paige wasn’t even standing there.

Paige stopped walking. Her smile faded. Her jaw tightened, subtle but sharp. Azzi glanced between them, caught completely off guard. “Uh… I—I don’t know,” she said, stumbling over the words. “Maybe… I’m not sure.”

Brandon didn’t seem to notice the tension at all. He just nodded, smug. “Cool. Let me know.”

Then he walked off, not even sparing a glance in Paige’s direction.

The silence that followed wasn’t just awkward, it was heavy. Thick with everything unsaid.

Paige didn’t say a word. She just started walking again, quicker now, eyes fixed ahead. Her shoulders had lost their usual looseness, her whole posture tight and closed off. Azzi hurried to catch up, unsure of what to say, wishing she could rewind the last two minutes and handle it differently. But the words caught in her throat. What could she even say? It had all happened so fast, and now it felt like she’d stepped on something delicate without meaning to.

She tried to brush it off later, told herself it wasn’t that deep. That it didn’t mean anything. But deep down, she knew better. Because what hurt wasn’t just Brandon’s timing—it was what her hesitation had signaled. Paige and Azzi had crossed the line of ‘just friends’ a long time ago. Every glance they shared, every touch that lingered too long—it had never just been friendly. Friends didn’t look at each other like that. Friends didn’t feel like this. Friends don’t have sex.

And the truth was, Azzi wanted Paige. Fully. Openly. She wanted to be seen beside her, not just orbiting in private. But she’d never said any of it. Not out loud. Not to Paige. She’d been too scared to risk what they already had. Too scared to ask for more and hear that Paige didn’t want the same.

So when Brandon asked her out and she didn’t shut it down right away, it cracked something between them. Not loudly, not completely, but just enough.

Later that night, Azzi stayed in her dorm, restless, replaying the moment again and again. Wondering why she hadn’t just said no. Wondering if it had looked worse than it was. She thought about calling Paige, explaining, trying to fix it before it spiraled into something bigger. But by the time she worked up the nerve, it was already too late.

Her phone lit up with a message. Paige was out. At a bar. With the team. Probably trying to blow off steam. Looking for a distraction.

And apparently, she found one, based on that video.Azzi hated that the thought bothered her, but it did. The idea of someone else getting Paige’s full attention, even briefly, stung in a way she hadn’t expected. She hadn’t known everything that had happened that night. Not until she saw the video. It had taken months to fully mend what cracked between them after that. To work through all the things they hadn’t said out loud. Eventually, they’d laughed about it—how messy and dumb they’d both been, how long it took them to admit what they actually felt for each other.

Now, years later, the video didn’t carry much weight on its own. It was old history. But the fact that the internet had dug it up and was using it to spin stories about their relationship pissed Azzi off. And, if she was honest, it scared her too.

Comments flooded in:

"Is this the mystery girl from Dallas?”

"Looks like Paige’s type hasn’t changed."

"That girl apparently lives in Dallas now—just saying."

The timing couldn’t have been worse. Both Paige and Azzi were heading into the first round of the playoffs, and this was the kind of distraction neither of them could afford. But it was more than just bad timing, it was the fear that started to creep in underneath. For the first time, Azzi fully understood what Paige had been afraid of all along. The noise. The scrutiny. The way people hovered around their relationship, looking for cracks to expose, moments to twist, anything they could turn into a headline.

Azzi had always believed that love should be simple if it was real. But this made it feel anything but. Suddenly, she couldn’t stop thinking about how easily something private could be taken out of their hands. How quickly the world could take something honest and turn it into speculation, clickbait, drama. She feared what it could do to Paige, how it might shut her down again, make her retreat into the guarded version of herself Azzi thought they’d left behind. And underneath all of it was the deeper fear, what if the pressure of being seen, of being picked apart by strangers, slowly wore them down? What if even love wasn’t enough to hold up under that kind of weight?

She trusted Paige. That wasn’t the issue. But she didn’t trust the world around them, and now she was starting to understand why Paige never had either.

Paige tried to reach her that night.

First came the FaceTime call—Azzi’s screen lit up with Paige’s name and a photo of them from last summer, smiling in a grainy, sunlit selfie. Azzi stared at it until it stopped ringing. She couldn’t bring herself to answer. Her heart was still pounding too fast, her thoughts too tangled.

A few minutes later, Paige tried again. Another FaceTime. Then a call. Then a text: Can you talk? Another: Please.

Azzi read the messages over and over, thumbs hovering over the screen, her chest tight with guilt. She knew it was cruel not to answer. She knew Paige had nothing to do with the rumors, knew this wasn’t her fault. But still, Azzi felt like she was suffocating—trapped under the weight of new fears she hadn’t figured out how to name yet.

It wasn’t just the video. It was everything it stirred up. All the old insecurities she thought she’d buried. All the ways this love, so steady and solid most days, suddenly felt fragile under public scrutiny. She hated that she was letting it get to her. Hated that she was pulling away when she knew Paige needed reassurance just as much as she did. But she couldn’t fake calm. Not yet. Not when everything inside her felt like it was unraveling.

The phone buzzed again. Another message: I just want to hear your voice. That’s all.

Azzi closed her eyes. She wanted that too, more than anything. But her body stayed locked up, heart racing, jaw clenched, tears burning behind her eyes. What if Paige was reaching out just to retreat again? What if she needed Azzi to be the strong one, to pull her past the fear? Azzi wasn’t sure she could.

She set her phone to do-not-disturb and dropped it face down on the bed. Then she lay back against the pillows, arms crossed over her chest like she was bracing for impact.

She wasn’t angry at Paige. Not really. But she needed space. Space to think, to breathe, to stop feeling like everything they had built could be undone by a blurry video and a few careless comments online.

She would call Paige back. Just not until she knew what she was really afraid of.

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #paige x azzi #pazzi fics #almost always series

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daydreamgoddess14 · 11 days ago

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💫 For Your Consideration - Act 4 - Part 1 💫

actor!Bucky x fem!actress!Reader (no use of y/n, l/n, reader is not described in any great detail. I save that for the gowns 💃)

Warnings: Hollywood AU, language, internet nasties, flirty!Bucky, a little power imbalance, age-gap (Bucky is around 40, actress reader is closer to 30 or younger if you prefer 🤭)... more to be added later.

Bucky Barnes, the suave and talented leading man of the 'Winter Soldier' movie series, finds himself on the red carpet circuit during awards season with his latest film 'The Howling Commandos'. But the season takes an unexpected turn when he crosses paths with a mesmerizing newcomer - the actress who has become the talk of Tinseltown with her captivating performance in her most recent film. Sparks fly as they navigate silly season in Hollywood, with a spotlight on their every move will their chemistry ignite a real life romance?

Yes guys, we've reached the bit where my chapters get a bit too long & I had to split the chapter 🤭 Because of the images, I tried to keep the word count to a manageable 6.3k.

If you've been reading this so far and commenting or reblogging, thank you so so much. Honestly, I'm having a blast working on this one, coming up with the ideas for media, the storyline itself... this one's a real treat for me so I'm so grateful you like it too! Feel free to come and talk to me about it, my inbox is always open 💕

Tagging: @winchestert101

< Prev Act | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Next Act >

DECEMBER 2025

You’d turned off notifications for everything except your dad.

Instagram. Twitter. TikTok. Even the group chat.

Every time you opened your phone, it was another headline. Another screenshot. Another “did you see this edit?”

You’d watched the interview back once, and only once, before burying your face in a pillow and groaning so loud the neighbors probably heard.

The chaos didn't seem to be dropping off at all.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like the attention. It was just…

You didn’t know what he thought.

And that uncertainty was deafening.

You were on your third cup of tea that day, curled in a hoodie that smelled faintly like your stage dressing room, when your phone buzzed.

You expected more noise. Another trending topic. Another edit.

What you didn’t expect... was him.

The only person other than your dad that you hadn't muted, because you had no reason to.

Because you had no reason to expect a message from him.

You stared at the message.

Then you stared some more.

What…?

You reread the message five more times.

There was no way he meant that for you.

There had to be someone else he'd meant to message instead.

Your stomach did a backflip, and not in a good way.

You almost didn’t reply. Almost just locked your phone and pretended it never happened.

But then your fingers moved faster than your fear.

…. did you mean to send me that?

You tossed your phone onto the bed like it was a grenade, and paced your flat.

This had to be a mistake. Right?

He’d seen the chaos, the memes, the speculation. He probably wanted to clarify something. Do damage control. Set boundaries.

Tell the world to fuck off…

Another buzz.

It was real.

Oh.

You sank onto the edge of the mattress.

He wasn’t doing damage control.

He was asking you to get coffee.

Your hands trembled as you typed back.

And then you dropped it in the group chat.

You got there ten minutes early.

Which meant you’d already walked up and down the street twice, circling Borough Market like it was a reconnaissance mission and not a desperate attempt to look like you weren’t desperate.

The weather was grey and brisk, not fully committed to the depths of winter just yet, but definitely on board with the festive season.

You clutched your scarf like a lifeline, eyes flicking over every passing face. Tourists. Shoppers. Locals. No him.

You checked your phone.

Nothing.

It was fine. You were fine. If anything, this was a good thing. Gave you time to breathe. To remind yourself not to read into anything. It was just coffee. Just two people who’d done an interview and -

“Hey.”

“Oh, shit!” You jumped.

He was standing right in front of you, dressed like someone trying not to be recognized, hoodie, sunglasses, coat zipped high.

And yet now you were looking, it was unmistakably him.

“Oh my God. I didn’t even see you.”

He smiled, tugging down his hood slightly. “That’s the idea.”

You stared at him for a second too long before catching yourself. “Right. Incognito.”

“Stealthy,” he teased, eyes crinkling with that quietly smug charm.

God.

You were in trouble.

You fell into step beside him, the rhythm surprisingly easy, like you’d done this a hundred times before.

“So, you're in London,” you pointed out the obvious.

“I am, for a few days,” he nodded.

You glanced over at him. “Did you, uh… happen to notice the internet melting down after the interview aired?”

He huffed a laugh through his nose. “Kind of hard to miss when your friends won’t stop sending you edited fancams set to Taylor Swift.”

“Oh my god.” You buried your face in your hands. “I’ve seen those. There’s one where they slowed down the hug and put a Hozier track under it. It’s so embarrassing.”

He bumped your shoulder, grinning. “I liked that one. Got your good side.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.”

There was a moment of silence, not awkward, charged, maybe as you stepped in front of him to move single file through a busy section.

Then he added, quietly from behind you, “Didn’t hate it, though. All the noise. Not if it gave me an excuse to talk to you again.”

You were glad he couldn't see your face.

“Do you want anything?” he asked, gesturing at the rows of stalls. “Pastries? Cheese? Some questionable fusion street food?”

You glanced around, grateful for something else to focus on besides the steady thrum of nerves in your chest. “Questionable? Some of the best food in the city is made here. And, yes, you should try these -” You spotted your favourite bakery stall and waved at the owner.

“Hey Jan, two of the cinnamon please,”

“You're back, love, how's it been going?” The older woman cooed.

“Busy, so busy,” you handed over a fiver and took the paper bag from her, passing it behind to Bucky.

He grinned. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

“If I don't see you before, Jan, have a lovely Christmas,” you beamed as she blew you a kiss and moved on to the next customer.

You paused at another stall selling fresh coffee, the scent practically illegal. He bought two, handed you one without asking, and continued walking like this was… normal. Like this was just how things went with you two.

“Still think you messaged the wrong person,” you mumbled around a bite, motioning vaguely with the pastry. “I read it at least five times before I believed it.”

Bucky shot you a look. “I meant to message you.”

“Sure you didn’t, like, panic and message the only person you know in London, or something?”

He laughed, and you felt the sound somewhere uncomfortably deep in your stomach. “Nope. Fully intentional. Which… might’ve been dumb.”

You looked up at him. “Why dumb?”

He hesitated just long enough for your heart to stutter.

“Because now I want to keep messaging you,” he said simply.

And just like that, Borough Market disappeared for a second.

You were halfway through your cinnamon bun when Bucky veered off course without a word, slipping away to help a flustered dad carry a buggy up the steps by Southwark Cathedral.

You watched him rejoin you, brushing his hands off as if helping strangers mid-date was standard practice.

“You’re really on the charm offensive, huh?”

He glanced at you, brow raised. “It working?”

You gave a little shrug, smiling despite yourself. “Maybe.”

“Guess I’ll keep it up, then.”

There was a moment, easy and warm, and then you added, “you do realise you’re setting the bar pretty high for any future coffee dates, right?”

He grinned, his eyes flicking to yours.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not planning on sharing my pastries with anyone else.” He leaned in just slightly, voice warm. “Besides, I’ve got to earn a second coffee somehow.”

He gave you a look, playful, but lingering just long enough to make your breath catch.

Just then, a loud group of tourists rounded the corner, jostling through the narrow walkway between stalls. Without thinking, Bucky reached for your elbow, guiding you in closer as the crowd passed.

Your shoulder brushed his chest, his hand warm and steady against your arm. You could smell cinnamon and the faintest trace of his cologne, something subtle, expensive.

You were suddenly very aware of how close you were standing.

And how much you didn’t mind.

Bucky nudged your shoulder lightly with his. “You’ve gone quiet on me. That cinnamon bun wasn’t that good.”

You gave a half-laugh, still watching the crowd. “I was just thinking… in a few months, this will all be over.”

He frowned. “The awards stuff?”

You nodded. “The buzz. The interviews. The... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the space between you.

He frowned. “You think it all just… ends?”

“Of course it does,” you said with a small smile. “Eventually I’ll be back doing eight shows a week somewhere. Maybe I’ll get a West End run if I’m lucky. And someone might go ‘oh, isn’t she the one from that film?’ And then…” You shrugged. “They’ll forget.”

You took a step back and carried on walking, but he didn't join you immediately.

He was quiet for a minute too long, until you turned and found his eyes fixed on you, serious, searching, still frowning.

“You really think that’s how this goes?”

You smiled again, soft this time, and shrugged, “how many actors have been to the Oscars and then disappeared?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t say anything. Just fell into step beside you again, quiet for a stretch as your words hung between you like fog. You wondered if he was trying to think of something reassuring to say. Something practical. But when he finally did speak, his voice was low and thoughtful.

“I don’t think I could forget you if I tried.”

You turned your head, surprised, a flutter kicking up in your chest.

He gave a small, lopsided smile, gaze forward again like he hadn’t just shifted something huge between you.

Your cheeks flushed despite the chill in the air. He glanced down at you, a spark of something warm flickering in his eyes.

The crowd thickened again ahead, breaking the moment.

You found a quieter nook between stalls, the hum of the crowd dimmed just enough to breathe.

You lingered there for a minute, the sounds of the market washing around you, muffled and distant.

He didn’t say anything more, but the silence between you wasn’t awkward, it was waiting.

Eventually, you tipped your head toward a nearby stall. “C’mon,” you said, voice low. “Let me get you something more festive than a coffee.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Trying to butter me up with wine now?”

You smiled. “Trying to stop you looking at me like that without a drink in my hand.”

He let that one slide with a smirk, following you without protest.

You left him to find a spare table amongst the Christmas shoppers and on your return, handed him a steaming cup of mulled wine. He accepted it with a quiet thanks, his fingers brushing yours, warm and steady.

“Do you always go this incognito?” you asked, watching the way he scanned the crowd even now, like he was still half on alert.

“Old habit,” he said. “Too many premieres and press lines. It sticks.”

You nodded, sipping slowly. “You don’t like it much, do you?”

He glanced at you, eyes thoughtful. “The work, I love. The rest of it? Not really built for that part.”

“You seem like you handle it fine.”

“That’s the trick,” he said, mouth curving slightly. “If you do it just well enough, they stop asking you to do more.” He shifted a little, his knees bumping yours under the table.

You tilted your head. “Is that the plan? Stay just under the radar?”

He gave a soft huff of laughter, looking down into his cup. “Something like that.”

A pause passed between you. Comfortable. Curious.

Tethered by something neither of you had quite named yet.

“You surprised me, you know,” you said, voice light, almost teasing.

That drew his eyes back to yours, sharp and curious. “Yeah?”

You tapped your fingers against your mug of steaming wine, the nerves buzzing somewhere deep under your skin. "I figured after the interview chaos, I'd be the last person you'd want to see. I definitely didn't think you'd... reach out."

He chuckled, low and rough, and leaned in a little across the table. His knee bumped yours under the table again, lingering this time. "Guess you’re just worth the chaos."

That earned him a grin, which he answered with a wicked one of his own.

You ducked your head, pretending to focus on your drink, but you felt the heat of his stare, heavy and warm. When you dared to glance up, his gaze had flicked, just briefly, to your mouth.

Your breath caught, you swallowed nervously.

The hum of the market faded away for a second, like the two of you existed inside a bubble.

“You know the internet thinks you're some kind of recluse?” You said, hoping to buy yourself a second to avoid doing something reckless.

He smirked, slow and devastating. "Better not tell them about this, then."

“And you don't date…”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I’ve dated,” he said eventually. “Just... never liked sharing it with the world. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.”

You nodded, quiet for a moment.

“That makes sense,” you said softly. “The more people watching, the less of it you get to keep.”

He looked at you then, like he hadn’t expected you to get it, not really.

You finished the wine and took the mugs back to the counter. You walked a little slower after the stop off. Neither of you said as much, but you certainly didn't quite want the day to be done.

The crowd thinned as you neared the river, your footsteps falling in sync again, closer now. A few brushes of your shoulders. A stolen glance. Eventually, the shimmer of station lights came into view. It felt too soon.

At the edge of the station, the two of you hovered at the line between stay and go.

“I’m really glad you messaged,” you said, eyes on him now, not hiding it.

His lips curved, slow and deliberate. “I kept thinking about what I’d say if I did. It wasn’t my smoothest opener.”

You laughed, the sound softer this time. “No, but it worked.”

A breath passed between you, light but charged.

“I had fun,” you said honestly, your hand brushing his as you reached up to adjust your scarf.

He caught your gaze, lingering now. “Me too. I was hoping I would. But you sort of blew that expectation out of the water.”

Your heart tripped a little.

You stepped back a half-step. “Well. I guess… I’ll see you around?”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

The promise in his voice made you smile as he dipped his head, just a little, and turned into the crowd.

And somehow, despite the chaos of the last week… you felt lighter.

You didn’t know where this was going.

But you wanted to find out.

You watched him go, the crowd swallowing him up one careful step at a time.

Just as you turned to leave, a thought caught you, sudden, sharp.

“Oh, and good luck tomorrow!” you called after him, unsure if he heard it, but saying it anyway.

A second later, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Thanks, doll. You too.

And just like that, you were smiling all over again.

He should’ve known coffee wouldn’t be enough.

He’d told himself it was just a catch-up. Just a friendly hello. Just a way to say thanks for not making that interview awkward as hell and maybe a kudos for handling the following shitstorm like a pro.

But then she smiled at him like that. Laughed at his dryest jokes. Got flustered when he held eye contact too long. Teased him like they’d met more than just once.

And that was the moment he was screwed.

She’d tucked her scarf tighter against her neck, one hand balancing her takeaway cup, the other brushing his arm when they walked too close.

It wasn’t even deliberate.

That was what made it worse.

Or better.

He wasn’t sure yet.

Borough Market had been a blur, busy and loud, festive and chaotic, but she made it feel almost quiet. Like it was just the two of them weaving between the stalls.

She didn’t seem to mind the chaos.

Didn’t flinch at the attention.

Didn’t even seem to notice the camera phone or two he’d spotted. Or maybe she had, and just chose not to care. That was the part that stuck with him, she didn’t perform.

He’d expected the goodbye to be awkward. A vague see-you-around, maybe a polite nod.

But instead, she’d looked up at him like she didn’t want it to be over either.

And when she called out after him in the station, her voice clear and sure over the crowd, just to say good luck, he’d nearly turned back just to see her smile again.

And now here he was, back in his hotel room, coat still on, replaying every second like a damn teenager.

He’d been surprised when her message came through, he'd barely been in the room a minute.

He stared at it a second longer than he meant to, thumb hovering.

Then he replied.

Simple. Measured. Safer than I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you walked away.

Her teasing reply came quickly and he let her have the last word.

He set the phone down, stared at the ceiling.

He didn’t date. Didn’t do flirty message threads or smile at his screen like an idiot.

But there she was. Unbothered, funny, warm, and making him do all of those things.

He still wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing.

And for the first time in a long time… he didn’t mind.

Nominations were a thing other people got.

He never used to care about mornings like this, he never had any reason to. His movies occasionally showed up in stunt or FX categories. There were no expectations or disappointments.

But this morning?

He was watching his phone like a hawk.

The Critics Choice. The Globes.

Announced on the same day, and right as he needed to leave for the airport.

He watched the rain on the taxi window, forcing himself to stop waiting for it to ring.

It vibrated in his hand before the sound rang out.

“Sam?”

“Bro, you did it.”

He could hear it in Sam’s voice - that slightly stunned pride, like he’d been holding his breath for Bucky even if Bucky hadn’t asked him to.

“Globes and Critics. Best actor. Best film. Yelena’s up for Director at the Globes -"

“Not Critics?”

“Nah, man. That last spot went to the Cabaret director.”

“Shit.” He breathed, “holy shit.”

“I know,” Sam said, laughter threading through his words now. “It’s crazy. I’m proud of you, man. It’s all happening.”

Bucky felt something catch in his throat. “Thanks. I… yeah.” He exhaled. “Thanks, Sammy.”

“Look, get your flight, get some rest. I’ll send you the links.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Congratulations, man. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Sam rang off and the phone sat idly in Bucky's lap.

It lit up with the links Sam had promised.

He opened the Golden Globes one first.

His name.

In a bolded list, alongside people he’d admired for years. Best Actor in a Drama.

His film. Best Picture.

Then he saw hers. Just underneath.

Best Actress in a Comedy or Musical.

His heart gave a weird, full sort of jolt.

He wasn’t surprised - she was so good, everyone had seen it, but seeing it there in print made something in him go still.

She deserved this.

She belonged here.

He was proud. Maybe a little awestruck.

And without thinking, he opened their messages.

Maybe it was the way her laugh still echoed in his head… That coffee date hadn’t just stuck with him, it had dug in.

The way she’d smiled up at him over her cup, that flutter of nerves she’d tried to hide, the way she’d lit up when he called her talented.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about it. Or her.

Congratulations on the nomination, sweetheart. I told ya.

He waited maybe half a minute before locking his phone and tossing it on top of his bag like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t listening for it to buzz again.

It did. With messages from Yelena, from Joaquin… even a begrudging congratulations from John.

But her reply was the one he went to first.

A purple heart. He stared at it longer than he should’ve.

Then she sent a follow-up, bright and warm, something in his chest tightened. She made it easy. Too easy.

It wasn’t flirting. Not exactly. But it had that hum beneath it, the pull of something neither of them was saying outright.

And he could’ve stopped there. Could’ve left it polite.

He didn’t.

She was teasing him again by the third message. Playful. Open.

He’d tried to keep it cool.

But God, she made it hard.

And somewhere between their teasing and half-joking plans to grab coffee when they were back in the same city, he realised no amount of distance was going to save him.

Maybe she felt it too.

Or maybe he was imagining it.

Either way, he found himself typing out messages he didn’t send. Wondering if she was doing the same.

And then, it slowed.

Not because he wanted it to.

Not because she wasn’t still on his mind.

Just… life pulling at them both. Interviews, work calls, suit fittings. And maybe he wanted her to miss him a little too.

So after a few days, he felt it more than he meant to.

He'd become aware of the space she’d started to take up in his brain.

Of the way her name lit up his screen.

Of the way he kept checking, wondering which of them would be the first to crack.

It was always going to be him.

The next morning, before he could even finish his coffee, with the time difference closing in, he tapped the little camera icon beside her name.

What the hell was he doing?

The call rang. Once. Twice.

Then nothing.

Missed.

He cursed under his breath and ran a hand over his face. He never did shit like that. Never called people without warning. Never let nerves climb up his spine like this.

He fired off a quick dignity recovery message.

But then a new reply popped in.

Missed your call! I'm in LA getting glam for a press shoot, not quite decent rn. Hope everything’s okay x

He breathed out a laugh, shaking his head.

He was in deep.

Mid-morning in LA, you were sitting cross-legged in your hotel robe, trying not to overanalyze every single message in your inbox, when it came in:

Missed video call – Bucky Barnes

You froze. Your thumb hovered over the screen.

Then another buzz.

Didn’t mean to spook you. Just wanted to say hi.

You made a small, inhuman sound and flung the phone across the bed.

“Ok,” you called, your voice sounded too high, and strung out even to your own ears. “Ok what the hell am I meant to do with that?”

Lulu appeared in the doorway, makeup brush in hand, eyes immediately narrowing. “What did he do?”

“He FaceTimed me. And then messaged like it was normal.”

Dani’s voice came from behind her, mid-straightener pass. “Like, just now?”

“I mean, who does that? It’s illegal. That’s an illegal level of confidence.” You couldn't help sounding accusatory.

Lulu snatched up your phone from the bed. “Oh my god.”

“I haven’t replied,” you said, already spiraling. “Do I reply? Am I supposed to reply? Or is it weird if I reply too fast?”

Dani raised an eyebrow. “Babe, the man video called you. I think you’re allowed to text him back.”

Lulu handed your phone back with a snigger.

You tried to stay cool, fire off a super casual reply that didn't sound like you'd thought about nothing but him for the last few days.

“You know what you need?” Lulu said thoughtfully.

You groaned. “I swear to god, if you say a thirst trap I will disown you -”

“A classy thirst trap,” she corrected. “A little bit sexy, little flirty…”

In the background, Dani nodded sagely. “She's right. Robe shot. On the bed. Soft lighting. You’re welcome.”

“C'mon Dan, the fucking bed?”

She pointed at the bed next to the tray where your breakfast was still laid out.

“Bed, now.” She clicked the straighteners together menacingly.

You posted the photo five minutes later then threw your phone onto the bed and tried to pretend you weren’t watching it like a hawk.

It took him exactly three minutes.

You let out a gasp so dramatic that Dani nearly burned herself with the straighteners.

Lulu peeked over your shoulder and cackled. “Pack your bags babe, you’re done for.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh, I’m in so much trouble.”

You weren’t imagining it. The post had blown up.

By the time your glam was done, you had texts from your publicist, your brother, and your ex (weird), all asking some variation of: “What’s going on with you and Bucky Barnes?”

You did not have an answer.

The comments were worse.

You didn't reply, this internet storm was his own making and you had to get to work.

The shoot ran long, lighting delays, a wardrobe change, a stubborn clasp on the back of a couture gown that nearly had Becka in tears. By the time you got back to your hotel room, your feet were aching and your face hurt from smiling.

You dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes, and finally checked your phone again.

The notifications were still rolling in, but you didn't dare entertain them.

Instead, you opened his message thread.

You hovered for a second, thumbs ready.

“You just can’t help breaking the internet, can you?”

You stared at it for half a second too long before hitting send.

Then you put your phone on charge across the room and let yourself fall back against the duvet.

“Can’t believe you commented,” Bucky muttered, arms crossed, cap low over his eyes like he could hide from the consequences of his own actions.

Across the aisle, Sam didn't even look up from his phone. “Me? You openly declared you'd like to eat her for breakfast, my friend.”

Bucky scowled. “I did not -”

“You did. The internet’s melting down. I’m getting tagged in memes. Again.”

Bucky shifted in his seat, muttering something about it not meaning like that.

Sam just smirked. “Uh huh. Tell that to the girl blushing in her Instagram story right now.”

Bucky scrubbed a hand over his jaw, suddenly very interested in the in-flight safety card. “It wasn’t like that.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You threw a match in a comment on a thirst trap.”

“It was hardly a thirst trap.”

Sam gave him a look. “She posted it five minutes after your call. That’s tactical warfare, man. And you walked straight into the line of fire.”

Bucky leaned back, head thunking against the seat. “She looked good.”

Sam grinned, triumphant. “There it is.”

A second of quiet passed before Bucky muttered, “I’m in so much trouble.”

“You’re in so much trouble,” Sam agreed cheerfully. “But it’s the fun kind. You know, until it’s not.”

That earned a side-eye. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Hey,” Sam shrugged, “you brought this on yourself, pal. Just don’t catch feelings if you’re not ready to do something about it.”

From across the aisle, Natasha didn’t even look up from her iPad. “You video called her and then commented publicly. Do you want us to set up a billboard on Sunset?”

Bucky groaned. “Nat…”

“I’m just saying,” she said, flicking through looks for the pre-Globes party. “It’s a bold move for someone who allegedly doesn’t date.”

Sam leaned over, smirking. “Told him it was tactical warfare. She posted that robe shot five minutes after he called.”

Nat finally looked up. “She knew what she was doing.”

Bucky muttered something inaudible and tried to sink lower into his seat.

Sam grinned. “Oh, he’s cooked.”

Natasha hummed thoughtfully. “Good. He’s overdue.”

Bucky shot her a glare. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am. Which is why I’m making sure you don’t screw it up.” She tossed him a look over the top of her iPad. “You’re wearing the navy suit, by the way. No arguments.”

“I wasn’t gonna argue.”

“Good.”

The pre-Globes party was already buzzing when he arrived.

Flashbulbs sparked outside with a light that burned through his retinas and left an imprint on his brain. The braying crowd made him want to turn around and call it a night. But Nat had shoved him out of the car with a sharp “Chin up, soldier,” and there wasn’t much point in arguing with her. There never was.

Inside, it was all polished floors and too many famous faces in one room. Everyone dressed like they had something to prove. He tugged slightly at the collar of his navy suit, and ignored the way Sam grinned at him like he was waiting for something to happen.

Because he was. They both were.

His only saving grace was that there were no press invited, only a handful of official photographers.

He hadn’t seen her yet.

Not in person.

Not since the coffee.

And none of the photos he had seen had done her justice.

He was still scanning the crowd when Sam bumped his shoulder. “Don’t look now,” he said, low and gleeful, “but your breakfast just walked in.”

Bucky turned anyway.

And there she was.

Like all of his Christmases come at once.

She hadn’t seen him yet.

It gave him time to watch her. Take her in. The way she laughed with someone by the bar, hand fluttering to her collarbone. The way the soft fabric of her dress caught the light when she moved, like it had been made to be touched.

“Half the men in this room wish she was on their arm tonight,” Sam muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Bucky didn’t answer.

She'd moved to stand near the balcony doors, a flute of champagne in hand, laughing at something Steve Rogers murmured in her ear. Her dress caught the light every time she moved, like liquid. Steve leaned in closer. Easy, familiar, his palm resting just barely at her back.

Bucky’s jaw flexed.

She'd glanced around once or twice when she first arrived, scanning the room, with a little knit between her brows like she was looking for something. Or someone.

He hadn’t moved.

He wasn't sure his legs would actually work. Not when she looked like that - entirely unaware that she’d just knocked the air out of his lungs.

Natasha appeared at his side, swirling her drink. “You plan on lurking all night?”

He didn’t answer.

She followed his gaze. “Ah. Of course.”

“It’s not -” he started, then stopped. “He's her co-star.”

“And he’s not her type,” Nat assured him after watching them for a few seconds.

“Yeah?” He tried to sound casual.

She smirked. “Because you are, dumny. Watch, every few seconds she's looking around for someone.”

His breath caught.

Nat patted his chest twice. “Go get your girl, Barnes. Before Steve steals your thunder.”

He threw her a quick smile and took off confidently across the room.

He watched it hit her, the moment she spotted him. Surprise. A flicker of nerves. And then that soft smile. Lit from the inside.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she looked him up and down.

Bucky swallowed hard.

God, she was beautiful.

Steve greeted him with a grin and clapped him on the back. Bucky answered on autopilot, eyes barely leaving her.

“Good to see you, pal.”

“You too. You clean up alright.”

She looked at him over the rim of her glass, like she was trying not to stare. But he caught the flicker in her eyes, the dip of her gaze, the flush blooming just under her highlighter.

“Figured I had to bring my A-game,” he said, only half a joke, because it was true.

Her smile curled slow and knowing. “Well, consider the internet broken.”

He smirked. “It’s good to see you again too.”

“Oh yeah,” Steve cut in, clearly missing the current, “you guys did that Variety thing. That was fun.”

“Lots of fun,” she said, eyes still locked on Bucky.

Steve launched in without noticing. “You gonna do that new one with me? That 1940s piece? Thor Odinson’s signed on to direct.”

Bucky forced a chuckle. “I dunno, Rogers. I might try theatre. I hear that’s where the real talent is.”

“You could be onto something. Matt Murdock got the rights to that space opera thing for Wanda to direct on Broadway.”

“Starlord,” she said softly, not taking her eyes off Bucky.

“Yeah, that’s the one!”

Her glass was empty. She shifted her weight, just a little, but he noticed.

Time to move.

“Rogers, I’ll catch you later?”

Steve clapped his shoulder again. “Count on it. You’re not weaseling out of Odinson’s movie.”

Bucky turned to her. “I’ll walk you to the bar.”

She didn’t answer. Just smiled, and moved, and that was answer enough.

The crowd was loud, electric. But next to her, everything softened..

When they reached the bar, she turned toward him, and he leaned in, just enough to be close, not enough to cross the line.

“You look incredible.”

Her breath caught. Just for a second. But he felt it.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” she said, voice low, almost shy, but he noticed the tiniest movement of her eyes going to his mouth.

That hit harder than he was ready for.

“Yeah?” he murmured, eyes fixed on hers. “That’s a relief, sweetheart. Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

She didn’t look away. Didn’t laugh it off. Just looked up at him like she felt it too, like this thing between them wasn’t just in his head.

And in that moment, he knew.

He needed to kiss her.

He looked past her, just briefly, remembering the layout of the room, and then touched her wrist lightly.

“Come with me?” He murmured. Pleaded, just a little.

She looked confused, but did as he asked, following him to the outskirts of the room where he ducked into a corridor.

“Is everything OK?” She asked quietly.

“Yeah, I just… yeah.”

“Probably not a good idea, hiding like this?”

“I know,” he dragged a hand across his jaw and then stepped closer to her before he could doubt himself. “I don't do this,” he whispered.

“Don't you?” She breathed.

“No. Not like this. Not… where anyone could… I can’t think straight unless I’m looking at you.”

She looked up at him, her tongue darting across her lower lip.

He reached out and trailed its path with the pad of his thumb, his hand coming to rest in the crook of her neck.

He heard her sigh as she reached up to meet him, her small hands on his chest. He was cautious, not wanting to rush her, but wanting everything at once.

As he pressed his lips to hers, he heard a faint moan, unsure whether it came from him, or her.

She tasted like champagne and something sweeter, something he hadn’t had in… such a long time, but suddenly couldn’t get enough of.

Her fingers curled in his lapel, steadying herself, or maybe pulling him in closer. He deepened the kiss just slightly, but only when he felt her pull.

Her tongue tentatively swept against his and she whimpered.

When they finally broke apart, her forehead rested lightly against his. Neither of them moved.

“OK?” she whispered, like she was asking some unspoken question that only he knew the answer to.

He huffed a soft laugh, the kind that only came from total, stunned relief.

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his nose against hers. “OK.”

He wasn’t thinking clearly anymore. All he knew was that he needed to feel her, not just her hand on his chest, not just her whisper in his ear, he needed more. Needed her.

She stepped into him like she didn’t even notice she was doing it, like her body had made the decision before her mind caught up. His hand slid down her spine, anchoring her to him as their mouths found each other again, harder this time.

The kiss turned messier, more desperate.

His fingers gripped her hip, her nails scraped lightly across his chest and up to the nape of his neck. It wasn’t polite or careful, it was dangerously public but he couldn't bear to stop himself.

She gasped softly when his teeth grazed her bottom lip. He pulled back just enough to hear the sound, to see the dazed look in her eyes, then kissed her again.

It should’ve just been a kiss. Just one stolen moment in a hallway. But the way she kissed him back, like she’d missed it somehow, it undid him.

Her lips were swollen and her hands shook as she moved them from around his neck.

He didn’t step away.

For a second, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the muffled beat of music from the other room and their uneven breaths.

“Buck?”

Sam’s voice called out, somewhere down the corridor.

She tensed. He did too.

“Shit -, I look -”

“You look perfect,” he told her.

He took a reluctant step back, eyes flicking toward the doorway, then back to her.

“Later?” he asked, voice low. Hopeful.

She gave an uncertain nod, then she was gone, slipping back into the party like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just knocked the air out of his lungs and left him trying to disguise how tight his pants had gotten.

And he was left staring after her, heart hammering, wondering how the hell he was supposed to act normal now. Or ever again.

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crssvjb · 4 months ago

Text

A New Light - Lewis Hamilton

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: They had everything: love, achievements and a promising future. But the loss destroyed them from the inside out. Now, Lewis will do anything to rekindle the flame that brought them together, as they fight to turn the pain into a new chance to start over.

Part 1/2

In 2006, Lewis was still a promise on the circuit, an emerging talent who caught attention with each quick and precise lap. But beyond the tracks, there was something else that lit up his heart: it was during an event for fans and sponsors that he noticed you. In the crowd of admiring glances, yours was the only one he couldn't ignore. You smiled discreetly, almost shyly, but something about the way your eyes sparkled enchanted him.

After finishing everything, he decided to get closer. – "Hello, I'm Lewis." – he said, in a gentle tone, trying to hide the nervousness he rarely felt. He knew who he was on the floor, but outside of it, with you, everything felt new and exciting.

- "I know." – you replied, a little surprised, but with a smile that made him even more anxious. – "I'm a big fan of yours, but I think now I'm even more of a fan of your smile."

The words made Lewis blush slightly, and he laughed, lowering his eyes for a moment before replying: – "May I know your name? I think I'll want to hear it more often."

That brief conversation marked the beginning of something special. It wasn't long before you and Lewis started seeing each other. Each encounter was unique; he loved hearing your stories, seeing how you laughed at silly jokes, and the sound of your laughter became something he looked forward to on the tiring days of training. You fell in love naturally, in a way that seemed written by destiny.

When Lewis debuted in Formula 1 in 2007, his life changed completely. Now, the spotlight was always on him, and his fame grew with each victory and achievement. However, her presence was the only thing that made him feel at home. He talked about you in interviews and looked at the crowd for your face during every race. The two of you lived an epic romance, with an intensity that everyone around you could see.

The peak came in 2008, when Lewis won his first championship. The moment he got out of the car and took off his helmet, the first person he looked for was you. When he found you in the crowd, he walked past the photographers, ignored the reporters and walked over to you, taking your face in his hands and kissing you. - "I achieved." – he murmured, his eyes shining with happiness. – "And you were here with me, always."

In 2009, you got married in a private ceremony, with only your closest friends and family. Lewis whispered at the altar, his eyes full of emotion: – “You are my everything, today and always.” – with a smile, you replied: – “You are my love forever, Lewis.”

Three years later, in 2012, when they discovered they were pregnant, the joy was indescribable. Lewis smiled and talked about the baby all the time. He imagined himself as a father, and the two of you spent entire nights talking about the future, choosing names and discussing how the baby could have talent running through his veins.

But then one night, when everything seemed perfect, you woke up with excruciating pain in your lower abdomen. He woke Lewis up in fright, holding his arm tightly.

– "Lewis... something is wrong..."

He saw her fear in her eyes, and when he noticed the blood, he felt his heart stop. – "Come on love, I'm here. It's going to be okay." – he said as he carried her very carefully, trying to remain calm.

At the hospital you waited hand in hand, unable to speak, every second was torture. When the doctor finally found you with a sad look, the news hit you like a brutal wave.

The silence was broken by the sound of your crying, and Lewis, feeling the weight of loss, wrapped his arms around you. The two cried together, feeling the emptiness of a dream that would no longer live.

⎊𝙘𝙧𝙨𝙨𝙫𝙟𝙗 - ²⁰²⁴

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton x fem!reader #formula 1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula 1 imagine #formula one imagine

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folkwhoreberry · 2 months ago

Note

Could you do a part 2 and a part 3 of 'Against the Odds' where Miles ends up getting her pregnant and the media is all over it

Against The Odds pt. 3

hamilton!oc x verstappen!reader

or... the one where the bump is under the radar. or is it?

word count : 1k

warning : none, english is not my first language!!!

on the radio : we found love by rihanna

part 1 part 2 part 4

🦁🧡 X 🤙🏾💜

being labeled as the “power couple” of the paddock had never been something you or miles had planned. but somehow, over the last few years, you had grown into that role effortlessly. from sneaking around monaco streets to walking hand in hand at every race, you and miles had become inseparable. the media had stopped speculating, not because they lost interest, but because the truth was too obvious to ignore.

you were 18 now, and you and miles had been together for what felt like forever. people had watched you grow up, watched your relationship bloom under the intense spotlight of the f1 world. it wasn’t easy, but the support of your families - especially your dads - made it all a little easier. max and lewis had come a long way from their old rivalry, and in a way, their kids’ relationship had bridged a gap that no one had expected.

but recently, things had changed.

it happened so fast, and even though you and miles had tried to process it together, there were still moments where it didn’t feel real. you were pregnant.

it was a mix of emotions at first - shock, excitement, fear. but through it all, miles was by your side, as calm and supportive as ever. you both decided to keep the news quiet for as long as you could. with your dads’ help, and the understanding of your closest friends, it remained a secret. just a few months of peace, of adjusting to the idea before the world found out.

but as the months went by, your body began to change. at first, it was easy to hide the bump with baggy clothes or strategic angles, but after a while, there was no avoiding it. and then came the day when the secret was no longer something you could control.

you weren’t planning on making any grand announcements. you had been out with some friends in monaco, enjoying the afternoon like any other, when the inevitable happened. the bump was visible - clear as day. it wasn’t huge yet, but to those paying attention, it was unmistakable. you hadn’t even realized until later, when you checked your phone and saw the photos all over social media.

the headlines were instant, blowing up your feed and flooding every f1 forum and gossip site. is the verstappen-hamilton power couple expecting? baby on the way for f1’s most famous young couple? the media was all over it, and within hours, it felt like the entire world knew.

you sat on the couch, staring at your phone in disbelief. “it’s out,” you muttered, showing miles the screen.

miles sighed and ran a hand through his hair, sitting beside you. “we knew it would happen eventually.”

“yeah, but… I just wasn’t ready for it to be today,” you admitted, feeling overwhelmed. “it’s everywhere.”

he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “it’s okay. we’ll get through this. we always do.”

your phone buzzed again, this time with a text from your dad. we’ll talk soon. don’t worry too much about it. max had been supportive from the moment you told him, but you knew he wasn’t happy about the media attention. neither was lewis. they had both been fiercely protective of you and miles, trying to shield you from the frenzy of public life, but even they couldn’t control this.

over the next few hours, the media storm only intensified. photos of you in monaco were plastered everywhere, and speculation about your pregnancy was the top story. you had already gotten a few calls from journalists asking for confirmation, but you and miles decided not to respond. not yet.

it was later that night, when you were back at your apartment, that you both realized there was only one way to handle this: you had to address it. if you didn’t, the rumors would only get worse, and the scrutiny would become unbearable.

“we need to tell them,” miles said softly, as you sat together on the couch. “we can’t keep hiding it.”

you nodded, feeling a mix of nerves and relief. “yeah, you’re right. but how? do we just… post something?”

“yeah, we’ll post something,” miles replied, reaching for his phone. “just… us. nothing big, just the truth.”

you leaned into him as he opened the camera app, positioning it so that you both were in frame. your hands naturally rested on your bump, and miles wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. you smiled softly, glancing up at him before looking back at the camera.

he took the photo and then stared at it for a moment before turning to you. “ready?”

“as ready as I’ll ever be,” you replied, your heart racing slightly.

miles typed out a simple caption: we’ve got some news to share. baby hamilton-verstappen coming soon. we’re excited to start this next chapter together.

he hit post.

the reaction was immediate. comments flooded in - supportive messages from fans, congratulations from friends and fellow drivers. even your dads commented, though they kept it short and sweet.

max’s comment was simple: can’t wait to meet my grandkid. lewis followed up with a proud: new chapter, here we go. love you both.

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. the weight of the secret had been heavy, but now that it was out there, you felt a sense of relief. you didn’t have to hide anymore.

“there. it’s done,” miles said, setting his phone down and turning to you. “how do you feel?”

“better,” you admitted, leaning your head on his shoulder. “still a little nervous, but better. at least now we can control the story, right?”

“exactly,” miles said, his fingers gently brushing against your arm. “we’re in this together. no matter what happens next.”

you smiled softly, feeling the warmth of his words settle over you. despite the chaos of the last few hours, you knew you had miles, your family, and a new chapter ahead. the media could speculate all they wanted, but you had something far more important to focus on now - the life growing inside you, the future you and miles were building together.

you were ready.

————————————————————————————

a/n : I do now crave teen pregnancy teen pregnancy craves me!!

#folkwhoreberry #f1 #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen #x verstappen!reader #oc x reader #x reader

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astroa3h · 8 months ago

Text

Lilith Through the Signs ✨

Let’s talk about Lilith, because she’s that dark, seductive part of your chart that you’re probably a little afraid to look at, but trust me—you need to. In astrology, Lilith shows us the hidden, raw parts of our psyche, the things we suppress or even deny. She’s our wild side, our deepest desires, and sometimes, our untapped rage. Wherever Lilith is in your chart, she brings out this primal energy that cannot be tamed. And let me tell you, she doesn't play nice. You’re going to feel it. If you don’t confront her, she’ll push until you have no choice.

If Lilith is in Aries, then honey, you’re all about raw, impulsive energy. Lilith in Aries doesn’t ask permission. You fight for independence at any cost, and sometimes, that can mean bulldozing through life without thinking about the consequences. People might call you selfish, but really, you’re just unapologetically you. You struggle with authority and anyone telling you what to do. In relationships, this placement is about the constant power struggle. You want freedom, but you also crave someone who can handle your intensity. Here’s the thing: you have to learn how to channel that fire without burning everything down. Maybe take up martial arts or something that lets you express your aggression in a healthy way.

With Lilith in Taurus, you are drawn to the pleasures of life, the sensual side of things. It’s about indulging—whether that’s in food, sex, or luxury. But here’s the shadow side: you can become possessive, even obsessive, about holding onto what you have. You want security so badly that you might cling to things (and people) that are no longer good for you. This placement craves comfort, but you can get stuck in your comfort zone, unwilling to let go even when it’s time. In your love life, you’ll likely attract relationships that push you to confront your fear of losing what you hold dear. Learn to trust that true security comes from within. You don’t need to hoard it; it’s already yours.

Lilith in Gemini? Oh boy, you are a master of words, and you know exactly how to twist them to get what you want. But watch out, because this placement can make you feel like you’re always wearing a mask. You can say all the right things, but inside, there’s a part of you that feels unseen and unheard. You’ll attract people who are intrigued by your mind, but they might not get the real you. In relationships, it’s all about mental connection, but sometimes you use communication as a weapon. You can be manipulative when you want to be, and if you’re not careful, you’ll push people away with your mind games. The key here? Be honest. Be vulnerable. You’re smart enough to know when someone isn’t on your level, but that doesn’t mean you have to hide behind cleverness.

With Lilith in Cancer, you’re dealing with deep emotional wounds. There’s a part of you that craves nurturing but also resents it at the same time. You might have grown up feeling like you had to be the caretaker, even when you weren’t ready. And now? You have a hard time letting anyone take care of you. You build emotional walls, but inside, you’re yearning for someone to break them down. In relationships, you might sabotage things when they start to feel too safe, because deep down, you’re scared of being abandoned. Your healing comes when you stop looking for that motherly figure in other people and start giving yourself the care you need. You have to learn that vulnerability is not a weakness.

If Lilith is in Leo, girl, you’re the queen—and you know it. You want to be admired, adored, worshipped, but you also fear that you’re never enough. This is a placement where ego and insecurity collide. You want the spotlight, but you’re terrified of what people will see when they look too close. Relationships become about power. You want someone who puts you on a pedestal, but the second they don’t, you’re out. The challenge here is learning that your worth doesn’t depend on external validation. When you own your power without needing applause from the crowd, you’ll find that the right people are drawn to your light.

Lilith in Virgo brings a complicated relationship with control. You strive for perfection in everything, but the more you try to control, the more things slip through your fingers. You might have a tendency to obsess over the details—whether it’s your appearance, your work, or your relationships. But this perfectionism is exhausting. You attract situations where you’re forced to confront the idea that control is an illusion. The real work is in letting go. In love, you might feel like no one is ever good enough for you, or worse, that you’re never good enough. But the truth is, you don’t have to fix anyone, least of all yourself. Your healing comes from accepting the messiness of life.

Lilith in Libra? Oh, this is a tricky one because you want harmony and balance, but deep down, you might feel like you’re constantly at war with yourself. You attract people who reflect your shadow side, and it’s easy to lose yourself in relationships. You want to please others so badly that you forget your own needs, and then you resent them for it. This placement has to learn how to set boundaries and stop giving away power just to keep the peace. In love, you might find yourself drawn to partners who are controlling or manipulative, and it’s because you’re not owning your own power. Stand up for yourself. Relationships are meant to be equal, not a battleground.

If your Lilith is in Scorpio, honey, you’ve got intensity for days. This is one of the most powerful Lilith placements, but it also comes with deep emotional wounds around trust and betrayal. You crave deep, soul-shattering connections, but you’re also terrified of being vulnerable. In love, you attract relationships that push you to confront your darkest fears—jealousy, obsession, control. The challenge for you is to let go of the need to dominate. You’re not going to lose your power by being vulnerable. In fact, true power comes from letting others see the real you, scars and all. The key here is to trust that you won’t be destroyed by love. It’s transformative, not destructive.

Lilith in Sagittarius is about freedom—wild, uncontained freedom. You’re always looking for the next adventure, the next thrill, and you can’t stand to be tied down. But here’s the thing: running from commitment isn’t going to fill that void inside. You attract situations where you feel like your wings are being clipped, but it’s because you’re not allowing yourself to fully engage. You might avoid deep connections because you’re afraid they’ll hold you back. In relationships, you crave freedom, but you also want someone who understands your need for independence. Your journey is about finding a way to commit without feeling caged. Trust that you can have both stability and freedom.

If Lilith is in Capricorn, you’re all about power and control. You crave success, but deep down, you fear failure more than anything. You’ll push yourself to the brink just to prove you’re worthy, but this placement often comes with a deep sense of insecurity. You might feel like no matter how much you achieve, it’s never enough. In relationships, you attract people who challenge your need for control, and it forces you to confront the fact that true success isn’t about power—it’s about vulnerability. Learn to let go of the idea that you have to be the one in control all the time. It’s okay to let someone else take the lead. You’ll find that it makes you stronger, not weaker.

With Lilith in Aquarius, you’re the rebel. You don’t like being told what to do, and you’re always pushing against the grain. But this can also make you feel like an outsider, like you don’t belong. You attract relationships where you feel like you have to sacrifice your individuality, but deep down, you know that’s not the answer. Your challenge is to find a way to be in a relationship without losing yourself. Don’t be afraid to stand out. The world needs your unique vision. In love, you might push people away because you’re afraid of being controlled, but real freedom comes from allowing yourself to be fully seen.

Finally, Lilith in Pisces is a placement of deep emotional sensitivity. You feel everything, and sometimes, that can be overwhelming. You might have a tendency to escape through fantasy or avoidance because reality feels too harsh. But this placement also gives you incredible intuition. You attract relationships where you feel like you’re drowning in emotions, and it can be hard to find your footing. The key here is to set boundaries—emotional boundaries. You don’t have to take on other people’s pain as your own. Your healing comes when you learn to stay grounded in reality while still honoring your deeply spiritual side. Embrace your empathy, but don’t let it consume you.

xoxo Ash 💓 Get your own reading at astroash.net

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ditsycafe · 3 months ago

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love in the spotlight || l.hs

pairings : lee heeseung x female!reader

genre : fluff, angst? (just a little sad)

word count : 750

warnings : none?

a/n : do not in any way plagiarise, translate my work to another language or claim my work as your own.

Lee Heeseung had always known that being an idol meant sacrifices. Long hours in the practice room, sleepless nights, the pressure to be perfect--it was all part of the life he had chosen. But he had never imagined that love would be one of those sacrifices.

She had walked into his life like a quiet melody, soothing yet unforgettable. They met before his debut, back when he was still a trainee, struggling through gruelling dance practices and vocal lessons. She had been his escape, the one person who saw him as just Heeseung, not a future idol, not a performer--just a boy with dreams and fears.

They kept in touch after his debut, though it wasn't easy. His schedule was relentless, and the weight of fame grew heavier with each passing day. Yet, she remained a constant in his life, a secret piece of normalcy he clung to.

One evening, after wrapping up a long day of filming for a music show, Heeseung found himself alone in the practice room, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His heart ached with the burden of what he was about to do. He had made up his mind--he couldn't live like this anymore. He couldn't bear the distance between them, the secrecy, the fear that one wrong step would destroy everything.

So he called her.

"Can we meet?" His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

When she arrived at the quiet cafe where they often met in secret, Heeseung could see the concern in her eyes. He reached for her hands across the table, his fingers trembling slightly.

"I can't do this anymore," he whispered, his eyes searching hers for understanding. "I don't want to live a life where I have to choose between my dream and you. I'm willing to give it all up--being an idol, the fame, everything--if it means I can be with you."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. He expected relief, maybe even happiness. But instead, she shook her head, her grip on his hands tightening.

"No, Heeseung."

His breath hitched. "What?"

She smiled, a sad yet knowing expression on her face. "You love music, you love performing. Its part of you. If you gave it up for me, you'd regret it. And I can't be the reason you turn away from something you've worked so hard for."

"But--"

She squeezed his hands. "I love you, too. And I don't want to lose you either. But we don't have to choose between love and your dream."

Confusion swirled in his chest. "Then what do we do?"

She took a deep breath, as if bracing herself. "I have something to tell you. I've been working towards something, too. Something that will let me stay close to you in a way that doesn't put your career at risk."

Heeseung frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I'm becoming a makeup artist," she said, her voice steady. "And I've been offered a position at your company."

His heart stopped. "What?"

"I'll be part of the team that works with idols--your team." She bit her lip. "This way, I can be by your side without anyone questioning it. No one will suspect anything, and we won't have to hide. I can be there for you, even if it's just in small ways."

Heeseung felt like the world had shifted beneath him. He had been ready to throw everything away for her, but instead, she had found a way to stay by his side without making him sacrifice his dream.

Tears pricked his eyes as he let out a shaky laugh. "You're incredible, you know that?"

She smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I know."

And just like that, Heeseung realised that love didn't have to mean giving up everything. Sometimes, love meant finding a way to stay together—no matter what.

all rights to this work belongs to me @ditsycafe.

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kaissatou · 2 months ago

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chapter 1 // sincerely yours, the breakfast club

ahh idk where this idea came from. i also don’t know if others will enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it, but i am a film lover so i will never stop with the references >:) mc isn’t actually very presence in the dialogue here, its more the boys fighting oops however they all have a lil crush on her and i tried to express that

summary: stuck in saturday detention with five (oddly attractive) guys, you're bored; and for some odd reason, they've all seemed to take a liking to you- but just who will you choose?

tws: very light-hearted but expresses dark themes kinda? smoking, all the boys are a lil unstable, not much is mentioned in this chapter but darker themes will be established in the routes! drug use

(no smut this chapter, but will be in the routes!) i have to clarify this chapter is based on the plot of the breakfast club, and is just used to set up the routes! the routes are their own stories, basically, but will all be connected through this one ;D

You wouldn't describe yourself as overly intelligent (if you were, you wouldn't be here), but you're not stupid, either. You're not loud, but you're not quiet, just always somewhere in the middle. You're like that with a lot of things; it's better to stay low, to fit in- or at least you think.

And now looking around the library, you quickly realise not everyone shares the same ideologies as you. Certainly not the four boys residing in the library you were yet to enter.

Two loud, (and stupid, you presume) boys you've seen around Jujutsu High catch your eye first.

Satoru Gojo. A privileged, wealthy boy whose used to being in the spotlight. He appears shallow, dumb even, fixing his glasses on the crook of his nose (what kind of idiot wears glasses inside?) He seems preoccupied in his thoughts, humming the tune to a Japanese pop song obnoxiously loudly.

Ryomen Sukuna, the quintessential bad boy. You've never spoken to him directly- out of fear, perhaps, but your friends have described him as rebellious, defiant and cynical. Through gossip and hushed voices, you learnt that he acts this way as a defence mechanism; rumours of his home life spread like wildfire, and looking at him now, had you questioning whether his brave look was just a facade.

And then there's the two you don't exactly recognise.

A blonde boy sits on the desks separating Gojo and Sukuna, he's the only one of the four to have a book out. Its a mid-century novel that you don't recognise, and in your mind you peg him as the nerd. Hes cute, though. His hair is parted in a side part, and he fixes it every so often- you wonder if he thought changing the parting of his hair was a rebellious situation. You wonder what a boy like him would've done to get caught up in Saturday detention. He reads his book.

And then there's the other one. From first glance, he seems a little...strange? After all, he's perched on the furthest desk from the rest of the group, like they carry a mysterious disease that he'll do anything to avoid. You're sure you would've at least noticed him before, because you know for sure you couldn't forget a face like that, not with the thick black stripe tattooed over the hook of his nose.

There's an uncomfortable silence the minute you open the heavy wood door, four pairs of eyes meeting your own. The thick air lingers until the door slams! shut on its hinges, and you rush over to the left desk on the front, creating a wedge between you and three boys- opting for the last side as its empty- partially empty, save for Choso in the back. But ones better than 3, right?

Wrong.

The blonde boy seems to pay you no attention and turns back to his book, flipping to the next page. However, Gojo piques up, svillenging in his chair to face you. Oh no. He rests his head on the palm of his hand, observing you with a sly gaze. A smirk pulls at his lips, though he stays quiet, watching you with a predatory gaze in silence. Sukuna, from the back row, launches his water bottle at Gojo's head.

It merely misses, and Satoru squeals.

Settling in your chair, you pull out your book and mentally prepare yourself to write an essay for the next 8 hours. Death sounds better than this, you think. Judging by the three boys who dont either have a pen out, you assume they agree.

The door flies open again, Suguru Geto, followed by Principal Yaga. You know Geto. You've spoken to him a few times in passing, and he's always nice, you honestly don't understand how he got roped into such a crowd.

He's well known- not as popular as Gojo, but his name goes around. He's one of the only few people at Jujutsu High who already have their future perfectly sought out for them. An athlete with a promised scholarship, who's actually kind? You kind of admire him. Suguru strolls into the library, his eyes observing. When his gaze catches you, he smiles.

Gojo pulls out a seat for him. You've seen them around, and they seem like pretty good friends. However, Suguru dismisses him with a friendly wave and instead sits on a seat just a few away from you. Your peace is disturbed, but Suguru is nice, so you find yourself not seeming to mind. He graces you with a nod, then unzips his bag. Gojo whines.

Principal Yaga makes his presence known with an uncomfortable clear of his throat, standing tall and proud. You grimace.

"Well, well. Here we are! I want to congratulate you for being on time."

Gojo, grinning like a chesire cat, raises his hand. Yaga pays him no notice, yet he still pipes up. "I think there's been a mistake. I know its detention, sure, but i don't think i belong in here."

Sukuna snickers. Yaga doesn't care, and he just continues to talk.

"It is now 7:06. You have exactly eight hours and fifty four minutes to think about why you're here. To ponder the error of your ways. And you may not talk. You will not move from these seats."

Sukuna kicks Gojo's chair, and the white haired man looks like he's about to gag. Yaga glances up at Sukuna and points at him. "And you.. will not sleep. Alright people, were going to try something different today. We are going to write an essay, of no less than a thousand words, describing to me who you think you are."

"Is this a test?" Ryomen Sukunas voice is brave and rebllious. His eyebrow is raised, his lips contorted into a grin. Yaga passes out paper and takes no notice of Sukuna.

"And when i say essay, i mean an essay. I do not mean a single word repeated a thousand times, is that clear, Mr. Sukuna?"

Sukuna looks up. "Crystal."

"Good. Maybe you'll learn a little something about yourself. Maybe you'll even decide whether or not you care to return."

The blonde haired boy raises his hand and then stands.

"You know, i can answer that right now, sir. That'd be no, no for me."

Yaga sighs. "Sit down, Nanami."

The blonde boy, Nanami as you know now, complies. He sits.

"My office," Yaga points, "Is right across that hall. Any monkey business is ill-advised."

An hour goes by pretty quickly, for the most part. Though you choose to ignore Gojo and Sukuna's constant bickering. Suguru unlike his counterpart, has good a good few words written on his paper. You glance down at your own, nearly getting lost in the white of your empty page. oops. Nanami, the blonde haired boys already flipped to the back of his paper, bouncing his leg and humming softly. He looks oddly content in a Saturday detention. Through idle conversation, you've learnt that he's actually a part of the physics and math club- through that conversation, you also learnt the name of the silent boy in the back. Choso Kamo. He's in his own little world, headphones perched over his ears, hair sprawled out in messy pigtails. His knees are brought up to his chest, and his paper has somehow... disappeared?

You're about to start writing, until a pen is flying past your head with extreme force, you clock it immediately, and a sound of surprise emits pass your lips. You turn your head to the culprit with a harsh glare, and he merely grins. "Hey!"

Sukuna closes his eyes in bliss. "You're pretty cute when you're all angry."

Suguru's hand hits the table, his fist balled into a tight grip. You jump, and he sends you a sympathetic look, and then he turns to Sukuna, glaring fiercely. "Why don't you just shut up? Just because you live in here doesn't give you the right to be a pain in the ass."

Sukuna raises his hands in apology, but his grin shows no remorse. "Its a free country."

"He's just doing it to get a rise out of you. Ignore him." You murmur, flashing Suguru a shy grin. You're not exactly friends, acquaintances maybe, so its nice to see him stick up for you when he really doesn't have to.

Sukuna stretches out on his chair, cracking his knuckles as he wraps his arms behind his neck. "Couldn't ignore me if you tried," He gets up, arms resting against the stairwell banister as he glances through the open door. For the first time, he acknowledges the intimidating 6'foot man, with less intimidating pigtails. ""What do you say we close that door? We can't have any kind of party with Yaga checking us out every few seconds."

Choso shrugs. Gojo pipes up, deciding he wants to torment Sukuna. Nanami rolls his eyes and buries his face in his book. "Well, you know the doors s'posed to stay open!" Satoru's voice is cheerly eerie, his tone manufactured perfectly to piss Sukuna off.

You roll your eyes at their antics, but nevertheless turn towards the scene. Your eyes catch on Choso, and you shoot him a small smile. He smiles back, then looks away to perfect his sweater paws. A little weird, but cute.

Sukuna wanders off somewhere, probably to fiddle with the screws in the door. You watch him pass, catching Gojo’s eager gaze. He props his glasses up into his hair, and waves at you, his eyes crinkling in the corners. With a hum, Suguru turns to you. “Did you find a club to join yet?”

Oh. You blink in shock, suprised that Suguru also pays attention to your conversations with your mutual friends when you’re both around. It’s sweet, actually. He’s surprisingly more observant that you thought.

Maybe there is more to these guys than what they let on.

You shrug, “Mm, not yet. Nothings really catching my eye.”

Nanami perks up, dropping his pen. “I’m in the physics club,” he fixes his glasses, readjusting his hair- are his cheeks flushing? “We need some new members. Maybe you can join us.”

Nanami's nervously sweet, articulate and calculating (well, he tries to be) with his words. You're ashamed with yourself and the fact that you had never noticed him before. You're not the smartest, but you find yourself thinking that maybe, just maybe, a science club could be fun if he's there with you.

“I’m not in a club,” Gojo’s voice is oozing confidence, as he practically answers for you. He grins widely, causing Suguru to roll his eyes. Gojo continues, “but maybe we can hang out, you know? I’d have to clear my schedule, but…” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at you.

Ew, but…cute?

“Yeah, maybe,” you mutter, considering taking him up on his offer. Your eyes roll back to your (still) empty paper, Suguru gives you a look of pity, sliding his paper towards you.

Sometime later Sukuna wanders back to the desks, sitting in the seat behind you. He’s surprisingly quiet for his character, kicking his legs up over the desk and crossing them. He lights up and cigarette and brings it up to his lips with a sigh. You swear you see Suguru’s eye twitch slightly.

You pity him. Though you’re not very close, you’ve seen him indulge in his harmful habit an array of times, much to his parents distaste, and there’s always stress evident in his features, or proven though his deep eyebags. Sukuna chucks him a cigarette, and Suguru hesitates, before accepting it with a solemn expression. He avoids your gaze, and fiddles through his pocket for a lighter.

You glance at the clock, it reads quarter to nine.

Sukuna busied himself by lighting his shoe on fire, causing you to yelp. He then lights his cigarette with said shoe.

Gojo’s moved to now sit on the row with you, beside Geto. He’s bothering Geto with cat videos on his phone, ignoring Geto’s please for him to hush. Gojo stretches his lanky arms across the table to show you instead. You indulge, and he grins widely as he rambles. Geto shakes his head.

Choso’s resulted in pulling a string around his finger, a curious expression on his face when the tip of his nimble finger turns purple. He flings the string away, and starts to draw, taking subtle glances up at you every now and then. You wonder what he’s drawing with the way he’s studying you.

And Nanamis finishing up his essay, a proudful grin on his lips as he finally relaxes back into his chair. You consider asking him to write yours for you, but you don’t want to use him like that. So you stay put.

Saturday detention actually isn’t as bad as you thought it would be.

The sky is beautiful. The sun is blazing and you’re in the park, a perfect day to spend a mundane Saturday. The sun is blazing, and there’s a shadowed figure of a man beside you. You can’t tell who he is, not just yet, and then he speaks- it’s blaring, likes somethings screaming something into your ear, like wake up-

Oh no. It’s just Principal Yaga. You raise your head from the desk in confusion, rubbing your eyes. Satoru, beside you, does the same. You’re not sure when or how he moved to rest his head on your shoulder, but you can’t bring it in yourself to mind- not when your mind is still so groggy.

Suguru groans, throwing his head back as he opens his eyes. Sukuna’s wide awake, and you’re not too sure about Nanami or Choso., but by the way Choso’s body’s slumped over the desk, you assume he was in dreamland too.

“Wake up! Who has to go to the lavatory?”

Everybody raises their hands.

The clock reads 11:30 when you finally raise your head again.

Principal Yaga enters the library. Sukuna begins to whistle.

“Alright girls, that’s thirty minutes for lunch.” You scowl at Yaga’s choice of words, and Satoru nudges your shoulder with a grin.

“Here?” Geto questions.

“Here.” Yaga’s tone is stern, as if he’s trying to shut down anymore interruptions. It doesn’t work.

Geto purses his lips, before speaking up again. His tone is dull, not giving anything whatever he’s thinking, though you swear you see the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Well, I think the cafeteria would be a more suitable place for us to eat lunch, Sir.”

“I don’t care what you think, Mr. Geto.”

Sukuna clears his throat, and Yaga groans. “Excuse me, Yaga..will water be made available to us?”

Geto’s smile widens. “We’re extremely thirsty, Sir.”

Satoru nudges you once more, as if to get your attention when he perks up. You’re not exactly sure why, unless he’s trying to impress you, somehow? “I have a very low tolerance for dehydration.” He puts on the most serious act that’s possible for him, using all his might to not crack a smile. The thought of his efforts makes a smile of your own grace your lips.

“I’ve seen him dehydrate. It’s pretty gross.” Geto adds.

Eventually, Yaga gives up and points towards you. “Up.”

He then redirects and observes the other characters in the room, his gaze fixing on a still sleeping Choso. “And you! Hey! What’s his name? Wake him up! Come on, this is no rest home!”

Ah.

Honestly, it’s not as awkward as you expected it to be, and Choso’s not bad eye candy. Though, you do feel bad that he was disturbed from his peaceful slumber to go on a water run with you.

The silence is slightly unnerving, deafening as Choso trails after you, his steps slow and uncoordinated as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. You slow down your pace and turn towards him, sending him a sweet smile. The second he meets your eyes, he flushes a peachy pink. Cute.

You’re okay with the silence, you think. You’ve gathered that he’s not one for conversation and that’s okay. Until he speaks up.

“Hi,” he murmurs causing you to stop in your tracks, and lean against a closed locker, the paint cracking off.

“Hi. Choso, is it? I’m y/n.”

He grins, hiding his hands in his pockets. “I know. You’re in the same English course of mine we were forced to take.” His voice sounds slightly strained, and you immediately feel bad for not noticing him sooner.

How could you have missed him?

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Your expression is full of sorrow, and he pouts.

“It’s fine. I don’t usually go, anyway,”

Okay. That makes you feel a little better.

You start walking again, and he follows. But this time, there’s more of a pep in his step. The silence overcomes you again, but this time it’s not so awkward. It’s quite comforting, and you assume Choso feels the same.

In the short time you’ve known him, you’ve found him to be unreadable. If he’s feeling anything, he won’t express it. Straight face, solemn expression- nothings there. You wonder if he’d still be like that as a boyfriend. Or if he’d be different, if he’d open up to you and tell you all his thoughts and feelings, likes and dislikes- you find yourself questioning his hobbies in your head, if his music taste is similar to yours, if-

“Maybe we can study together sometime, or something.”

Huh?!

Oh. You definitely didn’t expect that. You hadn’t expected his tone to sound so…confident, either. Throughout this whole encounter, he had never spoken this many words as he was now. You didn’t find yourself minding the sudden chance, though.

“Oh, yeah,” you manage to stutter out. “Definitely.”

You manage to collect the drinks without slipping up, and stroll back to the library in a comfortable silence.

The door slams behind you once more, and three sets of eyes immediately meet yours. You swear you’re getting Deja vu. Choso shuffles back into the library, though he doesn’t go back to his seat. Instead, he sits in the row directly behind you. You assume it’s because you Gojo, and Geto had taken up all the seats in the front row. Now in the second row, resides a noisy Sukuna, unusually quiet Nanami, and sweet Choso.

Sukunas currently tormenting Nanami, and all conservation stops when you enter. Nanami subtly nods his head towards you, and Sukuna gasps dramatically. Whatever conservation was going on, you’re not sure you want to know now.

Gojo’s and Geto’s heads turn from Gojo’s array of Bentos at the loud gasp, and something in Gojo’s head must’ve whirred because he covered his hand with a deafening laugh. Geto raises an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

Sukuna laughs devilishly and claps his hands. "Oh, You and y/n did it!"

You spin around at the mention of your name. "What?" You didn't have the mental capacity to deal with Sukuna's foolish games, and you weren't sure if you wanted to indulge, even if you did.

"Nothing!" Nanami splutters out, face flushed up to the tips of his ears. He sighs and blushes furiously, his expression..sickly? You pray to god that he doesn't pass out right there and then. He turns to Sukuna, finally, "Lets talk about this later."

"Talk about what?" you sigh and run your hands through your hair in distress.

"How he wants to fuck you."

The room falls into an eerie silence, and even Choso perks up, his expression unreadable. Nanami gulps loudly. Satoru then cackles, though there's something else in his gaze, hardly masked- jealousy? Geto's avoiding eye contact as he looks down at his lap, fiddling with his lighter. He looks sad- why?

You don't have much time to focus on anyone else now, though- not with a million thoughts racing through your mind all at home. You cant say you're not flattered, though. "Oh."

"Oh, yeah?" Sukuna's tone is malicious, and Nanami practically recoils, preparing for another harsh dig. "Yeah, he wants you to pop his cherry and all." Sukuna grins flirtatiously. You don't know what to think anymore.

"I never said that." Nanami defends, voice hushed.

"Oh, so you weren't motioning to y/n just then?" Sukuna doesn't relent, and you're standing to feel bad for Kento Nanami. After all, you were sure you wouldn't really mind taking his virginity if it was what he truly wanted.

Sukuna leans over the desk. "Were you or were you not motioning to y/n?"

"You know he's lying, right?" Nanami's defenses are practically useless against Sukuna, yet he still tries. Sukuna prods more than usual, like there's a point he's trying to prove. He almost sounds jealous. You applaud Kento's effort.

"Leave him alone, Sukuna." Oddly, for once Sukuna pipes down. Maybe you have that effect on him. Nanami lefts out a breath he didn't know he was holding. You don’t catch the subtle drop in his expression.

Choso shuffles further into his seat. Geto stays quiet. Gojo gristles, and turns his attention back to his phone.

Principal Yaga puts an orange in his mouth and them attempts to pour coffee out of his thermos. The top comes off and his coffee spills all over the desk.

"Oh, shit!"

He stumbles off into the hallway, grumbling to himself. "Coffee...looks like they scrape it off the bottom of Shibuya Station. Everything;s polluted, everything's polluted...the coffee.."

After successfully picking the library door lock, Sukuna flings the doors open with his muscular arms and a grumble of his chest. He strolls out, Nanami and Geto following closely. Gojo's clinging to your side (and you allow it), his arm intertwined with your own, his fingers itching, scraping at the side of your waist. Choso's trailing behind, glaring daggers at Gojo. Satoru steals a sneaky look at him, and he winks. Choso grumbles.

"How do you know where Principal Yaga went?" you question in uncertainty, not usually one for trouble.

Sukuna flashes his pearly whites. "I dont."

Suguru stretches his arms infront of him and cracks his knuckles, his shirt tight on his muscles and easy on the eyes. He takes the lead, "Then how do you know when he'll be back?"

"I don't."

"Oh." You mutter, and Gojo grips at your side cheekily. He's snacking on a pack of pocky, and others you a stick in-between his chewing. you gratefully accept.

Sukuna examines the halls thoughtfully, then turns back to the crowd. "We'll cross through the lab, and then we'll double back."

Geto scoffs, his eye catching yours. His gaze softens, before it hardens again as he addresses Sukuna. "You better be right. If Yaga cuts us off its your fault, asshole."

And then Sukuna suddenly stills. Yaga passes down the sister hall. He holds his hand up, as a signal for everyone to stay clear and un-moving. Satoru slowly detaches from your side. You feel a presence nearing your back, warm and comforting, the smell of pinewood with a hint of something sweet invading your nostrils. You recognise it as Choso.

And you don't move away.

"Wait, hold it. We have to go through the cafeteria." Sukuna demands, and he looks at you, his eyes surprisingly gentle.

Gojo's hand graces your shoulder again, as he leans on you. Turning to Sukuna, he props his glasses in his hair. "No, the activities hall." He disagrees with Sukuna, grinning slyly. You hope that they don;t butt heads over something so mundane.

"You don't know what you're talking about, pretty boy." Sukuna whistles, and stomps off to the lab. Nanami follows, Geto on his trail.

You, Satoru and Choso stay put, until Gojo gives in. "Sure," he struts off to catch up with Geto, and you turn to Choso. He nods in approval so you follow the crowd, lingering back slightly. Choso seems content following Sukuna's orders, so you go with it.

Choso’s humming some sort of tune to himself, and it’s comforting, giving you time to think. You truly feel bad about how Sukuna treated Nanami earlier, and you wonder if there’s anything you could do to make it up to him, to ease his prior embarrassment. You also find yourself wondering if Sukunas statement was true. Would you be mad if it was?

Your mind then drifts over to Suguru. He seems so tense that it’s hard to not worry about him. You know that he pushes himself to his limits, and his parents aren’t the best supporters, neither is Jujutsu High. You know how he’s constantly the underdog, and you pity him. The pressure he constantly faces, you’re sure you would crack under if you were him.

You’re not entirely sure how you feel about Sukuna. He’s an asshole, sure- but is he, really? He’s mean and defensive, rebellious and malicious, but is he deep down? Or is it just a facade? A rebellious act, perhaps. Judging by the way he immediately shut down when you asked him to, you believe so. Just what made him so…shut off?

And then, Gojo stops in his tracks until you and Choso catch up with him. Catching the chesire grin on his face, you quicklly realise he's plotting something. And then he's reaching out for your hand, tugging. You quickly catch on, and grab Choso with your free hand as Satoru drags you both along.

And then you're running, to the cafeteria as Gojo previously mentioned. You should've known he wouldn't give up so easily.

Sometime later, you reconnect with the rest of the crowd over a pack of joints that they had smuggled from Ryomens locker on their secret escapades.

Nanami explains in extreme detail how the situation played out- there was a run in with Yaga, and Gojo smirked smugly, snorting at Sukuna’s grumbles of defeat.

Something about Sukuna challenging Yaga to a match of dodgeball. Sounds about right, you conclude.

Nanami, Gojo and Sukuna are sitting on a table hidden away in the corner of the library, laughing hysterically. Gojo lights Nanami up and he coughs the smoke out uncomfortably. Gojo laughs wildly.

“Do you know how popular I am? I’m so popular, everyone loves me so much, at this school..”

You zone them out.

Gojo waves Geto over, who’s sitting beside you on the worn out couch by the bookshelves. Suguru shakes his head, and leans further into the sofa, joint in hand.

Choso’s looking a little antsy as he sits on the floor beside the couch, playing with his fingers. You beckon the joint from Suguru and he hands it to you with a lazy smile. You take another puff, then lean out to offer it to Choso. He silently accepts.

You wander off to join the others, and Nanami takes your space. A conversation seems to start up, and you listen from the sidelines as Gojo leans his head on your shoulder.

Geto and Nanami are laughing about something, eyes hazy and red, grins wide and pearly. “You got a middle name?” Geto questions randomly. Or maybe you just weren’t paying enough attention to what they were talking about.

“Yeah, guess…”

Choso perks up, finally conversing with them for the first time in the night. “It’s Light.”

Nanami looks at Choso like a he just killed a puppy. “How do you know that?”

“I stole your wallet.”

Right. You’re zoning them out again.

You allow yourself a moment of peace in the chaos, leaning your head against Gojo’s. He huns contently, and slips a piece of paper in your pocket that goes unnoticed.

Closing your eyes for a second wouldn’t hurt, right?

You dream of everything pretty. The sun, the beach you dream to visit, your favourite song blasting on the radio. The shadowed figures back again, this time the identity being even blurrier. There’s no way to tell who the man in your dreams is- or who you want him to be. Not yet, anyway.

You’re awaken by Gojo shaking you roughly, stifling a yawn of his own. Your eyesight is blurry, but you can make out his pearly grin perfectly. His eyes are covered by his tinted glasses, but you know behind them you’d see that signature glint of happiness in his eyes. “Wake up.”

“I’m awake, dumbass.”

He shakes you once more for good measure, and then rises. You stumble to your feet behind him, rubbing your eyes. He points his finger over to Nanami, who’s not on the couch anymore where you last remembered, but now hunched over a piece of paper, his pen flowing words onto paper peacefully.

He lifts up the paper and pecks it with a kiss.

Choso’s slouched in the chair beside Nanami, his eyes closed as he rests his head on his hand. Suguru’s gazing out the window wistfully, cigarette in hand. Sukuna’s…no where to be seen.

And the bell rings.

You examine everyone with a hearty smile, honestly sad to leave- something in the beginning of the day you would’ve never imagined. A strange feeling for sure.

It’s weird. To spend a day with five such different personalities, a group of people that would clash infinitely on a normal day- but today wasn’t a normal day, and maybe that’s why. Something so rare, that’ll never happen again.

You know it might not ever be like this again, but if you get to stay in contact with just one of them, you’re sure that it’ll all be okay, whoever it is you choose.

who do you choose?

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