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chrissssssmut · 2 months ago

Note

I really like your stories if I may request.... Um can you please write Step Mom Chaewon x male reader, where Chaewon really after is not his father but y/n

My Stepmom's Secret

Chaewon x Male Reader

The scent of jasmine tea hit your nose before the sound of her voice ever did.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You blinked, a little disoriented by the soft warmth of the sun spilling through the kitchen window, and the far more disorienting warmth of Chaewon, standing barefoot on the cold tile, wearing only a long silk robe that clung to her figure like it had no right to. One hand stirred the tea, the other braced on the marble counter. Her hair was slightly damp, probably from the shower, and your eyes — you couldn’t help it — trailed down the curve of her neck to where the robe tied at her waist.

You cleared your throat. “Hey… uh. Morning.”

Chaewon smiled. The same smile she always gave you — just a little too slow. A little too knowing.

“You always get so quiet around me in the mornings,” she said, walking toward the table. “Still shy, even after all this time?”

“I’m not shy,” you muttered, pretending to scroll through your phone. “Just not a morning person.”

She let out a hum, the sound purring low in her throat as she placed a mug of tea in front of you. Her fingers brushed your hand. Deliberate. Lingering.

You didn’t move. You didn’t look up.

Chaewon did, crouching slightly to meet your eyes. “I like you quiet, actually,” she said, voice low. “Makes it easier to see what you’re really thinking.”

Your heart kicked once, sharp.

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“Oh, you’re definitely thinking something,” she murmured, gaze locked on yours. “I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

“I don’t—”

“You stare at my legs when I’m in shorts,” she continued. “You clench your jaw when I wear this robe. You hold your breath when I walk too close.”

“Chaewon—”

“Say it.” Her voice hardened, just slightly. “Say what you’re thinking right now.”

You stared at her, pulse loud in your ears. The room felt hotter, suddenly. Smaller.

“…You’re my stepmom.”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “That’s not what I asked.”

You stood up, too fast, the chair scraping behind you. “I’m not doing this. Where’s Dad?”

She leaned back against the table, crossing her arms — the silk of her robe falling open just enough to hint at the curve of her inner thigh.

“Business trip,” she said simply. “Won’t be back until Monday.”

Your breath hitched. You hated how your brain immediately did the math: that’s six nights.

“You planned this.”

Chaewon tilted her head. “Planned what?”

“This,” you hissed. “You knew he was leaving. You waited until I came home from college for the weekend. You—”

“I’ve always waited for you,” she interrupted. “You think I married him because I loved him? No. I married him because it gave me an excuse to stay close to you.”

Your blood ran cold. Hot. Then cold again.

“I saw you before he even introduced us,” she said, her tone sweet, almost dreamy. “That party, remember? You were standing near the pool, wet hair, a little tipsy. God, you looked like a sin waiting to happen.”

“You’re insane,” you whispered.

She stepped forward. “I’m in love.”

You backed into the counter, the edge pressing against your hips.

“Do you know how hard it was,” she whispered, “to play the role of the doting wife? To sleep next to a man I don’t care about just so I could stay close to you?”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m devoted,” she corrected, pressing one hand to your chest. “Devoted to you. I’ve waited two years, baby. Every little smile you gave me… every time you accidentally brushed against me walking down the hall… every time you said my name. I burned for you.”

You swallowed hard. “This is wrong.”

“Says who?”

Her lips hovered just inches from yours. Her fingers slipped beneath your shirt, slowly dragging her nails down your abdomen. You didn’t stop her. You didn’t say anything.

Because your body was betraying you. Because the truth was, you had stared at her. Wanted her. Dreamed about her in ways that left you guilty and breathless.

And she knew it.

“I knew you’d want me,” she whispered, tracing your waistband. “It’s in your eyes. The way you’re breathing right now.”

“Fuck…”

Her hand slipped inside your shorts, curling around your half-hard cock like she’d done it a thousand times in her head. You shuddered. She leaned in and kissed your neck, soft and slow, her voice purring against your skin.

“Let me show you what two years of obsession looks like.”

You grabbed her wrist, but your grip was weak. Shaky. She didn’t stop — she stroked you, slow and possessive.

“I thought about you when I touched myself,” she confessed. “Every night. Quiet so your dad wouldn’t hear. But it was always you. Only you.”

You gasped, hips twitching.

“I thought about your mouth,” she breathed, dragging her tongue up your neck, “your fingers, your cock… how good it’d feel inside me.”

“Jesus, Chaewon—”

“I’m yours,” she moaned. “Always have been. So take me.”

You pulled her into a kiss, finally breaking. She tasted like tea and sin. Her hands clawed at your shirt, yours tangled in her robe, tearing the silk apart. You pushed her onto the kitchen table, dishes clattering, and she let out a low moan.

“God, I knew you’d be rough,” she gasped as you shoved her panties aside, fingers plunging inside her slick heat. “I dreamed about this. Being laid out for you.”

Your fingers moved fast, deep, curling to hit the spot that made her cry out.

“Louder,” you growled. “Let the neighbors hear what a fucking mess you are.”

Her thighs trembled. She reached up, dragging you closer, biting your lip as she whispered:

“Fill me. Ruin me. Make me yours.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You tore your shorts off and pressed your cock to her entrance, the slick heat of her body welcoming you in inch by inch. She was tight — impossibly so — and her nails dug into your back as you started thrusting.

“You feel so good,” she moaned, wrapping her legs around your waist. “Better than I imagined. You were made for me.”

Your rhythm grew brutal, desperate. The table creaked under you. Her moans echoed through the house.

“You gonna cum in your stepmom?” she whispered, voice broken with pleasure. “Gonna mark me? Claim me?”

“Yes,” you gasped, thrusts erratic. “Fuck—yes.”

Her body seized under you as she came, crying out your name like a prayer.

And then you followed, groaning against her neck, burying yourself deep inside her with one final thrust.

For a moment, everything was silent. Just your heartbeats. The soft tremble in her thighs. The stickiness between your hips.

Then she whispered:

“Now you can’t leave me.”

You blinked.

“You’re mine,” she said, smiling through the afterglow. “I made sure of it. No more running.”

You stared at her.

Chaewon reached up and cupped your face gently.

“I won’t let you go, baby. I didn’t come this far to lose you now.”

And the terrifying part?

You didn’t want her to let go.

You hadn’t been able to think straight for five days.

Ever since that morning in the kitchen, Chaewon hadn’t let you breathe without her hands somewhere on your body — brushing your chest when you passed by, sitting on your lap during dinner, sucking your fingers under the table. The worst part?

You let her.

You wanted her. Always had. And now that you’d tasted her — claimed her — she wasn’t just in your head anymore.

She was in your blood.

“Come back to bed,” she purred, tugging at the hem of your hoodie. Her body was warm against your side, bare under one of your t-shirts, her breath hot against your neck as you stood by the hallway mirror trying to fix your hair.

“Someone’s gonna come to the door soon,” you said, checking your phone. “That thing I ordered’s out for delivery.”

Chaewon pouted, pressing her hips to your back. “Let them knock.”

You turned, raising an eyebrow. “You're seriously insatiable.”

“I’ve waited two years, baby,” she murmured, slipping her hands into your sweatpants. “You don’t get to complain.”

Your breath hitched as she gripped your cock — already semi-hard from the constant teasing. She smiled at the reaction.

“There he is,” she whispered, kneeling in front of you like a devout worshipper. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

You groaned as her mouth wrapped around your tip — soft, warm, wet. Her tongue circled lazily, eyes locked on yours.

“This is so fucked,” you muttered.

Chaewon pulled off just long enough to whisper, “You love it.”

And you did.

You leaned against the wall as she sucked you deep, her throat taking you inch by inch like she’d trained for it. Her hands dug into your thighs, keeping you from moving. From escaping. Not that you’d even try.

Then the doorbell rang.

You both froze.

Chaewon glanced up with wide eyes — but her mouth never left your cock.

“…Chaewon,” you hissed.

She smirked around you and sucked harder, deliberately bobbing her head as you twitched in her mouth. You heard the doorbell again — and then the sound of a truck idling out front.

“Get the door,” she said breathlessly, pulling off with a pop. “Now.”

“I—what—are you serious?!”

She pushed you toward the door, hand still stroking you fast and wet.

“Open it,” she growled. “I want you to see how good you look with your cock in my mouth while someone else stands right there.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

You cracked the door open just a bit — heart pounding — and there he was: the mailman. Young. Bored. Holding a package and glancing down at the label.

“Package for… uh, Y/N?”

You nodded stiffly. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Chaewon’s mouth wrapped around you again, hidden just out of sight behind the doorframe. You barely managed to hold your breath.

The mailman squinted. “You okay, dude?”

“Y-Yeah,” you choked out. “Just… allergies.”

Chaewon moaned around your cock. Loud.

You nearly dropped the package.

“Uh… right,” the guy said slowly, handing it over. “Have a good one.”

You slammed the door the second he turned.

“Chaewon—fuck—what the hell is wrong with you?!”

She pulled off, spit connecting her lips to your tip. Her eyes were blown wide with lust.

“You are,” she whispered. “You’re what’s wrong with me.”

And then she swallowed you whole.

You doubled over, hand slamming against the wall. She was ruthless now — bobbing fast, sloppy, desperate. Her eyes welled with tears but she didn’t stop. Didn’t care. She needed this.

“I’m close,” you warned.

She didn’t let up.

You came hard, hips jerking forward as she sucked you dry. She moaned around your release, swallowing it all — eyes fluttering shut like she was tasting something divine.

When you finally pulled back, gasping, she wiped her mouth and licked her lips.

“God, you taste even better when you’re trying not to moan,” she purred.

“You’re crazy.”

“Crazy for you,” she said sweetly, standing and wrapping her arms around your neck. “I want you every minute of every day. I want your cock in my mouth when you do the dishes. I want to ride you when you’re on your stupid little Zoom calls. I want to jerk you off under the table while we eat dinner with your dad.”

You stiffened. “He’s back tomorrow.”

“I know.”

You swallowed. “You’re not planning to stop.”

She leaned in, brushing your lips with hers.

“I’m planning to ruin you.”

And then she kissed you — slow and deep, her tongue still tasting faintly like you. Her hands wandered south again, never content, always hungry.

“Take me to your room,” she whispered. “And lock the door this time.”

You didn’t think.

You just obeyed.

The front door clicked open around noon.

You were on the couch, pretending to scroll your phone, though you hadn’t read a single word in the last hour. Your skin was still warm from the shower — mostly because Chaewon had joined you halfway through and ridden you against the tile wall like she’d been starving — but your nerves had started to catch up.

And then you heard it:

“Hey! I’m home!”

Your father’s voice.

You stiffened.

Chaewon walked in from the kitchen a second later, already wiping her hands on a towel. She was wearing a soft knit dress, something casual, something subtle — but you knew better now. The neckline was a little too low. The fabric a little too thin. Her smile a little too perfect.

“Welcome back, honey!” she said sweetly, moving to greet him with a quick kiss on the cheek. “Did everything go well?”

“Same old, same old,” he said, dropping his bag. “Tired as hell. God, I missed real food.”

You stood up awkwardly. “Hey, Dad.”

He turned, grinning. “There’s my college man!”

He laughed and pulled you into a side hug. You could feel Chaewon watching. Could feel the heat behind her pleasant little smirk as she stood beside the man she married — a man completely oblivious to the fact that you’d been inside her less than twelve hours ago.

Dinner was quiet. Tense, at least for you.

The table was set like any normal Sunday — steak, roasted potatoes, steamed vegetables. Your dad poured wine. Talked about flights and meetings and a coworker who snored in the hotel room next door.

You tried to focus. To nod at the right parts. To laugh when you were supposed to.

But then you felt it.

A hand on your thigh.

You froze.

Chaewon didn’t miss a beat. She cut into her steak, chewed slowly, eyes flicking to yours just for a second — like a dare.

Her hand slid higher.

You glanced at your dad. He was sipping his wine, still mid-sentence about airport security lines.

Her fingers reached your zipper. Undid it.

You shifted in your seat, your fork trembling slightly in your grip.

Chaewon leaned in, casually brushing her shoulder against yours as her hand slipped into your pants. Her fingers curled around your cock, already half-hard from the tension alone.

You clenched your jaw.

“So,” your dad said, smiling at Chaewon. “He’s been behaving while I was gone?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said sweetly, giving your cock a stroke. “He’s been very… obedient.”

You choked on your wine.

Your dad raised an eyebrow. “You good?”

You coughed. “Yeah. Wrong pipe.”

Chaewon’s hand moved slower now — cruel, teasing — stroking you just enough to make it torture. Her thumb grazed your tip. You twitched under the table.

“Dinner’s great,” you managed to say, voice tight.

“I’m glad,” she said, squeezing gently. “I made it just for you.”

You reached for your glass again, desperate for something — anything — to ground yourself. Her hand moved faster. More confident now.

Your father didn’t notice a thing.

“…and then this idiot from procurement tried to expense a whole box of Cuban cigars,” he was saying. “Swore it was for client relations.”

Chaewon’s fingers twisted. You bit your tongue.

Her lips brushed your ear, voice a breathless whisper.

“Be good and I’ll let you cum later. Be bad and I’ll make you beg for it.”

You nearly groaned out loud.

She pulled her hand back just as your dad stood to grab more wine from the fridge. You exhaled like you’d been underwater.

Chaewon leaned over, reaching for the salt — her hand brushing your crotch one last time, like a reward.

“Such a good boy,” she whispered.

You stared at your plate, your appetite gone.

Because the worst part wasn’t the danger. Wasn’t the risk.

It was the fact that you wanted more.

Later that night

The house was still.

You lay in your bed, the sheets kicked off, your breath shallow, your body burning.

You could still feel her hand on you. Still feel the pulse of her voice in your ear. That smug look in her eyes when she cleaned up dinner like a model housewife and kissed your father goodnight with the same mouth that had whispered filth to you under the table.

You heard the bedroom door creak open down the hall.

Footsteps.

Muted.

Your dad’s voice — sleepy.

“Mm… you coming to bed now?”

Chaewon’s voice, soft and sweet. “Just a second, baby. I’ll be right in.”

A pause.

A kiss.

Then the bedroom door closed again.

You waited.

Fifteen seconds. Thirty. A full minute.

Then—

Your door cracked open.

Chaewon stood there in the hallway light, wrapped in a silk robe. Thin, nearly see-through. Her eyes glinted with something wicked.

She stepped in. Closed the door behind her.

You sat up slightly. “Chaewon—”

She pressed a finger to her lips, silencing you.

Then she crawled onto the bed.

Not a word. Not a sound.

She straddled your lap, robe parting just enough to show that there was nothing underneath.

You whispered, “He’s still awake—”

“And I’m still wet,” she whispered back, rolling her hips into yours. “You’ve been making me crazy all day.”

You swallowed hard.

She leaned in and kissed you — slow, hungry, the kind of kiss that made you forget your own name. Her hands pushed your shirt up. You felt her nipples brush your chest, already hard.

“I tucked him in,” she whispered. “Even gave him a little kiss on the forehead. Told him I loved him.”

You shivered.

“And now,” she said, biting your bottom lip, “I’m going to ride his son like a filthy slut.”

You groaned.

She untied the robe slowly, shrugging it off her shoulders like a present just for you. Her body was perfect in the moonlight — soft curves, tight waist, thighs that trembled with anticipation.

She reached between you, guided you to her entrance.

And then sank down with a gasp.

You clutched her hips, trying not to moan. Her walls hugged you, warm and slick, and she arched her back as she took every inch, her head tipping back with a silent cry.

“Fuck…” she breathed. “You feel even better when I know he’s asleep down the hall.”

She began to move.

Slow at first — grinding in little circles — her hands braced on your chest. Her pace built with each bounce, her breath coming faster, skin slapping against yours in faint, wet rhythm.

Your fingers dug into her waist. “Chaewon—”

“Shhh,” she hissed, smirking. “Do you want him to hear me moan your name?”

You bit your tongue, barely holding it together.

Chaewon leaned close again, her lips brushing your ear. “You like this? Knowing I’m his wife, but I’m only yours when the lights go out?”

You nodded, breathless.

She grinned, licking a stripe up your neck. “Good. Because I’m not stopping until you cum so hard it hurts.”

She slammed down harder now, faster, her thighs quivering, her mouth open in breathless pleasure. Her nails scraped your chest. Her voice — barely a whisper — poured filth into your ear like honey:

“Call me mommy again. Go on. Whisper it.”

You choked on your groan. “Mommy…”

“Louder.”

“Mommy—!”

She clenched around you with a gasp, her orgasm hitting fast and fierce. You felt it — her whole body trembling, pussy gripping you like a vice.

And then you couldn’t hold it anymore.

You came inside her, hard, your hips jerking as she rode you through it — milking you dry with each slow grind of her soaked cunt.

When it was done, she collapsed on your chest, both of you panting in the dark.

After a long moment, she giggled.

“Still think I’m just your stepmom?”

You blinked at the ceiling. “You’re a fucking menace.”

She nuzzled into your neck. “And you’re mine.”

Then she kissed you one more time — sweetly this time — and whispered:

“Don’t fall asleep yet. I want a second round in the shower.”

Ten minutes later

The bathroom was filled with steam.

Water ran hot from the showerhead, fogging the mirror, hissing over tile. You leaned against the wall, barely able to stand, body still recovering from the first time she wrecked you.

Chaewon pressed up against your back, her arms wrapped around your waist from behind, her breasts warm against your spine. She kissed a line across your shoulder, hands already moving again — relentless, greedy.

“I wasn’t kidding,” she whispered. “I need more.”

You groaned as she slid one hand down your stomach, fingers wrapping around your cock — already hard again. Her other hand braced against your chest.

“Chaewon…” you panted. “You’re insatiable.”

“Mmhmm,” she purred. “You’ve ruined me. I can’t get enough.”

She began to stroke you — slow and teasing — her lips brushing your neck, her thighs slick against yours. You thrust into her hand, already pulsing.

Then—

A knock.

Both of you froze.

“Hey, bud?” your dad’s voice came through the door, muffled. “You in the shower?”

Your blood turned to ice.

Chaewon’s eyes went wide.

You opened your mouth to respond but she slapped a hand over it.

“Shhh,” she mouthed.

Your heart pounded.

“I—uh—yeah,” you called out, your voice cracking slightly. “Just… just taking a quick one.”

“Alright. Thought I heard something,” your dad said from the hallway. “You good?”

You nodded — stupidly, as if he could see you — and croaked out: “Yeah. Totally fine.”

There was a pause.

Then—

“Okay. Just checking. Night, kid.”

You waited, breath frozen in your lungs, until the footsteps faded.

Then you turned to Chaewon.

“What the fuck was that?!”

She grinned.

And then sank to her knees.

“No one said I had to stop.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The water poured down over her as she wrapped her lips around you — warm, wet, and sinfully good. Her tongue worked expertly, her eyes locked on yours, daring you to make a sound.

Your back hit the tile wall as you gripped her soaked hair, biting your lip to keep from groaning out loud.

She was relentless. Her mouth slid deeper with each bob of her head, her hand stroking your base, her other hand cupping your balls, rolling them gently.

You hissed. “He’s still awake…”

She popped off for a second. “Then be quiet.”

And just like that, she took you in again — this time deeper, letting you hit the back of her throat. She moaned around you, the vibrations making your knees buckle.

It was torture. Blissful, cruel torture.

And then she pulled off with a wet gasp, stood up, and turned around, pressing her palms to the wall.

She looked over her shoulder.

“Take me. Now. Quietly.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

You grabbed her hips, lined yourself up, and slid inside her soaking core — hot, tight, perfect.

She bit her hand to keep from crying out, her body arching back into yours. You began to move — slow but deep, every thrust making her press her face into her arm to muffle the sounds.

Her walls fluttered around you. She was close again.

So were you.

And right as your climax built, she whispered, “Cum in me. Do it. Fill me up while your dad sleeps two rooms away.”

You didn’t last another second.

You exploded inside her with a muffled groan, your hand over your mouth, hips slamming forward as she clenched around you in ecstasy.

You both collapsed under the stream of water, breathing hard, hearts racing.

She leaned back against you, eyes fluttering shut. “That,” she whispered, “was so fucking hot.”

You stared at her, chest heaving.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

She smirked.

“Only if your dad doesn’t catch us first.”

1K notes · View notes

gyuuberryy · 4 months ago

Text

pushing on my buttons!

pairing: bodyguard!jay x rich ceo's daughter!reader

genre: enemies to lovers, tension

synopsis: after a kidnapping attempt, your father hires jay, a cold and infuriating bodyguard you can’t seem to get rid of. you push his buttons at every turn, but as danger closes in, the tension between you turns into something far more dangerous—an undeniable connection neither of you can ignore.

warnings: mentions of blood, a bit of fighting, kissing

note: i'm dropping smth two months later finallyy(i'm still in the middle of exams AGAIN). i feel like this is not my best work, i had a major writer's block with it and ended up making it basic? idk i haven't been feeling well recently with the insane amount of workload i have since the start of this year and the burn out shows in this ughh. i hope the fic isn't too bad TT enjoy!

word count 5.8k

If you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3 | taglist

the heavy oak doors of your father’s office loomed before you, their polished surface reflecting the dim glow of the hallway chandelier. you paused, your fingers hovering over your phone screen, scrolling through a feed of designer handbags you didn’t need but absolutely wanted.

the text from your father had been curt, almost ominous: “my office. now.”

you rolled your eyes. it was probably about the credit card statement again. you had a perfectly good excuse ready—charity auction, obviously. he’d buy it. he always did.

with a sigh, you pushed the doors open, not bothering to knock. “you rang?” you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm as you leaned against the doorframe, still engrossed in your phone.

your father didn’t look up from his desk. “sit,” he commanded, his voice sharp enough to make you glance up.

you blinked. okay. not a good sign.

it was then that you noticed him. the man standing beside your father, a silent shadow in the room. he was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed entirely in black—black tactical pants, black fitted shirt, black boots that looked like they could crush a skull without breaking a sweat. his arms were crossed over his chest, his posture relaxed but somehow radiating intensity. his face was all sharp angles and hard lines, his jaw clenched, his eyes scanning the room with a precision that made you feel like he’d already dissected every inch of it—and you along with it.

you straightened, your phone slipping into your pocket as you took a step forward. “who’s this?” you asked, your tone light but laced with suspicion.

your father gestured toward the man, his expression unyielding. “this is jay. your new bodyguard.”

the words hung in the air for a moment, heavy and absurd. then you laughed—a sharp, incredulous sound that echoed off the mahogany walls. “you’re joking.”

your father didn’t laugh. neither did jay. in fact, jay didn’t so much as twitch. his expression remained impassive, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

you turned back to your father, your laughter fading into a scoff. “this isn’t necessary. i’m not in danger. that whole kidnapping thing? a fluke. it’s been weeks and nothing’s happened.”

your father’s jaw tightened. “which is exactly why you need protection. we’re not taking any chances.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but jay beat you to it. his voice was low, calm, and infuriatingly even. “i’m not here to be liked, just to do my job.”

your head snapped toward him, your eyes narrowing. excuse me?

he met your glare without flinching, his expression as unreadable as a stone wall. he didn’t care. not about your annoyance, not about your defiance, not about you. the realisation made your blood boil.

“congratulations on the worst job in existence,” you said coolly, tilting your head as you studied him. “because i’m not some damsel in distress.”

jay didn’t blink. “right. you handled the last situation so well.”

your jaw dropped. the audacity. “excuse you—”

“enough,” your father interjected, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already regretting this entire conversation. “jay will be with you at all times. this isn’t up for discussion.”

you stared at him, then at jay, who was still standing there like some brooding statue, completely unfazed. your mind raced, already plotting ways to make his life a living hell. fine. if this was happening, you wouldn’t make it easy for him.

you flashed jay a sweet, taunting smile, the kind that usually made people nervous. “try and keep up.”

his lips twitched—just barely—but it wasn’t a smile. more like a challenge accepted. “i don’t plan on falling behind.”

oh, you already hated him. hated the way he looked at you like you were a problem to be solved, hated the way he stood there like he owned the room, hated the way his voice sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine. but most of all, you hated that he didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by you.

your father exhaled, clearly done with the conversation. “jay will start immediately. i expect you to cooperate.”

you didn’t respond. instead, you turned on your heel and strode toward the door, your heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. you could feel jay’s eyes on your back, tracking your every move, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of looking over your shoulder. let him try to keep up. you were already planning your first escape.

as the doors swung shut behind you, you couldn’t help but smirk. this was going to be fun.

the first twenty-four hours with jay as your shadow were unbearable. it wasn’t just his constant presence—it’s the way he moves like he knows what you’re about to do before you do it, like some kind of infuriating psychic in tactical gear.

you woke up to find him standing right outside your bedroom door. arms crossed, eyes alert, posture straight. like a soldier. like a statue. like someone who had absolutely no life outside of making yours miserable.

you glare at him, silk robe slipping off your shoulder, hair a mess. “do you ever sleep? or do you just stand there like a creep all night?”

jay doesn’t react. not even a twitch. his gaze flicks over you, assessing, before looking away.

he didn’t react. not even a twitch. his dark eyes flicked over you briefly, assessing, before he looked away, his expression as blank as ever.

“good morning,” he said, his tone flat.

you rolled your eyes and slammed the door in his face.

when you went to get coffee, he was already there, waiting. the barista gave him a once-over, their eyes lingering on his broad shoulders and the faint scar that ran along his jawline. then they glanced at you, their eyebrows raised in a silent question: are you okay? do you need help?

you forced a smile. “he’s harmless,” you said, though the words tasted like a lie. jay didn’t so much as blink.

you grabbed your latte and stormed out, jay falling into step behind you like some kind of silent, brooding ghost. you could feel his eyes on your back, watching, always watching. it was suffocating.

in meetings, it was worse. you sat at the head of the conference table, your laptop open, your team discussing quarterly projections, and there he was—standing against the far wall, arms still crossed, his gaze sweeping the room like he was expecting an ambush at any moment. every time you glanced his way, he was already looking at you, his expression unreadable.

you tried to ignore him. you really did. but his presence was like a thundercloud hovering over the room, dark and oppressive. by the time the meeting ended, you were ready to scream.

you had to get rid of him immediately.

attempt #1: the emergency exit

it was simple, really. you waited until you were in the middle of a crowded lobby with jay, your phone pressed to your ear, your face the picture of distress. “no—no, stay right there, i’ll be there in five minutes,” you said, your voice trembling just enough to sound convincing. then you slipped out the back door, quick, smooth, victorious.

you couldn’t help but grin as you rounded the corner, your heart racing with the thrill of escape. finally, some freedom. finally, some—

jay was already there.

leaning against your car, arms still crossed, not even looking at you. like he’d been waiting for hours. like he’d known exactly where you’d go.

you froze, your smile slipping. “how the hell—”

he finally acknowledged you, tilting his head just slightly. his lips curved into the faintest hint of a smirk. “you’re going to have to try harder than that.”

your fingers clenched into fists. oh. it was war.

attempt #2: the disappearing act

you waited until you were at a charity gala, the kind of event where everyone was too busy sipping champagne and gossipping to notice anything amiss. you slipped into the crowd, weaving through the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns, your movements quick and deliberate. you ducked behind a potted plant, then made your way to the service entrance, your heart pounding with excitement.

you were almost there. almost free. and then—

“leaving so soon?”

you whirled around, your breath catching in your throat. jay stood in the doorway, his arms still crossed, his expression as calm as ever. he didn’t even look winded.

“how do you keep doing that?” you demanded, your voice rising.

he shrugged, the motion infuriatingly casual. “it’s my job.”

“your job is to annoy me to death?”

“if that’s what it takes to keep you alive, then yes.”

you glared at him, your chest heaving with frustration. he stared back, unflinching, his dark eyes boring into yours. for a moment, the air between you crackled with something electric, and you wanted to so badly give into it and just cause a tantrum. instead, you turned on your heel and stormed back into the gala, jay following close behind.

attempt #3: sensory overload

the mall was a chaotic symphony of chatter, clattering shopping bags, and the faint hum of pop music playing over the speakers. you strode through the bustling crowd, your heels clicking sharply against the polished floor, your eyes darting toward the exit signs. jay was a step behind you, his presence as unshakable as ever. his dark eyes scanned the crowd, his posture tense, like he was expecting a sniper to take a shot at any moment.

you rolled your eyes. “relax, rambo. it’s a mall, not a war zone.”

he didn’t respond. of course he didn’t. he just kept walking, his gaze flicking toward you every few seconds, like he was making sure you hadn’t somehow vanished into thin air.

you gritted your teeth. this was supposed to be your day. you had a date with someone your mutual friend had set you up with. your father had forbidden you from going, but since when had you ever listened to him? and yet, here was jay, ruining everything like some overgrown shadow you couldn’t shake.

you bit back a sigh. if you wanted to shake him, you’d have to get creative.

spotting a perfume shop up ahead, you darted inside, the overwhelming scent of floral and citrus hitting you instantly. jay followed without hesitation, his towering frame making the narrow aisles feel even smaller.

“why are we here?” he asked, his voice low and gruff.

“to test some new scents,” you replied innocently, grabbing a random bottle and spraying it on your wrist. “you wouldn’t understand.”

jay raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

you tried a few more perfumes, using up the space on your wrists and arms. finally, you turned to him, holding up a bottle.

“hold out your arm.”

jay blinked. “what?”

“you’re supposed to test it on skin,” you said, your tone overly patient. “and i’m out of space. come on.”

reluctantly, he extended his arm. you sprayed the perfume lightly on his wrist and leaned in, inhaling deeply.

jay tensed under your touch, his muscles stiffening as your fingers brushed his skin. you glanced up, noticing the tightness in his jaw, but you didn’t comment.

“it’s not bad,” you said, tilting your head. “but maybe something lighter.”

you reached for another bottle, quickly spraying it on his other wrist. this time, you didn’t stop at one spray. you pressed the nozzle again and again, filling the air with an overpowering mix of scents.

jay sneezed once, then twice, stumbling back a step as he tried to clear his nose.

“what the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice muffled between sneezes.

“just testing!” you said, holding up your hands in mock innocence. “you’re being dramatic.”

jay glared at you, but before he could recover, you dropped the perfume bottle and bolted, weaving through the crowded store and out into the mall. you didn’t look back. you didn’t need to. you could hear his footsteps behind you, heavy and determined.

your heart raced as you sprinted through the mall, dodging shoppers and strollers. you spotted a clothing store up ahead, its entrance tucked away in a quieter corner. perfect. you ducked inside, your breath coming in short gasps as you scanned the store. the dressing rooms. that was your best bet.

you darted toward them, slipping into the first stall you saw. you yanked the curtain closed, your chest heaving as you pressed your back against the wall. for a moment, there was silence. then you heard it—the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, approaching the stall.

the curtain flew open, and there he was. jay. his chest was rising and falling slightly, his dark eyes blazing with something you couldn’t quite place. he stepped into the stall, his body crowding yours as he pinned you against the wall. the curtain fell shut behind him, enclosing you in the small, dimly lit space.

you stared up at him, your breath catching in your throat. he was so close you could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his pulse jumped in his neck. his hands were braced on either side of your head, his body caging you in. the air between you was thick with tension, the kind that made your stomach twist and your heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with running.

“you’re not as clever as you think you are,” he said, his voice low and rough.

you swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. “and you’re not as scary as you think you are.”

his lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk. “try me.”

you opened your mouth to retort, but the words died on your tongue. his eyes dropped to your lips, just for a second, and something shifted between you. the air crackled with electricity, the kind that made your skin prickle and your breath hitch. you could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his body seemed to press closer without actually moving.

for a moment, neither of you moved. then jay stepped back, his expression shuttering as he regained control. “let’s go,” he said, his tone clipped.

you didn’t argue. for once, you didn’t have the words.

the party was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume, champagne, and the faint hum of a live jazz band. you stood near the centre of the room, dressed in a sleek black gown that hugged your figure perfectly, a glass of champagne in hand. you laughed at something your friend said, the sound light and carefree, but your attention was elsewhere.

jay.

he was standing across the room, leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed on you. he wasn’t even trying to hide it. he was watching you like a hawk, his expression unreadable but his gaze intense enough to make your skin prickle.

your friend leaned in, her voice low and teasing. “he’s been looking at you all night.”

you shrugged, pretending not to care. “who? jay? he’s just doing his job.”

but the truth was, you did care. you were hyper-aware of him now, his presence like a shadow you couldn’t shake. and it annoyed you. it annoyed you that he could stand there, so calm and collected, while you felt like you were unravelling.

so you decided to push him.

you flirted with everyone but him. you laughed a little too loudly at a joke a handsome stranger made. you let your hand linger on the arm of a guy who clearly had no idea what personal space was. you disappeared into the crowd, weaving through the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns, pretending jay didn’t exist.

but he did. he always did.

suddenly, a man—tall, broad-shouldered, with a cocky grin—stepped into your space, his hand hovering near your waist as he leaned in to whisper something in your ear. his breath smelled like whisky, the proximity way too close for your comfort.

you froze, your smile faltering. before you could react, jay was there.

he moved like a shadow, swift and silent, stepping between you and the man with a presence that was impossible to ignore. his voice was cool but sharp, cutting through the noise of the party like a knife. “hands off.”

the man blinked, his grin faltering as he took in jay’s imposing figure. “whoa, man, i was just—”

“i don’t care what you were just doing,” jay said, his tone low and dangerous. “back off.”

the man hesitated, his eyes flicking between you and jay, before he finally raised his hands in surrender and slunk away. you stared after him, stunned, your heart pounding in your chest.

when you turned back to jay, he was already looking at you, his expression unreadable but his eyes blazing with something you couldn’t quite place. he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine. “you have no idea what you’re doing.”

your breath caught. “what are you talking about?”

he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke, his voice rough and tinged with something that sounded almost like frustration. “flirting with strangers. disappearing into crowds. acting like you’re invincible. you’re not.”

you swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “i can take care of myself.”

“can you?” he asked, his tone challenging. “because from where i’m standing, it looks like you’re just trying to get a rise out of me.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but the words died on your tongue. he was close—too close—his body crowding yours, his heat radiating through the thin fabric of your dress. you could smell the faint scent of his cologne, a mix of vanilla and something woodsy, and it made your head spin.

as the night wore on, you couldn’t stop thinking about it—the way he’d looked at you, the way his voice had sounded, rough and low and so, so close. you caught yourself glancing at him more than once, your heart skipping a beat every time your eyes met his.

oh.

so he did care.

it happens slowly. or maybe it doesn’t. maybe it’s been happening this whole time, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for you to notice. but now, you do.

you start noticing the way he moves. always a step ahead, always positioning himself between you and anything that could be a threat. his sleeves are always rolled up, revealing the veins that line his forearms, his hands steady and sure. you notice the way he watches you, his dark eyes scanning every room like he’s mapping out every possible danger, but it’s never just that. there’s something else in his gaze, something you can’t quite name.

and worse? you start feeling it.

the heat in your chest when his hand brushes yours as he passes you a coffee. the frustration that coils in your stomach when someone else looks at him for too long. the way your breath catches when he says your name instead of brat or princess or whatever sarcastic nickname he’s come up with that day.

this is a problem.

but you handle it the way you always do—by pushing him.

it’s late, with the city feeling quiet, almost peaceful, and the only light comes from the flickering neon sign of a 24-hour diner. you’re sitting in a booth by the window, picking at a plate of fries you didn’t really want but ordered anyway because you were too stubborn to admit you were hungry. jay sits across from you, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the nearly empty diner like it’s a potential battlefield.

you roll your eyes. “relax, jay. the only danger here is the cholesterol in these fries.”

he just takes a sip of his black coffee, his expression as unreadable as ever.

you lean back in the booth, crossing your arms over your chest. “you know, you don’t have to babysit me 24/7. i’m not a child.”

his eyes flick to yours, sharp and assessing. “could’ve fooled me.”

you glare at him. “excuse me?”

he sets his coffee cup down, his voice low and even. “you act like rules don’t apply to you. like you’re invincible. you’re not.”

your jaw tightens. “and you act like you’re my dad. newsflash—you’re not.”

for a moment, neither of you speaks. the tension between you is thick, almost suffocating, and you can feel it building, building, building until it finally snaps.

“why do you even care so much?” you demand, your voice rising just enough to draw the attention of the tired-looking waitress behind the counter.

jay exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “you don’t get it, do you?”

your heartbeat stutters. “then explain it to me.”

for a second, he says nothing. he just looks at you, his dark eyes searching yours like he’s trying to figure you out. then he stands, slow and deliberate, and slides into the booth beside you. he’s close now, closer than he’s ever let himself be, his body heat radiating through the thin fabric of your shirt.

you don’t back away.

his eyes flicker to your lips, and your breath catches. the air between you is so thin, so sharp you can almost taste it.

he leans in, his voice low and rough. “you have no idea what i’d do to keep you safe.”

your pulse is in your throat, waiting, waiting, waiting.

but before anything can happen—

the bell above the diner door jingles, and a group of loud, laughing teenagers spills inside, shattering the moment.

jay pulls back instantly, his jaw tightening as he slides out of the booth. he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t say a word. he just walks to the counter, his posture rigid, like nothing happened.

like nothing almost happened.

but you know better.

you press a hand to your chest, trying to steady your heartbeat, but it’s no use. your mind is racing, replaying the moment over and over again—the way he’d looked at you, the way his voice had sounded, the way your body had reacted to his nearness.

this is getting dangerous.

later, as you sit in the back of the car on the way home, you can’t stop thinking about it. jay is in the driver’s seat, his eyes fixed on the road, his hands steady on the wheel. you stare at the back of his head, your thoughts a tangled mess.

you think about the way he’d stepped between you and that guy at the party, his voice sharp and commanding. you think about the way he’d leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, his body so close you could feel the heat radiating off him.

and you think about the way he’d pulled away, like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean anything.

but it did. you know it did.

you mentally groan, leaning your head against the window. this is a problem. a big problem. because no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, you can’t deny it anymore.

you like him.

and that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

you don’t talk about it.

the almost-kiss, the tension that stains every interaction now—it hangs between you like a live wire, sharp and charged. you find yourself watching him more, catching the way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice. his gaze lingers a little too long, his movements a little too deliberate, and it drives you insane.

but you don’t talk about it.

instead, you push. you push him, you push yourself, you push the boundaries of whatever this is between you. and he pushes back, always steady, always in control, until—

one day it happens fast. too fast.

you’re walking back to the car after an event, the city lights casting long shadows on the pavement. jay is a step behind you, his presence a constant, grounding force. you’re arguing about something stupid—something meaningless—because that’s what you do now. you bicker, you snipe, you push each other’s buttons, all while pretending the tension between you doesn’t exist.

and then, out of nowhere, it happens.

you don’t even see it coming. one moment, you’re stepping off the curb, and the next, jay is moving—swift, silent, and utterly precise. he shoves you out of the way, his body shielding yours as a figure lunges at you from the shadows.

there’s a flash of metal, a grunt of pain, and then the sound of footsteps retreating into the night.

you stumble, catching yourself against the car, your heart pounding in your chest. “jay—”

he’s already turning, his hand pressed to his side, his breathing steady despite the blood seeping through his fingers. “get in the car.”

you stare at him, your mind racing. “you’re bleeding. we need to go to the hospital—l”

“it’s nothing, just a scratch” he says, his voice calm, like this is just another day on the job. like he didn’t just take a knife for you.

but it’s not nothing. it’s not nothing because your hands are shaking as you reach for him, your fingers brushing against the warm, sticky blood staining his shirt. “jay—”

“get in the car,” he repeats, his tone sharper this time. “now.”

you don’t argue. you can’t. your mind is a blur as you climb into the passenger seat, your eyes never leaving him as he slides behind the wheel. his movements are steady, controlled, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his knuckles whiten as he grips the steering wheel.

the drive home is silent, the air between you thick with unspoken words. you keep glancing at him, your chest tight with something you can’t quite name. fear. guilt. something else.

when you finally arrive, you follow him inside, your hands still trembling. he heads straight for the bathroom, and you trail after him, your heart hammering in your chest.

“let me see,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

he doesn’t argue this time. he just sits on the edge of the bathtub, his shirt already half-off, revealing the deep gash along his side. it’s not fatal, not even close, but it’s enough to make your stomach twist.

you grab the first aid kit from under the sink and kneel in front of him, your hands shaking as you clean the wound. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make a sound, but you can feel his eyes on you, heavy and unreadable.

“you shouldn’t have done that,” you say, your voice breaking. “you shouldn’t have—”

“it’s my job,” he interrupts, his tone calm, like that explains everything.

but it doesn’t. not to you. not when your hands are stained with his blood, not when your chest feels like it’s about to collapse under the weight of everything you’re feeling.

“don’t,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “don’t do that again.”

he looks at you, his dark eyes searching yours, and for the first time, you see it—the crack in his armour. the flicker of something raw, something real.

“you don’t get it,” he says, his voice low and rough. “i’d do it again. every time.”

your breath catches, your hands still pressed against his side. “why?”

he doesn’t answer. not with words, at least. instead, he reaches up, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his touch so gentle it makes your chest ache.

and that’s it. that’s the breaking point.

you don’t think. you don’t hesitate. you just pull him in, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that’s equal parts desperation and relief. for a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t respond, and you’re terrified you’ve made a mistake.

but then his hands are in your hair, his mouth moving against yours, and it’s like the world stops. the tension, the anger, the fear, it all melts away, leaving nothing but the two of you.

the room is silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint hum of the overhead light. jay’s hands are still tangled in your hair, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips. you can feel the rapid beat of his heart where your hand rests against his chest, and it’s almost comforting, knowing he’s as affected by this as you are.

but then he pulls back, his expression shuttering as he regains control. “we shouldn’t have done that,” he says, his voice low and rough.

you blink, your chest tightening at his words. “why not?”

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he stands, his movements stiff as he turns away from you. “because it complicates things.”

you stare at him, your heart sinking. “complicates things? jay, you just took a knife for me. i think things are already complicated.”

he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “you don’t understand.”

“then explain it to me,” you snap, your frustration bubbling over. “because i’m tired of pretending like this—whatever this is—doesn’t exist.”

he turns to look at you, his dark eyes blazing with something you can’t quite name. “you think i don’t feel it too? you think i don’t want—” he cuts himself off, his jaw tightening as he looks away. “it doesn’t matter what i want. my job is to keep you safe. that’s it.”

you step closer, your hands trembling at your sides. “and what if i don’t want you to just be my bodyguard? what if i want more?”

he doesn’t respond. not with words, at least. but you can see the conflict in his eyes, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides. for a moment, you think he might give in, might finally let himself feel something.

but then he steps back, his expression hardening. “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

you laugh, the sound bitter and hollow. “don’t i? because from where i’m standing, it seems like you’re the one who’s scared.”

his eyes narrow, and for a second, you think you’ve pushed him too far. but then he exhales, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “you’re right. i am scared. because if something happens to you—if i let myself care too much and i can’t protect you—” he cuts himself off, his voice breaking. “i can’t lose you.”

your breath catches, your chest tightening at the raw emotion in his voice. “jay—”

he doesn’t let you finish. instead, he steps forward, his hands cupping your face as he kisses you again. this time, it’s softer, slower, like he’s trying to memorise the feel of you. and you let him, your hands gripping his shoulders as you pull him closer, your heart pounding in your chest.

when he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, you can see the vulnerability in his eyes. “i can’t promise this will be easy,” he says, his voice low and rough. “but i can promise i’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

you swallow, your throat tight with emotion. “that’s all i’ve ever wanted.”

you don’t talk about it for a full twenty-four hours.

not because you regret it. god, no. if anything, the memory of his hands on you, his lips against yours, plays on a loop in your mind, leaving you breathless every time. but now, there’s no going back. no pretending this isn’t real. no pretending you don’t feel the way his presence sets your skin on fire, or the way your heart races when he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

jay is still jay. still overprotective, still infuriating, still the same stoic bodyguard who drives you up the wall. but now?

now, every argument ends with him pulling you in by the waist, his voice low and rough as he murmurs, “you’re impossible,” before silencing you with a kiss.

now, every lingering stare actually leads to something—a brush of his hand against yours, a heated glance that makes your stomach flip, a moment where the tension between you becomes too much to ignore.

and now, your father figures it out almost immediately.

it happens during a family dinner, of all things. you’re sitting at the table, picking at your food while jay sits in his usual spot by you. your father is at the head of the table, his sharp gaze flicking between you and jay with a calculating look that makes your stomach sink.

you try to act normal. you really do. but when jay’s hand brushes against yours as he passes you a glass of water, and you catch yourself smiling at him without thinking, your father clears his throat.

“so,” he says, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. “when were you planning on telling me?”

you freeze, your fork halfway to your mouth. “telling you what?”

your father raises an eyebrow, gesturing between you and jay. “about this.”

you feel your face heat, your heart pounding in your chest. “i—what are you talking about?”

your father sighs, rubbing his temples like he’s already done with this conversation. “at least it’s him.”

jay freezes, his posture stiffening as he looks at your father. you gape, your mind racing. “excuse me?”

your father shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “you were always a handful, but he can handle it.”

you stare at him, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. this is not the reaction you were expecting. not even close. you were prepared for yelling, for threats, for jay to be fired on the spot. but this? this casual acceptance? it’s almost worse.

you turn to jay, still reeling. “is this really happening?”

jay looks equally disturbed, his jaw tight as he meets your father’s gaze. “sir, i—”

your father holds up a hand, cutting him off. “don’t. just… keep her out of trouble. that’s all i ask.”

and just like that, the conversation is over. your father goes back to his meal like nothing happened, leaving you and jay to exchange a stunned look.

later, when you’re alone in your room, jay leans against the door, his arms crossed as he watches you pace back and forth. “well,” he says, his voice dry, “that could’ve gone worse.”

you stop pacing, turning to glare at him. “worse? he basically gave us his blessing. that’s not worse. that’s… i don’t even know what that is.”

jay shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “guess you’re stuck with me.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t pull away when he steps closer, his hands settling on your waist. “lucky me,” you mutter, though the way your heart skips a beat betrays your words.

jay’s smirk softens into something warmer, his eyes searching yours. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

you don’t respond. not with words, at least. instead, you lean into him, your hands resting against his chest as you tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “just don’t let it go to your head, okay?”

he chuckles, the sound low and warm, before leaning down to kiss you. and as his lips brush against yours, you realise something.

maybe, just maybe, you don’t want to pull away.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

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#ady 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀...👩🏻‍💻.ᐟ #enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen oneshots #enhypen fics #enhypen x reader #jay #jay park #jay x reader #jay imagines #jay fics #jay oneshots #kpop fics #enhypen royal au #jongseong park #jay enhypen #park jongseong x reader #park jay x reader

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lheesluv · 3 months ago

Text

drippin’ for discipline (p.js)

jay comes home from his gym session and everything about him turns you on and he’s only taking responsibility for it

PAIRINGS - dom bf!jay x needy fem!reader

GENRE - smut (mdni), established relationship

WARNINGS - p in v, unprotected sex (dont be silly wrap ur willy!), choking, dirty talking, reader begging, dominate jay, manhandling (jay is kind of rough), creampie, oral (f. receive), teasing, light degradation

WC — 1.4k

A/N — jay’s bday post !!! he’s 23 now omg 😖 i’m kinda late for posting for gym jay but ygs i went INSANE. and UGH coachella week 2 was SO good. andddd thank u for 500 guys !! <33

You hear the front door click shut and glance up from your spot on the couch—just in time to see Jay walk in, shirt clinging to him like a second skin, jaw tight, chest heaving slightly from the workout.

His tank top is soaked, revealing every line of his toned arms and shoulders. His hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, and he casually wipes sweat from his neck with a towel slung over one shoulder.

You can’t help it—your thighs press together instinctively.

Jay catches your stare as he drops his gym bag by the door. “Hey.”

You swallow. “Hi.”

He pauses, brows lifting slightly as his eyes trail down your body. “You good?” You nod—maybe too fast. “Just… yeah. Just watching you walk in like that.”

He smirks, slowly pulling the towel from his neck. “Like what?”

“You know what.”

Jay drops the towel on the kitchen counter and walks toward you slowly, his eyes narrowing with that familiar flicker of amusement and something darker. “You’ve been home all day and this is what gets you going?”

You lick your lips as he towers over you, muscles still twitching slightly from exertion, his skin glistening.

“It’s the arms,” you admit breathlessly. “And the sweat. And the attitude.”

Jay laughs under his breath. “You’re shameless.”

And then he’s grabbing your face with one hand, tilting your chin up to look at him. His thumb brushes your lower lip.

“But you’re mine. So if you’re gonna get turned on from just looking at me… then I guess I’ve got a responsibility.”

He doesn’t give you a second to respond—just hauls you up from the couch and lifts you onto the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing. The cold surface makes you gasp, but Jay steps between your legs, spreading them wider with his knee.

“You’re already wet for me, aren’t you?” he mutters, pressing a hand between your thighs over your shorts. He feels the heat there and groans low. “Fuck. You are.”

He tugs your shorts down and off in one swift move, dragging his fingers through your folds, teasing but not giving in yet.

“You want me to fuck you like this?” he asks, voice rough. “Still sweaty, muscles sore, still in my gym clothes?”

You nod, eyes glazed. “Please.”

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, slipping a finger into you slowly. “You don’t beg unless you’re ready.”

And then he drops to his knees, mouth replacing his fingers, his tongue working you open with slow, dirty precision.

He eats like he’s starving, like you’re the only reward after a brutal workout. Your hands clutch at the edge of the counter, gasping his name over and over as your orgasm builds fast and hard.

But he pulls back just before you break.

Your protest dies in your throat when he smacks the side of your thighs— a yelp leaving your parted lips.

“You’ll come when I say, not before.”

His eyes drop to where you're already glistening, swollen and needy. He doesn’t move just yet—he just watches you for a second, taking in the mess that lies in front of him.

And then?

He lowers his head back down, tongue flat and slow as he licks one long stripe up your center.

Your breath catches—sharp and involuntary. His lips curl into a grin against you before he dives in completely, arms hooking around your thighs to keep you right where he wants you.

Your hands instinctively reached to tangle your fingers in his hair— damp from working out. The tug from your fingers causes Jay to let out a moan. The vibrations hitting against your pussy.

Jay eats like a man on a mission—focused, filthy, and completely in control. His tongue circles your clit with maddening precision, the kind that makes your hips jerk forward instinctively.

But he holds you still.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice muffled but commanding. “Let me taste you properly.”

He sucks your clit between his lips and flicks it with the tip of his tongue, and your back arches off the counter. The sounds leaving your mouth aren’t even words anymore, just whimpers, gasps, desperate cries for more.

“F-fuck, Jay. Oh fuck, please.”

And just when you feel your climax start to build—tight and sharp in your belly, Jay pulls back with a wet sound, lips and chin slick with you.

You nearly sob.

“Not yet,” he growls, standing and grabbing you by the waist. “You don’t come without my say.”

He flips you over with ease, your cheek pressed against the cool countertop as he yanks your hips back into him. You hear the rustle of his gym sweats, the low hiss of his breath as he fists his cock behind you.

“You wanted this, huh?” Jay asks through teeth.

Then the head of it’s sliding through your folds—teasing, nudging, just enough to make your legs tremble.

“Say you need it.”

“I—fuck, I need it, Jay—please.”

That’s all he needs.

You feel the thick press of his cock against your entrance as he slides in slowly, stretching you so good your eyes flutter. Jay groans—deep and raw as he bottoms out, his hands gripping your hips like he needs them to stay grounded.

And then he moves—powerful thrusts that hit deep, the wet sound of skin slapping filling the room, your moans echoing off the walls.

Every drag, every grind, every slap of his hips is controlled, steady, meant to wreck you slowly.

“You wanted this,” he growls in your ear, one hand wrapping around your throat as he keeps thrusting. “You started it. So you better fucking take it.”

And you do.

He fucks you, never slowing down, never letting go of that dominant hold on your body and mind. Even when your legs shake and your voice breaks, he’s right there—whispering praise, fucking you deeper, keeping you right where he wants you.

“M-mmh! M-more— fuck, give me more,” you beg through your gasps. Jay scoffs, pulling you even closer to his pelvis. “More? Is this enough?” He asks, demanding for an answer as he thrusts deeply. “Hm?”

You nodded, biting down on your bottom lip.

“Words.”

“Yes, fuck, yes, Jay, please!”

“You’re already shaking?” he says, smirking, one thumb brushing up your inner thigh. “And I haven’t even started.”

He pushes in with a deep, punishing thrust that knocks the breath out of your lungs. One hand grips your hip tight, the other snaking around your waist to anchor you in place. He sets a brutal rhythm from the start—hard, deep strokes that make your body jolt forward with every thrust.

“You’re so tight like this,” he groans, leaning over your back, sweat from his chest slicking your spine. “So wet—you did this. You wanted this the second you saw me walk in.”

You nod, eyes squeezing shut, lips parted as moans spill out freely.

“Say it.”

“I did—fuck, I wanted it so bad. Wanted you—needed you—”

“That’s right,” he growls, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling your head back gently. “So you take every inch. No running. No tapping out. You made this mess.”

Your second orgasm builds fast—pressure curling low and hot, each thrust angled perfectly to send sparks shooting up your spine.

You cry out, nearly breaking. “J-Jay.”

Jay feels it in the way you clench around him, and he slows down—just slightly, just enough to make you scream in frustration.

“Hold it.”

“I can’t—”

“You can. I said hold it.”

He slides his hand between your thighs again, two fingers rubbing tight circles against your clit while he keeps thrusting. Your body’s on fire now, legs shaking uncontrollably, jaw slack.

“God, you feeling so fucking good, baby,” Jay moaned, the sounding going straight to your pussy, making you clench around him.

Then—finally with a groan,

“Cum for me.”

The second he says it, your orgasm crashes into you like a fucking tidal wave. You scream his name, your walls fluttering around his cock, your whole body shaking with release.

“Gonna cum in you— f-fuck!” Jay gasps, gripping around your thighs tightly.

Jay groans loud and deep, fucking you through every spasm until he spills inside you, thick and hot, hips pressed flush against your ass with a broken groan of your name, he doesn’t pull out. He leans over, lips at your ear.

Then he leans down, presses a kiss to your spine, and whispers, “Still turned on by the arms?”

You laugh—breathless, wrecked, and completely his. “So much worse now.”

2K notes · View notes

heeluvv · 4 months ago

Text

RUINED.ᐟ

pairingᝰ.ᐟ idol! jakehoon x 8th member! reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ fingering, mean/rough! jakehoon, unprotected sex, oral (m), etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ request, mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

their stares were unrelenting, burning into you with an intensity that felt like it could pierce through your skin. the weight of their gazes made it nearly impossible to focus, but you forced yourself to keep your composure, your lips curving into an effortless smile as you continued answering the interviewer’s questions. yet, with each passing second, with every word that left your mouth, you could feel the tension thickening—an invisible storm brewing right beside you.

the irritation radiating from them was palpable, woven into the way sunghoon’s jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might crack, the way jake sat unnervingly still, his presence looming with quiet intensity. their frustration was barely contained, hanging on by a fragile thread that threatened to snap at any moment.

this wouldn’t have been an issue—if not for the interviewer.

their shameless flattery poured over you like honey, every admiring word, every lingering glance, feeding into the growing storm of jealousy beside you. compliments on your beauty, your presence, your effortless charm—it was nothing you hadn’t heard before, but right now, it was dangerous. because while you knew how sunghoon and jake felt about you, the world didn’t. your relationship was a secret, a carefully guarded truth hidden from the public eye, and that restraint—that forced secrecy—was driving them insane.

but what sent them over the edge?

the touches.

small, fleeting, seemingly innocent brushes of fingers against your hand, slight lingering contact as the interviewer leaned in closer than necessary. and that was enough.

sunghoon’s hand dropped onto your thigh, fingers digging in hard, his nails biting into your skin—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you, to make you feel who you really belonged to. a silent warning.

beside you, jake hadn’t said a word, but his gaze never once wavered. he didn’t need to speak—his presence was loud enough. his stare, dark and unwavering, was trained solely on you, his body exuding a possessiveness so strong it made the air stifling.

as soon as the interview wrapped up, you felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation, but a part of you secretly wished it hadn’t ended just yet. because the moment the cameras turned off and the formalities dissolved, the tension that had been simmering between you, jake, and sunghoon finally reached its breaking point.

the walk toward the waiting vans was brief, too brief, and before you could fully process it, jake’s hand clamped around your wrist, his grip firm—possessive—as he wordlessly pulled you into the first van he could reach. sunghoon was close behind, his sharp voice cutting through the air as he dismissed the others without a second thought.

"take the next one."

his tone was final, leaving no room for argument as he yanked the door shut behind him, sealing you inside with the two of them.

the air was thick, suffocating, and before you could utter a single protest, jake pushed you back onto the leather seat with a force that sent a thrill down your spine. his hands were on you instantly, rough, demanding, sliding down your sides, finding the hem of your under-shorts and dragging them down without an ounce of patience.

not once did he bother with the elegant formal dress you wore—the one that had drawn far too much attention tonight. no, he left it in place, untouched, a cruel contrast to the way he tore away the fabric underneath, his eyes fixed on yours with a gaze so dark it sent a shiver through you.

"you think this shit is funny?"

jake’s voice was low, a growl, laced with anger and something else—something deeper, something darker. his jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitch, his breathing heavy, erratic, his chest rising and falling with the weight of emotions he had been holding back for far too long.

sunghoon was silent beside him, but his presence was just as dangerous, just as suffocating, the heat of his stare burning into your skin as you lay there, half-exposed, your breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a plea.

"jake, stop… people are going to come in—"

your voice comes out in a frantic whisper, laced with urgency, your hands pushing against his chest, desperate to regain control of the situation. your wide eyes flicker around the dimly lit van, the thought of someone walking in, catching you like this, only heightening the panic swirling in your gut.

but neither of them cares.

sunghoon moves fast, his patience wearing thinner than a thread as he grabs both of your wrists in one hand, yanking them above your head with ease, his grip unforgiving. the other hand clamps down on your jaw, his fingers pressing into your cheeks harshly, forcing your lips to pucker as his darkened eyes roam your face, amusement flickering beneath his frustration.

"fuck it. let them see who the fuck you belong to."

his voice is low, dripping with possessiveness, each word a brand searing into your skin. he scoffs, tilting his head slightly, the corner of his lips curling upward in a mocking smirk as his grip on your jaw tightens for emphasis.

"fucking whore. you'd want the attention anyways."

before you can even process the crude words, a sharp sound fills the space—the sound of fabric tearing.

jake has ripped your panties clean off, the flimsy material no match for his impatience, leaving you exposed beneath his heated gaze. his fingers waste no time, trailing between your thighs, teasing your entrance, only to pause when he feels just how wet you are.

his breath catches slightly, his lips parting, but then a wicked chuckle escapes him, his fingers slipping through your slick folds, gathering the evidence of your arousal before gliding back up.

"surprisingly wet for us, huh?"

before you can even attempt to defend yourself, sunghoon’s grip leaves your jaw, but he doesn’t stray far—his fingers replace jake’s at your clit, rubbing harsh, fast circles, forcing a loud gasp to rip through your throat.

jake’s fingers plunge into you, sinking deep, his knuckles nearly disappearing as your body arches violently in response. the sensation is overwhelming, pleasure coursing through you so suddenly it knocks the air straight from your lungs.

their movements are in sync, sunghoon working your clit in tight, merciless circles, while jake’s fingers pump inside you, curling just right, pressing into that perfect spot that has you moaning uncontrollably, your back arching, your thighs trembling.

"yeah, that’s it," jake breathes, watching the way your body reacts so easily to them, the way you fall apart with just their hands, the way your eyes squeeze shut in overwhelming pleasure.

"moan for us, baby. let them hear how fucking good we make you feel."

"f-fuck—too fast!"

your voice stumbles through heavy breaths, a plea laced with desperation as your body trembles violently beneath their relentless touch. but your words are met with nothing but wicked amusement, their dark, knowing smirks barely concealed as they exchange a silent glance—an unspoken agreement to ignore your protest.

"you're a fucking whore, aren’t you?"

sunghoon’s voice is low, taunting, the heat of his breath fanning over your ear, sending a shiver coursing down your spine. his fingers never slow, never relent, and just when you think you might have a second to collect yourself, he slaps your clit—sharp and sudden.

the sensation sends a violent jolt through you, your body jerking uncontrollably against jake’s fingers, the unexpected contact making your walls tighten even more around him. jake groans, feeling you squeeze down on him, his fingers buried so deep you swear you can feel them everywhere.

"yeah? liked hearing all those filthy fucking names back there, didn’t you?" sunghoon continues, his voice laced with mockery, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, so close yet so unbearably teasing.

his fingers press down harder, drawing tight, calculated circles against your swollen clit, making your thighs tremble beneath him. your hands grip at nothing, desperate for something to hold on to, your nails scratching against the smooth leather of the seat.

"you're fucking lucky we didn’t take you right in front of him," jake murmurs, his voice thick with lust, his eyes fixated on the way your body writhes under their hands.

his fingers push deeper, harder, his knuckles slick with your arousal as he curls them inside you, pressing right against that spot that makes your breath catch in your throat, your lips parting in a soundless moan.

"or is that what you fucking wanted?"

his question is cruel, coated in temptation, a challenge that has your head tilting back helplessly against the seat, your mouth hanging open as the pleasure swallows you whole. the pace is merciless, the pressure overwhelming, their hands owning every inch of you—leaving you completely at their mercy.

sunghoon’s hand connects with your cheek sharply, the stinging heat spreading across your skin, but the sensation only makes your body react in the most sinful way possible—your walls clench tightly around jake’s fingers, your body betraying any resistance you might have had. the sharp contrast between pain and pleasure has you teetering on the edge of something dangerously intoxicating.

"were we not clear the last time this shit happened?"

his voice is cold, authoritative, dripping with raw dominance, and all you can do is let out a broken whimper in response. your lips part as if to form words, but nothing comes out—only needy, breathless cries that fuel the fire in their eyes.

sunghoon's fingers trail down your face, gripping your jaw roughly, forcing you to meet his dark, burning stare. his anger, his possessiveness, they all manifest in the way his brows furrow, his jaw clenching so tightly you can see the tension ripple through it.

"you're fucking ours. get it through your fucking head."

his words are low, dangerous, laced with something almost animalistic. he doesn’t need to shout—his presence alone is suffocating, his expression saying everything without another word. his gaze flickers down to your lips, swollen from biting them in an attempt to hold back your cries, then back up to your dazed, glassy eyes.

his dominance is intoxicating, overwhelming, and even though a small part of you shudders under the sheer ferocity of his presence, the rest of you is aching, dripping, ruined for them. the way they take control, the way they refuse to let you forget who you belong to—it only makes you wetter, only makes your body betray itself even more.

your thighs begin to tremble violently, your body already spiraling out of control as jake pushes another thick finger inside you, the stretch borderline too much, but just enough to have you falling apart.

"oh, fuck—"

your head tilts back, pressing hard against the seat as a shattered moan rips through you. the pleasure is unbearable, unrelenting, sunghoon's fingers flicking and rubbing your clit with precision, working in perfect sync with jake's ruthless pace inside you. the heat coils tighter, tighter.

"oh my god—!"

you break.

your body convulses, wracked with uncontrollable shudders as your climax crashes into you with violent force, your walls fluttering wildly around jake’s fingers. the world around you fades into a haze of white-hot pleasure, your vision blurring, your thighs shaking beyond your control.

but they don’t stop.

even as your hands fly to their wrists, attempting—begging to push them away from your overstimulated, wrecked body, they continue their merciless, punishing pace, dragging out every second of your orgasm until it borders on painfully good.

"mm, look at you, baby. fuckin' crying for us." jake murmurs, his voice filled with pure satisfaction, his free hand gripping your thigh possessively as he watches you come undone for them.

"see that, hoon?" he adds, smirking at the sight of your wrecked, twitching body, your lips parted in wordless cries of pleasure.

sunghoon only scoffs, leaning in close, his lips brushing against your ear, his tone dark and mocking.

"tch. such a fuckin’ mess, and we haven’t even started yet."

before you can even catch your breath, the world tilts, your body flipping effortlessly as you’re dropped onto the cool leather seat, your front pressing into the soft material. the shift happens so quickly, so effortlessly, that your mind barely has time to catch up before you feel the weight of their presence surrounding you again.

the men switch places seamlessly, as if they’ve done this a hundred times before, as if they know exactly how to handle you. sunghoon is behind you now, his strong hands dragging your dress up the curve of your back, exposing the raw heat of your body to the chilled air of the van. his fingers trail over the bare skin of your ass, nails raking down lightly, sending a sharp shiver through your overstimulated body.

in front of you, jake settles in, his presence looming, his breathing heavy with anticipation as his fingers make quick work of his belt. the distinct sound of zippers being yanked down fills the van, followed by the deep, guttural groans that slip from both men as they finally free themselves.

the relief in their voices is palpable, the aching tension of being restrained for so long finally snapping as they shove their briefs down just enough for their hardened cocks to spring free, thick, flushed, and heavy with need.

they don’t hesitate.

sunghoon’s hands grip your hips possessively, fingers pressing bruises into your skin as he spreads your legs wider, lining himself up with your entrance. the only warning you get is a low grunt, then—

he thrusts in.

hard. fast. deep.

your body lurches forward, a strangled gasp escaping you as you stretch around him, the sudden fullness almost unbearable after the way jake had already wrecked you with his fingers. the sharp slap of his hips meeting yours echoes through the van, your thighs trembling as you struggle to keep yourself steady.

but before you can even process the sheer force of him inside you, jake’s hand is in your hair, fingers tangling into the strands, gripping firmly as he pulls your head back.

"open up, baby."

his voice is low, commanding, and before you can think, your lips part instinctively, allowing him to stuff your mouth full with his cock.

his head tilts back immediately, a deep groan vibrating from his chest as he sinks into the wet heat of your mouth, feeling the way your tongue swirls, struggles to accommodate his size.

"f-fuck—" jake breathes, his free hand cupping your jaw, thumb pressing against your cheek, feeling himself move inside you as his hips rock forward, pushing deeper into your throat.

behind you, sunghoon doesn’t relent, his thrusts deep and merciless, each one pressing you further onto jake’s cock, forcing you to take him both ways—your body filled to the brim, completely at their mercy.

"look at you," sunghoon grits out, his fingers tightening on your waist as he watches the way your body takes him perfectly, his cock disappearing into your heat with every brutal snap of his hips.

"so fucking full, baby." jake groans, watching the tears well in your eyes, the way you struggle to take them both, the way your body shudders and trembles, already pushed beyond your limit.

but they don’t care.

if anything, the sight of you so wrecked, so used, only makes them hungrier.

jake’s fingers tighten in your hair, unyielding, as he yanks you back, your lips slipping off his cock with a wet pop. your body jerks, a broken sob escaping you, but it’s not from his rough grip—it’s from the unrelenting pace of sunghoon’s hips behind you, his cock slamming into you mercilessly, sending shockwaves of overstimulation through your already trembling form.

you can barely think, barely breathe, as pleasure collides with the sharp edges of exhaustion, your body helplessly wrecked between the two of them. sunghoon’s grip bruises your waist, his fingers digging into your skin as he pounds into you, each thrust striking deep, hitting your sweet spot over and over without mercy.

but before you can beg for a reprieve, jake pushes you back down, forcing his cock past your lips again, deeper this time, harder.

"fuck—"

the tip nudges the back of your throat instantly, your gag reflex kicking in violently, a loud, choked gag spilling from your mouth as your nails dig into his thighs in desperation. your throat constricts around him, your entire body shuddering, but he doesn’t let up—if anything, your struggle spurs him on.

"that’s it, baby—take it all."

his voice is low, wrecked, lust-drunk, as his hand grips the back of your head, holding you completely still as his hips begin to thrust shallowly, fucking your throat open.

your vision blurs, hot tears spilling freely, mascara streaking down your flushed cheeks in messy, dark trails. your lips are swollen, slick, completely ruined, the smudges of lipstick painting the base of his cock. you can feel how much of a mess you are, how utterly wrecked they’ve left you, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

"look at you, baby…" jake breathes, his hungry gaze locked on your face, drinking in the way your mouth stretches around him, the way your chest heaves between ragged breaths, the broken state of you only making him groan louder.

you try to tap against his thigh again, a silent plea, your fingers trembling against his skin—but he doesn’t stop.

"you can take it, baby."

his words are sweet in contrast to his actions, his free hand stroking your cheek, wiping away a stray tear only to spread the blackened streaks of mascara further.

behind you, sunghoon moans loudly, his pace never slowing, his cock still dragging against your walls perfectly, pushing you further into submission.

"fuck, you’re so tight, baby… you were made for this."

your body is burning, overstimulated, your mind a hazy blur, the pleasure mixing with the sheer intensity of being used by them, and yet—you don’t want it to stop.

sunghoon’s arms snake around you, strong, unrelenting, his hands locking around your forearms as he yanks them back, forcing your body to arch perfectly beneath him. his grip is firm, possessive, ensuring that every deep, punishing thrust drives into you at just the right angle, hitting that spot inside you that makes your body tremble uncontrollably.

his pace increases, the rhythm becoming faster, rougher, his hips snapping against your ass with a force that sends shockwaves of pleasure rippling through you. your body jerks forward from the sheer intensity, but jake’s hands are still on you, still in control, guiding your mouth down flush against his cock.

"fuck—just like that, baby," jake breathes, voice rough, his fingers weaving deeper into your hair, holding you firmly in place as he rocks into your mouth, his throaty groans vibrating through the air. his hips move in sync with sunghoon’s, each thrust perfectly timed, forcing you to take them both—one slamming deep inside your throat, the other burying himself to the hilt inside your drenched, throbbing pussy.

the air grows thin, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, your senses completely overwhelmed by the feeling of them using you, ruining you, claiming you. your body responds without hesitation, your walls clenching tighter around sunghoon, your lips hollowing around jake’s cock, sucking him deeper.

"gonna cum, baby?"

sunghoon’s voice is strained, raw, his pace stuttering slightly, his cock throbbing violently inside you as he feels the way you squeeze him tighter, milking him for everything he has.

"gonna make a fucking mess—more than you already are, huh?"

his words are jagged, the pleasure wrecking him, his nails digging into your forearms as his hips slam harder, the sound of skin meeting skin mixing with your choked whimpers and their ragged moans.

hot tears stream freely down your cheeks, blending with the mascara stains that already streak your ruined face. your entire body convulses, muscles tensing, locking, as the pressure inside you explodes—a sharp, overwhelming wave of pleasure that sends shockwaves rippling through you.

you squirt uncontrollably, your release gushing, soaking sunghoon’s thighs, his hips, the leather seat beneath you. your body jerks, trembling violently, as the overstimulation rips you apart, your moans muffled against jake’s cock. the vibrations push him over the edge, his grip tightening in your hair as his body shudders, a deep, guttural moan escaping his lips.

"fuck—"

his release spurts onto your tongue, warm, thick, before he yanks himself free, his cock twitching as he drags it across your face, painting you with the rest of his cum, streaks of white coating your cheeks, your lips, dripping down your chin.

behind you, sunghoon isn’t far behind.

his fingers clench into your dress, knuckles whitening from how tight he grips the fabric. his pace stutters, breaks, before his hips slam one final time, burying himself deep inside you as he lets go.

his head falls back, a strangled, gravelly moan breaking from his throat as hot ropes of cum spill inside you, filling you to the brim, his hips jerking uncontrollably with the aftershocks.

you collapse completely, your body boneless, spent, slumping forward onto the cool leather, your limbs refusing to move. your breath comes in shaky gasps, the overstimulation wracking your body, leaving your thighs quivering, your hands still fisted weakly against the seat.

soft whimpers spill from your lips, your body helplessly trembling, even as jake’s fingers glide gently through your hair, his nails scraping lightly against your scalp in a way that feels almost soothing.

"think we taught her a good enough lesson?"

his voice is low, amused, as he glances toward sunghoon, who is still panting, chest rising and falling as he comes down from his high.

sunghoon lets out a breathy chuckle, running a hand through his damp hair, before his dark gaze flickers back to you—ruined, wrecked, completely at their mercy.

then, a slow, wicked smirk curls across his lips.

"think she needs one more, no?"

jake’s grin widens, his fingers tangling deeper into your hair.

"yeah… let’s make sure she never fucking forgets who she belongs to."

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ okay the request was more for the first smut scene but i got too in the moment so i hoped you liked it still!!

#enhypen #enha smut #enha x reader #enhypen x reader #enha #enhypen smut #heeluvv #enhypen jake #jake smut #sim jaeyun #sim jake #jake x reader #jake sim #sunghoon smut #enhypen sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon

1K notes · View notes

littlelamy · 7 months ago

Text

𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒾𝓂𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑒

author's note: mentions of reader saying she's going on a diet; s4rafe coded. wanted to take a break from posting about burlesque!reader so enjoy! i'm hoping to have one or two more fully edited of rafe and sarah before christmas but i am visiting my family sooo...

rafe’s knuckles went white around the fork as he stabbed at the eggs on his plate. the clink of metal against porcelain made your stomach twist, though you ignored it, focusing on the glass of water in front of you.

"what the hell did you just say?" he asked, his voice sharp enough to slice through the quiet morning.

you hesitated, fingers playing with the hem of your oversized sweatshirt. "i’m going on a diet. i just… i feel like i need to lose a few pounds."

his jaw clenched, the fork stilling midair as he turned his full attention to you. his blue eyes darkened, a mixture of disbelief and frustration clouding them. "are you fucking serious right now?"

"it’s not a big deal—"

"bullshit, it’s not a big deal," he snapped, the fork clattering onto the plate as he stood abruptly. "you think i’m just gonna sit here and let you starve yourself over some dumbass idea you have in your head? hell no."

your stomach tightened as his tone softened slightly but remained firm. "rafe, it’s my body—"

"it’s your body that i fucking love," he interrupted, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he leaned closer, blue eyes locking with yours. "you don’t need to lose anything, y/n. you’re fucking perfect."

before you could respond, he grabbed a plate and started piling it with food—eggs, toast, fruit, and even a slice of bacon. setting it down in front of you with a deliberate thud, he crossed his arms and glared.

"eat."

"rafe—"

"eat the damn food," he insisted, his voice dropping to something dangerously close to a plea. "don’t fucking do this to yourself. you’re perfect the way you are. fuck, y/n, i mean it."

you blinked back the sting in your eyes, his words cutting deeper than you expected.

"please," he added, his jaw clenching like the vulnerability was physically painful.

silently, you picked up the fork and took a bite, avoiding his intense gaze. his shoulders relaxed slightly as he sat back down.

but just as you swallowed, he was suddenly out of his chair again, crouching beside you. his hands gripped your waist, dragging you closer until you were perched on the edge of your chair.

"you know you’re fucking insane, right?" he muttered, his voice low but filled with that same sharp-edged frustration. his lips brushed over yours briefly—just a peck.

you barely had time to process it before he leaned back in, this time slower, pressing his lips against yours with more intent. your breath hitched as his hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer until there was no space between you.

his tongue slid against yours, the kiss messy and heated, and when he pulled back just enough to catch his breath, a thin string of spit connected your lips.

"see?" he murmured, smirking as he swiped a thumb across your bottom lip. "that’s how much i fucking love you. don’t ever pull that diet bullshit on me again, alright?"

you nodded, dazed, your cheeks flushed as he leaned in to kiss you again.

"good," he muttered against your lips, his tone softening but still firm. "now finish your plate. we’re getting ice cream later."

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @aariahnaa @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog credits: @dollywons for the png!

2K notes · View notes

rafeysbangs · 6 months ago

Text

ꪆৎ𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖↷ ex!bf!rafe sneaks into your room late at night...

warnings ; MDNI !!, ex!bf!rafe, soft!rafe i guess, oral f. receiving, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v, rafe calls reader baby, creampie, aftercare ! yippee

notes ; phew... enjoyyy !

the cool night air swept through your open balcony door, carrying the distant hum of cicadas. you were curled up in bed, trying to focus on the book in your hands, when the faint scrape of shoes against metal made your heart leap.

"rafe?" you whispered harshly, your pulse quickening as his familiar frame hauled itself over the edge of the balcony.

"don’t freak out," he said quickly, holding his hands up as if to calm you. his hair was a mess, his eyes wild, and he looked more desperate than you’d ever seen him.

"are you insane? you can’t be here, especially not at this hour," you hissed, glancing nervously at your door.

but rafe wasn’t listening. he crossed the room in two long strides, his voice cracking as he said, "i had to see you. i can’t- i can’t do this without you."

you folded your arms, trying to stand your ground, even as your chest tightened at the raw edge in his tone. "we broke up, rafe. i broke up with you. and you know why. i can’t keep pretending it doesn’t kill me every time i see you flirting with someone else."

"i wasn’t-" he started, but you cut him off with a sharp look.

"don’t lie to me. i saw you. over and over again. it’s too much, rafe. i couldn’t do it anymore."

his hands raked through his hair, his frustration evident. "it wasn’t what you thought, i swear. i’m... i’m a mess without you, okay? i’ve been losing my mind since you left. no one else matters- no one but you. i’m obsessed with you, and i’ll prove it. i’ll do whatever it takes to make it right."

"rafe," you began, your voice softer now, but he stepped closer, his hands gripping yours like his life depended on it.

"it’ll never happen again. i swear on everything. just... just give me one more chance," he pleaded, his blue eyes locking onto yours, filled with a vulnerability that made your heart ache.

you tried to resist, tried to remind yourself why you ended things, but the way he looked at you, like you were his entire world, made it nearly impossible.

"i don’t know if i can trust you," you said quietly, your voice trembling.

"you can," he said, his voice steady. "i’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you if i have to."

before you could argue further, his lips were on yours, cutting off your words in a kiss so desperate, so full of longing, that it left you breathless. your resolve crumbled as his hands cupped your face, pulling you closer.

the kiss deepened, his lips trailing to your jaw and down your neck as your back hit the bed. he hovered over you, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured your name like a prayer.

your fingers tangled in his hair as his lips travelled down your body, heat pooled in your lower stomach watching him grow closer to the waistband of your tiny pyjama shorts.

he stopped there, slowly littering kisses as he looked up at you, you chewed at your bottom lip as your eyes were stuck on his, "rafe..."

"i'll make you feel good baby... don't worry" he whispered against your skin, sending shivers up your spine. his course fingers connected with your clothed pussy, slowly rubbing circles to make you squirm.

he grinned when he saw you twitch at his touch, your clit aching from the lack of direct contact. as if he could read your body, he pulled your shorts to the side, now faced with soaked panties staring back at him.

rafe sighed gratefully, "you're so soaked already, god you're perfect" he mumbled. his long fingers traced your slit and he chuckled a little to himself before pulling your panties to the side too.

without warning, his mouth connected with your wet cunt, sloppy kisses and flicks of his tongue made your eyes roll back before he slid a finger through your folds again. he tapped at your aching hole before sliding a finger in, watching your face contort as you got used to the welcome intrusion.

you groaned, "god-" rafe's smirk perking up against your heat, he came up for air for a second, "rafe's fine baby.."

you threw your head back as he licked a stripe down your pussy, grinning as he slid another finger inside, curling them before mercilessly pumping them in and out.

one thing leads to another, you're bent over the bed, rafe's cock bulging out of your stomach as his hips snap against your ass. a loud whine escapes your lips as he's rearranging your guts. your tight walls clamping desperately around his cock as your ass bounces with every thrust.

his tip brushes your cervix as he thrusts into you a few more times before pulling out and flipping you over mumbling, "need to see your pretty face.."

he shoves your body further onto the bed before climbing over you with his classic smirk. your breathing ragged as your eyes locked with his, he tapped his cock on your pussy before dragging it through your folds. he knew the teasing drove you crazy, your eyebrows cinched together as his ego grew.

a pornographic moan escaped your lips as he slid in again, rolling his hips against yours he pumped his cock at a heavenly pace. your nails left crescent shaped indents as you gripped on rafe's arms, the pleasure sending the both of you into overdrive.

rafe cursed as his thrusts grew sloppy, the way your gummy walls were squeezing him made him dizzy, his release creeping up on him. you too could feel a familiar coil tightening in your stomach, unsurprised at the discovery that rafe was the only one to be able to make you cum, even when you're technically broken up.

he lifts a hand and connects it with one of your tits, his tongue darting between his lips as he massaged the fat, your nipple between his fingers. you whimpered as his cock kissed your cervix before finally you felt the coil snap, your orgasm overpowering you.

the way your pussy clenched rafe's cock as you finished around him caused him to groan gutturally, spilling his release into your sopping hole. he collapsed on top of you, littering your neck and cheeks with kisses as he heavily breathed.

"fuck.. i love you baby" he said finally before getting up and slowly pulling out, his release leaking from you a little. he grinned at the sight and pumped to fingers into your pussy, pushing his cum back inside you. "i'll get us a wet towel" he mumbled, walking towards your bathroom after kissing you on the forehead.

taglist ; @rafegetinmybed @doeletteprincess ( feel free to ask to be added! idm! )

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vanteguccir · 8 months ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTOO MUCH * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Matt and Nick say some hurtful things to Chris during a fight, bringing his insecurities to life and causing him to turn to his anchor, Y/N.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　insecurities, fighting, crying, anxiety attack.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The noise in the living room had escalated from playful teasing in front of the camera to sharp, biting words. Chris stood behind the kitchen table, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he glared at Matt and Nick, who were both looking at him from the other side of the table with expressions caught between frustration and exasperation.

"Do you ever think before you act, Chris?" Matt's voice was, surprisingly, raised, an edge of impatience in his tone. "We can’t get through one day without you doing something childish and making a scene, or worse, making our videos look like shit because of it!"

Chris’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond immediately, his eyes darting between his brothers, trying to make sense of how things had gotten so out of hand.

"I wasn’t trying to do anything." He muttered finally, his voice barely above a whisper laced with hurt. "I was just... being myself."

"Yeah, exactly." Nick jumped in, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "And that’s the problem. You’re always yelling and doing the most, Chris. It’s just... exhausting, okay?"

Chris clenched his fists, jaw tight as he glared at Nick, feeling himself crumbling a bit because sure, he’s too much. Sure, he speaks too loud and had opinions about everything and wasn’t afraid to share them, even if they were about the silliest things. Sure, he feels cornered and childish and immature and annoying, and most of what they're saying is probably true, but hearing his own brothers say it out loud... it pains his heart.

"You know, that’s actually rich coming from you." He shot back, his voice carrying a frustration he couldn’t hold back, trying to disguise his pain with anger. "You’re always the first to say that people watch us because we’re different, because even though we look the same, we're still different. But all you ever do is complain that I’m not just like you or Matt!”

Nick’s expression shifted, taken aback by Chris’s words. But Nick wasn’t one to back down, his voice snapping back almost before Chris had finished speaking.

"That’s not what I’m saying at all!" He fired, eyes narrowing. "Is it so insane to want you to stop yelling and acting like a literal child in every video? We’re trying to be professional, Chris! People like us, yeah, but they won’t if you keep acting like-"

Chris dragged a hand over his face, pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead, trying to shut out Nick’s words, trying to drown out the overwhelming feeling of being misunderstood.

"... and we can’t keep dealing with it, Chris. Grow the fuck up."

The youngest felt his chest tighten even more. His greatest insecurity - one that clawed at his chest every night when he couldn’t sleep, when the silence around him became deafening - was now on full display, brutally brought to life by the people he trusted most.

The internet was relentless in labeling him as "the weird one", the "annoying triplet", just because he was loud and talked too much, just because he was unapologetically himself. He’d laugh it off, of course, joke about it even because it was easier to pretend it didn’t bother him. But deep down, those words haunted him, scraping at the edges of his self-worth, making him wonder if maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t enough.

And now, hearing Matt and Nick throw those same words at him... he felt hollow. Like all the air had been knocked from his lungs. They knew. They knew how those comments got to him, how hard he tried to ignore it, to rise above the criticism.

"Fine." He said bitterly, hating how his voice trembled slightly as he struggled to keep his emotions in check. "I’ll get out of your way, then."

He pushed his weight off of the table, preparing himself to get out of there, but as Chris stormed away, Nick's frustration boiled over, and he turned to Matt, his voice sharp and incredulous.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He hissed, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and disbelief.

But Chris kept walking, his shoulders tense as he made his way to the stairs, refusing to let himself look back. His brothers’ voices felt like static at this point, blending into the background as he forced himself to keep going.

Behind him, Matt muttered under his breath, an edge of impatience creeping in.

"Why is he being so dramatic?" He called, exasperation evident in his tone. "Chris, just come back, man! Let’s finish this video."

But Chris didn’t even slow down. Each word felt like salt in a wound he was struggling to ignore, a constant reminder that he wasn’t on the same level as them, that they were all looking at him like he was the problem.

Maybe he was.

As he went down the stairs, his mind was racing, every emotion simmering just below the surface.

His hands trembled slightly as he reached his bedroom door, a mix of anger, shame, and sadness twisting in his chest, his breath hitching as he struggled to keep it together. He wanted to scream, to push all the hurt away.

Finally, he opened the door and stepped inside.

Y/N - curled up on his bed with notebooks spread around her and laptop balanced on her knees - looked up instantly, a huge smile spreading across her face as she noticed him, her expression so genuinely happy to see him that it made his heart ache even more.

"Hi, honey! How was filming?" She greeted brightly, unaware of the turmoil written across his face.

But her smile faltered quickly as she took in his red-rimmed eyes, the way his face seemed almost haunted, his body tense and trembling as he stood frozen in the doorway. She blinked, worry flashing across her features.

"Chris? Hey, what happened?" The girl whispered, and her words were like a lifeline, breaking the dam he’d tried so hard to keep in place.

She was quick in put her work together, placing her notebooks and laptop gently onto the floor beside her, leaving it all opened for her to come back to it later, her arms instinctively opening up to him.

"Come here, baby."

Without another thought, Chris crossed the room and collapsed into her open arms, sinking onto the bed as if the weight of the world had become too much for him to bear alone.

His arms wrapped tightly around her waist, his face burrowing into her shoulder as if he could somehow hide from everything that had been clawing at him. His legs slid between her thighs, his body curling into hers, every part of him drawn in close, seeking refuge in the only place that felt safe.

Y/N didn’t say anything at first. She could feel the way his shoulders shook, the silent sobs racking through him as he tried to hold back, his breath catching painfully against her neck. She held him even tighter, her hands slipping up to cradle the back of his head, her fingers threading gently through his fluff hair as she pressed soft, reassuring kisses to his forehead, his temple, anywhere she could reach.

"Shh... It’s okay, sweetheart." She murmured softly, pressing her lips to his line of hair. "I'm here. You're safe. Just breathe, Chris. Just breathe, baby."

But Chris felt anything but safe in his own skin. Shame and hurt twisted inside him, tightening like a vice around his chest. He tried to fold himself even smaller, curling tighter into her, trying to somehow look smaller for a 5'8 grown man, pressing his body as close to hers as he could.

He wanted to disappear, to melt into her embrace, and let the world live freely without his presence. The words Matt and Nick had thrown at him - the very same words he read online, the labels he was used to brushing off - felt so true, so much a part of him that he couldn’t deny them.

Childish. Annoying. Immature.

He hated himself in that moment, hated how much he cared, hated how the words dug under his skin, making him feel unworthy, unloved.

"Am I... am I really that annoying?" He whispered, his voice cracking and sounding more horse than it should. "Do you... Do you think I’m too much, too?"

Y/N’s heart twisted painfully as she heard his words, the broken way he spoke them. She frowned deeply, pulling back just enough to look down at him, her hand cupping his wet cheek as she met his gaze, her thumb brushing away a stray tear that had slipped down his face.

"Oh, sweetheart..." She shook her head gently, her voice laced with disbelief and fierce love. "No. No, Chris, of course not. You’re not annoying. You’re not too much. You’re everything I could ever want. You’re perfect exactly the way you are."

He clenched his fists, gripping onto Y/N’s hoodie - or better, his own blue hoodie -, his knuckles white with the force of it as he tried to agree with her, but her words didn’t seem to reach him. His brow furrowed, his eyes filling with fresh tears as he choked out.

"They said... They said I’m always yelling, being loud, making a scene... like I’m always... embarrassing them." His voice caught on the last words, his breath hitching as he fought to keep from breaking down completely.

Y/N held him tighter, her hand moving to the bottom of his white shirt, traveling inside of it only to rub soothing circles along his naked back as she spoke in a soft, steady tone, hoping her words would anchor him.

"Chris, they love you. They’re just... they don’t understand how much their words hurt sometimes. But that doesn’t mean you’re a burden or that you’re too much. You bring so much joy and energy to everything. That’s part of who you are, and it’s one of the things I love most about you."

He shook his head slightly, his breathing coming faster as anxiety started to build again, overtaking him.

"I... I just don’t get it. One minute, they’re saying people watch us because we’re different... and then they tell me I should be more like them. I don’t... I don’t know how to be that. I tried so hard to be like them, you have to believe me, but I don’t know how to change who I am-"

Y/N felt the depth of his frustration in the desperate way that he begged, wanting - no, needing - her to believe him. She cupped his face gently, urging him to look at her.

"You don’t have to change, Chris. Not for anyone. You’re enough just as you are, baby. And you’re not a burden. Not to me, not to anyone who really sees you and loves you for who you are."

He nodded slowly, finally trying to take a deep breath, only to feel like his nose was closed and his throat was being chocked by invisible hands. He closed his eyes forcefully, biting his bottom lip in concentration as he tried to breathe in a gulp of air that never seemed to be enough. Chris could feel his heart tightening, his chest struggling in the quick movements of going up and down too many times in a second.

"Can't- I... Please-" He tried, tightening his hands around her hoodie, panicking with the anxiety attack that seemed to come so suddenly.

"Hey, hey, Chris. Sweetheart, you’re okay." Y/N whispered softly, her voice a calming presence against the storm inside him. She shifted slightly, one hand now resting on his chest with a firm press as she guided him through deep breaths, her own voice slow and steady. "Come on, just breathe with me, okay? In... and out... Nice and slow. I’m right here with you."

Following her lead, Chris pressed his eyes tighter in a way that made him see stars behind his eyelids, focusing on the rhythm of her voice, the rise and fall of her own breathing against his fists. With each exhale, he felt a bit of the tension release, his chest loosening as he tried to match her calming breaths.

Gradually, his racing heart began to slow, the adrenaline draining from his body, leaving him feeling heavy, exhausted.

Y/N smiled softly, brushing her fingers through his hair as she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

"There you go. That’s it... Well done, my strong boy. Now, just relax. I’ve got you."

As his breathing evened out, Chris opened his eyes slowly, his blurred gaze meeting hers with a vulnerability that tore at her heart.

"You don’t have to carry all of this alone, Chris. I’m always here for you, no matter what. You’re safe with me, okay? I love you... so much." She leaned down, pressing another kiss to his forehead as she held him close, her voice soft.

The gentle reassurance, the quiet love in her words wrapped around him like a blanket, pulling him further into her warmth. His eyelids grew heavier, the tiredness finally catching up with him as he let himself surrender to the comfort of her arms, a quiet whine escaping his throat.

"I know, honey. Sleep." Y/N whispered, a tender smile on her lips as she cradled him closer, holding him like a mother would hold her kid, her hands tracing soothing patterns along his back. "You can rest. I’ll be right here when you wake up."

As she continued to whisper soft reassurances, her fingers running gently through his hair, Chris’s breathing finally evened out, his body relaxing completely in her arms. His head rested on the curve of her neck, his arms still wrapped around her waist as he drifted off, his pain and worries slipping away in the safety of her embrace.

Y/N leaned down, pressing one last, lingering kiss to his hair before laying her cheek against his head, her arms wrapped securely around his body as she watched over him.

"I love you, sweet boy."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

A couple of hours had passed, the sunsetting casting a soft, warm light over Chris’s room, where he and Y/N lay wrapped together on the bed. Chris’s face was nestled against her shoulder, his breathing steady and calm now, his chest rising and falling in sync with hers.

Outside the room, Matt and Nick exchanged a glance. They’d been standing in the hallway for nearly five minutes, trying to muster the courage to knock. Their earlier argument with Chris had weighed heavily on both of them, guilt twisting in their stomachs as they replayed every hurtful word that had left their mouths.

Finally, Matt raised his fist and knocked softly on Chris’s door, the faint sound echoing in the silence. When there was no answer, he hesitated, glancing at Nick before slowly pushing the door open.

They both froze at the sight before them. Chris and Y/N were curled up together on the bed, Chris’s face still damp from tears as he lay against her, completely relaxed in her arms. Y/N had one arm around his shoulders, her fingers resting in his hair, while her other hand was hiding inside his shirt, holding his back, cradling him protectively. They looked peaceful.

Matt’s heart clenched at the sight, guilt intensifying as he took in Chris’s tear-streaked face. He glanced over at Nick, who was staring down at his feet, clearly feeling the same crushing remorse.

"Let's go. We can come back later." Matt muttered, pulling Nick towards himself before starting to back out of the room, thinking it might be best to give Chris a bit more time.

But just as they were about to close the door, Chris stirred, shifting slightly in Y/N’s arms. He nuzzled his head on her shoulder, his face just inches from the gentle slope of her neck where he could still catch the faint, familiar scent of her perfume mingling with the natural warmth of her skin.

He moved slightly, careful not to wake her, though his movement caused her to pull him in closer, her fingers instinctively brushing over his back. The feeling of her hand tracing small, soothing circles over his shoulder as if it was a muscle memory grounded him further, coaxing a soft sigh from him as he nuzzled deeper into her embrace, pressing a gentle, barely-there kiss to her neck.

When his sleepy eyes finally traveled around the room while gently stretching his legs between hers, he finally caught Matt and Nick's figures standing in the doorway.

His face fell the instant he realized they were there, his peaceful expression replaced by a guarded, distant look. Carefully, he eased himself up, making sure not to wake Y/N as he pulled himself away from her arms.

"Came for round two?" He looked at Matt and Nick, his sleepy voice laced with bitterness as he asked.

Nick swallowed, words catching in his throat as he struggled to find the right thing to say. What an irony. He opened his mouth but only managed to mumble, stumbling over his words as he tried to get them out.

Finally, Nick took a small step closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Chris, I... we came to say... We just..." His pearly teeth caged his bottom lip momentarily, taking a deep breath. "We love that you’re different."

Chris stared at him, incredulous, eyebrows raised as he scoffed softly.

"Different? That’s what you’re leading with?" His eyes narrowed, hurt simmering just beneath the surface. "So now I’m the ‘different’ one? Funny, ‘cause that didn’t seem to be a good thing a few hours ago."

Nick faltered, his face flushing as he realized his words weren’t coming out the way he intended. He tried again, tripping over his explanation.

"No, no, I... I didn’t mean it like that. I just-"

Chris took a deep, shaky breath, his gaze lowered as he avoided Nick and Matt's eyes, interrupting Nick.

"Look, I want to apologize, alright?" He started, his voice barely more than a murmur, thick with emotion. "I know it was all my fault and that I’m a lot to handle. I get it. I can be too loud, too... everything, really. And I know I’m not like you guys. I’ve tried so hard to be, but it’s just... not me." His words hung heavy in the room, his fingers twisting anxiously in his lap. "I feel like sometimes I just ruin things because I don’t know how to turn it off. You two seem to have this balance, you know when to joke and when to be serious, and I’m over here just... always pushing things too far."

He exhaled deeply, finally lifting his eyes to meet his brothers', the weight of insecurity and years of self-doubt written all over his face.

"I’m sorry if it feels like you have to put up with me. I’ve tried to be more like you, but it’s never enough. And sometimes... it just feels like who I am isn’t what anyone wants." His voice cracked at the last words, his vulnerability laid bare, and he quickly looked away, bracing himself for whatever they would say.

Nick and Matt shared a look, each seeing the guilt mirrored in the other’s eyes as Chris’s words sank in, cutting through them like a blade.

Matt felt his chest tighten, a pang of regret settling heavily in his stomach, making it hard to breathe. How could he have let Chris - his little brother, the boy who was always loving him no matter what - believe, even for a second, that he wasn’t wanted exactly as he was?

His legs moved on instinct, carrying him back into the room before he even registered it, straight to Chris, who looked so small and hurt, slumped at the edge of the bed. Kneeling down, Matt reached out, placing a steadying hand on Chris’s knee, his fingers gently pressing into his brother’s skin as if trying to ground him.

"Chris, you’re our little brother. I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re too much for us." He swallowed, his voice wavering as he continued, willing Chris to see and feel every word. "I love you, man. We love you for who you are. You don’t need to change a thing. It’s your energy, your spark that makes everything better. You have this way of bringing life into everything, and that’s something I wouldn’t change for anything." He looked into Chris’s eyes, his own gaze filled with a raw honesty. "We need you to be you, Chris. No one else."

Nick’s heart clenched as he watched, his own guilt building with every second. Gaining control over the hurt and regret flooding him, he crossed the room in long strides, dropping down beside Matt. He looked up at Chris, his throat tight with emotion, the sight of his little brother so closed-off, so wounded, cutting deep. He was supposed to protect him, not hurt him.

"Yeah... you being another person? That’s not what we want at all. We’ve never wanted you to be anyone else. You’re perfect the way you are, Chris." Nick’s voice shook, filled with a determination to make Chris understand the truth, to undo every careless word he and Matt had thrown his way earlier. "I'm so, so sorry that we said all of those things and made you think so bad about yourself."

Chris’s defenses wavered, his resolve crumbling as he glanced between his brothers. Their sincerity seeped through, but doubt still clouded his gaze. He let out a heavy sigh, loosening his grip on his hoodie just a bit.

"You promise?" His voice was barely a whisper, fragile and laced with uncertainty, his fingers twisting anxiously into the fabric of his sleeve.

Without hesitation, Nick reached forward, taking Chris’s hands in his own, intertwining their fingers and squeezing firmly.

"We promise. We love how wild you are, how you’re always the one bringing the energy. You’re louder, sure, but that’s not something bad, it's exactly what makes you, you. You’re the happiest out of the three of us, Chris, and we wouldn’t change that for anything." He gave Chris’s hand another reassuring squeeze, feeling the smallest hint of relief when he saw the younger brother begin to relax, if only slightly.

Matt nodded, adding gently.

"And hey, I don’t think we need to be professional or act in a type of way for our videos to be good. The viewers love us for who we are... the mix of chaos and calm. That’s what makes us, us. It’s why they stick around."

Chris took a shaky breath, letting their words settle over him, feeling the weight of them begin to ease some of the pain. Slowly, he nodded, his fingers curling back around Nick’s reassuring grip.

"Okay."

Matt leaned forward, placing a hand on Chris’s shoulder.

"We’ll do better, alright? We’re brothers. We’re gonna mess up, but that doesn’t mean we won’t have each other’s backs. Always."

Chris exhaled deeply, finally letting the tension melt away as he leaned into their touch, the comfort of his brothers grounding him in a way only they could. Straightening himself, he managed a small, tired smile, his heart feeling a bit lighter.

"Yeah... always."

"Well, I’m really glad you guys are okay again." Y/N’s soft voice broke the silence, bringing all three heads up in surprise.

She moved with a quiet strength as she sat up and brushed her hand tenderly through Chris’s hair, watching his face light up as he realized she’d been awake all along.

"But just so we’re clear... if either of you hurt my baby like that again, you’re going to have to answer to me." She turned her gaze to Nick and Matt, a playful but fierce glint in her eyes.

"Y/N..." Chris dragged the last letter of her name in a whining tone, feeling flustered with how she called him 'her baby' in front of his brothers - even though they were more than accustomed with it.

Nick’s eyes widened jokingly with her threat, a chuckle escaping him. He lifted his hands in mock surrender, glancing at Matt as if to say, 'Well, we better watch out'. Matt nodded, eyes a bit sheepish, scratching the back of his neck.

"Alright, alright, no more ganging up on Chris. You have our word, Y/N."

Content with their promises, Y/N turned her attention back to Chris, opening her arms and pulling him into her embrace once more. He let out a soft sigh, sinking into her warmth, his head nestled against her shoulder. Her arms wrapped around him protectively, fingers tracing soothing circles along his back as she whispered.

"I told you they didn't mean it." He closed his eyes, letting her words wash over him, the last bits of hurt melting away.

Nick and Matt watched the two of them, a fondness softening their expressions.

"You know." She murmured, pulling Chris's head away from her chest and looking at him with a mischievous grin. "You’re pretty lucky to have all of us wrapped around your finger."

Chris laughed, a real laugh this time, the sound full of relief and love.

"Yeah, I know. I just... I guess I forget sometimes."

"Well." Nick started, squeezing Chris’s shoulder with a grin. "We’re not going anywhere. So next time, just remind us if we’re being idiots, alright?"

Chris nodded, glancing gratefully at each of them, feeling more grounded and cherished than he had in a long time.

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pucksandpower · 8 months ago

Text

Meant to be His

Day 30 → Innocence Kink 💋 CEO!Lando Norris

Warnings: 18+ content, dubious consent, breeding, and manipulation

Kinktober Masterlist

Lando leans back in his sleek, black leather chair, eyes glued to the door of his office. It’s been like this for months now. You waltz in every morning, completely oblivious to the storm brewing inside of him, completely unaware that he’s one wrong word away from losing it.

He tightens his grip on his Montblanc pen, watching you through the glass wall as you flutter about the office, bow in your hair, soft pink dress neatly pressed, kitten heels clicking softly against the marble floors. Innocent. Always so damn innocent.

He’s sure it’s an act. It has to be.

“Mr. Norris, do you need anything else before your meeting at two?” Your voice cuts through his thoughts like it’s nothing, and the soft, sweet tone of it only aggravates him further.

Lando exhales sharply, spinning his chair back to face his computer, pretending to check an email that he isn’t actually reading. “No. I’m fine.”

There’s a pause. You’re still standing there, he can feel it. His jaw tightens. She’s waiting for something, but what? An opportunity to toy with him again, no doubt. He glances up, catching your eyes.

“You sure? You seem tense,” you ask, that genuine concern on your face so perfectly played. You look so innocent. But Lando doesn’t buy it. Not anymore.

“I’m sure,” he says flatly, forcing his voice to stay calm. You smile, nodding before heading out of his office, your perfume trailing behind like some kind of torture. Sweet, light, impossible to ignore.

His eyes follow you as you return to your desk, and for the life of him, Lando can’t figure out how you do it. How you manage to walk around here, day after day, pretending like none of it affects you. The looks, the way he tenses up every time you’re near, the way his pulse races when you lean over his desk just a little too close to hand him a file.

You. Must. Know.

But you carry on, head buried in textbooks between calls, your fingers skimming through pages of what looks like accounting formulas while you answer emails. How the hell does someone focus on their studies while managing the workload he throws at you? And always with that ridiculous little bow in your hair. It drives him insane.

His phone buzzes, snapping him out of his thoughts. He glances down.

Max: Dinner tonight?

Lando ignores the text. He can’t think about dinner right now. His attention is on you, watching the way your lips move when you hum softly to yourself, tapping away at your keyboard. Do you know what you’re doing? Do you have any idea?

No, of course you do. You’ve got him right where you want him — second-guessing everything. Lando feels his frustration simmering, the tight knot of control he keeps around his emotions starting to fray. He’s built his career on maintaining composure, being the one who’s always a step ahead, but this — you — are throwing him off balance.

He hates that.

“Hey.” His voice cuts through the stillness, sharp. He doesn’t know what he’s about to say, but he’s tired of staying silent. “Can you come in here for a second?”

You look up, slightly startled, and he watches as you smooth down your dress before stepping into his office. The door closes with a soft click behind you.

“Yes, Mr. Norris?”

He doesn’t respond immediately, eyes narrowing as he watches you. His thumb taps rhythmically on the arm of his chair, thoughts racing. Your tone is so polite, so professional, as if you’re not in the slightest aware of the mess you’ve made of him.

“That report — did you finish it?”

Your head tilts slightly, confused. “Yes, I emailed it to you this morning. Did you need something else added?”

“No.” Lando pauses, his eyes lingering on the bow in your hair. It's small, white, and so out of place in this cold, polished world of corporate dominance. Yet you wear it like it belongs. It makes him irrationally angry, but he can’t say why. “I got it. You can go.”

There’s that pause again, your eyes searching his face for something, but you don’t push. You never push. Instead, you nod politely and turn to leave, but something inside him snaps.

“Why do you do that?” His voice is harsher than he intends, but he doesn’t care.

You turn slowly, brows furrowed. “Do what?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely toward you, frustration bubbling over. “You walk around here like nothing bothers you. Always … smiling. Always so damn-” He stops himself, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He doesn’t want to say it, but it’s on the tip of his tongue. Innocent. Always so damn innocent. He grits his teeth instead. “Forget it.”

You blink, clearly taken aback. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong?”

The sincerity in your voice almost makes him feel guilty. Almost. But no, this is part of it, isn’t it? You play this innocent card so well, like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to him. He stands abruptly, crossing the room in two quick strides until he’s standing in front of you.

“Wrong?” His voice lowers, eyes burning into yours. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

You look up at him, wide-eyed, still confused. “Then what-”

“You can go.” He cuts you off, voice tight, jaw clenched. “Get back to work.”

Your lips part as if to say something, but you close them again, giving him one last glance before nodding and stepping out of his office. The second the door closes, Lando exhales sharply, running both hands through his hair.

He’s losing control. He never loses control. Not like this. He doesn’t lose sleep over things he can’t have. That’s not who he is. But you — you’re making him unravel.

He moves back to his desk, his eyes once again finding you through the glass. You’ve already gone back to work like nothing happened, typing away, completely oblivious to the storm raging inside him. How can you be so unaware?

Lando clenches his fists, determination settling in his chest. No, you’re not unaware. You can’t be. You’ve been playing this game for months, testing him, pushing him to the edge, making him question everything he’s built. But if this is a game, it’s one he’s determined to win.

This ends soon.

Whatever you’re doing — whether you’re aware of it or not — Lando is done letting it get to him. He’s done letting you have the upper hand.

It’s time to do something about it.

***

The morning sun filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lando’s office as he sits behind his desk, trying to drown himself in spreadsheets and stock analyses. But his focus wavers every few minutes, his eyes drifting toward your desk, watching you chew absentmindedly on the end of a pen while scrolling through emails. The quiet hum of the office is nothing more than white noise, and no matter how hard he tries, you’re there. In his head. In his line of sight.

He rubs the bridge of his nose, frustrated, trying to get a grip. Yesterday’s conversation replays in his mind, your wide-eyed confusion, the softness of your voice, the bow in your hair. He told himself he’d put an end to it, but now, here you are again, all cute dresses and innocence, as if you haven’t been driving him insane for months.

Then, he sees it.

You’ve unwrapped a lollipop, the plastic crackling softly as you slide it into your mouth, your lips closing around the candy in a way that feels intentional. Lando’s stomach tightens. His jaw clenches as he watches the slow swirl of your tongue around the stick. He knows he should look away, that he’s letting himself spiral, but his eyes stay locked on you. You’re concentrating on your screen, tapping at the keyboard, entirely oblivious to the effect you’re having on him.

He shifts in his chair, feeling the sudden constriction in his pants, the tightness unbearable. His breath comes harder, shallow. He balls his fists on the desk, eyes narrowing. That’s it. He’s had enough.

He stands abruptly, the chair scraping behind him. His body moves before his mind catches up, the determination settling into his steps as he crosses the office in long, forceful strides. He doesn’t even bother knocking. He doesn’t need to. He owns this place.

“Come into my office,” he says, voice low, tight.

You look up, startled, your lips still wrapped around the lollipop. “Now?”

“Now.”

You blink, eyes wide as you quickly nod, pulling the candy from your mouth and holding it awkwardly between your fingers. You stand, smoothing out your dress as you follow him, heels clicking softly behind him.

The second you step inside, he closes the door with a deliberate, heavy thud. His office feels smaller today, the air thick, charged. He doesn’t even look at you as he walks to his desk, his movements sharp, controlled, as if he’s barely holding onto the last threads of his restraint.

“Did I — did I do something wrong?” Your voice is soft, confused, and that only makes it worse. How could you be so unaware? How could you stand there, looking at him like that, when he’s been on edge for weeks?

Lando’s silence hangs heavy between you, and you shift nervously, fidgeting with the hem of your dress. That innocent little dress that clings to your waist just enough to remind him of every single curve.

“If I’ve made a mistake-”

He cuts you off with a sharp movement, his arm sweeping across the desk, sending papers, pens, and his phone crashing to the floor in one swift motion. The noise echoes through the office, loud, final.

You jump, eyes wide, taking a step back. “Mr. Norris-”

“Enough.” His voice is deep, guttural, and he steps toward you, crowding your space, forcing you backward until your thighs bump against the edge of the now-cleared desk. “You think you can keep teasing me, walking around here like this?”

Your eyes widen, genuine confusion etched on your face. “I-I’m not — I didn’t-”

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” His hands find your hips, fingers digging in just hard enough to keep you there, to stop you from retreating. You’re trapped, and he knows it. He’s planned it. His frustration, his anger — it’s all coming to a head, and there’s no going back now. “With your little dresses, your bows, that sweet little act. All of it.”

Your breath hitches, and for a second, Lando thinks he sees it — something flicker in your eyes. But then your voice, soft and trembling, breaks the moment. “I haven’t-”

“Innocent,” he spits the word like it’s a curse, fingers tightening on your waist. “Always so innocent. But if you’re going to act like that, you better be ready to pay for it.”

Your eyes dart to the door, panic creeping into your expression. “Mr. Norris, I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear, I-”

Before you can finish, he pushes you down onto the desk, the cool surface pressing against your back. His hands slide up your thighs, bunching the fabric of your dress as he leans over you, breath hot against your ear.

“You really think I believe that? You’ve been teasing me for months. The way you look at me, the way you walk around in those outfits like you don’t know what it does to me.” He’s practically growling now, his control slipping further with every word. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

“I haven’t-” You shake your head, breath coming faster, your voice breaking. “I swear, I didn’t mean to-”

He cuts you off with a hand on your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress higher, exposing the soft skin of your legs. His breath catches in his throat as he finally sees it — the tiny bows decorating the edges of your underwear. Innocent, delicate, just like everything else about you.

“Of course,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, his voice dark with disbelief. “Even your underwear has bows.”

You look up at him, eyes wide, lips trembling as you try to form words, but nothing comes out. You’re confused, scared even, but Lando’s mind is too clouded with months of frustration to see it clearly. All he knows is that you’ve pushed him too far, and now he’s about to push back.

Lando’s fingers toy with the delicate bows on your underwear, his grip tightening, anger laced with disbelief. Every detail of you, from your soft lips to the innocent little things you wear — it all feels designed to torment him. And now, this. The proof in the form of those bows only furthers his conviction that it’s all some calculated game. You have to be messing with him.

“Why would you wear something like this?” His voice is low, dark, as he tugs at the fabric just enough to make you gasp, your body trembling under his. “It’s pathetic. Like you’re trying to act sweet and untouched, but we both know the truth.”

Your eyes are wide, pleading, but you don’t say anything. Lando’s face hardens as he looks down at you. He doesn’t believe a word you’ve said — how could he? He knows the games women play, knows how they can hide behind innocent faces while pulling the strings behind the scenes. You’re no different. You can’t be.

But he needs to be sure.

Lando leans over you, his body pressing down on yours as his hands slide higher, pulling your underwear aside. The fabric moves easily, but what he finds next stops him cold.

His fingers pause, eyes narrowing as he pushes a little further, a soft pressure meeting his touch. His pulse quickens. For a second, his brain can’t quite process what he’s feeling. There’s no way. Not you.

He pushes a little harder, confirming what his mind refuses to accept. You tense beneath him, your breath shaky, and that’s when it hits him like a truck.

You’re a virgin.

A wave of shock floods through him, wiping away the rage that had been bubbling up inside. His mind races, trying to reconcile the idea of you — the teasing, innocent act he thought you’d been playing — with the reality of what he’s just discovered. You’ve never been touched. Not by him. Not by anyone.

He pulls back slightly, staring down at you in disbelief. “You're serious.” His voice comes out harsher than intended, but it’s the only thing that manages to escape his mouth. His breath hitches as the realization fully settles.

Your lips part, trembling. “I-I told you,” you whisper, barely able to meet his eyes. “I wasn’t … I didn’t …”

Lando stares at you, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together in his mind. The shy looks, the blushing, the fidgeting. It wasn’t an act. You really are innocent. You’re untouched. Pure. And all this time, he’d been imagining the worst. Misreading every single thing about you.

A flood of possessiveness surges through him, stronger than anything he’s ever felt. He’s the first. He’s going to be the only one. His hands slide up your body, slower this time, deliberate. You’re his now. Completely. You’ve always been his, but now it’s clear. He’ll make sure of it.

“You're mine,” he murmurs, voice low and commanding. His eyes burn into yours as he leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Do you understand that?”

You swallow hard, nodding slightly, though your face is still a mix of fear and confusion. He doesn’t care. You’ll understand soon enough.

He reaches for the lollipop laying abandoned on the desk, the one you had been sucking on earlier. Without breaking eye contact, he brings it to his mouth, licking the candy slowly, his tongue swirling around it just as he’d imagined watching you do the same. It’s sweet, just like you.

Then, without warning, he presses the lollipop back to your lips, his eyes darkening. “Open your mouth,” he orders softly.

You hesitate for a second, but his gaze is unrelenting, powerful, and you obey. Your lips part slowly, and he slips the lollipop into your mouth, watching with satisfaction as you close your lips around it. There’s something primal in the way he watches you now, the way your innocence only fuels the possessiveness raging inside him.

He leans down, his mouth dangerously close to your ear. “Don’t leave after work today,” he whispers, the words rough and commanding. “You’re coming home with me.”

You let out a shaky breath, eyes wide, but you don’t protest. You don’t argue. You just look up at him, the lollipop still between your lips, and nod. He smirks, brushing a thumb across your cheek before pulling back, taking in the sight of you sprawled on his desk, dress bunched around your thighs, your lips wrapped around the candy he gave you.

His.

All of you.

***

The hours after Lando’s quiet command crawl by at a pace that feels like torture. He watches you from his office, stealing glances through the glass partition. You’re fidgety, distracted, clearly unsettled by what transpired. Your fingers keep brushing the spot on your lips where his lollipop had been, your gaze downcast, stealing anxious looks toward his office door. He finds it hard to focus on anything else, his mind swirling with the anticipation of what’s coming.

Finally, the workday ends. The usual shuffle of employees packing up to leave passes in a blur for him, and when he sees you stand to collect your things, his heart kicks into overdrive. This is it.

You look hesitant as you walk toward the door, but Lando meets you in the hallway before you can even reach for your coat. His voice is quiet, commanding, as he speaks. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

You don’t say a word, just nod and follow him. It’s all you can do. You’re out of your element, swept up in a current you don’t understand, but something about his presence makes resistance feel impossible.

The elevator ride down to the underground parking lot is thick with tension. He can feel your anxiety radiating off you in waves, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. His hand rests on the small of your back as you step out, guiding you to his sleek McLaren. The doors unlock with a soft click, and he gestures for you to get in.

Once inside, the car roars to life with a low, throaty hum as Lando pulls out of the parking garage, the city lights blurring into streaks of color as they hit the road. For a while, the drive is silent, save for the soft purr of the engine and the occasional sound of your nervous breath.

Lando’s grip on the steering wheel is tight, but he allows one hand to drift away, resting on the center console. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. You’re staring out the window, fingers twisting in your lap, the tension in your shoulders palpable. His gaze lowers, following the line of your thighs beneath your dress, and something in him snaps.

Slowly, deliberately, he lets his hand fall to your knee, his fingers brushing against your bare skin. The effect is immediate — you stiffen, your breath catching in your throat, but you don’t move. You don’t push him away.

His hand stays there, warm and firm, his thumb tracing slow circles on your thigh as he drives. He doesn’t speak, but the weight of his touch says more than words could. It’s a reminder, a promise. You’re his now, and tonight, he’s going to make sure you know it.

The tension between you both is electric, humming in the space between his hand on your leg and your racing pulse. You bite your lip, a futile attempt to steady your breath, but Lando can sense it — the nervous anticipation that’s eating at you, the mix of fear and something else, something you’re not quite ready to acknowledge.

The drive is short, the distance between his office and his penthouse a blur. Before you know it, he’s pulling into the private garage beneath his building. The McLaren comes to a smooth stop, and Lando kills the engine, the silence that follows heavy and oppressive.

“Let’s go,” he says quietly, stepping out of the car and coming around to your side before you can even unbuckle your seatbelt. He opens the door for you, his hand outstretched. You hesitate for only a second before placing your hand in his, allowing him to help you out.

His grip tightens as he leads you toward the private elevator. The doors close behind you with a soft hiss, and the moment you’re sealed inside the confined space, you feel his presence even more intensely. His hand slides up your back, fingers pressing into the curve of your spine as the elevator ascends.

When the doors slide open again, you’re in his penthouse — a sprawling space of glass and steel, modern and minimalist, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city below. But you don’t have time to take it in. Lando’s hand is still on your back, guiding you through the entryway, through the open living space, until you’re standing in the middle of his bedroom.

The door clicks shut behind you, the sound echoing through the large, empty space. You can hear your own breath, shallow and quick, the thud of your pulse loud in your ears. But Lando is calm, methodical, as he steps in front of you, his gaze never leaving your face.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice soft but commanding.

Your legs feel weak, but you take a step forward. His hands find your waist immediately, pulling you closer, his breath warm against your temple as he presses a kiss to your hairline.

“Do you know what happens now?” His voice is low, a quiet rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. You shake your head, barely able to think, let alone respond. Lando pulls back just enough to look down at you, his expression unreadable. “You’re mine. I told you that.”

You nod, swallowing hard, unable to speak. You can feel his hands moving again, tugging at the hem of your dress, pulling it up slowly, exposing more and more of your skin until it’s bunched around your waist. You gasp softly, feeling his hands on your bare thighs again, the same spot he’d touched in the car, but now his touch is more urgent, more possessive.

He pushes you gently onto the bed, your back sinking into the plush mattress as he leans over you, his eyes dark and focused. “I’m going to make sure of it,” he murmurs, his hands slipping beneath your thighs, spreading them apart as he positions himself between your legs.

Your breath catches in your throat as his fingers find the barrier again, that small, fragile proof of your innocence. He pauses, his eyes narrowing as he looks down at you.

“You really were telling the truth.” His voice is low, almost disbelieving, as if the idea of you being untouched still doesn’t fully compute in his mind. He’s quiet for a moment, and then his expression shifts, a dark, possessive gleam entering his eyes. “You’re mine,” he whispers again, and this time, there’s no doubt in his voice.

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes filling with tears, overwhelmed by everything — the intensity of his gaze, the feel of his hands on you, the weight of what’s happening. A tear slips down your cheek, and Lando’s lips are on you immediately, kissing it away, his breath warm and soft against your skin.

“Shh,” he coos, his voice soft now, almost tender as he kisses your tears. “Don’t cry. You’re all mine now, and I’m going to take care of you. I promise.”

His hands are gentle as he pushes through the barrier, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. You let out a soft, broken gasp, and Lando leans down to kiss you, swallowing the sound as he moves deeper. His lips trail over your cheek, your jaw, your neck, kissing away every tear, every bit of hesitation.

Lando’s grip on your hips tightens, his breath coming in slow, deliberate waves as he watches your every move. There’s a fierce, possessive satisfaction in his eyes as he presses further into you, feeling the way your body reacts, the soft gasps escaping your lips, the way your fingers curl into the sheets. He’s in complete control, and that’s exactly how he wants it.

You’re his now. Completely. And he’s going to be the first — the only one — to take you over the edge. That thought alone sends a surge of pride through him, dark and possessive. The world has never touched you the way he’s about to. You’re untainted, and he’s going to keep it that way.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice low and rough as his hand finds your chin, tilting your face toward him. Your eyes flutter open, wide and unsure, still glistening from the tears he kissed away moments ago. There’s an innocence in your gaze, a vulnerability that cuts through the sharp edge of his dominance for a moment, but he pushes that aside. He wants you to look at him — not in fear, but in understanding.

“This is how it’s going to be,” Lando murmurs, his fingers brushing against your cheek as he holds your gaze. “I’m the only one who gets to do this. No one else. Ever. Do you understand?”

You nod, your breath catching in your throat, and he smirks. “Say it,” he demands, his thumb brushing over your lips. “Say that you’re mine.”

“I-I’m yours,” you whisper, your voice shaking, but there’s something else in it now. A tremor of something more than fear — something closer to surrender.

“That’s right.” He leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear as his voice drops to a whisper. “You belong to me. And I’m going to show you exactly what that means.”

He moves deliberately, his hands sliding down your body, claiming every inch of you as he goes. His touch is firm, authoritative, yet maddeningly slow, building a tension between you that leaves you trembling beneath him. Lando can feel the way your body reacts to him, the way you instinctively arch into his touch, even though you try to hold back. It makes him smile, dark and knowing. You might be innocent, but your body is learning quickly. It’s beginning to respond to him, just like he knew it would.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs, his hand sliding between your thighs, teasing, as his fingers brush lightly against your skin. “You want this. I can feel it.”

You make a soft sound in the back of your throat, a shaky, half-swallowed whimper, but you don’t pull away. You don’t deny it. Because deep down, even if you don’t want to admit it, you do want this. You want him. He knows it.

Lando’s lips curve into a satisfied smirk as he continues his slow, torturous movements, his fingers moving in perfect rhythm with the soft gasps that escape your lips. He watches every flicker of emotion on your face, every shiver that runs through you as he pushes you closer to the edge. You’re so close — he can feel it.

“I can feel you trembling,” he whispers, his voice dark and seductive as he leans down, his lips brushing against your collarbone. “You’re almost there, aren’t you? You’ve never felt this before, have you?”

You shake your head, your breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps now, and Lando feels a rush of satisfaction. He’s right. No one else has ever brought you this close. No one else has ever touched you like this. And no one else ever will.

“I’m going to be the first,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down your neck as his hand moves with agonizing precision, his fingers coaxing soft, breathless sounds from you. “The only one to make you feel this way. Do you know how good it’s going to feel, baby? How good I’m going to make you feel?”

Your only response is a soft whimper, your body arching beneath him as you inch closer to that tipping point. Lando can feel it in the way your body moves, the way your fingers clutch at the sheets, desperate for something to hold on to. He leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin, his voice barely a whisper.

“Don’t hold back,” he coos, his voice dark and commanding. “I want to see you fall apart for me.”

His words send a shiver through you, and Lando can feel the way you’re teetering on the edge, the way your body is trembling, so close, so painfully close. But he doesn’t let up. He won’t let you slip away from this.

And then, with a deliberate, calculated move, he pushes you over the edge.

The gasp that leaves your lips is soft, broken, and Lando watches with dark satisfaction as your body tenses, your eyes squeezing shut as you finally fall. He keeps his touch steady, guiding you through it, his voice low and soothing as he coaxes you through the overwhelming rush of sensations.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his hand still moving in that same, steady rhythm. “Let it happen. Let me see you.”

Your breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps as your body trembles beneath him, and Lando can’t help the satisfied smirk that tugs at his lips. He’s the first to do this to you. He’s the only one who ever will.

As you come down from the high, your body slowly relaxing, Lando’s hand moves to cradle your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. He leans down, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, his voice soft but firm. “And I’ll never let you forget that.”

You don’t respond, your breath still shaky as you lie beneath him, your body completely spent. But Lando doesn’t need a response. He knows you understand. You belong to him now, in every way that matters.

***

Lando wakes early, the soft light of dawn filtering through the sheer curtains in his penthouse bedroom. The city outside is still and quiet, a far cry from the chaos of the day that is yet to begin. He blinks, his eyes adjusting to the gentle light, and then his gaze falls on you, lying beside him, still asleep.

The sight of you — curled up under the covers, your breathing slow and peaceful — does something to him. It’s as if, in sleep, you’ve become even more vulnerable, even more innocent. Your face is relaxed, lips slightly parted, your hair falling messily across the pillow. There’s a softness to you now, a contrast to the tension that had filled the air between you both the night before.

Lando’s chest tightens as he watches you, his mind racing. How could someone like you, with your wide-eyed innocence and shy demeanor, have this kind of effect on him? He’d never wanted anyone like this before, never felt this need to possess, to claim. But with you, it’s different. It’s all-consuming.

You stir slightly, shifting beneath the covers, and Lando feels his pulse quicken. Even in sleep, you’re irresistible to him. He can’t stop looking at you, drinking in every detail — your soft skin, the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks as you dream.

He feels the pull again, that deep, primal urge to claim you in every possible way. He wants to feel you, fully, like he never has before. The thought sends a wave of heat through him, and before he can stop himself, his hand is moving, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from your face. His fingers trail softly down your cheek, barely touching, but even that small contact ignites something inside him.

You don’t stir, still lost in sleep, and Lando’s gaze darkens. He’s always in control, always dominant — but there’s something about the idea of taking you like this, of being the first to truly have you, that sends his desire spiraling out of control.

Slowly, deliberately, Lando shifts closer to you, careful not to wake you. His hand moves down your body, sliding under the covers, fingers grazing your skin. He inhales deeply, his breath catching in his throat as he feels your warmth, your softness. You shift slightly again, a soft sigh escaping your lips, but you don’t wake.

“Shh,” Lando whispers under his breath, his voice barely audible. “Just stay like that, baby.”

His hand moves lower, slipping beneath the fabric of your underwear, and he feels you tremble slightly in your sleep. He’s gentle, careful not to startle you, but he can’t deny the hunger building inside him, the way his body aches to be closer to you.

You stir again, your body instinctively shifting toward his touch, and Lando bites back a groan. The feel of you — soft, warm, so completely vulnerable — drives him to the edge. He leans down, pressing his lips to your neck, kissing the delicate skin just beneath your ear.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice dark and low. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

He pulls back, just enough to see your face again. You’re still asleep, still completely unaware of the effect you have on him, and something about that only spurs him on. He slides his hand down further, positioning himself between your legs, his breath coming in slow, deliberate breaths as he moves.

He’s careful, so careful, not to wake you. This is his moment, the one he’s been waiting for. He pushes forward slowly, his body tense with anticipation, his heart pounding in his chest. You let out a soft, barely audible whimper in your sleep, but you don’t wake.

Lando’s jaw tightens as he feels the first resistance, the proof of your innocence, and he closes his eyes for a brief moment, letting the satisfaction wash over him. You’re really his. No one else has ever been this close to you, no one else has ever taken this from you. And now, it’s his.

He moves slowly, savoring every second, every soft sound that escapes your lips. You shift beneath him, your body instinctively reacting to his touch, and Lando’s grip tightens on your hip, holding you still.

“That’s it,” he whispers, his voice thick with need. “Just relax, baby. Let me take care of you.”

You stir slightly, a soft whimper escaping your lips as he moves deeper, but your eyes stay closed. Lando watches your face intently, his breath shallow, his entire focus on you. You’re so tight, so perfect, and the way your body responds to him only fuels his desire.

He moves carefully, slowly, not wanting to hurt you, but the heat between you both is undeniable. His control is slipping, and he knows it. But he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. Not until he’s completely inside you, not until he’s claimed you fully.

Your body tenses as he pushes further, a soft moan escaping your lips, and Lando bites down on his bottom lip, trying to stay focused, trying to hold back. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you — not yet. But the feel of you around him, the way your body tightens and trembles beneath his touch, drives him wild.

You make another soft sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and your eyes flutter open, just barely. You’re still half-asleep, your gaze unfocused, but you feel him now. You feel what he’s doing.

“L-Lando?” You whisper, your voice barely audible, thick with sleep and confusion.

“Shh,” Lando soothes, his lips brushing against your ear. “Just relax, baby. I’ve got you.”

You shift slightly beneath him, your brows furrowing in confusion, but you don’t pull away. Lando watches your face carefully, his breath hot against your skin as he moves deeper, taking his time, savoring every inch of you.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “Just let me in. Let me have all of you.”

You let out a soft whimper, your body instinctively arching toward him, and Lando feels a surge of pride. You might not fully understand what’s happening, but your body is responding to him in exactly the way he wants.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his hand moving to your cheek, brushing his thumb over your lips. “You’re mine, remember? All mine.”

Your eyes flutter closed again, a soft sigh escaping your lips as Lando finally pushes all the way in, feeling the last bit of resistance give way. He’s inside you now, fully, completely, and the satisfaction that rushes through him is almost overwhelming.

For a moment, he stays still, just savoring the feel of you, the way your body trembles beneath him, the way your breath comes in soft, uneven gasps. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand cradling your face.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “So perfect.”

You make a soft, breathless sound, your hands instinctively reaching for him, your fingers brushing against his chest. Lando smiles, dark and satisfied, as he begins to move, slow and deliberate, his body pressing against yours with every thrust.

Lando watches the way you shift beneath him, the way you tense and relax with every movement. You’re unraveling, slowly, in his hands, and there’s something so intensely gratifying about it that he can’t help the dark, satisfied smirk that pulls at his lips.

He moves deliberately, controlling the rhythm, controlling you. Every thrust is measured, precise, pushing you closer to the edge while keeping you right where he wants you. He can feel it — feel the way you’re struggling to hold on, feel the way your breathing becomes more erratic, the way your fingers clutch at him, desperate, uncertain.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Lando murmurs, his voice rough and commanding as he watches your face. Your eyes flutter open, wide and unfocused, your lips parting as you try to catch your breath. But you don’t answer, can’t answer — your body is too consumed by the sensations he’s drawing out of you.

He leans down, his breath hot against your ear. “I want to hear you say it,” he growls softly, his hand gripping your hip as he presses deeper into you. “Tell me how close you are. Tell me how badly you want this.”

“I — Lando-” Your voice is a shaky whisper, breathless and uncertain, and Lando smirks again. You can barely speak, barely string two words together, but that’s exactly how he wants you. He wants you undone, unraveling in his hands, unable to think of anything but him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his hand sliding down your side, his touch firm and possessive. “I know you’re close. I can feel it.”

He moves faster now, his hips grinding into yours as he keeps the rhythm steady, watching your every reaction. You’re trembling beneath him, your body responding to him in ways that make his chest swell with pride. Every soft whimper, every sharp intake of breath — it’s all because of him. And he loves it.

“You feel that?” Lando murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. “That’s me. I’m the only one who’ll ever make you feel this way.”

Your body arches beneath him, and Lando can see the way you’re fighting to hold on, the way you’re trying to keep control. But he won’t let you. He’s not done with you yet.

He slows his movements slightly, just enough to keep you teetering on the edge but not enough to push you over. You let out a frustrated whimper, your fingers digging into his arms as you try to pull him closer, but Lando just smirks, keeping you right where he wants you.

“Not yet,” he whispers, his hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “You’ll come when I say you can.”

Your eyes flutter shut again, and Lando can see the tension building inside you. He watches the way your chest rises and falls, the way your lips part in desperate, breathless gasps, and he knows you’re on the verge of falling apart.

But he holds you there, just on the brink, savoring the way your body reacts to him, the way you’re completely at his mercy. It’s intoxicating, the power he holds over you.

“I can feel how badly you want it,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl as he moves his hand between your legs, teasing you with soft, deliberate touches. “But you’re going to wait. You’re going to wait for me.”

You make a soft, pleading sound, your body trembling beneath him, and Lando’s grip tightens on your hip, holding you steady as he starts to move again, his pace slow and deliberate. He watches every flicker of emotion on your face, the way your brow furrows, the way your lips part as you struggle to breathe through the overwhelming sensations.

“You can take it,” he whispers, his voice dark and commanding. “You can take everything I give you.”

You’re so close now, so impossibly close, and Lando can feel it — the way your body tightens around him, the way your breath catches in your throat as you inch closer to the edge. But he’s not letting you fall yet. Not until he’s ready.

“I’m the only one who gets to see you like this,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. “The only one who gets to take you apart like this.”

His words send a shiver through you, and Lando can feel the way your body responds to him, the way you arch into his touch, desperate for release. He’s holding you on the edge, keeping you there, and the power rushes through him like a drug.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, breathless and pleading. “Lando, please-”

He smirks, dark and satisfied. That’s what he wanted. He wanted you begging for it, wanting it as badly as he does.

“You want to come?” He growls softly, his grip tightening on your hip as he moves faster, his thrusts deeper, harder. “You want me to let you come?”

You nod, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps as you try to hold on, your body trembling beneath him.

“Say it,” Lando demands, his voice rough and commanding. “Tell me how much you want it.”

“I-I want it,” you whisper, your voice shaking as you clutch at him, your fingers digging into his arms. “Please, Lando — please let me come.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with pride as he watches you unravel beneath him. “Come for me. Let me see you fall apart.”

And with that, he pushes you over the edge.

Your body tenses, your eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure crashes over you in waves. Lando watches every second, his grip firm on your hips as you arch beneath him, your breath coming in soft, broken gasps. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t slow his movements as he guides you through it, his breath coming in slow, deliberate waves as he watches you fall apart in his hands.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing as he keeps moving, keeps pushing you. “You’re doing so well. Just let it happen.”

You make a soft, broken sound, your body trembling beneath him as the pleasure washes over you, and Lando feels a rush of satisfaction. You’re his. Completely, utterly his.

But he’s not done.

As you come down from the high, your body slowly relaxing, Lando’s grip tightens on your hips again. He’s close now — so close he can feel it building inside him, the tension coiling in his muscles as he moves faster, harder, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.

“Look at me,” he growls, his hand moving to cup your jaw, forcing your gaze up to meet his. “I want to see your face when I take you.”

Your eyes flutter open, wide and unfocused, and Lando groans at the sight of you — flushed, trembling, completely undone. He’s never seen anything more beautiful.

“I’m going to come inside you,” he murmurs, his voice rough as he moves faster, his body tensing as the pleasure builds. “You’re going to take all of me. Do you understand?”

You nod, your breath shaky, your fingers clutching at his arms as you try to keep up with him.

“Good girl,” he growls, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re mine. All mine.”

With one final, deep thrust, Lando feels the tension snap, the pleasure crashing over him as he finally lets go. He groans, his grip tightening on your hips as he comes inside you, his body shuddering with the force of it.

For a moment, he stays still, his breath coming in heavy, uneven bursts as he comes down from the high. He watches you, your body still trembling beneath him, your breath coming in soft, uneven gasps.

And then, slowly, carefully, he pulls back, his hand sliding up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek.

“You were meant to be mine,” he whispers again, his voice soft but firm. “And I’m never letting you go.”

You don’t respond, your body completely spent, but Lando knows you understand. You belong to him now, in every way that matters.

***

Lando lies beside you, his chest pressed against your back, a comforting warmth in the quiet aftermath. The soft sheets cling to both of you, and he can feel your heartbeat gradually slowing, returning to a steady rhythm as you begin to relax in his arms. His fingers lightly trace the curve of your lips, a subtle smirk playing at his own.

There's something so innocent about the way you look right now — your eyelashes fluttering gently as if you’re dreaming, the soft rise and fall of your chest. He wants to savor it, the moment of peace after everything, but he’s far from done.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough from the lingering remnants of passion. You blink slowly, your gaze focusing on him, a small smile tugging at your lips. The look you give him is so tender, so trusting, it makes his chest tighten in a way he’s not used to. Vulnerability looks good on you, he thinks.

“You’re still awake,” Lando continues, his fingers brushing over your lips before moving to caress your jaw. He shifts his body closer to yours, resting his head on his hand as he looks down at you. “What were you thinking about?”

You blink again, your lips parting to speak, but before you can answer, he tilts his head slightly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “What are you studying at university, again?”

There’s a brief pause, and he watches as you seem to collect your thoughts. “Business economics,” you say softly, almost shyly. “I’m in my second year.”

He raises an eyebrow, his hand still trailing lazily across your skin. “Business economics?” There’s a note of surprise in his voice, but more than that, there’s something else — something almost dismissive.

You nod, your eyes flicking to his, unsure of what he’s thinking. “Yeah, I mean … it’s interesting. And it’s practical. I thought-”

“Why?” Lando interrupts, his voice cutting through the air like a knife, making you pause mid-sentence. His tone is calm, controlled, but there’s an underlying tension there, something that makes you hesitate.

“What do you mean?” You ask, confused, your brow furrowing slightly.

“Why are you wasting your time on that?” Lando’s fingers stop their gentle tracing and move to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes locked on yours. “You don’t need a degree.”

You stare at him for a moment, the words sinking in. There’s a silence that stretches between you, and Lando can feel the subtle shift in your energy, the way your body tenses just slightly, like you’re gearing up for some sort of protest. But before you can speak, he continues.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, his voice softer now but still firm. “You don’t need to worry about school, or work, or any of that. I’ve got more than enough for the both of us.” He pauses, watching your reaction, waiting for the inevitable pushback. “Why would you bother with a degree when you have me?”

There’s a flicker of something in your eyes — uncertainty, maybe even hesitation. You open your mouth to say something, but the words die on your tongue. Lando’s hand moves to rest on your thigh, his fingers brushing against your skin, a silent reminder of the control he holds.

“I … I don’t know, I just …”

“You don’t need to worry about it,” Lando interrupts, his voice smooth, reassuring, yet unyielding. “I’ve got everything handled. I’ll take care of you. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.”

You swallow hard, trying to process his words, trying to reconcile the offer of security with the dream you’ve been working toward. “But I like studying …”

Lando’s hand moves down your thigh, his grip tightening slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to make a point. “Do you?” He murmurs, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “Or are you just doing it because you think you need to?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question, and he takes advantage of the moment. His hand slips further down, his fingers brushing between your legs, a slow, deliberate movement that leaves no room for argument.

“Lando-”

“Hush,” he murmurs, his lips curling into a faint smile as he leans down, his mouth hovering just over yours. “I don’t want to hear any excuses. You don’t need that degree. You’ve got me now.”

His fingers move with practiced ease, and you gasp, your body betraying you as you react to his touch. Any coherent thought slips away as he works you over, your head falling back against the pillow, your body arching into him.

“You’re going to quit,” Lando says, his voice calm but firm, a quiet command that brooks no argument. “You’re not going back to school.”

You shake your head, or maybe you don’t — it’s hard to tell anymore, everything feels hazy, your mind clouded by the sensations coursing through you. But Lando doesn’t care. He’s already decided.

“Say it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear as his fingers press harder, drawing another breathless moan from your lips. “You’re going to quit.”

“I … I don’t …” Your voice is weak, shaky, barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing.

Lando’s grip tightens, and he moves his body over yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you, reminding you of who’s in control.

“Say it,” he repeats, his tone sharper now, more insistent. “You’re going to quit.”

Your breath hitches, your body trembling beneath him as you struggle to form a coherent response. But he doesn’t let up. His touch is relentless, pushing you closer and closer to the edge, until you can’t think of anything but the way he’s making you feel.

“Lando … please …”

“Say it,” he demands again, his voice a low growl. “Tell me you’re quitting. Tell me you don’t need that degree.”

Your body arches beneath him, your mind a blur of confusion and pleasure, and finally, finally, the words tumble from your lips, broken and breathless.

“I … I’ll quit. I’ll quit.”

Lando smirks, satisfied, as he watches you unravel beneath him, your body trembling with the force of your release. He doesn’t stop, not yet, not until he’s sure you’re completely spent, until there’s nothing left of you but the quiet, trembling aftermath.

When it’s over, he pulls back slightly, his hand moving to cup your jaw as he looks down at you, his eyes dark and possessive. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your lips. “That’s what I like to hear.”

You don’t respond, too exhausted, too overwhelmed to speak, and Lando chuckles softly, his hand slipping from your jaw to rest on your chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of your breath.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says quietly, his voice low and soothing now, as if he’s trying to comfort you. “You don’t need to worry about anything anymore. I’ve got you.”

There’s a part of you that still wants to argue, still wants to push back against his words, but it’s a small, quiet part, drowned out by the overwhelming sense of relief and security that Lando offers.

And maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

Maybe you don’t need that degree. Maybe you don’t need to worry about your future, because Lando is your future now.

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of his embrace, the steady, reassuring presence of him beside you.

“I’ll take care of you,” Lando whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. “Always.”

And in that moment, with his arms wrapped around you, it’s easy to believe him.

***

Lando’s fingers drum impatiently on the steering wheel of his McLaren as he pulls into the parking lot of your university. It’s a cloudy morning, the kind of gray that matches his mood.

He doesn’t want to be here — certainly doesn’t want to waste time with the formalities of this. But he knows it has to be done. He glances at you from the corner of his eye as the car comes to a smooth stop, his grip tightening for a moment.

You’ve been quiet since you left the penthouse, a subtle tension hanging in the air between the two of you. Lando notices the way your hands fidget in your lap, the way your gaze flicks nervously towards the university buildings. He doesn’t like it. You’ve already agreed to this; you’d already said you’d quit. This is just tying up loose ends, nothing more.

He shuts off the engine and leans back, turning his full attention to you. “You ready?”

You hesitate, and he doesn’t miss it. A small nod, your lips pressed together in uncertainty. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Good,” Lando says firmly, not giving any room for further discussion. He unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car, coming around to open your door for you. His hand slides possessively to the small of your back as he guides you toward the administration building. “Let’s get this over with.”

The university halls feel cold, sterile, as the two of you walk through them. It’s early, and the place hasn’t fully come alive yet. But the walls are lined with student posters, the smell of textbooks, and the quiet hum of academia that fills the space feels completely foreign to Lando. This world doesn’t fit you, he thinks. Not anymore. You belong with him.

The Dean’s office is tucked away in the corner of the building, and when you reach it, Lando notices how your steps slow slightly. His grip tightens on your waist, pulling you closer. “You’re sure about this, yes?”

You glance up at him, uncertainty flickering in your eyes for the briefest second. But then you nod. “I … yes. I’m sure.”

Lando smirks, satisfied. You’re just nervous, that’s all. He’s not worried. Not really.

The secretary outside the office lets you both in with a nod, and the Dean, a man in his early fifties with glasses perched on his nose, looks up from behind a stack of papers. He smiles at you as you enter, but his expression quickly shifts when he notices Lando standing beside you, his arm firmly around your waist.

“Miss Y/L/N,” the Dean says, his voice carrying a note of pleasant surprise. “What brings you here today?”

You shift awkwardly, glancing at Lando for a moment before speaking. “I … I’ve decided to withdraw from my program.”

The Dean’s brow furrows in confusion. He leans back in his chair, folding his hands on his desk. “Withdraw? Are you sure? You’re one of our most promising students. Your work in economics has been exemplary.”

Lando feels the slight tremor in your body, senses the moment of hesitation as you start to open your mouth, your gaze flicking back to the Dean. The man’s words clearly have an effect on you, and Lando doesn’t like it. His jaw clenches.

“I … I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” you start, your voice quiet. “I’m just not sure if this is the right path for me anymore.”

“Nonsense,” the Dean says, shaking his head. “You’ve made such incredible progress. You have a natural talent, and it would be a waste to throw it all away. You’re capable of so much more than just-”

“She’s not wasting anything,” Lando cuts in, his voice sharp and cold. He glares at the Dean, daring him to continue. The room falls silent for a moment, the tension palpable. “She’s made her decision.”

The Dean’s eyes flicker between the two of you, clearly noting the way Lando’s grip tightens around your waist, the way his presence dominates the space. He frowns, clearly displeased but unwilling to press further. “Miss Y/L/N,” he says carefully, “are you certain this is what you want?”

You hesitate, biting your lip, and Lando feels his frustration bubble up. He leans down, his lips close to your ear, his voice a quiet command. “Tell him you’ve already decided.”

You swallow hard, your body stiffening slightly before you nod again. “I’ve already decided.”

The Dean sighs, clearly reluctant, but he reaches for the necessary paperwork nonetheless. “If you’re sure,” he mutters, sliding the forms across the desk toward you. “You’ll need to sign here, and I’ll need a statement of withdrawal.”

As you reach for the pen, Lando keeps his arm firmly around your waist, watching carefully. He can still feel your unease, the way your hand trembles slightly as you begin to sign your name. But he knows this is the right decision. You don’t need this place. You need him.

The Dean watches silently, his lips pressed into a thin line, clearly displeased. “It’s a shame,” he says after a moment, his eyes lingering on you. “You had such a bright future ahead of you. I hope you’re not making a mistake.”

Lando’s jaw tightens. He can see the way your fingers falter over the paper, the way the Dean’s words make you second-guess yourself. Before you can say anything, Lando steps in again, his voice cutting through the tension.

“She’s not,” Lando says firmly, his eyes locked on the Dean with a warning edge. “She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.”

The Dean doesn’t reply, only nods curtly as he gathers the signed forms. Lando watches as you hand them back, your face a mix of emotions — confusion, doubt, and something else he can’t quite place.

As soon as the paperwork is done, Lando wastes no time. He pulls you close to him, practically ushering you out of the office. You cast one last glance at the Dean, but Lando’s hand tightens on your waist, his fingers pressing into your side in a way that leaves no room for lingering thoughts.

Once you’re out in the hallway, Lando’s tone softens slightly, though the control in his voice remains. “It’s done. No turning back now.”

You nod, but he can tell your thoughts are still drifting, still caught up in what the Dean said. That won’t do. Lando knows he needs to distract you, shift your focus back where it belongs — on him.

“There’s an Hermès store nearby,” Lando says casually as the two of you walk toward the parking lot. His tone is light, almost conversational, but there’s an underlying purpose behind his words. “I’ve been thinking … you’d look adorable with one of their twilly scarves tied in your hair. Maybe even a matching Birkin.” He glances down at you, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What do you think?”

You blink, momentarily thrown by the abrupt change in topic. “I … I don’t know.”

Lando’s grip on your waist loosens slightly as he moves his hand up to brush your hair back from your face. “Trust me. You’d love it. And I’d love seeing you with a cute little bow tied in your hair. It would suit you.”

You can’t help but smile, though it’s small and unsure. The shift in conversation, the mention of luxury, seems to distract you enough, pulling your thoughts away from the earlier doubt. That’s exactly what Lando wants. He needs you focused on him, not on whatever misplaced ambitions the Dean tried to stir up.

“I’ll take you shopping,” Lando continues smoothly as he opens the passenger door of his car for you. “We’ll find something perfect. After all, you deserve it.”

He watches as you slide into the seat, your expression still tinged with uncertainty but softened by the promise of something new, something exciting. Lando can feel the satisfaction curling inside him. He’s got you exactly where he wants you.

As he rounds the car and slides into the driver’s seat, he shoots you a quick glance, his hand already moving to rest on your thigh, a silent reminder of his control. “You won’t regret any of this,” he says quietly, his voice filled with certainty. “You’re mine now. I’ll make sure you have everything you need.”

You don’t respond, but the way you lean into his touch tells him all he needs to know. He starts the engine, the roar of the McLaren filling the air as he pulls out of the university parking lot.

***

Each day seems to fall into a rhythm. Lando likes control, and now he’s exerting it over your life, molding it to fit his own. You’re no longer rushing to university or working long hours at his company. Instead, you’re left to fill your days with something else, though Lando never lets it be anything without him at the center of it.

It didn’t take long for you to find a new routine. It started the first day after you withdrew from school. You spent the morning pacing around Lando’s penthouse, the sprawling space eerily quiet without him there. His presence filled the place even when he wasn’t around, but it still felt empty without him.

By noon, you found yourself in the kitchen, your hands moving on instinct, putting together a lunch that reminded you of simpler times. You thought about surprising him at work, the idea sparking a tiny thrill in you. Maybe he’d like the surprise.

You had no idea how much he would love it.

Now, you’re in his office every day without fail. Each morning is spent in careful preparation — choosing the perfect outfit, something that Lando would appreciate. You know how much he loves your bows, so you always make sure to tie one into your hair. Your dresses are carefully selected from the expansive closet he’s stocked for you, all designer, all perfectly tailored to accentuate your innocence, your softness. It’s what he likes. It’s what keeps him satisfied.

Today is no different. You step off the elevator into his building, a picnic basket swinging delicately in your hand. The security guard already knows you by name, offering a polite nod as you pass by, though you can’t miss the curious glance he throws at the basket.

When you reach Lando’s office, his assistant greets you with a knowing smile. “He’s in a meeting,” she tells you, her voice pleasant. “But you can go in. He always makes time for you.”

You smile back, nodding your thanks, and push open the door to his private office. The space is immaculate, modern, with sleek lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city. It screams power, control, everything that Lando is.

He’s seated at his desk, deep in conversation with a group of executives who are standing across from him, discussing something about market shares. But the moment you step inside, his eyes flick up to meet yours, and everything else in the room seems to fall away.

“Gentlemen,” Lando interrupts smoothly, not bothering to hide the way his gaze lingers on you. “That’ll be all for now.”

There’s a moment of hesitation from the executives, confusion flashing across their faces at the abrupt end to the meeting. But Lando’s tone leaves no room for debate. They gather their papers, nodding respectfully as they file out, each of them casting curious glances your way as they leave.

Once the door clicks shut, Lando leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes you in. The picnic basket, the way your dress hugs your figure, the bow in your hair — it’s all exactly as he likes it.

“Come here,” he orders, his voice low but commanding. You don’t hesitate, crossing the room toward him, your heels clicking softly against the marble floor.

Lando doesn’t say anything as you set the basket down on the edge of his desk, but you can feel the intensity of his gaze as he watches every move you make. He doesn’t even look at the food; his focus is entirely on you.

He reaches out, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling you closer until you’re standing between his legs, his chair swiveling slightly as he turns toward you. His other hand moves to the hem of your dress, his fingers brushing lightly against the fabric.

“You always know just how to dress for me, don’t you?” His voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it, a possessive undertone that sends a shiver down your spine.

You nod, swallowing hard. “I thought you might be hungry,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lando’s smirk widens, his hand sliding higher up your thigh, under the skirt of your dress. “Oh, I am,” he murmurs, his fingers grazing the lace of your underwear. “But I’m not interested in whatever you’ve brought in that basket.”

You bite your lip, your heart racing as his touch becomes more insistent. This is the routine now, the unspoken agreement. You bring him lunch, and he makes sure to have his appetizer first. His hands are all over you before you’ve even had a chance to set the table.

His thumb presses against the lace, and you gasp, your body instinctively arching toward him. “Lando …”

He chuckles, pulling you down onto his lap, positioning you so that you’re straddling him, your dress riding up as his hands find your hips. “You know what I want,” he says, his lips brushing against your ear. “And you’re going to give it to me, aren’t you?”

You nod, your breath coming in shallow gasps as his hands roam over your body, tugging at the fabric of your dress, pulling it up higher. His fingers find the bow tied around your waist, and he tugs at it, loosening it until the dress falls open slightly.

“You look so innocent,” Lando whispers, his voice dark with desire. “But you’re mine, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your hands gripping his shoulders as his lips find your neck, kissing and biting softly.

Lando growls softly in satisfaction, his hands moving with practiced ease as he takes what he wants, as he always does. You’re used to this by now, the way he demands control, the way he always takes his fill of you before anything else. And part of you craves it — craves the way he makes you feel, like you’re the only thing that matters in his world.

After he’s had his way with you, his hands still lingering possessively on your hips, Lando finally leans back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Now,” he says, his voice still husky, “what did you bring me for lunch?”

You’re still breathless, your body trembling slightly as you try to regain your composure. You reach for the picnic basket, opening it to reveal the meal you’d spent the morning preparing — a simple but elegant spread of sandwiches, fruit, and pastries.

Lando watches you, his smirk never fading as you set everything up on his desk. “You spoil me,” he murmurs, reaching for one of the sandwiches.

You smile, trying to steady your breathing as you watch him take a bite, his eyes still fixed on you. “I just thought you might like something different,” you say softly.

He chuckles, swallowing his food before leaning back in his chair, his gaze predatory. “Oh, I do. I like it very much.”

As he eats, you sit across from him, watching as he devours the food you’ve made. There’s something intimate about it, the way he looks at you, the way his hand casually rests on your thigh as if he can’t go a moment without touching you.

When he’s finished, Lando leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies you. “I want you to keep doing this,” he says after a moment. “Bringing me lunch every day.”

You blink, surprised. “Every day?”

He nods, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your thigh. “I like having you here. I like knowing you’re close.” His gaze darkens slightly. “And I like having you as an appetizer before the main meal.”

Your cheeks flush at his words, and Lando’s smirk widens. He leans forward, his hand moving to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “You’re mine, remember? And I always get what I want.”

You nod, your heart racing as you meet his intense gaze. “Yes, Lando.”

His smirk softens into something more tender, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Good girl.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. You stay with him, lingering in his office as he works, your presence a constant distraction for him. Every now and then, he glances up from his papers to watch you, his eyes filled with a dark, possessive hunger that never seems to fade.

And when the workday finally ends, Lando takes you back to the penthouse, where the cycle begins again.

***

Lando is lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, his body pressed close to yours, his hand idly tracing circles on your bare skin. The mid-morning sunlight filters through the curtains of his penthouse bedroom, casting a soft glow over the room. It's quiet, peaceful, the kind of quiet that only comes with mornings like this — when the world outside is busy, but inside, it's just the two of you.

His lips are on your neck, warm and gentle, brushing against your skin with lazy affection. You can feel the way his breath hitches slightly, how his hand drifts lower, over the curve of your waist, until it comes to rest on your stomach. His fingers spread out across your skin, his touch firm yet tender.

“Baby,” Lando murmurs, his voice deep and hushed, as if he’s talking to himself as much as to you. He lets the word linger in the air, the possessiveness in his tone unmistakable. “You’d look so pretty with a baby.”

The words catch you off guard. You feel your heart skip a beat, a rush of warmth spreading through you, but there’s also confusion, a flicker of uncertainty. “Lando,” you breathe, turning your head slightly to look at him.

He doesn’t stop. His hand stays on your stomach, gently pressing against the flatness there, as if imagining it full, imagining you carrying his child. His lips find your jawline, kissing softly, his voice a low rumble against your skin. “You’d look perfect. So beautiful.”

You blink, trying to process what he’s saying. The tenderness in his voice is at odds with the intensity of his words. “A baby?” You ask quietly, unsure of what to say.

Lando’s eyes flick up to meet yours, his expression serious, though there’s a softness in his gaze. “Yeah,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “My baby with my baby.”

There’s a pause, the weight of his words hanging between you, and you feel a tightening in your chest. You’ve never really talked about this — about the future, about where this relationship is headed. You’ve been so caught up in the present, in the way Lando makes you feel, in the way he consumes every part of your life, that you haven’t allowed yourself to think too far ahead.

But now, he’s thinking for both of you. His mind is already made up.

“Lando, I-” You start to speak, but he cuts you off with a gentle kiss, his lips capturing yours in a way that steals your breath, that makes it impossible to think straight.

He pulls back, just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “Don’t think too much about it,” he whispers, his tone coaxing, soothing. “Just imagine it. You, with a little bump, carrying our baby. Doesn’t that sound good?”

You swallow hard, your mind racing. It’s overwhelming, the way he’s speaking, like he’s already decided this for you. His hand is still on your stomach, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, and it’s as if he’s trying to imprint the idea onto you — his baby, your body, his future.

“Lando, that’s … that’s a big decision,” you manage to say, though your voice is soft, tentative.

He smiles at you, that confident, easy smile that always makes your heart flutter. “I know,” he says, his voice calm, unhurried. “But it’s the right one. I want this. I want you to have my baby. I want you to be mine completely.”

His words send a shiver through you, both thrilling and terrifying at the same time. He’s never been shy about claiming you, about making it clear that you belong to him in every way. But this feels different. This feels permanent.

“I …” You try again, but once more, Lando silences you, his mouth moving against yours, his kiss more insistent this time, more possessive.

His hand slips down, over your thigh, pulling you closer to him as he deepens the kiss, his body pressing against yours. He’s making it hard to think, hard to focus on anything other than the feel of him, the way he takes control with such ease.

“You trust me, don’t you?” He murmurs against your lips, his hand cupping your cheek as he pulls back slightly to look at you, his eyes dark and intense.

You nod without thinking, your heart racing. Of course you trust him. He’s always been there, always known exactly what to do, what you need. But this … this is different.

“I do,” you whisper, your voice shaky, unsure of where this is going.

Lando’s smile softens, his hand sliding back to your stomach, pressing there again, more firmly this time. “Then trust me with this, baby. You’d be perfect. You know that, right? You were made for this — for me.”

The possessiveness in his voice is unmistakable, and it sends a jolt through you. He’s always been dominant, always in control, but this feels deeper, more intense. It’s not just about the moment — it’s about the future he’s already planned out for you, the future he’s pulling you into without hesitation.

“Imagine it,” he says again, his voice dropping lower, his lips brushing against your ear. “You, carrying my child. Everyone would see it, would know you’re mine. You’d be so beautiful. So perfect.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel the weight of his words settling over you, wrapping around you like a tight embrace. The idea is both terrifying and intoxicating, and you don’t know how to respond.

Lando doesn’t give you the chance to. His hand moves again, this time slipping lower, between your thighs, his fingers pressing against you in a way that makes your mind go blank, your body responding instinctively to his touch.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispers, his voice soothing as his fingers tease you, his touch both gentle and firm. “I’ll take care of everything. You don’t need to think about it. Just let me take care of you, like I always do.”

You gasp softly, your body arching toward him, and Lando’s smirk widens as he watches you unravel under his touch, his hand working expertly to drive you closer and closer to the edge.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his lips pressing against your neck, his voice a low growl. “That’s my girl. So good for me.”

Your mind is spinning, overwhelmed by the intensity of his words, his touch, the way he’s controlling the entire moment. And yet, there’s a part of you that wants to give in, to let him take control, to let him decide everything, because it feels safe, it feels right.

Lando’s grip tightens slightly on your stomach, his thumb brushing over your skin in a possessive way. “You’re going to be perfect, baby. You’ll be mine completely. You already are.”

His words sink deep into you, the finality of them making your heart race. He’s not asking. He’s telling you. This is what he wants, what he’s decided for both of you. And in this moment, with his body pressed against yours, his hand between your thighs, his lips on your skin, it’s impossible to argue.

You’re his, and you always will be.

***

Lando's eyes are fixed on you, standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, bathed in the late afternoon sunlight. The golden light hits your skin, casting you in a soft glow, but all he can focus on is the slight curve of your stomach, the undeniable proof of the life growing inside you.

His child.

You’re wearing one of those dresses he loves, the fabric soft and flowing, cinched just below your breasts to accommodate the growing bump. It’s a subtle change for now, but Lando notices it like it’s the only thing in the world that matters. The way you move, the way your hands instinctively rest on your stomach sometimes, like you’re protecting what belongs to him. He can’t take his eyes off you.

You turn slightly, catching him watching you from across the room, and your lips curve into a soft, shy smile. “What?” You ask, voice light, but there’s a hint of nervousness in your tone, like you’re not sure what he’s thinking.

Lando doesn't answer right away. Instead, he walks toward you, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving your bump. When he finally reaches you, his hand moves to rest on your stomach, the warmth of your skin radiating through the fabric of your dress. He feels it under his palm — the slight roundness, the beginning of the change, the proof of his claim on you.

“My baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and possessive, the words more for himself than for you.

You look up at him, a flicker of emotion in your eyes. There’s still that innocence, that soft vulnerability that Lando can’t get enough of. Less than a year ago, you were untouched, unclaimed by any man, and now — now, you’re carrying his child. The thought makes something primal stir deep inside him, a fierce sense of ownership and pride.

Lando’s thumb brushes lightly over your stomach, tracing the curve as if memorizing the way your body is changing. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he says, his voice rough around the edges. His eyes flick back to yours, intense, as he continues, “I always knew you’d look perfect with my baby growing inside you.”

A flush spreads across your cheeks, your lips parting slightly, but you don’t say anything. Lando knows this is overwhelming for you — everything about him, about this relationship, about how quickly everything has changed. But that’s exactly how he wanted it. He wasn’t going to give you time to second-guess anything. You belong to him now, and there’s no going back.

He kneels in front of you without warning, one hand still resting on your stomach while the other grips your hip, pulling you slightly closer. His breath hitches as his eyes level with the slight swell, and he presses his lips softly to your stomach, placing slow, deliberate kisses on the fabric of your dress. His baby, inside you. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

Lando looks up at you from where he’s kneeling, his eyes dark with intensity. “I still can’t believe it,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “Less than a year ago, you hadn’t even been touched by a man. And now …” He trails off, his hand moving to press against the bump again. “Now, you’re full with my child.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and you swallow hard, clearly unsure of how to respond. Lando’s always been intense, always so certain, so in control of everything between you. But this — this is something different. This is forever.

He stands back up, his hands sliding up your sides, holding you close as he towers over you. His thumb brushes along your jawline, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “Do you even understand what this means?” He asks quietly, his tone firm but not unkind. “You’re mine. Completely. No one else will ever have you like this.”

You nod, a bit shakily, and Lando smirks. He knows it’s a lot for you to take in, but that’s exactly how he wants it. He wants you overwhelmed, completely consumed by him, by the life he’s building for you both.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, and there’s a softness in his voice now, a gentleness that he only shows you in these quiet moments. “You’re doing so well. Carrying my child, making our future.”

His hand moves back to your stomach, rubbing small circles as he continues, “I always knew you’d be perfect like this. My baby with my baby.” He chuckles softly, leaning down to kiss you on the forehead. “You’re going to be the most beautiful mother.”

You lean into him, letting out a soft sigh, and Lando feels something warm unfurl in his chest. He likes seeing you like this — soft, pliant, completely under his control. He likes knowing that every part of you belongs to him, from your mind to your body to the life growing inside of you.

“I want you to rest more,” he says suddenly, his tone taking on that commanding edge again. “No more worrying about anything. I’ll take care of everything.”

You blink up at him, a slight frown crossing your face. “I don’t worry, Lando,” you say softly, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“You do,” he insists, his hand tightening just a bit on your hip. “You don’t have to, though. That’s not your job anymore. Your only job is to take care of our baby. Got it?”

There’s a pause, and you nod again, this time more slowly, like you’re trying to process what he’s saying. Lando watches your expression carefully, knowing that you’re still adjusting to this life with him. But he also knows that he’s not giving you a choice. This is your life now — his life.

Lando leans down again, pressing another kiss to your stomach before straightening up. “I want you to rest now,” he says, his voice softening. “Come on, let’s go lie down.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then you let him guide you to the bedroom, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back as you walk. When you reach the bed, he helps you lie down, pulling the covers over you with a tenderness that contrasts with the intensity of his words.

He sits on the edge of the bed, watching you as you settle in, his hand resting lightly on your stomach again. “I’ll stay here for a bit,” he murmurs, his eyes dark and unreadable. “I just want to be close to you. To our baby.”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to. Lando knows that you’re still processing everything, still adjusting to the life he��s created for you. But he’s patient. He’ll wait. Because he knows, deep down, that you’re his. Completely and utterly his. And soon, there will be no part of your life that isn’t touched by him, controlled by him.

He smiles to himself, brushing his thumb lightly over your skin as he leans down to kiss your forehead once more. “Rest now,” he whispers. “You’re doing so well.”

And as you close your eyes, Lando stays there, watching over you, his hand never leaving your stomach, his thoughts already spinning with plans for the future. You and him, and the life you’re building together. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

And it’s only just beginning.

***

The lecture hall buzzes with quiet anticipation, students shifting in their seats, eyes on the door as they wait for the keynote speaker. Lando strides through the entrance with effortless authority, his tailored suit emphasizing his power. Every step he takes commands attention, but his focus isn't on the sea of students. It's on you.

He keeps you close to his side, his arm protectively wrapped around your waist, guiding you through the lecture hall. You're heavily pregnant now, your rounded belly making it harder to move with the same ease as before. Lando notices every wince, every slight shift in your weight, and his grip tightens, steadying you.

“You alright?” He murmurs, leaning down slightly, his voice low but firm. He stops walking as you pause, his thumb brushing against your side in a rare gesture of tenderness.

You nod, offering him a small smile, but Lando isn’t convinced. He’s always watching, always reading you, making sure you’re taken care of. He doesn’t want you out of his sight, especially not now, not when you’re carrying his child — his future. It’s why he insisted you come with him to this keynote speech, even if it meant pulling you away from the quiet of home.

“I don’t want you far from me, baby,” he’d said that morning, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You stay by my side today.”

And now, as he guides you to the front row of the lecture hall, he’s making sure you’re positioned just right. The front seat, where he can keep an eye on you, where no one else can intrude. Lando gestures for you to sit, his eyes dark and serious as you lower yourself into the chair, careful of your bump. He crouches down in front of you, smoothing a hand over your knee before leaning in, his lips close to your ear.

“If you need anything,” he says, his voice quiet but commanding, “you call me. I’m right here. Don’t even think about getting up on your own.”

You nod again, feeling his intensity radiating off him, and he gives your knee one last squeeze before standing up, adjusting his suit jacket with precision. He takes the stage with ease, the shift from boyfriend to powerful CEO seamless.

Lando begins speaking, his voice steady and commanding, captivating the room effortlessly. The students sit up straighter, hanging on every word, as he talks about leadership, success, and the ruthlessness it takes to survive in the world of business. But every now and then, his eyes flicker to you, checking, ensuring you’re still there, still safe.

You sit quietly, watching him, one hand resting on your bump, and the baby kicks softly against your palm. The speech is engaging, and you’re proud of him, but there’s a slight discomfort creeping in — the weight of your pregnancy, the strange sensation of being back here, in your old university, surrounded by classmates who wouldn’t recognize the person you are now.

After Lando finishes his speech, the applause echoes through the hall, loud and appreciative, but it barely reaches you. You’re too caught up in your thoughts, in the reality of how much has changed. Less than a year ago, you were sitting in one of these very seats, studying, dreaming about a future you thought would be on your own terms. Now, here you are, with Lando's baby growing inside you, a future that looks nothing like what you imagined.

As the students begin filing out, Lando steps down from the stage, immediately walking over to you. His hand is on your shoulder before you can say anything, and his presence instantly makes you feel safe, grounded.

“Let’s get you home, baby,” he says softly, his tone gentle but firm. “I don’t want you out for too long. You need to rest.”

But just as you start to stand, you overhear a conversation behind you, voices you vaguely recognize — former classmates, their tones incredulous, like they can’t believe what they’re seeing.

“Is that Y/N?” One of them asks, the disbelief clear in her voice.

“Yeah, but … wow. She’s changed so much,” another replies. “I mean, look at her. She’s pregnant — and with Lando Norris? How did that even happen?”

You freeze for a moment, uncertainty creeping in as their words sink in. Of course, you knew people would notice, would talk, but hearing it said out loud — how different you are now — makes your heart race a little. They don’t know the half of it. They don’t know how your life shifted so drastically, how Lando swept you into his world and never let go.

Lando’s eyes harden as he catches the exchange. He glares at the group of students, his expression darkening. The possessiveness that always simmers under the surface rises to the forefront. He tightens his arm around your waist as if to make a statement — one that’s loud and clear.

Without breaking his gaze from the group, he speaks, voice low and controlled. “We should stop by Burberry after this,” he says, leaning close to you, his hand pressing against your back, anchoring you to him. “I’ve been thinking we need more clothes for the baby. Maybe some cute outfits with little matching accessories. What do you think, baby?”

His words are meant to distract you, to pull you away from any lingering doubts those comments might have sparked. You look up at him, meeting his intense gaze, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you should feel reassured or overwhelmed by how much control Lando always has over every situation.

The students fall silent, quickly averting their gaze as Lando’s attention stays fixed on you. There’s no mistaking his message — Lando is in control. Of you. Of your life. Of everything. And no one else’s opinion matters.

You swallow hard, nodding softly as you lean into him. “Yeah, that sounds nice,” you murmur, your voice quiet, unsure.

Lando's eyes soften slightly as he looks down at you, clearly pleased with your response. He cups your cheek briefly before turning to lead you out of the hall, his arm still firmly around your waist.

As you walk together through the corridors of your old university, you can’t help but feel a strange mix of emotions — nostalgia, confusion, but also a deep, almost unsettling sense of belonging. It’s as if you no longer fit into the life you once had here, and the only place you truly belong is at Lando’s side, under his protection, within his world.

Once outside, Lando stops, glancing down at you as you lean against him. “You alright, baby?” He asks, his voice softer now, more intimate.

You nod, though the tightness in your chest lingers. “Yeah,” you whisper, but your mind drifts back to the students, to their words. How much you’ve changed.

Lando studies you for a moment before brushing his thumb over your cheek. “You don’t need to worry about what anyone thinks,” he says, his voice firm but gentle. “Your life is here, with me. That’s all that matters.”

He kisses your forehead, the gesture unexpectedly tender, and pulls you closer. “Let’s go to Burberry. We’ll pick out something nice for our baby.” His hand moves down to brush lightly over your bump, possessive and affectionate all at once. “And maybe something for you too.”

You lean into him as he guides you toward his car, trying to shake the strange unease that’s settled in your chest. It’s true — you’ve changed so much in such a short time. But with Lando by your side, there’s no room for second-guessing.

Your life, your future, your identity — it’s all wrapped up in him now. And there’s no turning back.

***

Lando sits behind his massive desk, the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office casting a warm glow across the room. He glances at his watch, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. It’s almost time. Every day around this hour, like clockwork, you arrive at his office with a homemade lunch, dressed in one of your designer dresses and kitten heels, looking as perfect as ever. But lately, there’s an extra reason for his anticipation. A tiny reason.

He hears the familiar knock on the door before it creaks open. His heart, normally steady and guarded, stirs a little, as it always does when you walk into the room. And there you are, with that ever-present bow in your hair, a smaller version of it perched atop your baby daughter’s head as you hold her close.

“There are my girls,” Lando says, his voice low, but with a warmth reserved only for you and your daughter. He stands from his desk, smoothing out his suit as he crosses the room in long, confident strides.

Your daughter, barely a year old, gurgles happily as Lando approaches. He reaches out and takes her from your arms with ease, holding her in one arm while his other hand reaches out to rest possessively on your lower back. His thumb brushes against the silk of your dress, the simple touch staking his claim over you, over everything you are.

“Daddy’s been waiting,” he says softly, his gaze flicking down to the baby in his arms before he turns his attention back to you. “And what did my girls bring me today?”

You smile up at him, a little breathless, always affected by the sheer presence of him. “Your favorite,” you say, lifting the picnic basket a bit. “And something new I wanted to try.”

Lando’s dark eyes sparkle with something unreadable, though you’re sure it’s a mix of amusement and affection. He loves these moments. These tiny, perfect slices of domesticity. He’d once filled his life with the best of everything — lavish lunches from Michelin-starred restaurants, anything he wanted at the snap of his fingers. But none of it compares to this. To you, his beautiful wife-to-be, and the child you both created together.

Without a word, Lando steps away from you just long enough to sit down on the edge of his massive desk, setting your daughter on his lap. She immediately grabs for the bow on his tie, her tiny fingers tugging at it while she babbles incoherently. Lando laughs — a sound so rare that even you pause to savor it.

“She’s got good taste,” he comments, adjusting her tiny hand so she doesn’t pull the knot loose. His eyes meet yours again, and you know that he’s shifting the focus back to you. He always does. “You two make quite the pair, you know that?”

You blush a little, smoothing the front of your dress as you walk over, the baby’s gaze following you. “I think she takes after her daddy,” you tease softly, though there’s truth in your words. Your daughter’s eyes are the same shade of bright green as Lando’s, her expressions sometimes eerily similar to his — calm, calculating, but always with a spark of something mischievous beneath the surface.

Lando’s expression softens, though the control, the dominance that defines him, never wavers. He slides off the desk and takes your hand, pulling you toward him until you’re standing between his legs, his chest close enough to brush against yours.

“Do you know how perfect this is?” He asks quietly, the words intimate, meant just for you. His hand, the one not balancing the baby, comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the outline of your lips. “You. Her. This …everything.”

You tilt your head slightly, leaning into his touch, feeling the familiar tug of his pull on your entire being. There’s something in the way he looks at you, something that both grounds you and makes you feel like you’re floating.

“I couldn’t ask for more,” you whisper, meaning every word.

Lando’s eyes narrow slightly, that smirk you know all too well tugging at the corner of his lips. “Oh, but I can. And I will.”

You blink, confused for a moment, but then you see the glint of metal as his hand slips into his pocket. He pulls out a small, black velvet box and opens it in one smooth motion. The ring inside is enormous, the diamond catching the sunlight streaming in from the windows and casting shimmering reflections across the room.

Lando doesn’t ask. He doesn’t get down on one knee. That’s not his style. There’s no question in his mind, and there won’t be in yours, either.

“We’re getting married,” he says, his tone leaving no room for discussion, no space for hesitation. His eyes are locked on yours, the weight of his words sinking in slowly, like gravity pulling you deeper into his orbit. He’s not making a suggestion. He’s making a decision. For both of you. Just like everything else in your life together.

Your breath catches as he takes your left hand, sliding the ring onto your finger. It’s heavy, almost too heavy, but then again, isn’t everything with Lando like that? His presence, his control, his love. All of it weighs on you in ways that sometimes feel overwhelming, but at the same time, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Lando, I …” Your words falter as you stare down at the ring, a mixture of emotions swirling inside you. Excitement, disbelief, love. “I wasn’t expecting …”

“You don’t have to expect anything,” Lando interrupts smoothly, his hand still wrapped around yours, anchoring you to him. “I make the decisions for us. And I’ve decided it’s time. I want you as my wife.”

Your heart races at the finality in his voice, at the way he always seems to know exactly what you need before you even realize it yourself.

You look up at him, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something — vulnerability, maybe — in your expression. But Lando catches it, and his hand moves to the back of your neck, pulling you close until your foreheads are almost touching.

“Trust me,” he murmurs, his voice low, intimate. “This is right. We’re right.”

You nod, the words catching in your throat as emotion wells up inside you. “Yes,” you finally whisper, your voice shaky but certain.

Lando’s smirk deepens as he presses a kiss to your forehead, then to your lips, a soft, possessive brush of his mouth against yours.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, the praise making your heart flutter.

Your daughter gurgles in Lando’s lap, her tiny fingers still clutching his tie, and he chuckles softly, pulling back just enough to glance down at her.

“See that, little one?” He says, his voice shifting into something softer, more playful as he speaks to your daughter. “Mummy’s going to be Mrs. Norris soon. Isn’t that right, baby?”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound light and filled with happiness, as you reach out to stroke your daughter’s cheek. She coos at you both, completely oblivious to the monumental moment that just unfolded.

Lando shifts his grip on her, settling her more comfortably in his arms before his eyes meet yours again. There’s a heat in his gaze now, something deeper, more possessive. “We’ll have a celebration soon,” he says, his tone firm. “But today, I want you all to myself. No distractions. Just us.”

Your pulse quickens at the implication behind his words, and you feel a familiar warmth spread through you as you lean into him, your fingers curling around the front of his shirt.

Lando tilts your chin up, pressing another soft kiss to your lips, and for a moment, the world outside disappears. It’s just you, Lando, and your daughter — the family you never imagined, but the one you wouldn’t trade for anything.

“Let’s have lunch,” you finally say, breaking the silence with a soft smile. “I made all your favorites.”

Lando’s eyes darken with something unspoken, but he nods, the smirk still playing at the corner of his lips. “After,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “Right now, I want to spend time with my girls.”

And with that, he pulls you even closer, the weight of his presence wrapping around you like the most precious gift of all.

***

Lando lies in bed with you curled up against his side, his arm draped possessively around your waist, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. The room is dark and quiet, save for the soft hum of the city outside the penthouse windows and the occasional faint sound from the baby monitor on the nightstand, signaling your daughter’s peaceful sleep in the nursery next door. It’s a rare moment of calm, one of the few times when Lando’s dominant presence seems softer, more intimate.

But even in moments like these, where his touch is gentle and his voice low, that control is never far beneath the surface. It’s in the way his arm tightens slightly around you, holding you close as if he can’t bear to let you go, not even for a moment. It’s in the way his eyes, though closed, seem always watchful, always aware of you, of every movement you make.

You let out a soft sigh, your body fully relaxed against his. It’s been a long day, but a good one, filled with moments that have become your new normal — bringing Lando lunch at the office, watching him melt when he sees you and your daughter, his two girls, as he always calls you. The rhythm of your life has shifted since you became a family, but Lando remains the constant anchor, the force that drives everything forward.

As you settle deeper into the warmth of his embrace, Lando’s hand moves from your waist to rest gently on your stomach, his palm warm against your skin. The gesture seems innocent at first, a continuation of the tender touches you’ve shared all evening, but then his hand lingers, his fingers spreading out slightly as if to claim more of you.

His voice breaks the silence, soft but unmistakably deliberate. “You know,” he begins, his tone casual, yet carrying that undercurrent of intent that always makes your heart race, “I’ve been thinking.”

You open your eyes, tilting your head slightly to glance up at him. “Thinking about what?”

Lando’s eyes are still closed, but there’s a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, the kind that tells you he’s about to say something that will change everything. “About us,” he says, his hand pressing a little more firmly against your stomach. “And about how perfect you looked carrying our little girl.”

Your breath hitches slightly at his words, a flush rising to your cheeks as the meaning behind them begins to sink in. “Lando …” you start, but your voice falters, unsure of what to say.

He opens his eyes then, looking down at you with that piercing gaze that always makes you feel like you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him. “You’ve been perfect, baby,” he says, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate register. “More than I ever imagined. But now …” His thumb strokes your skin, just beneath the swell of your stomach, and his eyes darken with that familiar possessiveness. “It’s time for the next one.”

You blink up at him, your mind racing to catch up with his words. “The next one?”

Lando nods, his expression entirely serious, but with a hint of excitement beneath the surface, as if he’s been thinking about this for longer than he’s letting on. “It’s time we started working on our next baby,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I want to see you pregnant again. And this time …” His hand tightens just slightly on your stomach, his voice taking on a more commanding edge. “I want you to be pregnant when we get married. Walking down the aisle with my ring on your finger and a little bump under your dress. Doesn’t that sound perfect?”

Your heart skips a beat at the image he paints, the idea of walking down the aisle, your hand in his, your body already showing signs of the new life you’d created together. It’s overwhelming and thrilling all at once, the way everything with Lando always is.

“Lando,” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper as you try to process what he’s saying. “We just had our daughter …”

He chuckles softly, the sound low and filled with that familiar confidence that always sets you on edge. “And she’s perfect,” he agrees, his fingers trailing up to brush the side of your face. “But why stop there? We’re just getting started, baby. I want a family. A big one. And I want you to be the one who gives it to me.”

His words settle over you like a blanket, heavy and warm, filled with expectation. There’s no question in his tone, no room for hesitation. Lando has already decided, just as he always does. And as much as the thought takes your breath away, there’s a part of you that already knows you’ll give him what he wants. You always do.

You bite your lip, your mind racing as you try to form a coherent response. “But … what if I’m not ready?”

Lando’s eyes darken at your hesitation, his hand moving from your stomach to tilt your chin up so that you’re forced to meet his gaze. “You are ready,” he says firmly, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “I know you are.” He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “You were made for this, baby. For me. For our family. And you’ll give me what I want, won’t you?”

Your heart pounds in your chest, your body already responding to the commanding tone of his voice, the way his words wrap around you like a vice, pulling you deeper into his world, his desires. You nod slowly, unable to do anything else. “Yes, Lando,” you whisper, your voice trembling with both anticipation and submission. “I’ll give you what you want.”

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face as he pulls back to look at you, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, a reward for your obedience.

He doesn’t waste any more time. His hand moves lower, slipping beneath the sheets, his touch firm and deliberate as he begins to remind you exactly who you belong to. Your breath hitches, your body arching toward him instinctively, already pliant under his control.

“You’re going to look so beautiful, baby,” he whispers against your skin as his hand moves with expert precision. “Walking down the aisle with my child growing inside you. Everyone will see. Everyone will know.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, a mixture of desire and awe flooding through you. He’s not just talking about a wedding. He’s talking about a future, one that’s already been mapped out in his mind, one that you’re destined to follow. And as overwhelming as it is, there’s something undeniably thrilling about being part of his plan, of knowing that you’re the center of his world, the one who will give him everything he wants.

Lando’s movements become more insistent, his lips trailing down your neck as he presses you further into the mattress, his body radiating heat and control. You can feel the weight of his expectations, the force of his desire, and it’s enough to make your head spin.

“Lando,” you gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders as your body trembles beneath him.

“Shh, baby,” he soothes, his voice dark and commanding as his hand continues its relentless pace. “Just let go. Let me take care of you.”

And you do. You always do.

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hearts4hughes · 3 months ago

Note

okay hear me out…rafe x reader, rafechella weekend, they’re exes but they run into each other and it’s like??? the tension is INSANE. i’ll sell my soul 4 you to write this 💛💛

RAFECHELLA 2025

this may be one of my fav writings ever 😇

you weren’t supposed to see him. not here. not like this.

but of course, coachella had other plans.

you’re halfway to the bar, sweat sticking to the back of your thighs, when you hear someone say your name— low, like a question and a warning all at once.

you turn.

he looks unreal. white tank, tan skin, chain glinting under the lights. same messy hair. same stupidly sharp jaw.

and those eyes. the same ones you used to stare at for hours, drunk and wrapped in his sheets, swearing he was it for you.

spoiler: he wasn’t.

“hey,” he says, like it hasn’t been months. like he didn’t ruin you and then vanish.

you should walk away. you really, really should.

instead you smile. “figures i’d run into you here.” you laugh lightly, an attempt to mask the tension under your words.

he shrugs, nonchalant as ever. “wasn’t planning on coming. got dragged into it. didn’t think i’d see you.”

“sorry to disappoint”

“you never do.”

oh.

you hate how your stomach twirls; how your skin glistens; how it gives you that extra boost of confidence.

“you look…” he trails off, eyes roaming up and down your body. his breathing increases.

“different?”

“hot.”

you both speak at the same time. a blush finds your cheeks while a smirk finds his lips.

the bass thumps around you. bodies bump past. but neither of you move. you’re stuck in this stupid little bubble of history and heat and tension that tastes like regret.

“so,” you say, arms crossed, “you seeing anyone?”

“jealous?” his laugh is sharp, memories of feeling belittled and embarrassed by that same sound flood your mind.

“just trying to make conversation.” your tone is sharp— leaving no room for debate.

“no. i’m not.”

“right.”

“are you?”

you pause and then grin. “depends who’s asking.”

his eyes darken and you pretend not to notice. your gaze drops to your cowboy boots. you examine the stitching and details.

“you know,” he says, stepping closer— too close. “this would be a lot easier if you’d just admit you still want me.”

you tilt your head. “you’re delusional.”

“you’re staring at my mouth.”

“because you won’t shut the fuck up.”

“still haven’t lost that attitude, i see.” he tsks, jaw tight.

you laugh— the sound knocking rafe down a notch. “you say that to all the girls who reject you?”

“not many do.”

“and that’s why you’re going after your ex at a festival across the country?” you tut. a fake pout graces your lips. “get a life, rafe.”

“i haven’t had a life since you stepped out of it.” he confesses through gritted teeth. you don’t realize his hand is around your wrist until he’s tugging you closer.

he’s close now—too close—and you’re stupid with heat, and music, and maybe still a little in love.

“i didn’t step out of your life,” you scoff, “you shoved me out of it.”

“bullshit.”

“you smashed a picture frame and told me to never talk to you again.”

“well, i was just- i just- i wasn’t,” his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, “i fucked up. i’m an asshole…but i’m working on it. i’m going to therapy and shit.” he huffs, “and i fucking hate it because the chick always tells me i’m still in love with you.”

your eyes soften; your teeth sink into your bottom lip; that familiar feeling burrows in your stomach.

no no no no no.

you hate him— you’re supposed to hate him. but when he rests his head against yours, the wall you built up starts to feel like a sandcastle.

but before he can say anything else, someone calls your name from across the crowd. your friends are waiting.

you start to walk away. then pause, looking back over your shoulder.

“nice seeing you, rafe.”

his voice chases you through the crowd.

“this isn’t over.”

and god help you, you hope he’s right.

#rafechella2025 #nora’s writings 💐#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron imagine

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enhaflixer · 4 months ago

Note

omg you’ve been pumping out so much enha hard hours lately (which i love but) i think i need some fluff with a bit of angst to cleanse my soul a little :’) can i please request a ni-ki fluff/angst (happy ending) fic/drabble? 🙏🏻

youre so lucky cuz i alr had one written!!!!!

Mad bf! riki x f!reader - figure it out

Riki is on the couch, arms crossed, one leg bouncing, jaw clenched so tight you think he might actually break a tooth.

And he won’t even look at you.

You stand near him, arms folded, trying to control your own irritation as you watch him glare at the TV without actually watching it. His fingers tap against his arm, his entire vibe screaming judgment and pettiness.

“Are you mad at me?” you ask hesitantly.

No response.

Just a sharp inhale through his nose, a slow blink, and the bounce of his knee picking up speed like he’s calculating how much he wants to ruin your day.

“Riki.” You step closer, tone softer. “Talk to me.”

Nothing.

Not even a glance in your direction.

Your patience starts disintegrating at an alarming rate.

“Riki, seriously, what did I do?”

That’s when he finally moves, head tilting, gaze dragging over you so slow and disapproving you almost feel shamed.

“You don’t know?” he says, voice flat, unimpressed, full of condescending disbelief.

Your stomach drops.

Oh, he’s so mad.

“I” You pause, brain scrambling. “I swear, I don’t. Just tell me,”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you,” he cuts in, shifting on the couch, throwing his arm over the back like some sort of self-righteous villain. His brows lift, his lips curl slightly. “You should already know.”

You exhale sharply, frustration bubbling up like lava. “You expect me to just guess?”

Riki scoffs, shaking his head like you’re the dumbest person on Earth.

“I expect you to use your fucking brain for two seconds and figure it out,” he deadpans, leaning back like he’s above this conversation.

You stare at him. “You are literally insufferable.”

“And you are literally the worst,” he fires back, arms tightening over his chest, voice dripping with exaggerated disappointment.

Your jaw drops. “EXCUSE me?”

“You heard me,” he mutters, tilting his head dramatically, like he’s exhausted just having to interact with you.

You blink, fully processing. “You’re being so fucking dramatic right now.”

Riki lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Ohhh, I’m dramatic?” He presses a hand to his chest like you just personally attacked his character. “Says the person who, oh wait, I forgot, you don’t even know what you fucking did.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Riki, I swear, if you don’t just--”

“You ate my leftovers.”

You stop. Blink.

Process.

Slowly, incredulously, you look at him.

“…What?”

Riki tilts his head. “You. Ate. My. Leftovers.”

Your right eye twitches.

“I—” You shake your head. “Wait. You’re mad because I ate your leftovers?”

His arms cross even tighter, his jaw clenching, lips pressing into a pout. “I was looking forward to that meal.”

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, throwing your hands up. “You’ve been ignoring me, judging me, for hours over fucking takeout?”

Riki lifts his chin slightly, narrowing his eyes like you just disrespected his ancestors.

“Not just takeout. My takeout.”

“Oh my fucking God.” You drag a hand over your face, palms pressing into your eyes to physically contain your rage.

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Wow. The guilt isn’t even hitting you. You really don’t give a fuck.”

You drop your hands, jaw tightening. “It’s food, Riki.”

“It’s betrayal is what it is,” he mutters, tilting his head dramatically, looking away like he can’t even stand to be in the same room as you.

“You’re acting like I cheated on you.”

“Honestly? It’s worse.” He lifts a brow. “At least if you cheated, I wouldn’t have to see the empty fucking container in the trash.”

You actually gasp, hands flying to your chest. “You’re INSANE!”

“And you’re inconsiderate!”

You stare at him, baffled, barely suppressing the urge to swing. “You have GOT to be kidding me.”

“I wish I was.” He huffs, shaking his head, throwing a dramatic arm over the couch again.

You exhale sharply, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Riki. I will literally buy you another meal if you stop acting like I committed a federal crime.”

His eyes flicker back to yours, narrowing slightly, considering.

“With extra sauce?”

“Yes, with extra sauce.”

“And a drink?”

“Oh my GOD, yes you bitch, and a drink.”

Riki clicks his tongue, shaking his head, arms unfolding.

“You got lucky this time,” he mutters, standing up, grabbing his keys.

You glare at him, jaw tightening. “No, you got lucky that I didn’t lose my mind and start throwing hands.”

Riki grins, smug, stepping past you.

“Figure it out.”

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aetherraeys · 2 months ago

Text

evil twin ! (iii)

part (i) (ii)

regulus black/barty crouch jr x twinpotter!reader ⊹ 10.7k

cw ⟢ swearing, hurt/comfort, gay awakening lol, suggestive, secret relationship, pining!barty, mild angst, poor james is a scapegoat

summary: if you hadn't noticed it before, you've certainly noticed it now. barty been off, completely not barty and you can't seem to put your finger on the cause, and regulus doesn't have the heart to tell you.

a/n:poor barty is acc going through it. not proofread x

“Don’t you think that’s a bit hypocritical?”

There was a long beat of nothingness.

Then another. And another.

A tormented silence veiled the room the second Regulus’ final word left his lips, riding on the air between them and settling heavy in a cruel, unforgiving manner.

The word hypocritical sounding in his head over and over.

If Barty looked like he was going through the five stages of grief, it seems he barely made it half way, flitting between denial and anger before subsequently settling on the latter. His face said it all, as it morphed with each word, forced out on a pinched breath.

“The fuck are you on about?”

His eyes didn’t match the sharp tone of his voice at all, instead they swam with panic and an almost lost aching that made Regulus lips purse together. Barty was already sitting up, scrambling to a stand with a clenched fist and tight jaw, as he pushed a hand through his hair—already on his way out. Back towards Regulus as he spoke, words gritted and hushed.

“Don’t act like you know everything, when you really fucking don’t.”

With that, the door was closed behind him and Barty was gone.

Regulus was really starting to resent that door, far too often being left on the other side, staring at it—stressed, winded—conflicted. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to happen after he said it, but by then it was already out—already splitting the air between him and Barty before he could stop it. What was worse?

Regulus just sat there—still, emotionless—while his friend all but fell apart infront of him, any and all words falling dead on his lips.

When he sunk back into the bed, glancing at you beside him, asleep, blissfully unaware of the rift he’s just parted—his stomach churned. The soft pillows beneath his head, the warmth of your presence beside his did nothing to quell the unsettled stirring that had started inside him.

Maybe you wouldn’t notice, maybe Barty would cool off and it would all be fine—maybe he could take it back.

Each maybe more unlikely than the last, all with outcomes that the mere thought of gave Regulus a migraine.

Barty stood outside the door for a few moments, chest heaving, brows pinched high on his forhead—didn’t even know where he was going, it was already well into the early morning and he honestly just wanted to sleep.

Couldn’t go back up there because not only were Regulus there but it was you and Regulus. He much rather the Gods smit him than be suck in that room, watching Regulus watching him watching you.

A low swirling burn settled at the base of his chest.

Come to think of it, maybe storming out wasn’t the best choice, it probably made him look suspicious, like he had something to hide.

And he did, he knew he did.

The thing about secrets is, they’re only pleasant when they’re easy to hide, when you’re in control of them. So right now, lying face down on the lumpy sofa in the common room—Barty has never felt more out of control in his life.

This really was torture—surely the Gods were finally punishing him for all the near heart attacks he’d given his father, because even now, with his face smooshed into the pillow, he could still smell you—where you’d been just hours ago. At this rate he’d be insane not before long.

Groaning as he flipped, watching the warm flames of the candlelights flicker—he tried to push down the reoccuring pang that split through his chest.

── .✦

Sundays were nice.

Lazy morning lie-ins, no Head Girl duties.

The day was looking very promising. Heat from Regulus’ body warm around your middle, one of his arms slung comfortably across your waist. Holding you close even as you twisted and turned—drifting in and out—accepting the warm, tempting embrace of sleep with open arms.

Regulus had felt you shift slightly, heard the little hums that built in your throat as you teetered on the edge of waking up—he’s been awake for quiet some time—early bird habits. Just watching.

The slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint flinches of your brows as you dreamed deeply, how you curl into yourself and by extension into him periodically. He didn’t want to wake you, didn’t dare move—trying to savour the small fraction of tranquility you’d be granted before you have to deal with the inevitable storm that brewed the whole night.

Because Barty didn’t come back, still hasn’t stepped foot in the room—Regulus waited, hoping to maybe smooth things over, take it back even. But he didn’t return and Regulus didn’t leave the confines of his room.

Even as the morning drawled to a close and the early afternoon began, instead he focused his energy on admiring you, and your sleeping form. And when you stirred, twisting and turning towards him, lips pushed into a small pout—he really couldn’t help himself.

Planting a careful kiss to the exposed skin of your neck, and you didn’t move, still fighting off the pressing light of the sun in the room, holding onto the whisps of sleep.

He leaned forward again, lips ghosting over the curve of your jaw, and that got you to stir. Not fully awake, not yet, but enough that you sighed, contentedly, one arm reaching up to match the curl lazily around his middle. Eyes were still closed when you mumbled, voice scratchy and slow with sleep, fingers twitching where they rested against his ribs.

“Morning…”

His lips were still ghosting over your throat when he chuckled, low and husky, “It’s not morning anymore.”

Still, your eyes stayed closed. A little smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you turned your head slightly to chase the feel of his lips.

So he gave in.

Kisses fell like rain across your skin—first light and tentative, then firmer, slower, more intent. He brushed one beneath your jaw, then over the hollow of your throat, and when you shifted again with a sleepy sigh, he took the opportunity to drag his mouth lower, teeth grazing gently before sucking at the delicate skin there. And it made you shiver.

“Reg,” voice whispered, soft as a secret, a breathless note of fond exasperation in your tone.

“You’re awake now,” he murmured into your neck, voice muffled by your skin.

You didn’t argue. Didn’t push him away. Instead, your fingers found their way into his hair, lazily combing through the dark strands as his mouth continued its slow, indulgent path along your collarbone.

It was languid, affectionate, the kind of intimacy that didn’t rush. His hands slid over your waist, pulling you closer until you were nearly on top of him, legs tangled fully now, heartbeats pressed close together.

The kisses deepened slightly, becoming more indulgent, more possessive. The kind that left marks. Your skin warmed beneath his mouth, laughter bubbling in your chest when he found a ticklish spot and refused to stop, dragging another helpless giggle out of you.

“Stop, stop—Reg, I swear—” you squirmed, breathless from laughter, your cheeks flushed pink and body warm with affection.

He finally let up, grinning with pride, brushing your hair back from your face with a fondness that felt so achingly gentle it almost hurt.

You were glowing. That post-sleep, post-laughter kind of glow that made his chest ache.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he might blink and find himself alone again.

You met his gaze, cheeks still warm, lips kiss-bitten and curved.

“You’re looking at me like I’m your religion,” you said with a teasing arch of your brow, and he just leaned up to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your jaw.

“I might be,” he whispered.

You groaned, dramatic, as you pushed lightly at his chest. “I’m going to have to cover all of this up, you know.” You tilted your neck, already feeling the soreness blooming beneath your skin.

You made to roll out of bed, sheets sliding off your legs—but his hand curled around your wrist.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said, voice low and gravelly. He tugged you back toward him, guiding you to straddle his lap. You blinked down at him, amused and a little breathless, hair falling like a curtain around your face.

“Regulus,” you said, half-laughing, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t want the morning to end,” he confessed, softly, eyes dark and steady as they held yours.

You leaned down, kissed him slow, whispered against his lips, “Thought it wasn’t morning anymore.”

He smiled into the kiss, hands resting on your hips—and for a few minutes, the world narrowed to just the two of you. Quiet and golden and slow.

Until your stomach rumbled. Loudly.

The kiss is broken with a startled laugh, hiding your face in his shoulder. Regulus chuckled too, low and pleased.

“Alright,” he said with a sigh, fingers brushing your waist, “We’ll feed you.”

You rolled out of bed, finally, pulling on yesterday’s clothes as you glanced around. The room was empty, apart from the two of you. You stretched, arms over your head as you grinned over your shoulder.

“Look at that. Even outlasted Junior,” you joked lightheartedly, tugging your jumper back on.

Regulus didn’t say anything at first—just hummed.

Pushing away the urge to spill his guts, to tell you how the word hypocritical had torn something raw between them during your slumber. You were halfway down the stairs before you turned and whispered, “I’ll meet you in the Great Hall—give it five, yeah?”

He nodded. Forcing his lips to curve into a small smile.

“Five.”

The second you disappeared down the steps, the quiet hit him like a stone wall.

Sitting there, at the edge of the bed, chest hollow, the lingering warmth of you already fading from the sheets. The sound of your laughter still echoed faintly in his ears, but it was drowned out by the noise in his head.

His face subconsciously scrunched, exhaling shakily—running a hand roughly over his face as he turned his sights forward—the bed across the room was still empty.

── .✦

Lunch was already well underway when Barty finally showed. He was late—noticeably late—just after the pumpkin juice had been poured and the several servings of lunch had been eaten. Quietly—wordlessly. Like a shadow slipping between the cracks of the castle stone.

Barty moved as if he were walking through water—slow, heavy, like every step cost him something. His hair was rumpled, flattened oddly on one side like he’d slept curled up somewhere unforgiving. His tie was askew, barely knotted, and his shirt was half untucked at the waist.

You caught sight of him first.

Of course you did. You were always aware of Barty—he had a way of commanding attention when he entered a room, usually by flinging himself into it like a spark looking for something to set alight. But now, he lacked something.

His eyes didn’t scan the table like usual. He didn’t offer that lopsided smirk he wore like a badge of honour or drop some cutting, clever remark that made Evan laugh and Regulus roll his eyes with a small smile. He just sat down—dropped into the bench at the far end as though gravity had forcibly yanked him there.

Your gaze unknowingly followed his every move—mindlessly observing out of habit.

But he didn’t meet your eyes.

Not even when you said softly, “Hey, Junior,” your voice as casual and light as always—and he all but deflated at the sound, sinking into his seat as he forked around at his plate, remaining uncharacteristically silent—maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, but didn’t care.

You glanced at Regulus, but he was staring at his plate as if it was the most interesting thing in the room, silent—posture was too straight. Too carefully composed—everything unnaturally taut. The silence that veiled the far end of the table apon Barty’s arrive was unnerving, the cloud that loomed over him, seeping and bleeding out into all of you—bringing the light chatter to a slow halt.

In an almost pitiful attempt to ease the glooming aura that had swathed the table, you spoke again—keeping your words pressureless, ambiguos—simple, “Sleep alright, J?”

He finally moved—but not to look at you. Instead, he turned his body subtly away, like the space between you wasn’t enough, making it wider instinctively—like he wanted to escape your presence. Reaching for his fork, twisting it between his fingers, he still didn’t speak.

Not a word.

Picking at his food like he didn’t recognise it—like it might turn to dust in his mouth.

Evan broke the brittle tension that accumlated in Barty blatant disregard, nudging his shoulder with his elbow in a half-hearted attempt to lift the mood. “Oi, saw you passed out on the common room sofa last night. You’re lucky Mulciber didn’t hex you in your sleep for stealing his nap spot.”

He smiled when he said it, teasing, waiting for the usual witty jab in return.

But Barty didn’t laugh. He didn’t scoff. He didn’t even twitch.

He just set his fork down—still clean—and stood.

Your brows furrowed as you watched him, lunch having grown cold and forgotten—your stomach twisting.

“Juni—”

He was already gone.

Just like that. Walked away, tray untouched, head bowed low, his shoulders curled in like he was trying to fold himself out of sight. He didn’t glance back. Not once—not at Regulus. Not at you. Not even at Evan, who looked after him with a baffled, half-offended expression.

It took a few moments for the silence to leave after Barty’s departure, but when it did, it was only partial. Regulus still was silent, body ridgid, looking down at his plate as if he could read the truth in the gravy lines. And you could see it. The tightens in his jaw, something swimming behind his eyes, something that rarely did.

Something you couldn’t quite place.

You sat just as still has him, appetite gone—the table feelinf significantly more empty than it had done before. Barty’s absences, his behavious heavy on your mind—his silence louder than most.

Maybe it was a hangover, or he’d not slept well—you tried to tell yourself—maybe he’d gotten a letter from home and bile and rage was building in his stomach like always. Maybe he just needed some time to himself.

Deep down you knew something was wrong, and you had a feeling Regulus knew what it was.

You did looked for him that evening. Though it felt as though he’d vanished into thin air.

First the Observatory—his usual haunt after dinner when the halls grew quiet and the scent of parchment overpowered the smell of food still lingering from the kitchens. But the corner by the ledge was vacant, the nights air twisting and whistling around the hollow room—leaves whirling against the cold stone.

Then the common room. Empty. Or rather, full of people who weren’t him. The sofa was unoccupied, and Evan was lounging upside down on one of the armchairs, chatting aimlessly to Mulciber and Dorcas.

“Have you seen Barty?” you asked.

Evan shrugged. “Nah. Maybe he’s off brooding somewhere. You know how he gets.”

But that wasn’t how he got. Not like this. Not without a word.

Turning the corner to the boys’ dorms, letting yourself in.

His bed was untouched. Not in the usual disheveled way Barty left it—sheets tangled, pillows dented, covers barely hanging on. No, this was wrong. This was still. Cold. Hollow. His side of the room was lifeless.

The books stacked by his bedside table hadn’t moved. The record player you’d both stolen from the Muggle Studies classroom one night two springs ago sat quiet, lifeless. Shoes still tucked beneath the bed, as if he hadn’t bothered to wear them. As if he’d disappeared barefoot.

You stood frozen in the doorway for a short while, scanning the room. Regulus was sitting cross-legged on his bed, wand in one hand, idly levitating a quill and not meeting your eyes.

“You don’t know where he is?” you asked, quietly—padding over to stand by Regulus’ bed, leaning against the pillar as you watched him. There were a few beats of silence, “No,”

Just that.

You waited.

Waited for the rest—for the truth tucked between the syllables, for the explanation that would unravel this knot in your chest. But he didn’t look up, didn’t offer anything else.

“You don’t think there’s something wrong?” your voice was more pinched than normal, unrest settling into the end of your question—and he could feel your eyes on him, the weight of your gaze heavy on his form. But he knew if he tore his sights away from the quill, he’d break. Guilt already bubbling in his stomach from the second you entered the room

Instead Regulus just gave a slight shrug, words muttered and unconvincing. “Maybe he needs space.”

“From what?”

You were only met with further silence—not a word. Not a glance. Just the soft scratch of the floating quill tracing invisible lines above his bed, a tight purse of his lips.

The air was too still, as you stood by him, just barely an arms length away—and when you turned on your heel—bones aching under the suffocation of the room and the sting of Regulus’ avoidance.

You left. And the quill dropped onto his lap as the door closed behind you, rubbing his hand over his face as his turned—looking at the empty space beside him that would usually be occupied by you with a frown. Regulus couldn’t bring himself to glance over to Barty’s bed, as the sounds of your footsteps became further and further away.

The next day was no better.

You saw the back of Barty’s head once in the corridor before lunch, but the moment he registered your voice—your steps—he turned down a side hall and disappeared before you could call after him.

At dinner, he never showed. Everyone far to entertained by Evan, who was too busy charming a salt shaker to sing Celestina Warbeck to notice, but you did.

You noticed—you waited.

The day after that, and the one after. The world kept spinning like nothing had shifted, but your stomach ached with the weight of uncertainty. You tried brushing it off at first—told yourself he was being dramatic, maybe annoyed with something trivial. That he’d get over it.

But the days stretched longer. And lonelier.

And Regulus…Regulus never said a word.

He kissed you when you met in hidden corners. Touched you like he meant it, with fingers that found comfort in each inch of you—but he never brought Barty up. Never acknowledged the empty space he left behind, struggled to meet you eye each morning when your gaze would linger on the empty space left for him.

But you felt it—everywhere.

In the way your laughter always died quicker now. In the way you avoided the right side of the dormitory when you were there resting with Regulus—approaching the door and waiting there—in hope of hearing anything other than Regulus’ manicured silence on the other side—approaching less often all together.

You felt it in the ache behind your ribs when you sat too long in silence wandering the place you’d walk together, emptier now—missing the loud, crass, ridiculous everything that was there with Barty.

Because now he wasn’t.

And you didn’t know why.

And it was driving you mad.

Because it had been days.

And you couldn’t pretend not to care anymore.

Not when Regulus still refused to meet your gaze when you said his name. Not when Barty’s side of the room looked like a memory, not a life. Not when your chest burned every time someone said, “He’s probably just being Barty,” like that explained the way his absence scraped against your heart like a harsh burn.

You couldn’t be in that room anymore. Not with Regulus and all his silences. Not with the evidence of Barty’s absence staring at you with every step.

So you stopped going, spending more time in your own room—preoccupying yourself with Head-Girl duties, subsequently leaving Regulus’ room even colder. Your absence adding to the weight of Barty’s—thick, heavy and aching on his shoulders.

You did eventually catch sight of him after an entire week.

Just a flicker—a blur of pale hands and windswept curls vanishing around the corner near the Arithmancy wing. He was alone. For once. No sanctuary of a crowded corridor to shield him.

Instantly you were speeding up, robes filling with air as you all but chased after him, calling his name once, twice. “Barty!”

He faltered—just for a heartbeat, his steps slowing in a way that made your chest bloom with hope, only for seconds later to be filled with a burning dread.

Because he darted.

Actually ran.

Rounding the next corner so fast he nearly slipped, hand catching on the wall to steady himself as his robes flared out behind him like smoke. By the time you turned after him, the corridor was empty. Only the echo of your own breath met you in the stillness. It was clear now, it wasn't just absence anymore.

It was evasion.

Deliberate. Cold. Unwarrented

Lungs burning violently beneath your ribs, more from the sting behind your eyes than the pace of your pursuit. You stood there for a long moment, chest rising and falling unevenly. Cold stone walls pressed in around you, and something sharp curled inside your ribs.

He was hiding.

From you.

And Regulus wasn’t saying a thing, acting as though addressing anything would sear the surface of his lips. He just looked at you and somehow that was worse than his silence, the apologetic look everytime he caught you looking for him—and he still wouldn't break, wouldn't say anything.

Which left only one other person who might’ve done something.

Lunch was a blur of noise and clatter when you stepped into the Great Hall. But the moment your eyes landed on your brother—halfway through a sandwich at the Gryffindor table, seated comfortably between Sirius and Remus—it was as if everything else dimmed.

You crossed the room slowly. Quietly—with purpose.

The hum of chatter softened in your wake as students caught the shift in the air. Even the portraits seemed to pause mid-gossip, eyes flicking toward the slow storm building in your stride.

As always, James didn’t notice until you were nearly on top of him.

Turning just as your shadow fell across the table, his expression freezing mid-bite. The sandwich hovered in front of his mouth, a bite missing, and his eyes widened when they met yours—dark, unreadable.

You said nothing at first—just stood there.

The weight of your silence pressed down on the entire Gryffindor table like a hex. James blinked, mouth still full. “Er—something wrong?”

Your eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in your jaw—a few more long moments of silence spread between you, words leaving with a sharp bitter bite that made him wince internally. “What did you do?”

The entire table went still.

Even Remus leaned back slightly, brows raised—as though he was bracing himself.

James slowly finished chewing, swallowed, then furrowed his brow—confusion splitting across his face in a loud smear. “To who?”

“Barty.”

The name landed like a dropped knife, harsh

James straightened. “What would I want with Batshit Barty?”

He was speaking far to causally for your liking, too flippant—as though you weren’t talking about one of your closest friends, someone you held close to you, like you weren’t talking to him about your Sirius or Remus.

You didn’t dignify him with answer—just kept staring. Cold. Quiet. Fury simmering beneath your skin, and your silence clearly spoke loud enough for you, because James was rushing out more words in order to quell your impending rage.

“I haven’t done anything,” he added, holding his hands up as if warding off a spell. “Why are you assuming—?”

“Don’t lie to me.” Your voice was low, unnaturally calm but razor-edged. “He’s been gone for days. He won’t look at me. He’s avoiding Regulus too. And you—” your voice caught, jaw tightening, slight desperation seeping into your tone as your looked at James.

It had his lips pursing into a tightline, sighing at the upset he could always easily recognise—easier than other, knowing it would settle into your brows. The telltale signs of your stress showing in the vein that appear by your temple when you spoke.

“—You never liked him. You’ve always hated that he was close to me. So tell me what you said.”

James couldn’t look more genuinely confused if he tried, glancing between his friends and back to you wide-eyed. “I didn’t say anything. I haven’t even seen him. And yeah, I don’t particularly like the git, but you’re seriously jumping—”

“You don’t have to like him. But I know you. You think he’s weird. You think he’s a bad influence.”

“Because he is, Pop! You’re smarter than—”

Your palm crashed onto the table, hard enough to rattle the silverware, and he cut off mid-sentence—mid insult. The other coming onto his shoulder in a deceivingly light and friendly manner that cause his stomach to sink.

And awful silence blooming in the wake of the sharp thud.

You leaned in, voice shaking with restrained fury. “If I find out you had anything to do with this, James, I will hex you so thoroughly McGonagall will have to reassemble you from a mist.”

You straightened, scrowl twitching into a slight frown. Turned.

And walked out of the hall without another word.

From two tables down, Regulus watched the entire scene unfold—eyes distant, shoulders stiff, guilt flickering like a shadow across his otherwise calm face. His fork remained suspended in mid-air, untouched, as you disappeared from view.

And back in the corridor, just outside the doors, you paused and pressed your hand against your forehead—squeezing your eyes shut, attempting to purge the stress from your system, calm your pulse.

But it didn’t.

And it wouldn’t not—until you found him. Found out what’s wrong, where he was hiding, what you’d done.

You were on a rampage.

There wasn’t a corridor you hadn’t stormed down, no secret niche or alcove left unchecked. Even Peeves stayed well out of your way—whistling obnoxiously from a distance as he watched you barrel past with a glower fit to set the suits of armor clattering in fear. Spenting the better part of the weekend pacing through every corridor of Hogwarts, searching high and low for Barty, and each fruitless encounter had worn your nerves even thinner.

Because Barty was somehow nowhere.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t right.

And the sharp, twisting frustration inside of you had nowhere to go, compounding into a taut knot at the base of your throat.

You tried, really tried not to take it out on Regulus.

It wasn't his fault.

He’d done nothing wrong, to your knowledge.

But tension—agitation—clung to you like smoke. Coiling in your chest and bleeding in to everything, even when you tried to bite it back—every brush of conversation feeling too short, too raw, as if a single wrong word might set the whole damn world tilting sideways.

Once again you found yourself wandering aimlessly down the third-floor corridor, shoulders rigid with barely restrained tension, brows furrowed so tightly it felt like they might permanently etch themselves into your skin. You barely even register Regulus' soft footsteps approaching from behind—he was always quiet like that—until you felt his presence like a cool shadow against the hot buzz of your thoughts.

Turning your head just as he parted his lips to call your name, catching him in the corner of your eye. He stopped short, his frown mirroring the one set stubbornly into your mouth. You did offered him a brittle, tight-lipped smile—a poor excuse for reassurance—it looked more like a twitsed grimace.

And if anything, it made his chest ache more.

Without a word, Regulus stepped into your space, fingers curling gently around your wrist and tugging you toward the darker recesses of the corridor, into the small corner by the old statue of the One-Eyed Witch.

There was no resistance, just barely dragging your feet in the direction he pulled you. A small part of you thankful for the anchor he always offered without needing to be asked.

Pressing you gently into the shadowed alcove, until your back met the cool stone wall. He shifted his body just enough to shield you from view, although this part of the castle was rarely trafficked on weekends.

His hands rose, cradling your face with a reverence that made your chest tighten all over again, thumbs brushing carefully over the creased furrow between your brows, trying to smooth away the silent worry written across your skin.

Dipping his forehead to rest against yours, and for a long quiet moment, he just held you, breathed you in—your frustration, your stress, your tangled turmoil. His thumbs continued their soothing pattern across your skin. Tilting your chin up, compelling your gaze to meet his, and his frown mirrored your own; a mirror of silent worry and guilt. Then, slowly, he dipped forward, pressing the softest kiss to your downturned lips.

You didn’t react at first.

The first few pecks were like kisses to a stone statue, your body slumped, your heart still swimming in anxious disarray.

But Regulus didn’t stop.

Didn’t falter.

He kissed you again—softer, longer—then pulled back only enough to kiss you again, not giving you room to slip away. His hands stayed at your jawline, steady and patient, and he began peppering kisses across your cheeks, your forehead, the corners of your mouth.

Another kiss. And another. Light, coaxing—careful not to demand anything from you, just to offer, patiently, again and again.

Something in you cracked.

Your body betrayed you.

Lips twitched at the corners—a small, stubborn curve, despite yourself when he abandoned your mouth to scatter kisses across your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the tip of your forehead. Feather-light, stubborn little pecks that demanded you feel them.

Encouraged, he pressed one firmer kiss to your mouth, and this time you lifted your hands, rising from your sides almost timidly to touch him.

When he finally pulled back slightly, searching your face, he only waited a heartbeat before dipping back in—catching your mouth with a little more insistence, refusing to let you disappear into your own mind. Fingers reached up to clutch at the soft fabric of his jumper—he smiled into you and pressed a firmer, surer one against your mouth.

“I’m sorry, amour,” he whispered against your lips, voice low, aching.

Your heart gave a painful, traitorous little leap at the pet name. Inhaling shakily through your nose, burying your face against his chest for a moment, drinking in his familar scent, basking in his touch. Mindlessly fiddling with the hem of his jumper.

"No, I'm sorry," you murmured, voice cracking a little. "I’m not upset with you, Reg...I'm just worried."

You couldn’t meet his eyes.

And the guilt in his chest sharpened, too heavy to ignore. He could stomach Barty’s silence, could even stomach his own cowardice, could wait out the tension until it cracked and splintered and healed, but you—with your small, fragile voice—you were his breaking point.

He didn’t know how to tell you it was partly his fault. That if he’d kept his mouth shut weeks ago, none of this would have unraveled.

So he just leaned in, kissed you again—longer this time, letting it sink deep—until he felt the tightness begin to seep out of your shoulders, melting you into him. Thumb tracing idle, affectionate circles over your cheekbones, and when he pulled back, he gaze flickered briefly down to your now parted, lightly flushed lips.

He didn’t stay distant for long.

Ducking back down, connecting your lips again, this time more hungrily, a low, almost frustrated sound rumbling in his throat. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you into the cool stone.

Letting his lips trail over the curve of your jaw, over the vulnerable line of your throat—slow and indulgent—between kisses he mumbled, almost inaudibly,

"Can we talk after dinner?"

Your mind was fogging under his touch, head tipping back slightly against the wall to grant him better access.

"Mmh?" you managed breathlessly, hands sliding up to tangle in his hair.

"In my room," he clarified, lips brushing your pulse point. "After dinner. Please, amour."

"What is it?" you whispered.

He only hummed, not willing to say more here, kissing down the slope of your neck.

"After dinner," he murmured again, "I’ll explain everything, my love."

And you could only nod, dazed, sighing a soft "okay" into the heated slither of air between you.

Hands rising to clutch the front of his jumper as his lips found their way back to yours. One hand sliding into the back of your hair, cradling the base of your skull, as if you might disappear if he didn't hold you close enough.

It was feverish, unsteady, all the bottled-up emotions from the past few weeks bleeding into it—frustration, longing, guilt, tenderness. Regulus made a soft, almost groaning sound against your mouth, low and aching, pressing you into him like he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance between you.

Indulging so much that neither of you noticed the faint creak of stone shifting nearby.

Hidden behind the narrow crack in the floor—the secret entrance to Honeydukes cellar—Remus had frozen halfway up the ladder, wide-eyed and horrified.

He’d only peered out because he thought the coast was clear—but instead, he found himself staring straight at you and Regulus, very much entangled, very much devouring each other against the wall.

Remus’ entire brain short-circuited. His mouth falling open wordlessly, heart thudding violently in his chest, a surge of secondhand panic washing over him.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered under his breath, scrambling backward so fast he nearly slipped off the ladder entirely.

“What?!” hissed James, who was climbing up behind him, bag and pockets full of stolen treats. Remus dropped back down onto solid ground, his face burning crimson, shoving James hard in the chest to get him to retreat.

“Peeves,” Remus blurted, voice cracking horribly. “Peeves is lurking—we can’t use this exit. Go, go!”

He practically herded James and Sirius back down the ladder, his hands flailing in frantic gestures, as if trying to physically wipe the mental image from his brain.

James scowled. “We’ll have to take the library passage, then—wait, why is your face redder than a howler—"

“DON'T ASK,” Remus snapped, voice embarrassingly high-pitched, speedwalking so fast Sirius almost tripped trying to keep up.

Behind the stone wall, blissfully unaware of the near-catastrophe, you and Regulus finally broke apart, both breathing hard, foreheads still touching. You opened your eyes slowly, and the look you found waiting for you in Regulus' eyes nearly knocked the breath from your lungs all over again—too fond, too devoted it made your chest ache.

His thumb brushed once more over your now kiss-swollen bottom lip, almost reverently.

There was a sudden, heavy tenderness hanging heavy between you—delicate and infinite and frighteningly real.

“I missed your smile, amour,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, but the vulnerability in it was unmistakable.

You felt your mouth twitch—the smallest of smiles threatening your lips, despite everything.

Regulus caught it instantly, his eyes brightening with something fierce and boyish and unguarded, something he usually hid so well.

He smiled—that same smile that softened all his sharp edges—and ducked his head, pressing one last kiss to your forehead.

“What?” he said, voice lighter, teasing. “You are my love. It’s just a fact.”

You groaned, half mortified, half wanting to curl yourself into him and never move again—slipping out of the alcove with a muttered sound of embrassment, dragging him by the hand into the empty corridor before he could say anything else to make your cheeks any hotter.

He followed you without protest, his fingers laced securely with yours.

Regulus chuckled low in his throat, clearly pleased with himself, and gently unwound your fingers from his jumper, lacing them with his own instead. Thumb stroked back and forth over the back of your hand.

After a moment, he squeezed your hand gently and said, softer this time, “After dinner. My room. Promise me you'll come.”

── .✦

It had been weeks, and they were grueling and awful and torturous if Barty were to describe them.

And he simply couldn't do this anymore.

The pressure of it—the churning, festering wrongness under his skin—was unbearable now. Like he was carrying it all inside his ribs and it was rotting him alive.

He’d hardly even been in a room with Regulus since that night. Or you.

And he could see it—the way his own twisted form of self-preservation was affecting you, how even in his absence he’d managed to damage you still. And he knew Regulus didn’t say anything—he saw the altercation you had between your brother, and how your presence dwindled in his room. How you would b-line to your dorm, and when he’d sneak into get his clothes that the room rarely every smelt like you anymore.

The guilt was eating him from the inside out, because it wasn’t just you, it was Regulus as well—walking around with a sharper scowl, shoulders hung heavy like the weight of everything and more rested on them. Not just his usual brooding self, almost dejected.

Barty couldn't sit still. Couldn't hide away anymore, ignore his feelings—pretend he wasn’t thrumming with an ugly combination of stress and something even worse—something desperate and raw and afraid.

He needed to find Regulus.

He needed to talk to him.

To fix it. To deny it. To clear it up or scream about it or something—anything but this awful limbo where the walls felt too close and his own skin didn’t fit right.

It didn’t matter that it was Sunday evening, that the castle was heavy with the scent of dinner being prepared, Barty knew Regulus’ habits like they were tattooed on the inside of his skull. Always disappearing for an hour or two before the evening rush—locked away in the luxurious marble bath, soaking in stupidly expensive bath oils, hidden behind thick clouds of steam and silence.

A ritual.

A sacred hour Barty had historically never dared to interrupt.

Right now, he didn’t care.

He just needed to see him. Needed to fix this suffocating knot inside his ribs before it swallowed him whole, before he ruined more than he already had. Feet moving faster, almost without his permission, carrying him through the dimming halls—running solely on adrenaline now—an ugly, volatile thing—praying it wouldn't abandon him at the wrong time.

The Prefects' corridor was empty, getting into the hall much easier than he’d imagined it to be.

Barty didn’t pause.

He wrenched open the heavy door to the bathroom and slipped inside like a shadow.

The air was thick inside—warm and wet and heavy with the smell of eucalyptus and something honeyed and rich. The world narrowed down to the soft sound of lapping water, the gleam of marble under golden torchlight, and the pulse hammering wildly in Barty’s ears.

And there he was.

Regulus.

Sitting at the far end of the enormous sunken bath, his slender back turned, arms lazily draped over the marble edge. Head tilted back, curls slicked down against his skull, pale throat bared to the ceiling.

He looked—

Gods, did was he a sight—almost ethereal, like something out of a dream Barty had never realise he had. His voice broke out of him before he could stop it, desperate and cracking—disrupting the perfecting calculated stillness that Regulus lounged in.

"Reg, listen I—I need to talk to you for a sec—"

At the sound of his voice, Regulus stirred. Moving so slowly, like waking from some deep underwater dream—a quiet exhale escaping his mouth, softer than he’d ever thought it could be, especially aimed at him, and almost grateful.

He turned towards Barty, lifting himself slightly against the marble, water sliding down the planes of his torso in glistening rivulets.

And Barty's pulse almost came to an abrupt stop.

Because what he saw made his blood run hot and cold all at once. Regulus’ chest was bare—slick, gleaming, flushed—and littered with deep violet hickeys—glistening under the soft golden light, hickeys blooming down the line of his throat, across his collarbones, scattered over the delicate cage of his ribs.

Your marks.

Your mouth, mapped all over him like he belonged to you.

Barty's gaze snagged helplessly on the dark purple bites smeared along Regulus’ skin, breath caught in his throat like it had been punched out of him.

He'd seen Regulus shirtless a hundred times. In locker rooms. In summer. It was nothing new.

But this—

This was different.

Regulus wasn’t just bare.

He was marked up.

Claimed.

Barty—he couldn’t fucking breathe, completely forgotten how.

Eyes glued to the way Regulus’ slender arms flexed as he shifted, the blue veins in his forearms prominent and glistening under the wet light. On the way his water-slick hair clung to the delicate slope of his cheekbone. On the lazy curl of steam rising off his flushed skin.

He was stupidly, obscenely beautiful—and it made something inside Barty twist so hard it hurt.

And then, just to add to it—as if the knife needed to twist even deeper—Regulus’ mouth shaped his name. "Junior," Regulus breathed, soft and fond and almost worried—his dark eyes scanning over Barty’s frozen figure, open and vulnerable and achingly glad to see him.

He could feel it, unbareably so—prevalent and impossible to ignore. The heat crawling up from the base of his throat, spilling across his cheeks, climbing up the tips of his ears until it felt like his whole skull was on fire.

Struggling, he wrenched his gaze away—disgusted with himself, with this, with everything—heart hammering like a snare drum.

"—Shit—sorry, this—" Barty stammered, voice cracking in half, "—this is a bad time, I'll just—I'll come back—"

He spun on his heel, desperate to get out, desperate to run before he did something unspeakably stupid. Behind him, he heard Regulus shift in the water with a sharp splash—heard the panic in his voice:

"Wait—! Junior, wait—"

But Barty was already gone—stumbling back through the doorway, half-blind with the sheer force of wrongness splitting him in half—barely making it three steps out of the prefect bathroom before he slammed into you at full force.

The collision was so sudden, so jarring, that both of you went down hard—the weight of it knocking the breath out of your lungs as you hit the cold stone floor with a painful thud, a startled groan slipping out of your lips apon impact with the dense stone. Papers were flying, scattering like feathers in the heavy, humid corridor air.

Barty landed half-sprawled infront of you, frozen stiff on the floor, like he couldn’t even think about moving. His chest heaved as he gasped in a broken, desperate breath—wide, panicked eyes locking onto you, like you were the only thing he could see.

It was you.

Of course it was you.

The person who had put their mouth all over Regulus’ body, the person who he branded themselves into every one of his thoughts, the person who he longed and ached for.

The person whose touch was still probably lingering on Regulus’ skin, sinking into his bones.

The person that Barty wanted nothing more than to be a victim of your touch.

"Treasure," he breathed out—helplessly, instinctively—voice cracked and raw.

And your eyes widened, glassy almost immediately—shimmering with emotion you didn’t even have time to name as your gaze swept over him, lingering on the flushed panic stamped across his face.

You barely registered the throbbing ache in your hip or the smarting scrape on your elbow—the only thing you could focus on was him—the way his brows were drawn up like it physically hurt him to see you in pain, the way he looked so panicked and almost small for the first time.

The heavy door behind him hadn’t even fully clicked shut yet when it swung open again.

And there—padding out into the corridor, steam still clinging to his skin—Regulus.

A towel hung precariously low around his narrow hips, damp from where it clung to the drops sliding down his chest and thighs. The cold castle air hit him hard, raising goosebumps along his marked, glistening skin—the fresh hickeys stark and scandalous against his usually-pristine appearance.

His mouth was still open mid-protest, the words "No! Barty, wait—" faltering into shocked silence as he stumbled into view...and saw you both. A messy heap on the stone floor, your papers strewn everywhere.

He froze.

Like someone had Petrificus Totalus-ed him in place.

For a wild, frantic second, he didn’t move—didn’t even breathe—looking for all the world like a soaked, deeply miserable, and highly stressed cat caught in a trap.

An uncontrollable flush blossomed up Regulus’ neck to the tips of his ears—a vivid wash of pink climbing higher and higher, curls dripping onto his forehead, his arms flinching as if debating whether to clutch the towel tighter or bolt for the nearest shadow.

It was so bad, so insanely bad, that a broken, half-hysterical laugh threatened to rise in your throat—but it caught halfway up when the door beside you creaked open again.

And out stepped Remus.

Still mid-conversation with you—or, he had been—before the disaster of the corridor scene snatched the words right out of his mouth. He took one look at you and Barty tangled on the floor, another at the papers littering the hallway, and then—

Then he saw Regulus.

Or more specifically, Regulus' towel-wrapped, heavily marked figure standing shame-facedly in the middle of the hallway like a half-drowned mythological disaster. Nearly naked Regulus. Remus’ eyes went comically wide.

His jaw opened slightly—then closed—then opened again.

The way he stared at Regulus was enough to make you want to evaporate on the spot. It was almost impressive how many emotions raced across Remus’ face all at once; shock, horror, confusion, secondhand embarrassment.

He looked back at you with a look that screamed: what the fuck, oh my god, how?, all at once, his ears flushing a brilliant shade of pink under his shaggy hair.

And Regulus—blessed, doomed Regulus—only then seemed to realise what he was showing the entire damn corridor.

He made a noise—something between a choked squeak and a groan—and scuttled backward, towel slipping dangerously low, practically tripping over his own feet as he yanked the bathroom door closed behind him with a deafening thud.

The silence that followed was mindnumbing.

Barty shifted stiffly beside you, hands fumbling to brace himself against the floor, scrambling up awkwardly, movements jerky, clearly desperate to get away—to vanish into thin air if he could. But before he could bolt, you latched onto his arm—firmly, fingers curling tight around his sleeve.

"Junior," you said—clear yet rough and certain—making him still where he stood, as if he couldn’t do anything but listen to the command of your voice. Flinching slightly at the sound of it, his name on your lips—something raw and aching flickering across his face—and he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t even if he wanted to, because it was you.

Meanwhile, Remus—poor, long-suffering Remus, had very clearly decided that he wanted absolutely no part of this scene anymore.

Without a word, cheeks still burning, he inched carefully backward—edging into the room he'd just come from, shooting you one last deeply pained, bewildered glance before disappearing with a whispered, awkward "Yeah, I'm just—I'll go."

The door clicked shut softly behind him.

And then it was just you and Barty.

Standing in the wreckage of the hallway—papers still scattered everywhere like shrapnel, your heart hammering painfully hard in your chest. Fingers were still gripping his sleeve and he could feel you, the warmth of your palm radiating through his robes—both of you remained still, as if locked in that moment.

And when he finally lifted his gaze from the floor—finally looked at your for the first time in weeks—he looked at you like you were something half-sacred, half-terrifying—something he didn't know if he was allowed to touch or beg for or run from.

The moments drags, time slowing around you in the corridor as you wrack you brain desperately for words, anything, but your mind has gone blank—emptied under the pressure of Barty’s eyes on you. Something swimming in them that has your throat drying as the seconds go by. Hyperaware of him being close to you, him being infront of you after weeks of search.

You’re startled out of your thoughts when his arm shifted under your hold, stepping closer to him in desperation—convinced he’d run away the second he had the chance.

“Junior,”

That was all you said.

It sounded breathless and pinched and honestly pathetic—but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Eyes locked on where you held him, as if he wasn’t real—like he was going to dematerialise spontaneously and you’d be left standing alone again.

A frown was etched onto your lips as you contemplated releasing him, he’d already made it so clear that for whatever reason he couldn’t stand the idea of being near you. And yet you were holding him hostage in silence, heart hammering beneath your chest—lump heavy in your throat preventing any speech from leaving you.

He still had a pained expression on his face—lips parting when you gaze rose to meet his—eyes softening when your voice reached his ears, meek and so unlike you, lacking your usual spark, your casual confidence.

“I—I’m sorry.” your voice trembled, brows pinched on your forehead—and he saw the way you struggled to swallow before you continued, “For whatever I did—Junior, I’m sorry,” Each word reaked with desperation and a quiet hopelessness that made Barty’s heart plummet in his chest.

His muscles were taut under his skin, rigid with restraint—wanting to run away from the inevitable and pull you into him all at the same time. Words lingering in the air between you, fragile and lost. He could practically feel them sink into his bones, heavier than any hex he’d ever been hit with.

For a long, suffocating moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you.

Looked at you like you were a burning star about to collapse under your own gravity—something so devastatingly bright that getting close might kill him, looked at you with a helpless frown and pinched brows.

His jaw clenched once, twice, before he finally moved—slow, like it hurt him.

“Don’t—” he choked out, voice cracking mid-word. His hands balled into fists at his sides, nails digging crescent moons into his palms. “Don’t apologise.”

Your lips pursed together, blinking up at him with an expression he never wanted to see on your face again, and most certainly hated the fact that he was the reason for.

“I—” He stopped himself, raking a shaking hand through his hair, sending damp strands curling wildly. His whole body seemed to vibrate with a barely-restrained, chaotic energy, like a wire pulled too tight. “You didn’t do anything, treasure.”

And it only made you frown deepen, fingers twitching around his wrist—still holding him like he was some fragile thing that would vanish, that would crumble under any sort of pressure. Barty was too weak for his own good—surging forward and pulling you into him, arms wrapping tightly around you in an embrace.

He shouldn’t be doing this—holding you close this when your boyfriend was just a door down. He shouldn’t be indulging himself in you when even just this small touch means something different to him. Means more.

“You didn’t do anything,” he repeated, voice low and raw and agonisingly sincere.

“I’m the one—fuck, treasure, I’m the one who—”

His words caught in his throat when he felt you squeeze him, palm on his back—your warmth so soothing yet tormenting all at once and Barty just leaned into it. Leaned into you like a man who had nothing left—no fight, no resolve—just signing himself away. Pressing his face into the your shoulder, “I’m sorry,” he murmured back, words muffled against your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry, treasure. I—”

You didn’t let him finish, leaning away slightly—staring up at him with a look in your eyes he couldn’t understand, it lacked contempt, it didn’t have anything other than warmth and acceptance he couldn’t fathom. Affection, that he surely didn’t deserve.

“Junior. J—stop. You don’t need to explain right now,” you said, voice almost lost in the thick, suffocating air between you. “Let’s…let’s just go sit somewhere, yeah?”

But you barely had a chance to move before you heard the soft creak of a door behind you.

Regulus.

He stepped out of the bathroom, fully clothed now, his shirt rumpled and clinging slightly to his skin in places where his hair was still damp, curling against the nape of his neck and forehead in soft, messy tendrils. Water dripped lazily from the ends, soaking into the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice.

His eyes found you first, standing frozen there in the corridor with Barty half-folded against you. Then his sights slid over to Barty, and the way Barty clung to you like if he let go, he’d come apart completely.

The way you cradled Barty’s wrist with your fingers—so gentle, so careful, as if you were holding something precious you didn’t know how to save. The look in Barty’s eyes—raw, unguarded—made Regulus’s chest ache in a way he didn’t want to name.

He just…watched for a moment.

Air stretching, heavy and taut and almost suffocating, until finally Regulus moved.

Walking up to you both in three long, silent strides and, without a word, reaching out—taking both of your wrists, Barty’s and yours, into his hands. Grip wasn’t rough, but it was firm. Inevitable.

He turned on his heel and tugged you both along. Neither of you resisted. Neither of you even thought to resist.

Following him blindly, feet scraping against the stones, the flickering torches blurring past in your peripheral vision. Barty stumbled once but caught himself, and you never once let go of him. The corridors twisted and turned, and after a short while, the only sound was quiet breaths mixing with the distant noise of dinner echoing from the Great Hall.

After a few minutes, you found your voice, smaller than you’d have liked, “Reg, where are we going…?”

He didn’t turn around, his fingers just tightened slightly where they held both your wrists, turning another corner. “Don’t you think we need to talk?” he said, his voice low, too neutral—almost strained.

You didn’t answer—letting the question hung unanswered between you.

Eventually, he pulled you both into the Slytherin common room—empty now—pulling you up the stairs into their room, the heavy velvet curtains drawn across the windows, casting the room in muted twilight. Only the faint golden glow of the sconces on the walls lit the room, flickering like dying stars.

Regulus let go of you both, stepping back a pace as if to give you space—maybe even to steel himself. The three of you stood there in the centre of the room, awkward and uncertain, like strangers stranded in the aftermath of a storm—the door clicking softly behind you and resonating around the silence in the room.

Barty’s shoulders were tense, hunched inward like he was bracing for a blow. His gaze was fixed stubbornly on the floor, refusing to meet either of yours. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, useless.

Regulus watched him quietly, no anger in his eyes—no disappointment, even. Just something quieter, heavier. Patient.

And you—

You hovered uncertainly, your hand still loosely wrapped around Barty’s wrist, your thumb brushing absently against the bone like you hadn’t even realised you were doing it—you never noticed, but Barty did.

His eyes flicking down, locking on the sight of your hand—so unaware, so comforting and yet it still made his chest tighten. Only then did you notice, feeling the way he tensed under your touch, following his gaze with dread pinching in you when you it landed on your hand.

Pursing your lips together, you pulled away—forcibly squeezing your own hand—fingers curling into your palm ike you could hide the upset bleeding into your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice raw and breaking. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Barty flinched at your words, frustration flickering across his face before he scrubbed a hand roughly through his hair, curls falling even messier over his forehead.

“It’s not that—” he blurted, wincing. “Well—it is—but it’s not—” He stammered over the words, grimacing as he fought them, fought with his mind and tongue. “It’s not you. You don’t—you don’t make me uncomfortable. I just—”

He stopped, pressing his lips together hard like he could physically hold the rest of it in.

The silence stretched, pressed into him like it knew he would crumble, like it was waiting from him to shatter. And your gaze on him did nothing to quell his pulse sounding in his ears, it was open—confused, waiting. Unfairly patient.

Regulus’ stare was sharper—cutting into him with a quiet sort of knowing that made Barty’s stomach twist painfully.

And Barty couldn’t stand it—he couldn’t breathe under it.

“I—I thought I could do this. But I can’t. I’m sorry, I just—”

The panic was building, an unforgiving, rising tide in his throat, tight and hot and unbearable. He turned sharply, desperate to escape the weight of their stares, the suffocating walls, the unbearable truth burning under his skin. But before he could get more than a step away, Regulus moved—swift and sure, catching his wrist in a firm grip. “Stop.” Regulus said quietly, with an iron edge that brooked no argument. “If you don’t tell her, I will. It’s not fair anymore, Junior.”

And Barty's whole body jolted at the contact, stiffening like he’d been shocked. His stomach flipped—violent and sick and dizzying—but not just with anger. Not just with shame.

There was something else, something strange and warm tangled in it, something he didn’t want to name, something worse. The feeling of Regulus’ fingers curling around his wrist—soft and careful and familiar—it sent a pulse of heat ricocheting through him so abruptly that for a split second he was convinced his lungs had collapsed.

And it made him angry—at himself, at everything.

Because how dare his body still react like that, still betray him, even now when everything was clearly already falling apart?

He ripped his arm free like it burned him, staggering back with a harsh, broken sound caught in his throat, spinning around so quickly he nearly stumbled, chest heaving, his face crumpling with a sick, helpless kind of revulsion—at himself most of all.

“You think this is fair on me?!” he snapped, voice ragged and raw. He couldn’t even see Regulus’s face anymore—couldn’t bear to—only saw the wreckage burning behind his own eyes.

“You think I want this?!"

The words tore out of him, vicious and choking. "I wish—" And he breath caught, clawing its way out and trapping itself in his throat, as he continue words swallowed in the distress of his tone.

"I wish more than anything that I didn’t feel like this!"

His hands were shaking now, curled tight into fists, nails digging hard into his palms until he swore he felt blood bloom beneath them, knuckles white and tremouring under the tightness.

“What do you want me to say—huh, Reg?!” he demanded, a frantic, wounded sound punching out of him. “You want me to shout it from the rooftops?! Fine!”

He should have stopped himself, should have thought about it, taken a second to just stop. But Barty was always too volatile, always too crass for his own good—never able to find the middle ground, especially when it comes to emotions, so used to pushing them away. Hiding them under layers and layers of blaśe and cocky remakes. And now it was all spilling out of him like bile, thick like oil, staining and tainting the air as left him.

“You want me to say ‘I’m in love with your girlfriend!?’”

He wasn’t finished—the final truth tumbling out, raw and bleeding, voice cracking under the pressure,

"I’m in love with my best friend!"

And with that—it wasn’t just the room that stopped—Barty was use the whole world had, spinning on its axis, tilted upside down. He froze, his own heartbeat roaring in his ears, realisation crashing down on him like a tidal wave too heavy to survive.

The weight of what he’d said—what he couldn’t ever take back—slammed into him so hard he staggered, a half-step backward, dazed and wide-eyed.

You just stood there, staring at him, lips parted slightly, eyes glistening under the dim candle light—and Regulus didn't say anything. Didn’t even move either.

He just watched Barty quietly, his face frighteningly still, but his grey eyes were no longer guarded. They swam with something achingly gentle. Something like understanding, sympathetic—and he wanted to be sick, wanted to scream.

Because even now, even after everything—part of him still ached, wanting to reach for you, part of him wished Regulus’ hand was still warm and familiar against him. Still wanted to feel the impossible, burning comfort of being held by you.

And that?

That was the cruelest part of all.

already started part 4....were GETTING THERE YALL

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