#i should just write this actually i might try that tomorrow

[sophiethewitch1]

If it's not obvious I have a poor relationship with the concept of rest and recovery

[raiiny-bay]

did a writing exercise wherein i tried to describe my characters only through random things i associate them with & it was hard !!!

[the-kipsabian]

aight im looking at my wip list rn (like actual work i have started so far)

[supahstarrr]

today has been the first day in like days i havent gone to sleep in the afternoon then continuously force myself to sleep throughout the night

[teaboot]

Things you can do as a security guard instead of acting like a dickhead: a vent post disguised as advice

Offer alternatives: IE, “Sorry, nobody’s allowed to hang out over there, but we have seats over here you’re welcome to use”. I recommend getting familiar with local parks, public seating, free food programs, outreach, mobile aid, etc., just in case those are needed.

Be polite: IE, “Excuse me, sir”, “I beg your pardon, miss”. This should go without saying but everyone deserves dignity.

Avoid phrasing requests as orders: IE, “Don’t stand in front of that” VS “Excuse me, could you move a bit to the side?”. This works best with an explanation, like, “There’s a sign behind you”, or, “you might get clipped by someone”. This helps communicate that you are asking for a reason, not just throwing your weight around. If you don’t have a reason, rethink whether or not you need to be doing anything.

Avoid directing blame or fault. Don’t say, “The owner says you gotta go” when you could say, “I’m not supposed to let people be here for X period” or “do X thing”. Again, try to have alternatives ready so people can use other resources or do something else instead of just abruptly changing plans.

Come from a place of compassion whenever you can. People are gonna tell you to get rid of the crazy screaming guy. They say that because they’re frightened and don’t know what to do. Your best approach is, “Hello sir”, followed by, “How are you today?”, “how’s it going?”, “are you doing alright?”, etc., depending on what the person is ACTUALLY doing / saying when you get there. You can offer help from there if needed, or leave them alone if they’re not in danger or a risk to anyone.

Remember you’re not a cop. This can mean whatever you need it to mean. For me personally, that means that with incredibly rare exception (like trying to sell to kids, contaminating other’s food or drink) I won’t report you for drugs. If I find you doing drugs on my site I’ll tell you a different place where you can do them instead and ask you to do them there. I have interrupted drug deals to ask the client and the salesman to both kindly move 15 feet to the left, I’m not kidding, I do not care.

Know who you can throw under the bus. Sometimes you gotta enforce rules and be the bad guy and if that’s the fault of some dipshit in a suit 200 miles away, you can say that. Sorry man, I can’t let you park your car on the lawn. I know you’re not hurting anyone and frankly I think lawn culture is stupid but there’s other parking stalls and if my boss sees you I’ll get a write-up for not doing my job. Shit sucks sometimes but if it wasn’t me telling you it’d be the new guy, and between you and me he’s an idiot and he’ll probably just report you to bylaw.

Don’t just act like you’re their friend, genuinely try to be a good friend. If you know that someone is doing something that will only result in a bystander phoning police, don’t let them go down like that. Let them know, “hey man, you seem like you’re having a shit time and I get it, I’ll do what I can, but we gotta have this conversation somewhere else ‘cause we’re freaking out the old ladies.”

Swallow your tongue. You can’t fix the world. People are gonna bitch at you about communists and 5G and gangster rap ruining the neighbourhood, that’s just part of the deal. Nod along, remain neutral, shut down any hate speech, redirect if you can, and keep a limit in mind where you’ll have to shut things down.

Accept that sometimes there are no solutions. Yes, that angry guy who blasts music will be back tomorrow. That homeless woman who asks you to help her find her dog that she hasn’t had in 30 years will ask again, and yes, you’re still going to take a description and promise to keep an eye out. That kid who smokes crack behind the building has been clean for a few weeks and still stops by to say hi, and you hope he’ll get his life together and be happy, but he also might relapse and OD before he hits 25. Sometimes you just have to do the best you can, even if nothing is guaranteed.

Be kind to teenagers. Being a kid is hard, and everyone’s on their ass all the damn time for everything.

Remember that the vast majority of bad people aren’t bad, just unhappy. The guy who keeps showing up drunk and puking on the carpet is unhappy. The lady who bitches about the service every single time and keeps coming back anyway is unhappy. The guy who leaves trash everywhere is probably unhappy. If they were happy, maybe they’d do better, but they’re not, and that’s kinda sad. You don’t have to let them get away with their shit, but they probably aren’t actually a worthless human being either.

It doesn’t matter if 12 is true or not. You need to believe it or you will become a harsh and bitter person. Look for evidence that people are not terrible and invent it if you have to

Don’t let yourself become a bastard

[gyaruhana]

hiiii can i please request a smutty (18+) fic of kang daeho x reader

so the idea is during the first few lights out (when the fights havent started yet) when it was daeho's turn to keep watch while the other slept, he overheard reader (who was in a nearby bed) twisting and turning in bed whilst moaning ang whimpering his name so blablabla things escelate (u can fill that part however u want) and it leads to daeho slowly fucking reader trying to keep quiet as to not wakeup any other players😣😣🙏🙏🙏

bye ive been thinking abt this idea for so long ive just been waiting for someone to write it😭😭😭

Kang Dae-ho/Player 388 - Keep it quiet

Synopsis: How could Dae-ho possibly stay focused when you were right there, moaning his name?

A/N: Finally dropping this Dae-ho fic too !! He's just a cutie really

Warning: smut content, just gently fucking tbh.. actually there's slight somno !!

In a death game like this, the idea of a relationship was the last thing on anyone's mind. Especially with tensions being so high between everyone due to the voting system put in place. You, yourself, were on edge and too focused on the lingering threat of death to divert your attention to other things like romance or friendships.

Most of the time, you stayed close to the little group you had joined with people you trusted now since they had saved you before and kept you safe. However, even with your little group that had a previous winner of these twisted games, you still felt on edge because Gi-hun had stated that an attack from the opposing side was not out of the question. The idea that someone might come and get you when you slept was unsettling but, if someone was going to keep watch with your newly-formed sleeping schedule, you suppose you'd feel much better. Especially if the person keeping watch tonight was Kang Dae-ho.

As much as you tried to avoid thinking about relationships because you could all die tomorrow, you couldn't stop thinking about Dae-ho. You couldn't explain why he made your heart race every time he'd talk to you. Hell, even a simple glance from him was enough to make your cheeks flush red. He just always treated you like a gentleman should treat a girl and you couldn't get him out of your head now. 

Apparently, he even came into your dreams now.

It was lights out and everyone but Dae-ho was asleep. He kept his eyes peeled, looking for anything or anyone suspicious. He wanted to make sure everyone was fine and that nothing was being plotted. It would be a disaster if an attack happened and more people had to lose their lives. He scanned the dark room for any movement that might just be barely noticeable. However, his focus was immediately broken when he heard a whimper.

He snapped his head toward the sound only to see you who was very much still sleeping soundly in bed with the blanket completely encasing you. His eyebrows furrowed in both confusion and worry before he looked away. Maybe he misheard you or you were just dreaming. He was sure you were fine so he didn't think about it again.

Well, at least he wasn't going to think about it until he heard the very clear sound of you moaning his name. His head looked over to you immediately in disbelief. He was in pure shock for a few moments and he sat there still, frozen, trying to process what was happening and whether this was just a dream. He really didn't believe that you were moaning his name so he stood up quietly and walked over to you.

Surely it was a mistake, right? You couldn't actually be moaning his name, right?? But then he heard it again and it made him flinch. He was in total shock once again as he watched you moan his name out and writhe. He had liked you for a while but he didn't think you would reciprocate his feelings. At least, he didn't think you liked him before this. Now it was clear that you did since you were having a less than appropriate dream about him which made you squirm and quietly cry out as you pleaded for more. He'd be lying if he said that your moans of his name didn't make him hard. He could feel his head start to spin at the idea of you needing him so badly - of you needing his cock. 

Fuck, maybe he should wake you up? But he really didn't want you to stop. Your moans were music to his ears and it’d be a shame to make it stop. He stayed still for a moment before coming to a not so smart decision. He slowly climbed onto the bed with you before whispering your name quietly in an attempt to coax you awake slowly. 

It was quiet for a moment and he suddenly got nervous that maybe you had actually woken up. He wasn’t even sure what to say if he did wake you up. He couldn’t just outright say he heard you moaning his name - that would be awkward. Thankfully, you suddenly let out another moan making him sigh quietly in relief. He gently placed one of his hands over your mouth to muffle your voice so as to not have anyone else hear you and wake up. 

He bit his bottom lip as he thought long and hard about what to do next. He knew he probably shouldn't do what his dick wanted him to but he also didn't want to wake you up because you were clearly enjoying the dream. It'd be rude to make it stop. He swallowed nervously before letting out a shaky breath and deciding to just go for it. He could deal with the consequences that may come later. 

Without another thought, he slowly slipped your pants down. He knew it was probably stupid to be doing this but he was so hard and he needed to feel you wrapped around his cock. He quickly pulled his own pants down along with his boxers and crawled on top of you slowly so as not to rouse you from your sleep. He didn't know what was possessing him to do this but he slowly leaned down and gently kissed your neck. The sweet sound that came out of your mouth when he did was muffled by his hand but, God, it still sounded amazing. 

He lowered a hand down to push your panties to the side and he could feel how wet you were, your slick connecting to his fingers. He had to hold back a groan because of it. He couldn't believe you were this wet and all because of him. You must be having a really good dream and Dae-ho convinced himself that it would be a good idea to make it a reality.

He lined himself up with your hole and slowly rubbed his tip up and down to gather your wetness on his cock. “Oh my god..” he said quietly as he felt your hole pulse against him. He wanted to feel you so badly now. The idea of making you moan out his name as he thrust into your tight hole had him going insane. When he pushed his tip in, he swore he almost released on the spot. You were so tight and he had never felt anything so amazing before.

“Baby, you're so tight..” he mumbled as he buried his face into your neck. He slowly inched himself deeper as he bit into your neck to muffle his whines. He was embarrassed by how sensitive he was and how he was getting so loud when he was only halfway inside you. He decided to get it out of the way and finally managed to push all the way in to your cunt. He shut his eyes tight and tried to get used to the overwhelming feeling of your walls wrapped around his cock. HIs hands went to your waist as he gripped it tightly.

He was just about to start moving when he heard you speak. 

“Dae-ho..?” You spoke and, when he looked at you, your eyes were open now. His breath hitched nervously as he looked at you with wide eyes. Fuck, he had been caught. “Shit, I'm sorry. I just heard you making those sounds and I couldn't help myself,” he says as he hides his face in your neck again.

“Please let me fuck you. Please,” he begged as he rolled his hips against yours slightly in order to try to coax you into giving him what he wanted. The sweet moan you let out made it impossible for him to hold back now and he decided that he was going to take what he wanted.

“Shh. We have to be- quiet,” he whispered as he started thrusting into you. Waking someone else up right now was not an option which is why you both needed to be quiet. He made sure to keep his thrusts gentle so you wouldn't be too loud but it honestly made it feel a million times better. You could feel every inch of his cock slowly push in before he pulled all the way out only to thrust back in again.

He let out small grunts into your ear as he kept his slow yet deep pace. You didn’t expect him to be so long but he was. Every time he pushed into your hole, you swore you could feel him fill you up entirely. He slowly slipped his hand underneath your shirt and brought his hand to your chest to squeeze at your tit. 

“You're doing so good for me, baby. Oh my god,” he whispered quietly as he thrust in with a little bit more force. He could feel himself getting closer to a sweet release so he grabbed your thigh and lifted your leg to put it over his shoulder. The new angle made him reach even deeper inside you as he continued to thrust and it was leaving you dizzy with pleasure.

His thrusts slowly became sloppy until he couldn't handle it and started leaving kisses all over your neck to try to mark you desperately. “Please let me cum inside. I wanna pump you full of my cum,” he begged as he started to thrust faster. You mindlessly nodded your head as you put your arms around his neck. In no world would you ever deny Dae-ho the chance of emptying his load into your womb. You’d gladly let him breed you anyday.

Your nod encouraged him to go faster and, before he knew it, he was releasing inside you with a growl. You released with him and he slowed his thrusts down to bring you back down from your high before stopping altogether and collapsing on top of you.

“God, you're so perfect,” he spoke before before bringing his lips to yours and kissing you for the first time that night. The kiss was gentle yet passionate and he poured all his feelings into it. When he finally pulled away after the both of you were breathless, he pressed his forehead against yours and closed his eyes. After a few moments of silence, he smiled and let out a breathless laugh before opening his eyes again.

“I think I love you,”

[ace-malarky]

oop I have asks I will get to them but also I have family over and yaddayadda probably the last time we'll all be together (mortality's a bitch) so like. capitalising on that so I haven't forgotten I just. haven't been around. Who knows when I will have time!

... maybe tomorrow I don't think I have to like Be places until the afternoon but the housework is also piling up lmaoooo

[tvrningout-a]

is it 1 am? yeah but i found a fc for chiyo's mom so don't worry about the time asdf

[that-sarcastic-writer]

A Ballad of Lost Souls

Eric Draven (2024) X f!reader

Summary: what happens when two lost souls find each other? Cling to each other? Love could be a very dangerous drug indeed. You and Eric meet during rehab.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, minors dni, p in v, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, brief handjob, hair pulling, choking, size difference, size kink if you squint, bit of inexperienced!reader, Eric is actually a sweetheart, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mentions of substance abuse, addiction, mentions of suicidal thoughts, this movie is dark what do you want me to say

Reader has tattoos, but has no further specifications, y’all get to be tattooed girlies today, you’re welcome

WC: 5.7K I’m sorry

Inspo creds @kingkat12, she also posted an Eric fic with the same concept and some of the elements of this story like some of the dialogue bits were inspired after reading hers. Please give her some love! She’s a great writer

A/N: NOBODY LOOK AT ME. idc, I love Eric okay, stfu. I just had to write him. He just needs love man. That’s all. I want to give him love. So here you go. I might make a part two if there’s enough interest. When I tell you the Eric fic supply is LOW, I’ve never seen one so LACKING. So I just had to yk? Enjoy and don’t cancel me alright.

You didn’t often dwell on the past. You had a live in the moment kind of mindset. You didn’t know where you’d be tomorrow so you made the best of the moment. But sometimes, you wondered just where your bad decisions were taking you. You didn’t mean to end up here, in this awful bubblegum pink sweater and sweatpants, surrounded by people who didn’t care why you were here, or if you got better or not. The disappointed words of your mother played in your head, and the angry words of your father hammered in the back of your head. You were a fucking disappointment, and that’s why you were here. 

You thought about ending it. This mess your life had become. It wouldn’t be too hard to find a razor around here if you truly tried. Who would miss you anyway? What even was the point of it all? By day two you couldn’t take this shit anymore. And then you saw him in the yard. You were almost entranced by him. He was so tall, he towered over everyone he walked past, you couldn’t imagine how ridiculous you would look standing next to him. You could see his ink cover his hands and fingers, and you wondered just how far the ink traveled. You were intrigued by him, he was quiet, morbidly so, he didn’t say a word to anyone, no matter how much they pressed or tossed him around, he just stared. Whether it was the doctors, the counselors, the guards. He always chose silence. And he always had this look of defiance, of apathy, he took everything with a locked jaw and deadpan eyes. And that intrigued you.

Should you try to entertain anyone in this facility, let alone the loner covered in tattoos? No, absolutely not. But lord, something about him drew you in. 

You caught glimpses of him for a few days, in the cafeteria when you walked past him to your table, maybe he thought you didn’t notice, but you caught him turning his head to watch you walk by. One time, your eyes met, they were a pretty shade of green. It was brief though, as soon as he realized you caught him, his eyes were in front of his plate, but not before you managed to flash him a tiny smile. Welcoming, playful. 

Eric remembered that. 

The next time you saw him was out in the yard. They encouraged exercise in this place, for some dumb reason. The most people did around here was stand in a corner, feeling completely miserable under the scorching sun. But much to your surprise, after some time walking around the yard you found Eric, lingering by the gym equipment. It wasn’t much, just a pull up bar and that was barely tall enough to accommodate him. No weights, of course, because someone could hurt themselves, or someone else with them. It wasn’t much, but you couldn’t help but watch as he pulled his sweatshirt over his head, revealing even more tattoos going up both of his arms. You stood in a corner like a fucking weirdo, watching as he did pull up’s, as best as he could having to bend his long legs to accommodate the short bar. Why were you just staring at this man you’ve never even spoken to? Of that you had no clue. But you couldn’t take your eyes away. He had his back to you, but even under the material of his white t-shirt you could see the muscles in his shoulders tense, his arms flexing with each pull. And you could only I magine the true sight of him. Sweat dripping down his forehead, lips pulled between his teeth as he did each pull. God, you felt like such a pervert. You shouldn’t be eye fucking him like this, but you couldn’t help it, something about him twisted the most secluded corners of your mind.

Ultimately your trance was cut short, since it didn’t take long for a group of guys to take interest in whatever Eric was doing and went straight to push him around some more. You frowned, almost upset by the sight of him getting tossed around and hazed like this. You couldn’t hear what was happening, but Eric had his head down, chest heavy as he clenched his fists at his sides, but he otherwise did nothing. You didn’t care, any fucks you still had to give were gone the moment your parents and your ex-boyfriend conspired to send you here. You were about to walk over there, not caring about what weird opposite sex rules this place had. But when you started walking, Eric did too, getting shoulder checked as he pushed his way past the group of guys. You felt awful, you wanted to say something to him, but you were frozen when he walked past you, his green eyes shooting a quick glance at you, a bit of curiosity laced in them. But you were more focused on how his shirt was clinging to his sweaty chest. And just like that he was gone.

The next time you saw him was during a group meeting that afternoon. You were almost disappointed at first when he didn’t show. You sulked into your seat for the first minute or two, upset you wouldn’t get to see him today again. And then you saw him. His expression as apathetic as ever, like he would rather get beat up than sit through this bullshit. His hair was soaking wet, small droplets of water still falling from the tips of his raven hair. Great, now the image of him in the shower was ingrained into your brain. As if you didn’t feel filthy enough.

You bit your lip softly, sitting up as he sat across from you, his expression blank with disinterest as his tattooed fingers played with the hem of his pink sweater. You weren’t paying attention either, you were more entertained by the way his long legs spread open as he slouched on his chair, taking as much space as possible. You thought about how nice it would be to sit on his lap. You glanced at his hands, they were huge. How easily he could grab a hold of your ass, or hold you still by your neck. How his long fingers would feel so deep inside you. You thought about how easily he was doing those pull ups, and you thought just how easily he could hold you down, throw you around to as he pleased with you. Truly, you would happily let him use you. You could feel heat rush to your face as you crossed your legs, trying your best to ignore the heat pooling between your legs. Why were you lusting so hard over him? You didn’t even know his name. 

Almost as if he could hear your pounding heart, Eric looked up to find your eyes lingering on him, one leg crossed over the other tightly. He tilted his head with curiosity, and his fingers twitched around his sweatshirt as your eyes met. He didn’t feel like looking away this time. The longer his hooded eyes were on you, the more nervous you became. You could feel your breath hitch in your chest as his eyes burned you. You only looked away when the counselor said your name, followed by stares. 

Shit, were you supposed to say something? 

You opened your mouth, immediately closing it as you had nothing to say. You didn’t even hear the question. You pursed your lips and shook your head lightly. The counselor sighed softly and looked to the girl beside you instead. It was common for most people here to refrain from speaking so he didn’t think too much about it. But when your eyes found Eric again, there was a small hint of amusement in his eyes, a ghost of a grin tugging at his plush lips. For the first time since you’ve been here, you saw something other than disinterest on his face. 

Perhaps he was just as drawn to you as you were to him. 

~~~

You pulled your lips into a disappointed pout as you searched around the cafeteria for his black mullet, not being able to find him. And here you thought today would be the day you finally spoke to him. You were about to sit at the nearest empty table when you found him. Even sitting down he stood out. You smiled to yourself, your heart pounding in your chest with anticipation. You looked around for guards, none were paying particular attention to you so you did it. 

He lifted his head slightly to glance at you, a quick second before his eyes were back on his plate. You saw the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. You smiled to yourself.

“I like your ink.” Were the first words out of your mouth. You said them in one breath, afraid he would get up and leave. His eyes lifted from his hands to meet yours, his eyes then fell to your own hands, one of them covered in distinct patterns and colors from your wrist up to your fingers. He wondered what else you were hiding under your sweater, like him.

“Hm.” He gave you a small nod, his plush lips pulled between his teeth in a way that had you clenching your thighs. “I like yours.” 

You smiled, the first genuine one since you’ve gotten here.

“I have more.” You whispered, leaning close to him, like it was some secret only for his ears to hear. His eyes flickered with amusement and he gave you another hum, his eyes now looking everywhere they could in hope of finding said secrets. 

“Me too.” His lips curved up the slightest bit as he lifted one of his sleeves up enough to reveal more tattoos going up his arm. Your eyes lit up as you excitedly leaned down closer with the excuse of getting a closer look. Your proximity was certainly way too close for this facility.

Leaning impossibly close to him without actually touching him, you looked up at him and with a playful smile you pulled down the collar of your sweatshirt to reveal more designs along your collarbone, the rest of the design hidden by your sweater as the colors continued down your shoulder. 

“But don’t tell anyone.” You chewed on your bottom lip, trying to hide your smile. He gave you what sounded like a chuckle and he shrugged.

“Who would I tell?” Though his face remained expressionless, his eyes had a glint that mimicked your eagerness, he welcomed your proximity. “Here he comes.”

You were confused by his words and you opened your mouth to question him as he sat back, his head lifting in the direction behind your head. 

“Males and females can’t sit together!” One of the guards, one you had noticed had a particular thing with Eric shouted, roughly grabbing the back of his chair to force him up on his feet.

“Huh? Wait, why are you taking him?” You talked back to the guard. “Hey, he didn’t do anything! I was the one that sat here. I—I’ll move. Don’t be such an asshole! Leave him alone!” You tried to help, even going as far as standing up but the guard was already taking the new owner of all of your attention away. Your heart sank as you watched the guard shout at him as he dragged him away.

He had managed to turn his head back for a second, and when your eyes met, he half smiled at you. He was almost proud of the fact that you tried to stand up for him. “I’m Eric!”

You smiled. 

~~~~~~

“Found you.” You skipped into Eric’s room, finally seeing his door open.

You hadn’t seen him since you got him in trouble at their cafeteria the day before. You got in some trouble too. You had a one on one meeting with a counselor about your choice of words and your “temper” but it was nothing more than just a slap on the wrist. Truly, you felt worse about getting Eric in trouble more than anything. You didn’t mean to, you just wanted to talk to him. He must have gotten punished because you didn’t see him during gym hour. You leaned against the doorframe as he turned around to find you. Curiosity filled his otherwise empty eyes, and a glint of amusement replaced the usual apathy in his gaze.

“I never left.” He answered with a shrug as he shuffled through the mess that was made of his artwork. Sketch papers were scattered all over his room, torn off the walls. Perhaps after getting in trouble during lunch they used that as an excuse to go through his room. 

“I’m sorry for getting you in trouble.” You expressed with genuine regret, shooting back a glance to the hallway before inviting yourself into his room. Much to the protest of the rational voice in your mind. You looked at the floor as you almost stepped on a piece of paper, you happily picked it up, admiring the black charcoal coating the page before you set it on his bed.

“Is that why you’re here? To apologize?” Eric asked almost cynically as he glanced over at you, not moving from where he stood.

“Well yeah. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.” You said sheepishly, a bit intimidated under his intense gaze. There was always a look of defiance in his green eyes, determination even. He gave you a sarcastic hum, which made you roll your eyes.

“Why did you yell at the guard? You got in trouble too, didn’t you?” He asked lowly, his head slightly tilted as he searched for that little thing you did around him, when you clenched your hands at your sides, or your thighs on your seat. His eyes irked with amusement when your fingers twitched at your sides and your lips parted open.

“‘Cause… You didn’t do anything wrong. You never do anything, or say anything. And everyone around here always pushes you around. It’s fucked up.” You answered quietly, daring to meet his eyes. He pulled his lips into a small pout and nodded slowly. His silence was always so nerve wracking to you.

“Yeah, so?”

You scrunched up your face, sighing heavily at his questioning. What did he what you to say? You didn’t know why you cared. You shrugged, picking up another piece of paper by your feet. You half glanced at it as you spoke.

“I dunno.. I just.. Oh my—” You cut yourself off as you gave the drawing in your hand a proper look. You narrowed your eyes, giving the drawing a closer look, and your jaw fell open. It looked like you, your hair falling over your face, dark scribbles covering your body symbolizing the unknown designs on your body, the only intelligible one being the patterns on your collarbone, the same one you had shown Eric. But what truly caught your eye was that you were in fact, completely nude. Truly, his imagination surprised you, he had imagined every curve of your body well, despite not having seen any part of it.

Based on your flustered expression, Eric could only assume which drawing you had picked up. He swallowed, his cheeks flushing pink being caught red handed. But he didn’t look apologetic, at all.

“This what you do in your spare time? Draw naked girls?” You asked with big eyes, the still working rational part of your mind screaming alarms, but a part of you also filled with excitement at his perverted mind. Almost as if you were on his mind as much as he was on yours.

He shook his head. “Just one.” He answered with a shrug, a challenging look in his eyes. 

Either you walked out right then and there, and that would be that, or you would go all in. He was trying to figure out which one it would be.

“You are very talented, this is—” You dragged your tongue over your lip as you walked closer to him, catching glances at his other artwork. Your heart pounded in your chest as you approached him, his gaze making you shudder. He said nothing as you stooped in front of him, now having to tilt his head down to meet your gaze. God this man was so goddamn tall. “You could totally sell this for some money.”

“But,” you continued, swallowing hard as you looked up at him, and the way his green eyes looked at you made your mind all fuzzy. God, you haven't felt this euphoric since you got here. This rush of adrenaline made you dizzy, but you pushed through it. “I see one flaw in your creativity.”

“Oh?” He bit down on his plush lip, head tilted with curiosity. You hummed and nodded, daring to bring your fingers up his chest. His breath hitched in his chest, but he said nothing.

“I fear you don’t have the full picture. My tattoos are more than just a scribble of ink.” You stated matter of factly, making him breathe out a small laugh.

“Sorry. I work with what I have.” He shrugged his shoulders, trying to ignore the feeling of your hands itching up his chest.

“Maybe I should give you more to work with?” Your hands found the back of his neck and you instinctively stood on the ends of your toes, itching to get closer to him.

Eric glanced down at you, his eyes lingering on your own for a split second before glancing at your parted lips, soft breaths escaping you as you anxiously waited. He didn’t have to think about it, he didn’t want to. His mouth was on yours so hard you whined. His large hand found your hair, tilting your head back to meet your lips better. 

You weren’t sure when you ended up against the nearest wall, your legs wrapped around Eric’s slim waist as he held you up. You were right, he could hold you up like you were nothing. Truly, the oversized clothes you were forced to wear didn’t do him any justice. You wondered what he was hiding under his sweatshirt.

His lips were messy on yours, his heavy breaths joining your soft whimpers. You were so caught up in the delicious feeling of his mouth claiming yours and his hands touching everywhere he could, you didn’t hear the loud voices of guards calling your name and patient number. Reality dawned on you when you heard shouting down the hall for everyone to get out of their rooms. You patted Eric’s shoulder, forcing your lips away from his. 

“Eric—Eric.” You said his name with urgency, making him look at you, eyes filled with greed as he chased your lips. “I have to go. I don’t want to get you in trouble again.” 

He nodded after a second, setting you down on your feet after pressing one last kiss to your lips. You had a stupid smile on your face as you successfully sneaked out his room, the guards being distracted as they probably ransacked some poor bastard's room like they had done Eric’s. You glanced behind you as you hurried down the hall, catching a glimpse of Eric peeking his head through his door. He smiled. And it made your heart race.

You could not wait to see him again.

~~~~~~

“Eric!—” You slapped your hand over your mouth, attempting to quiet the desperate sounds leaving your mouth. But the way his tongue lapped at your sensitive clit and his long fingers rubbed against that one spot within your walls that had you squirming.

You didn’t mean to end up in this position, ass naked on top of one of the washing machines in the laundry room, with Eric on his knees and his face between your thighs. Truly you didn’t, you knew you would be in a lot of fucking trouble if you got caught. But the way his lips claimed yours, his tongue lacing with yours, his large hands grabbing at every part of your body like he didn’t know which one he craved to touch more. He just wanted you so fucking bad, your kisses and little rubbing here and there for the past few days wasn’t enough for him, or for you.

“I wanted to taste you so fucking bad.” He muttered against your clit, a groan rumbling in his throat when you pulled at the hairs on the back of his head, inadvertently holding his face closer against you. Not that he minded, he would stay here, with his fingers scissoring you open until you dripped on the surface underneath you. 

“Please—fuck. That feels so good.” You didn’t remember the last time someone made you feel this good. Not that you had much experience in this area, but this sure felt right.

Eric wrapped his free hand under your thigh, pulling you to the edge, closer to his mouth. He lapped at your pussy like he needed it, like it was the air in his lungs. The sounds leaving his mouth as your juices seeped around his fingers were almost as filthy as yours. 

You felt like such a slut, chasing his mouth with your hips, heaving like a bitch in heat, and quietly begging him to grant you your release, as quiet as you could be with his fingers so deep and his tongue drawing delicious circles around your clit. 

“Just like that baby… Just like that.” Eric mumbled, his fingers slipping and crooking against that perfect spot. 

Your release was so sudden, and it hit you so hard you were shaking, sobbing violently into your hand. Your head was thrown back, eyes rolled into the back of your head. Eric dug his fingers into your thigh, his tongue slipping into your hole when his fingers left you. 

“Shit—Eric—” You gasped, your thighs shaking as you weakly reached to grab his face. 

With a grunt he peeled himself from the warmth of your thighs, he stood to his full height before leaning down to capture your lips. The taste of yourself lingering on his tongue made you moan. Disoriented, you reached down to rub where his cock was straining against his sweatpants. He groaned into your mouth, his large hand flew to catch your wrist.

“It’s okay.” He gave your lips a soft kiss as he pulled your hand away. You gave him an adorable frown, your mind still spinning from your orgasm. 

“But you—” He pressed another kiss to your lips, shutting you up. He moved his lips to your neck, latching on to that one spot that had you whining. Neither of you cared if everyone saw the mark he left. 

“We’ll have time for that.” He mumbled against your skin. The way he slurred the words made your breath hitch. “Right?”

He pulled back to meet your eyes, blinking slowly as he waited for your response. You licked your lips softly, breath soft as you thought, how could he still question it. You were past the lusting. This was something else. You needed more of him, and it wasn't just sex you were craving. You wanted every part of him, even the parts of himself he didn’t want.

“Of course.. This isn’t.. Can’t you tell? What you do to me. I’ve never..” You couldn’t even form the right words, your mind still fuzzy with all these feelings you had no name for. You didn’t need to explain. Whatever it was, Eric felt the same. And he smiled, he genuinely smiled. And what a pretty sight that was.

“We should go.” He pressed his lips to the side of your head, smoothing down your hair and fixing your sweater. “Can you stand?”

You half nodded, gasping when he set you down on your feet and you instantly leaned on him for support. The sly smile on his face made you want to slap him. But deep down, you wanted to smile too.

~~~~~

The next time you saw Eric, he was walking down the hallway, his tall frame towering over the majority of people he walked past. He wasn’t hard to find. You bit your lip, unable to contain your excitement as you hurried after him. Your fingers brushed his, and almost as if he knew your touch by heart, he wasn’t startled, he didn’t flinch either. When he turned his head, his eyes grew big at the sight of you, the corners of his lips curving into a tiny smile. You flashed him a whole smile, unapologetic about how happy it made you to see him. Your obsession with him over the past two weeks wasn’t something you could explain, you knew it probably wasn’t healthy. But when were you ever known for having healthy coping mechanisms? You found something that filled you and you clung to it.

“Where are you going?” You asked him quietly as you walked beside him. He walked slower, but didn’t look at you much, as not to bring unwanted attention to yourselves.

“Laundry room.” He said quietly, his eyes dropping to meet yours. And you shared that knowing and malicious look. You couldn’t hide the smile on your lips. This time of day usually meant you could sneak off for a little while since most patients were having their once a week visitor, or phone call, which meant less guards were in every corner.

“I’m supposed to be out in two weeks.” You told Eric in between kisses, his lips trailed your jaw as his hands grabbed at your ass. 

“I’m out in four.” He answered as he pressed you against the nearest wall. He grabbed your face between his large hands, pulling you to meet his eager mouth. You whined, fists clenched around the front of his sweatshirt. You couldn’t go two weeks without seeing him, you would go fucking mad.

“I don’t want to wait a month to be with you.” You breathed out, your chest heavy as the words left your mouth. “I’m supposed to go back to my parents when I get out. They agreed to take me in to follow my treatment, but I don’t want to go. They’re the ones that put me here.” 

“I don’t have anywhere to go.” You barely heard him as he spoke, almost as if the words pained him, broke something deep inside him. It broke something in you, too.

“You can come with me. I have a little place and some money saved. It’s not much but.. If you want.. We could.. We could try something for real?” You trailed off, afraid he would reject you. It was one thing to mess around in here, where neither of you had anything else, anyone else to cling to, but this being anything other than a desperate bond by two lost souls was a different story. Outside of these walls, he could find anyone else, he didn’t have to keep the broken girl he fingered in a shitty laundry room.

“I would like that. I would like something real, with you.” His words were soft, as were his hands holding your face as he pressed his forehead against yours. You breathed out a laugh of relief. “Fuck this place. We’ll do it tomorrow, during shift change. There’s a vent up here that leads to the yard.”

You pulled him down by his sweatshirt, your lips crashing against his. He laced his fingers in your hair as he slipped his tongue into your mouth. You welcomed it, lips parting as you locked your arms around his neck. 

“Eric.” You said his name softly in a quiet plea. He opened his eyes to find your desperate gaze. He told himself he wanted to be better, he knew you deserved better, but when you said his name like that, when you looked at him like that. He was no better. “I don’t think I can wait anymore. Please, I… I need…”

“Need what?” His words were coated with arousal, he knew fucking well what you meant. But he wanted to hear you say it.

“Fuck—” You kissed his lips roughly, any sanity and restraint you might’ve once had, completely. You can’t trust an addict to have good self-control, now could you? “Take me. I’m yours, just take me.”

“Fuck.” Now it was his turn to lose his sanity. He gave your lips one last kiss as he squeezed your cheeks between his fingers, licking your lips before he spun you around to face the wall. “You’re a sweet girl, don’t forget that. I swear I will fuck you properly on a bed, with flowers and shit.” 

His words were rough in your ear as he pressed his lips to your jaw, his hands making quick work of pulling down your sweatpants and panties. They pooled around your ankles as he kicked your legs open as far as they went.

“I like carnations.” You gasped as the cool air hit your exposed cunt. You heard him chuckle beside your ear.

“Those are pretty. They’re pretty like you.” He hummed as he brought two fingers up to your lips. You happily took them in your mouth. Eric almost moaned at the sight. One of these days he needed to have you sucking his cock. One of these days. 

Eric pulled his fingers from your lips and with a kiss to the back of your head, he sunk his coated fingers into your hole. Your mouth fell open, your forehead falling against the wall. You were instantly chasing his fingers, soft whimpers leaving your lips as you happily rode them. You didn’t know how he did it, how he could have you dripping around his fingers in a matter of a minute or two. You were clawing at the wall, silent moans spilling from you when he pulled his fingers from you. He watched almost proudly as your slick coated your thighs. 

“Can I take this off?” He asked quietly, tugging at the hem of your sweater. You made a humming sound, as best as you could. As if he needed to ask. Eric was happy to rid you of your sweater, more happy to find more hidden tattoos going all over both of your arms. He craved to find every single one of your tattoos, and kiss every one. But he knew it would be best to be quick.

His own sweatshirt met the same fate, and with a kiss to your cheek, he grabbed one of your hips as he pulled down his sweats enough to free his cock. A groan left his lips as he dragged his cock between your folds, coating himself in your slick. You gasped, not being able to see him, but already knowing he was big. 

“Let me know if it hurts, hm? I’ll take it easy, I promise.” He pressed his lips to your jaw, inhaling your sweet scent as he slowly sank himself into you. Only his tip was in and you could already feel the sting of his cock stretching you wide open.

“Fuck. Fuck, oh my god—” You squeezed your eyes shut, fingers clenching around nothing as he slowly filled your further, inch by inch.

“It’s okay. You want me to stop?” He asked, shushing you softly as he sat still, allowing you to adjust to the burning feeling of his size. Fuck, you should have known someone as tall as him would be this big. Somehow, it didn’t occur to you.

“No. ‘m okay. Keep going.” You reached behind you to touch him, your fingers gracing over the side of his face. He nodded into your neck, one of his hands sneaking to the front of you to play with your clit to ease you as he sank into you until his hips rutted against your ass. He sat still, speaking filthy words into your ear until you were whimpering, needing to feel more. “Eric, please.”

You didn’t need to tell him twice. His pace was slow at first, slow strokes that allowed you to revel in the feeling of his cock in and out of your walls. But as you both began to grow desperate, pathetic sounds leaving your lips and groans of pleasure leaving him, his pace picked up. It was grueling, how he fucked you against that wall. You braced yourself with one hand, the other holding his face behind you as he leaned his head to capture your parted lips into a messy kiss. He swallowed your sweet sounds as the sting of his cock had you squeezing the life out of him.

“Fuck, I have been dreaming about this since I saw you. You always looked so pretty when you looked at me.” He whispered in your ear, his hand wrapping around your hair as he forced your head back, exposing your neck. You cried out, his roughness making you clench around him. He cursed, covering your mouth with his large hand. “I need you to keep it down for me, baby. You don’t want us to get caught, do you?” 

You shook your head, doing your best to contain the sounds he was pulling from you. His hand slowly left your mouth, trusting you could keep your sounds to a minimum. You bit down on your lip, eyes squeezed shut as his cock split you open. You swore you had never been this utterly fucked out, so cock drunk before. You had never needed anyone so badly. You had never felt so strongly about anyone. You had always found something to cling to, pain, tattoos, in your more miserable and recent years—drugs, and now him. But him? This feeling he gave you, it was like nothing you had ever felt before. You wanted to hold on to him until your final breath of air left your lungs.

“I wanted this—you—so fucking bad. I needed to have you.” Eric grunted, lips latching on to that spot on your neck where the previous hickey he had left was starting to fade. “I’m so crazy about you, no amount of rehab could fix me.” 

You moaned at his words, letting them sink in. He was down so bad for you, probably as much as you were. Two addicts, seeking refuge in each other, craving this adrenaline, it was a kick you had never felt before. It was a kick only lust and passion could bring. And he ignited that deep within your soul. 

“Me too.” You panted, lips parting in ecstasy as one of his tattooed hands loosely wrapped around your throat. Fuck, the way his whole hand covered your entire neck made you gush all over his cock. “I’ve never wanted anyone this bad. You—ah!—I need you all the fucking time.”

“Then you can have me,” His fingers squeezed your throat tighter, his thick cock so deep you swore you could feel him in your fucking cervix. “All the fucking time. Forever.” 

Tears filled your ears as you could feel your release near, your thighs shuddering as you felt your legs start to give out. Eric was quick to press you further against the wall, his back flush against your chest, sweaty forehead pressed against your cheek as his cock rutted against you, over and over, until you were chanting a string of uh-uh-uh’s, your mind too overcome with the pleasure he was giving you to even speak. 

“I want you to come on my cock so fucking bad. I need it.” Groans fell freely from his chest as he once again slipped a hand to your swollen clit. The pressure of his rough fingers made you gasp, your throat closing under his grip. Your release hit you so hard you were sobbing, though mostly muffled by his tight grip. Tears fell down your cheek as your orgasm left you a shaking mess. You had never felt this way before—so overcome with pleasure you cried.

“Shh, it’s okay baby. Good girl.” The hand on your throat left to wipe at your tears, soothing you as you came crashing down. 

Eric fucked you through your release, frantically chasing his own. His name left your lips with praise, sobs of your remnant pleasure as he pushed you to the point of overstimulation. But it wasn’t until he felt his own release near that he pulled out of you. Without saying a word, he grabbed one of your hands and wrapped it around his thick cock, his own hand guiding yours up and down his slick length, sweet praises leaving his lips until he was spilling himself. 

Heavy breaths and pants of exhaustion filled the small laundry room, the air smelled like sex, and the remnants of your forbidden times were left as evidence. Eric eventually spun you around to face him, a soft smile on his lips. You had only ever seen it once, after he ate you out days ago. It was rare to see Eric smile, but you made it a vow to yourself that you would always make him smile like this.

“How fucked up are we? Finding comfort in each other like this. Did it ever cross your mind?” You said softly as Eric helped you dress. He was bending down to grab your sweater and he stood up to his full height, towering over you, and his eyes were laced with an indescribable feeling.

“When I first saw you, I didn’t know what it was, but I was so drawn to you, I looked for you everyday, and I thought I would go mad if I didn’t have you. And right now, I can tell you it’s not just lust. I’m entranced by you, I need you all the time. And if there’s one thing I learned from this fucking place is that you have to latch on to something, otherwise you’ll drown.” 

You were speechless, nothing but your soft breaths could be heard. A smile fell on your lips and you leaned into his chest. Eric sighed softly, wrapping his arms around you, holding you close to his chest, he’d be damn if he ever let you go anywhere but here.

“Addicts will be addicts, no matter how much they try to fix us. But it’s not always to drugs we’re addicted to.” You sighed softly, closing your eyes as you sank into the feeling of his arms. ��This feeling? I never want it to stop.”

“It doesn’t have to.” He mumbled into your hair, in his head reminding himself of your limited time, but he refused to let you go just yet. “Forever, right?”

“Yeah, forever.”

[fxllfaiiry]

❥ It's so sweet, knowing that you love me

★ pairing: miguel o'hara x fem!reader

★ summary: miguel knows you're pregnant, the only problem is he doesn't know how to to tell you. ─ or the time miguel found out before you.

★ warnings: fluff!! usage of many pet names, angst if you squint, miguel being a simp for his wife, pregnancy stuff, swearing, some shitty humor.

★ notes: there aren't enough dad and husband miguel fics out there so i had to write this!! icon credits: @/natashowlet

Miguel knew something was off, he’s known for days.

You’ve recently been throwing up, having odd cravings and random mood swings. At first, he thought you might be sick, you thought the same thing but now he knows it's not that. You were definitely pregnant. Everything adds up, and all of it made sense, then again he could be totally wrong. 

He made up his mind to try and talk to you once you returned home, he would surprise you with a romantic dinner and bring up the subject. He had about an hour to prepare everything. 

Well, that's what he thought, the second he got up to start preparing, you waltzed in through the door. 

“Mi Amor, I’m home.” Why are you home this early? He wanted to surprise you. 

“Mami, why are you home so early?” He says pulling you into a bear hug, usually, he would squish you completely but right now he wasn't sure that’d be the best idea. 

“What, aren't you happy to see me?” You chuckle. 

“No, no I'm really happy, I was just gonna cook you a surprise dinner that's all,”  he replies bashfully

“Aw, that's so sweet.” You threw your arms around him, placing kisses wherever you could reach. “I have the best husband ever.” 

“And I have the most amazing wife, now come on let’s go make something to eat.” He scoops you up in his arms and carries you bridal style towards the kitchen. He desperately wants to bring up the topic of you possibly being pregnant but now was not the best time, he didn't want to ruin the moment. 

This conversation could wait till tomorrow, right now he just wanted to enjoy some time with his wife.  

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Good night, Miggy.” His head was buried into your neck, his arms were secured somewhat tightly around your belly, and your smaller hands were coving his bigger ones. 

He thought about bringing up the topic right now but quickly scratched off that idea.

He was so tired from the day's activities, he could fall asleep instantly.

He could hear you slowly drifting off, your breathing calming him down and lulling him into slumber... well almost. 

Just as he was on the verge of falling asleep he heard something ─ or rather someone. 

He could hear another heartbeat. Coming right from you. He thought he was going crazy at first, but the closer he listened, the clearer it got. He was right, you were pregnant.

Holy shit. You were pregnant. He was going to be a dad. 

In all this, it occurs to him that you didn't even know yet, he would have to tell you tomorrow no matter what.

He’s so happy. He finally has another chance, he won't mess up this time. He would do anything to protect you both.

But what if you didn't want kids just yet? The topic of kids has come up before and you both want them, but what if you changed your mind? There were so many things that could go wrong but Miguel tried to push all the negative thoughts away and focused on falling asleep. 

He slept like a baby that night. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── 

“So, honey, I was hoping to talk to you about something.” He avoided having the conversation all morning, now he needed to tell you. 

“What is it, Miggy?” You sit down looking at him expectantly. You could see that he was nervous, it was obvious by the way he was acting. “Is everything okay?” 

“Yes, everything is fine, mi corazón, don't worry.” How should he start? Should he just jump straight into it or start off slow? He should have thought about this before, well no time to do that now. 

He took a deep breath and it all came rushing out “I think, actually no, I know that you’re pregnant.”  

Silence. You were too stunned to speak. 

“Excuse me?” There was pure shock written all over your face, he would’ve laughed if the situation was different. 

“I heard 2 heartbeats last night, one was yours and the other one was -”

“Are you sure? I mean are you 100% sure? Maybe you heard something else?” You didn't want to get your hopes up just yet, you always wanted a baby with Miguel but if this turned out to be a false alarm you would be a little crushed. 

“I’m 9.99% sure. Bebé, if you want we can get a pregnancy test done?”

“Yeah okay, let’s do it.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

An hour later both of you stood in the bathroom. Three minutes felt like hours right now. 

You might be pregnant. This isn't some crazy dream.

“Bebé, if you don’t want to keep the baby I absolutely respect tha-” He’s still not sure if you’re happy with this or not. He was worried he messed up in some way. 

“No, I want to keep the baby but I just don't want to get my hopes up just yet. I definitely want to have a baby with you.” You wrap your arms around him, his scent calmed you down. You were going to be okay. 

“I want to have a baby with you too,” he whispers. 

You lean up to give him a kiss, your hands gently coming up to stoke his cheeks. Miguel pulled back and mutters, “I love you.”  

“Love you too.” A moment later you both heard the timer going off. This was it. 

You slowly step forward picking up the stick and turning it around. 

Positive. You were pregnant. 

“Well, what does it say?” This whole thing is making him feel so anxious. 

“We’re having a baby.” His wife is carrying his baby, this is real, he isn't dreaming. 

“I knew it! I was right.” He pulls you off the ground and into a hug, placing kisses all over your face while muttering small “thank you’s” and “I love you’s” 

“I can't believe we’re gonna have a mini O’Hara running around soon,” you giggle kissing his jawline. 

“She’s going to be just like her mother. ” Knowing a mix of you and him was going to be here soon made him feel content. 

“How do you know they're gonna be a girl, hm?” 

“Just… a small feeling.” His small feeling would be proven right 9 months later.

[evilbirdy]

can u write a se mi x fem reader where se mi goes along with thanos who keeps flirting w her gf(reader) then mocked him later after se mi said that she’s shes dating the readerr T—T

𝕥𝕖𝕝𝕝 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 *𝕓𝕠𝕪𝕗𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕞 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕘𝕚𝕣𝕝𝕗𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕

ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ~ ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢɪʀʟꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ʙʏ ʟᴀʏ ʙᴀɴᴋꜱ

A/N: This might be updated into a whole different story

ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ꜱᴇᴠᴇʀᴀʟ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ , ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀᴅᴅɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ꜰɪᴄꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴅɪᴅ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴅ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴀʟᴏɢᴜᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴜᴅᴇꜱ ɪɴ ʜɪɢʜ/ᴍɪᴅᴅʟᴇ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ ᴏʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ. ꜱᴏ ɪᴍ ᴀᴅᴅɪɴɢ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴜɴᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛᴀʙʟᴇ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴄᴜʀꜱɪɴɢ, ɴᴀᴍ-ɢʏᴜ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ ᴡᴇɪʀᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ʜᴀᴛᴇʀ (ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪꜱ ʜᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʙʜ), ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ ᴄʟᴜᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ/non-confronting?,ᴛʜᴀɴᴏꜱ ɢɪᴠɪɴɢ ᴛɪᴋᴛᴏᴋ ꜰ-ʙᴏʏ ᴠɪʙᴇꜱ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ꜱᴘɪᴄʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ‘ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ’ ꜱᴇ-ᴍɪ (ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱQᴜɪɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀ ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ)

ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ 100% ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ, again I’m not trying to make anyone feel uncomfortable or antsy with this fic. SO I might post the more ‘tamer’ versions in the future if you guys want them 😭😭

ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ’ᴛ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ꜰɪᴄ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀᴅᴅɪɴɢ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴᴏꜱ x ɴᴀᴍ-ɢʏᴜ <3

Se-Mi was still holding your hand as you entered the room for the second game. You were told to make a group of five, you followed her as she talking to this quiet player, 125. You let go of her hand for a second, walking around, looking for other players. You drew imaginary circles on the ground when a man called your attention.

“Hey sweet thing,” you furrowed your eyebrows. You looked up to see the famous dude everyone was talking about.

“Yes?” you crossed your arms, tilting your head to the side. What could this dude want with you.

“Well, I saw you looking around for other players and thought I’d help you out baby, I would die knowing I’m leaving a pretty thing like you stranded. Why don’t you join me and my friend here, I’ll protect you and make you feel loved. Like a husband and you are one of my wives,” did this dude just say one of his wives.

You nod slowly, biting your lip trying to keep your laugh in.

“I would but you should know I have two other teammates,” you were hoping that it would shoo him off but he insisted on having you and your teammates on his team.

You turned to your right revealing Se-Mi and her friend to Thanos, much to his friend’s protest, Thanos accepted. You look at Se-Mi keeps giving Thanos small looks.

Before you can grab Se-mi’s hand, Thanos takes yours and pulls you along with him. As comically as she finds, Se-Mi finds it insufferably more. She had to stop herself from punching a wall.

After you completed the game, Thanos kept you around and has been flirting ever since. He would kiss your hand, wraps his arm around you, blow kisses at you.

You on the other hand are became kinda tone-deaf to it, you always acted this way with your friends back in high school. But that’s different, this is a medley of death games not high school. You never really thought anything of it because you didn’t even like men like that and you thought you gave that energy.

Se-Mi got tired of it after the first ten minutes, Nam-gyu wasn’t helping, actually, he was making it weirder with his names towards you.

“Wifey,” you and Se-Mi conversation was interrupted by someone grabbing your hand mid-way. You sigh and turned to the culprit.

“Hello, Thanos,” as funny as this was to you, you were almost getting tired. You wanted to spend time with your girlfriend and avoid dying, this was adding on your plate.

“Hey the new game is gonna start tomorrow, you wanna sneak into the bathroom and get stuff done,” he gave you a weird look, eyeing up and down. You gave him a disgusted look.

“Yeah thanks but no thanks. I don’t know where…that has been, I know for a fact you didn’t bring no protection in here,” you scoffed, you turned towards Se-Mi about to continue talking until he pulled on your arm, pulling you towards him.

“oh come on, you might not survive the next round and I wanna make sure you die in bliss,” you looked at him with more disgust and confusion, you have saved his ass way too many times for him to say that, next time you are just gonna let him die.

“Umm yeah nooo,” you pushed him back, staying close to Se-Mi before she says some shit she can’t take back.

“(your name) how dare you, you do realize that THE Thanos is OFFERING you this, man hoes like you never realize how good you have it,” Nam-gyu yells out, bringing slight attention to people close to you guys.

“Umm no offense asshole, but (your name) would not love whatever Thanos is ‘offering’” Se-mi speaks up, you look at her hands and notice her playing with her rings. Oh no, she usually does that when she is ready to hit someone. You place a hand on her arm, hoping to calm her.

“Oh yeah and how the fuck would you know, huh bitch?” Nam-guy urges on as Thanos tries to make him shut up.

“Cause she is my girlfriend you bastard,” she lunges forward but you pull her back, you look at Thanos and Nam-gyu. Thanos had a shock and confusion look on his face while oddly enough Nam-gyu had a weird smirk on his.

“So does that mean you both like make out and stuff, shit if you both would have done that earlier, I would have liked you two more,” Nam-guy started laughing all wild but he stopped when Thanos hit him upside the head.

“I don’t believe it…are you lying to me (your name)? Nah I feel like you both are playing tricks on me,” Thanos says acting all crazy, waving his arms and stuff.

“Are we’re lying huh,” Se-mi grabs your arm and drags you to the bathrooms.

“Uhh what’s up, what’s wron-,” you were interrupted by Se-Mi caging you against the wall, she leans down kissing your neck, keeping you close.

“W-what? What are you doing?” you say

“Showing him what you love, baby,” she brings you closer to her. One of your hand go up and cling onto her shoulder while the other grips her arm.

You hide your face in her neck as she continues her work. When she was done, she left kisses all over your neck and face.

“If those jerks tries anything like that again, I’m suffocating them in their sleep,” you nod mindlessly and started laughing. She was first confused but then laughed with you.

“What was dude thinking haha ‘oh baby girl I’m gonna show you a good time’ haha and what was that face he was making,” you laughed so hard, Se-mi had to keep a grip onto you.

“I think that was him trying to be sexy,” Se-mi covers her face.

You two laughed so much, the guard had to tell you two to hurry up and get out.

If y’all thought Thanos lives this down, he doesn’t . You should’ve seen his face when you came out in with dark marks on your neck.

Oh and every time you guys talk with him, you love mocking his attempts to get at you.

“Oh no Se-Mi haha the game is about to start, we should haha hurry so I can haha die in bliss,” you fall back against Se-mi, slipping into her lap.

“Oh yes haha, because you are definitely gonna die this round hahah no matter how many times you have hahahaha basically carried us, if it isn’t this one, it will definitely be the next one,” she hides her face with how red it is from laughing.

And don’t worry about Nam-gyu and his weird fetish.

“You two should just kiss, it makes me tolerate you both more,” he says rolling his eyes and playing with his food.

“I’ll kiss Se-mi once you kiss Thanos,” you smiled sickly as he spits out his milk.

“Aww not funny when it’s you huh,” Se-mi leans into you.

“That’s different,” Nam-gyu stutters through his words

“Is it?” you both say at the same time, tilting your heads to the side.

“I mean…I’m down,” Thanos says quietly having all of us look at him.

“WHATTT” you two yelled in unison again.

[petalsonmoon]

you hang from my lips like the Gardens of Babylon.

"it's ridiculous." then he leaned his body foward, his fingers meeting his toes. an elongation you would take embarrasingly months to be able to do that flawlessly.

"and really fucking stupid" he proceeds his thoughts.

"oh please, do go on." you look down to your notes and continue to write your ridiculous ideas.

the sun was far too bright and where its glow met the leaves of the large number of trees around you they were gleaming, like they were immensely happy.

"i hope your little notebook accidently burns to ashes."

"kind of you to say accidently."

"yeah no problem at all"

you glance up to find that he has his knee bended to his chest and quickly look back to the pen in your hand. quite misteriously your hands are stained from it.

"you making the walking sleeping bag one too?" his voice is raspy and angry and very clear. how does he sound so good while doing post training stretching?

perhaps you're looking too much into it. your crush makes you a bit giddy, idiotic in a lot of senses. makes you feel a child just like the word itself is infant. crush.

you sigh heavyly.

"still deciding" you draw a little explosion on the corner of the page.

"might as well do it for class b too."

"if i got a penny for every dramatic sentence that came out of your mouth-"

he had his back to you but he insisted on turning his head to you to send you the most chilling glare for exactly 3 seconds. that's his stupidity. his eyes were already too pretty in your eyes for you to feel an ounce of that anger.

"-only today i'd have like," you scrunch your nose "the amount of money equivalent to the ferocity of all might's powers."

he doesn't bother to look at you again and you smile.

"would you look at that. i should look for the person with this quirk."

he growls. loud. and you're smile is genuine.

he sits up straight, his back to you and starts leisurely move his neck. that's the sign he's almost done.

"putting too much money for those idiots.”

"it's not that much" you reason. "don't feel that way for too long, you're getting one too."

with that, it's over.

he turns to you and when those red eyes meet yours the trees are for sure shinning somewhat brighter.

the response for your affirmation it's a furrow between his eyebrows. his skin glowing a bit but that's not your absurd heart speaking, it's just his sweat.

"uhum" now you're messing with the grass. it estabilizes you. "yours is actually the only one that i drew and painted myself. the other ones i made with suna from the support course"

an ant crawled into your point finger.

"but don't tell them that." you whisper.

the ant made it to your pulse when you feel a literal body falling on top of you.

"you motherfucker! you are drenched-"

"that shitty little brain of yours-" his face on your neck. his words and breathing warming your whole body. you are exploding on the inside. how ironic.

"-and your stupid handmade keychains for the whole class" and then he lighly bites where your neck meets your shoulder.

his hands trails your arms, his fingers are burning pathways in your skin until they meet your hands and they interlock with your fingers. then he finally lifts his head and looks at you and what you're feeling is something words can't understand.

"i was gonna wait until graduation."

"tomorrow, you mean."

he bites your chin and you're so fucking certain you'll melt any second now. "because of that fucking tone i'm going to burn all of your little gifts."

you smile at him trying to match his damn audacity. his charm? his mind blowing handsomeness? "i'll murder you."

you blink and feel his breath on your neck again. "do it now, cupcake." then. his maddening warm and soft lips leaves a kiss under your earlobe. you close your eyes. "you have the power to."

"don't wait until tomorrow."

he lifts his head again and there's a smirk with a softness in the corner of it on his face. "or?"

"i might die." you whisper. it is serious to you. you need his lips on yours this very second. with his eyes on yours, telling you every adoration you thought about him for the last couple of months before going to bed, you think might. actually. die.

"who's the dramatic one now, brat?"

[unintentionalseductress]

heyy ray! first things first, i LOVE your writing. that's all i have to say like i literally go nuts every time

sooo this is not a kinktober request and i know you probably have TOO many things to write lol butttt if it's in your taste i'd really like to see your take on the lads man reacting to their lady not wanting to have sex because she hasn't shaved while being away on a mission or something and is feeling insecure about that ig???

and! if i can ask to be the little moon emoji🌙 then i'd like to, please! as always thanks for all the stories you're aMAZING

Hi there! Yes you can be moon anon. Thank you for the kind words! It makes me happy that people are enjoying my work.

Soooo it's actually such a coincidence that you mentioned the body hair thing because I have a story wip for Zayne involving that particular area and hair 😆😆😆 Keep an eye for it btw!

As for the general reaction of the men, I genuinely think all of them are mature enough to handle a little hair and they're not bothered by it. This is how I think this would go.

Sylus: He'll look at reader quite suspiciously. He knows she's not on her period and after trying to get an answer from her, he'll stop when she tells him to quit asking. For a little while anyway. They have a shared home delivery app and when reader makes a purchase later that night he sees all the hair removal products and instantly makes the connection. He'll seek her out, tell her he doesn't care and that his kitten can't be a kitten if there's no hair on her pussy 🤭. When reader protests, he'll pull her close and tell her he missed her and if it really bothers her, she can get a bikini wax tomorrow. He'll even pay for it, but he's needy for her NOW and nothing in his view can change how beautiful she is, hair or no hair.

Xavier: Will assume she's on her period and brings over stuff for her like tea, chocolate, and some selfcare stuff like scented candles and face masks. Reader will be amused at Xavier's assumption and after a few shy moments, she'll tell him in a very vague way that she feels unkempt and that's why she doesn't want to have sex. Xavier thinks unkempt = hasn't bathed and asks if maybe she wants to take a quick shower together. At this point reader shakes her head and admits that she hasn't had time to self-groom down there because of her mission. Things finally click in Xavier's head and he'll ask if he can look and if he doesn't think it looks unkempt then they have should have sex. Of course Xavier gets pussy drunk the minute he sees it and they end up having sex.

Rafayel: This man will straight up pout if you tell him you don't want to have sex. And he'll try to guilt you as well. He'll say you must not love him anymore or that you're hiding a secret from him. Then finally in exasperation, reader will ask him if he wants to fuck a shag carpet because that's what it looks like down there. And of course Rafayel, with his sarcasm and playfullness will say something like "A shag rug for a pussy? I've never heard of such a thing I have to see it now!" And you'll have to show him before he throws another fishy tantrum. When he looks at it he'll sigh dramatically and say "It's not even close to a shag carpet, you exaggerate everything. Now that it's out in the open, let's just have sex."

Zayne: Without giving too much away from my fic...Zayne doesn't care. He's a doctor. He's seen his fair share of hair on body parts and isn't fazed. Also, the vibe I get from them seems to be more of a long-term couple and they've seen each other through their ups and downs so reader will straight up tell him she feels self-conscious about having sex because she hasn't shaved. Zayne will say he respects her decision but removing the hair can cause ingrowns and itching and he doesn't want her to do it incorrectly in order to have sex as soon as possible. He convinces her that they should have sex at least once before she removes it because there's no telling how she might feel after the exhaustion of removing all the hair. You can remove it on your own time but right now he wants you and let's face it, you've popped pimples off his back and he's seen you trimming your toenails, are you really going to let a little hair stop you from riding this man? 🤭🤭🤭

© unintentionalseductress original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

[venus-haze]

Sick as a Dog (Soldier Boy x Reader)

Summary: Day 25 - Underwear stealing/sniffing. Soldier Boy is America's first superhero. The greatest man who ever lived. Larger than life itself. A sleazy chauvinist who's getting off on your panties in a motel bathroom. [AO3 link]

Note: Written for @cozycornerevents Kinktober! Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. I think this is my first Soldier Boy fic set in modern day…anyway it was fun writing mean and gross Soldier Boy🤭

Word count: 1k

Warnings: Soldier Boy-typical misogyny. Sexually explicit content involving masturbation, panty stealing/sniffing, degradation, voyeurism.

You couldn’t relax around Soldier Boy, not when Butcher and Hughie left you alone with him in that damn motel room. It was almost impossible to focus on the TV with him so blatantly eyeing you like a piece of meat. Tried to do the arm-over-the-shoulder move so he could grope your breast, and called you a prude under his breath when you scooted further down the couch. 

Sure, he was attractive, but you weren’t about to mix business with pleasure—especially not with a guy who, when introduced to you, asked Butcher if they only kept you around as “stress relief,” as if you weren’t even standing in front of him. Maybe you should have gone with MM and Annie after all.

“I gotta use the can,” he grumbled, scratching his crotch before standing up from the couch.

The tension slowly released from your body the further away he got from you. Picking up your phone from the coffee table, you saw a missed text from Hughie: Sorry to leave you on supe-sitting duty. Everything good?

You sighed, your thumbs hovering over the keys before sending back: Yeah. Nothing I can’t handle.

Threw in an emoji at the end so he wouldn’t feel too bad. It was kind of your own fault, anyway. You decided to go along with Butcher and Hughie because part of you still naively believed in Soldier Boy’s heroism, his authenticity. And then you actually met him. Heard the shockingly crass way he talked, a relic of a time you had no interest in reliving.

You were just about to text Annie when you heard it.

A name. Your name. Low and gruff and mean coming from his mouth.

Putting your phone down, you glanced in the direction of the bathroom. 

You knew your best option was to just ignore it when you heard him say your name again—turn up the volume on the TV and ignore the way heat flared up between your legs at the grunts he didn’t even try to keep down. Instead, you stood up, your heart beating faster with each step you took. The motel room wasn’t all that big, didn’t take very long at all to get to the bathroom door, look in where he’d left it open a crack. 

Had he been careless? Or did he want you to watch?  

You gaped openly at him, pumping his hard cock with a pair of your used panties bunched up in his hand, sliding it up and down his length. Black, satin with a little bow, it was one of your favorite pairs you brought with you, too, and you weren’t sure how to feel about him having chosen that one to get off with, to ruin. You looked back at your duffel bag, wide open and clearly rifled through. Supposed you were trying too hard not to pay attention to him to pay any mind to his violating your privacy.

“That’s right, take it, you fucking slut,” he growled. “You might not be their stress relief, but you’re gonna be mine.”

How the hell was this the same guy whose PSAs you watched throughout your school years, telling you to pledge allegiance to the flag and say no to drugs? He was sick, hypocritical, a symbol of the worst of American debauchery. Every subsequent word that came out of his mouth was vile, objectifying—should’ve repulsed you instead of going straight to your pussy. Your brain was screaming at you to go back to the couch and pretend you didn’t see anything, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

“I’ll make sure you can’t fucking walk tomorrow, have to carry you over my shoulder and tell everyone what a slut you are for my cock.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He squeezed his cock harder, his pumps more punishing, frustration radiating off of him as his precum soaked through your ruined panties. Could you even bear to wear them again, knowing all the things he said and did with them bunched up in his hand, picturing you in their place, bent over the motel room sink, or anywhere else he could think of in that deviant mind of his.

“How bad do you want it? C’mon, I wanna hear you beg.”

“Please,” you whispered despite yourself.

“I know you’re out there,” he taunted, startling you. “I can hear you panting like a bitch in heat. Why don’t you come in and give me a hand?”

With a gasp, you found your legs again and ran back to the living area. Fell over yourself to get onto the couch and make the TV louder, anything to drown out the sound of his groans, your name mixed with curses as he came just a few feet away. 

Your face was on fire, and you sat with your hands folded between your legs, trying desperately to ignore the want that had overtaken you while watching him. You were better than that, better than debasing yourself for someone like him. Still, a shiver ran down your spine when you heard a gruff, drawn out “Fuck” over the sound of the stupid Vought A Burger commercial that was on.

The sink ran. Toilet flushed. Your head was pounding when he walked out of the bathroom and back to the couch. 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, throwing your panties at you.

The balled up garment landed on your lap, wet and heavy with his cum. With a reluctant, trembling hand, you pushed it onto the floor.

Your voice cracked as you half-heartedly told him, “You’re disgusting.”

He scoffed, his arm draped across the back of the couch, the tips of his fingers brushing your shoulder. “You should take it as a compliment. There’s plenty of other broads I could’ve jacked off to—Hayworth, Bardot, Fawcett—”

“But none of them had their panties lying around here, did they?”

“No, they didn’t.” He was silent for a moment before breaking into a grin. “I’m gonna get you to fold sooner or later. Then, I’m really gonna make you beg for it.”

“Don’t bet on it,” you mumbled.

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part nine)

warnings ; well.. oral (f recieving) light choking, he hits it from the back, front, idk i lost count, she feels him in her stomach? (realism has left the chat)

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; here it is. my baby. my pride and joy. my biggest accomplishment that i will be hanging on my fridge with my hello kitty magnet. not even kidding i rewrote this part four times. four full rewrites. not because the words weren’t working, but because i knew this part had to hit just right.

writing that was hard!! i love these characters so much it physically hurts sometimes. ive lived inside this world for months now, and bringing them to this point broke something in me in the best way (also healed me??? idk dealers choice) the process wasn’t pretty. there were pacing debates, deleted scenes, google docs full of one-sentence paragraphs. through all of it though, one woman held my hand: miss taylor swift.

required listening for this part is this is me trying by tswift. (it’s actually required, the lyrics are THEIRS)

to all of you who’s sent me theories, essays, questions, unhinged keysmashes, character analyses, or even just a quiet “i love this” — thank you. thank you for seeing these characters the way i see them and for lovingly watching on the sidelines when two people experience the ache of wanting something they’re afraid they’ll ruin. you’ve made this story so fun to write!!! i hope, when you reach that last line, that it all feels right to you too. enjoy!!

playlist here

series masterlist here

When you were seven, you ran away from a kitchen fire before anyone else smelled the smoke. You bolted — barefoot, wild-eyed, arms flailing — as the toaster sparked and your mother screamed your name. You learned two things that day: one, that survival is instinct and two, that no one follows a girl who flees first. Ever since then, you’ve made an art of it, of leaving before you’re left, of outrunning the collapse before it’s had time to announce itself.

Even now, you still run like the building is burning.

You book a one-way flight back to Los Angeles with a violence that surprises even you, fingers stabbing at your phone screen, credit card number punched in before the doubt can catch up to your impulse. No pause for breath. No moment to excavate what just splintered apart in Seoul. Just the brutal efficiency of escape.

When the plane finally lifts, Korea dissolving beneath a cotton shroud of clouds, you search yourself for something that might feel like catharsis. But there's only absence. A vacuum where emotion should live.

Not the sweet release you'd imagined.

Not the peace you'd convinced yourself would follow.

Not even regret, which might have offered its own strange comfort.

There's a stillness inside you, resonating like footsteps in an empty gallery after the crowds have gone. You've become a visitor in your own body, observing from the outside.

The campaign, with all its frantic choreography of stress and miracles has finally wound down. The endless parade has halted: no more lighting to approve, no more impossible deadlines to somehow bend to your will through sheer force of determination. No more 4 A.M. calls with production when everything threatened to fall apart.

(No more Jungkook. Almost. You can taste it on the tip of your tongue.)

Tomorrow, it all launches.

You should be electric with anticipation. You should be riding the intoxication of knowing that in storefronts across continents, space is being cleared for what everyone predicts will redefine the brand's trajectory. Success is waiting,, yours to claim.

Instead, you're suspended in a strange limbo. Present but not present. Moving through the the world like someone playing the role of you in a film about your life.

You've become the most convincing ghost in your own story.

You slip back into the LA office like that same ghost returning to familiar hauntings, moving with that quietness people develop when they've spent years trying to be noticed while simultaneously proving themselves indispensable. The ritual feels stolen from another life: coffee warming one palm, the other hand clutching your phone with determination, as if the device might try to escape.

You lose yourself in the launch preparation, drowning in press releases that need one more edit, retailer confirmations requiring verification, social media calendars demanding timing. You orchestrate influencer packages like a general deploying troops, analyze backend metrics with the intensity of someone decoding ancient hieroglyphics.

Because busy hands can't text people.

Because typing another email means not typing his name.

Because every spreadsheet you complete is another reason not to wonder what he's doing right now.

When Jungkook's name illuminates your phone screen for the fifth time that day, something in your chest contracts with such sudden pain that for a moment, you forget how to breathe. You've developed a new skill: the swiftness with which you decline his calls, a movement so practiced it's become second nature. Your finger swipes across his name each time.

Voicemail. Another notification. Voicemail. The red badge multiplying like evidence.

Everything bearing his digital fingerprint gets redirected to Daniel. Meeting conflicts that need resolution, approval requests for campaign deliverables. Some tedious back-and-forth about choosing the right cover image for the website that would have once made you call Jungkook directly.

"Can you handle it?" The question leaves your mouth without inflection, your eyes never lifting from your laptop screen, afraid of what Daniel might read in them.

Daniel stands in your doorway, silent long enough that curiosity finally forces you to look up. The expression on his face carries such naked concern that you almost flinch.

"Are you really going to ghost your own campaign's face?" His voice is soft, which somehow makes you feel worse.

"He's not my anything," you say, the words emerging with a coldness that surprises even you. "He's the brand's."

The look Daniel gives you could incinerate entire cities, reduce them to smoke and memory. There's judgment there, yes, but beneath it something more dangerous: understanding. He retreats without pushing further.

You drag yourself to your hotel in Los Angeles at the hour when even the most dedicated workaholics have surrendered to basic human needs like sleep and food that isn't delivered by Uber Eats. It greets you with the enthusiasm of an abandoned museum exhibit — pristine, untouched, vaguely disappointed.

You answer emails until your retinas protest and your fingers develop their own Stockholm syndrome relationship with your keyboard. The clock on your laptop blinks an accusatory 2:17 A.M while you craft responses.

The Calvin Klein countdown timer on your open browser tab pulses with all the subtlety of a doomsday clock, a digital reminder that your exit strategy is right on schedule. This was always your personal three-step program: Get in. Get it done. Get out.

Jeon Jungkook was supposed to be a line item in your professional portfolio, not the tenant currently occupying all the premium real estate inside your head.

The fact that your brain has apparently thrown him a housewarming party complete with intrusive thoughts as party favors is just your psyche's idea of a practical joke.

One that unfortunately, you do not find the least bit funny.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The launch doesn't just hit. It is literally a tidal wave. #jungkookcalvinklein is trending on Twitter at the ripe hour of 9am.

Before you've managed to convince the coffee maker that yes, today definitely requires the triple-shot setting, Times Square has transformed into a shrine to sculpted abs and Jungkook’s face. Stores unveil installations that somehow make minimalism feel maximalist.

He's everywhere.

Christ, that jawline probably has its own insurance policy, with Calvin Klein jeans on that defy the laws of physics by simultaneously hanging too low and fitting too well, silver chains adorning him.

The public response is teetering on obsession; less consumer enthusiasm and more mass religious conversion. You half-expect to see people speaking in tongues while clutching Calvin Klein shopping bags.

You don't even have time to perform your planned emotional collapse, which you'd scheduled right between "approve final press release" and "pretend to eat lunch." The universe, it seems, has no respect for your Google calendar.

There are calls to field, interviews to prep, press appearances to manage. But then, just to your luck, digital confetti in your inbox: the New York office is hosting a last-minute happy hour to celebrate the global rollout. The invitation lands with little subtlety in bold letters: SENIOR STAFF AND GLOBAL LEADS ONLY, with enough exclamation points to suggest someone's enthusiasm has escaped corporate blandness.

Your decision-making process rivals light speed. You book the flight with the impulsive confidence of someone fleeing a crime scene, pack your garment bag with a dress you haven’t worn in a while. It’s flowy, with an open back that lets you feel the breeze.

Daniel plops himself in the seat beside you on the plane, a one-man information hurricane disguised as your colleague.

You let his voice become white noise, because right now, even corporate jargon is preferable to the unauthorized commentary running through your head, the one narrating all the ways you're not thinking about Jungkook (which, ironically, is all you can think about.)

By the time you two land in Manhattan, it’s dusk, that magic hour when the city sheds its skin and slips into something more comfortable. The streets buzz with that New York electricity that called you even as a young girl in Busan, a current that used to light you up from the inside but now just makes you wonder if you ever really loved it at all.

The SoHo rooftop has undergone the standard office-to-party transformation: string lights creating the illusion that accounting departments can be romantic, glasses clinking.

For the first time since Seoul, you almost feel like a person again instead of a walking collection of unprocessed emotions wearing business casual. Not fixed, not whole, but at least functional, kind of like finding your favorite sweater that you thought was ruined in the wash.

You slip back into your social persona with ease. Your laugh doesn't even sound fake to your own ears, which feels like progress. The champagne bubbles tingle pleasantly, reminding you that sensations other than dread still exist.

It’s always been in your nature; telling stories, entertaining others. Your hands paint disaster scenarios in the air, voice dropping conspiratorially at just the right moments. When you describe finding the missing sample jacket locked in a janitor's closet, your audience erupts into that specific kind of corporate laughter. Even Daniel, standing beside you like your professional shadow, can't help but crack up.

It feels almost like... okay. Not perfect. Not Seoul-never-happened. But upright and breathing, like a houseplant that survived your vacation.

The moment shifts when Daniel's fingers tap your elbow gently. "Hey, walk with me for a second?" he murmurs.

"Sure," you respond, the word automatic as your brain runs rapid calculations on what this could possibly be about.

He leads you away from the celebration, past colleagues swapping war stories and marketing puns, until you reach the edge of the rooftop where the Manhattan skyline lights up the sky.

You exhale slowly, watching the city sparkle before you, thousands of windows lit up. The view is breathtaking in that uniquely New York way that somehow makes your problems feel both microscopic and monumentally important.

"Have you spoken to Jungkook?" Daniel asks carefully.

The question cuts through your momentary peace. Just like that, the city lights dim, the champagne goes flat in your veins, and you're back in Seoul, watching everything fall apart in high definition.

You don't answer immediately. Jaw clicks into lockdown mode. Your arms fold across your chest, the universal body language for "absolutely not having this conversation right now." If emotional armor could make sound, yours would be clanking into place.

Daniel watches you with that particular expression he reserves for when you're being self-destructive but he's too smart to say so directly. It's the look that has always made lying to him impossible, which is precisely why you've been avoiding direct eye contact.

You stare down at your drink where bubbles perform their slow surrender, fizzling into oblivion against the rim of your glass. There's probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but you're too tired to figure it out.

"No," you finally admit, "Not since Korea."

Daniel nods once, the motion small but definitive. "He asked if we were coming tonight."

Your heart performs an acrobatic routine that would qualify for the Olympics, some complicated tumble of hope, panic, and an unfortunate third thing. The champagne you've been nursing suddenly seems very fascinating.

"And?" The question emerges more breathless than you'd prefer.

"I didn't answer," Daniel replies with a shrug. "Wasn't my place."

You swallow hard enough that it feels like forcing down something solid.

"You don't have to tell me anything," he adds, tone dropping to that specific frequency of friendship where truth lives. "But I figured you'd want to know."

Somewhere in this universe, Jungkook might be wondering if you'd show up tonight. The thought lands like a stone in still water, ripples expanding outward.

What would he have done if he'd seen you here?

What would you have done if he flew from Seoul?

Worse: what might you still do?

You remain silent, lips pressed together in a thin line of indecision. Your voice might crack, words may betray you.

The truth is, you're standing at the crossroads of pride and longing, and you have absolutely no idea which direction to take.

You tilt your glass back, letting the alcohol wash across your lips before words form in your throat. “I don't know what you think you saw," you say, your gaze sliding sideways to catch Daniel's expression without fully committing to eye contact. "But I promise you, it's not some great love story."

Daniel makes a sound, a gentle hum that vibrates with something like understanding. “Never said it was," he offers,. "But something definitely happened. You've been walking around like someone left the door open and the wind knocked everything over inside you."

"Poetic," you say sarcastically and roll your eyes.

He shrugs. "I minored in creative writing."

A laugh escapes you, unexpected and genuine,"You minored in talking shit."

His grin unfolds slowly. "So? I'm right."

The silence that follows feels weighted, layered with everything you cannot bring yourself to say. Words gather in your chest, pressing against your ribs like birds against cage bars, but none find their way to your tongue.

Part of you — the part that still wakes at 3 A.M replaying conversations that cannot be undone — wants desperately to believe that your spiral has gone unnoticed. That you might still appear whole from certain angles, in certain lights.

When he speaks again, his voice has softened even more. “You know, you never really do things for yourself."

The observation catches you off-guard, slipping beneath your defensesd. Your brow furrows,"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean..." His hand lifts in a gesture that encompasses everything. His fingers trace the invisible architecture of the career you've built, brick by exhausting brick. "You do this. All of this. You're a fucking workaholic. But when was the last time you did something just because you wanted to? Just for you?"

"I wanted this campaign to succeed," you retort. Your posture straightens, shoulders squaring against accusation.

"For the company," he fires back, neither unkind nor relenting. "For the brand. For the headlines. For the part of you that refuses to lose. But not for you. Not really."

Your fingers curl more tightly around the stem of your glass. Because, like, yeah… you keep a tight ship and all, but it’s what your multimillion dollar contract calls for. In the distance, a helicopter cuts across the skyline, its searchlight briefly illuminating clouds from beneath, revealing their hidden dimensions.

Daniel turns to face you more fully, his expression shifting more dangerously sincere. "What's all this success worth if there's no one to share it with?"

You attempt a laugh that emerges more like a strangled hiccup. Your lips part for a comeback that refuses to come out while your traitorous brain launches into a highlight reel of Jungkook: his sleepy morning smile across hotel pillows, the weight of his shoulder underneath your head during that night on the beach in Busan, his laughter spilling into crevices of the hotel bar. The memories arrive uninvited, like party crashers bringing gifts you're afraid to open.

Daniel nudges your arm, pulling you back from the your thoughts. "Look, I'm not saying go get married in a garden or whatever. Although, now that I think about it, the photos would be incredible. Very Architectural Digest meets romance novel."

He grins before his expression softens. "But maybe... just maybe... it's okay to let someone in. You know, that thing humans have been doing since, like, forever."

You meet his gaze then. It's terrifying, like standing at the edge of a high dive you're not sure you remember how to use.

He's not pushing, not wielding your vulnerability. He's just reminding you, in the way only Daniel can after years of watching you build emotional fortresses, that beneath your exoskeleton of competence and control, you're still embarrassingly human. Still allowed to want something that doesn't come with metrics, target demographics, or quarterly reviews.

You exhale slowly, turning back toward the skyline,"I don't know how to do that," you admit.

"Then start small," he says with the gentle pragmatism of a man suggesting you try a new coffee shop rather than rewire your entire emotional circuitry. "Text the guy."

You shake your head, but the gesture lacks conviction. Your fingers twitch slightly against your glass, as if already rehearsing what they might type.

You squint slightly at the skyline like the answers could be written in neon across the Empire State Building: YES or NO in flashing lights, visible from miles away.

Daniel stands beside you, patient in his silence. He's always had this gift; knowing when to push and when to simply wait, creating space for you to stumble toward your own conclusions at your own stubborn pace. Somewhere beneath the layers of denial, a small, persistent voice wonders what would happen if, this one time, you stopped running long enough to find out what might catch up to you.

Finally, you exhale. "And say what?" you mutter, mouth twisting into what might be mistaken for a smile if not for the panic flickering in your eyes. "Text him: 'Hey, can't believe I ended things between us, how's your day going? Fantastic, thanks for asking!'"

Daniel chokes mid-sip, whiskey catching in his throat as laughter erupts. Amber liquid splashes dangerously close to his shirt cuff. "Jesus Christ," he wheezes, eyes watering. "Maybe workshop that a bit before hitting send."

You laugh too at that. The momentary lightness evaporates as quickly as it appeared, leaving something heavier in its wake. Your next breath feels weighted.

"He said something I can't forget," you add, voice dropping to that particular register where confessions live. You trace the condensation on your glass with one finger, drawing invisible patterns that might spell out what you're afraid to say directly. "During this fight we had... about my family."

Daniel's expression shifts, humor draining away. He watches you with that careful attention that always makes you feel seen. "What'd he say?" he asks.

You shake your head, gaze fixed on some indeterminate point beyond the rooftop's edge. The city lights blur and sharpen with each blink. "That I didn't even want to see them. That I was back in Busan for days and didn't bother. He used it like an insult. Like proof that I don't care about anything."

Daniel's silence stretches between you, allowing your words room to exist without immediate judgment. Long enough for you to lift your glass again, for the alcohol to slide down your throat and bloom warm in your chest, for you to wonder if maybe you've said too much or not enough.

Then he speaks tentatively, "Okay. Not great. But..."

You raise an eyebrow, the gesture sharp with defiance. "But?"

"But he's also not wrong." When your eyes narrow dangerously, he lifts his hands in theatrical surrender, "Not about using it against you.. that was a dick move, solid eight out of ten on the asshole scale."

His expression softens. "But about the rest of it. You kept pushing everyone away. I think you told me to forward all calls from your mom to ‘Satan’ one time. You were so scared of being known, it was easier to hide behind quarterly reports than have coffee with the people who gave you life."

Your mouth opens, a rebuttal forming on your tongue. But the words evaporate before they reach air, leaving you momentarily speechless. Some part of your brain, the part not currently occupied with denying everything, whispers that maybe, there's a sliver of truth worth examining here.

Daniel shrugs casually, with the demeanor of someone sliding the final piece into a puzzle. "Look, I don't think he meant it to hurt you. I think you hit a nerve, and he lashed out. Poorly."

He shifts on his heels, "But he also... I don't know. He kind of seems hopelessly in love with you."

You blink rapidly, as if your eyelids might somehow filter this information into something manageable. "He- what?"

A grin unfurls across Daniel's face. "Dude's clearly gone. I've watched him stare at you like you personally invented the concept of desire. Dont tell anyone this, but he’s also been blowing up the rest of the team’s phones asking if he should expect to hear from you."

You scoff, eyes rolling skyward, but a sensation you've been systematically ignoring since Seoul unfolds within you. Since before Korea, if you're being honest, which you rarely are with yourself. The memories surface unbidden: Jungkook hunting down honey butter cookies because you'd mentioned liking once. The way he'd placed the bag in front of you without comment. The thousands of other tiny gestures you'd filed away as "just being cordial" because "being in love with you" seemed too terrifying a folder to create.

"I didn't..." you begin, then falter. The words hover, “ I don't think I know how to let someone be in love with me."

The confession hangs between you, delicate and honest. Daniel doesn't look away, "Maybe," he says simply, "it's time to learn."

The words settle over you, not a weight but an opening, a door unlocked but not yet pushed ajar.

Daniel drains the last of his drink with finality, eyes fixed on the skyline. The casual observer might think he's admiring Manhattan's glittering architecture, but you recognize this particular silence — the loaded pause before he drops something he's been strategically holding back. It's the conversational equivalent of watching someone wind up for a pitch.

And sure enough, after a calculated beat, he says, "You do realize the contract is done, right?"

You glance sideways, eyebrows lifting in a gesture that attempts indifference but lands somewhere closer to alarm.

"All the promo's scheduled. Launch assets are live. My inbox is starting to go down," he continues, ticking items off an invisible check list. "You're technically free. No more approvals.”

His voice softens around the final blow: "No more excuses."

You lean against the railing, the metal cool against your forearms "What are you saying?”

"I'm saying..." He turns toward you fully now, "You don't have to pretend this is about work anymore."

A scoff escapes you. "Please. Me? And a k-pop idol?"

Daniel delivers a look so deadpan it could be preserved in a museum, the perfect distillation of "are you actually serious right now?" compressed into a single facial expression.

You clarify, hands animating the air between you like you're conducting an invisible orchestra of denial. "The biggest k-pop idol. Like globally famous. The same dude who gets murdered everytime there’s so much as one dating rumor." Each descriptor escalates in pitch, as if the accumulation of external obstacles might somehow outweigh the internal ones.

Daniel lifts his hands in surrender, though his expression suggests he's winning whatever battle is being waged. "Yes. All true. Also.. just so we're keeping track, he's the same guy you've spent the last few months hooking up with, traveling the world with, fighting with like some married couple, and if I'm not mistaken, spending all your time with."

Your eyes narrow to slits. "You make it sound so romantic," you mutter, each word dripping with sarcasm.

"It kind of was," he says with a shrug, "In a HR-nightmare kind of way."

You roll your eyes for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, but there's no real resistance behind the gesture. If anything, you're fighting back something dangerously close to a smile.

Daniel nudges your arm, “I'm not telling you to drop everything and chase some wild fantasy. I'm not suggesting you write his name in your planner with little hearts or anything. But… if it is something, if it's more, then maybe you owe it to yourself to find out."

You stare down at the streetlights below, watching headlights weave through intersections. The city continues its relentless dance, indifferent to your crisis of heart. Somewhere down there, people are making decisions far less complicated than yours; ordering takeout, hailing cabs, choosing which Netflix show to fall asleep to.

"You should take a few days off," he adds, less the colleague who's seen you demolish incompetent vendors and more the friend who once held your hair back after three too many tequila shots at the holiday party. "You can actually take them. The company will somehow survive without you micromanaging every press release for 72 whole hours."

You don't answer, silence a familiar shield.

"I'll cover anything that comes up," he says, the offer weighted with a kindness you're not sure you deserve. "But I think you need to go."

He doesn't say where. He doesn't have to. The destination hovers between you.

Still, you say nothing, your fingers tracing idle patterns in the condensation on your glass. But something shifts in the atmosphere around you, not a decision yet, nothing so concrete or brave. More like the subtle change in molecular rearrangement that animals sense before humans do.

Because maybe there's a version of this story where you don't end up alone with your accomplishments for company, where professional triumph isn't the only warmth in your bed. The thought bubbles up, ridiculous and terrifying and somehow not entirely unwelcome.

You've spent so much of your life building walls with the focus of someone who believes safety lies in being alone, you almost forgot what it feels like to stand before a door that's already open, waiting. The possibility stretches before you, an invitation to step through and see what might exist on the other side.

Daniel slips away, leaving behind only the lingering scent of overpriced whiskey and words that hang in the air. You remain at the railing, arms folded across your chest in what your therapist would probably call a "defensive posture" if you actually went to therapy instead of just reading psychology articles at 3 A.M.

For a while, you just breathe, an activity so basic it shouldn't feel revolutionary, and yet somehow does. One inhale. One exhale. One heartbeat after another.

Then, with the slowness of someone defusing a bomb, your hand migrates to your pocket. Your fingers close around your phone, that small, glowing rectangle.

The screen illuminates instantly, revealing a notification dot so aggressively red it might as well be screaming. You tap the voicemail icon with the hesitancy of someone poking at what might be a sleeping bear. The app lags for a moment, probably collapsing under the sheer weight of messages you've been studiously ignoring.

112 unheard messages.

You stare at the number, a monument to your impressive commitment to avoidance. Gold medal material.

You haven't listened to a single one. Haven't allowed yourself even the smallest peek behind the curtain you pulled.

Your fingers hovers above the most recent message, trembling slightly. You press play before the rational part of your brain can stage an intervention.

"Hey."

His voice arrives like an ambush, rough around the edges, frayed.

"I don't even know if you'll listen to this. You probably won't. But I just... I don't know what to do anymore."

Your grip on the railing tightens, as if holding onto something sturdy might somehow anchor you against what's coming.

"You're not answering. You won't text me back. Daniel says you're 'handling things.' Whatever the fuck that means."

“You always do this. You disappear when things get hard. But this isn't just some hookup anymore. You know that."

You press the phone against your ear with unnecessary force, as if the closer it gets the more sense everything might make.

"I said something I shouldn't have. About your family. I know I crossed a line and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

Your throat constricts, performing an impressive impersonation of a python with its prey. The apology lingers in the universe for a second too long.

"I wanted you to know me. But… I think I forgot that I'm only just starting to know you. And I want to. God, I want to know you so bad."

The voicemail ends with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than any dramatic declaration. You don't move. You don't blink. You barely breathe. Your brain, that overachieving organ that's kept you ten steps ahead in boardrooms and client meetings, suddenly finds itself speechless.

You press play on the next message with the reckless courage of someone who's already jumped from the plane and figures the parachute situation can be sorted out mid-fall.

"Please talk to me."

The sound travels from your phone directly to some unguarded part of your chest.

"I can't sleep. I keep thinking you're gonna call. And then you don't. I get it, I do. But I miss you."

"That's pathetic, right? Missing someone who keeps running from you?"

The question hangs in the air, unanswered and devastating. You find yourself shaking your head in automatic response, as if he could somehow see you through time and digital space.

Your thumb hangs over the screen, hesitating for the briefest moment before tapping to the next message like someone poking at a bruise to see if it still hurts. And the next. And the next.

Each message is a progressive study in yearning — Jungkook's voice traveling through octaves of exhaustion and vulnerability you didn't know existed. Each one reveals another layer of him spiraling, leaving behind a man who can't understand why someone disappeared.

"I think I'm in love with you.”

There it is. The message that finally breaks through the elaborate wall of denial you've been maintaining. Kind of like the sprinkler system activating after the fire's already spread to every room.

You bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, your body's desperate attempt to keep everything contained as your eyes begin to burn with the particular sting that follows with tears. You lock your phone with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.

The breath you draw in trembles, your chest expanding around a feeling you've been ignoring since Seoul.

You can feel it now rushing toward you with the unstoppable momentum of a train whose brakes have failed. The devastation you left behind, casually strewn across continents like discarded clothing. The truth you didn't want to admit, even in the privacy of your own thoughts. The stupid, impossible, terrifying fact that somewhere between contract negotiations and late night 1-on-1 strategy sessions, between stolen moments in hotel bars and shared laughter over take-out containers that he forced you to eat, between arguments that felt too personal and kisses that felt too intimate, Jeon Jungkook somehow slipped past every defense system you'd installed and became more than just another project to complete.

He became the person you think about when good things happen.

The voice you want to come home to on difficult days.

The laugh that somehow makes everything lighter.

Oh.

The realization lands with surprising gentleness.

Oh shit.

You wipe your cheek with the back of your hand for tears that somehow manifested on your face. For the first time since you left Korea, the weight that's been compressing your lungs begins to lift. Not because the ache has diminished or because the fear has subsided, but because you've finally granted it permission to exist.

The realization settles into your bones, that what you want has never resided in quarterly projections or campaign metrics or the professional detachment you've perfected over years of holding people at a distance.

What you want, what you've wanted while convincing yourself otherwise, exists in a hotel room in Korea where a boy with gentle hands and knowing eyes has been waiting for your voice. The thought arrives with clarity, cutting through layers of cynicism and self-protection: you've been running from the very thing you most desperately need.

Your fingers find your phone with newfound certainty, navigating to your travel app with none of the hesitation that's characterized every interaction with this device recently. The flight options materialize on the screen. You select the earliest departure, credit card information autofilling as if your technology recognized this decision before you made it. The laughter and chatter from your coworkers seems so far away despite how close they actually are.

It’s just you and the simple, terrifying recognition that some journeys can only be postponed, never avoided — and the surprising discovery that stepping toward what frightens you can feel remarkably like coming home.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Okay… so you’ve definitely done more degrading things before. Right?

You're sweating through your blouse with the enthusiasm of someone auditioning for a deodorant commercial (and failing. To your own detriment.)

This isn't the "post-workout glow" fitness influencers pretend is attractive. No, this is your body's formal declaration of mutiny, a rebellion against rational thought executed through every pore. Your armpits, palms, and the back of your neck have formed an alliance dedicated to transforming your clothes into soggy evidence of your composure.

What the fuck are you doing?

Outside Jeon Jungkook's front door, you've established a pacing perimeter worthy of a security detail, shoes padding against pavement. The neighborhood is all manicured hedges and tasteful architecture, houses standing witness to what is undoubtedly the most unhinged moment of your professional career.

You halt abruptly, pivot, and resume your trajectory in the opposite direction. Each step carries you further into the absurdity of your situation while bringing you no closer to resolution.

"What the fuck am I doing?" The question emerges as a desperate whisper, fingers wrapped around your purse strap "What the actual fuck am I doing?"

The universe, in its infinite wisdom, offers no response. Not even a convenient sign from the heavens, no fortuitous text message, not so much as a symbolic bird flying overhead. Silence, highlighting the void where your rational decision-making process should be.

The most devastating part of this is your complete lack of preparation — you, who once created a thirty-page document for a photoshoot involving a temperamental cat. You, who color-codes your calendar down to 15-minute increments and keeps emergency protein bars in every bag you own. You, who has never entered a meeting without 3 different strategic approaches and a mental flowchart of possible outcomes.

You flew across the Pacific Ocean on nothing but emotional autopilot, your normally meticulous planning abandoned. You landed, changed your shirt three times in the Incheon airport bathroom while arguing with your reflection, and then navigated to this address with single-minded determination.

His address was acquired through means that would make your company's legal department develop hives. Extracted from the Calvin Klein executive contact database with the moral flexibility of someone who has left all professional ethics back in Manhattan along with her common sense. The violation of privacy policies sits in your phone.

You are experiencing what can only be described as a crash landing; no runway in sight, no landing gear deployed. The metaphorical wreckage spreads across this quiet street, invisible to everyone but acutely, painfully apparent to you.

You excavate your phone from the abyss of your bag and open the Notes app for the third time in 10 minutes, staring with mounting horror at the single sentence you managed to compose somewhere over the ocean — the grand thesis statement that was supposed to carry you across this threshold:

"I'm sorry, and I think I like you."

You blink at it, the words swimming on the screen like poorly translated instructions for assembling complicated furniture. A scoff escapes you in part disbelief, part surrender to the cosmic joke your life has become.

Jesus Christ. That's the line?

That's the earth-shattering revelation that propelled you across international date lines and multiple time zones?

It has all the weight of a middle schooler passing a folded note in math class. "I think I like you" — the verbal equivalent of bringing a water pistol to a nuclear war. The confession carries all the emotional awareness of someone who just discovered feelings exist yesterday and hasn't figured out the instruction manual.

You are pathetic.

You shove the phone back into your bag with force, bearing witness to perhaps the most pitiful declaration of affection ever composed by an allegedly successful adult. Another shaky breath fills your lungs, doing absolutely nothing to calm you.

You haven't knocked yet. You're just standing here, marinating in your own anxiety sweat. Your current strategy appears to be hoping for divine intervention. Perhaps the earth might split open and swallow you whole, or a targeted meteorite might strike just this spot on this particular street in Korea. At this point, even a localized power grid failure would be welcome, anything to ensure that no one ever discovers the depths of your desperate, transcontinental travels for this man.

You feel that urge to run again.

But your feet remain rooted to the concrete, overriding any escape plans.

Underneath the panic, the dampening of your shirt, and the chorus of doubt performing a full operatic production in your head, you know exactly why you're here.

Because of that voice on the phone that carved something permanent into your memory.

Because of the way he looked at you across crowded rooms.

Because for once in your existence, this isn't about control or power or securing the optimal outcome.

This is about choosing someone, even if it makes your knees perform a dance of terror. Even if it required theft of confidential information from a database you definitely shouldn't have access to.

You take one more breath, and step forward with the confidence of someone who still has approximately 14 seconds before complete collapse.

Your knuckles connect with the door in what's meant to be a confident knock but comes as more like the hesitant tapping of someone who's not entirely sure they've got the right house and is already formulating an apology to potential strangers.

The door swings open. There's no cinematic pause, no buffer zone during which you might remember how to be a functioning human capable of speech and basic facial control.

And there he is.

Jungkook.

Standing in his doorway like some kind of domesticated Greek god, barefoot in sweatpants that hang from hipbones, wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his torso. His silver chain catches the light, hair artfully disheveled.

There are shadows beneath his eyes that speak volumes, the look of someone waiting too long for a response that never arrived, for a message that never delivered.

He looks frozen in a moment of suspended animation.

And you.. well, you look like someone who's just realized they've accidentally booked a one-way ticket to their own reckoning without packing appropriate attire. Your professional persona is dissolving faster than cheap mascara in a rainstorm.

Your mouth opens automatically, but your brain has apparently decided to go offline. Not a greeting emerges. Not a witty remark. Not the apology you composed and discarded a dozen times between your airplane seat and this moment.

How do you explain what it means to see him again?To see the evidence of what you did inscribed across his features? To stand there and have a million feelings rushing into you?

And worst of all, to realize that somewhere along the way, between "professional boundaries" and "conflict of interest," you've managed to accomplish something you never planned for: you've fallen catastrophically, inconveniently, undeniably for Jeon Jungkook.

His eyes sweep over you once, then return for a second pass. There's a flicker of disbelief in his expression, as if his brain is running diagnostics on whether you're actually standing on his doorstep or if he's finally cracked and started hallucinating ex-whatever-you-weres.

And then, with the simplicity of someone handling something that might shatter, he says your name.

No accusation coloring the syllables. It’s your name, floating between you like a verbal lifeline extended without judgment.

You swallow with enough force to be audible, fingers doing that twitchy dance at your sides. The emotional menu before you offers several options — spontaneous crying, inappropriate nervous laughter, or your personal favorite: the tactical retreat.

But you stay put. No running shoes required.

You look at him with all your barricades temporarily offline. You’re thinking of that beach, that night you tried to bury. Thinking of the way he looked at you then, like you were still salvageable. Thinking of when he told you, “Hi is a good place to start.” You didn’t say it at your mother’s house. Couldn’t. But maybe now, with the weight of everything lingering in the quiet, maybe now’s your second chance.

So you take it.

"Hi," you whisper, the syllable emerging with all the confidence of a first-time public speaker.

He stares at you. You stare back.

Finally, Jungkook breaks the silence, his voice scratchier than you remember. There's a rawness to it, an edge that suggests maybe he got tired of speaking into the void of your unanswered messages. “What the fuck are you doing here?"

And just like that, your mental hard drive crashes. The speeches you rehearsed somewhere over the terrain vanish like airplane meals — unmemorable and completely inadequate for the situation.

You stand there, watching his chest rise and fall with slightly uneven breaths, and realize that you're going to have to improvise without a safety net.

The only thing your brain can process is the sound of blood whooshing behind your ears and the embarrassing tremor in your fingers as they begin to battle the suddenly complex engineering marvel that is your purse zipper.

"I—" you stammer, voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old boy asking someone to dance. "Hold on—just—"

You excavate the dig site formerly known as your handbag, pushing past convenience store receipts, a lipstick, and a charging cable that's currently charging absolutely nothing. Your fingers finally close around what you've flown across the world to deliver.

It's not exactly presentation-ready; it’s crumpled like it's been stuffed in a blender, folded and smudged around the edges.

With the triumph of someone who just discovered treasure, you extract the contract. His contract. Holy grail of paperwork.

The very same contract for Calvin Klein that consumed months of your life, prompted 17 panic attacks, and served as the professional excuse for every personal boundary violation you've committed since meeting him.

You unfold it clumsily, then thrust it toward him like an artifact that could explain your entire emotional state without requiring actual human communication.

"Your contract is up," you announce. "It ended this week."

Jungkook blinks at you with confusion. His eyebrows pull together, creating that little crease you've definitely never memorized. "Okay...?" he questions.

You look at him with the desperate stare of someone whose entire communication strategy is telepathy while your throat constricts. The words scream inside your head with megaphone clarity: Don't you get it? Don't you see what I'm trying to say?!

But all that emerges is a breath.

He glances down at the paper, then back at your face "I know," he says slowly, "I was there when I signed it."

A sound escapes you. This is what your life has become — standing on a doorstep, physically shaking, brandishing legal paperwork like it's a love letter. You, who once negotiated a seven-figure deal without breaking a sweat, reduced to communicating your feelings through expired contractual obligations and hoping he somehow translates this into "I've made a terrible mistake and flown across the world to fix it."

He's still examining the contract, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing, as if proper legal documentation might suddenly reveal invisible ink.

It's really just paper and ink and legal jargon that somehow became the flimsiest of excuses to orbit each other's lives.

Your fingers tighten around the document before it goes limp in your hands, dangling between you. “You think I care about this contract? Do you really think I flew across the world to remind you about paperwork? What am I, the world's most dedicated courier service?"

His eyes lock onto yours now. He's silent, still, letting you speak.

"I don't give a shit about Calvin Klein," you continue. "Or the campaign. Or the storefronts. I mean... I do, I did, but not like that. Not more than this." You gesture vaguely between the two of you with the contract, which has now been demoted from legal document to impromptu prop.

You're fully in verbal freefall now, thoughts colliding in real-time, each one crashing into the next before either can reach a proper conclusion.

"Do you know what you did to me?" The question is more of a whisper. "You made me feel things I don't let myself feel. You made me lose control. You — God, you made me talk."

His jaw tightens eyes simultaneously sharp and soft. He's bracing himself, his body language shifting.

"For the first time in a year, I saw my mother," you continue, the confession tumbling out with the momentum of something that's been held back too long. "I held my sister. I went home."

You blink rapidly, your eyes performing emergency protocols to contain the tears. "Do you know what kind of man it takes to make me do that?"

Jungkook's lips part like he's about to speak, but nothing leaves, as if the dictionary of possible responses has been wiped from his memory. You step closer, closing the distance between you.

"You got me to sit on a beach and tell you things I've never said out loud. You got me to let you in. Without trying.. or asking." Your hands wave vaguely in the air, as if trying to physically grasp the concept. "You just... did. You're the first man who's ever made me feel something that wasn't transactional. You make me feel like a person, Jungkook.“

He's standing with the frozen stillness of someone who just discovered they're in a minefield, but his chest is rising and falling. You know he's hearing it all; every word, every crack in your voice, every truth you've been swallowing since you pushed him away.

"I didn't come here to fix anything," you murmur, "I just needed you to know that you mattered. That you weren't some mistake for me."

And then, quieter, “You were the only thing that ever felt real.“

Jungkook blinks once. And then again. If a human could display a buffering sign, it would be rotating above his head right now.

He's speechless, which considering he's a man who performs in front of stadium crowds and has entire teams dedicated to crafting his public statements, is quite the achievement to add to your professional resume.

You just let him look at you. There's no persona to hide behind, not anymore.

And the longer he stands there, wordless as a statue, watching you, jaw clenched tight, the more your stomach flip-flops inside you.

You've never been this exposed. Not even in the heat of his bed, when physical nakedness seemed like the most vulnerable state possible (how adorably naive that belief seems now.) This is an entirely different category of exposure.

Still, he says nothing. The audacity of this silence is almost impressive.

So you redirect, falling back on the one thing you understand: paperwork.

Your fingers tremble, but you manage to grip the contract and tear it straight down the middle with surprising dramatic flair.

Again. And again. And again.

Until it's nothing but corporate confetti. Thin little fragments of legally binding language and signature and structure, falling in what your brain identifies as a metaphor so on-the-nose it would be rejected from a first year creative writing workshop.

"I don't care about this," you whisper, gesturing to the paper carnage. "I mean, I do care about this. Just… not the way I care about you." You immediately recognize this as the kind of line that would make you roll your eyes if you heard it in a movie, yet here you are, delivering it with complete sincerity. The universe has a twisted sense of humor.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. His silence has evolved from awkward to actually embarrassing now.

You’re starting to think you may be too late. Maybe he got back together with his ex. Maybe him and Jennie are fucking again.

You blink back the burn in your eyes, throat closing around words. "Please," you breathe out, "Tell me I'm not too late. Tell me I didn't fuck up another thing in my life—"

You barely finish getting the words out before he moves.

One second you're standing there, and the next, his hands are on your waist, pulling you in, grounding you like gravity suddenly remembered your specific coordinates.

To your surprise — he’s kissing you.

The world narrows to this: his hands on your body, warm and solid and real. The faint scent of his musky cologne mixing with a body wash that is uniquely him. The pressure of his lips against yours, lip ring cool against your warm mouth.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice wonders if this counts as a successful business negotiation or a breach of ethics. The rest of your consciousness tells that voice, quite firmly, to shut the hell up.

You melt into him, shaking and breathless, fingers curling into his t-shirt as your lips part under his with enthusiasm.

This isn't some tentative, exploratory first kiss from a Hinge meetup. This isn't the calculated kiss of someone testing chemistry before deciding if a dinner date was worth the investment.

This is a kiss that announces "you're home" with little to no subtlety.

His mouth remains attached to yours as he backs into the doorway, pulling you along and tethering your body to his like you might run. His paranoia, you have to admit, isn't entirely unreasonable given your track record of vanishing acts.

The torn contract lies abandoned on the welcome mat. The wind shifts behind you as the door clicks shut with finality.

Inside, it's warm. Dim. Quiet. Smells like a mix of spices and some kind of candle. His soft lips move over yours, intoxicating enough that your educated brain has forgotten how to form coherent sentences in any known language.

He walks you backward through his home, the kiss breaking only in microsecond intervals.

"I waited for you," he whispers between kisses. You respond with a sound between a whimper and a sigh, palms pressing into his chest as he lightly pushes you against the nearest wall with surprising authority. His breath fans hot against your cheek, “I told myself to let it go. That maybe I'd imagined all of it, that you didn't feel the same."

You gasp as his teeth graze your skin with just enough pressure to short-circuit your higher reasoning capabilities. One of his hands slides up beneath your blouse, his touch somehow managing to be both needy and soft.

Your last coherent thought before surrendering entirely to this expected plot twist is that Daniel is never, ever going to let you live this down when you return to New York.

"I've never felt this way about anyone," he exhales against the base of your throat, words tumbling out. "Not once."

It’s real when he says it. All of it. Every emotional shard he left scattered across like breadcrumbs, still waiting for you to come back and attempt the world's most ill-advised puzzle reassembly.

You pull him closer with upper body strength you didn't know you possessed, kissing him like your respiratory system has been recently reconfigured to run exclusively on Jeon Jungkook. Your hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt, cataloging the warmth of him, the tension coiled in his muscles.

"Jungkook..." You begin, caught between a moan and a murmur.

But he shakes his head, kissing you harder, "Don't. Don't say anything yet. Just be here." The request comes with the desperation of someone who's still half-convinced they're hallucinating.

You have absolutely no idea of how you've navigated this far into his house. Your last clear memory involves standing on a doorstep watching shredded corporate paperwork fall to the gravel.

The walls blur, corners cease to exist. Every hallway becomes a perfect clone when your mouth remains fused to his. You maintain only peripheral awareness of your own movement, shoes occasionally slipping against the floor with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, his hands gripping your waist to steady you. You careen into one wall, then another, turning his home into an obstacle course neither of you seems particularly interested in navigating efficiently.

He's talking through it all, and you don't realize you're crying until his thumb brushes over your cheekbone in adoration.

"I thought I lost you," he mumbles, his mouth creating a cartography of your features; the edge of your lips, the angle of your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear. "You were gone. I thought that was it."

You shake your head, and he doesn't even wait for verbal confirmation before kissing you again. Deeper this time, with the kind of attention to your body that makes you wonder if perhaps your entire professional career has just been an elaborate prelude to this specific moment in this hallway with this person.

Your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, tugging the fabric upward in what's meant to be a smooth, seductive motion. He lifts his arms automatically anyway as if he is just as desperate to eliminate any non-skin barriers between you.

His shirt gets tossed somewhere, your hand firmly planted on the plane of his chest, the taut muscle underneath.

"Fuck," he mutters against your collarbone, as he presses you against yet another wall (his home apparently consisting of nothing but convenient vertical surfaces.) One hand slips beneath your blouse while the other slides up your clothed thigh with intent. "You can't do that to me again."

"I won't," you promise, hands trembling against his chest "I swear."

He kisses you again like he doesn't quite believe you but has decided the potential heartbreak is an acceptable risk if it means having this fragment of connection.

Clothes begin their gradual migration to the floor — not the choreographed disrobing of movie sex scenes where garments somehow land in artful arrangements, but the realistic, occasionally awkward shedding. Your blouse gets caught on one earring. He helps with buttons while simultaneously trying to maintain mouth-to-mouth contact, resulting in misaligned kisses that land at the corner of your lips.

There's a brief, silent negotiation about whether your shoes should come off before or after your pants. Jeans are discarded, fingers brushing against your lace underwear.

You don't even care about the logistics anymore, the who-goes-where and what-happens-when that your organizational brain would typically want to map out. You just know one essential truth.

You need him.

Not in the scratch-an-itch way of previous encounters.

You're letting him see you now, unfiltered and unedited.

You don't try to steady your hands as they trail down his sides. Don't stabilize your voice to hide the crack when you whisper his name like it's become a more honest version of your own. You don't armor yourself when he looks down at you, shirtless and flushed, and murmurs with wonder: "You came back."

And that's when he lifts you, hands sliding under your thighs, holding you firmly to him. You wrap your legs around him, arms circling his neck, surrendering to being transported like the world's most willing hostage.

You have only the vaguest awareness of your surroundings. Some room, presumably his bedroom, though frankly it could have been his kitchen or laundry room and you wouldn't have noticed or cared. Geography has become thoroughly irrelevant to your current priorities.

The only thing actually registering in your sensory catalog is him; breath warming your collarbone, skin pressed against skin, lips trailing slow, wet kisses along the slope of your shoulder. He lays you down on his bed, gaze taking inventory of every inch of you.

His expression carries the stunned disbelief of someone who can't quite convince himself he's allowed to have you after you pulled your disappearing act.

The room is quiet except for your combined breathing and the soft rustle of sheets. Jungkook's palms drag up the sides of your thighs with a confidence that makes your skin tingle in anticipation, thumbs grazing the curve of your hips. He lowers himself, dark hair falling across his forehead. He presses a kiss just above your knee that sends an electrical current straight to your core which has apparently been in hibernation.

"You always look like this for me?" he murmurs. His fingers toy with the delicate hem of your lace underwear — the good ones you'd packed with what you now recognize was blatant optimism disguised as practicality. His eyes flicker up to catch yours, and you recognize him on his knees in his own bedroom, and suddenly breathing seems like an advanced skill you never quite mastered. "Spread out, soft... waiting?"

You can only nod, lips parted and pulse fluttering beneath your skin. Because when he's like this, looking at you like you're some kind of miracle he's afraid to blink and miss, it's impossible to maintain the illusion that you were ever in control of this situation.

Your eyes flutter shut, hands curling into the sheets. He hasn't even properly touched you yet, but you're already unraveling faster than a cheap sweater in the dryer, undone by nothing more than his mouth hovering in your general vicinity.

You feel the delicate tug of lace between your thighs, the slow drag of your underwear as he bites at the waistband. He pulls them down with his teeth like he's personally offended by the concept of using hands for their intended purpose, savoring each millimeter of progress.

He drops the lace to the floor with casual disregard, like it’s unimportant — which, right now, it is — and without hesitation, he leans in, pressing the softest kiss to your soaked core.

You jolt visibly, audibly, a shaky sound catching in your throat as your legs try to twitch closed out of instinct. Not that he allows this sudden attack of modesty to proceed.

No, he’s already got his hands under your thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the bed, closer to his mouth, to the heat of his breath, to the place he plans to keep you until you forget your name.

And then he hooks your legs over his shoulders with practiced expertise, essentially wearing your thighs like the world's most inappropriate neck pillow.

“There we go,” he mutters, like he’s pleased with himself, like he’s settling in. His fingers dig into your thighs to maintain his access route, thumbs brushing over skin softly that somehow makes everything worse (or better, depending on your perspective.) He’s spreading you wide open for him, singing your praises, “Nice and close. Stay just like that, baby.”

And you do, despite your brain's distant, feeble protests about maintaining some semblance of dignity. Your hands scramble through the sheets, heart thundering in your chest.

A single coherent thought manages to penetrate the fog of sensation overtaking your higher reasoning capabilities: you are so, so screwed. Metaphorically, for now. Though given current trajectory, the literal interpretation seems imminent.

His grip on your thighs tightens just before his mouth finds your cunt. It’s one singular lick, tongue dividing between your folds. Your fingers dive into his hair with the desperate urgency of someone grabbing the last life preserver on a sinking ship, threading through the soft strands until you're practically clutching his head. “F-fuck!”

It’s consistent laps up and down your folds, your juices coating his lips, the coldness of his lip ring sending you into oblivion. He doesn’t ease up. He doesn’t tease. He devours you, tongue beginning to speed up.

You feel completely exposed, like you've accidentally sent your most private thoughts to a company-wide email thread, and somehow this vulnerability only intensifies everything, your body apparently interpreting danger signals as "please, sir, more of that."

Then his tongue flicks across your clit with the precise timing of someone who's memorized your particular user manual, and the noise that escapes you resembles something between a hiccup and the beginning of an embarrassing performance. Some pathetic little "uh" sound bubbles up from your throat.

You’re spread out beneath him, legs shaking, sheets twisted in your fists as he keeps going — his tongue relentless, lips slick, chin wet with you. His jaw glistens with evidence of your arousal, creating the kind of mess that would horrify you normally but currently registers as the hottest thing you've ever witnessed.

He groans against you, the vibration adding yet another layer of sensation to the overwhelming cascade, a sound so deep and raw it seems to originate from somewhere primal. Maybe he's just as far gone as you are, equally lost in this moment of reconnection. Or maybe… god, who cares, he just really can’t stop.

Your brain is syrupy now, thick and slow, synapses misfiring as your body spins somewhere between pleasure and delirium. Every drag of his tongue has you twitching, every suck of his lips on your clit sends another wave crashing through you, and your body doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

“Fuck—Jungkook, I—I can’t—” you gasp, practically ripping his hair out of his scalp. Your voice has adopted qualities you've never heard before — high, fractured, entirely unbefitting for someone who once made a junior copywriter cry with a single raised eyebrow.

“I love eating this pussy,” he mutters, muffled against your soaked cunt. Like he's experiencing a religious epiphany that happens to be centered between your thighs. “Swear to god, I’d live here. Every damn day.”

You respond with a choked sob that would mortify you in literally any other context but seems perfectly reasonable given that your central nervous system is currently experiencing the neurological equivalent of fireworks.

“You taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue in one long, devastating stripe. “So good for me. You feel that, baby? The way you’re dripping all over me? The way your little cunt’s beggin’ for it?”

Your hips buck upward, but he counters this rebellion, mouth locking around your clit with such pressure that your eyes roll back like they're trying to retreat into your skull for safety.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice containing equal parts possession and wonder, as if he's surprised by his own declaration. “You know that? I’m never letting you go.”

You’re gone. Dizzy, spinning, stars behind your eyes. There’s a scream climbing up your throat, and your entire body is about to break apart, lit from within by a chain reaction that has precisely one catalyst: him, him, him.

Just when you think you’re about to tip over the edge, when every muscle in your body is coiled and quaking, Jungkook pulls back slightly, enough to keep you hovering. His tongue slows to an excruciating crawl, tracing soft circles around your clit. Barely there. Absolutely criminal.

Your whole body jolts, hips twitching helplessly, chasing more, chasing anything. But he keeps you right there, locked in with the pads of his fingers bruising your thighs.

"N-no—don't stop," you whimper, voice hitting notes that would embarrass you in any other context. "Feels so good, I—fuck, since when— since when did you get this good?"

He hums against you, the vibration hitting exactly where you need it most, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. His tongue resumes its torturously slow rhythm, each deliberate stroke designed for maximum frustration. He's moving like he's got all day to keep you on this edge.

"I mean it," you babble, vocabulary reduced to the primitive language center of someone who's forgotten they once intimidated an entire marketing department. "God, it's—fuck, I swear, what the fuck, it feels so —ahh— good!”

You glance down, desperate for visual confirmation that this is actually happening, and discover he's already looking up at you. Eyes dark and hazed over like he's sampled something significantly stronger than the recommended dosage, half-lidded and wild.

And the moment your eyes lock, it hits you like a punch to the chest. Somehow, it feels too raw.

His tongue doesn’t stop, slow and cruel in its own way, but his eyes stay locked on yours. Completely unflinching, intense, like he wants you to see him, like he’s trying to tell you something with every flick of his tongue.

Your tone fractures like cheap glassware. "Jungkook... please, please don't stop, I can't—"

He doesn't (clearly a man who follows through on his commitments.)

Just when you think you’ve adjusted to the slow torture of his tongue, Jungkook shifts.

This time, there's no trace of the earlier restraint. No more teasing. No more measured patience. His tongue flattens and drags against your slit, before circling your clit rapidly, flicking in tight, rhythmic strokes that have your entire body seizing.

You cry out with sounds that would be mortifying if recorded, hands clutching his hair like stress balls. "J-Jungkook—oh my God—don't stop, don't—fuck, please—"

"Keep still," he whispers against you,"Take it just like this."

And then he’s back on you, tongue working you over, flicking fast, then flattening again, sucking your clit into his mouth and rolling the sensitive nub over in devastating circles.

You're spiraling into some delirious dimension where coherent speech is a distant memory. "God—fuck—Jungkook, what the fuck, you're—nnh, please keep going."

He chuckles into you, vibration shooting through your spine. “Want you to cum on my face.”

And then — just when your nerve endings have adjusted to his particular brand of torture — he pauses.

You whine at the sudden loss, body shaking, on the very edge of begging. But then you feel it: two fingers, thick and warm, sliding slowly into you. The stretch makes your back arch, mouth falling open on a broken moan as he sinks them deep and curls them just right.

Your walls clamp around him instantly, greedy and desperate, like they've been waiting for exactly this intrusion.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, eyes flying open. “Fuck!”

He pulls his mouth back a bit to speak, lips slick with you, fingers never leaving you. “Hmm, I’ve always known how to fuck you right.”

He leans in again, multitasking with impressive coordination; his tongue returning to your sopping wet core with determination while his fingers establish a rhythm inside you that can only be described as diabolically perfect. They curl against your sweet spot that makes your vision develop lens flares at the edges.

"Cum for me," he begs, "Cum on my fingers. Cum on my tongue. I want all of it."

And there's nothing left in your arsenal of resistance to fight this particular hostile takeover.

Not when he's looking at you with that expression. Especially not when his fingers are pumping inside you.

Your orgasm tears through you with a force that feels almost violent, body snapping taut beneath him as your back arches off the bed and a involuntary cry rips from your throat.

This is a full system meltdown. A white-hot supernova behind your eyelids, a full-body seismic event that has you gasping for oxygen. Your thighs clamp around Jungkook's head but he doesn't even flinch — he holds steady, fingers maintaining their rhythm, mouth still attending to your clit with dedication.

Everything in the known universe disappears except the overwhelming input of sensation; his mouth, his hands, his voice murmuring something against your trembling flesh that your pleasure-scrambled brain files under "process later" in a folder that may never actually be opened.

And then — oh God. There it is.

A gush of warmth, uncontrollable, spilling out of you before you can stop it,, and maybe you do squirt, maybe it’s just a near miss, but who’s to say? All you know with absolute certainty is that you're essentially baptizing his face, and the animalistic sound he produces in response is obscene, so proud, that it sends another aftershock ripping through your core.

Your whole body vibrates. Wrecked. Utterly demolished.

Jungkook finally pulls back, face glistening. He looks both flushed and triumphant, eyes dilated, staring at you like you've just performed some rare cosmic event he was lucky enough to witness.

"Holy shit," you exhale, "What the fuck was that."

He has a shit-eating grin on his face, wiping his chin with the back of his hand in a gesture that should be gross but somehow isn't, managing to look simultaneously cocky and awestruck. "Guess I don't have to wonder if you came."

You release a sound that exists somewhere between laughter and delirium, flinging an arm over your eyes. “I think I just blacked out," you murmur, the confession slipping out too easily.

Jungkook leans over you, starts to get off his knees, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another softer one. "Good," he says.

You blink at the ceiling with disoriented wonder. "Fuck, I missed this. Even if it wasn't that long of a break."

He chuckles. "I don't care how long it was, I still missed it."

You blink through the haze clouding your vision just in time to witness Jungkook fully rising to his feet at the edge of the bed, his gaze locked on you. His hands hook into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down his thighs. Then he's there, hard, thick, and flushed, cock cradled in his hand as he strokes himself.

His eyes trail over your body with the thorough documentation of someone creating a visual archive. You can feel yourself responding in eagerness, walls clenching around nothing like they're experiencing separation anxiety.

"I'm never letting you go again," he says, voice dropping the playful edge, becoming something serious. “You get that, right?"

You attempt to formulate a response, but discover your mouth has apparently decided to cosplay as the Sahara. All you can manage is a nod that barely qualifies as movement.

He’s slightly hovering over you, arms sliding under your thighs, clamping around them as he drags you down the bed in one swift movement. You gasp as your ass makes abrupt contact with the edge of the mattress, cool air hitting newly exposed skin while your legs fall open, and then — holy evolutionary biology —

His cock slides through your folds, the weight and heat of him dragging against your already hypersensitive clit like a match strike against sandpaper. You whimper, legs twitching, your body apparently unable to decide if it's too sensitive for more stimulation or desperately craving it.

He repeats the motion again. And again. The thick, velvety length of his cock glides through your slick evidence, teasing your entrance. He lets you feel every ridge and vein without giving you the satisfaction of actual penetration, slaps his length against your juices a few times.

"Feel that?" he speaks softly, "That's mine. This whole fucking pussy. All of you." The possessive declaration should trigger your feminist alarm bells, but your body apparently didn't get the memo, responding instead with an endorsement.

Your hips jerk upward instinctively. “Jungkook, please."

He looks down at you, pupils so dilated they've nearly consumed the black holes. His jaw clenches, sweat creating a subtle sheen at his temple that catches the dim light. His cock twitches against you, leaving another hot trail of precum across your folds like some kind of territorial marking. “Say it," he growls, "Say you're mine."

Your fingers claw at the sheets, completely useless against the solid weight of him positioned between your thighs. You're wet to a degree that should concern you, but it somehow doesn’t. “Jungkook," you moan, "Please. I—I need you."

He grits his teeth, cock jumping between your folds. His expression broadcasts a man barely maintaining his composure. “Say it," he repeats. "Tell me you're mine."

You gasp, legs shuddering in his iron grip. “I'm yours," you whisper, the words escaping before your pride can intercept them. "I'm yours, Jungkook. I'm fucking yours. Please.. just fuck me. I can't, I need it, need you—"

That's all it takes; your desperate declaration being the final passcode to unlock whatever restraint he's been maintaining.

He growls under his breath incoherently, pushing his full length devastatingly slow into you.

And the stretch..

Sweet merciful heaven, it's always been llike discovering a new dimension of sensation. Always been the best you’ve ever had.

He's thick, pressing deeper into you than before, walls struggling to accommodate him. Each inch creates a delicious burn that makes your mouth fall open silently.

Your back arches, hands flying to his forearms with a desperate grip. Your lungs attempt to remember their primary function.

"Fuck," Jungkook hisses through teeth clenched, the grip on your thighs now firmly in bruise-manufacturing territory as he watches himself disappear into you. "You're so tight. Shit, always so wet for me."

You attempt to form words, but they never come. You're too full, stretched beyond what you thought possible. All you manage is a whimper as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, the substantial weight of him seated so deep you feel claimed from the inside out.

He hovers over you, his forehead brushing yours with unexpected tenderness. "You feel that?" he says under his breath. "That stretch? That fullness? That's me, baby."

You nod frantically, nails creating temporary artwork on his toned arms, walls clenching around him with rhythmic pulses. “I can feel you everywhere," you whisper, "You're—fuck, you're so deep, I—"

Jungkook holds still inside you for one suspended moment, long enough for your body to adjust to the size. Your legs twitch where they remain trapped in his grasp, feet dangling in the air.

Then, without verbal warning or mercy, he withdraws completely.

All the way out.

The sudden emptiness hits you like sensory whiplash, your walls clutching at nothing, muscles fluttering with panic, and then he pushes back in unhurriedly, dragging every impressive inch into your slick cunt.

Head tilting back, you moan out something that sounds like a profanity. He follows your movement like he's tethered to you, leaning down with a groan.

That's when you feel it; the gentle tap of cold metal against your chin.

His silver chain. You never really did appreciate that jewelry piece.

It swings, providing cool metallic kisses against your overheated skin. The visual of it dangling above you, catching light with each oscillation, nearly sends you to heaven.

You will never get tired of this man again.

You grab him by the neck with the decisive urgency of someone who's finally stopped overthinking everything, dragging him down against you, crashing your mouth to his with absolutely zero concern for technique or dignity.

Fuck, the taste.

You taste yourself on his lips, a complex, slightly salty sweetness that you'd never admit to anyone you find strangely intoxicating. Mixed with the warmth of his tongue and the slick slide of his mouth, your brain temporarily suspends all higher functions. He maintains that unhurried rhythm below, deep thrusts that end with a grind.

Your teeth accidentally catch his bottom lip in your eagerness and his breath hitches against your mouth.

"God," you exhale into his mouth, "you feel so fucking good. I-I missed you so m-much.”

Jungkook moans wantonly, forehead pressing against yours in that surprisingly tender gesture that somehow makes everything more intimate than the actual sex itself. His hips maintain that tempo, drawing out pleasure.

"You drive me insane," he whines. "You're so fucking tight, so perfect. I could do this all night. Never get tired of being inside you."

You shudder, gasping into the half-kiss, legs tightening around his waist with newfound plans to eliminate any remaining space between your bodies.

When he thrusts again, harder this time, you swear the room performs a slow rotation around you. He breaks the kiss with a muttered profanity that somehow sounds like poetry, staring down at you. In this moment, in this bed, with this man… you’ve never felt more safe and loved.

Yet the careful, teasing rhythm he’s been making love to you with shatters like fine china dropped from a height.

Jungkook drives into you with a force that makes your breath catch, his hips connecting with yours. The soundtrack becomes deliciously obscene — skin meeting skin with wet smacking. The headboard begins its own contribution, banging against the wall with a volume that would concern you if you weren't well past caring about such mundane considerations.

You cry out incredibly loud, “Oh my God — fuck — Jungkook, don't stop," your nails drag across his back and shoulders, anywhere within reach, as your body jerks beneath him.

"Not fucking planning to," he responds with grim determination, thrusting harder, deeper.

Thank God he doesn't have neighbors.

High, broken sounds emerge from your throat that seem to bypass your vocal cords entirely. And Jungkook? He's producing a collection of grunts and groans, punctuating each thrust with your name.

"You hear that?" he pants, fucking into you with enough force to make the bedframe collapse at this rate. "That's how wet you are for me. That sound—fuuck—you hear how good it sounds?"

You can't formulate a coherent response but your body registers only the essential data points: the way his cock hits that sweet spot each time, the way your walls grip him, the feel of his muscles underneath your fingertips.

You're the visual definition of dishevelment — hair stuck to your face, eyes glazed mouth open and—oh god—actually drooling slightly as you beg for more.

Jungkook's hand comes up to grab your jaw with gentleness, tilting your face to meet his gaze. “You are so, so beautiful."

The sincerity punches through your pleasure-riddled brain. You suddenly recognize this look — the one he's been giving you for weeks while you've been busy pretending he wasn’t. The realization lands with the subtlety of a piano dropped from a third-story window: you're the oblivious protagonist in your own romantic story.

Without warning or consultation, Jungkook rearranges your legs, hooking them over his shoulders like he's claiming ownership… which, at this particular moment, feels like a completely reasonable arrangement.

He thrusts back in, so deep your mouth drops open in a silent scream. Your walls clamp down on them, juices leaking out onto the sheets below you.

"Holy shit," you gasp, "I can't, I can't, you're so deep, Jungkook, I—"

Somehow, in this moment of incoherence and surrender, you've never felt more genuinely yourself. There's something terrifying and liberating about being seen so completely, being known in this most primitive, honest way, and that you’ll let him have you like this.

He groans, abs flexing with roll of his hips. From this angle, escape from visual impact is impossible; he's looming above you, hair falling into eyes, jaw squared. His chest rises and falls in a quick, shallow rhythm but has decided breathing is less important than the task at hand.

"Fuck," he growls, gaze traveling downward to where your bodies connect, where every drag of his cock exhibits a ring of cream soaking his base. "Taking me so well. You're so fucking tight baby, squeezing me like you want me to cum."

You respond with some sound, legs twitching on his shoulders, toes curling behind his back with enough force to cause minor cramping.

"You were made for me," he rasps, "Made to take my cock."

His hand slides to your lower abdomen, pushing down with gentle pressure, and… wait, what is that? You can actually feel him inside you, a distinct bulge moving with each thrust, and your brain momentarily abandons pleasure to engage in scientific inquiry. How is that even possible? Isn't that one of those myths perpetuated by romance novels written by people with questionable understanding of female anatomy? Yet here you are, experiencing the impossible, your own body betraying your skepticism.

"Oh my God," you cry out, "I can feel your—I can't— Jungkook, I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he counters, leaning further forward. He pounds into you, driving his hips even faster. "You're doing so fucking good for me. You're perfect. So perfect."

The praise sends you down a delirious spiral. It's embarrassing how effective simple validation can be, how the right words at the right moment can dismantle any fears you had.

Jungkook's rhythm falters momentarily, before he suddenly stills, cock pulsing inside you with a distinct throb, your walls gripping him with contractions. “Get up," he rasps.

You blink up at him with the unfocused bewilderment of someone who's forgotten how limbs work, body vibrating.

But then his hands are under your thighs, guiding your legs down. He helps you upright, being as careful and soothing as possible. As soon as you’re vertical, back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed, he grabs your face with urgency and kisses you — not the polite, exploratory kiss of early dating, but the kind that has already memorized the topography of your mouth.

His tongue slides in with confidence, and you respond with some sound that gets muffled in his mouth, drunk on the cocktail of hormones, endorphins, and the intoxication of tasting yourself on someone else's lips. Jungkook grips your jaw, hand trailing down to play with one of your pebbled nipples.

Without warning or a proper transition period, his other hand executes a perfect southward journey to your ass and delivers a sharp smack that somehow hits the precise intersection of pleasure and startled indignation.

You gasp, body performing an involuntary jump, and he grins against your lips with the smug satisfaction of someone who's just confirmed a long-held hypothesis (which is that you’ve always liked it when he slapped you. Which he knew.)

"Atta girl," he murmurs, "Now turn around."

You comply eagerly, positioning yourself on wobbly knees on the bed and arching your back in what you hope resembles sexy feline grace rather than a person about to cum in under five seconds. Your hands clutch the sheets with a desperate grip.

Behind you, the mattress creaks with his movement, his hands beginning a leisurely expedition up your back, wandering against your spine. He leans in, his breath cool on your overheated skin, and begins planting kisses down your spine. Each contact of his lips sends tiny electrical currents branching outward, tongue occasionally making guest appearances.

"You're unreal," Jungkook whispers, his voice carrying the raspy quality of genuine awe. "Every inch of you."

And then his hands find your hips with purposeful intent, pulling you backward, and you already know.

You already know you're not ready; not in the sense of being unwilling, but in the way that your body is still recovering from the previous position and probably needs another moment. Normally, under other circumstances, you might’ve stopped whoever, but because it’s him and somehow it feels like it’s been too long, you whimper in excitement.

He taps his cock against your slit a few time, collecting the arousal, and that elicits another wanton moan from you. He slides back in easily, and the sensation of fullness is immediately overwhelming, spine curving in automatic response like you're trying to make space for him inside your body. Your forehead drops to the mattress as a cry escapes your throat, “O-oh fuck, Jungkook!”

"Fuuuck," he groans behind you. His hips connect with your backside forcefully, and repeatedly. "This pussy's fucking perfect. God, I’m going to fuck y-you everyday."

Your entire form jolts with each impact, hands clutching the sheets. Your sensory awareness has narrowed to a hyper-focused inventory of feeling: every inch of him, each purposeful grind of his hips, the smell of his leftover aftershave still on your body, the sound of skin slapping echoing throughout the room. “F-Fuck me like I’m yours.”

That pretty much sends him on a rampage.

His hands press flat between your shoulder blades, effectively pinning you as he speeds his tempo.

"You like this?" he pants against your ear, breath hot against your neck as he leans over you. "Being bent over, dripping all over my cock?"

Your moan comes out high-pitched, needy, and completely stripped of dignity.

"Yes," you whisper, "Yes, Jungkook — fuck, it's so good. You feel so good—"

"That's right," he groans, emphasizing his point with even more forceful thrusts. "Say my name. Let me hear who's fucking you like this."

You obligingly repeat it, volume increasing with each iteration, “Jungkook—Jungkook—"

With absolute certainty, you realize your impending orgasm has become less a question of "if" and more a matter of "how explosively.”

His hand leaves your back. And suddenly, he’s reaching around your front, fingers slick with his own saliva (you think) as they find your clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles that make your whole body seize up.

“J-Jungkook— oh my god —” you choke out.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he begs against your ear, his weight looming on you. “Gonna fall apart on my cock like the filthy little thing you are?”

And yes, of course you are — your body is already approaching the cliff edge — but your brain knew that while your whole being simultaneously sends a very clear memo: We are absolutely fine with this particular brand of objectification at this specific moment, thank you very much.

You attempt to formulate a verbal response, but your vernacular has apparently gone on strike, only a stuttering noise that emerges from you. “Y-yes. Please make me cum, oooh.”

His fingers speed up, merciless on your clit, and his other hand tangles in your hair and pulls. Spine arching, head yanked back until you’re forced to look up, eyes wide and glassy.

"Fuck, fuck," you practically sob, his fingers entangled so deep in your scalp as he gathers his own makeshift ponytail. "I can't—I oh my god—"

"Yeah?" Jungkook hisses, lips brushing your cheek with unexpected tenderness given what's happening elsewhere. "That cockdrunk already?"

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna fucking cum again, I—ahh, fuck," you babble with the coherence of someone experiencing a minor stroke, words slurring together, "Jungkook, please—"

"That's it," he bites his lip roughly, nearly drawing blood, his thrusts increasing in both frequency and force. Every circle of his fingers winds the tension tighter in your core. "Say my name while you lose your fucking mind on my cock."

Your mouth drops open in a perfect O, the pressure building in your stomach. Through it all, he remains the constant; grinding into you, fingers maintaining their devastating rhythm on your clit, hand still firmly grasping your hair.

God, you’re right there, so close you can almost…

Jungkook suddenly withdraws completely, creating a void so unexpected your body responds with a sob that comes from somewhere deeper than conscious thought, your entire body trembling and slick and utterly wrecked.

But before you can think again, he's gripping your waist, flipping you over onto your back, your body responding with the cooperative limpness of a rag doll. Thighs still unfortunately shaking from everything he’s done to you. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s back between your legs, spreading them wide, staring down at the soaked mess between you two.

“Need to see you,” he pants, pupils blown wide. “Need to watch you cum.”

He's kissing you again, less a romantic gesture and more like someone attempting to consume you through your mouth. Tongue hot and demanding, lips slick with everything you’ve given him. It’s messy, desperate, teeth clashing, breaths swallowed. Your hands claw at his back, his hair, needing something to hold onto as he thrusts back into you.

You cry out into his mouth, sound mangled, your head spinning as he fucks you hard from above. His chain swings again with every thrust, cold metal smacking into your bouncing breasts.

Jungkook’s tattooed hand comes up to your throat, wrapping his fingers around the skin, enough to remind you who’s in control.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, and what you find there makes your internal organs perform cartwheels. Possession, worship, and hunger, as if he's been starving for years and you're the first real thing he’s had.

"You're gonna cum for me like this," he whines. His hand maintains its position at your throat, his chain now swinging with abandon, occasionally delivering metallic kisses to your chest. Hands are firmly placed on your hips, your legs flailing with each thrust. "Right here, while I'm inside you."

Your clit throbs at his words with almost painful insistence while your walls contract around his cock, your body apparently making decisions without consulting your brain first.

"Jungkook, right there," you mewl, hand gripping his shoulder tightly, "I can't—I'm gonna—I'm—"

"That's it," he grunts, reclaiming your mouth in a kiss that effectively silences whatever embarrassing sounds were about to escape. “Cum for me, baby."

And you do.

Your orgasm doesn’t just hit — it erupts. It detonates from deep inside you, hot and electric, tearing through your entire body like a lightning strike. Your back arches off the mattress, thighs snapping around Jungkook’s waist as your cunt clamps down on him, squeezing so tight it rips a guttural noise from his throat.

You’re sobbing something that might be his name, might be a prayer, might just be air torn from your lungs.

The world performs an impressive disappearing act. Your vision whites out. You're gone, temporarily relocated to some dimension where only he exists. Every muscle in your body spasms and shakes. It's raw and messy and completely unhinged.

Jungkook feels every microsecond of your unraveling. Each pulse. Each ripple of your body's meltdown beneath him.

"Fuck—" he groans, hips stuttering as your walls flutter around him. His grip intensifies — at your throat, your hip, anywhere he can establish anchor points — his self-control visibly deteriorating with each passing second. "Jesus Christ, you're— fuck, you're squeezing me so hard — baby, I'm not gonna—"

He’s panting now, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple as he tries not to lose it. This whole time you've been running from him, pretending not to notice what's been right in front of you; his almost painful beauty, the devastating architecture of his features, the way his eyes contain entire universes. (Okay, fine, you noticed. Sometimes. Often. Constantly. But admitting it then would have meant admitting other things you weren't ready for.)

"Look at you," he manages, the words coming out with obvious effort as he watches you completely disintegrate beneath him. "You're so goddamn beautiful when you cum."

"Shit," he gasps, "you're gonna make me—fuck, baby, I'm gonna—"

And still, he doesn’t stop praising you, even as his self-control cracks beneath the weight of your body convulsing around his cock.

“So tight. So wet. You’re perfect,” he growls, each compliment landing like a physical touch. “Made for me. My perfect girl.”

Even as his composure fractures atop the weight of your body, he continues his litany of praise. He's trembling above you now, jaw tightly clenched, every muscle locked as he continues moving through your climax, pursuing his own with increasingly desperate determination.

"Jungkook, fuck, I can't—" you sob, the overstimulation too much for you to even breathe, let alone think.

With one final, decisive thrust, he finishes, harder than he ever has in his natural life.

A sound escapes him, raw and primal and startlingly vulnerable. His head drops to your shoulder, hips moving with an erratic rhythm. His body pulses inside yours, hot ropes of cum painting your walls, your toes curling.

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuck—" he whimpers, hips making two more valiant efforts as he empties himself completely. "So good my girl, so fucking good—I can't, shit—"

This moment of complete abandon is when you finally let yourself see him. Not Calvin Klein's global ambassador. Not South Korea's beloved idol. Not the carefully constructed public image or even the man who you cared less about in those first meetings. Just Jungkook, beautiful when his own walls are down.

You spent so long running from this, from him, pretending not to notice how the light catches his features at certain angles, how his eyes tell stories when he looks at you, how the slope of his nose looks like somewhere butterflies land.

Now, watching him come undone because of you, inside you, the realization lands with catastrophic clearness: he was always yours to have. Completely, irrevocably yours in a way that both terrifies and exhilarates you.

His whole body trembles with aftershocks, chest heaving as he presses impossibly deeper, seeking maximum contact. Jungkook’s hand migrates from your throat to your waist, fingers grasping the warm skin.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from sadness or even overwhelm, but from some emotion too big for your body to contain. Your legs try to remain wrapped around him, but your muscles give out entirely. Your whole body has gone pleasantly boneless, nerves humming, heart performing a drum solo against your ribs.

He pants against your collarbone, his chain now a cool, slightly sticky presence trapped between your overheated bodies, lips brushing your jaw with tenderness.

"I didn't mean — fuck — I didn't mean to cum that hard," he murmurs, voice sandpaper-rough.

You manage a sound that's adjacent to laughter, breathless and slightly broken, your lips struggling to form actual words through the haze of endorphins. "It’s okay."

He allows his weight to settle near you, forehead resting against your shoulder, still intimately connected.

Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you really want to.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You don't know how long it's been since the world stopped spinning on its axis, time having apparently become an optional concept rather than a reliable constant.

The sheets beneath you are warm, air carrying a complex bouquet — skin and breath and something that exists in the undefined territory between forgiveness and desire. Your legs remain stubbornly intertwined with his own, as if your body is staging its own rebellion against separation, operating on some fear that distance equals disappearance.

Jungkook has maintained silence. You've been equally restrained in your contributions to the non-conversation.

But his hand continues its cartography against your skin. Slow, featherlight circles mapped across your back. Periodically, his lips find your hairline, the gesture so natural it seems less of a conscious choice, but instead an involuntary reflex.

Your head occupies the territory of his shoulder, lips occasionally brushing his collarbone in what could be kisses or simply the accident of proximity. Beneath your ear, his chest rises and falls, his heartbeat a steady percussion under your palm.

You allow your gaze to travel upward.

You look at Jungkook in his unfiltered state — eyes heavy-lidded with satisfied exhaustion, torso bare of everything except his tattoo sleeve, the silver chain and a thin sheen of cooling sweat that catches what little light seeps in from the hallway. A faint crimson mark decorates his jaw where you clearly got too excited. He looks beautifully dismantled.

"I want to make this work."

He blinks. Then freezes in place like someone who's just spotted a rare and potentially skittish creature.

You register when he stops his movement against your back, feel the subtle hitch in his respiratory rhythm before it recalibrates to steadiness. But what matters more is what doesn't happen. He doesn't retreat. Doesn't deflect with humor. Doesn't repackage vulnerability into something more manageable.

Instead, he turns his head to look at you with an expression of wonder, gaze soft around the edges, mouth slightly parted as if he's afraid that acknowledging what you've said might cause you to take it back.

"I don't know how. I'm not... I don't want to be your girlfriend yet. I know I'm not ready for that," you admit, the confession emerging with all the tentative vulnerability of someone stepping onto ice they're not convinced will hold. "But I want to try to get there with you."

You don't explicitly mention fear, don't need to catalog the specific anxieties currently living in your chest. It's encoded in every accelerated heartbeat, every microexpression, every subtle tension in the muscles that have spent years building barriers around your emotions.

You're not hiding behind power dynamics or professional distance or the fortress of pride you've constructed brick by brick. You're just here. In his bed. Body curved around his like a physical manifestation of the promise your words have just placed in the air between you.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, a sound that is the audio equivalent of relief wearing joy's clothing, and presses his forehead to your scalp.

"Then let's try," he murmurs.

The silence expands between you, but it isn't awkward at all.

You adjust your position slightly, one leg claiming territory around his waist. His skin radiates warmth against yours, offering a security that feels foreign but essential. Yet your throat constricts anyway.

"Well," you sigh, "I don't know how to be with you, to be honest."

His eyes move to yours. As always, he doesn't attempt solutions. He listens with the rare patience of someone who understands that witnessing is sometimes more valuable than fixing.

You lick your lips and continue, "I don't know how to be someone who texts good morning. Or someone who talks about their feelings over dinner. Or someone who... who knows how to let another person in without feeling like I'm losing something in return."

The admission costs you something — you can feel it leaving your body, years of self-protection dismantling in real time. For a woman who's built her career on knowing exactly what to say and how to say it, this raw honesty feels like jumping off a bridge with no harness.

He remains silent. But his gaze holds yours with steady assurance, eyes dark and patient in the dim light like he's prepared to wait as long as necessary for whatever comes next.

You hesitate, but then add ,"Is that okay?"

The question hangs between you two. About whether someone like him, who seems to navigate genuine connection with the ease of breathing, could possibly want someone like you, for whom emotional transparency feels like a foreign language.

For what seems like ages, he doesn't answer.

Then he lifts a hand to your hair, brushing it back from your face with a sweetness that makes your chest ache in places you didn't know could feel.

"Yeah," he affirms, "That's okay."

Two words. Simple. Direct. And somehow containing the most profound acceptance you've ever been offered.

"I don't need you to be perfect," he continues, "I don't need you to turn into someone else just to be with me. Honestly, i would hate that.”

His thumb traces your jawline, eyes maintaining their focus on yours steadily. “I just need you to try."

You blink back the tears threatening to compromise your maintained image as someone who doesn't cry over boys or sad movies or particularly moving commercials featuring rescue animals.

"That's the problem," you confess, "I don't know how to try without trying to win or turning everything into something to conquer."

"I know," he says with the certainty of someone stating that water is wet. "You're the most guarded person I've ever met."

You narrow your eyes with mock indignation. "You're terrible at comforting people."

Which… is a lie so transparent it wouldn't fool a toddler. The man clearly possesses emotional intelligence bordering on supernatural — he somehow got you, corporate warrior queen and professional feelings-avoider, to actually visit your family after a year of strategic absence. If that's not evidence of psychological wizardry, nothing is.

He smiles genuinely, "You didn't come all the way here because I'm good at comforting people."

Your lips twitch traitorously, the beginnings of a smile staging a coup. Jungkook leans closer, "You don't have to know how to be with me right now. You just have to stay."

You press your face into the sanctuary of his skin, inhaling his scent. “You're not afraid?" you ask.

"Terrified," he replies without even a millisecond's hesitation. "But I'd rather be afraid with you than safe without you."

The line would sound rehearsed coming from anyone else, but his voice carries this authenticity of someone speaking their unfiltered truth. He looks at you like you're the answer to questions he didn't even know he was asking, like someone who's found their favorite person in a world of seven billion options and is amazed by his good fortune.

You don't respond verbally. You don't need to.

Because your arms remain wrapped around him, your body more honest than your words have ever managed to be. And you haven't let go or run away yet — a physical declaration more powerful than any verbal agreement.

The soft moment only lasts so long, however , because he's a man and therefore incapable of sustaining emotional vulnerability beyond the FDA-recommended dosage, his chest rumbles with that low frequency that signals a subject change is imminent.

"So," he says, "wanna hop in the shower with me?"

The question carries all the subtlety of a neon sign, but you find yourself smiling anyway — partly because it's such a perfectly timed relief for the emotional pressure that's been building, and partly because even this transparent attempt at distraction is infused with affection. His eyes still look at you like you've personally hung the moon and stars, even while proposing something as mundane as shared hygiene.

You blink for a moment. Then lift your head just enough to give him a look that questions both his sanity and possibly basic human biology. “You're joking."

He returns your gaze with an expression balanced perfectly between amusement and innocence. "Why would I be joking?"

"Because it's physically impossible that you still have anything left," you retort ,eyebrows climbing toward your forehead in a silent judgment of his audacity.

He just shrugs, "I hydrate. I stretch. I take care of myself."

You drop your head back onto his chest with a groan that contains multitudes; exhaustion, disbelief, and a reluctant hint of admiration. "Oh my god."

He grins, entirely unbothered by your exasperation, fingers tracing a path down your side. "You're the one who came crawling back to me, remember?"

You lift your head again, fixing him with a glare that would wither lesser men. "Crawling is a strong word."

He arches a single eyebrow. "You showed up at my house with a crumpled contract and a face that said please, take me back my lover."

You have the simultaneous desire to slap him, kiss him senseless, and then perhaps slap him once more for good measure. But you opt for your mouth opening, then closing again, resembling an indignant goldfish as your brain frantically searches for a comeback and finds the cupboard disappointingly bare.

"Yeah," he smirks, "that's what I thought."

You grab the nearest pillow and smack him squarely in the face with it — the universal last resort of those who have lost the argument but refuse to concede defeat.

He laughs as he effortlessly confiscates your improvised weapon and tosses it aside. With fluid coordination, he tugs you back toward him, arms locking around your waist.

"I'm serious," he murmurs,"Shower with me."

His expression might be teasing, but his eyes tell a different story, one where this request is about far more than shared hygiene. They look at you with the softness reserved for someone who still can't quite believe you're actually here, in his bed, in his arms, agreeing to try.

You pull back just enough to examine him properly, the way his smile goes slightly lopsided when genuine, how his eyes crinkle at the corners when they're not performing for a lens. And underneath all of that visible surface-level perfection: relief. Quiet, unmistakable relief that you're actually here, that this isn't another near miss in your shared history of almosts.

You trace a thumb along his jawline, "If I go in there with you, you're not allowed to make a single comment about your 'stamina.'"

He presses a kiss to your wrist. "Fine."

"Or your flexibility."

"Okay."

"Or how good your skin looks wet."

He snorts with amusement. "You do like it though."

You deliver one final shove to his shoulder, the gesture containing all the force of a gentle breeze as he begins to sit up. His arms are already reaching for you again, the blanket abandoning its post as he pulls you back into him. A laugh escapes your throat before you can intercept it, muffled against the skin that's become more familiar to you than anything.

This unexpected development is precisely what you never permitted yourself to envision. What your risk assessments classified as statistically improbable.

But here it is. Materializing in this moment. Occupying this bed with the certainty of something that's always been inevitable.

You look at him again, and he returns your gaze.

Perhaps love isn't orchestrated declarations or cinematic gestures performed with optimal lighting.

Perhaps it's this.

The quietly profound silence that says despite all logical arguments to the contrary, you stayed.

And the next few days unfold with that same magic of moments you weren't supposed to have; soft, unanticipated.

You extend your return flight as if you’re postponing a dentist appointment. Once. Then again and again. Until the concept of departure transforms from definitive plan to vague hypothetical.

Your hotel sends increasingly concerned emails about your room you haven't seen and don’t plan to. Your suitcase maintains its position in the corner of Jungkook's bedroom, untouched and increasingly irrelevant.

Now? You essentially live here.

At least, that's the only conclusion based on available evidence.

Your limbs are entangled with his at all times; on his comfortable couch, in his ridiculously large bed, half-conscious on the floor in front of his massive TV. Your hairbrush has made good friends with his bathroom drawer. There's a bottle of your overpriced moisturizer holding territory on his nightstand. His kitchen now carries the scent of your morning coffee, and he never allows you to prepare it without supervision.

"Let me do it," he insists, "You'll make it too strong."

"You're weak," you counter, "Own it."

But he just shrugs with nonchalance, delivers a kiss to your cheekbone, and activates the kettle anyway.

Daniel, from across the world, hasn't made contact. He doesn't need to. Your discretion levels are currently hovering around zero.

You sent him a single text, a masterpiece of vagueness claiming you're "taken care of." His response consisted of three laughing emojis and a GIF depicting a calendar engulfed in flames. You chose not to follow up on that particular conversation thread.

No other member of the team has demonstrated the courage needed to disturb your unauthorized sabbatical.

For perhaps the first time in your adult life, you experience zero guilt about any of it.

For once, your life isn't structured around the strategy decks at dawn and press releases at midnight. You're eating toast over Jungkook's kitchen sink, while behind you, he performs a lip sync routine using a wooden spoon as his microphone. You're curled up on his couch wearing one of his shirts (which naturally, fits you like a dress), your laptop exiled to the coffee table. His head rests in your lap while he tells you tales from his trainee days that simultaneously explain his discipline and make you wonder how anyone survives the k-pop industry with their sanity intact.

You find yourself watching him smile, the authentic ones that transforms his entire face and makes something in your chest bloom. Somewhere between months ago and this moment, your brain recategorized him, filing him under "person I might actually miss" rather than "professional chaos requiring PR aide."

Each night, you fall asleep in his bed with windows slightly ajar, Seoul's night air drifting in, his arm draped across your waist.

Some days you wake to find him already conscious, just... looking at you, blinking as if he’s conducting reality checks.

"You okay?" you whisper during one such morning surveillance, voice still rough with sleep.

He nods. Smiles that stupid bunny smile that makes you all fuzzy. “Just making sure you're real."

You don't try to respond. Kiss him instead.

You don't know what comes next in this unscripted thing you've stumbled into. Your professional life has always operated according to meticulous planning but there's no PowerPoint template for whatever this is. No key performance indicators to measure the success of accidentally falling for the person you were supposed to keep at a professional distance.

Finally though, when reality does come crashing down, when the email confirmation materializes in your inbox, it feels like some alternate version of yourself made these arrangements. Some corporate doppelgänger who still prioritizes quarterly projections over the way Jungkook's voice sounds when he's half-asleep.

Your return to New York.

A city that once represented the pinnacle of your ambitions, now reduced to a collection of skyscrapers and deadlines.

You stare at the itinerary, thumb hovering over the screen. The return remains theoretical until you forward it to your assistant.

Subject line: returning next week. please keep calendar clear until I land.

What your assistant doesn't know… is that this departure comes with a loophole.

Not so much an ending as a comma in a sentence still being written.

There's another ticket purchased with the stealth of a spy. Under Jungkook's legal name. Scheduled for precisely seventy-two hours after yours — a buffer zone necessary for him to navigate the bureaucracy that runs his existence. A whispered promise that he'll follow once HYBE's legal department, publicity team, and some other people sign off on the logistical nightmare that is "globally famous person attempts to ‘try things’ with c-suite member of said person’s latest marketing campaign.”

There will be tabloid landmines to sidestep. Calendar schedules to master. Seemingly trivial concerns that will eventually mean something, like calculating time differences before sending texts, ensuring you’ve made space for his skincare in your New York apartment, and perfecting the art of arriving at the same location via different entrances.

“Trying to make it work” with an international popstar, it turns out, requires the same level of strategic planning as a corporate merger.

Right now, though, you're standing in the doorway of Jungkook's apartment, performing the world's most reluctant exit. Your suitcase waits by your feet, coat draped over your arm, heart lodged so firmly in your throat. The car service downstairs is undoubtedly charging by the minute while the driver wonders what drama is delaying your descent.

Jungkook’s standing before you, barefoot and hoodie carelessly thrown on, eyes carrying sleepiness. Beneath that morning haze, he's unmistakably present. Awake in the way that silently pleads don't leave without saying what we both know is true.

You haven't told him yet. The words you've been rehearsing in your head.

The truth you've been aware of for days while pretending otherwise.

His voicemail still plays on repeat, the one you finally had the courage to hear on that Manhattan rooftop, glass abandoned as his voice crackled through your phone speaker.

"I think I'm in love with you."

He never demanded reciprocation. Never presented it as a transaction. And now you're stuck thinking about your mother's favorite lecture, delivered with the exasperation reserved for a child too smart for her own good. "Don't lie if you can't carry it."

As your fingers make contact with the cold metal of the door handle, you pause. Turn to him.

Your eyes connect with Jungkook’s — they’re always wide with anticipation, patiently waiting, hopeful in that quiet, unassuming way he hopes for things. Your mouth opens, words still stubbornly refusing to leave.

Finally, with the triumphant relief of someone who's been holding their breath underwater, you manage to speak.

"I.. I-I think I'm starting to fall in love with you too."

He blinks at you. Like perhaps his sleep-deprived brain has misinterpreted that. Like maybe this is some elaborate dream his subconscious has constructed to torture him.

But then there’s that slow, sunrise smile that spreads across his entire face. That small, stunned shake of his head. His eyes soften, and he steps forward, reaching for your hand like it's the only anchor in a storm.

He presses his lips to your knuckles — a gentleman's compromise, the only part of you he apparently trusts himself to touch without dragging you back to bed.

"I'll see you in New York," he mutters.

In some way, those words say exactly what you know they mean. You nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat, forming a smile that doesn't look like you're about to cry.

The distance between Seoul and New York has never seemed so vast and so insignificant.

And when you walk out the door, heart thundering, you slide into the backseat of the car. Not any less yourself, not someone’s girlfriend, but with the promise of something new. Hands are still buzzing, gaze lingering on the city you used to avoid calling home.

As the driver pulls away from the curb, you feel your phone buzz once in your lap.

Eomma.

You blink at your phone.

Without hesitation, without fear, without guilt, you answer the call.

“Hi, Eomma,” you say, smiling softly. “I’ve missed you! Sorry I didn’t call since last week, I was crazy busy. But I do have a story for you.”

Everything in your chest feels entirely new.

Because at this point in time, you’re not running from something.

You’re walking toward it.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

note ; if you’re reading this — welcome! you survived the end of the price of desire, and i love you for it. thank you for reading.

now to show my love and affection… i’ll be doing 3-4 epilogue drabbles/blurbs based off your guys’ requests (bc it’s no fun if im just doing whatever i please, duhh!!) send in some ideas (smut, fluff, even some angst) of what you would want to see as epilogue blurbs and i’ll choose the ones that inspire me :-) THIS IS NOW CLOSED! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE REQUESTS 🫶

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[youunravelme]

meant just for you // part two

author's note: thanks for all the love you showed part one! here's part two (and the final part, though i'll probably write some follow up fics about this couple later).

summary: you have a history of dating around and hooking up. after seeing your teammates start to settle down, you and mat make a bet to see who can fall in love first.

pairing: mat barzal x pwhl!reader

warnings: mentions of sex (though no actual smut because i can't write that to save my life), cursing, toxic boyfriends

guy three: peter (cont'd)

when you woke up early the next morning, it wasn’t because you wanted to, it was obligation to your team that had you getting on the road by eight to get back to your apartment in jersey. and maybe the time you got home coincided with peter’s work schedule, but if he asked, it wasn't intentional.

you didn't like lying, and you for sure didn't like that you were so comfortable doing it to him, but after the way he'd talked to you last night, part of you felt like he deserved it. besides, you were about to go on a roadie, you could afford to go a few more days without seeing him.

“i don't know that it should be like that,” your mom commented over facetime while you packed. “don't you want to date someone you wanna be around all the time?”

you scoffed. “don't you get tired of dad?”

“sometimes, but that doesn't mean i want to go days without seeing him.”

“even when he messes up?”

“i might go an hour with the silent treatment, but we usually try to talk about things that upset us before going to bed.” she pauses, then says, “are you sure peter is the one you want to be with?”

you blinked and took a second from throwing clothes into a suitcase to look at her. “what’re you saying? of course he is. he’s the right person, college was just the wrong time—”

“or maybe he was the wrong person then and is the wrong person now,” she said with a conviction you'd seldom ever heard from anyone.

you wrote your mom off after hanging up the phone, but the entire flight to ottawa, it was all you could think about.

wrong person then, wrong person now.

“what’s wrong, twitch?” jess nudged you. “you look lost.”

you blinked before looking at her. “i think i might break up with peter,” you said. 

“oh?”

“my mom made a comment this morning, about how maybe he was the wrong person then and also the wrong person now but—”

“your mom is right.”

you blinked again. “...what?”

jess shrugged like what she said wasn’t the equivalent to a record scratch in your brain. “he didn't seem to be your type.” when you said nothing, she continued. “he didn't care about what you care about. god, it seemed like he was waiting for you to give up hockey.”

your stomach twisted at the thought.

jess laid her head on your shoulder and squeezed your knee. “i just want what’s best for you, and i think the best is just around the corner.”

the roadie was long, with you winning as many as you lost. and you couldn't blame anyone but yourself for it. your mind was divided, jess’s words as well as your mom’s ringing in your head, until one night, you were laying in bed, staring at the ceiling while jess was asleep in the other bed.

you glanced at the time and winced when it said 1:40am. 

but still you found yourself hitting mat’s contact.

“hello?” there was a loud bass sound on the other end, but he picked up after two rings.

you glanced at jess before walking outside in the hallway. “hey,” you said.

“what’s up? you okay?” it was music in the background, you figured out. probably some top 40 hit you hadn't heard because no one listens to the radio anymore.

you hummed and got on the elevator to head down to the lobby. “i’m fine.”

“then why're you calling me when you should be asleep? don’t you have a game tomorrow?”

“i think i’m gonna break up with peter.” you blurted out.

mat choked, the loud bass noises got quieter, like he'd walked into a hallway or outside. “you're what? what brought this on?”

“my mom and jess talked to me about it.” you sat in a chair in the lobby, your leg bouncing. “made me think that maybe peter is the wrong guy every time.”

“twitch i—”

“mat? are you coming back in? is everything okay?” grace. you would know her voice anywhere, it felt like.

“yeah i’ll be there in a sec, grace.” he cleared his throat. “listen twitch, i gotta go. let me know how that conversation goes, and good luck at your game. you're gonna do great.”

“no, yeah,” you said. “thanks mat, have fun.”

when he hung up, you continued to sit in that lobby, watching as couples stumbled in from the cold, giggling, drunk, and holding hands. you tried to remember a time where you'd been that happy holding peter’s hand, or when you'd ever been that giggly around him.

you couldn't think of a single instance.

you laughed when you were with him because you were funny. you smiled because you were having so much fun on the dates you planned.

as you made your way back up to your room, you took notice of the hollow sensation in your chest, the idea that it had all been for nothing, that you'd opened yourself up to more heartbreak in hopes that peter would be the one to make you fall in love.

you were in a canadian hotel hundreds of miles from home and mat was in a long island bar with grace.

and you weren't sure why it was that thought alone that kept you up all night.

when you finally made it back to new jersey, you wasted no time in going home and sending a text to peter.

you: we need to talk.

it didn't matter that it was nearly midnight. it didn't matter at all to you, because the truth was, while you were still young, you weren't going to waste any more time on a guy who was waiting for you to be someone you weren't.

you rehearsed a speech after morning skate the next day, trying to get your words right. yet when he came over with daisies in hand, the words fell out of your mouth.

“hey babe—”

“i want to break up.”

peter reeled back, the flowers he was holding out still in his hands, waiting for you to accept them. but the truth was:

you hated daisies.

“what?” he asked.

“i can't keep doing this anymore. i thought maybe this was our second chance, but maybe there shouldn't have been one at all.”

peter tossed the flowers on your coffee table and reached for you. “baby, you don't know what you're talking about. we work so well together.”

you took a step back. “do we? because you hardly come to my games, you don't even seem interested in them.”

he scoffed. “this again? i told you i’m busy—”

“doing what? happy hours with your douchebag friends from your douchebag job?” you ran your hand down your face. “god, we don't even care about each other’s passions!”

“passion? getting pieces of rubber flung at you is a passion?” he laughed. “that’s a hobby, you could be making so much more doing literally anything else.”

“it’s not about the money! i love hockey—”

“oh grow up! you’ll play hockey for what? another five years? and then what? you'll have to do what the rest of us do and find a real job.”

you stepped back again, his words striking a chord that hurt more than you anticipated. “we’re done,” you said, hoping your voice sounded stronger than you felt. “get out, and take those fuckass flowers with you.”

“baby—”

“no! stop! you don't get it and i’m done waiting around for you to understand hockey is it for me. i’m not gonna ‘grow up’ the way you think i need to. so just leave and find someone else willing to be what you want.”

peter gaped at you before he spun on his heel and slammed your front door shut.

the pictures on the wall rattled, but your hands and heart were steady.

guy four: ....?

there was no telling what his name was, you couldn't remember it to save your life. but his tongue was down your throat and his hands were wandering.

maybe this is what you were meant for, hookups and casual makeouts with random bartenders on their breaks.

you were halfway to second base when jess cleared her throat, snapping the two of you out of your heavy petting session. 

“the manager sent me to tell you it’s time to get back to the bar,” she said, eyes at the guy you were making out with.

he nodded and, in a flash, had disappeared among the crowd.

“are you okay?” she asked, taking the place against the wall the bartender had occupied.

“yeah, why wouldn't i be?”

jess fixed you with a look that had you shrinking just a little. she knew that you knew why she was concerned. since the break up, you'd been on a bender of sorts, hooking up left and right. which, wasn't bad, but it seemed counterintuitive to falling in love.

“maybe it’s time we go home. do you need a ride?”

you shook your head, you'd only had one drink an hour ago. it wasn't liquor that made you make out with a stranger. “i think i’m gonna go to my parents’ place. i’ll see you tomorrow for practice?”

jess didn't look convinced.

“i’ll be okay, my parents’ house is like the safest place i could be.”

she nodded and hugged you tight to her chest. “i love you, twitch. text me when you get there.”

you hugged her back just as tightly. “i will.”

the drive itself was only an hour, could've been shorter if you were more reckless with your car, but seeing as you weren't a millionaire, you played it safe. that, and you didn't want to have to call your dad to come pick you up if you wrecked your car.

you pulled into the driveway, sighing at the familiarity of it all. it took only a matter of minutes for you to unlock the door and head upstairs to your childhood bedroom. you pulled out clothes you'd never taken to jersey and crawled into bed, letting the sleep take over.

when you made your way down the stairs the next morning, it was to the smell of chocolate chip pancakes and bacon.

“i knew i heard you come in last night, squirt,” your dad said before taking a sip of his coffee. “how was the game?”

you plopped down in your seat as your mom handed you a plate of pancakes and bacon. “i broke up with peter a few days ago.”

your parents, to their credit, didn't choke or show any sign that they were shocked. your dad took another sip of coffee and your mom took her seat at the table.

“how're you feeling?” your mom asked.

you shrugged. “i feel like i should be more upset that it’s over.”

“but?”

you sighed and cut a piece of pancake with your fork and shoved the piece in your mouth. “but i’m not. i guess i’m just disappointed that i wasted more time.”

“it’s not wasted,” your dad said. “did you learn something new about him or yourself?”

after a moment, you nodded, feeling like you were back in high school again.

“then it wasn’t wasted.”

“i thought it would be him. i stupidly thought the right guy would be in front of me the whole time like the movies. was it childish? sure, but i thought maybe it would be my turn.”

the whole conversation felt too intense for breakfast, but your parents weren't showing any signs of backing off. 

“maybe the right guy still is,” your mom said. “we all suck at looking for things when we think we’re running out of time.”

your dad chuckled. “i can’t tell you how many times we found the lucky socks on top of the pile of laundry in the corner of your room after you said you lost them.” he reached across the table and squeezed your hand in his. “you have time to figure it out, squirt. why rush?”

why rush, indeed.

the next few days passed by in a monotonous montage. your social life was suffering and you hadn't heard from mat since the roadie when you called him. part of you was ashamed for bothering him when he was out with grace, but another part was overwhelmed with the idea that maybe your friendship was over.

he'd probably fallen in love first, he probably won the bet.

and for some reason, the thought made your stomach sink.

he was probably holding hands with grace and kissing her after games and bringing her favorite flowers because he took time to know that stuff. he probably opened doors for her and made her walk on the inside of sidewalk. he was probably on the road to falling in love with grace because she was perfect.

meanwhile, there you were, thinking peter was your ticket to a happily ever after like you'd dreamt of when you first watched sleeping beauty as a child. but he was just a guy, a guy who couldn't remember your coffee order or work schedule, a guy who expected you to be at his beck and call when he needed you, a guy who wanted you as arm candy while he waited for you to get a clue and grow up.

a guy you'd wasted time on for reasons unknown to you.

maybe it was loneliness, or a desperate need to be chosen by someone other than your parents, to be someone’s first priority, you weren't sure. it could've been any or all of those things.e all you knew now was you spent too much of your youth on him, you weren't spending anymore thinking about him.

you were laying in a vegetative state on your couch, watching reruns of temptation island when your phone vibrated next to you.

mat: hey! long time no see. are you busy tonight?

you blinked, but your fingers were moving faster before your brain could fully process what was happening.

you: nope! not at all

mat: cool. wanna come to the game tonight?

you blinked.

you: really?

mat: yeah. haven't seen you in a minute. i'd like to see you tonight. maybe catch up after the game?

you: sure!

you drove the hour to your parents’ place who were out of town for spring break. you parked in their driveway and started walking to ubs like you'd always done, this time alone.

mat texted you earlier to let you know that grace would have the passes to the locker room, to just follow her lead. 

she was all soft smiles when you met up with her, greeting you kindly. her eyes looked over your shoulder, furrowing when she didn't see something, you guessed.

“where’s peter?” she asked. “was he busy tonight?”

“oh,” you laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck. “we broke up. so i don’t know where he is...”

grace’s smile faltered. “oh,” she said.

interpreting her fading smile as sympathy, you shrugged to diffuse the tension. “yeah but it’s fine, we weren't a good fit anyway. he didn't understand how important hockey is to me.” you sighed and looked around at the fans walking inside. “how're you and mat doing?”

you meant the question to be conversational, but when grace’s face twisted up, you realized you may have overstepped, though you couldn't figure out why. 

“things are...fine,” she said. “we should go sit down.”

you followed her lead to the seats, recognizing a few of the kids and wives mat had talked about before. however, you didn't wave, knowing good and well they probably had no idea who you were. nonetheless, the kids were cute.

over the course of the game, you tried to talk to grace as much as possible. you asked about her work (she works for a nonprofit helping disenfranchised students graduate high school) and complimented her outfit, yet she still seemed distant. there was a look in her eye that didn't quite match the energy you were giving her.

it didn't make much sense either when you followed her down to the locker room. she was quiet then too, which was odd, considering the isles won. thankfully, there wasn't much time to dwell on it because a brown haired woman came over and introduced herself.

“i’m holly,” she said. “i know grace, but i haven't met you yet.” and had anyone else said it, you might have felt insecure or out of place, but holly said it with such inviting warmth that you told her your name.

“but most people just call me twitch,” you admitted.

almost immediately she smirked with a knowing look in her eye. you weren't sure the cause. what could she possibly know just from a nickname?

“it’s nice to finally put a name with a face,” she said. in certain lighting, it looked like she wanted to say more until she realized grace was still there.

mat came out all smiles a beat later, his eyes widening slightly when he saw you talking to holly. he walked over and greeted grace first, kissing her sweetly, if you had to describe it (even if the thought made your stomach turn).

mat hugged you next, squeezing you tightly, before moving on to hug holly. 

“so,” he smiled. “what’d you think?”

“it was fun,” grace said quietly.

mat’s eyes landed on you, something you only knew because you were already staring at him. “you need to shoot the puck more. you’re playing hockey, not ping pong,” you stated. “assists are good, but so are goals.”

he rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “a ‘good job, mat’ would've sufficed, you know.”

you laughed to yourself. “maybe, but your ego is big enough as it is.” then, a realization that grace was standing there, you cleared your throat. “besides, i’ll leave it to grace to inflate your ego. as your friend, i’m here to keep you humble.”

you glanced at grace who sent you a grateful smile.

mat wrapped his arm around his girlfriend’s waist and nodded at holly as she excused herself. his attention was drawn to the locker rooms as more of his teammates exited. your eyes were drawn to a tall man just now leaving. he glanced in your direction, waved at mat, and walked towards the parking garage.

you blinked once. twice. and turned to mat. “i need you to set me up with him.”

mat choked. “what?” 

“duclair, your teammate, i need you to set me up with him.”

mat blinked, then clenched his jaw and shook his head. “no.”

taken aback, you asked, “why? do you think it’d be a bad idea? is he a douchebag?”

“no.”

“then why?”

mat sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “do you need a ride to your parents’ house?”

“nope!” you popped the p. “i’m gonna walk back.”

mat immediately shook his head. “not happening. i’ll give you a ride.”

“it’s really not that big of a deal, i’m sure you and grace want to go out somewhere and celebrate—”

grace cut in. “let us get you home,” she said. “it’s not safe to be walking alone this late at night.”

you acquiesced and followed mat and grace to his car. the ride was quiet, silent except for the soft notes of a justin bieber song playing in the background. from your seat in the back, you saw mat reach to grab grace’s hand and watched in confusion as she moved out of his reach.  your stomach twisted when you saw the frown on his face, so you looked away quickly to get rid of the sensation. 

mat pulled up to your parents’ house and parked in the driveway.

“thanks,” you said quietly. “for the game and driving me home.” you turned your focus to grace, who was staring out of the passenger window. “it was nice seeing you, grace.”

she managed to turn over her shoulder and give you a slight smile. “you too.”

“let me walk you to the door,” mat said. you tried to protest, but he was already halfway out of the car before you could say anything.

“i’ll see you later,” you said to grace before hopping out of the car into the cold air. mat walked by your side to the front door and waited for you to pull your keys out before he said anything.

“thank you for coming tonight,” he said. “it was nice, seeing you there, after weeks of not seeing you.”

you smiled because you just couldn't help it, not when he looked so sincere. “anytime, mat.”

he reached for you, pulling you into another tight hug. “i’ll text you?” he asked.

“let me know when you get home.”

he nodded and pulled away. “i will.”

guy five: anthony

with the isles clinching a spot in the playoffs, you weren't fully expecting mat to text you any time soon. you'd kept up with his games enough to know he was playing well. and part of you felt smug that maybe he'd taken your words at his last game to heart.

you: congrats on clinching!

you started cleaning your apartment before you left to go to elmont. with the pwhl international break in full force, you were planning on taking advantage of your parents’ groceries and living situation. maybe you'd convince your parents to take off work and spend time with you, maybe you'd drive out to the hamptons or maybe see your cousin in connecticut, but you weren't going to skip town without cleaning first.

you’d just vacuumed the living room rug when your phone rang. 

mat’s name appeared on your home screen.

“hello?” you answered.

“hey! you busy tonight?”

“just headed up to see my parents. it’s the first week of the international break, so i figured i’d go spend some time with them.”

“when are you leaving?”

“as soon as i finish packing.”

“would you wanna come over when you get into town?”

“s-sure, is grace gonna be there? i don't wanna overstep—”

“we broke up.”

you nearly dropped the phone. “w-what?”

his sigh echoed through the receiver. “yeah...it’s a long story. i’ll text you my address.”

clothes were being thrown into a duffel bag. you had no idea if they even matched, you just knew you needed to get out of jersey as soon as possible.

“i’m leaving! i’ll be in town in about an hour?”

truthfully, the drive was the longest drive you'd ever taken. sure, you'd shaved off two minutes from your maniacal driving, but it wasn't fast enough. you wanted to know what happened, why they broke up—

why your heart was leaping in your chest at the revelation.

you arrived at mat’s place, a house in the suburbs, a house much nicer than the one you grew up in, which made sense considering the salary difference.

mat was leaned up against the doorframe of his front door as you pulled into the driveway. you were hopping out of the car as soon as you threw it in park.

“turn your car off, doofus!” he called with a hand framing his mouth.

heat rushed to your face as you reached back into the car to cut off the ignition. “whoops,” you said.

mat came down the stairs of his porch and grabbed your duffel bag from your hands. your eyes must've widened because he nudged you. “relax, you're not moving in, but i don't think it’s smart for you to leave your stuff in the car.”

you rolled your eyes. “this is the bougiest neighborhood around, mat.”

“and? where’s your wallet?”

your eyes widened as you went back to your car, digging around in your center console before pulling out a bundle of cards wrapped together with a hair tie. “here!” you held it up like it was a trophy, something to be proud of.

mat blinked. “you can't be serious.”

“what do you mean?”

he gestured to your hand. “you’re joking right? that’s not a wallet.”

“it’s fine! it works for me!” you waved it around before mat snatched it out of the air and started towards his front door. “hey come back with that!”

“you're not carrying your important information out in the open and tied together with a hair tie, that’s ridiculous.”

you followed him inside and watched as he placed your duffel bag on the ground in the entryway. you continued to follow him into the common area and towards a table with drawers.

“here,” he said, handing you a worn leather wallet out of one of the aforementioned drawers. “take this.”

“i can't take this,” you replied.

“sure you can, i’m not using it, so take it.”

you scrunched your nose up. “but it’s ugly.”

mat ran a hand down his face and sighed. “cards tied together with a hair tie is ugly. now take the damn wallet.”

you crossed your arms and refused to move. “no. i don’t want an ugly wallet.”

“it’s pure leather.”

“and it’s ugly.”

mat looked at you, with something akin to fondness and maybe a little of something else you couldn't place. and when he smiled the bright smile no one had been able to replicate, you took the wallet.

you studied the worn brown leather. maybe it was the lack of eye contact that gave you the courage to ask the question on the tip of your tongue since that morning. “why'd you and grace break up?”

mat cleared his throat. “want something to drink? i’m a little parched.” without saying another word, he walked towards what you assumed was his kitchen.

you followed, because of course you did. you watched as his t-shirt stretched over his back muscles and shoulders as he filled a cup with iced water. “are you gonna answer the question?”

he sighed and turned around, taking a sip of water in the process. “it just wasn't working.”

“but you seemed so happy!”

he shrugged. “she wasn't.” you waited for him to continue, but he didn't.

“are you okay?”

“i’m fine. wanna go sit?” he gestured towards the lush couches in the living room.

“are you gonna answer any of my questions directly?” you asked, following him and plopping on the couch only after he did it first.

mat sighed. “i don't know, i feel like i was so close to having what my teammates have.”

you nodded along, pulling your feet up onto the ottoman. “i get that. sometimes i think there's something fundamentally wrong with me, that's why no one stays.” mat froze next to you, even as you let out a bitter laugh. “i mean, i broke things off with all of the other guys but maybe i’m just not built for this—”

“there's nothing wrong with you,” he said with a certainty you wished you possessed.

you blinked. “huh?”

“there’s nothing wrong with you.” mat looked at his feet, propped up next to your own. “even if a genie gave me a wish, i wouldn't change a single thing about you.” there was something so childish about it that stuck with you, but not childish in a bad way, childish in the innocent sense. he said it with the same conviction as a little kid who still believed in santa claus. you couldn't help it, you looked at him, waiting for his eyes to meet your own. when he did, he gave you a small smile, before it evolved into a smirk. “even if you can't peel your oranges.”

you rolled your eyes and shoved his shoulder. “asshole. at least i can stay on my feet on the ice.”

mat made an indignant noise. “that’s not fair! you hardly ever skate as fast as i do.”

you continued on like you didn't hear him. “all i know is the only times i end up on my ass during a game is because someone knocks into me.”

mat ignored your comment and reached for the remote by your feet. he pushed your feet off the ottoman and laughed when you yelped.

“you’re such a dick! i was comfortable!”

“that's what you get for being mean.” he tossed you the remote and hopped off the couch, heading back to the kitchen. “what’ve you been watching lately?” he asked from the other room.

“temptation island mostly!” you called back. “it’s trashy but—”

mat hopped over the back of the couch and landed next to you. “god i love temptation island.” he handed you a freshly peeled orange. “want one?”

there was no telling how long you'd stayed at mat’s place, or how many episodes that equated to. hell, it wasn't until mat woke you up that you'd realized you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder.

“hey,” he nudged you gently. “it’s like 9pm and all you've had since you got here was an orange. do you wanna order in?”

you inhaled and rubbed at your eyes, not realizing that the sun had set long ago. last you remembered it wasn't even six o’clock. granted, you didn't even remember falling asleep either, so who could really trust your memory?

you motioned to your phone which had made its way to the ottoman, though you couldn't remember ever placing it there...

mat grabbed it for you and winced when he saw the missed calls from your parents.

a slew of texts accompanied the missed calls, most asking where you were, if you were safe, if something had happened. one text from your dad said he was close to calling the cops, (a joke if you'd ever heard one, your dad didn't trust cops).

“i should probably get home before they send out a search party...” you were too busy messing with your phone to pull up your mom’s contact to notice the way mat’s face dropped.

“what're you doing tomorrow?” he asked, the words falling out of his mouth.

you stopped texting your mom to look at the way he waited for your answer, the way he seemed to hang onto the next words to leave your mouth. “i don't think i have anything going on...”

“come to my game?”

and when he looked at you like that, how could you say no?

the drive back to your parents’ house wasn't by any means long, but there was a longing in your heart you didn't recognize, like an invisible string was attached to mat’s house and the farther you got from him, the more unsettled you became.

you just didn't know why.

“where were you?” your dad asked the second you unlocked the front door.

“mat’s,” you said simply, missing the way your parents’ eyes widened while you locked the door behind you. however, you turned around just in time to see the smirks adorning their lips.

“oh?” your mom said, an odd tone in her voice. “and how is he doing?”

“he’s fine. i’m going to his game tomorrow.”

your mom’s eyebrows rose. “against the devils?”

“yep.”

“that's an intense game to go to,” your dad commented. “do you have anything to wear?”

you blinked and moved towards the kitchen. “what? is this an interrogation? i’m probably just gonna wear a sweatshirt and jeans, dad. it’s a game.”

your dad threw his hands up and did his best to look innocent. “just asking a question, squirt. how’s he feeling about their chances tomorrow?”

you shrugged yet again and opened the fridge. “we didn't talk about hockey.” your eyes searched the shelves in hopes of something that wouldn't require anything more than 90 seconds in the microwave. all you saw was lunchmeat and a giant ass block of cheese.

guess you'd have cereal for dinner.

“well, you were over there for a long time, what did you talk about, if not hockey?” your mom asked.

you turned around and scrutinized your parents, both of whom were on the literal edge of their seats. for once, your dad wasn't reclined in his chair with a newspaper and his readers on. his elbows were braced on his knees. and your mom wasn't working on sudoku like she usually did.

they both stared at you in a way you couldn't remember seeing before. “what're you two getting at? we just talked. mat and grace broke up and so we talked about that. and then we watched temptation island because mat hadn't seen the newest season.”

you cleared your throat when neither parent had anything to add. “and if that’s all, i’m gonna go shower.”

“tomorrow, tell mat we said hi!” your mom called up the stairs.

because you were a good daughter, you, in fact, called mat when you got to the arena the next day to relay your mother’s message.

“tell her i said hi back,” he laughed into the phone. it was rich and deep and flooded your stomach with a weird sensation you hadn't felt before. “speaking of, did she send the shirt with you?”

you adjusted the gift bag in your arms. your mother gave you strict instructions not to peek, so despite the fact that you wanted to, you respected her orders for once.

“i’ve got it in a gift bag, but i don’t think i’ll be able to take it in.”

“you didn't drive, did you?”

“mat, you've been to my parents’ house. you know i walk.”

a shuffling sound was heard on the other end. “hold on a sec, i’ll meet you outside.”

“you don't have to—”

“i’m not risking you taking a peek at the shirt. just give me five minutes to send an intern or someone to meet you.”

“you don't trust me?”

“not at all,” he said without an ounce of hesitation. “not with this.”

you huffed, but conceded. again, it was only the respect you had for your mother that kept you from looking at the shirt she made for mat. there was only one thing that could be on it. there was no doubt it was a baby picture of you, the real question was though, which embarrassing photo did mat pick?

before you could even go down that rabbit hole, a young woman was rushing out and meeting you by the entrance.

“hi,” she said, slightly out of breath. “you had something for mr. barzal?”

you almost laughed at the formality of his name, but you managed to hold it back. “yes,” you said and held out the gift bag to her. “i think my mom put some brownies in there for him, but i wasn’t allowed to peek so i can’t say one way or the other.”

she nodded but looked at you like you were speaking another language. “anything else i should tell him?” she asked.

you shook your head. “nope. that’s all.”

in a flash, she was gone again, leaving you standing by the entrance of ubs, waiting for the doors to open. there was a small part of you that regretted walking simply because it meant you had nowhere to go until the game started, but then you remembered the expensive ass parking and walking sounded like a better option.

at least it hadn't rained.

when the doors opened, you were one of many people heading straight towards your seats. you didn't make enough money to justify spending money on stadium food, but you were most definitely treating yourself to a soft pretzel anyway. so what if it was a little early, you were hungry and there was nothing like a soft pretzel while waiting for a hockey game to start.

by the time you made it to your seat, most of the wags were already there. mat warned you ahead of time where your seat would be, and it didn't seem like that big of an issue at the time. but standing among them now seemed a little daunting.

until you saw holly.

“hey!” she smiled, one arm holding her daughter on her hip, the other hand holding her son’s. “mat told me you were coming!”

you blinked. “he did?”

holly nodded. “it’s good to see you again. you picked a good game to come to.”

“it’s not quite the battle of new york, but i’m happy to be here either way.” with a quick glance around the arena, it was clear that seats were filling fast. it would be packed in no time.

you were glad you got your soft pretzel when you did. you took a bite as holly led you to your seat which was conveniently next to hers. you put a reminder in your phone to thank mat whenever you saw him next.

seeing him next happened sooner than you expected because as soon as he came out onto the ice, after doing a few laps, he skated in your general direction.

there was no legitimate reason why your stomach should've flipped when he bent down and waved at holly’s kids, or why your knees got a little weak when he threw a puck over the glass for a stranger.

he stopped in front of you this time, and smiled so big you swore you could see his molars. that, you'd decided in that very moment, was your favorite smile of his.  some people, you thought, looked crazy or insane when they cackled like mat did, but it wasn't like that with him. the way mat laughed, smiled, snarked, and smirked made your insides do somersaults.

you'd never felt like this with any of your other friends. maybe it was a feeling reserved for friendship with guys instead?

mat knocked on the glass in front of you and smiled before he skated back to finish his warm ups.

your cheeks felt warm whenever the two of you made eye contact, and you couldn't figure out why. you especially didn't know why holly kept looking at you out of the corner of her eye and then proceed to smile lightly.

it didn't make sense. but you didn't dwell on it either.

the game started shortly thereafter and it was electrifying. the crowd was screaming, yelling, banging on the glass. one guy a few rows over called jack hughes a bitch as he was crosschecked into the boards.

what a time to be alive.

you were almost positive you'd be hoarse and your ears would be ringing for the rest of the night.

once mat scored a goal and you shot out of your seat, you were well on your way to not speaking for the rest of the week. you'd have to apologize to your team later. maybe your mom could make a warm cup of tea for you when you got home to help mitigate the consequences of your excitement.

mat scored again two minutes later, crouching down low and yelling while shaking his fists like he always did for a celly.

right before the end of the third, mat scored again. hats rained down from all parts of the arena. mat’s smile was wider than you'd seen it. there were tears forming in your eyes, joy afresh in your bones.

he'd deserved this, was all you could think about.

he'd deserved it all.

you walked with holly down to the locker rooms and spent time chatting with her. though, if you were being honest, you were just buying time until mat came out.

he didn't leave you waiting for long. he walked out, wet hair, suit on, and smiling. his eyes lit up when he saw you with holly.

your legs were moving towards him before you even registered what was happening. your arms wrapped themselves around his neck, breathing in his body wash. “i’m so proud of you,” you mumbled into his shoulder. “this is so exciting.”

he squeezed you back just as tightly. “thank you for being here.”

you pulled back as much as he would allow and smiled. “wouldn't wanna be anywhere else.”

there was no telling how long the two of you stood like that until the eye contact grew intense and had you stepping back.

a hand clapped mat on the shoulder. your eyes followed the lines of his arm until they landed on anthony duclair’s face.

“good game tonight, barzy,” he said before nodding at you and turning on his heel and walking away.

as soon as duclair was out of earshot, you turned to mat. “i want his number.”

mat’s jaw clenched. “no.”

“why not?”

“no.”

“mat, that's not an answer.”

he hitched his bag over his shoulder. “are you coming over?”

while you wanted to press him more, standing outside of the locker room was not the place to do it, so you nodded and let him guide you to the parking lot. he placed a hand ghosting over your lower back.

and if you’d walked slower just to keep his hand on you, who could blame you?

the car ride was quiet except for the music playing softly over the speakers. mat’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel when they weren't too busy white knuckling the leather.

he didn't say anything when he pulled his car into the garage either. you just followed him inside and attempted to wait for him to say something. but when the silence became deafening, you spoke up.

“mat, what’s going on? you haven't said a word since we left the arena, which, might i add, is unusual given how you're a top tier yapper any other time—”

“i don't get it,” he started, cutting your rambling short. “i had a hat trick tonight and you still want to date my teammate. what do i need to do to win you over? to give us a shot?”

you blinked like he was speaking a different language. what the fuck was he talking about? “i don't know what you mean.”

he ran a hand down his face and sighed. “c’mon twitch, you’re smart. you have to know by now.” mat reaches for his game day bag and pulls out the gift bag you gave the intern earlier in the evening. “this,” he said. “this is what i mean.” he tossed the bag to you, which you caught with ease. “open it.”

“mat, this is for you,” you explained slowly. “my mom said you wanted a shirt—”

“look at it,” he said. “i already know what’s on it. i picked out the picture myself.”

you looked at him with his hands on his hips shifting his weight from side to side. even before rivalry games, before his dates with other girls, you'd never seen him this antsy. you'd do anything to keep him from looking like that, so you pulled the shirt out of the bag and let it unravel as the bag fell to your feet.

and unravel it did.

the picture rendered you speechless. when mat was taking photos on his phone all those weeks ago (or was it months? you could barely remember a time when mat wasn’t in your life at that point. time ceased to matter when you were around him.), you assumed it was the photo of you in your amish outfit holding a candlestick next to your aunt’s antique butter churner. but it wasn’t. no, the picture wasn’t anything goofy or humiliating like you were anticipating.

you were six and missing one front tooth. there were two braids resting on your shoulders. you wore a pair of cinderella plastic high heels. but none of those things caught your attention.

it was the adult new york islanders jersey you were wearing that caught your attention. the jersey was your dad’s and came down to your ankles, but that wasn't the reason you were transfixed.

it was claude lapointe’s jersey.

the number 13 on the sleeve felt like a brand.

you scrutinized the image a moment more before looking up at him. “why this photo?”

mat looked at you, his eyes softening just a little. “don't play dumb, twitch. you know why.”

“if this is about the bet, mat—”

“—who cares about the bet? i don’t even remember the bet! i just know that if you’re gonna date a hockey player, i want it to be me.”

any oxygen left in your lungs suddenly disappeared. you couldn't breathe, couldn't think. there was no way this was real.

“...what?” you squeaked out. “mat what’re you..huh?” you took a step back, the shirt dropping to the floor.

he gestured to the shirt. “i don't remember what the bet was about, i don't remember what i’d get if i won. and i don’t care. because all i want is you.” mat took a step towards you and scooped the shirt off the ground. “i’m not giving duclair your number because if you’re gonna date an islander, i want it to be me.”

“me?” you pointed to yourself.

he laughed just enough to crack a smile. “who else?” mat took another step closer, the distance between you two ever shrinking. “i just want to be enough for you, i want to peel every orange, and buy bags of starbursts to look for red ones. i want to carry your goalie bag after your shut outs and when you give up seven points. i want to see you wear my jersey. i want to wear yours. i want...”

his words faded out as a memory took over your brain.

“it’s time for you to start carrying your own goalie bag and peeling your oranges, now.

draft day seemed so long ago when your dad said it. but standing in mat’s living room felt like that same level of euphoria, a high you'd been chasing since being drafted to the sirens.

in college, you would've scoffed at the idea of some guy confessing feelings for you feeling as important as your draft day. but he wasn't just some guy, was he?

he was mat.

and mat had always been different.

“i know you said you don’t hook up with hockey players, but would you consider dating one?” mat asked, still shifting his weight, looking more unsure than you'd ever seen, even when he went against the rangers a few weeks ago.

“you don’t think i’m weird?” you asked.

he smiled. “i think you're the weirdest girl i know. and i love it.” mat cleared his throat and shifted again. “i love you.”

there was no helping the smile lighting up your face as you closed the distance between your bodies. “even if i sleep with socks on?”

mat reached out and hooked his thumbs in your belt loops, pulling you closer until you nearly went cross eyed trying to maintain eye contact. “mhm,” he hummed.

“even if my wallet is a hair tie holding all my cards together?”

“i thought i gave you one—” he cut himself off and shook his head. “yes, even that.”

“what about—”

“twitch, there's nothing you could do to change my mind. i love you, quirks and all.”

you couldn't stop the smile on your face. “you love me.” a statement, no questions.

“i love you,” he said before clearing his throat. “do you—”

you stood on your toes and pressed your lips to his. you'd kissed a number boys in your lifetime, but nothing could compare to mat. not the way his arms circled your waist and brought you closer. not the way his nose bumped into yours, and certainly not the way he moaned into your mouth that sent shivers down your spine.

“i love you, mat.”

and that smile, that grin you loved so much made another appearance. it made your stomach flip like it always did when you realized you were the cause of his happiness.

“wait,” you said. “who wins the bet?”

mat rolled his eyes and pulled you impossibly closer. “who gives a fuck?”

“i do! i want to win.”

mat rolled his eyes but there was no mistaking the smile still on his lips. “you won. i’ll peel your oranges for as long as we’re both alive as long as you're mine.”

and you couldn't stop the grin appearing on your face, the kind of grin that made your eyes scrunch up.

“you've got yourself a deal.”

the last guy: mat