#is one of the best feelings in the world to me and i loved seeing that in tgcf so much!

[nadvs]

　 —⊹　♡　 newlyweds ⟢

pairing rafe cameron x female reader

rating explicit 18+

anon asked . . . i'm thinking about being newlyweds with rafe. you're at friends' house for dinner and as midnight falls, rafe notices how sleepy ur getting, sheepishly smiling and all, trying to keep up with the conversation. he's gotta take his sweet wife home and fuck her all soft and deep for being so so good

author’s note obsessed with this request. filthy smut below the cut! 18+!

a smile tugs on the corner of rafe’s mouth as you settle in the passenger seat, another sweet yawn escaping your lips.

“i don’t think you said thank you enough,” he rasps.

you laugh softly as you pull your seatbelt on. you’d thanked your mutual friends for hosting you countless times on your way out, earning his gentle teasing.

“i wanted to be polite,” you say. “is that so bad?”

“no, baby, it’s not bad at all,” he murmurs. “you ready for bed?”

you bite your lip, looking over at him as the overhead light dims to black. you’re no stranger to that depth in his voice, coated with velvet, laced with arousal.

“mhm,” you reply in a hum, your eyelids heavy.

he can’t wait to bury himself deep inside you. the sex has always been incredible, but since the day you made your vows and slid rings onto each other’s fingers, it’s been mind-blowing, your love having never felt so rich.

rafe drives out onto the road and you sink further in your seat. his eyes drift to the way your dress is gliding up your thighs. he’s getting hard, his briefs tightening. it’s like all he ever does is thirst for you.

he imagines the silk bunched up between his fingers as he hikes that dress off of you. he wouldn’t have the patience to take it all the way off if he didn’t love seeing you entirely naked, all of you ready for him.

his hand finds your thigh, his palm big and warm, thumb stroking over your skin.

“i saw you trying not to fall asleep at the table,” he teases. his fingers glide to your inner thigh. the feeling of your soft, hot flesh makes his cock even harder. “my sweet girl. didn’t want to be rude.”

you instinctually spread your legs, your stomach coiling at the thought of his fingers on you, in you.

one hand is tight on the wheel while the other plays with the lining of your panties at the crook of your thigh. he gently nudges against your core, the thin layer of your panties already wet against the pads of his fingers.

you breathe a moan. your head is spinning, your body writhing to feel him without any barriers.

“you gonna thank me tonight, too?” he asks.

“yes,” you whisper. you gently buck your hips and reach across the console, touching the hard bulge in his pants.

“fuck,” he groans. you cup him over the fabric, desperate to feel his girth stretching you out.

you tease each other, your breaths going shallow as your hands move the way you know the other loves. his fingers dip into your panties, gently parting your lips, just barely sinking inside.

rafe has never been so glad the drive is so short. his heart is pounding in his ears once he gets you in bed, his knees sinking into the mattress as he hovers over you.

his tongue is against yours, your mouths open and hot and wet as your clothes clumsily bunch together and drop to the floor.

you’re panting when his mouth finds your neck, kissing and sucking. he cups your jaw to ensure that you look him in the eyes as he guides himself into you, slow, so slow that you want to cry out.

rafe shudders against your mouth as sinks into your heat. this is the best place in the fucking world. on top of you, your pussy wrapped around him, your moans filling his ears.

“was staring at you tonight, thinking about how lucky i am to call you my wife,” he rasps. “about how hard i want to make you come.”

goosebumps bloom over your skin as he shifts to trace circles over your clit. he finally bottoms out, stretching you out with a pressure so euphoric that you feel dizzy.

every thrust is slow. you fit together perfectly, hot and sweet and meant for each other. he completes you and you complete him, needing the other just the same, missing each other when he pulls back.

his body know yours so well, a language only you two speak. it takes no time for the coil in you to snap, coming undone. you feel like you might lose your mind when you watch him dip his fingers into his mouth to taste you.

his hips start to rock faster. harder. he collides against you over and over, the deliciously lewd sounds filling your bedroom, tangled with his ragged breaths and the squeaking bed.

“so good for me,” he groans, his lips pressed against your temple. “i fucking love you.”

and you tell him you love him, too, you thank him, you moan his name, you feel absolute perfection as he finishes inside of you.

[wordsofwhimsy]

you never even really thought about the way mark and you had become inseparable. he was your best friend, after all, wasn't it normal to be this close? a snapchat streak that had been going on for well over 100 days, coinciding with a string of texts that never seemed to stop - day or night.

if you planned an outing, he was always invited. if there was a movie night his spot would be ready on your couch. favorite snacks on standby. being with him was like second nature. easy, comfortable, grounding.

so when he got his first girlfriend with Amber, things seemed to change. you had been so happy for him, of course - Amber was amazing! beautiful, smart, strong. exactly the type of girl he needed. but your snap streak quickly died, and the texts started to only come a few times a day. suddenly your days seemed... emptier.

you tried so hard not to feel the relief that flooded you when he told you they'd ended things. he started coming around again, a seven day snap streak quickly picking back up. of course you hated that he had to go through a breakup, but having movie nights again was nice.

then one night, halfway into a rewatch of Robocop, Mark speaks. "hey." you glance at him, popcorn halfway to your lips. "you never asked me why Amber & I ended things..." you pause before dropping the pieces into your mouth.

"did i have to?" you mumbled around the food. your stare shifted back to the screen, your hand following suit in gesture. "look at Robocop - his love life is trash. kinda hard to find time for love when you're always saving the world."

"i always have time for you though." you go stiff, slowly moving your eyes back to him.

"uh, Mark...?" his stare is heavy on you, like it weighs a thousand pounds. there's no smile. he moves so slowly toward you, and you see it coming, yet you're still stunned stupid when his hand takes you by the back of the neck and brings you in, lips pressed against yours.

there's no movement in his lips, or yours. just a still, soft meeting of mouths. mouths that have smiled and laughed and talked with each other for years, but never touched. like two people on passing trains. always near, but just out of reach.

"i will always have time for you," he breathed when he pulled back, forehead resting against yours. "always."

[manariee]

SUGAR TALK

﹙糖 ﹚───── You plus me, yeah, that moment when we are together A to Z, yeah, you can't hide it

𝒮 엔하이픈 & fem!reader wc: 175 - 265 cw: super wholesome

𝓜 anas notes: REPOST SINCE BLR TOOK IT DOWN

HEESEUNG

Random serenades: He'll literally pull out a guitar or hum a tune while you're cooking or simply just brushing your hair. And when you look at him like ''really?'' he just smiles and goes ''What? My muse is in the room.''

Subtle matching: You two don't match by having full-blown matching couple outfits from head to toe. You two match by matching accessories that Heeseung loves to buy. Like the same beanie, or matching phone cases. He likes the quiet kind of matching only you two notice - or others which just makes him just extra proud.

Tease, but gentle: He's playful, but in a way that's gentle and affectionate. He loves teasing you but it's always lighthearted and meant to mak you laugh, never to hurt your feelings. If he sees you start getting flustered, he'll just wrap his arms around you and hold you tight while cracking jokes just make you even more flustered.

JAY

Cooking together? He won't let you lift a finger: Jay lives for cooking with you. That is only if you simply do the easy things or not do anything at all. You're standing near the stove? He'll usher you to the side. Holding a knife? He'll act as if you're five. It's not that he's worried you'll ruin his dish. He's just overly worried over you getting the slightest of hurt.

Fixes things for you without being asked: Broken zipper? He fixed it. Charger acting weird? Already replaced. It gets to a point you're scared that he'll buy you a whole new phone if it gets damaged. You don't even have to say anything - Jay just notices, and brushes it off as if it's nothing. ''You don't need to worry about stuff like that love.'' Yeah well there goes your heart.

Loves pampering you: After a long day, Jay loves to pamper you. He'll run you a warm bath with soothing scents, massage your shoulders when you're in the middle of working or just simply hold you.

JAKE

Constant giggles: Jake's energy is infectious, this man knows always how to make you laugh even when you're at your lowest. You two could literally be in the middle of doing serious work till it's interrupted by a giggle. ''What?'' Another giggle. ''That ring is cute.'' You huff out a laugh. ''Jake you literally gifted that to me'' you reply. He'll just shrug, pulling you closer. ''I know.''

Silliest late night voice notes: Jake has made it a habit to update everything to you. Buying a coffee? Voice note sent. Took a step out of the house? Another voice note send. It's cute honestly. Like a high school girl with a crush. But the silliest ones are when he sends them in the middle of the night before sleeping. This man will literally be figthing to keep his eyes open, voice slurred as if he had way too many drinks, and mouth close to the phone. ''Mm.. Today was fun.. Me and the boys ate at a nice place.. M'gonna take you there next time..'' Morning cuddles champion: The moment you get up, correction, try to get up, Jake pulls you back into bed “Five more minutes,” he mumbles, but it’s never just five. He hooks a leg over yours, buries his face in your neck, and sighs like it’s the best place in the world. And if he wakes up before you? Soft, sleepy morning kisses on your nose, cheeks, forehead - Jake lives for them. If you groan and tell him to let you sleep, he’ll giggle and snuggle into your side like “Okay but five more kisses please.”

SUNGHOON

Obsessed with taking your photos: He acts like it’s no big deal but you catch him snapping pics of you when you’re not looking. When you ask why, he shrugs and says “You look really pretty like that.” His gallery is full of you because apparently you look really pretty all the time. Yes even in that sleeping picture he took to tease you but put it in his ''favorites'' folder.

Carries your stuff without asking: Heavy bag? He’s got it. Groceries? Already in his hands. Sunghoon doesn’t even say anything, he just gently takes it from you like it’s his mission in life to make yours easier. Even if it's your own light purse that has nothing more than your phone and a lipgloss. He'll take it from you. ''It's good, now others will know that this pretty girl is all mine.''

Wants to grow together: He’ll talk about the future with you in soft tones—“Where do you wanna live someday?”, “What kind of place should we get?” Not in a rushing way, but in that quiet, sincere way that shows he really sees forever with you.

SUNOO

Hyper compliments when you're least expecting it: You’ll be brushing your teeth in pajamas and he’ll gasp like, “Wait—you look so pretty. Like super super pretty.” Cue you choking on toothpaste while blushing.

Has a 100-photo album of you just being weird, cute according to him: Not posed. Not filtered. Just you laughing, eating, sleeping - even yawning. He’ll scroll through it sometimes when he misses you and get all soft like, ''Damn, that's my girlfriend.''

Adorable acts of service: Sunoo shows his love through small, thoughtful acts. Whether it’s waking up early to make you breakfast or stopping by your favorite café to grab you a treat, he always thinks of ways to make you feel good. ''You know you're the only person I sacrifice my beauty sleep for.''

JUNGWON

Gentle scolding = pure love: When you forget to eat or don’t get enough sleep, Jungwon gets this softly stern voice and he’ll be like, “You need to take care of yourself, okay? I can’t relax if you’re not okay.” Then he makes you soup and tucks you in.

Loves forehead kisses and soft nose boops: He finds your face so adorable that he can’t resist. He’ll kiss your forehead before leaving the house, before bed, whenever. And randomly - boop - he’ll poke your nose and smile like a kid.

Always remembers the tiniest things you say: You once mentioned liking a specific flower months ago? Boom - he brings it to you after work. You liked a drink from one café? It’s your go-to now. Jungwon listens with his heart.

NI-KI

Playfights turn into cuddles: You two start with playful bickering—like fighting over the TV remote or who gets the last snack—and somehow it ends with him tackling you onto the bed, both of you laughing, and him refusing to let go. “You lost. This is your punishment.”

Surprise hugs: Ni-ki’s signature move is sneaking up behind you and wrapping his arms around you in the tightest, most surprising hug. The suddenness of it always catches you off guard, but it leaves you laughing and feeling safe in his embrace. His hugs are warm and filled with affection. ''Can't resist you pretty, you're just too warm.''

Gets flustered when you compliment him: He’ll laugh it off and be like “Shut up,” but his ears turn red and he'll look away because he’s secretly thriving. Whether he’s learning a dance or trying something new, he always shows it to you first. And give you that shy smile when you compliment him. He loves your praise more than he’ll ever admit.

lovliezᡣ𐭩: @chrrific @saemisic @heeaara @ltfirecracker @woniefication @lezleeferguson-120 @fleurhoons @rikifever

[bernardsbendystraws]

You Don’t Own Me

SERIES MASTERLIST

Chris Sturniolo lives by his own rules, refusing to be controlled. Some see him as a rebel, a troublemaker—but is that the full truth? Meanwhile, Y/N is focused on making the most of her last year of high school, determined to have a normal teenage experience. But when their worlds collide, they realize they may have more in common than they ever expected.

WARNINGS: COPYRIGHT NOTICE. Slight angst, fluff, kissing, PDA, cuddling, mentions of family issues, hints towards darker themes.

A/N: A bit shorter (not by much) but I thot of the you're welcome song from the Moana soundtrack tbh.

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

P23: Me Too

The smile on my face refuses to falter for even a second. Chris and I have been talking for hours at this point, exchanging memories while sitting in my bay window, my legs resting across his lap as his hands massage up and down my calves. 

“-and then Nick would always get me and Matt to do some dumb shit for him. One time, oh my,” he laughs dryly, his eyes twinkling with fond emotions, “-one time he convinced us to film a YouTube video.” His shoulders seem to slug, his voice becoming more strained, “It’s just us, in our car, talking about god knows what, but…when I really miss him…I go back and I, um—I watch it.” 

My heart squeezes in my chest. The raw feelings are noticeable in his voice, his eyes glazed over with a glowing joy dimmed by a subtle sadness. 

Reaching out, I place my hand on top of his. Chris immediately maneuvers his hand, cupping his palm to mine as he spares me a half smile. 

“It’s still up?” I ask, referring to the video. 

“I, uh—yeah,” he says, chewing on the inside of his cheek as his eyes fall down to our intertwined hands. “-I didn’t…I couldn’t take it down, you know? I just—I…can’t.” 

The longer he rambles, the quieter his words get. I find myself clutching his hand a little tighter, breathing shallow as I hear him clear his throat. 

“You should tell me, um….tell me about you and Baylen,” he suggests, shifting the attention towards me, “-gotta be some fun stories there, right?” he questions, playfully nudging my shoulder 

Ugh. Baylen. 

Listening to all of Chris’ stories made the relationship with my brother look like ashes and dust. 

It hurts to think about the good times—it hurts to remember how few fond memories we actually have together. 

“Oh, um…” I hum, trailing off as I try to think. 

Shuffling through various thoughts and instances, my mind runs completely blank. 

The sensation of sunlight beaming through my window and onto my back becomes evidently apparent. Warmth crawls over my shoulders, the tops of my ears burning as I feel a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. 

I can’t even think of one singular time. 

My face burns with an uncomfortable heat. I feel my throat get tighter as I try to open my mouth to speak, some sort of stutter mixed with a heavy breath falling from my lips. 

“Hey,” Chris soothes, his thumb massaging circles on the back of my palm as he stares at me with soft eyes, “-you don’t have to. Tell me anything you want, alright?” 

I nod at his statement, immediately able to take a deep breath from the relief of pressure. 

What could I tell him?

“Well,” I start, my lips rolling together as my brows scrunch together, “-I used to always sleep in his bed. I, uh—just kept having accidents and wouldn’t wanna wake up my parents. So, I’d change and go to his room. We used to make his entire room a fort, it…it was nice.”

God. 

I miss that. 

Baylen’s room was my sanctuary at some point. We would hide toys under his bed, extra pillows and blankets to build our fort to cover his entire room. 

“You guys used to be close?” Chris questions. 

“Yeah,” I puff, “-very close.” 

Something inside of my chest burns as I mutter the words. It used to be so fun, so perfect. He was the best brother someone could ask for, but that changed—and I still can’t figure out why. 

“Did things change when your dad passed?” he mumbles, soothingly rubbing his hand over the back of my palm with reassurance. 

“Um…no—not really.” I answer. My brain fogs as I try to retrace the moment everything seemed to change between us, but it always felt so abrupt—so unprompted. 

One night, I was following my typical routine, wandering into his room in the middle of the night. I had another accident, waking up in a puddle of pee and crying with shame. 

My parents room was no longer the place I went to, not after the time my mom screamed at me, shoving me out and yelling with tears. She used to help me wash off and get new pajamas, she used to tell me it was okay—she used to care when I cried. 

Baylen tugged me into his room after that. I’d woken him up with my crying and he creeped into my room, helping me wash off and dressing me in his pajamas. The lego pj set of his was my favorite and even though he loved them, he never wore them after that—he always offered them to me. 

Night after night, it became routine. I didn’t even bother considering my parents room. I’d walk over to Baylen’s door, waiting patiently for him to let me in. 

And he always did. No matter how tired or how long his day was, he always got up while half-asleep, letting me in his room and helping me clean up. 

Eventually, he just left his door unlocked. It was odd at first since Baylen was always incessant on locking his door, scared of possible intruders because of the paranoia due to how much graphic media he’d consume. 

But he always left it unlocked for me.

Until one night, he didn’t. 

At first I thought he’d just forgotten—but then I knocked. A lot. He wouldn’t answer. 

Little me wanted to think it was just a one time thing, but it kept happening. 

And at one point, it hurt too much to even try to get him to open the door. 

“Hey.” Chris’ voice tugs me back to reality. 

My glossy eyes burn as I blink furiously, the sensation of his hand soothing over mine more intently making my chest rise and fall with an automatic deep breath. 

“I…sorry,” I mumble. 

Chris shakes his head, giving me a sympathetic smile before clearing his throat. “Don’t gotta say sorry. I just…you looked a little too deep in thought. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” he says. 

My lips roll together as I swallow the lump in my throat. The way his eyes are piercing into me makes everything feel so real—so alive. 

It’s good and bad. 

I hate how naked my skin seems, I hate how rough the air is sliding into my lungs. 

But I love how my heart seems to patter in my chest, I love how vibrant everything seems to be. 

Especially his eyes. 

God, they’re perfect. 

Chris keeps rambling more about his family. My heart feels lighter in my chest as I listen to him talk so lovingly about fond memories, my head starting to lean on his shoulder as I sink fully into the moment. 

___

“Yep, just—there you go,” Chris praises, the word forcing a blush to crawl over my cheeks. 

Somehow, we ended up talking more about Baylen. I mentioned how he loves playing video games, but I was never good enough to play with him. He’d always get frustrated. 

I couldn’t blame him, I never knew what I was doing. 

But Chris offered to help. He brought me over to his house, having me sit in his lap on his gaming chair. His PC was confusing, but it’s a lot less confusing with each question he answered.

“Just keep—see!” he exclaims, squeezing my hips as he turns his face to nuzzle his nose into the side of my neck. “-you got it.” 

God.

His husky voice makes my stomach swarm in knots. I gently rest the controller down on his desk, pausing the game before relaxing into him.

“Hmmmm,” Chris hums, hugging me a bit tighter. His hand hesitantly slides under my shirt. He rests a flat palm on my stomach, his thumb swiveling as he places a soft kiss on the side of my neck.

The heat of his touch contrasts from the cool breeze drifting through his semi cracked window. A fog of air clouds the sun, a distant glow hidden through the cloudy scenery outside. 

“I really like you, you know that?” Chris mentions, soothing his entire palm in circles on my lower stomach. 

My breath halts in my chest from his statement before I let out a deep sigh. I nuzzle the back of my head further against his shoulder, biting my lower lip as I feel his hair tickle at my jawline. 

“I like you too, pretty boy.” 

The remark falling from my mouth makes him pull me impossibly closer. Chris smiles against me, his lips pecking on my collarbone with swift kisses.

“Can’t do that to me, c’mon,” he puffs, teasingly nibbling on the edge of my ear, “-can’t say shit like that and expect me not to—”

“Alright, break it up, lovebirds.”

Peeking my eyes open and over Chris’ shoulder, I see Matt standing with his arms crossed and an awkwards expression on his face. 

“Go away, Matt.” Chris huffs, hugging me firmly. 

“Mia wants help choosing what to post on her instagram from—”

“You help her then, I’m not sharing,” Chris interrupts, cutting Matt off. 

My eyes roll as I try to stand up. Chris pulls me even tighter against him, his heart rapidly beating against my back as I try to bite back a smile. 

“Chris, I wanna help Mia,” I huff, a dry laugh falling from my lips as he reluctantly shakes his head against me. 

It’s a little frustrating, but not annoying. 

I want to help Mia, I want to be a part of anything she wants to include me in. 

But I also love how he’s holding me. The way he’s trying to hug me as if our skin will somehow glue together. 

“Chri—”

Before I can call out his name again, he stands up, holding me bridal style as I clutch my fist into his shirt out of shock. 

“Fine. We’re both going.” he states. 

Carrying me down the hall, he walks into Matt’s room, shifting me in his hold as he sits down with me still on his lap. Mia is sitting on the edge of the bed next to us, a look of shock and excitement plastered on her face as she wiggles her brows towards me.

“Do you want help or not?” Chris asks, sighing as his hands start to rub up and down the tops of my thighs. 

My face goes red as Matt stalks into the room, his eyes wide as he pushes his attention towards the ground, shaking his head. Mia pushes her phone in front of me, swiping through an array of pictures that makes my smile curl wider on my cheeks.

“Awwwww!” I exclaim, looking up at her with a pout of adoration. 

Each picture is adorable. Her and Matt were at a park, coordinating outfits as they posed in front of the camera effortlessly. I can see the glow of pure devotion in the way they’re looking at each other, I can feel the love through the screen.

“I don’t know which one to post,” Mia whispers sheepishly under her breath. 

“You smiled the most when you showed me the first one.” I point. 

She rolls her lips together, nodding briefly. “Yeah, I just…I feel like my hair looks the worst in that one,” she huffs. 

I laugh seeing Matt make an offended facial expression out of the corner of my eye. 

Before anyone can say another word, Chris picks me back up as he stands walking out of the bedroom and shouting as he starts to take steps back towards his own room, “Bye! You’re welcome!” 

His voice drops in volume as we stumble back into his room. He drops me on his bed carefully, immediately flopping onto me and nuzzling his face on my stomach. 

Chris sighs in frustration, hesitantly pushing his hand beneath my shirt before looking up at me with wide eyes. “Can I?” he asks. 

I nod while tangling my hands into his hair. Chris shoves the fabric upwards, bunching it beneath my breasts before laying down and pressing his cheek against my skin. 

“Thank you,” he breathes, tilting his face enough to be able to plant a delicate kiss right above my belly button. 

I hum while combing through his hair, “Thank you. Hopefully Baylen will give me a chance to play those video games with him now.” 

Chris lets out a deep sigh while moving his fingers and tracing along over my rib cage. “Of course. Let me know how it goes with him. I got you, just…just play those with me too, okay? I like having you in my arms like that.” he admits.

I lick over my lips while humming in agreement, “I do too.”

[lueurjun]

best friend’s brother! lee know.

best friends brother!lee know x reader. in which you are the bane of his existence with a 100% success rate in the rizz department.

for the sake of this fic, hyunjin and minho are brothers—don’t ask why, it just made the most sense to me. this also ended up being way longer than i anticipated but in my defence, it could’ve been longer so i think we should all give me a pat on the back for that.

there’s a myriad of things minho could handle.

a snapped bone? no issue. a messed up food order? sure, annoying but not the end of the world. a deer breaking into his house? might catch him off guard enough to frown, but that would be about it.

but you?

oh, lee minho was certainly not prepared for you.

rock his world baby cakes.

a hurricane wrapped in sunshine, and the only one capable of making his composure falter.

you, who wore confidence like a second skin. who had been an annoying addition to his life since you befriended his younger brother at nine years old. you who had the fattest crush on him and had no issue letting everybody know it.

there’s been a seed in your head that was planted the moment you set eyes on him

and that seed, fresh from a packet of adoration, sprouted into a stubborn little belief that one day—someday—he would be yours. even if he didn’t believe it yet.

not you manifesting him. lemme help. he will be yours. he will be yours 🌀🙂‍↔️

because you held onto something that most people didn’t have.

hope.

hope that he would eventually see past the loud, obnoxious friend of his younger brother.

and until that day came, you were perfectly content with bugging the absolute life out of him.

“target located, heading up the drive way wearing sexy skin tight shirt and swinging his keys around his long fin—”

“how many times have i told you to stop using my binoculars to creep on my brother?”

“leave me alone, hyunjin. i’m in love.”

cue hyunjin yanking the binoculars out of your hands, cutting off the sight of minho slipping into the house, and therefore prompting you to move away from the window

it’s giving stalker but you’re my precious angel so we’ll allow it 😘

amused, hyunjin threw a bag of haribos at your head

“you’re not in love. you just enjoy bothering him.”

“same thing,” you reply, falling back onto his bed with a hearty sigh. “but look at him! tell me you wouldn’t fall for that if you were me.”

hyunjin gagged.

like fully dry heaved.

“that’s my brother, of course i wouldn’t!”

at that exact moment, heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs and said brother came into view.

why hello there 🙃

grinning, you pry open the bag of haribos and route inside for a gummy ring, holding it up proudly as he stops in the doorway

“care to slip it on my finger? the one with the vein connected to my heart is free.”

not even gonna lie to you guys i’m so impressed with myself for this line 😌

hyunjin grimaces, turning to his older brother unsure of whether to feel bad for him or amused by your antics.

minho eyes the ring in your hand, raising an eyebrow. “a gummy ring? i thought you were the diamond and pearls type?”

“i’d marry you with a paper ring if you’d let me.”

okay taylor swift.

hyunjin groans, throwing his head back against the wall. “i’ve put up with many of your cringy flirting attempts but i draw the line at quoting song lyrics.”

minho ignores his brother, stepping further into the room and only stopping when he’s standing next to you, the scent of his cologne carving the soul from your body and sending it up to cloud nine

seriously was it laced with crack? what was in that heavenly combo?

watching him take the ring from your outstretched palm, you beam excitedly and hold out your finger.

only for your face to fall when he slips the ring into his mouth and chews with a shit eating grin.

forget him. i’ll marry you 💍

“you’re evil!” you narrow your eyes, clutching your chest.

“and you’re annoying,” he replies, already turning back toward the door, but not before stopping to say over his shoulder, “should’ve made me one of those paper hearts. i can’t eat those.”

hyunjin groans loudly, only it’s muffled by your loud gasp

“do not test me right now! i will make you one.”

lee know never responds, but you hear a rumble of a chuckle echo off the walls as he heads into his own room.

sometimes, minho wishes you weren’t so infatuated by him.

man doesn’t know how lucky he is smh 🙄

as much as he enjoys teasing you, and as much as he does revel in your attention — something he refuses to admit even to himself — life would’ve been much easier if you had developed a crush on someone else.

because watching the light in your eyes evaporate when he enters the kitchen with someone hanging off his arm, shatters his heart in a way he wasn’t sure was even possible.

of course, he buries it deep down and throws you a lazy smirk, pretending not to notice the way your smile falters.

get behind me rn. i’ll fix this 🤺

but god he notices. because stupidly, he notices everything when it comes to you.

and that frustrates him to no end because he’s not supposed to.

he’s not supposed to notice even the slightest change in your expression. he shouldn’t notice the moment you slip your mask of confidence over your face, hiding your true emotions.

and goddamn it, he most certainly shouldn’t like the way you save that special flirtatious smile only for him.

ohh he down badddd.

he shouldn’t, but he does. and maybe, one day when he’s brave enough to stop pretending, to stop burying everything you make him feel, he’ll admit the truth:

whatever line once separated annoyance from affection blurred long ago—and now he sees you as something else entirely.

and that terrifies him.

so instead, minho bids you a nonchalant nod, steals a couple fries off of hyunjin’s plate and leads his date upstairs.

and you do what you do best, you mask your hurt with an overly cocky grin that hyunjin sees right through as you sip from your cup and sigh

“he so wishes that was me.”

hyunjin, unable to stomach the sight of the sadness in your eyes, forces a chuckle.

tbh i say we both just marry hyunjin. #throupleandthriving ✌️

“they could never give him as nearly as many grey hairs as you do.”

it doesn’t matter how many times minho has broken your heart, doesn’t matter how many times you’d plastered a bandaid over your aching invisible wound.

nothing ever changes, because you had mastered the art of moving on from situations.

and as many times as he’s broken your heart, he’s also mended cuts he never inflicted.

lowering my plastic sword- BUT DONT TEST ME MINHO.

like the one time you got stood up for prom and minho showed up outside your door in a suit even though he couldn’t stand school festivities

“i still think you’re a loser for wanting to go to this thing, but i’ll be damned if i let you walk in there alone while that douche bag has the time of their life. so let’s go.”

aggressive rizz. i like it.

or the time you showed up at his house in floods of tears, intending to find hyunjin, only to find out that minho was home alone and instead of turning you away, awkwardly wrapped you in his arms and let you cry into his chest.

you: 😭 minho: 🧍🏻

and then there was that time he left han’s birthday in a panicked rush after receiving a text from hyunjin begging him to pick you up after you’d gotten into a minor car crash.

minho had broken every road law that night, but he didn’t care one bit—not when he found you on the side of the road being yelled at by some guy.

that was the time that minho realized that a dangerous shift was happening.

as he watched you tremble from the shock of the crash, the usual confidence and defiance you wore like armour—the attitude you always met condensation with—vanished, replaced by something smaller. Something vulnerable.

and in that moment, minho came to a quiet devastating conclusion: he couldn’t bear the thought of someone dimming your light, taking away that fire in your eyes that he’d grown obsessed with over the years of knowing you.

yeah! me and minho will roll up and fuck shit up for you 💪

so yes, minho had broken your heart more times than you can count… but he’d mended it just as many. and it was in those rare, unexpected moments that the flame of hope in your chest sparked to life all over again.

and it was with that hope that kept you coming back with teasing smiles, bold comments and flirtatious jabs, refusing to let him push you away completely.

because you’d seen it. sure, one might call you a delusional lovesick fool who only sees what they want to see

but you’d caught the way his eyes lingered just a moment too long, how he remembered the smallest passing comments you’d made, and the way he always made sure you had food or were warm enough whenever you and hyunjin joined him and his friends in the backyard.

its in the way he softens only for you.

stop thats actually so cute. not me swooning-

minho could pretend all he wanted — but you weren’t stupid, nor were you blind. he was slipping, slowly, quietly… and you were patient.

“i created a pinterest moodboard for our wedding.”

minho barely blinks as he grabs two bottles of water from the fridge and says, “make sure it’s not in the summer, i hate the idea of sweating in my suit.”

your heart? dust.

your mouth? on the ground.

hyunjin? sickened.

lueurjun? walking into ongoing traffic.

the corner of minho’s mouth lifts up, and he not so subtly places the second bottle of water — the cap already loosened — in front of you, and then leaves the room.

“that was literally a proposal, hyunjin.”

“you’re delusional.”

“we’re going to be siblings!”

“absolutely not.”

“where do i book venues? oh my gosh, what about a destination wedding?”

“i hate it here.”

it appears patience is a virtue and it rewarded you very well.

because it seems as though burying things down doesn’t work as well as minho hoped it would.

not when he catches himself watching you from across the room.

alexa play obsessed 🤭

not when he finds himself willingly spending time with you and his brother because for some reason the desire to be near you has grown in intensity.

and certainly not when someone has the the audacity to flirt with you in front of him.

minho doesn’t say anything at first—just watches, eyes narrowed dangerously, hand curled around his glass.

“you’re going to break that glass,” says chan, far more amused than necessary.

“im fine,” minho responds, sounding anything but fine.

though he can’t decide whether he’s more put out over someone flirting with you, or the fact that you appear to be flirting back.

i’m the one flirting with you btw 🙂‍↔️

pulling out that special grin reserved only for him.

and he cannot stand it because how dare you.

how dare you offer his smile up to somebody else, and how dare you not even care.

and how dare you get him so riled up.

how dare you.

god forbid someone has admirers 🙄

and finally, when you excuse yourself and head to grab a drink, minho follows you without a single thought for chan, who watches with a knowing gleam in his eye.

you don’t even turn, mid pour when you say “hmm… three seconds, im impressed.”

“what are you talking about?”

“it took you three seconds to follow me.”

minho scoffs, yet it lacks bite. “don’t flatter yourself, i just want another drink.”

“too late,” you sing, abandoning your drink and turning around to face him. “you think i don’t notice how utterly obsessed you are with me—almost as obsessed as i am with you. but i do.”

minho feigns a smirk, ready to deflect with a clever remark that would probably hurt your feelings, but his words tangle into knots when you step closer, throwing your arms around his neck.

ooooooh minho has a crushhhhh

you coil the ends of his hair around your fingers as you lower your voice, “when are you going to put me out of my misery and admit that you love me as much as i love you?”

to anyone who didn’t know you like the back of their hand, they would’ve thought you were teasing.

but minho saw the heart on your sleeve, the vulnerability in your eyes, and it captures any sarcastic remark he had lined up.

there’s a war in his eyes, like his heart is begging to surrender while his pride battles to keep going.

“it’s okay to lose, minho,” you whisper, tracing your fingers down the back of his neck, outlining a map of goosebumps in their wake.

minho clenches his jaw, but then his hands find your waist, pulling you just that little bit closer.

“you drive me insane.”

“i know, but you love me anyway.”

and though he doesn’t say the words aloud, his actions speak louder as he presses his forehead against your own.

“you’re persistent i’ll give you that.”

your laughter dances across his skin, “you don’t mind though, it’s one of my many amazing qualities you’re obsessed with.”

minho’s eyes soften, and he finds himself nodding. “i suppose so.”

“okay, so for our wedding—”

minho’s laughter meets your words before his lips do, capturing your sentence in a kiss.

idk who i want to be more rn.

not that you mind, you’ve waited your entire life for this—for him.

across the kitchen, hyunjin stands next to felix with a ghost of a smile on his lips as he sighs.

“they’re really going to be my sibling.”

[littlcdarlin]

Who Will Love A Little Sparrow?

summary: Joel turns sixty.

warnings: girthy age gap (60 & mid 20s), Joel feels guilty about age gap, I cried while writing this, emotional fluff

note: it took one ask to convince me to actually write this lol hope you like it, anon! Title is from the Simon & Garfunkel song

Joel hasn't quite realized he's turning sixty – sure, he knows he looks it, feels it in his cracking joints, aching back and wheezing lungs, sees it in the stares the two of you get walking through Jackson hand in hand, but your company keeps him young. Three and a half decades between you will do that to a man.

He's never liked a big fuss on his birthday; even when he was half his age all the singing and balloons embarrassed him more than anything, so he didn't mention it was coming up during the weeks beforehand. You knew, of course, and so did Tommy, but he figured patrols would keep the two of you busy enough to prevent anything more than an extra kiss from you and a teasing comment from his brother – maybe birthday sex when you were done with your work for the day.

When he wakes up, it's his first thought, though not in excitement, but resignation. Sixty. The number feels like a chasm between the two of you. It makes him feel dirty for having touched you the night before, and he wishes humanity hadn't decided on the decimal numeral system.

You're scheduled for the morning patrol, so he doesn't expect you home before noon, which for the first time in his life feels like a relief. It gives him a couple of hours to bury the guilt about your age somewhere deep and secure, under vague childhood memories and the first thirteen decimals of Pi, where it won't come bubbling up while you're laughing your sunshine-laugh. He doesn't want to dim your spark, not when you seem to just have found it again.

He scuffles downstairs, dragging his feet as if he's turning ninety instead of sixty, just to wallow in his self-pity while nobody is around to see it. If he's lucky, he'll have two more decades, maybe even three, though that kind of hope is practically brazen.

He sighs, making his way over to the kitchen, thinking that if he makes his coffee strong enough, it might make him feel fifty again.

"Happy Birthday."

His head snaps up, and he's staring at you instead of his toes, your youthful face a little blotchy from the excitement.

"Here," you say, and thrust a cupcake in his direction. There is a single purple candle on it, and the frosting isn't draped across the dough in artful swirls the way they did it before the outbreak – still, it's the best cupcake he has ever seen.

"I couldn't fit sixty candles on this thing, so you get one."

Your smile is a little lopsided, a little too understanding, and Joel swallows.

"Thanks," he mutters quietly, staring at the blue part of the flame. "Geez."

"Blow it out," you say, "and make a wish."

He doesn't believe in that, but he obliges because you somehow found him a cupcake in the middle of the apocalypse at the crack of dawn.

"Now," you say, almost business-like, as if the first bullet point of one of your little lists has been crossed off, "I got Tommy and Maria to cover us on patrols today. What do you wanna do first, drink outrageously bitter coffee, or carve a wooden sparrow?"

He stares at you. You must have found the little bird he made during his many sleepless hours – he put it on the very top shelf in the living room where it wouldn't attract attention. It's not that he's embarrassed about it, he's just not sure it's a part of himself he wants to share with the world.

You put the cupcake on the kitchen counter and turn back around, that same knowing smile on your lips.

"I got you something," you say, and Joel frowns.

"You shouldn't trade for–"

"I didn't."

You hand him a small package, wrapped in some old newspaper you decorated with tiny, drawn-on hearts.

"Tommy said you used to wrap presents in colorful paper just to throw it away," you explain, that sense of wonder in your voice, as always when you talk about the before, "I didn't have paint, but I found a pen that works."

Joel stares at the package. He remembers the last birthday present he unwrapped perfectly, can see it catch the morning sunlight on his wrist.

"I–Geez," he just says, again, and starts to carefully peel away the newspaper without creasing your little artwork too much. His thumb traces one of the hearts. There is a hint of red inside the paper, and then he's holding something small.

"Where did you get this?", he asks, voice quiet with awe and something else that seems to thicken his throat.

"I found it in an abandoned raider's lair," you say softly, "I know I should have handed it to Maria, but I thought you could use it for your sparrow. Give him a face, you know, some feathers."

Joel traces the little cross on the Swiss army knife, and feels his chest tighten.

"Don't tell on me," you say teasingly, but with a hint of self-consciousness at his lack of a response. Joel swallows, and drags his eyes away from his present and to your face.

"Thank you," he says quietly, unsure of how to voice the thoughts rushing through his head, "I– thank you.

"Yeah," you say gently, "'course."

You accept his gratitude, understand what he means by it. You don't make a fuss with your un-swirly cupcake and single candle and no singing. All of a sudden, Joel feels his eyes prick and burn, and he rubs them quickly, wipes away the wetness. You touch his shoulder, make him look at you, and he clenches his jaw in embarrassment.

"Sorry," he mutters, "you just...know me so well."

There it is, your sunshine-smile, and you press a kiss to his naked chest, as high as you can reach.

"Sixty isn't that old, Joel. Don't even think about using it as an excuse to stop chopping firewood."

He chuckles and cups your face in one of his massive palms.

"No ma'am."

[munsonsmixtapes]

Take it All Off

Evan “Buck” Buckley x plus size!fem!reader

You show Buck your new outfit and he’s more than happy to show you how much he loves it.

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) body worship, body insecurity

Thanks @the-witty-pen-name for giving me this idea!

You check yourself out in the mirror, turning this way and that, admiring what you look like in the little number that you bought. It somehow looks even better than it did in the dressing room. The top is definitely more low cut and revealing than you would usually go for. It’s a pretty green color and laces up in the front. It shows off more than you usually would, but you have to admit that you love the way you look. Especially paired with the jeans you also just bought.

They hug your body in just the right spots and now you can’t wait for Buck to get home, knowing that he’ll love your new look. He loves you if whatever you want to wear but you know that he especially loves when you wear something tight, the way the fabric hugs your curves. It never fails to make him want to take you right then and there.

You hear the front door open and you tighten the laces to give yourself more cleavage then try your best to put on a flirty face as you see Buck enter the room in the reflection of the mirror. His eyes widen as he gets a good look at you and you continue to fake flirty faces at him.

He marches over and grabs hold of your arm, turning you around to face him. His eyes rake over your entire body, lust filling them as he does so. He doesn’t know what the occasion is, but he’s not going to question it. He thinks you look fucking hot.

He was already hard beyond belief from the photo you sent of the outfit while he was at work, but now he can barely hold it in any longer seeing you in person. He’s got to have you and he’s got to have you right now. He’s going to worship every inch of your body, to show you just how much he loves it. Especially because he knows that you need reassurance sometimes.

“Fuck,” is all he’s able to say as his eyes travel back up to your cleavage. “I mean-fuck-” He’s at a loss for words and your cheeks heat at what you assume is a compliment.

“You like it?” You ask and his eyes travel back up to yours, giving you a look as if to ask if you’re serious.

“Love it,” he replies. “Let me show you how much.” There’s no way you’re going to say no to that. He sits at the end of the bed and helps you straddle his waist, his hands resting on your waist, his favorite place to hold onto. Your arms warm around his neck as he pulls you in for a kiss.

He’s warning you up like always, being gentle before getting rough like he knows you like. You’re the one who always takes it there but he loves giving you the control. He just wants his girl to be happy and he doesn’t care what he has to do to make it happen.

“I’m going to fucking worship you,” he whispers against your lips. “Gonna show you just how much I love you. All of you. Because as much as I love that top, honey, it has to come off.”

Your cheeks heat at his words and he pulls you in for another kiss, his arms wrapping around your waist tightly as his tongue flicks into your mouth. It plays with yours and you can’t help but moan at the feeling, needing him now more than ever.

He continues to kiss you as if his life depends on it as he unlaces the top, going as slowly as possible, wanting to savor your kisses as he does so. Once he’s got it all undone, he pulls back as he pushes it off of your shoulders, the thing falling down your arms and clattering to the floor.

Buck takes a moment to take in your now bare chest. He’s always so taken aback by how absolutely beautiful you are, almost like he’s looking at you for the first time. He always feels like the luckiest man in the world and he can’t believe that out of all the men on this earth, you chose him. And he’ll never take that for granted.

He leans you back just a touch as his hands rest against your bare back. He leans down and pressed feather light kisses to your shoulder, peppering it with them before making a line of them across your chest to the other shoulder. In between, he whispers compliments into your skin, wanting you to know exactly what it is about you that he loves so much.

“Your skin is so soft,” he says as his lips find their way to your neck, tilting your head to the side so he has more access. “And you smell so good.” He takes a deep breath through his nose to get a whiff. “I love when you spray your perfume on my clothes.”

“I’ll do it more often,” you reply as he buries his face into your neck.

“Please do.” He presses another kiss to your neck and another and another before he goes in for a hard suck, making you gasp before melting into him. He knows how much you love when he leaves his mark on you.

He continues to lick and suck on your neck as your hands rest on his shoulder blades. And when he bites down, you let out a loud moan as your fingers curl, your nails digging into his back. He’s holding back a smug smile as he hears how good he’s making you feel.

Your back arches into his as he bites down again and again, making you moan over and over until you can’t take it anymore, orgasming as he gives you one more bite before pulling away.

As Buck picks you up and carries you over to the bed, you know that this is far from over. And you’re happy to let him do anything he wants to you. For once, he’s in charge and you’re looking forward to lying down and taking it.

His hands go to unbutton your jeans and he pulls them down your legs with a little struggle but he eventually gets them off, followed by your panties which both end up in a pile on the floor. He takes a moment to take in your naked body before taking off his own clothes, throwing them to the side where yours have been discarded.

Before you get a chance to look at him, he places himself on top of you and takes your hands in his before kissing your lips. This one is more gentle than the others but it still makes your head spin, especially when he smiles into it because you make him that happy. You really can’t believe you found the perfect man.

Just when you’re getting into it, he pulls away and goes back to kissing your body again, whispering more compliments into your skin, making it heat.

“I love your stretch marks,” he says as he lets his fingers dance along the grooves of the ones that line your hips. He tells you this all the time but feels the need to every time he thinks about it because he just wants to assure you that he loves you just the way you are. “I know you don’t, but I love them. They not only give you character, but they make you you.”

You can feel yourself tearing up and it makes you feel silly considering what you’re about to do but you can’t help it. Buck always knows exactly what you need to hear. He wipes away your tears then pressed a kiss to every single stretch mark he can find and you can’t help but feel yourself tear up again, knowing for sure that this is the most you’ve ever felt loved in your life.

When he comes back up, he peppers your face with kisses, letting you know that you can cry if you need to, wiping the tears away as you fall.

“I just love you,” you tell him which makes him smile before he leans in for yet another kiss.

“I love you too,” he replies and when he pulls back to look you in the eyes again, he knows that you’re ready. He goes to reach for a condom but you’re quick to stop him and he hopes that he hasn’t done something to upset you.

“I don’t want to use one. I want to feel you. I want it to feel more intimate.” He smiles again as he leaves the condom on the bedside table. Neither of you have ever done this before but you have to admit that it feels freeing.

You both watch as he gets inside you-just the tip so you’re not overwhelmed-and he slowly starts to thrust. The whole thing feels so foreign but you both have to admit that feels so good.

Buck’s pace picks up just a bit more and the fact that you already look like you’re close encourages him to go even faster, even harder. You’re already coming undone, feeling like you could come apart any second. And Buck’s encouraging words are definitely helping.

“You look so pretty, angel. Sound so pretty. Make some more sounds for me?” His hands grab hold of your hips, nails digging into your skin as he goes even harder, pounding into you again and again, his sweet words contradicting his movements.

You can feel him, all of him and you’re sure that he’s never been this rough with you before but you definitely don’t hate it. You love that he doesn’t feel like he has to treat you like you’re fragile. Just because you’ve felt insecure in the bedroom before doesn’t mean that you don’t like it rough from time to time.

“That’s it, just like that,” Buck encourages as he watches you moan again and again. You buck your hips against his as your hands move up to his shoulders. He catches you off guard when his hands slide underneath you, maneuvering you so he can get even farther inside, and you whine, tears pricking your eyes again as you can practically feel him in your stomach. “Look at you. Taking all of me so well. Such a good girl for me.”

You know this is going to be the shortest you’ve ever lasted, but you can feel yourself getting progressively more tired as his thrusts get more intense. Your orgasm is approaching as your eyes start to get heavy.

He’s still going as you reach your peak, knowing that you don’t have any more in your, feeling your body getting lip. So as you’re coming down, getting progressively more tired as Buck pulls out, you don’t even have the energy to move when he starts to clean you up. You just lie there as he cleans himself up.

And when he comes back from disposing of the towel, he helps you get into the bed where he pulls you to him, bare skin against bare skin. He kisses you again and again as his fingers dance lazily along your back before you both eventually fall asleep in each other’s arms, thinking that you’re the luckiest people in the world to have each other.

[yuna542]

~Yours~

Pairing: Bang Chan x Reader

Genre: Smut, Fluff, Angst

Warnings: 18+, bullying, manipulative behaviour, Smut, under 18 DNI!, pet names, Suggestive Themes, Swearing, Overstimulation, explicit smut, confessions, fluff, bdsm, mentions of alcohol, Minsung happening!, Han and Minho in a secret relationship

Word Count: 13K

Note: I really loved writing this. Let me know what you think

"What's wrong?" came Chan's soft voice, catching you off guard.

You blinked, still staring at your phone. You'd been glued to the screen longer than you'd realized.

"Nothing," you answered quickly. Too quickly. You forced a smile and grabbed your makeup kit, pretending to tidy up the mess of palettes and brushes on the vanity table.

Chan raised a brow, slipping his phone into his pocket. He leaned forward in his chair—never a good sign. That meant he didn't believe you. That meant you now had his full attention.

As the stylist and makeup artist for Stray Kids, you'd been spending nearly every day with them for the past few years. The team felt more like family lately, mostly thanks to Chan's warm and grounded energy that pulled everyone together even though it was the most stressful season.

"She's lying," Minho muttered as he walked past, already in his hoodie, bag over his shoulder. The concert had ended an hour ago, but you were still here, frozen in thought, barely making progress packing up. The messages on your phone had taken you somewhere else, somewhere you didn't want to return to.

Minho knew you better than anyone. You owed this job to him. You'd met backstage years ago, when he was still dancing for BTS and you were working as their part-time makeup artist. You always believed in him, and when Stray Kids became his reality, he returned the favor by getting you on the team.

You'd known the boys for a long time. Minho had kept you distant at first, worried one of them would flirt with his best friend. But on tour, things changed. You grew close. Bonds were built. Trust, laughter, late-night chats. And Chan... Chan had a way of making you forget how careful you were supposed to be.

"You're restless... something's bothering you," Chan said, eyes following the frantic way your fingers rearranged brushes that didn't need rearranging.

"In two hours we're flying back to Korea," you said flatly, dodging.

"Y/N," he said gently, but you cut him off with a dismissive wave. "It's nothing. Really."

But your phone lit up again—and this time, you weren't fast enough. Chan caught the name.

"Who's Madison?" he asked, voice casual—but not really.

Hyunjin came closer, overhearing as he set down his controller, apparently done playing with Felix for the night.

"She's... no one. Just a college friend."

The college you'd dropped out of to chase this dream.

Minho, now lounging across the sofa, immediately sat up, and his expression darkened.

"Madison? What does she want from you?"

You closed your eyes briefly and exhaled. You should've said nothing.

"She just wants to meet up. When we get back."

Chan tilted his head, studying you.

Minho stood now. "You're not actually going, right? After everything?"

The others looked between you, confused.

"Who is this Madison?" Seungmin asked.

Before you could reply, Minho cut in—his voice sharp and unfiltered.

"She's a manipulative bitch who used to tear Y/N apart every chance she got. Her and her group of plastic princesses treated her like she was dirt."

You sighed, tugging your bag onto your shoulder. "It was years ago, and you only met her once."

"Once was enough," he growled. "The way she looked at you—like she was doing you a favor by breathing the same air."

And you knew he wasn't wrong.

Madison had been cruel. High-maintenance, charming to the outside world, and poison behind closed doors. She'd called you a friend while whispering about your insecurities, making you feel like you'd never be enough.

"I just want to see if maybe she's changed," you said quietly.

Minho shook his head, already defeated. He knew he couldn't stop you.

⸻

"You work for that band now, right? Stray Kids?" Madison asked. For the fourth time already.

You forced a laugh and nodded, sipping your drink. "Yeah. I'm their stylist and makeup artist."

The table of women—each more dressed-up and decked-out than the last—oohed in excitement. They were the same group from back in uni. Expensive shoes, heavy perfumes, and surgically precise smiles.

The night had started surprisingly fine. You'd hugged, exchanged the usual "You look amazing" lies, and made small talk. Madison had even said your outfit was "so effortlessly cool." But as soon as you mentioned the band's name, her mask began to slip.

"Wait, how did you get into a company like that?" Madison asked, tilting her head like a confused kitten. "That's a huge label. Don't they look for people with real credentials?"

There it was.

You took a long sip of your gin tonic. "One of the members. We've known each other for years. He recommended me."

"Ooooh, insider connections," one of the girls purred, nudging another. "So who is he? Hyunjin? Felix? I heard Felix is close with all the girls."

"No. Minho. Lee Know. We worked together before Stray Kids."

"Ahh. Makes sense. I mean, with a dropped-out degree and... let's say modest experience, it would've been super hard to make it otherwise." Madison smiled sweetly and placed her hand over yours, pretending concern.

"But that's okay! You've always been resourceful."

Your jaw clenched. You wanted to scream. Instead, you nodded. "We've always supported each other. That's how we made it."

Finally, she withdrew her hand—but the smug gleam in her eyes didn't fade.

"I think Changbin's the hottest," one girl blurted, breaking the tension with giggles. "He has that rough vibe."

"I'd go for Han," another chimed in. "Cute, funny, probably a freak."

"God," Madison laughed, sipping her drink. "What about you, Y/N? Eight hot men, and not one tried something? I would've had a boyfriend by week two."

You smiled tightly. "We're all friends."

"Really?" Madison asked, tilting her head. "All that time together, and not one kiss behind the scenes? Not even a late-night affair?"

You shook your head, heart sinking.

"I mean, come on," she laughed.

"If Bang Chan would just smile at me, I'd let him ruin my whole life. You don't think about that? Or do you already have a thing with him?"

The blood drained from your face.

"We're close," you said quietly. "That's it."

"Mhmm," Madison hummed, exchanging a look with her blonde friend. "Well, if you ever get tired of being his comfort person, just give me his number, yeah?"

You blinked at her.

"I mean, idols need someone exciting, right? Someone with class. And let's be honest—you're sweet, but..." She gave you a smile that made your stomach turn. "Sweet isn't always sexy."

You stared down at the table, vision blurring slightly.

"But hey, professional boundaries, right?" she added with a laugh. "That's why you work there and not someone like me."

The table shimmered under the soft lighting of the lounge, half-empty cocktails scattered like fading illusions of a good night. Madison's laugh, high and polished, cut through the murmur of the music like a blade wrapped in silk.

Madison smiled sweetly.

"So be for real. You're really with them now. Like, full-on part of their team?"

You nodded, careful. "Yeah. Styling, makeup, performance looks... I work with their creative director too."

"Wow." She sipped her drink. "I mean, I guess someone has to do that stuff. But I didn't know they'd go for someone so... low-profile. You always were kind of the quiet one, weren't you?"

You tried to laughs softly, brushing it off, but by now everything that was coming out of you, where silent huffs.

„I guess. I just like to stay behind the scenes."

"Oh, totally. It's your thing, right? Being invisible but helpful. Like in Highschool! You always carried my bag and didn't complain once!"

Everyone laughed at this little anecdote about you, which was obviously just to make you even more insignificant.

Another sip. Another smile. The others glance at each other and giggle, unsure if it was a compliment or a slap.

Your heart stings even more, but you hid it with a practiced smile.

Madison leaned in again with that annoying smile.

"And what's it like? Traveling with them? Living in that world—glitz, lights, screaming fans. Do they even see you? Or are you like... furniture?"

The table snickers. One girl fake-gasps, "Madison!" But it's playful. No one's really calling her out.

You're tone is cold by now.

"They treat me well. We're a team."

"Hmm." She stirred her drink with her straw. "That's cute. You're kind of like their emotional support stylist. A little older-sister energy. Or like a pet? No, wait... like a really loyal assistant. You're just always there, right?"

Your throat tightens. You sipped your drink just to have something to do.

Madison changed her tone, syrupy-sweet again

"Back to Chan! Tell us everything."

„Maddy you're obsessed!", one girl laughed.

You stiffened slightly.

"He's so dreamy on camera. Is he like that in person? Or is it all PR and lighting? I just can't believe he's not that hot in real life too.

You hesitated but couldn't resist to smile when you thought about him. His smell, the messy hair and his hugs, which were the best thing after a stressful week when he just wants to see your smile again.

"He's real. Grounded. Kind."

Suddenly she's mock-gasping:

"Awww. You're really blushing. That's adorable."

She leaned over to the others.

"She's totally in love with him. Like she used to be in college. Remember? Her little Badboy-phase? I guess some things never change."

The table bursts into laughter. Your chest burns.

Y/N:

„We're friends... He never... We're just good friends."

Madison tilted her head, pouting.

"I mean, you have to know he's out of your league, right? Like, if he never tried to hook up with you even though you're spending so much time, I mean—men are easy—I think you're just not his type" she waved a hand dismissively.

„He would be head over heels for you though, Mads", some other girl said, all of them giggled in unison.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. You wanted to leave so bad.

She smirked.

"Maybe he keeps you around because it's comfortable. Like an old hoodie. Not sexy, but familiar."

Some of the girls held their hand before their mouths, there she added quickly, "Oh my God, that was rude—sorry!" with a laugh, clearly not sorry.

Another girl joined in:

"But for real, if he's single, you should just shoot your shot, Mads. You're totally his type."

Madison grinned.

"Right? I mean, I wouldn't say no to a little K-pop prince. Maybe I'll drop him a DM. Unless Y/N's marked her territory?"

She raised an eyebrow across the table at you like it's all fun, like this isn't a series of sharp little knives landing over and over.

You were barely holding it together by now. It was so much worse than you could imagine.

"He's not a prize to win."

"Aww. Spoken like someone who already lost."

That's it. It was enough.

Your chair scraped softly against the floor as you stood up, the noise drowned in the thrum of the music.

"I'll be right back.", was everything you could get out without exploding.

No one stopped you.

Not even Madison, who just said over the music:

"Don't cry in there, babe. You'll ruin your eyeliner. And that wing is the best thing you've got going tonight."

You didn't cry in the bathroom.

Not at first.

You stood there, gripping the edge of the sink, cold marble against trembling fingers. You stared at your reflection, at the winged liner Madison had just mocked. At the eyes that looked dull and distant now. Your dress clung to you, your skin too warm, too exposed. You didn't recognize yourself.

You weren't sure if it was the drinks, the music, or the words still echoing in your mind like poison.

"Sweet isn't sexy."

"She's not his type."

"You're like furniture."

You tried to shake them off. You tried to laugh them away like you used to in college. But they hit differently now. Now that you'd spent all this time working your ass off. Now that you'd finally built something real. Now that you—

Now that you were starting to fall in love with someone who probably never even looked at you that way.

Chan.

His name was a weight in your chest.

The warmth of his hoodie when he'd draped it over your shoulders during late-night rehearsals. The way he always remembered your coffee order. The softness in his eyes when he asked if you'd eaten. The jokes. The quiet comfort. His scent on your pillow when you accidentally fell asleep backstage and he'd stayed to keep you company.

And then... Madison's voice again:

"If he's never tried anything, you're just not his type."

Something cracked. Quietly. But completely.

You sank onto the closed toilet lid, pressing a hand over your mouth. Not to muffle sobs—yet. Just to stop breathing so loud. Like the room might hear you fall apart.

You weren't enough.

Not stylish enough. Not hot enough. Not exciting enough. You were just... there. Like an old hoodie.

Tears blurred your vision now, spilled before you could stop them. Your eyeliner was ruined. You let out a shaky breath—then another. And then—

⸻

Your makeup was holding on—barely. Your composure, not so much.

Your fingers hovered over your phone again.

It was the second time Chans name was on your screen. He called you right after he saw that you were online. Almost as he waited for exact that moment.

Maybe it would help.

Just... hear his voice. Talk to him and forget this stupid evening for a second. And if you wouldn't answer the phone he would just be worried.

"Y/N?" came Chan's voice, soft and warm like a lighthouse in a storm. "Hey. Just checking in. Is everything alright?"

You opened your mouth to say yes, but it caught in your throat.

"Y/N?"

"...Hi," you finally breathed. "Yeah. I'm... it's fine. Just loud in here."

"You okay?" He paused. "You don't sound fine."

You tried to clear your throat quietly, wiping under your eye with the back of your hand. "I just needed a breather."

There was a beat of silence.

"You're crying," he said, quiet but certain. "What happened?"

You shook your head, even though he couldn't see. "It's nothing. I'm just being stupid. I shouldn't have come here."

"Is it Madison?" His voice darkened immediately. "What did she say?"

You let out a broken laugh, trying to hold yourself together. "God, where do I start?"

"Start anywhere," he said, softer now. "I'm here."

You pressed the phone tighter to your ear, leaning back against the cold tile wall.

You stayed silent for a while. Trying to hold yourself back, make him believe everything was perfectly fine.

But the moment he said your name with so much concern, everything broke out of you.

"She said I'm invisible. That I'm just... there. Background noise. Not hot, not exciting. Not the kind of girl anyone would choose. All the things she told me back in Highschool all the time."

You swallowed hard. "She talked about you a lot She's really into you, Chan. Maybe you should make a move", your voice sounded mocking, strong, but Chan just huffed.

„I told her we're just friends but she just wouldn't stop..."

Silence.

You kept going, the dam breaking wide open.

"She made it sound like I'm pathetic. Like I'm your pet or something. Said you probably keep me around because I'm familiar. Comfortable. But not sexy. That I'm like some old hoodie—soft and safe but not wanted."

Chan still didn't speak. You could feel how tense the silence was, like the air had thickened.

"She laughed about how I used to follow her around, how I carried her bag in high school. She said I don't belong in the world I'm in now. That someone like me shouldn't be working with someone like you."

You wiped at your eyes again. "And the worst part is, I believed her. I actually... started to believe her again. That I'm not enough. She's right... We're just friends and I'm happy about that, but I'm definitely not in your league."

"Y/N," Chan finally said, his voice lower than you'd ever heard it.

You waited, throat tight. And immediately you regretted everything you said.

"You listen to me right now," he said, steady and calm—but there was fury underneath. "She doesn't know who the hell she's talking about. And I swear to god, if I hear one more word like that out of her mouth—"

"Chan..."

"No," he interrupted, his voice softening but still firm. "You're not invisible. You're the only one I see. Every day, you walk into a room and suddenly the air feels different. Calmer. Better. You're the reason I sleep at night when things get bad because I know you're there the next morning. Doing my Makeup, cheering me up no matter what. Your the reason the team holds together sometimes. You are everything she isn't, and that's why she hates you."

You bit your lip, your chest tightening.

"Please just forget what I said." you whispered. "Falling apart over a stupid night out... I shouldn't have said anything. You're probably busy."

"You don't have to be strong all the time," he said gently. "Not with me."

A pause. Then, lower:

"Where are you right now?"

"Club down by the water," you said quietly. "VIP section. Madison rented a booth."

There was a beat of silence.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm coming."

"No—Chan, you don't have to—"

"I'm already in the car. We're getting back at that bitch, together. You'll see. Just play along!"

And then the phone was dead.

You stared at the screen until it faded black and suddenly you woke up, when you understood that he would really come.

As fast as you could, you touched up your makeup, got your hair done and breathed in and out several times.

The bathroom door creaked open.

You stepped out, trying to collect yourself, as you walked back to the booth.

As soon as you arrived you almost stumbled over your words:

„There she is! What were you doing so long? We thought you ran off", Madison laughed and you didn't need to guess what they talked about when you were gone.

„No, I had a call... It could be that..."

But that's when all of the pair of eyes were averted and glued to the entry of the VIP-Section.

He was actually there, walking in without having to show his ID. The security knew exactly who he was, since the boys were here often.

Bang Chan. Jeans-Jacket thrown over a black Shirt, eyes burning with quiet fury—but softening instantly when he saw you.

He must have already drove off while you were talking on the phone. How could he be here so fast?

His hair was messy, falling into his forehead, his face outrageously handsome and you could feel how the air tensed. All the girls and especially Madison made sounds that almost sounded like chickens.

„Omg that's him", they squeaked.

Immediately you stood up, ran up to him.

You placed a hand on his chest to stop him before he could reach the table and whispered, "What are you doing?"

When you looked up at him, you had to hold your breath. He smiled, wrapped his arms around your waist, and his thumbs slowly began to circle over your hip bones.

"At least pretend you're happy to see me."

"No, that's not... Channie, I don't want them to know I cried in the bathroom like a little girl because they were mean to me. Please—this is just going to get really awkward for you."

He didn't waver, just looked at you calmly, then gently placed his hand against your cheek. He had never touched you like that before.

"You look incredible. That dress is seriously hot on you," he murmured, eyes trailing down your body.

Your cheeks flushed so deeply you thought you might actually faint. What was he doing?

"Come on. Let's have a good night," he said with a smirk and tugged you toward the table.

The whispers stopped instantly the moment you two arrived. Every single girl stared at him in stunned silence.

"Hey," Chan said casually. "I was nearby, called Y/N to see what she was up to, and thought I'd drop by on my way back. Hope that's alright?"

Madison was the first to recover, her voice a squeal. "Yes! Totally! Have a seat!"

She patted the empty spot right next to her, already inching aside, but Chan didn't even glance at it. Instead, his eyes stayed locked on you—and only you.

And then you realized... he was still holding your hand.

Without letting go, he led you around the booth and sat down to your left, deliberately placing you between him and Madison.

The tightness in Madison's jaw could've cut glass.

Back at the table, it was all fake smiles and weirdly timed laughs as Chan settled in beside you like he belonged there. Like he did this every Friday night. His arm slid behind your back, casually draping along the booth's edge, his fingers barely brushing your shoulder. You were hyper-aware of every inch of him, of how close he was, of the warmth radiating off his body.

And the worst—or best—part? He wasn't even pretending. This wasn't some over-the-top performance. He was relaxed, charming, soft-spoken, and all of it was for you.

"Y/N told me you guys go way back," he said, voice smooth as honey, glancing around at the girls with a perfectly polite smile. "That's cool. Always nice to meet her friends."

"Totally," Madison said, her voice tight as she took another sip of her drink, eyes flicking between you and Chan like she couldn't decide whether to smile or scream.

"God, you're even hotter in real life," one of the girls whispered, not even trying to hide it. "I didn't think that was possible."

Chan chuckled politely. "Thanks. But I think Y/N's the one turning heads tonight."

That shut everyone up for a second.

Your heart skipped several beats. Madison looked like she'd swallowed her lip gloss.

He wasn't done.

"You should've seen her earlier," Chan went on, eyes drifting to you again. "I told her she looked good enough to shut down traffic. Guess I was right."

Someone choked on their drink. You didn't dare look at Madison. He was doing that full aware and he had fun with it.

Chan leaned in slightly toward you, voice lower now—just for you. "You okay?"

You nodded, still dazed, not trusting your voice yet.

"Good," he murmured. "Because I'm not letting you disappear on me again tonight."

You blinked at him, startled, but he was already smirking at his glass, swirling the amber liquid inside with effortless grace.

He lifted his glass, still watching you. "You okay, sweetheart?" he asked, drawing out the word like it belonged to you alone.

You nodded stiffly, pulse hammering in your ears.

"Good," he murmured.

Madison's smile faltered. She recovered with another sip of her drink. "So, Chan," she purred, "Y/N tells us you two are just friends?"

He finally turned toward her, but the look in his eyes wasn't curious—it was cold amusement.

"Yeah," he said with a slow, lazy grin. "That's what she says."

The girls around the table giggled, but there was an edge of uncertainty now. Madison tilted her head.

"Just friends," she repeated, trying to sound playful. "But you came all the way here for her?"

Chan didn't miss a beat. "She's worth showing up for."

You stared into your drink, and he reached over, rubbing a hand between your shoulder blades, his touch intimate and familiar.

"I mean," Madison pushed, "that's sweet and all, but don't you usually go for—" She paused, her eyes flicking over you. "Someone a little more your speed?"

Chan raised a brow slowly. "Oh? And what speed do you think that is?"

"I don't know," she giggled, too high-pitched. "Someone a bit... flashier?"

He smiled—but it didn't reach his eyes.

"You know," he said, voice smooth like honey over ice, "Loud, shiny, easy to spot. That kind burns out fast."

He leaned closer to you, the side of his thigh brushing yours. "It's the steady glow that stays with you. That's the one that warms you up at night."

Madison opened her mouth to say something, but the waitress arrived before she could, holding a tray of shots.

Chan leaned back, giving you a wink. "Perfect timing."

The table whooped, tension shifting into distraction as glasses were passed around.

"Come on," Chan said, handing you one. "One night off. Let go a little."

You hesitated, but the way he looked at you, like this night was yours and his alone, made you forget everything else.

You took the shot.

Then another.

And another.

„So you're like friends with benefits? Or dating? Come on tell us!", another girl exclaimed and Madison almost killed her, by just looking at her.

Chan tilted his head. "What do you think?"

You tried not to combust on the spot.

„It's pretty much up to her now ..."

You weren't even sure how many drinks you'd had by now. The club was buzzing louder, your skin was tingling, and Chan had moved even closer, his thigh pressed firmly against yours now under the table. There were Shot after Shot, Cocktail after Cocktail. You didn't know how he was able to act that convincing. It couldn't be real, but why would he do all that? Just to get back at them? All that effort just for a small revenge he shouldn't even care about?

The conversations were flowing by now and everyone adored Chan not just for his looks in no time. But he played his part way too well.

He leaned in again, his cologne warm and clean and a little dangerous, and said quietly in your ear:

"You're either ignoring me... or trying really hard not to look like you want to kiss me."

You turned to face him, heart tripping.

"That obvious?" you murmured, lips barely an inch from his, starting to grin like an idiot. You were playing around, trying to get back at Madison, but it felt so real, that your heart was pounding like crazy. And you knew your heart would be shattered at the end of this evening.

Chan gave a slow, satisfied grin and leaned back just enough to look at you properly.

„Only to me."

Before you could reply, ask what this was about, Madison cut in again.

"So, Y/N," she chirped, swirling her drink. "Are you, like, seriously not sleeping with him?"

You blinked.

Chan tilted his head slightly, gaze sharpening like a blade, but his voice stayed calm.

"Madison," he said, smiling like a wolf. "Do you usually talk about other people's sex lives at the table?"

She flushed, laughing. "I mean, sorry, but come on. You're both just so... intense. Like, all the eye contact and brooding. It's kinda obvious something's happening."

Chan shrugged lazily. "Maybe we like keeping things to ourselves. You ever try that?"

"Ouch," someone muttered from the other side of the table. There was giggling. Madison had no chance against the sass of Chan. He was the Leader of 7 chaotic men, who where Teenagers when they started. He knew exactly how to put someone in their place.

You hid a smile in your drink.

But Madison wasn't done. She leaned toward Chan this time, lips pouting, voice syrupy sweet. "I mean, no offense, but it's just... unexpected. I thought you would go for girls who are, I don't know"

"Shallow?" Chan interrupted smoothly.

She blinked. "No. I was gonna say... bolder. More exciting."

He gave a half-smile, slow and dangerous.

"Trust me," he said without taking his eyes off you, "she's plenty bold. She just doesn't need to prove it by being loud all the time."

That shut her up. The entire table went quiet for a second.

You could feel your face heating, but Chan wasn't done. He turned toward you again, resting his arm along the back of the booth, fingers grazing your shoulder and down your arm.

"You know what I like?" he asked you, eyes still locked with yours.

You raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"When someone can walk into a room and own it, without even trying." He gave you that soft, lazy grin again. "That's hot."

You bit your lip, your pulse thudding in your ears.

Madison scoffed under her breath, but no one was paying attention to her anymore. Not when Chan was looking at you like you were the only person in the room.

Then the shots arrived.

"Last round before we get wild," the waitress announced, sliding a tray onto the table.

"Let's make it a toast," Chan said, smoothly grabbing two and handing you one. He raised his glass and looked around the table.

"To good company," he said. "And knowing exactly who's worth your time."

You met his eyes as you both threw back the shot.

It burned, but it wasn't the alcohol making your heart race.

The energy at the table had shifted, less laughter, more heat. You were tucked comfortably into Chan's side now, your legs brushing under the table, the slow burn of tequila pooling warm in your chest. He hadn't taken his eyes off you for more than a few seconds at a time, and every brush of his fingertips against your thigh under the table felt like a secret promise.

Madison, clearly not used to being ignored, was on her third attempt to interrupt the vibe.

She leaned in again with a sugar-sweet smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "So, Chan... tell us, what's your type now?"

You didn't flinch. You didn't have to. Chan beat you to it.

"Madison," he said lazily, his voice thick with amusement, "you'd have to know my type to recognize it."

She bristled. "And I don't?"

He turned his head slightly toward her, but his hand stayed firmly on your thigh, thumb brushing slow, possessive circles, going up to the hem of your dress. They couldn't even see that, but he continued anyway. "If you did," he said, voice dipping lower, "you'd stop assuming it was you."

The table went dead silent for a beat again.

Someone choked on her drink again.

"Oof—damn," someone muttered.

Madison's eyes flicked to you, her smile now a tight line.

„But she is? She's not the usual kind of flashy girl, a idol would want to be with."

Chan just grinned, wide, cocky, like he was thriving on the tension. He leaned in close to you, but said it loud enough for the table to hear:

"That's the point."

You felt your pulse stutter as his fingers tightened slightly on your leg. His thumb now under the soft fabric of your minidress, making you almost press your thighs together.

"I don't do 'usual,'" he added, biting his lip softly while staring at yours dangerously.

"I do addictive."

His voice dropped, rough and intimate, just for you, even though the entire table was pretending not to listen. His thumb slipped a little higher under the fabric of your dress, dragging heat along your skin.

You swallowed hard, the pulse in your neck betraying you as he leaned in, slow, deliberate. His mouth hovered just beside your ear now, his breath a warm tease against your skin.

"And you, ..." His words came out low and sinful. "You're already ruining me since the day Minho brought you into the company."

Your breath hitched, involuntarily pressing your thighs closer together. His smirk deepened at the movement, eyes darkening like he owned the reaction. Was all this still acting? You couldn't believe this could be real. It was way too perfect to be real.

Meanwhile, Madison was sitting in stunned silence across the table, trying to pretend she wasn't watching every second. Chan didn't even spare her a glance now, his world narrowed to you.

You turned slightly to meet his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Chan..."

"Mmh," he hummed, brushing the tip of his nose along your cheek.

„Channie please... I'm... You...", but you couldn't form a whole sentence, when his hand was less than an inch from your core, still moving up, and you tried to calm yourself. The lace panties were definitely already ruined, even though he didn't do anything.

„If you say my name like that one more time I probably can't stop..."

Your cheeks flushed, but it wasn't from embarrassment. It was the way he said it, full of quiet, restrained chaos. Like he knew exactly what he could do to you, what he would do to you, and was enjoying every second of the buildup. But if this was over and he knew that you on your part weren't acting at all... You could never ever look him in the eyes again.

„You don't have to pretend anymore... I think it's enough", you whispered as soon as Madison chatted with another girl, glancing still at you two.

His eyes were immediately on yours again. You could see the effect the alcohol already had on him, but his eyes were clear, honest. But he didn't respond. There was confusion in his face.

"Fuck it," he muttered suddenly, pulling back with a smug grin as he stood up and reached for your hand. "We're getting out of here."

"Where are you going?" Madison snapped, eyes narrowing.

Chan didn't even look at her.

"Somewhere worth my time."

He pulled you with him, a protective hand low on your back, guiding you through the crowd. The alcohol was buzzing through your system, but it wasn't what made your head spin. It was him. His voice, his touch, the way he owned every room, every look, you.

"Wanna dance?" he asked softly while leading you to the dance floor.

You blinked. "Now?"

"Were at a Club right?," he said, already standing, holding his hand out to you. "Come on. Just a few songs."

You took it.

The music hit you the second you stepped onto the dance floor, warm bass, thudding beat, flickering lights. Chan didn't hesitate. He pulled you close, one hand resting low on your waist, the other brushing your hair back.

The music pulsed through your body, thick bass reverberating through the floor as the club lights painted flashes of red and blue across Chan's face. You were both tipsy, laughing harder than you should at something stupid he whispered into your ear, but the warmth of his hand on your lower back wasn't something you could blame on the drinks.

It was deliberate. Possessive. Hot.

You moved with him, teased each other until your hip rolled against his. You could hear him silently hissing, but his moves were fluent, experienced and very very distracting.

Even though no one was watching you anymore.

Chan leaned in close, his breath hot against your cheek as the beat shifted to something darker, slower. His voice rumbled against your skin, low and wrecked.

"I really couldn't believe you're that blind before tonight..."

You blinked up at him as he twirled you around, lips parted as your breath hitched, your body already melting into his. You stumbled against his chest confused.

"What?" you dared.

He didn't answer. Instead, his hand slid up your sides, until it was wrapped tight around your waist, drawing you flush against him. His hips moved with yours, slow and dirty, like the music was just for the two of you.

And then he said it.

"You think I was just acting earlier?"

His mouth brushed your ear now, every word setting fire to your skin.

"You think I flirted with you at that table just because I had to play along?" He tilted your chin up, making you look him dead in the eye. "Y/N, I've had a crush on you for months. And I thought it was obvious..."

Your breath caught.

His lips ghosted across your cheek, barely touching.

"But I just didn't dare to tell you, since you didn't do anything about it. I figured someone like you wouldn't even look at me twice."

"You're insane," you whispered. You couldn't even believe one word he was saying.

"And you're drunk," he smirked. "Which is the only reason I'm even telling you this now, because tomorrow, I'm gonna pretend I didn't after you finally rejected me."

Your hands were firmly closed around his neck, and you still waited to finally wake up from this unreal dream.

„I had no idea... I thought you're just friendly. I thought I'm not your type... You're lying right? You’re trying to tease me? That's not funny Chan!"

You could feel him chuckling deeply and for at least a few seconds, then he pulled you even closer, his hands brushing up your sides, his thumbs pressing into your skin right under your boobs. He pushed you backwards until you were a bit aside, only a few people were standing or sitting in the back area of the dance floor.

The music wasn't that loud here and Chan wanted to make sure you'd hear every word he would say. You were standing in a lightly lit corner, him still holding you tight. You felt his firm stomach pressed against your body and just looked at him stunned.

You were flushed from dancing and just the right amount of tipsy, when you turned to find Chan watching you not with his usual soft gaze, this time it was darker. Intense. Like he was done pretending.

His eyes closed for a second like he was at war with himself. Then he looked down at you, slow, dragging, and everything he'd ever hidden was suddenly there, plain as day.

"You really didn't know?" he asked, voice low, wrecked.

"That every time you hugged me, I had to fight not to touch you like I wanted to?"

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

"That when you wore that black dress to the company party a year ago, I had to sit with my hands in my lap the entire night?"

He let out a dry, soft laugh.

"I got hard just looking at you. Couldn't even get up without embarrassing myself."

You swallowed hard, heat coiling in your stomach.

„Chan..."

"I've wanted you for so long it's fucking embarrassing," he said, stepping in even closer, chest pressed against yours.

"I'd leave Aftershow-parties early because you were dancing with the backup dancers and I couldn't take it. I'd lie awake thinking about your body, your laugh, the way you look when you're mad at me."

Your hand pressed against his chest instinctively, either to steady yourself or make sure he wouldn't vanish.

"I used to jerk off in the shower after hugging you, every time after you did my makeup, standing so close in your small tops and shorts," he said, voice barely above a whisper now, eyes locked on your mouth.

He pushed you further back, until your back hit the wall and you were completely at his mercy.

"And then show up the next day at the concert pretending nothing happened."

You felt the breath leave your lungs in one slow exhale, your thighs clenching together as heat rushed down your spine.

"Fuck, Chan..."

"I wasn't acting tonight," he added, his fingers brushing the side of your ribs, up until his thumb brushed over your nipple.

"Not for a second. I wasn't trying to make anyone jealous. I just... finally let myself touch you the way I wanted."

Everything rushed back to you in flashes, his hands on your body while hugging you, the looks he gave you, when you talked about your dates with random guys, the low murmur in your ear, his fingers under your dress earlier at the table.

Every smirk. Every stare. Every time he'd pulled away like it was taking every ounce of willpower. His small comments you never took seriously when you wore your new outfits at work. His friendly teasing when he'd say things like "You're lucky I have self-control" when you showed up in a tight dress you wore only for him, or "You keep looking at me like that and I might forget we're just friends." You laughed it off, not realizing how close he was to meaning every word.

You thought he was just a flirt. Just smooth.

But he'd been losing his mind over you this whole time.

"You hid it so well," you whispered.

He smirked, stepping even closer.

„No, doll. You just weren't paying attention."

As his hands touched your boobs, desperately like he wanted this to happen for a long time, you leaned your head against the wall, looking up at him pleading.

„I can't believe it... It's just that I had a crush on you for years now. And you never gave me anything. It felt like you weren't even aware I'm right there!"

He sighed, looked at the ground for a moment, before his hand wandered to your cheek, caressing your jaw, until he touched your lips softly.

"All those times I pulled away? It wasn't because I didn't feel it. It was because I felt too much."

You swallowed, breath catching.

"I'd touch you, and my whole body would react. I couldn't hug you too long without having to hide how much I wanted you. When you dabbed my sweat away in the middle of shooting M/Vs or when you just sat next to me during movie nights at the dorm..."

His voice was deeper now, rough.

"You'd wear those damn skirts and look at me like I was your boss, talk to me like I was your best friend sometimes, and I'd have to act like I wasn't going crazy."

You blinked at him, overwhelmed by the honesty dripping from every word.

"I tried to be respectful. I tried to be good. But God, every time you laughed, or leaned against me, or whispered something in my ear... I wanted you, thought about bending you over the next surface and finally fucking you like you deserve it…“

He stepped so close you could feel the heat of his body. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, the other other one grabbed your hip again.

"I still want you. So much it fucking hurts."

You let out a shaky breath, trying to keep the walls up.

Your breath hitched.

"I know it's a lot," he added quickly. "I just couldn't watch her tear you down. Not when she doesn't even see you. Not when she has no idea what it means to be loved the way you should be."

Silence bloomed between you, loud and sacred.

„I have dreamed of this for so long... I thought it could never happen. I thought I was imagining things."

"That's my fault," he whispered, forehead resting against yours. "I thought I was protecting you. Protecting us. But I just ended up hurting both of us instead."

You closed your eyes, your heart thudding violently in your chest. Every part of you wanted to believe him. Every part of you wanted to just fall.

„If you don't believe me yet..."

His voice got clearer again, and when you opened your eyes again he shielded you completely from the world. He grabbed your hand and pushed it suddenly against the bulge in his pants. Your eyes widened as you felt how big it felt under your fingertips.

„That's what you're doing to me. This whole evening, all the time..."

He watched you closely, his breath against your lips as you felt his rock hard dick even through his pants.

"Let me make it up to you," he growled, his voice a low rasp against your lips.

„Let me show you what I've been holding back."

You breath stuttered and this time he didn't pull away. His lips crashed on yours but you were already pulling him down into you.

Your mouths crashed together like tension snapping. Desperate. Starved. His hands buried in your hair, yours gripping the collar of his shirt as your bodies pressed and ground against each other like you were trying to crawl inside his skin.

It was hot. Too hot.

You tore away first, gasping.

"I, I need air."

Chan didn't say anything, just grabbed your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world and pulled you toward the exit.

You had to pass the booth where Madison sat, and of course, she clocked you immediately.

"Wait a second!" she called out, standing halfway. "Please, just sit with us for a little bit. I want to sort things out. Really."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden plea.

But before you could even think of answering, Chan stepped in front of you, solid, steady, like a wall. Protective in a way that made you want to rip his clothes off right now.

He looked at Madison the way someone looks at a child who doesn't know the damage they're doing. A little pity. A little disbelief. And zero tolerance.

"There's nothing to sort out, Madison," he said calmly, though there was a razor-sharp edge beneath his voice.

„She wasted enough time, trying to be the better person and giving you another chance..."

Her mouth opened like she wanted to argue, but the way Chan's arm slid around your waist and pulled you in close made her freeze. He wasn't subtle. He didn't want to be.

"I'll take her somewhere, were her talents, her hard work and her amazing personality is appreciated," he continued, his eyes never leaving hers.

Madison flushed, jaw tight.

But Chan didn't flinch. Didn't soften.

He leaned in closer to you, hand at the small of your back.

"Come on, baby. Let's go."

You let him lead you past her, heart pounding at the pet name, the heat of his body, the absolute certainty in the way he chose you without hesitation.

And as you walked away, you didn't even need to look back.

Because for the first time, you knew you were the one being fought for.

Outside, the night air hit your skin like a shock, but Chan's warmth was already wrapping around you again.

The night was sharp and cool, the wind biting at your flushed skin. You stumbled into the alleyway beside the club, laughing breathlessly. He steadied you with both hands on your hips.

"You okay?" he asked, a little too soft, a little too close again for you to keep your sanity.

You nodded.

"Tipsy. But fine."

He arched a brow. "Still think I was acting?"

He slipped out of his Jacket and put it over you shoulders, engaging you with his scent.

You shot him a half-lidded look, lips curling. "You're still flirting."

"That's not flirting." He grinned like the devil and stepped into you, pushing you gently back against the brick wall. His hand slid up under the jacket, fingers dragging up your bare thigh.

"This is me losing control."

You were drunk, yes. But you felt everything.

His mouth brushed your jaw, kissing down to your neck with infuriating slowness. You tilted your head back, sighing as his teeth grazed your skin.

"You're dangerous," you breathed.

"Yeah," he whispered. "But only for you."

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him closer. "What are we doing, Chan?"

He looked at you like he wanted to devour you whole.

"Getting a cab. And then..." His smirk returned, but it was darker this time, tinged with heat. "Taking you home."

You felt beautiful.

You felt wanted.

And you kissed him.

Right there, under the streetlights in a dark alley, in the middle of the night, while every inch of you screamed that this moment was real. You kissed him because you'd wanted to for so long. Because no one had ever looked at you the way he was now. Because you needed him to know that even if you didn't feel like enough tonight, you still wanted to be his.

And when you pulled back, he smiled like he already knew.

"Come on," he said. "My place. Now."

He couldn't wait a second longer. He couldn't think of anything else than ripping that damn dress off.

You just nodded.

And when he kissed you this time, finally, fully, like he'd been starving for it, it was everything but gentle.

You tiptoed barefoot behind Chan through the dim hallway, your heels in your hands, the quiet creak of the floorboards under your weight sounding way too loud in the silence of the late hour. You already visited the dorm of the boys but you were mostly at Minhos, Felix, I.N and Seungmins dorm for movie nights.

"Shhh," Chan whispered, shooting you a wicked little grin over his shoulder as he guided you through the apartment like a thief.

„They're all asleep. Hopefully."

Hyunjin, Changbin and Han would be definitely at home since they had some days off after the last concerts. It would be way too complicated to explain what was going on with you and Chan at the moment.

You passed the living room, and there, half-sprawled on the couch under a blanket, you spotted Han, clearly tangled up with someone.

You pressed your hand against your mouth while staring at them.

His hand was buried in someone's hair, soft moans slipping past his lips while there was a fierce makeout-session going on. Netflix already asked if they're still watching but that wasn't the case obviously. There were clothes laying everywhere around, hard breathing and kissing sounds echoed in the dark room.

You blinked, stunned and suddenly Chan grabbed your hand before you could look closer.

"Don't stare. Trust me, you don't wanna know," he muttered under his breath, lips quirking.

You didn't even get the chance to wonder who the hell Han was pressed up against before Chan yanked you forward and slipped the both of you into his bedroom. He shut the door with a soft click, locking it.

Silence. A soft, red glow from the LED-lights in Chans room. It smelled like cedar and clean linen and him.

Then a breath. Then him, suddenly everywhere.

He shoved you back against the door before you could take another step, his body pinning you with an urgency that set your skin on fire.

"You almost ruined me," he growled lowly, his hand wrapping around your throat just enough to make you gasp, to make your knees weaken. "All those nights thinking about you, all those moments I had to bite my tongue instead of dragging you into a corner and making you mine."

His lips crashed onto yours, and this kiss wasn't sweet as before, it was messy, possessive, pure need. His other hand was already hiking your dress up, fingers bruising into your thigh as he lifted your leg around his waist.

"You know how hard it was?" he rasped against your lips. "You'd touch my face, my body while working on those stage-outfits and I'd have to hold back, pretend I didn't want to fuck you against the nearest wall. Pretend I wasn't hard the entire time."

"Chan—"

"No. Tonight, you listen and won't doubt a second how much you're wanted."

His eyes burned into yours, hand slipping into your hair and tugging your head back just enough for his lips to drag down your neck.

"I'm not holding back anymore."

He dragged you to the bed, pushed you down gently, but the glint in his eyes was anything but soft. The dark edge in his gaze made your pulse spike as he crawled over you, slow and controlled like a predator savoring his prey.

Chan grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, while the other traced down the side of your face, your throat, your chest, until you were writhing beneath him.

"I'm gonna wreck you, baby," he whispered against your ear, teeth grazing your lobe. "So no one else ever gets to look at you and wonder what you taste like. What you sound like."

Your breath caught, your thighs pressed together, the heat between them unbearable now. His fingers slid between them without warning, two, confident and slow, teasing, curling just enough to make you gasp and arch.

"And you'll take it, won't you?" he growled, lips bruising against your neck as he moved faster, darker.

"You'll let me ruin you."

And god, you wanted to let him.

Your moan broke open in the dark, echoing in his room like a confession.

„You're that wet for me? And I didn't even know all evening."

He growled, pushing his fingers deep into you before he pushed them into his mouth, tasting you, looking at you from above. You couldn't move with your hands pinned against the mattress.

„You taste even better than I imagined, doll."

You looked him straight into the eyes, your breath going slowly.

„I have touched myself too, you know", you breathed, while he opened your legs with his knee. Watching how your dress slid up, exposing your ass, your soft thighs and the black lace panties which were soaked already.

„Tell me", he demanded, enjoying the desperate whimpering, as he pushed his knee right onto your core.

Then he let go of you, unbuttoned his shirt and threw it aside. You straightened up, eyes wandering all over his abs. Which you adored every time he changed during concerts, when you brought him his clothes.

„When you were changing at concerts or running around half naked in the backstage, pretending you didn't notice the looks you got from all the female staff-members... Or the one time I told you about the terrible date I had..."

He raised his eyebrows.

„The stupid background dancer? I was so jealous back then..."

You nodded, kneeling next to Chan, touching his shoulders, letting your fingers slide over his chest, his abs, down to the hem of his pants.

„The date went terribly wrong because I moaned your name while making out..."

His eyes widened and he grabbed your hips, lifting you up on his lap like a toy.

„That's why he couldn't look me in the eye since...", he laughed, pushing the straps of your dress of your shoulders, kissing your chest while kneading your ass in his hands.

Your little pants were like rewards for him.

„I also touched myself at night, after movie-nights at the dorm. We all we're squeezed together on that small couch, you accidentally touched my tits, my thighs, my back while watching the movie... I was so horny that night."

Softly he brushed your hair out of your forehead.

„I had no idea... I would have let you sleep at my bed and took care of you. But didn't you sleep in Minhos bed that night?"

You cheeks immediately turned red, your ears glowing, while that damn knowing smile of Chan almost made you shy.

„I touched myself when he was asleep next to me... I'm still embarrassed."

But Chan grabbed your chin and pushed his middle against your core to prove his point.

„That's so fucking hot."

He watched your body, and his eyes were shimmering with arousal.

„Strip for me, babygirl and tell me everything I missed during all this time."

He leaned back, as soon as you climbed off his lap and it was crazy to finally tell him all your dirty secrets.

Sensual you started to slip out of your dress, while he watched every move, unbuttoning his pants.

„I'd would always watch you rehearse from the back of the studio or through a cracked door, pretending to be just passing by. But the way you moved, confident and raw, sweat dripping down your neck and your shirt clung to your body... You had no idea, did you? Every time I watched you dance, I could barely breathe."

Your voice was soft and he just shook his head, his eyes wandering all over you body, as you stripped your dress off.

"After concerts you'd sit so close to me, shirt soaked, still catching your breath... and I'd just nod along, pretending I wasn't dying to touch you."

Your lace underwear was hugging your body smoothly. Making him sigh: „so fucking sexy"

Under his breath, while you were taking your bra off, throwing it at the floor.

He reached out, wanted to touch your tits, but you just smiled, fought of his hands and let him struggle for a bit more.

He imagined them in his hands for so long, squeezing and touching them until you'd beg him to fuck you.

But you weren't done.

„You remember those 2 a.m. calls right after those first big events I worked at? Your voice were enough to drive me crazy."

Where his voice was low, gravelly, intimate. You'd talk about anything and everything.

And you'd lie on your bed, completely turned on, fantasizing about him saying those same things with his hands on you.

"You'd talk to me like I was special. Whisper things. And I'd be there... hand between my legs, biting your name into my pillow", you added and he couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed your waist, ripped your panties off of you, and watched your body as you were standing between his legs.

„That time at the airport, you put your arm around me to guide me through the crowd, the chaos there. You always touched me like you owned me, and I hated how much I wanted it to be real", you breathed and whimpered suddenly as he spread your legs with his.

His hands grabbed your hips until your cunt hovered in front of his face.

„I told you I'll make all that up to you. I'll make you moan my name every day", he muttered and you sinked your nails into his neck, when he suddenly sucked on your glistening pussy, holding you up straight while licking through your folds, making your legs already shake. But when his tongue entered you, you couldn't stop whimpering like a kitten.

You could feel his smile against your core, his nose bumping against your clit while he was eating you out.

„Channie please please..."

You couldn't stop bubbling when he finally looked up at you.

„Say it! Come on babygirl."

He licked your juices off of his lips, his hands wrapped around your thighs.

„Fuck me, Chan. Please fuck me."

And that was it.

He grabbed your arms, pushed them on your back and forced you onto the mattress in seconds.

A startled gasp tearing from your throat while your face was pressed into his sheets.

"Did you think I brought you here to play nice?" he snarled into your ear, voice low, rough, a sound that made your knees weaken.

His body caged you in, one hand around your throat, just enough pressure to make you moan, while the other slid up your thigh, dragging your legs apart. Your ass in the air, so he could use you like he imagined it so many times.

You could hear how he got rid of his pants and underwear and then he grabbed your face, pulled you to his chest and you could already feel the size of his dick against your ass.

You barely managed a whisper his name before his mouth was on yours, not kissing, devouring. Tongue demanding entrance, teeth nipping hard at your bottom lip until you tasted blood and moaned against him.

"Been dreaming about ruining you," he muttered, hand sliding between your legs, forcing you on all fours. "Making you cry on my cock. You have no idea the fucking self-control I've had to keep."

His fingers slipped into you, slow at first, but deep, like he wanted to make you feel the weight of every second he'd waited. He growled when he felt how wet you got already with every move he made.

"Fuck. You're dripping for me."

You tried to reach for him, desperate, but he caught your wrists and pushed them on your back, pushing your chest against the mattress, hands trapped  painfully in one of his. The other hand stretched you even more when he added another finger.

You gasped as his palm landed hard on your ass, the sound echoing in the dark room, your body jerking forward against the headboard.

"Count," he growled. "If you lose track, I start over."

"One," you gasped.

Another slap, sharper.

"Two."

"Good girl. You look so fucking good like this," he hissed, voice dark with hunger. He watched the red mark on your soft skin he left. "All mine. I want to mark you up so bad they'll see it tomorrow. The members won't even need to ask."

He was harder than you'd ever seen anyone, panting against your neck as he grinded himself into your bare ass, not even inside you yet, and already cursing under his breath like he was going to lose it.

"You feel that?" he rasped, letting you grind back against his cock. "This is what you do to me. Every time you walked in wearing those little skirts, every time you hugged me and pressed that perfect body against me, I had to go jerk off in the fucking shower just to breathe before I could go on stage."

You whimpered, needy and wrecked and still untouched.

"Please," you whispered, voice shaking. "I want you."

"Oh, baby," he said, pulling his belt free from his pants a slow, lethal hiss of leather. "You're gonna feel how much I want you."

After just a blink of an eye he tied your hands up on your back.

„I want you to cry my name. So every time you'll call my name from now on, I'll think of you, tied up, with my cock pounding into your perfect little cunt."

And with that you felt his tip at your entrance. It was too big, you already knew that. When he pushed himself into you, starting to fuck you so good, you were already seeing stars, you couldn't stop moaning his name like a mantra.

Chan groaned deep in his chest, hips slamming forward as he buried himself fully. His hands gripped your hips hard, pulling you back onto him with every thrust like he couldn't get deep enough, close enough. Like he was trying to carve himself into you.

"Fuck—" he growled, voice shaking. "You feel like heaven. You were made for me, weren't you?"

You could barely answer, your words melted into gasps and broken sounds as he set a relentless pace, every snap of his hips pushing you closer to that edge. You were completely exposed to him. Hands tied, body trembling, senses overloaded. But never once did you feel unsafe, because every brutal thrust was laced with something else. Something raw. Desperate.

Need.

"God, you have no idea what you've done to me," he rasped into your ear, body flush against your back now, chest slick with sweat. "Every time you smiled at me, every time you greeted me in the morning, I had to bite my fucking tongue just to not show you how bad I wanted you."

You whimpered, unable to form a response when he suddenly reached around, fingers finding your clit and circling it with ruthless precision.

"You think this is just about fucking?" he snarled. "No, baby. This is about all the time I waited. All the nights I hated myself for wanting you this much."

You clenched around him, and he hissed. His rhythm stuttered, just once, and then he pulled out suddenly, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing, yanking your wrists free from the belt.

"Look at me."

Your eyes locked. His were wild, pupils blown, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

"I'm not hiding anymore," he said roughly. "You want the truth? I was jealous every damn time another guy made you laugh. I was furious when you thought I wanted Madison. And I've been dreaming of you, of this, for so long it drove me insane."

He grabbed your thighs and drove back into you, deeper now, with his forehead against yours.

"You're mine now. Say it."

"I'm yours," you whispered, breathless, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it all felt, the pleasure, the emotion, the years of silence finally breaking.

„I can’t hear you babygirl.“

„I‘m yours!“, you moaned, eyes rolling back as he grabbed your neck again, while the sound of skin slapping got even louder.

"You're goddamn right," he growled. "And I'm not letting you go. Not after this. Not ever."

He kissed you then, rough at first, then slower, softer, full of all the things he'd never said. His hand laced into your hair, the other gripping your waist as he rocked into you, lips dragging down your neck. Fucking you even deeper into the mattress.

When you came undone under him, trembling, crying out his name with tears running down your cheeks, he was right behind you, moaning against your throat like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world.

And when it was over, and your limbs were tangled with his, your bodies a mess of sweat and bruises and silk sheets, he kissed your temple and whispered:

"You're not imagining this time. I'm here. I'm yours. And I'm not going anywhere."

The next morning, you stirred awake to the warmth of sunlight and a weight that hadn't left your side all night. With a quiet sigh, you turned your head, Chan's face was the first thing you saw. With a pleasant sigh you just noticed again how much you adored his face, puffy and bare. His curls were framing his head chaotically while his lips were plush and so kissable, slightly parted, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks.

He must have cleaned you up, since you fell asleep immediately after he hugged you tight and apologised for being that rough all over again.

But you never had better sex in your entire life. You watched the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, your body still wrapped tightly in his arms, like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. When the first sunbeams enlightened the room, you couldn't resist, touching his cheek, his curls and his lips. He didn't look real at all and you couldn't believe the last night happened.

Before you could react, he grabbed your hand with closed eyes and kissed your knuckles.

„You're awake?", you asked smiling and he just groaned sleepy.

„Do you keep going if I say no?"

His morning voice was raspy and let you giggle softly.

He slowly opened his eyes, looked at you with a soft smile and pulled you into his tight embrace.

„How are you feeling?"

You cuddled against him under the sheets, pressing your cheek against his chest.

„Good."

„Just good? I feel like flying."

„Ask me again after I showered", you teased him, and he pinched you softly in the side, what made you squeak.

„But hurry okay? Ich won't let you get far away from me today."

As you stood up and searched for something to wear, he smiled so broadly that the sun didn't even had a chance to compete.

„Sure... Just close your eyes and I'll be back in a second", you answered and slipped into a Shirt from him.

„I hope so... I think I'll need another round to start the day. Your pussy is addicting.“

„You horny menace," you snorted with a teasing grin, throwing a pillow at his head.

Chan caught it effortlessly, eyes trailing down your legs as you made your way toward the door in nothing but the oversized shirt. His shirt. His gaze was dark again, hungry, but playful. "You walking around like that and calling me horny? That's not fair."

You smirked, hand already on the doorknob. "Then close your eyes, Mr. Bang. Or deal with the consequences."

"I will. Later," he murmured under his breath, voice low and thick. "And trust me, there will be consequences."

With heat blooming in your cheeks, and between your thighs, you slipped out of his room, the air in the hallway cooler against your skin.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen light left on overnight. Your skin still tingled from the feel of Chan's mouth, his hands, the way he'd claimed you like he'd been waiting for years

The apartment was quiet, only the faint sound of the city outside humming through the windows. You tiptoed down the hallway toward the bathroom when a door creaked open and,

"Shit," you gasped, nearly running into Minhos big and very naked chest.

He was shirtless, his hair a mess, lips slightly swollen, and his eyes wide when he saw you. For a second, neither of you spoke. Your gaze instinctively dropped to the deep scratch marks down his torso, leading all over his back and a very familiar Hoodie in his hands.

Han's hoodie.

Your mouth opened a little.

Minho froze like a deer in headlights, then raised a single brow.

He froze when he saw you. You froze when you saw him. The smell of sex was sticking to you both.

The puzzle pieces clicked, violently.

Minho gave you a long look, lips curving into something dangerously close to a smirk. "You're not really the sneaky type, you know."

Your cheeks flushed, but you lifted your chin. "You either, apparently."

His brows raised, caught. "Touché."

"Han?" you asked, keeping your voice low.

He shrugged a shoulder, smirk still lingering.

"Oh my God!" you blinked, mouth now fully parted. "You were the one on the couch with Han tonight..."

Minho tilted his head, a sly smirk forming on his lips. "I wasn't exactly hiding it, was I?"

Your cheeks flushed as you remembered what you'd seen the night before, Han tangled up in someone's arms. You hadn't realized it was Minho.

"I thought... I didn't know, you are..." you started, but he just waved a hand.

"Don't overthink it." he added with a smirk.

„Most people don't know... Just Changbin at the moment since he can’t knock on doors like a normal person being... I wanted to tell you, but seems like you had secrets yourself..."

Before you could respond, Han's voice came from inside the room. "Minhooo, honey, come back to bed, your abs look too good to be wasted standing out there."

You raised your brows. "Wow."

Minho shrugged and stared at the shirt you were wearing.

"Yeah."

There was a pause. He slipped Hans Hoodie over his head. For Jisung it was oversized but it fit Minho perfectly.

"I mean, you and Jisung? I knew you two were close, but..."

"Not really public knowledge," he said, now fully dressed but barefoot, raking a hand through his hair.

„But I guess you and Chan aren't exactly trying to stay hidden either."

You blinked. "You... know?"

Minho chuckled under his breath. "Sweetheart, you're wearing his shirt. Just his shirt in fact... Those marks on your wrists are very obvious as well. And I just walked out of Han's room when you sneaked out of his. We're kind of in the same boat."

Just now you realised the red marks on your wrists, which were probably caused by the belt, Chan used.

You crossed your arms.

"You're not worried? About... you know, Chan being your leader? I'm just your stylist."

Minho leaned against the doorframe, eyes glinting. "Should I be? You're not just our stylist. You're my best friend and Chan is family. It could be worse, right?"

You shrugged, uncertain.

He took a step closer.

"Look, whatever's going on with Chan... you're not just some random girl. Trust me, I've seen the way he looks at you."

Your heart fluttered.

"He's all bark usually. But you? You make him lose control. That says something."

You bit your lip, glancing away. "It's just... weird. All of it. I've had feelings for him for so long."

"And now he's the one tangled in you," Minho said softly, with a knowing glance. "About time he made a move. His lovesick blabbering wasn't bearable anymore."

Then, his smirk widened again. "Just... try not to be that noisy next time. We do share walls, you know. Or at least let us join…“

You gasped and slapped his arm, scandalized.

He only laughed and went back to Jisungs room without any further comment.

You slipped quietly back into Chan's room after your shower, the soft creak of the door alerting him. He was sitting up now, shirtless, hair messier than before, his bare chest catching a sliver of morning light.

He looked up instantly, eyes narrowing with gentle concern.

"You okay?"

You nodded, closing the door behind you. "Yeah... just ran into Minho in the hallway."

Chan's brow lifted. "Minho?"

You walked over, crawling back into the sheets, the warmth of his body pulling you back in. His hand instinctively settled on your waist like a magnet, grounding you.

"Yeah," you murmured. "Apparently, he spent the night with Han."

There was a pause. Then—

"...What?"

You looked up at him, lips curving. "I know. I thought I was being scandalous sneaking out of your room. Turns out there was a secret relationship in front of us all this time."

Chan blinked, then burst out laughing, chest shaking beneath your cheek. "Han and Minho? Seriously? They spent the night? Like fucking and stuff?"

"I literally walked in on Minho sneaking out with Han's hoodie. There were scratches all over his body..."

"Oh my god," he groaned, dragging a hand through his curls. "That little punk didn't tell me anything. Both of them... I thought Han was seeing a girl secretly."

Chan exhaled deeply, then gave a dry laugh. "That little shit. No wonder they've been acting weird the last few weeks."

You tilted your head. "You really didn't notice?"

"I thought they were just being... clingy. Han's always affectionate towards Minho, and Minho's Minho, he acts like he's annoyed but leans into it anyway."

You looked up at him, mischief playing at the edge of your mouth. "What if he says the same about us?"

Chan tilted his head, eyes darkening. "There's a difference. I want everyone to know."

Your heart stuttered.

He said it so casually, but the possessiveness in his tone sent heat through you.

"I told Minho," you said softly, watching his expression carefully, "That this wasn't just random. That it's... serious to me."

His gaze locked with yours, something deeper flickering behind the dark brown. "Did you?"

You nodded. "I said you weren't just some fling. Because you're not. And I've had feelings for you for way too long to pretend this is casual."

Chan reached for you then, dragging you fully into his lap, hands gripping your thighs. "Say that again."

"What part?"

"The part where I'm not just some fling."

You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his jaw. "You're not. You've never been."

His grip tightened. "I swear, I've been going insane wanting you. Knowing you were right there all this time, acting like you didn't see what you were doing to me."

You smiled against his skin. "You didn't make it easy either."

He pulled back, brushing his lips against yours without kissing you. "I didn't want you to feel like that... But now? Now I'll make damn sure no one else gets the chance."

His words were low, heated, edged with that same fire that had pulled you under last night.

You pressed your forehead to his. "You jealous of Minho and Han stealing the scandal spotlight?"

He growled softly. "Jealous that they got to touch each other last night... while you were in my bed screaming for me? Never.“

You shivered.

Chan's lips curled. "Now be a good girl and remind me what you were wearing when you ran into Minho..."

You laughed. "Your shirt."

"Damn right."

⸻

[mosquitobible]

One of the biggest things that stuck out to me about Johnny and V's relationship, that has made it probably one of the most impactful and meaningful connections portrayed in any media to me specifically is the idea of two people being forced to share every single part of themselves with another person in a way that nobody could ever ever even begin to conceive. As someone who has spent their whole lives so deeply uncomfortable with themselves and their past and the mistakes they've made and has built layer over layer over layer over who they really are to the point they don't even know if they could actually recognize who they really are themselves anymore, the idea that someone could see all of it; the good, the bad, the ugly, the absolute shameful and fucked up parts of you and still choose to care for you so deeply with intention is like..... unfathomable.

Cause I wholeheartedly believe that V makes the active conscious choice to care for Johnny over and over again. It's not just some passive feeling they can't help, they are choosing to, despite it all, despite every shitty fucked up part of him because they truly believe that he is worth that and capable of being someone deserving of that kind of love like FUCKIKKSNSJSJ could you even imagine someone seeing you that way? Thinking so fucking highly of you despite every fucked up mistake you've made that they trust you with a devotion so profound because they believe you truly deserve it, having seen every part of you, parts of you that you don't even remember anymore, but they know it all and they still find you worthy of it? Worthy enough to even give up their lives for you truly believing that you are capable of doing it right this time? Like you think V would be willing to give up their life to let Johnny live if they weren't confident that he was capable of that sacrifice actually being worth something?? ughhhshdhshsh literally makes me sick.

Like what a fucking trip it would be for Johnny when he begins to really understand the level of love V has for him and realize how fucking rare something like that is. And that's not to say that nobody else has ever truly cared for Johnny in such a way but I don't doubt that there was always a part of him that adamantly believed he did not deserve that and would do what he does best by sabotaging it, but he couldn't do that with V, couldn't hide behind his ego, even when he actively tried to. He just had to sit with it until he realized maybe he could deserve that and I think that's a part of what it took to make him actually fucking change, realizing that he fucking wanted to deserved that — hungered for it for probably a long fucking time, and to get it from V of all people, someone he probably believes should be the last person in the world to see him that way??? Like yea that would have me getting my shit together real fucking quick.

[biancadoes1]

I see the discourse going back and forth about Nic and Luke. The brand deals conversations. The “beefing” comments. The fans going after one of them versus the other one. The comment about N “ratting” out L?! Left field that one.

I’m going to admit something. And this is why I’m doing this anonymously. Last June after “papgate” I unfollowed Luke. I questioned what kind of man he was. I didn’t like how things looked. I felt that as fans we’d been shown one thing and given a story while we were also being deceived. I think a lot of people still live there. If I’d seen his story about not letting “Cressida ruin our night” I would have looked at it completely differently. But alas, I was not privy to that due to my quick unfollow. I did feel very sorry for Nicola that next day because I felt that she had to go to bat for him. I felt she was the one who looked like she had lost a man to a girl 14 years her junior. I felt she deserved so much better. And yes, I was even hoping she was in a secret relationship with Eamon Farren or Luke Thompson. I questioned why their PR teams would even let this happen. I questioned why Luke didn’t just publicly claim A as his girlfriend after the cat was literally out of the bag. I thought to myself that I guess there’d been this whole grand scheme that had all been an illusion that the GA had fallen for. And then that chaotic week in August happened. And then Sorrento. And then silences.

Fast forward 10 months ahead. I feel bad at times for how I reacted last June. Once I watched the World Tour interviews again and saw just how uncomfortable L was with A I knew I’d been wrong. I knew I had mis-read the situation. And because I am a person that doesn’t just take things at face value and knows social media is not real life, I started to really dig deeper. I did end up following L again shortly after the unfollowing. I saw the very Nic coded post he made in September. The way he showed that cake online quickly as to make sure people knew he was not slighting Nic. Something I’ve never seen him do with A. There have been times I’ve questioned my resolve like when the post came out that his mom commented on. But there were way too many weird things about that post and that comment. It felt like a total set up. A set up leading to the BOSS event.

There have been a couple times I’ve had to take a break. There could be another one (or two) before we’re to an actual resolve. 🤪 So why am I still here? Why do I believe in N and L? Here’s just a few:

-The behavior of her family in Galway was not the behavior of a family meeting their daughter’s/sister’s co-worker

-The ring. Wearing that claddagh on the left hand with the heart pointing in means only one thing. A ring bought on the World Tour.

-Christmas and New Years. Where were L and N? Obviously not with the side stories. Matching sunburns/tans.

-The silences and the misdirections are mechanisms to mask the real story. Do I think they’re using them in the best ways? No. But I do think the silence speaks volumes.

-SAG Awards. They just solidified what we saw on the World Tour. It showed the intimate level of comfort L and N have. It showed the energy they have when they’re in each other’s presence. And it showed the glaringly obvious differences when they’re with A or J.

-Interviews. And the interviewers who question whether the couple in front of them is in love. Some have even said they are in love. Which makes me think there are many more who know the real tea.

-The “people just really want me to marry Luke” comment from N as well as the interview where L talks about the bracelet he got “gifted.” Plus so many more interviews and things they have said about each other.

-The defending of each other. You see L clear up the cake pictures quickly. You see N saying it’s definitely not true that L was checking himself out in the mirror at the SAG Awards. Do they defend A and J online? Nope…

-The absolute overcompensating N does when she’s trying to hide something about their relationship. At the SAG Awards when L says “we tried out Mexican from a place around the corner last night,” and N says, “You did?” Come on we both know they ate there together! And there are sooo many more times she has done it. Which just leads me to know she’s definitely trying to preserve the privacy of their relationship.

I could continue to go on and on. The changes in their social media interactions and posting, the no birthday posts this year, the gelato picture in Italy, the picture in water of two people with the same coloring and height difference, the continuous use of “Nic and I” like it’s said every single day, the JVN hints, the October hand picture, and on and on and on.

My advice is to always research all of it on your own instead of taking things at face value. Learn the tells. See the patterns. And just wait. I know it’s hard to wait for confirmation. I’m not a patient person. But I see in L and N a chemistry, a camaraderie, and an intimacy you don’t see in just “co-stars.”

And sorry for the length. One thing would just spill into another…

Many people had the same reaction. That same initial reaction that some people have never separated from. But don’t feel bad for that initial reaction now that you’ve come out of it. EVERYONE who was watching this unfold was left to just take in everything that was happening and people were confused and felt played and were shocked, especially if they weren’t aware of Antonia’s presence in the background.

I’m so glad to hear chaos week pushed you to look deeper though. Once you do, it’s abundantly clear there’s something off.

I love your advice as well because it’s something I preach as well.

ALWAYS research, especially when you notice something strange. Do it on your own instead of running to people to explain to you. Look at the bigger picture while also considering all the patterns and tells.

Kudos to you anon and I’m glad you sent this ask! I think there are plenty of other people who have had a similar journey through all this.

Happy to have you with us ❤️❤️❤️

[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 :-)

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[jeansjolly]

"it's our first time"

♡ jean x f!reader

♡ cw: fluff and smut, marriage, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, edging

♡ w.c: 3.9k

♡ posted on ao3.

You slip your fingers into Jean’s as you step forward together. His hand closes around yours— warm, certain. He looks at you for a fleeting second, your eyes locking in a quiet exchange that says more than words ever could. Your gaze softens before the two of you turn toward the hallway stretching ahead, the path to your honeymoon suite.

"Just you and me," Jean murmurs with a smile, gently pulling you along. "Let the honeymoon begin."

♡ inspired by: ♬ bruno mars - our first time

This is your first honeymoon night, after marrying the love of your life, Jean Kirstein.

You are wearing a silk navy blue nightgown that fits snug against your body, soft and smooth as it clings to your curves. It stops just around your hips, the lace-trimmed hem riding up slightly, teasing the curve of your ass. The matching lace panties peek through, delicate and barely-there. It’s a little bold— maybe bolder than you’re used to— but it feels right. Especially tonight.

You spot Jean sitting at the edge of the bed, his arms leaned back casually, palms sinking into the sheets. The soft light casts a warm glow across his face as he tilts his head, eyes landing on you.

They widen just a little— not in shock, but in quiet awe. He doesn’t speak right away, just watches you with that gentle, adoring look, like he can’t believe you’re really his now. Like he’s seeing his favorite person in the world for the very first time, all over again. You catch his gaze and can’t help but grin, warmth blooming in your chest.

With a little spark of shyness and mischief, you do a soft, half twirl— just enough to make the hem of your nightgown flutter and sway. It’s not a full spin, just a playful little show meant only for him. His eyes follow every movement, lips parting slightly, like he’s utterly spellbound.

Jean blinks, then lets out a soft breath, the kind that sounds like he forgot to breathe for a second. His lips curve into a smile— slow, a little lopsided, completely captivated. “You’re gonna drive me crazy,” he murmurs, voice low and full of warmth. He straightens up just a bit, eyes never leaving you. “How did I get so lucky?”

He reaches a hand out, palm open, waiting— like he doesn’t want to rush you, but he’s aching to hold you close. “C’mere, Mrs. Kirstein,” he says with a grin that makes your heart skip.

You take his hand and sit beside him on the bed, the quiet moment wrapping around you like a warm blanket. His fingers curl gently around yours, steady and grounding. With your other hand, you reach up and slowly remove the claw clip from your hair, letting the strands fall softly around your face. You place the clip on the nightstand, the faint sound barely breaking the stillness. For a moment, neither of you speak— just the quiet comfort of being close, of knowing this is where you belong.

For the record, you and Jean had never been intimate. No sex, no heat— just soft, playful banter and a handful of sweet café dates. He's handsome, charming, and so effortlessly kind. It didn’t take long before, on one of those early dates, he looked you in the eye and told you he was serious about you. Talk about getting his priorities straight. He knew what he wanted, and somehow, it made you realize what you wanted too. A few weeks later, you said yes to forever. Weeks turned into months, and soon, the wedding came and went in a blur of happiness. And now here you are, on your honeymoon. Not just going to sleep beside him— but about to share something intimate, something deeply personal, with the love of your life.

You can’t help but feel your face heat up. There’s just something about him— this effortless charm that gets under your skin in the best way. That damn mullet of his, somehow making him look even more unfairly attractive. The neatly kept stubble along his jaw only adds to it, giving him that perfect balance of rugged and refined. And then there are his eyes— deep, warm, and piercing all at once. When he looks at you, it’s like nothing else exists.

He kept it simple tonight— a white shirt draped over his broad frame, the fabric soft and slightly loose. Grey shorts sat comfortably on his hips, hanging just right as they reached mid-thigh. Effortless, casual... and somehow still ridiculously attractive.

You and Jean hold each other’s gaze for what feels like forever, until he finally breaks the silence with a quiet smile. “We’ve never really done this before, have we?”

You’re internally screaming. Part of you wants to sprint out of the room, grab your phone, and blast the group chat with: "you're really getting this tonight”. But you sit there, doing your best to keep composure.

"Yeah, really." You managed.

He lifts his other hand gently, cupping your jaw as his thumb brushes tenderly over your cheek, "Let's make this moment meaningful, okay? It's our first time, after all," His touch as warm as his voice.

You nod softly, eyes fluttering shut as you lean in. Before you even reach him fully, Jean’s lips are already meeting yours— slow, warm, and full of quiet intent. The kiss starts tender, unhurried, then deepens as he shifts closer, his body pressing gently into yours.

You can feel the heat radiating off him, a warmth that even the hotel room’s cool air can’t touch. Your arms come up to rest on his shoulders, fingers instinctively threading through the back of his hair, holding him close as everything else fades away.

A low groan escapes him into the kiss as his arms wrap firmly around your waist. In one smooth motion, he shifts, guiding you back onto the bed beneath him. His legs bracket yours, caging you in, and you instinctively draw your thighs together, sliding your feet up onto the mattress as you settle beneath his weight.

He pulls away from the kiss, only to start peppering soft kisses across your cheeks. You burst into giggles, his stubble lightly scratching your skin in the most ticklish way.

“Hey! That tickles!” you laugh between breaths, squirming a little.

He only grins, letting out a low hum as he starts kissing you even faster, deliberately teasing now.

“Jean!” you squeak, shoulders rising as you try to brace against the ticklish assault, laughter spilling from you uncontrollably.

He chuckles, finally lifting his head from your cheek, bracing himself with his forearm beside your head. “Have I told you yet?” he asks, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Tell me what?” you murmur, still catching your breath.

“This blue looks incredible on you,” he says, letting his hand trail down to the lace hem of your nightgown, fingers gently toying with the delicate fabric. “And the lace?”

Your fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Yeah? What about it?”

A lazy, wicked grin spreads across his lips. “Sexy.”

You bite your bottom lip, trying— and failing— to hide your smile as your cheeks burn with heat.

He presses one last kiss to your cheek before lowering his head, lips brushing against your neck. You sigh softly as the gentle pecks quickly turn into open-mouthed kisses, warm and lingering, trailing lower as he moves down your body.

“Jean…” his name escapes your lips in a whisper, breath catching as your chest lifts subtly off the bed with every touch.

He pauses, voice low and earnest. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Gently, he takes your hands from behind his head, bringing them down to rest atop his on the bed. His thumbs trace slow, soothing circles into your palms before he laces your fingers with his, grounding you with his touch.

A soft whimper escapes you as his teeth graze the sensitive skin of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. His lips finding the curve of your shoulder, pressing slow, deliberate kisses there too. Then, he lifts his head, gaze warm and wanting, and lets his hands drift gently down your sides, tracing every curve until they reach the hem of your nightgown.

“May I?” he asks, voice low and reverent.

You nod, your breath catching slightly as you slowly sit up to help him. As the fabric slides up past your chest, you raise your arms, and he slips the nightgown off with care— dropping it softly to the floor, never taking his eyes off you.

His mouth parts slightly, eyes widening as he takes in the sight of you. “Holy shit,” he breathes, clearly stunned.

You let out a giggle and playfully slap his cheek, gently turning his head away. “Oh, stop it,” you mumble, cheeks burning.

Even with all the love between you, sitting bare-chested in just your panties in front of him makes you feel shy.

He turns back to you, eyes sweeping over every inch of you with a softness that makes your heart flutter. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low and full of awe. Then he lowers his head toward your body, slower now, more intentional. “Remember, just say the word and I’ll stop.

You tilt your head to the side, trying to hide your flustered grin behind your fingers as a laugh bubbles up. “Yeah, alri—”

Before you can even finish your sentence, your breath hitches as his hands slide slowly along your sides, warm and steady, as his mouth trails lower. His lips hover over your chest, pausing just above your right breast. He glances up at you— checking, asking— before leaning in to press his mouth softly against your skin.

His lips close gently around your nipple, and a quiet whimper escapes your throat as the sensation pulls heat all through your body. His other hand lifts to caress your other breast, fingers exploring with care, every touch drawing more sound from your lips.

You squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed by the sudden intensity. When his fingers give a teasing pinch on your nipple, you gasp, your body arching slightly under his touch. He lifts his head just enough to shift to your other side, repeating the same tender attention, but keeps his eyes on you the entire time, watching every reaction.

“Jean…” you whisper, breathless, voice caught somewhere between a plea and a moan.

He trails a path of kisses down your stomach, slow and deliberate, letting his lips linger just a little too long on your skin. When he reaches your lower belly, he pauses, eyes flicking up with a wicked glint as his hands slide to your thighs.

As his hands ghost over the waistband of your panties, you stop him with a gentle hand. He freezes, then rests his chin right on the dainty little bow on your panties, looking up at you with a mischievous smirk.

“Are you sure… about going down on me?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Oh baby. This is for you looking that damn good tonight.” he murmurs, then winks.

A soft whimper escapes your lips as you release the hand resting on his, your silent way of telling him to keep going. His fingers hook into your panties, and you lift your hips instinctively, helping him ease them down your legs.

Once the fabric slips away, he gently parts your thighs a bit wider, his gaze dropping between them. His eyes darken at the sight of you, and he lets out a low, appreciative hum.

He releases you from his grip, then reaches behind his neck, tugging his shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion. The soft hotel lighting highlights every cut of his toned muscles, casting shadows along his chest and abs. You can’t help but admire him— eyes drifting from the broad span of his chest, down the sculpted abs of his stomach, to the ash-brown trail that disappears into the waistband of his shorts.

Boldness stirs within you as you rise slightly, your hand gliding over the firm ridges of his abs, the other settling on his shoulder. You lean in, closing the distance between you, and press your lips to his in another heated, lingering kiss.

You pull away, just enough to catch your breath. Your eyes, glazed with longing, linger on him as you whisper, “God, you’re handsome… You know that?”

He clicks his tongue, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Without a word, he presses you back into the bed, his hands gliding slowly along your sides. When he reaches your thighs, he gently spreads them apart.

“Don’t distract me,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. He lowers his head down on your pussy. “Not now.”

You gasp as his lips trail down to the crease of your inner thigh. Looking down, you meet his gaze— dark, intense, and full of intent.

"Jean, please..." you whisper, voice barely audible. One hand tangles in his hair while the other tries to muffle the sound rising in your throat with the back of your hand.

He lets out a low chuckle, pressing a kiss on your clit before his tongue traces slowly along your slit.

A moan escapes your lips as you squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth as he keeps on the rhythm of his tongue.

His mouth works over you— his lips sucks on your folds and his tongue circles on your clit.

"Jean..." you breathe again, voice trembling.

His grip tightens slightly on your hips, holding you steady as he continues his slow, deliberate rhythm. Every flick of his tongue sends a new wave coursing through you, building, cresting, threatening to overwhelm.

Your fingers curl deeper into his hair, your body arching instinctively toward him.

"Don't stop..." you whisper between shaky breaths, your voice laced with a mix of moans and desperation.

He glances up through his lashes, a half-smirk playing on his lips, proud and unrelenting. The low hum of satisfaction in his throat vibrates against your pussy, making your breath hitch.

You're teetering on the edge, your thoughts unraveling, lost in the way he knows exactly how to pull you apart— one aching, blissful second at a time.

Your thighs tremble around him, every nerve alive, your body no longer yours to control. His name spills from your lips again, this time a little louder, a little more broken.

He doesn’t let up— not even as your hips begin to twitch beneath the pressure of his mouth. Instead, he tightens his hold, inserting his tongue in your folds, maddening tenderness that borders on reverence.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, hands clutching at the sheets now, trying to ground yourself in something— anything— but the pleasure that threatens to consume you.

“Just like that,” you whisper, voice hoarse, nearly lost in the haze.

He responds with another low groan against your pussy, the sound sending shivers down your spine. His tongue flicks again on your clit until your vision starts to blur at the edges.

"Jean, I'm going to- ah!"

And then it hits, all at once. Your body arches, muscles taut, a cry tearing from your throat as waves of release ripple through you, raw and unstoppable.

He licks up your arousal, then props himself up on his arms, gazing down at you. “Feels good?” he murmurs.

You give a faint nod, and he gently lifts your chin, pulling you into a deep, messy kiss.

As the kiss intensifies, a sudden touch between your legs makes your body jolt. Jean slowly drags his index and middle fingers from your clit down through your folds.

You moan his name into the kiss, your hips instinctively rocking in response to the contact.

He pulls away from the kiss. “Let me warm you up a bit, yeah?” he says, before slipping his middle finger inside you.

“Ah… Jean!” you whimper, arching your back while rocking your hips, seeking more of his touch.

He moves his finger in and out at a steady, lazy pace, then adds another, stretching you open with ease.

You cry out, unable to hold back the sound. While his fingers deep into you, he motion his fingers into a scissor motion.

"Jean, please!" You sigh his name, lost in the sensation.

He lets out a low chuckle. “Already this needy, hm?”

You whimper at the sound of his voice, hips instinctively grinding against his fingers.

A familiar, intense pressure builds deep inside you, making your body tremble as you edge closer to release. As you're almost close to cum, he pauses and pulls out his fingers.

You gasp at the sudden emptiness inside you. “H-Hey, I was so close,” you breathe out between panting.

He smirks, eyes locked on you. “I’m just getting started.”

With a firm grip, he spreads your legs wider, making room to slide off his shorts—his cock springs free, resting against his stomach. You gasp as your eyes meet the sight.

His cock is thick and heavy, veins subtly lining the length, with a broad, flushed tip that throbs with heat and anticipation. He's so big.

He steps off the bed, pushing the rest of his shorts all the way down before crossing the room to grab a condom from his bag.

Returning to you, he tears it open, rolls it down his length, and pinches the tip before sliding it on fully.

Lifting your legs, he lets his cock glide between your folds, teasing your clit with the thick head as he holds himself at the base.

You let out a shaky breath at the contact. “Please, Jean… I need you.”

He gives you a smug grin. “Since you asked so nicely,” he murmurs, slowly pushing himself inside you.

A raw, guttural moan tears from your throat—loud, uncontrollable, and echoing with pure, overwhelming pleasure.

He eases in inch by inch, stretching you open with a burn that hurts so good— it makes your breath hitch.

His grip on your thighs tightens as he sinks deeper, watching the way your body takes him, inch by inch.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, eyes locked on the way you cling to him.

You arch your back, a soft moan escaping your lips as he bottoms out inside you, filling you completely.

He stays still for a moment, letting you feel every inch, the weight of him pressing deep.

Then he pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, before thrusting in again with a low grunt.

Your fingers grip the sheets as he sets a rhythm—deep, steady, and deliberate— each stroke sending sparks through your body.

“Jean…” you whimper, voice trembling while your back arch.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear. “Tonight’s all about making you feel amazing—and I’m not holding back.”

You let out a moan as his hips thrust faster, driving his cock deeper into you. The room fills with the sound of skin slapping and the wet, lewd noises coming from your soaked pussy.

Every sharp snap of his hips sends a jolt of pleasure through your core, making your walls clench around him instinctively. The stretch, the fullness, the way he hits that perfect spot over and over has your mind unraveling. Your fingers dig into the sheets as waves of heat ripple through you, your breath coming in broken gasps that match the rhythm of his relentless thrusts.

You reach out and gently tap his shoulder.

“Flip over,” you whisper into his ear.

He pauses mid-thrust, still buried deep inside you. “What?”

You repeat, voice low and teasing, “Flip over, baby.”

The pet name sends a shiver down his spine. He obeys without question, shifting beneath you as you straddle him, still full.

You start to move, rolling your hips and bouncing on his cock, hands planted on your thighs as waves of pleasure ripple through you. Moans and breathy whimpers spill from your lips.

He sits up to meet you, his hands moving to your chest, fingers teasing your nipples. “God, my wife looks so fucking good riding me like that.”

He trails one hand down to knead your ass while the other finds your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles.

You squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed by the pleasure, soft cries slipping out with every motion.

Jean groans, breath hitching. “Fuck, baby, I’m close.”

You nod, voice trembling. “Me too.”

He grips your waist tight, thrusting up into you, meeting your movements with deep, hungry strokes.

“Fuck! Jean, that feels so good—don’t stop, go faster!”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, lips hot against your skin. “As you wish, my pretty wife”

His hips snap up faster, rougher, arms locked around you as he chases his release with a desperate rhythm.

His pace grows frantic, each thrust hitting deep and hard, rocking your body with every motion. Your nails dig into his shoulders as your cries get louder, the tension coiling tight in your belly.

“Jean— fuck— I’m gonna cum!” you gasp, your voice trembling with need.

“Cum for me, baby,” he groans against your neck, his breath hot and uneven. “Show me how good I make you feel.”

Your body seizes as the climax hits, a wave of pleasure crashing through you. You cry out his name, your walls clenching around him, drawing a desperate moan from his throat.

“Shit… just like that,” he grunts, holding you down as he thrusts up into your pulsing heat. The way you squeeze him pushes him over the edge.

With a deep, broken groan, he cums, hips jerking as he spills into the condom, body pressed flush to yours.

He holds you there, wrapped in his arms, both of you catching your breath in the aftershocks.

You rest your forehead against his, skin damp and hearts racing. He smiles up at you, voice hoarse but tender. “You drive me absolutely insane, you know that?”

Jean’s breathing slowly evens out, his arms still wrapped securely around your waist. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, then another to your cheek, lingering there for a moment as if grounding himself in your warmth.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and tender, his fingers lightly tracing circles on your back.

You nod, still a little dazed, your body relaxed and melting into his. “Yeah… more than okay,” you whisper back with a small smile.

He gently lifts you off him, moving slowly and carefully, not wanting to cause you any discomfort. He tosses the used condom aside, then grabs a warm towel he’d left nearby, wiping between your legs with quiet care, checking your face for any signs of discomfort.

He gets off the bed. He grabbed another towel to wrap around his waist. "Let me get you a glass of water, wanna take a bath together? I'll run the bath."

You smile at his gesture. "Yes, please."

He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a glass of water, handing it to you with a quiet smile. You sit up slowly, sipping the cold water, letting it soothe you from the inside out.

Once finished, you place the empty glass on the nightstand and lie back down, eyes drifting to the hotel ceiling.

A minute passes in silence before you hear the soft sound of the bathroom door opening. Jean steps out, “Ready for that bath?”

You turn your head to face him, giving him a playful, pleading look. “Carry me? My legs feel sore.”

He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. "I fucked you good, did I?”

Without waiting for a response, he strides over and scoops you up into his arms, holding you bridal style. You wrap your arms around his neck, your bodies close, eyes locked in a quiet moment of affection.

“Anything for my beautiful wife,” he murmurs, voice full of warmth as he carries you toward the bath.

[hockeyfantasies]

where's the trophy? he just comes running over to me

Summary | Although you and Quinn aren't together anymore, that doesn't mean you two miss each other.

Warnings | none

Author's Note | This can be read as a part 2 from this imagine.

Being a famous actress has made you well known throughout the world. When you dated Quinn Hughes for two years, you were well known in the hockey world. However, due to complicated schedules, you two decided to take a break. That was until you were asked to give the James Norris Memorial Trophy at the NHL Awards in Vegas.

“Are you nervous to see Quinn again?” Your best friend asked you.

“A little.”

“Have you talked to him since you were asked to present?” She asked you.

“Quinn actually reached out to me first.”

“Oooh! What did he say?” Your best friend asked.

“He asked to meet me a day before the show.”

“Then you better look hot if you’re gonna see him again.”

“I know! I’m hoping everything goes well.”

You landed in Vegas a day before the show so you can practice what you were going to say and to see Quinn. Luckily for the both of you, you two were at the same hotel. You had texted Quinn your room number so he could visit you.

There was a knock on your door making you walk over to open it. You smiled softly as Quinn stood in front of you.

"Hey," Quinn smiled softly at you.

"Hi."

"Do you want to get some food and talk?" Quinn asked.

"I'd like that," you say. "Just let me grab my purse."

The restaurant downstairs wasn't too crowded so you two were able to get a booth and talk alone.

"How have you been?" Quinn asked.

"I've been good. I finished filming Outer Banks and my new movie," you tell him.

"That's good."

"How are you? I've seen some games when I have time but other than that, how are you?" You asked him.

"I'm doing good as well."

"Are you nervous for tomorrow?" You asked.

"A little."

"You'll be fine," you smile at him.

"I want to apologize for what happened."

"Quinn. We both agreed to take a break," you tell him.

"I know. But I should've fought for us. I didn't want us to break up," Quinn said.

"I think it was for the best. We were busy and I'm not mad at you. I still love you."

"I still love you too,” Quinn says. “Should we talk about getting back together?”

“Why don’t we wait until after you get your award.”

“What makes you think that I’m gonna win?”

“I have a very strong feeling.”

To no surprise, the media found out about your little outing was was spreading the rumor that you and Quinn could potentially get back together. However, it was quickly shut down by your team to avoid any controversy if Quinn were to win after you presented the award.

The day of the award ceremony, you took a couple of pictures on the carpet before meeting with Quinn.

“Hi,” you greeted.

“Hey.”

“You look nice,” you complimented.

“You look better than me,” Quinn complimented back.

“Ms. L/n. You’re needed backstage,” one of the show runners tells you.

“I have to go. But I’ll be secretly rooting for you,” you tell him with a smile.

“Thanks.”

Quinn watched with his brothers and parents from the seats as the show went on. Then came you to present the James Norris Award.

Quinn smiled happily as he watched you on stage. You introduced Lindsey Null who donated her kidney to Aaron Portzline, a sports writer. You stepped to the side for her to let her speak. Then it was time to introduce the nominees for the James Norris trophy.

You watched the nominee video, feeling giddy the moment you saw Quinn's introduction. You took the envelope with the winner's name while Lindsey took the trophy.

“The James Norris goes to...” you say before opening the envelope to read the name. Your eyes lit up in surprise as you saw the winner. “Quinn Hughes!”

You watched as Quinn hugged his family and friends before coming up on stage to you. Instead of shaking your hand, he pulls you into a hug before giving you a quick kiss.

“Meet me afterwards?” He asked quickly.

“Yeah,” you smile and nod. He shook Lindsey's hand before coming to the microphone to give his speech.

“I wish I got a kiss too,” Lindsey joked. You giggled before hiding your blushing face.

After Quinn's speech, he took a step away from the microphone to look at you. You smiled at him as he waited for you as you walked towards him to head backstage. He held his hand out for you which you gladly took.

"I'm so proud of you," you tell him.

"Thank you. I'm really glad you're here with me for this," Quinn tells you.

"Me too. You go do what you need to do and I will be waiting for you at the after party," you tell him, kissing his cheek.

Twitter and media outlets had blown up about you two when they saw Quinn kiss you live at the show.

Twitter user: omg! are they back together again?!

l/nstanforever: love is real again!!!!!

hockeyluver: Quinn Hughes running up to kiss Y/N L/N are goals!!!

hockeyswiftie: WHERE'S THE TROPHY, HE JUST COMES RUNNING OVER TO ME IS LITERALLY Y/N AND QUINN HUGHES RN

During Quinn’s interviews, he was hit with the question that everyone was asking.

“Are you and actress Y/n L/n back together based on the kiss you gave her on stage?” The interviewer asked. Quinn let out a chuckle.

“I’m not gonna say anything about that just yet,” Quinn said, avoiding the question so he could have a chance to talk to you about what you both were.

“Do you still have feelings for her?”

“Of course I do. She’s an amazing person. But like I said, I don’t want to say anything about that just yet.”

At the after party, you caught up with Jack and Luke before Quinn pulled you away to talk privately.

“So I’m guessing you want to get back together now?” You joked to Quinn as you sat on a couch.

“I want us to be. I missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too. Now that I’ve finished with filming, I can be with you more and hopefully I can film more in Vancouver,” you tell Quinn.

“I’d like that.”

“So, you wanna party since you won?” You asked, standing up.

"Yeah. Do you want to go on a date with me once we leave Vegas?" Quinn asked you.

"I'd like that. But for now, let's celebrate your win," you smiled as you pulled him back to the party.

[furioussouls]

LADS boys and their love for you as Hozier Songs

Credit: @incorrectloveanddeepspace <3

Summary: LADS boys and their love for you( MC) as Hozier songs.

ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ

Xavier:

• NFWB

When I first saw you, the end was soon

….

Give your heart and soul to charity

'Cause the rest of you, the best of you

Honey, belongs to me

….

Ain't it exciting you, the rumble where you lay?

Ain′t you my baby?

Ain′t you my baby?

Nothing fucks with my baby

Nothing can get a look in on my baby

Nothing fucks with my baby

Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing

If I was born as a blackthorn tree

I'd wanna be felled by you, held by you

Fuel the pyre of your enemies

- Xavier could save his people by sacrificing your life ( “your heart“(l.2)) and yet.. he doesn’t. His protectiveness (l.8 f.) and love for you won’t allow it. Xavier’s love for you is too much, to blindly and overwhelming.

Zayne:

• Francesca

Do you think I'd give up

That this might've shook the love from me

Or that I was on the brink?

How could you think, darling, I'd scare so easily?

Now that it's done

There's not one thing that I would change

My life was a storm, since I was born

How could I fear any hurricane?

If someone asked me at the end

I'll tell them put me back in it

Darling, I would do it again, ah, ah

If I could hold you for a minute

Darling, I'd go through it again, ah, ah

I would still be surprised I could find you, darling

In any life

If I could hold you for a minute

Darling, I would do it again, ah, ah

…..

I would not change it each time (I would not change it each time)

Heaven is not fit to house a love (Heaven is not fit to house a love)

Like you and I (like you and I)

- illustating the tumultuous relationship between Zayne and Astra. It doesn’t matter, Zayne doesn’t regret a single thing second with you. It doesn’t matter what pain he‘ll be put through.

Rafayel:

• Hymn to Virgil

I would burn the world to bring some heat to you

I would burn the world to bring some heat

You are the reason I went through it, oh

The only meaning as I knew it, my-yeah

I can only do my best, I do not do this for myself

I'd walk through hell on living feet for you

I wouldn't be seen walking through any door

Some place that you're not welcome to

You stare at the faces smiling from somewhere warm

Some place the sunlight won't come through

- Rafayel lost his home and people in Lemuria, all for you (l.3). He‘ll do anything for you, give you his everything. You’re the keeper of his heart, after all.

Sylus:

•It will come back and Almost (sweet music)

Don't give it a hand, offer it a soul

Honey, make this easy

Leave it to the land, this is what it knows

Honey, that's how it sleeps

Don't let it in with no intention to keep it

Jesus Christ, don't be kind to it

Honey, don't feed it, it will come back

….

It can't be unlearned

I've known the warmth of your doorways

Through the cold, I'll find my way back to you

Oh, please, give me mercy no more

That's a kindness you can't afford

I warn you, babe, each night, as sure as you're born

You'll hear me howling outside your door

….

I′m almost me again

She's almost you

…

Be still, my foolish heart

Don't ruin this on me

…

I got some colour back

She thinks so, too

I laugh like me again

She laughs like you

- you were the first human to show dragon Sylus gentleness and affection (l.1-3). You should’ve known what the consequences of that would be (l.7). Of course, he can’t let you go. How could he? He‘ll return to you, for the warmth of you is the only one he knows (l. 8-14)

In your current timeline, he‘ll see glimpses of your old self (l.15 - 16) and he feels himself starting to become his old self again. Slowly but surely.

Caleb:

• Work song and Take me to church

There′s nothing sweeter than my baby

I'd never want once from the cherry tree

'Cause my baby′s sweet as can be

She give me toothaches just from kissin′ me

When my time comes around

Lay me gently in the cold dark earth

No grave can hold my body down

I'll crawl home to her

…..

My babe would never fret none

About what my hands and my body done

If the Lord don't forgive me

I′d still have my baby and my babe would have me

When I was kissing on my baby

And she put her love down soft and sweet

In the low lamp light I was free

Heaven and hell were words to me.

……

I'll tell you my sins, so you can sharpen your knife

Offer me my deathless death, oh, good God, let me give you my life

No masters or kings when the ritual begins

There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene

- Caleb adores you. He worships you. He always has and always will. His love for you fulfills him (l.3-4) and nothing can keep him from you. Not even his alleged death. He‘ll crawl back to you if he must (l.5-8). He’s not ashamed of his love for you, not anymore (l.9-16), however he wishes you both could share the sin of the intensity of your love (l.20)

ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ

A/N: When I’m in a yearning competition but my opponents are the LADS boys or Hozier.

[dangermousie]

(maybe impossible but hopefully fun?) Question for you if you're ever up for it!

What are your top 5 cdramas of all time? Bonus points for why.

I almost said top 3 but that felt too cruel lol

It's fun!

Here is my list, no order except Minglan is always n1.

The Story of Minglan (2018-2019)

My n1. cdrama is the amazing, too short at 73 eps, The Story of Minglan, a sort of Elizabeth Gaskell meets period China.

It follows three interconnected upper-class families, but more specifically, it is about Sheng Minglan, a concubine-born daughter of a minister and Gu Tingye, the oldest, legitimate, and hated by his family son of a Marquess. Their narratives run largely parallel for the first half of the story and such is the genius of this drama that I, the ultimate romance junkie, did not mind that.

Minglan is a rarity in dramaworld - she is fiercely smart, very collected and emotionally detached. Life in the troubled Sheng household taught her to survive and to hide her feelings and talents. Tingye is a big cdrama love. Abused and reviled by his household where he can do no right (the Marquess hated having to marry his merchant mother for money and has displaced that hate on her son), Tingye manages to keep his warm heart but acquires the ability to go his own way. Both of the protagonists are wonderful and smart and magnetic and rootable for separately, but when they get together, the sparks go off the charts and they become my n1 cdrama OTP of all time. A lot of the story is about family battles, women’s world dilemmas and relationship (of all sorts) interactions. There is also politics and battles, but the true charm of this drama are the mundane details of the world and the fully-fleshed out people who inhabit it. If you watch only one cdrama in your life, make it this one.   

Novoland Eagle Flag (2019)

There might be one or two cdramas I love more, but none that resonates more for me on a personal level. A grim epic with a sprawling cast and amazing sets (money was SPENT on this one), its strength is its theme of the meaning being not in victory but in the fight, of staying true to what you believe despite (or because) the horrors of the world. It's EVERYTHING.

The cast is huge, but it centers around three protagonists - Asule Pasuer, a nomadic crown prince sent as hostage to the civilized yet even more bloody world of the plains, Yu Ran - a full of life princess in exile of the winged people, and Ji Ye - an amazing fighter brought in the gutter. The three become closest friends and we follow them separately and together. There are multiple OTPs, epic battles, clever plots, but at its heart it's a character study. Asule is a pacifist berserker (it makes sense), Yu Ran insists on joy as her shield, and Ji Ye yearns for recognition and status, and the way the world fulfills or warps them is fascinating.

The Rebel Princess/Monarch Industry (2021)

Gorgeously filmed, impeccably acted, and solidly written (where censorship didn’t come for them), this is such an emotional and visual feast and Awu and Xiao Qi are the best OTP I’ve ever seen in dramas (at least for my specific preferences) and feel real.

If you want to see lavish sets populated by smart, fierce, ADULT characters, this one is for you. If you have a competency kink, this one is for you. If you like cinematic-looking epics, this one is for you. If you like a smart, fierce heroine who is also a believably a period aristocratic woman, this one is for you. If you like dysfunctional families and interesting supporting characters, this one is for you. If you like a hero who redefines calm, deadly, and smart yet feels like a real breathing human being, this one is for you. If you like arranged marriage turns to love, this one is for you. If you like amazing OTP which, once they decide to be all in, never waiver from each other, this one is for you. If you are into couples showing affection in a warm way rarely seen in a period cdrama, this one is for you. If you like hot, adult men and hot, adult women, this one is for you.

Fangs of Fortune (2024)

I have rarely seen a drama that speaks to me so personally, but it is also narratively perfect, emotionally devastating, with impeccable acting, complex characters and visuals that are beyond stunning. This is an emotional and visual feast, with such incredible characters, interesting explorations of fantasy and mortality and morality and what makes life worth living. It is also the most eye popping drama I've ever watched as well as throwing me back into what it's like to be immersed into an amazing fantasy book as a kid and the characters and the relationships and the themes sing to me. A miracle.

Joy of Life (2019, 2024)

This is a masterpiece. The first season was perfect and somehow the second is even more perfect. It’s smart, it’s funny, it’s heartbreaking, the cast is still impeccable and Zhang Ruoyun gives a completely jawdropping performance as the focus of all the madness Fan Xian. It really is the rare drama that lives up to the hype.

The Myth (2010)

For the longest time, this was my favorite cdrama, to be replaced only by Minglan. It starts out funny and ends up tearing out your heart. This is the only time in my drama watching experience I cried so hard I threw up. The story is about two accidental time-travelers - a photographer and a cook - who end up in Qin Dynasty China. And from then on it’s about how that cruel, horrifying world takes two perfectly normal men and by wracking their very souls turns one into a hero and the other into a monster. To me, this is Hu Ge’s best performance and as you see his protagonist desperately try to hold on to his humanity and his love in a world that is doing its best to destroy it, I dare you not to cry like a baby. His character is my ultimate cdrama crush.

The Rise of Phoenixes (2018)

Like dramas to destroy you? Come right in. A story about a disfavored prince and a lost daughter of a previous dynasty, this is smart, gorgeous, incredibly acted and is going to wreck you. The schemes and the intensity and the yearning and the....

Yeah, I realize it's seven, whatever. :P

[dipperpepper77]

Stuck in Winter.

Dipper's Depression

Tags: ANGST. LITERALLY SM ANGST. CAUTION! (Death, attempts, and substances mentioned) So sorry my little dippers. I had a dream and we will ALL suffer.

Context: You thought you had the wanderer mission controlled. You truly did. Hindsight is 20/20. You laid in a white coffin, cold and unmoving. You didn't really choose it out. But, white made you look like an angel. Their angel.

Xavier: He's a bundle of anxiety at this point. It was meant to be him first... right? He couldn't wait another lifetime for you. This one hit him the hardest. Three funerals. Three times he's had to lay you in the ground. He started writing. The shop was under his care since his friend wanted him to do something productive. Many books came to fruition. All with the same hero/heroine that had your charisma, looks, even the same jokes you told. Your memory laid in black ink on pages of devoted love. But, like clockwork Xavier would go to you apartment (he rented out your apartment when the lease ended). He would leave everything how you left it. "My light.. I'm home". No response.

Rafayel: Even he thought he'd make paintings in your honor. But, he couldn't. Everything reminded him of you and the you shaped hole in his heart. Grayson would see Rafayel having meltdowns constantly. Most of the time he'd throw or snap brushes that held paint that reminded him of you. Your hair color, the color of your lips, your eyes, etc. Your coffin laid in a mausoleum in the depths of the sea. He would always go visit it. Swimming laps around it before laying on top of the white coffin. "Cutie... I'm here. Missed me?" A crowd of fishes circled the mausoleum. His confirmation that you were listening.

Zayne: He's a mess. He got leave from work. Taking that time to visit all the places he went with you. One that journey he found a hallucinogenic. NO way would he ever do anything like this... but, he's desperate to see you. He laid there on his hotel bed. Clutching at his chest as he looked at the time go by. Why wasn't it working? Until it did. You laid on your side. It was so real... he could even feel you. Your warmth. The way you smiled at him. He nuzzled into you. "My love... stay." The cold hotel air lulled him to sleep. He slept well that night. The world wasn't that cruel to remind him he was holding a pillow and not you.

Sylus: He had bags under his eyes. He sat at the edge of his bed thinking your burial over and over again. Did he do a good job at sending you off? You were covered in all kinds of gemstones and beautiful shiny objects. He called over Luke and Kieran for an important task. Both getting a mausoleum behind his home. He was there every morning and night. Placing a soft kiss on your coffin. "Kitten... I'll be home soon alright" turned to desperation "Y/N... wake up. You're not still mad at me for leaving you first the first time... right?" Luke and Kieran weren't doing well either. They tried to walk up to comfort Sylus but ended up breaking down too. After all... who do you think left red and black painted roses on your coffin? Mephisto found his new resting spot on you. Never leaving you. Their best friend.

Caleb: The skin around his nails were red and raw. He was a mess. His only reason for living was gone. His emotions kept spiking only to neutralize. But, he was a pawn. Every single of his attempts were stopped in time. He allowed himself to kill without remorse. He was the ultimate killing machine for the fleet. His reward? The only reason he allowed this? Every night they gave him ten minutes. His memories altered. He saw you. You'd always praise him. You'd tell him you loved him. For a while it did work... it did. "Pipsqueak?... no... your eyes aren't that color..." The memories of you were getting fuzzy making the simulation not accurate. It scared him. He was forgetting you. He was losing you. "No.. TRY IT AGAIN. FUCK.. OUR PICTURES.. USE SOMETHING." His hands shook the more and more you stopped looking like yourself.

Dip Speaks: I'm SO sorry. I'll feed y'all something really good for compensation.